Page 85 of Any Duke in a Storm

The past few weeks since he’d returned from the United States had been a blur as he got his affairs in order. Thorin had returned theVauquelinin one piece, and Raphael had sailed it back to Paris. Thanks to the Duke of Thornbury’s intervention, the French emperor received a confidential report from the British Crown detailing Dubois’s confession regarding the former Duc de Viel, and all of his lands had been reinstated and his name cleared.

It had felt like an enormous weight had finally been lifted from Raphael’s shoulders.

“Rest in peace, Papa,” he’d whispered.

But since then, despite being busy tending to the needs of his estate just outside Paris and his tenants, unrest churned in his blood. He missed the sea. He missed sailing into the wind. He missedher.

She’s gone, fool. Listen to your own bloody words and let her go.

Eventually, he’d move on. Perhaps even tonight at this wretched ball he’d meet someone and start to forget her. Eventhatthought ached.

As the carriage came to a stop in front of the gorgeous palace with its bold rooflines and prominent central dome, he exhaled and descended. He’d been to the palace with his father once when the former duc had been in favor with the emperor, but it had only been an informal gathering in the Salon d’Apollon before an intimate dinner in the Salon Louis XIV.

All magnificently and lavishly appointed, of course, but nothing compared to the grand Salle de Maréchaux where the ball was being held this evening. Gilded columns tied with beautiful floral arrangements, lush blue-and-gold-trimmed drapes embroidered with fleurs de lis, and sparkling gaslit sconces brightening the space. Enormous paintings dotted the walls and huge chandeliers hung from the domed ceilings, opulence evident in every single inch. The ballroom was filled with people dressed in their finery.

The emperor and empress sat at one end on red velvet thrones on a raised dais in front of four enormous floor-to-ceiling Greco-Roman statues.

“Monsieur de Viel,” the majordomo intoned.

“Ah, our guest of honor has finally arrived,” the emperor said, his blue eyes narrowed, when Raphael approached the dais and bowed low. Louis-Napoléon was not ahandsome man, quite short and stocky, but his intelligence could not be underestimated. Empress Eugénie by contrast was a beautiful woman, born of Spanish nobility, and it was rumored that she influenced the emperor in many areas, especially the French intervention in Mexico that his father had been punished for. No wonder she’d been so willing to listen to Dubois’s lies and turn the emperor’s ear.

“You honor me, Majesté.”

The emperor favored him with a benevolent smile, and the festivities continued. In truth, Raphael was bored and tired. Even after the emperor and empress took their leave, he remained out of obligation. Aware of the attention on him, he forced himself to dance with several young ladies, none of whom took his fancy. All he could envision were icy blond curls, full lips, and ocean-green eyes that could slay or seduce on a whim. He was just about to take a quiet turn on the terrace for some air when a feathery sensation ghosted over his senses.

A change in the air, in barometric pressure…that first hint of an incoming storm.

“La Comtesse de Waterstone,” the majordomo announced.

He went still. No, it couldn’t be. But unable to help himself, he turned in slow motion and there she was…the woman who had wrecked him so completely, standing like a goddess at the top of the stairs. His mouth dried. She was the only thing he could see: a shimmering silhouette in ivory and gold. God help him but her beauty outshone the sun. He stood stationary, unable to move amuscle as she descended the staircase and moved through the crowd, straight to him.

The scent of orange blossoms and honey invaded his senses.

“You’re here,” he rasped.

Lisbeth’s smile was small, her heart in her eyes. She hid nothing from him, her face open and bright. “Someone very special to me told me once that sometimes you have to set something free and let it choose to come back to you.” Her voice broke slightly on the last. “And there’s nowhere else I’d rather be, if you can ever forgive me.”

Raphael stared at her, emotion clogging his throat. “Tell me something true, Viking.”

Green eyes brimmed. “I love you, Pirate.”

The words were easier to say than Lisbeth imagined. Perhaps because she’d practiced them a hundred times before she’d arrived in Paris. A dozen times on the way to the palace. She had almost not gone inside, terrified of Raphael’s reception and whether he would reject her out of hand. But if there was one thing she wasn’t, it was a coward, and so here she was…with nothing but her heart on offer.

Lisbeth had seen him standing by the terrace doors as soon as she’d been announced, her gaze drawn to him in an instant, and her breath had all but disappeared in her lungs. So tall and dangerously attractive in his raven-blackformal attire and snowy-white cravat, with his hair loosely tumbling over his shoulders the way she liked. Up close, those thickly lashed, cautious eyes held hers, his soft lips making her pulse trip.

“Why are you staring at me?” she whispered and bit her lip.

“You love me,” he repeated.

“Yes, more than anything.”

His pupils flared. “I can’t believe you came. That you’re real.”

“I’m real.” She hissed out a strangled breath, aware of all the curious eyes scrutinizing them, and the truths that she could barely rein in now that he was in front of her. “Raphael, I’m so sorry for not being fully honest with you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you that my target was your uncle, but I’d been working so long toward that objective that it was all I could see.”

“I understand,” he said, and then took her hand to lead her outside onto the terrace where they could have more privacy. His thoughtfulness, even in this very moment, undid her. “It was your job, Lisbeth. I cannot fault you for keeping those secrets, and once I got past feeling hurt, I accepted that you were bound by the oaths you’d taken.”

She hated that she’d hurt him.

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