Free Susan Carroll by Masquerade

husband’s
paramours.”
    Phaedra recoiled before the look Armande gave
her. The hatred that blazed in his eyes was as piercing as a length
of steel. He flung open the chamber door.
    “Get out,” he said tersely. When she only
stared at him, he took her by the arm, firmly steering her into the
hall. He hooded his gaze, the shutters closing on the violent
emotion she had just glimpsed upon his face.
    When he spoke again, he had regained a
measure of his icy calm. “You are correct, my lady. It does bid
fair to be a most hot summer in the city. I strongly suggest you go
back to Bath.”
    Before she could reply he had closed the door
in her face. Phaedra was left alone to deal with the jumble of her
emotions-confusion, anger, fear, and fascination. A most
disconcerting fascination. She had sworn, after Ewan’s true nature
had revealed itself to never again allow any man to rouse such
feelings of desire in her. Especially not one as obviously
dangerous as Armande de LeCroix. Although she earnestly desired to
stay in London, she knew that it would be folly to spend an entire
summer under the same roof with this man.
    It was high time to speak to her grandfather,
Phaedra thought, as she stormed to her own room. It was not until
she had reached the safety of her bedchamber that another thought
occurred to her.
    The marquis had kept the dove-colored
cloak.
    Long after Armande heard Phaedra's footsteps
retreat from his door, he stood, head bowed, holding the gray
cloak, his fingers clutching at the soft wool. Painful memories
flooded back to him of the young girl who had once worn the
cape.
    Lady Phaedra's bitter words echoed through
Armande's mind- my husband's paramour.
    Was that all that remained of Anne then, that
false epitaph and this damned cloak? His hands crushed the fabric
as Armande swore softly. He raised his head, his gaze locking upon
his own image in the cheval glass. The Marquis de Varnais's
chilling mask of indifference had cracked, revealing a visage at
once younger and more aged, his cheeks flushed with passion, his
eyes storm-ridden with bitterness and anger.
    He recoiled in shock from the reflection. Was
that how he had looked only moments ago when he had thrust Phaedra
out of his room? He was going to have to be much more cautious,
especially now that that most inquisitive lady had returned from
Bath. His eyes never wavering from the mirror, Armande struggled to
repress all those dangerous feelings that the sight of Anne's cloak
had aroused. He forced his features to relax until he had once more
assumed the icy calm of the Marquis de Varnais.
    " Bien -that's better," he muttered. He
strode over to the mahogany dressing table and relinquished the
cloak, laying it gently over the back of the chair. He could never
again afford to let his guard slip that way-not without
jeopardizing his entire reason for being in London, in Sawyer
Weylin's house. If the sight of Anne's cape was going to overset
him, then he'd best make sure it was out of sight.
    A pity he could not do the same with Lady
Grantham. If there was anything that could have disturbed him, it
was Phaedra's arrival. Some instinct had warned him from the first
that Weylin's granddaughter might prove an unwanted complication to
his plans. That was why he had done his best to make sure she
stayed in Bath.
    But he had been unprepared for exactly how
much of a complication the lady threatened to be and he was not
thinking of Phaedra's intelligence and determined curiosity. It was
her impact upon his senses that had taken Armande unawares. At the
masked ball, in the midst of the other artificial beauties with
their powdered false hair, Phaedra had struck him like the sun
blazing forth upon a winter's day. Her silken hair all gold and
flame, her green eyes that sparkled with the fire of finely cut
emeralds, the lithe beauty of her slender form in that low-necked
gown revealing the gentle swell of her breasts, pearly hued flesh
so velvet soft his fingers had