Page 33 of To Love A Spy
“Maybe another time.” Already unsettled by the strange lapse in self-control, he thought it best to escape before Mademoiselle Aix could embellish on the idea of limbs glistening with a satin sheen. “Come, my dear. The hour is growing late and we must not be late for our evening engagement.”
“Enjoy your stay in Paris,” called Madame Aix. “It is a city to stir all the senses.”
Chapter Eight
Shadows danced across the walls, the black and white patterns mimicking the sinuous swirl of the colored silks. Laughter, bright and brittle as cut glass, echoed off the crystal chandeliers. Candles flared as the waltz spun to a crescendo.
Valencia slanted a glance at the dancefloor, feeling as though a thousand little tongues of fire were lapping against her flesh. She had forgotten the heat and the heady thrum of excitement that pulsed through the ballrooms of thehaute monde.English or French, it was all the same. Power and privilege had a language all its own.
“Would you care for another glass of champagne?” murmured Lynsley, his own glass barely touched.
She demurred, fearing any more wine would go straight to her head. The heat of the ballroom was already having an intoxicating effect, intensifying the smoky spice of the cheroots and the sultry sweetness of the lush perfumes, including her own. Feminine florals and spice mingled with an earthier, masculine musk.
The effect was exotic, enticing.
It had been a long time since she had drunk it all in.
“A prudent course,” he agreed, edging around the refreshment table. After passing an arrangement of potted palms, the marquess drew her into a shadowed alcove, from which they could observe the other guests. “You have merely to sparkle and laugh often. Everyone will assume your effervescence is due to the champagne.”
Valencia nodded, aware of what role she was to play. Even at the height of her powers, she had been more of a huntress than a temptress. She hoped the lack of practice in her seduction skills would not be too glaringly evident. Breaking up tavern fights did not require much poise or polish.
“I am looking for Levalier,” said Lynsley as he paused to scan the crowd. “He will be our entrée into society. Not only he is hoping to make an advantageous trade agreement for his country with me, but he has the look of man who likes beautiful women. I’ve told him about you, and he is quite anxious to make your acquaintance.”
She watched the dancing, grateful that her maid was a wizard with a curling iron and hairpins. Her raven-dark hair, which she usually wore in a simple plait, was gathered in a stylish topknot and fell in a graceful tumble of ringlets. A threading of tiny seed pearls added lustrous highlights, complementing the costly necklace at her throat. Compared to the other ladies, she decided that she didn’t appear a country crow . . .
Angling her gaze, she saw that Lynsley was studying her profile. “You are looking very lovely tonight,” he murmured.
“Your operatives are quite good at their jobs,” she replied obliquely.
His face remained expressionless.
“And I was fortunate that Madame Violette had a ballgown made up for a client who decided that the color did not suit,” she continued. “It required little alteration to meet Madame’s exacting standards.”
Lynsley’s gaze flicked from her face to her bodice and back again. “The fit is perfect. As is the color. I trust that themodistesuggested a palette of sea greens and smoky jades to complement your eyes.”
To her surprise, a flush began to steal up from her bosom to her bare shoulders.
Damn.She must remember that his praise was not personal. She was merely a means to an end.
“Far too many shades, if you ask me,” replied Valencia with a light laugh. “As I said, it wasnota pleasant experience to be poked with pins for hours on end.”
The marquess smiled. “I am sure you endured far worse from Da Rimini in your fencing classes.”
“Il Lupinowould draw blood if he was in a foul mood.” She sighed. “How is the wily old wolf?”
“Getting a bit long in the tooth, though his blade still carries a wicked bite,” said Lynsley. “These days, he has an assistant who handles many of the daily duties.”
“Another Italian?”
His lips twitched. “Si.”
“God help the girls. I am not sure that is the sort of swordsmanship the students should be exposed to. Perhaps you ought to hire a German. Or a monk. The Jesuits have a tradition of martial?—”
Lynsley placed a hand on her arm, cutting off their banter. “Do you see the man entering the ballroom? The one with the oiled sidewhiskers and brocade waistcoat? That is Levalier.”
Before she could respond, the marquess drew her out of the shadows and called loudly to a passing servant for more champagne. “The stage is set. Time to assume our roles,” he added in a soft whisper.
Valencia felt a surge of excitement. She had not realized just how much she had missed the glittering lights, the action, thechallenge of putting on a perfect performance. She had spent years learning her lines.
