Seized by Love (41 page)

"Come then," he
mildly said, "have something to eat."

"Just that," she
cautioned.

"No one's going to
make you do anything you don't want to do." He had a conscience, rare in
men of his class.

"I still need some of
your money." She had to make her position clear; the events of the past
few moments were too unsettling to allow anything but pragmatic considerations
in the future.

"I understand."

"I could pay you back…
eventually."

"If you wish." He
shrugged. "A thousand francs isn't of great issue. Would you like me to
carry your valise or would you prefer carrying it?" He grinned. "Or
we could leave it here for a convenient exit later."

He hadn't seen her smile
before. He was dazzled.

"Usually men who live
in houses like this are not so selfless."

"I know. They're my
friends. Although don't think me a saint," he clarified. "You'd be
wrong."

"Understood. Monsieur
Duras."

"Pasha."

She didn't reply for
several moments and then she said, "Pasha," so sweetly, he had to
remind himself he
had
a conscience.

As it turned out, he
carried her valise into the house but she stopped him from returning it to his
apartments. "I'd prefer the dining room," she said.

There were choices of
dining rooms in the house Richelieu had built and he allowed her to select one
even while his first instinct was to take her directly to the small breakfast
room at the back of the house.

They must have been soul
mates in some other universe because she preferred the breakfast room too.
Because of the birds and butterflies painted on the walls, she told him.
Because of the soft cushions on the window seat, he thought, and the seclusion
from the rest of the house.

Pasha's chef was awakened
along with his staff and the mademoiselle indicated her preferences in food.
Simple fare as it turned out so in order to bring a smile to his chefs face,
Pasha ordered his special strawberry souffle. "And champagne," he added,
"if mademoiselle agrees."

Ensconced in a
down-cushioned fauteuil near a small fire that had been set in the grate to
take the chill from the room, the candlelight lending a magical realism to the
birds and butterflies on the painted walls, mademoiselle smiled and nodded her
agreement.

A smile like that
prognosticated well for their future friendship, Pasha decided, moving toward
her.

The servants had withdrawn,
the firelight lent an added enchantment to the mademoiselle's considerable
charms, and peace had been restored. The evening should prove gratifying.
"It's cold for May, isn't it," he pleasantly said, dropping into the
chair opposite her.

"I want to explain
about the money," she bluntly declared, ignoring his politesse. "I'm
not what you think I am."

"Your name isn't
Simone Croy," he replied with a smile.

"No."

"And?"

"I'm not sure I want
to tell you."

"Suit yourself."

His tone was too suavely
understanding. "You may not believe me anyway."

"Mademoiselle, you can
tell me as little or as much as you wish. Nothing more."

"You're not really
interested."

"Don't take offense so
easily," he gently countered. "We're not all like Langelier."

"He kept me against my
will."

Pasha's gaze sharpened.
"You were a prisoner?"

"His hostage,"
she bitterly replied.

"For what
purpose?" The story was bizarre even for Langelier.

She hesitated, not sure how
much to divulge.

"For money obviously,
knowing Langelier," Pasha interposed.

"Of course for
money," she retorted, aversion in her tone.

"He was more of a cad
than I realized," Pasha murmured, half to himself. "Did he have other
women working for him?"

"No!" she
exclaimed, shock registering on her face. "You misunderstand! I was never
his mistress. He simply wanted my son's inheritance."

"He's a
relative?" A bit of an
outre
relationship even for
Langelier—sleeping with a niece.

She sighed, looked away for
a moment before facing his gaze once again. "It's all very personal."

"But then we had a
uniquely personal meeting," Pasha replied with a faint smile. "And
I'm not easily shocked."

She turned cherry red under
his amused scrutiny. "He kept my clothes locked away in his armoire so I
couldn't leave. I was never his lover." She shuddered minutely at the
thought. "In fact, I bargained away part of my inheritance in order to
retain my respect."

"You're a
virgin?" He
gazed
at her from under his dark lashes, faint
disbelief in his tone. Her impetuous arousal short moments ago suggested
something more.

Her blush deepened, her
discomfort was obvious. "I have a son," she quietly declared.

He'd been right; she didn't
have the responses of a virgin. "So this is your husband's inheritance
Langelier was trying to appropriate?"

"No."

He masked his surprise.
"I see."

"The inheritance is in
controversy."

"The father's family
is resisting." A common response with a love child.

She nodded. "I'm a
widow."

"My sister was
recently widowed. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. He was a
spineless drunkard."

"I see," he said
again, mildly astonished. The lady was full of surprises, Pasha mused, and
unconventional to all appearances. A pleasant thought.

"I would have
preferred not telling you all this, but under the circumstances…"

"Your explanation
clarifies things immensely," he said with polished charm. "And rest
assured, your disclosures will be kept in the closest confidence. I can't
imagine—"

A servant entered with the
champagne.

"Just leave it,
Jules," Pasha said, rising from his chair to take the ice bucket. "We
can manage. Ah, the reserve bottles. You'll like this—" He looked up from
his manipulation of the cork. "What
is
your name?"

"Beatrix."

He paused in his task.
"You don't look like a Beatrix."

"This is what a
Beatrix looks like." She smiled at his objection. "My family called
me Trixi."

"There. I knew you had
to have another name. You're a perfect Trixi."

"Pasha suits
you."

It was her first personal
remark. He was encouraged. "My maternal grandparents were Russian."

"How wonderfully
exotic. My family is stolidly from

Kent. Or were," she
softly corrected. She still forgot that her family was gone—at times like this
when her thoughts were in disarray, when she wasn't at home to be reminded of
their absence.

"My family is in Paris
at the moment; you met my father tonight," he said, handing her a glass of
champagne. "To future success on all your ventures," he offered,
lifting his glass to hers.

"I've rather given up
on my ventures," she said with a rueful smile, lifting her glass,
"but I'm looking forward to going home to my son."

They talked idly then of
children. Pasha had three younger siblings, he told her, the youngest fifteen.
Trixi's son was five and precocious, she said. She smiled when she spoke of
him, of his favorite activities and his love for his pony. They shared memories
of their childhood ponies for a time and he discovered small revealing bits of
her background. An only child of a country gentleman, the Honorable Beatrix
Howard had spent an idyllic youth in Kent. She never mentioned her husband or
the father of her son, however, and he had no intention of asking her. When
they touched briefly on the money she needed for her return to England, she
apologized for deceiving him.

"Keep the money,"
he said. "Buy something for Chris."

"You're too
kind," she murmured, warmed by the fire, by the wine, by her host's
benevolence. By her liberation from Langelier.

She laughed at something he
said a short time later and he was charmed. Her smile was warm, expansive as
she lounged back in her chair; her eyes held his for a glittering moment.

It must be the wine, she
thought, startled at the sudden rush of desire.

/'//
unbutton the small
pearl buttons at her prim collar first,
he thought, watching the flush
rise on her beautiful face. Very slowly, and then…