Rake Most Likely to Rebel (Rakes On Tour Book 1) Page 14

  ‘So,’ Archer began slowly, ‘she doesn’t know about Christina?’

  ‘Originally, it didn’t matter. This was just about escape, but somehow it’s become something more.’ Haviland shook his head. ‘Alyssandra is like me in ways I can’t explain, Archer. I know it hasn’t been a terribly long time, but she’s like a piece of my soul. She will be with me wherever I go, whatever I do for the rest of my life.’ He paused to gather his thoughts. ‘Being with her isn’t about an escape any more. It’s about for ever.’

  Archer gave a low whistle. ‘Then you love her?’

  Haviland nodded slowly. ‘I do.’

  ‘You’re going to have to tell her.’

  Haviland knew what that meant. Telling her meant telling her everything. It would be his first major obstacle in his new life. He had to tell Alyssandra about Christina, about wanting to stay in Paris, and that he loved her, that she was the reason he wanted all those things. As hurdles went, he considered it a fairly large one and it would require a leap of faith perhaps on both their parts. But he would have to leap first.

  * * *

  When leaping, timing is everything. It was also true that there’s never a perfect time for anything. As the tournament approached, Haviland’s days were filled with fencing and practice. He spent hours with Julian and the ever-silent Antoine in the private salle, training until his arms ached. Hours more in the club room, poring over treatises, learning and relearning the other prominent styles: the offensive of the Italian school, the defence of the Spanish, even the German school.

  His nights were filled with passion, with Alyssandra in his arms. There were candlelight dinners in the tiny bistros of the Latin Quarter where students gathered to debate the politics of the city, long twilight walks in the Tuileries Garden as nannies gathered up their children for the day, a few carefully arranged appearances at social events where they arrived separately. There were nights in his rooms with the French doors open to the evening, the light breeze billowing the curtains and flirting with the candlelight.

  He was a new man in these precious days, a man come to life. This was a preview of what every day could be. He had purpose, meaningful direction that drove him out of bed every morning and every evening when he came into her that purpose was reaffirmed. He didn’t need estates and a title to feel alive. He needed Alyssandra. He flattered himself that she needed him, too. That the intense privacy and reserve her brother imposed on her life by extent of his own personal choices receded when they were together. He would never know if he didn’t ask her. With the tournament two days away, he was running out of time.

  * * *

  Haviland carefully picked his moment during the peaceful interval that comes between bouts of lovemaking when she lay in his arms, her head on his shoulder, and ventured his question in the candlelit darkness. ‘Do you ever think of leaving it all behind?’

  Her hand stilled on his chest where she’d been drawing idle circles. Not because he’d taken her by surprise, but because the moment she’d dreaded had arrived: the moment when he’d want more than she could give. She sighed, her breath feathering against his chest. ‘Always. But to what avail? Antoine needs me. I’m all the family he has left. And frankly, without Antoine, I’m nothing more than an impoverished noblewoman alone in the world.’

  She feared that day would come far too quickly as it was, but that was a fear she could not voice out loud to anyone—not to Haviland who thought Antoine only bore scars on his face, or to Julian, with whom she ought to have been able to share that fear. Julian would use that fear against her to compel her into a marriage with him that made sense only on paper, a marriage that alleviated all her practical concerns about her future, but answered none of her passion. Antoine would never walk. She’d seen the truth in the doctors’ faces when the first year after the accident had come and gone without significant improvement. Paralysed individuals didn’t usually live long lives. Their bodies weren’t strong enough. Could she really expect Antoine to live to a ripe old age? Each winter required more and more effort to keep him warm and safe from the season’s catarrhs.

  ‘Surely your brother doesn’t expect you to live your entire life for him? I know his accident was grave, but it is only scars on his face. It doesn’t stop him from doing what he loves.’ Haviland probed gently. From the things he’d shared with her about his family, he understood how sensitive the issue was. It was an issue of honour, after all. To leave was selfish. To stay was sacrificial. Both choices were extremes.

  She went back to stroking his chest and tried for distraction. She didn’t want to have to explain the truth about Antoine. ‘What about you, Haviland? Do you think of leaving it all behind?’ Of course, she had only the vaguest idea of what ‘it’ represented in the question. It was times like this she was struck by how much she cared for him and how little she knew of him.

  In the nearly two months he’d been in her life, she knew him as a fencer. The identity she associated with him was wrapped up in who he was at the salle d’armes. He’d ceased being Viscount Amersham. He was simply Haviland North. She had difficulty remembering ‘it’ constituted a title, a fortune, a family, and those were just the things she knew of from rumour. Beyond that day in the gardens, he’d never spoken of them directly to her.

  ‘Sometimes. A lot since I’ve been here, actually.’ His confession surprised her and its implications made her nervous. Was it because of her? His hand played with her hair in a slow, relaxing stroke.

  ‘What could you possibly want to leave behind?’ She let her voice tease a little, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  ‘More than you might think. No one’s life is perfect no matter what it looks like on the outside,’ Haviland said. It was the most he’d ever offered about his life in England and yet it was hardly enough, a subtle reminder that for all the passion he’d offered her, for all the ways in which he’d offered himself, there was still a realm of secrets he was not willing to reveal.

  ‘Would you tell me?’ she ventured. ‘You once asked me what I was doing with you. Now I want to know what are you doing with me. You could have anyone.’ She could feel him tense beneath her palm. She gave a soft, sad laugh. ‘I thought so. For all that we have shared between us, it is still not enough to trust the keeping of our secrets. We trust each other completely with our bodies, but not with our thoughts.’ She might regret such reticence, but she understood it. She could not tell him about Antoine. It made her wonder, too, just how big his secrets were.

  He stirred. ‘It’s not that. I find I’m afraid of what knowing will do to us. I don’t want to lose you over it.’

  ‘I’d rather have you try me and let me be the judge,’ Alyssandra whispered. It was hardly fair. He would be disappointed in the end. He would tell her and she could not reciprocate in kind. His arm tightened around her and she knew a thrill of victory. He was preparing. She hoped she wouldn’t regret it.

  ‘You know most of it,’ he began slowly. ‘I’m a viscount, but it’s a courtesy title on loan from my father until I inherit the earldom.’

  She huffed. ‘There’s more to it than that, otherwise you wouldn’t be so private about it.’ But it was enough of a reminder to her that he could only fantasise about walking away from that kind of responsibility. She’d always thought English heirs had it a bit rough—their lives couldn’t really start until their fathers died and that in itself was a rather morbid thought to contemplate—that their successes were predicated upon another’s death. And then there was the pressure of enhancing the family tree with preferably male progeny.

  She raised her head, a horrible thought striking. She knew his secret. ‘Dear God, you’re married.’ It made perfect sense. He was older than most of the young, silly, Englishmen who set out from Paris on their Grand Tours. He was an heir, there were expectations. It explained his privacy.

  ‘No!’ he protested. ‘I am not married.’

  Their eyes held. ‘But you will be,’ she said slowly. She waited for the de
nial, but it didn’t come. ‘Who is she? Do you love her?’

  ‘Her name is Lady Christina Everly and I hardly know her.’ Haviland’s voice was flat in the darkness. ‘She is not my choice. I don’t know that I will marry her at all.’

  But she was his parents’ choice, that much was clear, as was the ‘it’ she’d so desperately wanted clarified earlier. Leaving ‘it’ all behind for him meant escaping an arranged marriage, escaping a family that directed his life. She also knew what such a choice would cost him—most immediately it would cost him money and access to a lifestyle that he probably wouldn’t appreciate until it was gone. The wealthy were like that, she knew. She’d been in that position of taking luxuries for granted when her father was alive. His death had impacted their finances, but they had recovered decently enough until Antoine’s accident had cost them once more. Again they’d recovered, but it was a near-run thing and she was acutely aware of the luxuries she enjoyed today and their cost.

  ‘Do you really have a choice, Haviland?’ She could feel the anger rising in him. She’d not wanted their last nights before the tournament to end with discord between them. After the tournament she did not know how much time they’d have left. But she wanted him to see reason. He couldn’t walk away, no matter how tempted he was. He would come to hate himself given enough time.

  ‘I do.’ His tone was grim. ‘I can do what I want or what they want. I want to stay here in Paris with you. I was hoping to teach fencing with your brother or perhaps somewhere else. I’m sure if I do well at the tournament, I could be an asset.’

  ‘But the cost,’ she began softly.

  ‘The cost is this: to let them choose means my freedom can be bought.’ Haviland was fierce in his rebuttal. She’d not seen him like this, so intense, outside the fencing salon.

  ‘Haviland, it will have a price either way.’ She interrupted before he could give further vent to whatever idea he’d set his mind on. She didn’t want to hear any more. Her own panic was starting to rise. This was what she’d promised herself wouldn’t happen. ‘We weren’t supposed to get attached. This was to be an escape only.’ She threw back the covers and swung her legs over the bed. She had to leave.

  Haviland’s hand tugged at her arm. Something in his eyes broke, the fierceness receded. ‘Don’t go. We have time. I am sorry I mentioned it. I did not mean to frighten you off.’

  She realised then what his confession had cost him. He’d been afraid to share, afraid of what it would do to them, and she’d justified that fear after minutes ago assuring him she could manage it. Ironically, it wasn’t Christina that she couldn’t tolerate, it was everything else, the very idea that he was willing to throw it all over for her, and she couldn’t possibly accept, couldn’t possibly allow that level of sacrifice.

  She sat down on the bed. ‘I think it would be best if I did. Haviland, these are big decisions. You have a lot to sort through. I think after you do, you will see that I simply represent your freedom. That won’t be enough for me. I can’t be—I don’t want to be the woman you chose simply because you didn’t want to choose another.’ That much was true. This was all happening too fast. But it wasn’t entirely the truth, just enough of a compelling excuse.

  ‘Alyssandra, I haven’t told you the rest. I haven’t told you what I’ve decided to do.’

  She cut him off with a shake of her head. ‘Now is not the time. You need to keep your mind on the tournament. Nothing else. Promise me?’ She feared what else there might be to tell. She was losing on all fronts. She’d lost the emotional detachment and now he wasn’t leaving, the very thing she had been counting on to save the Leodegrance secrets and perhaps her heart. It was hard to love someone who was gone. Once he left, he would wear off eventually. She would get over him. But if he stayed? She might love him for ever.

  He fell back on the pillows in acquiescence, and she tiptoed out of the room and into the garden. She’d got what she’d asked for—his secret. He’d kept it because it would definitely change the balance between them and it had. But she was glad to know. It made her choices no less difficult, but far more clear. He could not give up his world for her. He only thought he wanted to. But she could not allow him to give up everything for a woman who would only have to refuse him.

  She knew what she had to do. She had to drive him out of town for both their sakes. She had to enter the fencing competition and defeat him, remind him of his place—just one more Englishman here on a holiday, having a holiday affaire, before going home to embrace his realities although it would break her heart to do it. Haviland thought he had choices, but Alyssandra knew she did not, and he didn’t either, not really. She loved him too much to let him lie to himself.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘No, I will not have it! The risk is too much. What happens if “Antoine” is beaten before the finals?’ Antoine pushed his chair around the large estate office of their home in agitation. ‘We’ve always arranged it so that you simply have to fight once. You face the victor in the final. You have every advantage that way. You’re fresh, while they have fought for two days. You’ve had two days to study them, while they have had no chance to see you in action.’

  ‘Haviland North needs to be beaten before the final,’ Alyssandra said, the bluntness of her words drawing Julian’s attention from the window. Julian’s eyes moved slowly over her face, their eyes locking in silent battle.

  ‘Why is that?’ Julian crossed his arms over his chest.

  ‘Because he thinks to become a fencing master in his own right. If he can win the tournament, he could begin to establish himself. People would want to study with him. We cannot afford to lose students to him or to anyone.’ Because he thinks to stay here in Paris for me. He’d not had to lay that specific plan out in so many words for her to have divined his intentions—foolhardy intentions. What sort of man gave up the things Haviland had to become a fencing master? Well, she knew the answer to that in part—a desperate man looking to escape the confines of an arranged marriage. One should never make decisions from a position of desperation. She had to stop him from embracing what would ultimately be a calamity for him. He would eventually regret this choice if he was allowed to make it.

  Julian gave a cold chuckle. ‘My dear, how do you know this? I must confess, it seems implausible. He’s heir to a title and to a fortune. No rational man would consider making such a choice.’

  ‘I just do,’ Alyssandra replied tersely. At least Julian couldn’t say too much in front of Antoine without implicating himself for having withheld information.

  ‘Why not simply beat him in the final if he gets that far?’ Julian gave a shrug. ‘Have you considered someone else may defeat him in the preliminaries and save you the trouble altogether?’

  ‘You’ve seen him train. What do you think the chances of that are?’ Alyssandra scoffed at the idea. She strode to Antoine’s desk where he’d been working on setting up the brackets for the tournament. His desk was littered with accepted invitations from swordsmen all over Europe. She picked up a few at random and shuffled through them. ‘Ralf Dietrich and his German school? Ralf was fortunate to make the semi-finals last time. Luca Ballucci? He’s good, but he’s over forty and hasn’t the stamina if he gets too deep into the tournament. Sven Olufson? He’s been training in Italy. But he needs to. He’s all show and no technique when it’s required. He wins early matches against novices, but he can’t stay with the likes of Ballucci.’

  ‘I will stop North,’ Julian said firmly. ‘He won’t get past me. Set him up in a match against me early in the preliminary rounds when no one is focused on a particular fencer yet.’

  At least Julian understood her strategy: eliminate Haviland early before anyone could become enamoured of his skill. It was cruel, of course, but it would be better to have this whimsical dream of his thwarted at this stage when it wasn’t too late for him to claim the life he was meant for. And with luck, Haviland would never know of her part in it. Her heart sank at the thought. This was one
more secret to keep from him. It also meant giving him up was imminent. Even if she was the driving force keeping him in Paris, he would have no way to stay now.

  Antoine’s eyes slid away from her to Julian. ‘Julian, I can’t afford to risk you so early in the tournament. What if you don’t beat him? I need you to advance to semi-finals at the least. Who wants to study at a salle where the senior instructor is defeated in the early matches?’

  Alyssandra bit her lip, watching Julian process Antoine’s concern. It wasn’t often she and Julian were on the same side of an issue. That in itself was a flag for caution. ‘You don’t think I can do it?’ Julian was incredulous. ‘I’ve beaten him before, quite a few times before.’

  Antoine played with a figurine on a side table. Her brother was planning something. She wished she knew what. He met Julian’s eyes briefly. ‘You haven’t beaten him since he’s been training privately with us.’ It was a gentle but stern reminder. Antoine seldom reprimanded Julian.

  ‘Training with me!’ Julian corrected in outrage. ‘Who better to know him than me? I spar with him almost daily. I’m the one who has worked on his passata sotto and his in quartata, with all of it.’

  ‘And you’ve trained him well,’ Alyssandra intervened. ‘The sign of a true master is to create a pupil who is better than his teacher.’

  Antoine’s brown gaze was agate hard. ‘But we cannot have that on display at the tournament. If North is to beat you, Julian, it can happen no sooner than the semi-finals. Enough discussion. I cannot afford to have either of you approach North before the elimination rounds are over. We will do it as we’ve always done it. Alyssandra, you will face only the winner of the semi-finals.’

  ‘Antoine, please reconsider this,’ Alyssandra began to protest.

  ‘No buts. We will take our chances with his ability to set up a salle d’armes if indeed that’s what he intends to do. Otherwise, if he’s willing to work here, I’m certainly open to offering him a position. Still, I’m with Julian. The idea of any of this coming to pass seems fairly preposterous given his background.’ Antoine wheeled himself towards the doors leading outside to the garden with a stern look to them both. ‘I am still the master and my decision is final.’