Silence No More

08. The Man in the Shadows

"Mademoiselle Ambrose."

The vicomte performed a sweeping bow which he somehow managed to make seem genuine, despite the way one corner of his mouth curled up in a mocking smile.

Adaira scrutinised him for a moment. He was now leisurely leaning against the wall, his glossy black hair casually tied back, his long-limbed body thrumming with power, even in this casual pose. No matter how much she didn't want to, she had to admit: he looked good.

Though not nearly as good as Captain Car—

She cut that thought off quickly.

He isn't here! He left, and he isn't coming back!

"In fact," the vicomte continued, not knowing the path her thoughts had taken, "if I didn't know better, I would say you seem so disinclined to be engaged to me, I might even get the idea you do not not, in fact, wish to marry me."

Adaira snorted. "Don't take it personally. I just don't like smarmy self-important frogs with too much power for their own good."

"Oui." He gave a considering nod. "I can see how very much not personal it is."

Adaira herself didn't know why she disliked the man so much. He was rich. Rich beyond anyone's wildest dreams. He was good-looking. The gaggle of giggling village girls who threw him coquettish looks whenever he went out was proof enough of that. He was even well-spoken and had something that was sorely lacking in her family: a sense of humour.

Yet still...

She couldn't help the cold tingle she felt whenever he looked at her. As if he was looking not because he loved or even desired her, but because she was a tool. A means to an end.

She was fairly certain she could identify that look. After all, it was the same one her brother gave practically everyone except her and her mother.

On second thoughts...

He was rich, like her brother.

Black-haired, like her brother.

Powerful, like her brother.

Yep...maybe it wasn't so strange that she didn't want to marry him. Besides...there was one other reason.

An image flashed past her inner eye: dark, devilishly handsome brown eyes, and a smirk that made her heart twinge.

Don't think about him, Adaira! Don't think about him! He was sent on a mission to God-only-knows-where.

But even if he hadn't been, even if he were here...what good would it do? It was not like someone like her father would deign to take her preferences into consideration when making decisions for her.

"Oh, Mademoiselle!" A broad smile spread over the vicomte's face. "From that delightfully murderous look on your face, may I deduce that you are thinking about me? I'm touched!"

Adaira's eyes narrowed. "Yes, you are. In the head."

"You wound me, ma chérie."

"Not yet." One hand threateningly slid into her dress. Of course, the only weapon she kept there was a particularly dangerously decorated handkerchief, but he didn't need to know that, now, did he? "But it could be arranged."

"No." His brilliant blue eyes met hers, and there was not a trace of amusement in them. "No, it could not."

A shiver went down her back.

"Why are you here, really?" she demanded. "What do you want with me?"

"Why, to win your heart of course, ma chérie." Suddenly, the faint amusement was back again. "And if any other benefits should arise from my endeavour, well..." He shrugged. "Who am I to say no to unexpected boons?"