"I cannot discuss this now." It made her sick to think of it. Life without Philippe? Life spent with another man? The thought was inconceivable to her.
And then her day, already unbearably agonizing, worsened.
An urgent knocking came to the open door. Marguerite turned in her chair to see Celie ringing her hands in her apron. "Mademoiselle, a word, please."
Marguerite stepped out to the hallway and found the servants scrambling. Fear froze the blood in her veins, making her shiver. "What is it? What has happened?"
Celie's pale eyes were reddened, as was her upturned nose. "Cook made stew for the servants from the scraps. I was late-"
With her nerves stretched to the limit, Marguerite had no patience for nonsense. She grabbed Celie by the arms and shook her. "What happened? Has he passed?"
"They all passed!" the maid screamed. "Cook… the footmen… They're all dead! All of them…"
De Grenier burst from the dining room in a full run, skidding momentarily across the marble floor before finding purchase and heading toward the rear of the house. Marguerite followed despite Celie's pleas, her heart racing so violently she feared it might burst. The vicomte entered the kitchen a few strides ahead of her. He cursed, then spun around quickly, catching her in his arms and dragging her back.
"Poison," he said grimly with his lips to her ear.
The ground fell away beneath her feet and she was swallowed by the inky darkness of unconsciousness.
Chapter 1
Paris, France-1780
He was the sort of man who could enslave a woman with a single glance.
A glance such as the one he was presently giving to her.
Lynette Baillon watched the notorious Simon Quinn with similar shamelessness, admiring the raven blackness of his hair and the brilliant blue of his eyes.
Quinn lounged against a fluted column in the Baroness Orlinda's ballroom, his arms crossing his broad chest and one ankle hooked carelessly over the other. He looked both leisurely and alert, a dichotomy she had noted the first time she saw him riding through the moonlit Parisian streets. Tonight he was dressed in somber shades of dark blue and gray, a combination that created an understated elegance she found extremely appealing. Amid the flagrantly sensual theme of the intimate gathering-candles scented of exotic spices, chaises cleverly hidden by a faux forest, and servants dressed in revealing costume-he was austerely attractive. His quiet intensity was far more alluring than the deportment of those who cavorted in blatant rut.
For her part, she was dressed in white for effect, her skirts accented with rich cream-colored bows and silver thread.
Combined with her pale skin and hair and the dark ruby red of her half-mask, the ensemble drew all eyes toward her.
Drew his eyes toward her.
They had never been introduced. She'd learned his name by eavesdropping on surrounding conversations, listening with avid interest to whispered tales of his wickedness and common origins. He stood on the fringes, alone. Coveted by the women and shunned by the men for the exact same reasons-he had only his reputed expertise as a lover to recommend him and no title, property, or moral compass to redeem him. The widowed baroness enjoyed shocking Society, which explained his presence. He was a novelty and appeared to be comfortable in that role, but Lynette felt a strong pull to join him, to stand beside him, to enter the solitary enclosure he occupied.
Quinn was a tall man, and a big one. His jaw was strong, his nose a blade. Boldly winged brows gave him a hint of arrogance, while long, thick lashes added a touch of softness. To her mind, however, the most alluring part of his rugged handsomeness was his mouth. The lips were perfect, neither too full nor too thin, and when they curved in a smile-as they were doing now-they were irresistible. She wanted to lick them, nibble on them, feel them move across her bare skin.
"Between you and your sister," her mother had once said, "you are most like me. Your passions run high, your blood hot. Pray you do not succumb to it."
Her blood felt hot now. Her chest rose and fell rapidly in response to his stare. Her heart raced. That a stranger could incite such a response in her despite the crowd that surrounded them and the distance separating them only exacerbated her reaction.
Then he straightened abruptly and approached with a predator's easy, yet determined gait. His long legs ate up the space between them, his pathway direct and unconcerned with those who were forced to move out of his way. She inhaled sharply, her palms dampening within her gloves.
When he reached her, her head tilted back to allow her to gaze upon his face and fully appreciate its savage beauty. She breathed him in, becoming intoxicated by the combination of tobacco and musk. The primitive scent was delicious and she fought the insane urge to rise to her tiptoes and press her nose into his throat.
"Mademoiselle."
She shivered as the sensual inflection with which he spoke wrapped around her like a lover's embrace.
"Mr. Quinn," she greeted, her voice husky and inviting.
Quinn's gaze narrowed into an examining perusal. Without warning, he caught her elbow and pulled her away from the wall. She was so startled by his action that she was unable to voice a protest.
At least that was what she told herself. She wasn't yet prepared to admit that she wanted to be claimed by a man such as him. A man whose polished exterior encased raw masculinity.
He led her through the crowd and down a hallway, opening a closed door and pushing her ahead of him into the room. The interior was dark, and for a moment, she was blinded by the dearth of illumination after the blaze of the massive ballroom chandeliers.
Her eyes slowly adjusted to the softer moonlight spilling in through the windows. When she could see, she stepped farther into the large, liberally furnished library. The smell of leather and parchment teased her nostrils, reinforcing the sensation of being primitively claimed.
The door latch clicked into place and she jumped, her nerves stretched too thin. The sounds of laughter and music faded from her perception, leaving her aware only of Quinn and the fact that they were alone together.
"What game are you playing?" he asked gruffly.
"I was staring," she admitted, turning to face him. She appreciated having the light behind her, which shielded her features in shadow while revealing the whole of his. "But then, every woman here was doing the same."
"But you are not just any woman, are you?" he growled, coming toward her.
So… he knew who she was. That surprised her. Her mother had insisted they hide their identities. They stayed with a friend instead of at their own property and were using an assumed surname. Her mother said it would prevent her father from becoming angry with them for deviating from their stated destination-Spain. She would have agreed to anything in order to come to Paris. In all of her life, her family had never visited here.
But then… If Quinn knew her true identity, why would he pull her away from the festivities in such a public manner?
"You approached me." she pointed out. "You could have kept your distance."
"I am here because of you." He caught her elbows and jerked her roughly into him. "If you had stayed out of mischief for a few days longer, I would have been far from France now."
She frowned. What was he talking about? She would have asked if he had not placed his hands on her. No man had ever been so bold as to accost the daughter of the Vicomte de Grenier. She could hardly believe Quinn had done it, but she could not jerk away because the sensations elicited by his proximity stunned her. He was so hard, like stone. She could not have expected that.
As her breathing quickened, she felt herself sway into him, her chest pressing into his. It was madness. He was a stranger and he seemed to be angry.
But she felt safe with him, regardless.
For a long, taut moment Quinn did not move. Then he yanked her toward the window, impatiently pushing the sheer curtain aside so that moonlight touched her face. With a tug of his fingers, he untied the ribbons of her mask and it fell away, leaving her exposed. She suddenly felt naked, but not nearly naked enough. She felt a reckless, goading need to strip off every article of clothing while he watched. It was heady to be the focus of such heated, avid interest from so handsome a man.