Free The Warlock's Daughter by Jennifer Blake Page B

have been difficult not to know him.
    There had been a time when Anne-Marie had thought Lucien Roquelaire the epitome of masculine charm. She had spun wondrous daydreams around him in which she played the part of his loyal and valiant lady, the only person who could see through the mask he assumed to conceal the torment in his soul. In her fantasies, he fought for her on the field of honor, climbed to her balcony to rescue her, swept her away with him to exotic climes and exciting experiences.
    How silly she had been. The Dark Angel was no man of dreams, but rather a cold-blooded assassin. Any torment in his soul was of his own making. Anne-Marie had come to despise the code duello by which he lived, and also the man who was its most notorious example.
    Oh, but the hostess for the evening, Madame Picard, was so very gratified by the saturnine gentleman’s appearance at her summer ball. Her smile was a beatific beam, while her breath of satisfaction threatened the overstrained seams of her coral silk ball gown. Rustling forward in haste, she was embarrassingly effusive as she made him welcome.
    Lucien Roquelaire bent his dark head over the lady’s hand, all grace, polished manners, and condescension. It was infamous.
    But as the gentleman turned to glance around the gathering with a weary air, the smiles of his hostess gave way to doubt. The lady had realized, perhaps, that it was one thing to arouse the interest of the Dark Angel but quite another to satisfy it. How humiliating for her if he should turn on his heel and leave the house within seconds of arriving. Wild-eyed, Madame Picard searched for something or someone to offer her guest by way of entertainment.
    There was not a great deal from which to choose. One of the most popular waltzes of the past winter was floating on the air and nearly every person present, with the exception of the chaperones and elderly aunts, was on the shining parquet of the dance floor. The district boasted no true intellectual light who might engage her guest, and the few elder statesmen in attendance were sequestered in a back room, deep in games of faro and draw-poker. The midnight supper hour was still several dances away, and must fail to impress in any case, being only the usual collection of meats, pastries, jellies, and ices.
    It was then that Anne-Marie realized Madame Picard was staring in her direction. Her hostess grasped the arm of Lucien Roquelaire and started forward.
    The blood drained from Anne-Marie’s face. She glanced around for an avenue of escape, but there was none other than undignified flight. Panic invaded her chest in a choking wave.
    She should have been dancing; her stepmother, the wife taken recently by her widowed father, would scold later for the way she had hidden herself away from prospective partners. Yet following the antics of her friends and neighbors from a distance had far more appeal than venturing onto the floor in the company of awkward partners with sweaty hands and no conversation beyond horses and hunting dogs. Unfortunately, that preference now left her available.
    “My dear Anne-Marie,” Madame Picard said as she came to a breathless halt before her, “here is someone who needs no introduction since the entire neighborhood has known for days that he was visiting cousins at Bon Sejour . Will you be so kind as to make him welcome, chère ?” The older woman gave the gentleman at her side a nervous smile. “And you, Monsieur Roquelaire , must prepare yourself for a treat. I assure you our Anne-Marie is something unusual in young ladies.”
    The Dark Angel had little choice except to invite her to dance; Anne-Marie saw that. She was under no obligation to accept, of course, and might easily have declined if she could have forced her brain to produce a reasonable excuse. Nothing came to her. Meanwhile, Madame Picard was standing there looking so ridiculously hopeful that it was impossible to disappoint her. Anne-Marie murmured something that