Defiant Angel (7 page)

The following day proved, to even a disbelieving Tiffany, just how successful she was. More than a success, she was a smash! Flowers filled her bedroom, foyer, and even the kitchen. The servants were at a loss where to place the arriving bouquets. The tray that held invitations to balls, soirees, and theater overflowed. Poems written by smitten hopeful suitors arrived hourly. Young, determined men were turned from the oaken doors of Breatoney by Jacques, who rigidly informed them "Mademoiselle has gone riding."

The gossip tabloids were filled with nothing save the "exquisite, elegant beauty, whose wit was sparkling and beauty dazzling." They likened Tiffany's taking of Paris to the "storming of the Bastille." She was considered incomparable.

Tiffany looked out her bedroom window, seeing another group of gentlemen turned from the door, and watched the gardener, Louis, chase an overeager suitor from the rose trellises with a raised rake.

"Well, I've done it!" She turned from the window, throwing herself down on her bed, lying on her stomach, cupping her chin in her hands. A determined look etched her fine features. "Now all I have to do is get Alan to ask for me." She smiled; with her success, it should be a piece of cake. She rolled onto her back thinking Brian had been right--life is full of adventures, and her dreams and plans had not changed one bit.

Paris, 1818

D
uring an intermission at the opera, Tiffany tapped her fan impatiently against her side waiting for Paul Dupre to return with her champagne. She smiled perfunctorily at a group of suitors and turned her head from them so as not to encourage their attention.
"Merde,
where is Paul?" she said under her breath.

The success shed yearned for for so long was now beginning to wear on her. She sighed, letting out a long breath. At first she loved it, reveled in it. It made her feel valuable, wanted. Now she could go to Alan as a success, and her lifelong dream of becoming his wife would indeed become a reality. While the success she found served her purpose, the rest that came along with it was boring and trite. She no longer had a private life outside the ten-foot walls of Breatoney. She laughed cynically when she read in the tabloids someone had seen her riding, not driven in a carriage. And suddenly what was taboo became acceptable to the fashionable ton. Hah! A bunch of hypocrites impressed with their own self-importance, she mused.

She made a very unbecoming face recalling that just today she read in the tabloid speculation was running rampant as to who the countess would marry. Why, those people had the unmitigated gall to even list possible prospects, "Duke Clive Wetherstone, Earl Malcolm Teaksbury, Duke Wilheim Bruinston of Prussia." She snorted a very unladylike sound thinking she'd marry a stable hand before she'd ever consider one of them. Just thinking of marriage made her remember the incessant, unrelenting line of unwanted suitors that constantly trailed after her. No matter how often she told them she held her heart for another, the more ardent and insistent they became. She was ever thankful for the protective arm of the Devonshire men. At least having that threat kept most from trying to compromise her, and she was extremely cautious not to be found in compromising positions even though what the ton deemed compromising, she thought ridiculous. The last thing she wanted was to be forced into a marriage not of her own choosing.

If only she were back in England. She snapped her fan open impatiently, then checked herself. Soon enough; by June she'd return with Alysse for her friend's wedding, and she'd see Alan and Courtland Manor and the meadows, and, of course, the bluff and . . .

"Tiffany?" Turning at the sound of her name, she found Brian at her side. He was so handsome in his uniform, a lieutenant colonel now. She loved him like a brother, always feeling at ease in his presence, not like the way Chad made her feel. She couldn't put her finger on exactly how, but it was different.

"As always, mademoiselle, you look lovely," he said as she grasped his hands.

Tiffany laughed gaily at his comment. "As do you, Colonel, but then, I always did love a man in uniform."

Brian smiled warmly, thinking how he'd like nothing more than her comment to be true, for he had strong, genuine feelings for her. But being a military man, he was able to mask them, and Tiffany never suspected. He knew if she were aware of them, she would cease to see him. For the moment, he was content to stand by.

"You seemed a million miles away, Tiffany. Woolgathering?"

"No, just reminiscing," she replied softly.

"Are you enjoying the opera tonight?"

"Decidedly so."

Brian looked casually about, noting the suitors who stood on the sidelines. "With whom are you here? Percy? Marcel? Which suitor tonight?"

"Aunt Winifred." She smiled mischievously. "I rejected their invitations and took up Aunt Winifred's instead."

Responding to his quizzical expression, she added, "The French tend to be so insistent, it's no wonder it took so long to defeat Napoleon. They wear on me so." Waving her fan, she continued, "Of late, I've been homesick thinking of the endless rough terrain of Courtland Manor and how one could ride forever. France is so manicured, so 'just so,' not that that it isn't beautiful, but I long for the endless meadows." She sighed, lowering her eyes.

He lifted her chin ever so slightly with the tip of his finger. "Does this mean France could never be your home?"

She shook her head, her raven tresses catching the candlelight. She smiled lightly and said, "I guess you can take the girl out of England but you can't take England out of the girl."

"Ah, but France has been good to you, Tiffany."

"True, but my heart is in England, as is Alan." A bright smile lit her features.

"Of course, Alan," Brian remarked dryly. "The paragon," he said under his breath.

A perplexed look on her face, Tiffany was about to ask "What?" when Paul appeared, carefully carrying two glasses of bubbly.

"Sorry about the delay, but there was a line . . . Oh, Brian! Back from your campaign?"

"Obviously, Paul." Brian turned to Tiffany, slightly

bowing. "By your leave, mademoiselle." He turned, walking stiffly atoay, quite angry over Paul's presence, for rumor had it Paul had wagered that the countess would be his wife.

"Brian, ole boy, over here," called out Chad, who waved.

Chad Devonshire was twenty-eight and the eldest son of the Devonshire family. He would inherit the title and properties on his father's death, although he had in the last eight years handled the estates since his father had been called to diplomatic service. While Chad was a rogue, leading a carefree life, he never allowed it to interfere with the running of his family's properties. Chad's reputation was notorious, women flocked to him easily, and he was known to be among the elite group of titled men the ton tolerated. This group of men did as they pleased, having the wealth and power to do so.

The look on Brian's face caused Chad to remark, "Damn, Brian, you've the look of a sailor returning after months at sea and denied liberty." Throwing his arm across his sibling's shoulder, he asked, "Hell, what's wrong with you?"

"Nothing getting good and roaring drunk wouldn't help."

Chad raised his brows knowingly. "A woman, no doubt, has wounded your male pride." Blue eyes twinkled as he continued, "Now, I know a surefire cure and the place to purchase it. Madame Bouvier's, where the brandy, while not the best, flows freely, and the women, ah, the women, most willingly. We'll play a hand or two of cards, drink ourselves silly, and then ride the night away between the soft thighs of a warm wench. What do you say?"

Brian turned back, seeing Tiffany surrounded by a line of suitors, then looked to Chad, who had not missed the direction of Brian's gaze. "Sure. Why not?"

Before Chad and Brian took their coats, they were approached by Marcel Rousseau. "Chad Devonshire." Mar-eel slapped him on the back.
"Mon ami.
How long has it been? A year? Two?"

"Marcel, you old dog! Why, it's been more than that."

"Where are you headed?" asked Marcel.

Chad winked and whispered, "To Madame Bouvier's."

"Mind if I join you?"

"By all means," Chad answered.

The three of them exited the theater and jumped into the Devonshires' carriage. The ride proceeded in silence save for the striking of flint as Chad lit a cigar, puffing on it, savoring the taste of the aged tobacco. Marcel broke the silence. "Did you hear the duke of Chablisienne has a magnificent horse racing next week? Now, there is a bet I will cover despite the Dupres' mount."

"Really? I had not realized he returned to France. I know he had traveled to England a while ago to manage the estates. I met his brother, Austin, who told me he went to Italy. Then I lost track of him." Chad pulled on his cigar and continued, "Of course, I have been between England and France and have missed him. I understood he has offered his home for the hunt we are hosting for Alysse and Kent's engagement weekend."

"Mon ami,
he has set himself up here recently due to his new mistress. A lovely petite redhead. The duke has always had excellent taste in flesh, both horses and women." Chad nodded in agreement, remembering all the wild oats they had sown together.

"Ah,
mon ami,
by your smile I know you agree. You shared many a year together, no?"

"And wine and women, ole man."

"Yes, rumor had it that you two had some interesting encounters."

"No comment, Marcel. It'd be like kissing and telling."

The carriage pulled to a halt, and before the footman opened the doors, Chad asked, "When's the race to take place?"

"Why? Will you attend?"

"Most definitely, Marcel, most definitely."

The door opened, and the three men bounded out into the night and through the welcoming doors of Madam Bouvier's.

"Demoiselle! You cannot refuse me again! Can you not feel the spring in the air? What better way to celebrate than a ride?" Paul Dupre finished in a pleading voice.

"Monsieur, indeed the air is uncommonly warm for March, but spring! Surely you jest." Tiffany adjusted her hat, which was askew from the gusty winds.

Holding his hand over his heart, Paul feigned a hurt expression and whined, "You wound me, you break my heart, demoiselle, if you do not consider my request."

A coquettish smile lit her face. She tightened the reins, holding a fidgety Shalimar in place, and adjusted her riding skirt over the sidesaddle. As if contemplating his request, Tiffany placed a finger on her chin. After a moment she replied, "Very well, monsieur, I suppose it would be unkind of me to break your heart over such an innocent request." She looked up from lowered lashes, continuing, "I've no doubt you've claimed as much to others."

"Demoiselle, you pierce me. Have I not said my heart belongs to no other?" He shifted in his saddle when his mount sidestepped.

"Why, Monsieur Dupre, only last season you said as much to Marie LeFuer!" Tiffany awarded him with a knowing grin.

"Ah, but that was before I made your lovley acquaintance." -

"Very well, monsieur, we have a date," Tiffany smiled impishly and continued, "Say, three weeks from today at Breatoney. There is an excellent course of jumps in the south acre."

Paul Dupre, as Brian had surmised, had set his sights on winning Tiffany's hand and had been so confident in his goal, he wagered at the club in favor of himself. Paul knew of the many offers refused by Tiffany and had devised a plan to ensure his end. It was quite simple; he knew her passion for riding. All he had to do was to get her alone and detain her for an improper amount of time; she would be compromised and forced to accept him! He simply needed to preoccupy her during their ride. He broke on just the thing and ventured, "Possibly, demoiselle, a small contest of equestrian skill?" He smiled devilishly. "Perhaps a wager to make it more interesting?"

Tiffany knew the Dupres' stables were renowned, boasting some of the best horseflesh in France. Paul was a superb rider, technically sound, and his execution precise. She smiled. But he lacked the natural skill and ability she possessed. She never considered he had any other motive to his proposed riding date. She knew she could beat him and agreed, saying, "But, of course, wagering makes it more exciting. Shall we agree then, three weeks from now?"

The broad smile that etched his face disappeared. "Ah, demoiselle, any day but then. I am scheduled to attend a race." He puffed his chest out proudly, saying, "Caesar, my stallion, is to finally have some competition. An English mount with a most unusual name." He paused trying to remember the name and began to pronounce it. "Ex-caliber, no, it is most unusual, something Arabic, yes, yes, Xanadu, that's it, Xanadu." He smiled proudly, having remembered the name, and went on, "Perhaps in two weeks we . . ."

Anything further Paul had to say fell on deaf ears, for once Tiffany heard the horse's name, she heard nothing further.

Xanadu here! she thought. After all these years wondering what had become of him, and he was here in France of all places.
Dieu!

"Where is the race to be . . . Paul?"-Tiffany asked, her voice trembling with excitement.

Her use of his given name did not go unnoticed by Paul, making him believe he had progressed. "Outside of Paris. At La Fountaine."

Batting her eyelashes, a plan forming in her mind, she said, "Oh, Paul, I have never seen a real horse race. Would you take me, please?"

He was almost swallowed up by her wide, pleading blue eyes. "Ah, Tiffany, if I only could take you." He gauged her reaction to his use of her given name and saw none. Spreading his hands in a gesture to emphasize his regret, he continued, "The affair is for men solely and certain women of questionable . . . shall we say, women not of your standing." The look of disappointment caused him to offer, "Tiffany, I would escort you anywhere else,
cherie. "

Realizing her hastily formed plan had failed, she tried another. "Who owns this Xanadu, Paul?" she asked sweetly.

"Ah, our most fierce competitor, the duke of Chablisienne. It is said the old duke was as fastidious about his blooded stock as he was with his own lineage. He had quite a fetish for that sort of thing. I am sure you English know the types."

Oh, Tiffany knew the types, all right, and the duke of Chablisienne no doubt fit the mold to a tee--an ancient, lecherous, hawked-nose man, probably stooped over, clambering about with a walking stick, intimidating his lessers. No doubt the duke intended to run Xanadu to the ground if he was fastidious about bloodlines. After all, Xanadu had no papers and would be no use to the duke other than as a possession that could increase his wealth. No doubt once Xanadu could run no longer, the duke would rid himself of him and purchase another possession.

Suddenly she realized Paul was awaiting an answer to his question and quickly responded, "Oh yes, England is indeed plagued by such fools."

Paul raised a brow at her remark, thinking Tiffany was not concerned with the importance of title. He found hop* in her attitude, for his own title was not impressive. He had dismissed the conversation about horses and was about to press for a riding date when the sound of hooves drew his attention. Chad Devonshire drew his horse to a halt before Paul and Tiffany. He quickly glanced at Tiffany, assessing her state, noticing she appeared preoccupied, but intact. Then he quickly turned to Paul, leveling a steady gaze at him. A smile that did not touch his eyes accompanied his stare. In a tight voice he asked, "Is there a problem, Paul? You seem to have dropped a ways behind us all."

Paul shifted uneasily in his saddle. It was common knowledge the Devonshire men were Tiffany's appointed protectors. Paul might easily dismiss Brian or Dalton, the former seldom available, the latter too young and inexperienced. However, Chad was neither; and while he was rumored to be among that elite group of men known to do pretty much as they pleased, he was also known to take his responsibilities seriously. Paul swallowed with difficulty. Chad was the one to deliver any recompensation to an overeager suitor, and Chad was not to be dismissed.

"N-no," Paul stammered as he looked at Tiffany for confirmation. "Demoiselle and I were discussing a future riding date."

Tiffany was oblivious to the encounter between the two--too busy formulating a plan to see Xanadu--to hear the threat in Chad's words.

"Really? Well, Monsieur Dupre, I suggest you enjoy the present riding arrangement." Chad paused, withdrawing a cigar and rolling it between his fingers. He lifted his eyes, pinning Paul's with his own, and said, "For there's to be no different arrangement in the future."

Paul stiffly nodded his head and said to Tiffany, "By your leave, demoiselle," and rode off.

Tiffany was brought back to the present hearing heard her name. She gazed over to Chad, who sat appraising her while he leisurely smoked a cigar. He nodded his head, indicating she should precede him, saying, "After you, Countess. I'll bring up the rear, so to speak." She smiled as if it was expected and daintily nudged her mare into a trot, once again lost in her own thoughts.

Chad watched her. Raven tresses waved from behind, beckoning. Her sweet, rounded derriere rose up and then down to the bouncing gait. He smiled wolfishly at the direction his thoughts took. Hell, he'd like to bring up that rear, all right! He couldn't blame Dupre, even Brian or any of them, for she could tempt the devil himself. By God, he was not immune! She stirred more than brotherly affection in him, and he was cast in a role as her protector! He tossed his cigar down and spurred his mount to a gallop. He laughed in the wind as he thought of the irony of his role, "the fox guarding the henhouse." How cruel life could be.