Free The Heroic Baron by Nikki Poppen

think I can’t see through your ruse? You bought me
things, did me favors, and treated me like a real lady in
the hopes that I would incriminate my neighbors by
giving you an entree to my neighborhood. What other
interest could you have in helping me deliver food to
invalids and shut-ins?” Cecile railed. “You got close to
me in hopes of being invited in to the homes of the very
people you want to investigate.”
    Alain’s voice was forced and low. “First, you are arguing from a position of half-truths overheard at a dinner table. Second, why is it so hard to believe I might
share your interest in helping those in need?” He
stepped closer to her until there was no distance between them. The white breeches of his uniform rubbed
against the light silk of her gown. “Third, when I woo
you, you will know it. It will not be with a visit to a jewelers or a grocery but with a visit to my lips to yours. It
will bear resemblance to something like this.”

    Alain tipped her chin up and brought his lips to her
mouth, covering it, sealing it with his own. Cecile
whimpered more in surprise than resistance, although
her conscience briefly argued she should not be kissing
this duplicitous man. He had managed to neither tell her
truths or lies. At the feel of his strong arm around her,
drawing her against him, heat pooled in her stomach.
    Cecile gave herself over to the sensations he invoked. His was the body of a man who knew how to
protect. How Cecile wanted to believe he’d protect her,
that he hadn’t used his strength to haul the Panchettes
off to a dungeon to await unnecessary justice.
    She was embarrassingly breathless when the kiss
ended. She still stood within the secure confines of his
arms, looking up at green eyes darkened with passion
so that now they were the shade of fir trees. “Why did
you do that?
    “Because I think I’ve wanted to kiss you since I first
saw you” Alain’s voice was soft, empty of anger at her
accusations. His hand stole up to push a stray curl behind her ear. “You’re an enigma, Cecile. Who are you?
The spitfire in satin that I see performing in the general’s house or the drab dressed Lady Bountiful?”
    “I could say the same for you,” Cecile retorted, her
practical sense being gradually restored. “Who are
you? The soldier I see tonight or the man I met in the
street” Cecile pursed her lips, suddenly struck by an incongruity. “Whoever you are, I don’t know either one
of YOU.”
    “We shall remedy that tomorrow when I call. We’ve
been apart from the party long enough. Let me take
you back”

    A footman handed Cecile her violin the moment
they stepped back onto the verandah. She took it, grateful to have her hands on something familiar. Playing
would help her sort through the jumbled thoughts in her
head and give her some distance from Alain. If only
Alain would agree.
    “Will you show me your violin?” Alain asked, reaching for the instrument in her hands without permission.
His own hands were elegant and long, with well cared,
short-cut nails. Respectfully, he ran a hand down the
body of the violin. The gesture sent a tremor through
Cecile. What would it feel like to have him caress my
body in that same manner? She pushed such wanton
thoughts away.
    “It was made by a friend of my father, Nicholas
Lupot” Cecile said proudly. “But not the varnish,
which is my father’s contribution to this instrument.”
She gave a little laugh at her joke, which Alain did not
understand. She explained, “Nicholas Lupot makes the
most sensational violins. He’s one of the premier violin
makers in all of Europe. He has a shop here in Paris, I
am told. But he’s never mastered varnishing. Varnishing was my father’s expertise.” Cecile ran a hand over
the exquisite cherry glossed surface of the violin.
“Nicholas uses the harder resins and they give his instruments a cracked look. A good varnish should be
with soft