Surrender The Heart

“Paris is Paris, of course,” he said smoothly, “but people, in essence, are the same everywhere.”

“Do you really think so?”

The sharp inquiry in her tone pleased him far more than docile agreement would have. “You don’t?”

“Actually, no.” Her eyes moved over him boldly, as if her uneasiness of a few moments ago had never been. “I somehow doubt that you are anything like anyone I have met in Paris.” Her shoulders moved in a delicate shrug. “Or elsewhere for that matter.”

“Is that a compliment or an insult?” He grinned, making it perfectly clear that he considered it the former.

Unable to resist, she grinned back. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve made up my mind.”

Helpless, Valmont watched Ariane flirt with the large, handsome American. She was truly impossible, he thought. He had never seen her quite as animated with other, more suitable men.

“Shall we have some champagne now?” Valmont signaled to the waiting footman to fill the champagne flutes.

“To a pleasant stay in Paris for all of you.” Roger de Monnier raised his glass. “And a long one.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Chris said, his eyes not moving from Ariane’s face.

Ariane lifted her glass and sipped, watching the American over the rim of her flute. His eyes of that unusual transparent green were lit with male interest. In the past week she had been the recipient of enough such looks to be able to identify it. But while she had easily shrugged off the interest of all those insipid, dull young men, she suddenly found herself unwilling to look away from this man’s eyes, which held heat and challenge and that maddening trace of amusement.

Chris watched her, waiting for her to flutter the golden-tipped eyelashes that fringed her fabulous eyes, which were the rich color of amethysts, or send him a flirtatious smile, or hide coquettishly behind her fan. But she did none of those things. Instead she kept watching him, her eyes and mouth serious, as if she were measuring him. It occurred to him that he had never seen a woman with such a capacity for stillness before.

“And you, comtesse? Are you looking forward to it?”

His voice was soft and insinuating and, despite her lack of experience, Ariane recognized the ripple of excitement that traveled down her spine for what it was. She smiled, for the first time in weeks feeling no rancor that her parents had dragged her off to Paris.

“Yes,” she said, “I am.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

A melodious gong sounded, signaling the end of intermission, and Chris stood and bowed over the hand she held out to him.

“The first waltz tomorrow night,” he murmured, just loud enough for her ears. “The first and the last.”

“I’ll have to check my dance card.” She tipped up her chin. “I don’t know if they’re still free.”

“The first and the last waltz, comtesse.” His smile was very white and very wicked in his bronzed face. “Some things are not negotiable.”

Ariane felt her pulse skitter as he held her eyes for a long moment before he turned toward her parents.

“I thank you for your hospitality.” Chris bowed over Marguerite de Valmont’s hand.

As he turned away, his gaze brushed over the woman staring at him from the adjacent box. And all the old, ugly memories came flooding over him.

“What insolence,” Ariane said to no one in particular when the box door had closed behind the two men. Shrugging with a not quite successful attempt at nonchalance, she turned back toward the audience. “But at least he’s not boring.”

“Really, Ariane,” Valmont said, “I fail to understand you.”

“Don’t worry, papa,” Ariane said without looking at her father. She knew just what kind of face he was making. “I’m not planning to marry the man.”

“Good God,” Valmont sputtered. “I hope not. Not when you have men like the Duc de Santerre dancing attendance on you.”

Chris sat staring into a glass of brandy he had yet to touch.

Nothing had changed, he realized. The moment he had seen Comtesse Léontine de Caillaux in the box, he had been catapulted back in time.

He had stood, his small, sweaty hand in his father’s larger one, looking up with longing at the tall, fair-haired woman who resembled his father so strongly. She had smelled like some kind of flower and he had desperately wanted her to stroke his cheek with her soft hands, just like maman had always done before she had gone away to live among the angels.

But she had not touched him. She had not even really looked at him.

“I don’t know what you could be thinking of to subject me to the presence of your filthy, little bastard,” she’d said. “Really, Charles, apparently living among those savages in America has made you forget good manners completely.”

He remembered the sharp sound of her voice as if it had been yesterday. And he remembered the sick feeling in his stomach as he had tried to understand why she looked at him with such disgust.

And he discovered that now, twenty years later, the memory still hurt.

“May I abduct your daughter?” Justine de Monnier’s chocolate-colored eyes twinkled as she floated up to the Valmonts in a fussy gown of pink satin and cream-colored lace. Barely waiting for the Valmonts’ reply, she tucked Ariane’s arm into hers and strolled off.

“I’m going to tell you who everyone is.” With a coquettish smile Justine acknowledged a greeting from one young man and then another without missing a beat.

Her eyes amused, Ariane’s eyebrows curved upward. “Is the ball going to last a week then?” Justine’s words should have irritated her, she thought, since she cared nothing about who “everyone” was, but somehow the younger girl’s enthusiasm was infectious.

Justine’s laughter chimed. “Only the ones who are someone, of course,” she clarified.

“That’s good to hear, but couldn’t we sneak into the game room instead?”

“That would be very naughty of us.” Justine giggled. “It’s frowned upon for unmarried young women, you know.”

“I know.” Ariane sighed at the thought that even this diversion was closed to her. At least on those rare occasions when she had found herself at some festivity at home, she had seldom had a problem finding a lively card game—if worst came to worst, in the stables.

“Oh!”

Ariane heard the soft gasp and glanced at Justine, who had snapped open her fan with an elegant flick of her wrist and was fluttering it daintily. Ariane wondered how many hours in front of a mirror it had taken the girl to achieve such perfection. Justine’s eyes had become as round as coins and Ariane automatically followed the direction of her gaze.

When she found her own gaze trapped by Christopher Blanchard’s eyes, she felt like a fly that had inadvertently walked into a honey pot. She told herself that the small flicker in the pit of her stomach was not excitement but dismay.

“Do you see that man with Roger?” Justine’s voice was just short of reverent. “The one staring at us so shamelessly.” Her breath caught in an excited little hiccup. “Oh, mon Dieu.” She pressed her hand against her bosom. “Where did Roger find him and who is he?”

“I don’t know where your brother found him, but his name is Christopher Blanchard and he’s an American.”

He was still looking at her as if challenging her to be the first one to look away, so she stared back, unwilling to lose this small battle.

Justine’s fan went suddenly still and dropped several inches, revealing her Cupid’s bow mouth, which was slightly open in surprise. “You know who he is?” She moved closer and gave Ariane’s arm a small pinch under the cover of her fan. “You’re staring.”

“I know.” Annoyance stirring, Ariane did not move except to raise her chin another notch. “It’s a contest.”

Her face remained composed, but her eyes grew turbulent. Her fingers on her lace and ivory fan tightened, but she did not notice. But she was very aware that the blood had begun to rush in her veins as quickly as a river swollen with the spring rains.

His image had floated through her dreams last night, but the reality of the man, so large and bronzed, so very male, had her heart drumming. It is nothing remarkable, she assured herself. It is no different from the way your heartbeat picks up the moment before you take up a hand of cards when the stakes are high. At the moment, the fatal precision of her observation escaped her.

A moment later her view was obstructed by the pudgy figure of the young Duc de Santerre.

“I am enchanted to see you here tonight, comtesse.” His beatific smile had his almost colorless eyes disappearing into the folds of soft, pink flesh. “May I have the honor of dancing the first waltz with you?”

“I’m sorry, monsieur le duc. I am promised.” Her father’s instructions forgotten, the words slipped out as if they had a will of their own. Because she felt sorry for him, she gave him an especially warm smile. “One of the others perhaps?” she said rashly, regretting her words the moment they were said.

The young duke’s eyes disappeared again as, delighted at his good fortune, he watched Ariane write his name on her dance card. He opened his mouth to say something, but he saw that she had raised her head and was looking across the ballroom. He hovered over her a moment longer before he understood that he had been dismissed.

Her eyes trapped in the American’s gaze again, Ariane barely noticed as Santerre drifted off. He inclined his head slightly as if in acknowledgment, and she saw that his eyes were amused and knowing.

Damn him. He knows that you saved the first waltz for him. You should have given it to Santerre.

Why cut off your nose to spite your face? Santerre’s conversation would put an insomniac to sleep and he’ll step on your toes besides.

And the American? What will he do to you?

As if to answer her question he moved then, striding across the ballroom toward her with a singleness of purpose that had the clusters of chatting people parting to let him pass. She stiffened her spine against the flutter in the pit of her stomach, admitting to the uneasiness, but not to the excitement.

She was truly lovely, Chris thought. She was tiny, her soft curves just on the verge of lush. And her skin! He had once seen pearls of that same color—a translucent milky white with just a blush of pink.

Her white gown, adorned only by tiny bunches of silk violets the exact color of her eyes, was almost severe in comparison to the creations decorated with lace and ruffles worn by the other women. And she stood very still, even when she was speaking, as if all that was going on around her concerned her not at all.

Her beauty was delicate, but there was nothing fragile about it. And she was not as cool and serene as she pretended to be, he decided. Her eyes, dark and restless, gave her away. There was passion beneath the cool exterior, he thought. And he wanted to be the one to discover it. It occurred to him that it had been a very long time since he had wanted anything quite so badly.

“Bonsoir.” Insolently he reached for her hand instead of waiting for her to offer it. “So you did remember that you’d promised me the first waltz.”

“I did not promise, Monsieur Blanchard. You demanded.”

“So?” A wealth of insinuation swung with that single word. “And you always give in to demands?” His tawny eyebrows curved upward wickedly. “I shall have to remember that.”

“On the contrary.” Temper darkened her eyes. “I do not deal well with demands at all.”

“And to what then do I owe your—” he paused “—unusual acquiescence?”

Ariane knew that he was trying to provoke her and, determined not to be bested, she decided to answer him in kind.

“To the fact that your conversation is more amusing the Santerre’s.” She let her eyes move over him in a casual but thorough sweep. “And you look as if you will exhibit a certain grace on the dance floor.”

Justine let out a small, shocked gasp, but Ariane did not hear it as her own breath caught when Chris threw back his head and laughed. This was not a polite society laugh or a mocking chuckle, but a rich sound of amusement that was as physical as a touch. People around them stared, but Ariane did not notice, for she was fascinated by his laughter and by the way it made the bronzed skin of his throat ripple.

His mouth was still curved in a smile when his eyes returned to hers. “I am enchanted.”

It took some effort, but she managed to pull away from his magnetism.

“By what?” She frowned, bristling less at his words than at the amusement in his eyes.

Chris watched, fascinated, as her fabulous eyes iced over, even as they retained a heated flicker of anger.

“How do you do that?” he demanded softly, forgetting completely that she had asked him a question.

“Do what? What are you talking about?” Her brisk, impatient tone softened as she saw that the amusement in his eyes had fled and been replaced by heat. How could eyes of that cool green color carry such intense heat? she wondered.

“How do you make your eyes go as cold as an arctic night and yet the fire is still there?” He curled his hands into fists to keep them at his sides.

She stilled at the sound of his voice—low and yet somehow urgent. A shiver glided over her skin as if he had touched her. For a moment, she merely looked at him, unable to speak. Then forcibly shaking off the feeling, she tilted her chin. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her stormy eyes challenged him and Chris felt the blood begin to pound in his veins. Had he ever Wanted a woman so quickly, so urgently? Yes, she was lovely, he thought, but it was not just her beauty that lured him. Far more, it was her spirit—and the unbridled passion he sensed within her. He pulled in a deep breath and managed a casual smile. “I’ll explain it to you some other time.”

“Monsieur Blanchard—” Ariane drew herself up to her full height and cursed silently that she did not even reach the American’s shoulders. “I do not believe there will be some other time.”

“Oh, on the contrary.” He lowered his voice to a murmur. “I promise you there will be.”

“That sounds suspiciously like a threat.”

“Not a threat. Even uncivilized Americans do not threaten beautiful young women.” He smiled. “It’s a promise.”

He wanted to lock her in a room and make love to her until she was out of his system, Chris thought, feeling his body tighten. It occurred to him that one did not need a great deal of imagination to construe a desire that strong as a threat.

“I have had quite enough of your promises, Monsieur Blanchard. And your demands.” She started to turn away. “You will excuse me.”

The words were scarcely out of her mouth when the musicians began to play the lilting introduction to a Strauss waltz.

“I believe this is my dance, comtesse.”

Chapter Three

Even as Ariane turned away from him, Chris took her hand and, with his other hand at the small of her back, maneuvered her toward the dance floor so elegantly, so deftly that she knew there was no way she could escape without making a scene.

Despite the difference in their height, there was no awkwardness as he whirled her around to the three-quarter time of the dance. On the contrary, they moved together as if neither of them had ever danced with anyone else.

As much as Ariane disliked the empty chatter at social gatherings, she had always loved to dance. Now the pleasure of moving in time with the music made her forget her annoyance—almost.

“You’re enjoying yourself,” Chris said. “Why don’t you give in and smile?”

She tilted her head back so that she could meet his eyes. The amusement was there again and it touched off her temper as surely as a match touches off a flame.

“I do not relish being manipulated, monsieur. Or laughed at.”

“I’ll admit to the manipulating, but I was not laughing at you.”

“Weren’t you?”

“No.” His eyes turned suddenly serious. “I know how much mockery can hurt. Firsthand.”

“You?” Ariane was so surprised at his words and at the way the amusement had drained out of his eyes so quickly that she missed a step. “I cannot believe that”

“Well, it’s true,” he said brusquely, a little appalled that he had shared that long-ago hurt with her.

“I can’t quite imagine anyone daring to mock you.”

Annoyed at himself, he shrugged. “It was a long time ago.

Ariane understood childhood hurts—after all, she lived with some of her own. Feeling his discomfort at the confession he had made, she said nothing. Instead, she shifted the hand that lay lightly in his palm and gave his hand a squeeze, accompanying it with a smile.

The touch she gave him was so brief that Chris wondered if he had imagined it. But he knew that he had not imagined the smile of extraordinary sweetness that curved her mouth and was reflected in her violet eyes.

When the dance ended, they found themselves near Justine and her partner.

“Just a word, Ariane,” Justine called out. Then, leaving her dance partner with an apologetic gesture, she moved over to her new friend and, under the guise of adjusting the tiny bunch of silk violets that was fastened above Ariane’s ear, she pulled her a step away from Chris and whispered, “Be careful. He’s gorgeous, but get rid of him quickly and don’t dance with him again. People are staring.”

“What was that all about?” Chris asked, when Ariane turned back to him and placed her hand on his proffered arm.

“Apparently we have made a spectacle of ourselves.” Her shrug was more exasperated than rueful. “She told me to get rid of you and warned me not to dance with you again.”

Had someone asked him, he would have denied that his nerves had tightened. “And are you?”

“Going to get rid of you or going to dance with you again?” Her mouth was serious, but her eyes were smiling.

“Both, either.”

They began to walk toward the part of the ballroom where her parents were seated.

“I don’t take direction very well. Especially from children.” Ariane shrugged. “Justine thinks she knows everything, but she is only a child.”

Chris smiled. “While you are veritably ancient,” he teased.

“You have no idea how true your words are.” His smile was so charming, so infectious that Ariane smiled back, forgetting her earlier irritation. “That’s why I’m here, after all. In Paris, I mean.” She made a face.

“You see, I’ve reached the age of twenty-five and my father is appalled that he does not yet have a son-in-law and a horde of grandchildren.”

Chris felt a tightening in his belly at the thought of her with another man. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if she was planning to provide her father with what he wanted when he realized that they had reached the far end of the ballroom. He bowed politely toward the elder Valmonts before he turned toward Ariane.

“Thank you for the waltz, comtesse.” This time he did not reach for her hand, but waited politely for her to offer it to him. “May I look forward to dancing with you again?” he asked when she did.

Ariane felt the pressure of his fingers on hers. As he lifted his head and met her gaze, she read the challenge in his eyes that told her that the touch had not been accidental. She could feel her father’s displeased gaze on her, but the temptation of the dare this man offered was stronger.

“You may.”

He retained her hand a moment longer than convention allowed, but she had no desire to pull her hand away from the warmth she could feel despite her gloves. Again there was that brief pressure and she suppressed a shiver of excitement just as he finally released her.

She should not want to dance with him again so badly, she thought, as he walked away, but she did. It was only because his amusing, impudent conversation was such a pleasant change from the inanities she had been hearing, she assured herself. And at the moment she believed it.

Several moments passed before she realized that her father was speaking to her.

“I’m sorry, papa.” She turned to him and put a soothing hand on his arm. “What were you saying?”

“I don’t want you dancing with him again,” he repeated petulantly. “We didn’t bring you to Paris to fall into the hands of some—some adventurer,” Valmont continued. “I want you to have a good, French husband.”

“Papa—“

“I want your promise, Ariane, that you will do as I say.” Because he had drunk enough champagne to make him feel expansive, but not enough to sour his temper, his tone wheedled rather than commanded.

“I am here in Paris, papa, because you wished it.” She gave her father a direct look and felt a little spurt of guilty satisfaction when he lowered his eyes. “The least you can do is let me enjoy myself.”

She turned away, refraining from adding that she planned to leave Paris as unencumbered by a husband as she had arrived.

“Ariane—”

The Comtesse de Valmont tucked her hand into her husband’s arm and screwed up the courage to speak. “Leave her be, Pierre,” she whispered. “The more you storm against him, the more attractive he will seem to her.” She remembered quite well how her own father had stormed against the feckless, volatile Comte de Valmont.

Ariane stared after Christopher Blanchard’s retreating figure, a plan forming in her mind.

And she was not the only one who stared after him.

It was too much to be borne. The Marquise de Blan-chard closed her eyes. The moment she had seen him she had known with an absolute certainty that this man was Charles’s son. Oh, he was taller and broader, but the handsome features were too similar to her husband’s to be anyone else. The man whom she had loved. The man who had left her for another woman. She had never forgiven him for being either.

Hatred, old and new, was bitter on her tongue as she approached him.

“You are Charles de Blanchard’s son. Do not bother to deny it.”

The voice behind him was soft, but it dripped ice and venom in equal parts. Instinctively knowing whom the voice belonged to, Chris turned around to face the woman whose stubbornness and pride had condemned him to being a bastard. Reminding himself that he was a grown man and that his existence had, after all, condemned her to being an abandoned wife, he bowed.

“I would not think of denying the truth, madame la marquise.”

“You know who I am?” Her small, round black eyes, which gave her the aspect of a plump bird, narrowed. “How?”

“My father had a miniature.”

“He kept my portrait?” Her thin mouth, the only thin feature she possessed, curved in a triumphant smile.

“He kept a portrait of his children.” Chris kept his voice carefully neutral. “I suspect your presence there was incidental.”

The smile froze briefly to a grimace before it disappeared.

“What are you doing here in Paris?” The marquise heard the ebony slats of her fan groan under the pressure of her fingers and forced her hands to relax. “If you have come here to embarrass me, embarrass my children, I shall—”

“I advise you not to threaten me, madame la marquise. It is not something I take kindly to.”

“I will do as I please,” she said, choosing to ignore the steel beneath the mild tone. “I do not take kindly to the presence of my husband’s bastard son, fathered on a woman of easy virtue.”

His pale green eyes iced over so quickly that it took all her control not to step back before the cold, dangerous fury she saw there.

“Be grateful, madame la marquise—” although his tone was almost without inflection, he managed to make the title sound like an insult “—that we are in public and that I do not choose to make a scene.” He paused for a moment to make certain that he had been understood. “I will not be that lenient again.”