The wide brim of her silk hat obscured her features, the flames that danced and twirled in the hearth casting the profile of her body into relief. Her dainty feet shifted restlessly beneath the white and pink muslin overskirt of her Robe a l'Anglaise, her slender, gloved hands alternatively smoothing and pleating the dark green satin petticoat.

He must have made a sound, or she simply sensed his presence, for she lifted her head, revealing a strikingly beautiful face framed by a mass of unpowdered curls of an indeterminate color.

As dark and shiny as an otter's pelt, he recalled, as tiny stabs of pain leapt to life, eddying and flickering in his belly. Bastien straightened from his relaxed pose, the dancing flames that flashed over his jeweled buckle drawing her attention to where one heeled shoe slithered from the shadows.

Bastien was gratified by the flash of what he hoped was fear widening her blue eyes, the pink color of health receding from her face, starkly outlining the high cheekbones and the vulnerable curve of her stubborn, clefted jaw.

He took his time in responding to the silent question that hung in the air, heavy and pregnant, flipping open the enameled snuff-box he had been fingering and taking a pinch of the rose scented tobacco. He instantly regretted his arrogant impulse, the cloying, clinging scent barreling him into a time and place where he had been praised, feted, and acknowledged at a near god-like status.

The lid of the snuff-box was closed with a bitter snap, and Bastien clenched his fist about it, as if by squeezing the delicate box, he could squeeze every inch of pain from his body. His mouth curved into a bitter smile as he watched her stiffen with each ticking minute in which he still did not speak.

"What are you? A coward?" she said, breaking the silence, her voice low and husky with false bravado. "Cease playing these games and show yourself to me."

He released his hold on the snuff box and allowed it to roll from his fingertips and down his body to rock gently on its tiny legs at her feet. He had the upper hand for once, and he was not going to allow her to goad him into handing it back to her like a puppy, starved for affection.

"A snuff-box," she said slowly, bending to retrieve the object. "Of obvious fine quality-most likely made in Paris."

She ran a finger over the lid, tracing the engraved initials of his family name. He started when he realized he had leant toward her, his muscles bunched and knotted with tension. He forced his frame to relax, cursing himself for becoming affected by her.

"B. R. A.," she murmured, raising her gaze from the gleaming surface of the snuff box in a futile attempt to glean his whereabouts in the shadows. Bastien Roquefort d'Aubigny. An old and respected name, one any social climbing debutante would trade her soul to attain.

"Come, cherie," he replied caustically, rising from his seat to shift deeper into the shadows. "The initials should be as known to you as I am."

He waited in the following silence, waited for her to cast herself at his feet and beg for forgiveness. A ripple of pleasure caused his blood to pound in his ears at the thought of rejecting her, smiting her and casting her out of his life as she had once done him.

But she did not beg. To his deepening displeasure, she merely placed the snuff-box on the tiny wooden table and clasped her hands in her lap, her eyes moving through the shadows as though blind before they seemed to look directly into his. A swift intake of air deflated his lungs at the piercing clarity that shone in her eyes, momentarily stripping him of his defenses and leaving him flayed before her eyes.

A growl rumbled in his throat and he swept the delicate clocks and enameled figurines from the fireplace mantle with his hand, a deafening roar of shattered glass and crumbling porcelain filling the room. Her shoulders leapt and she winced with each tiny sound, tension stiffening her posture.

Bastien ground his teeth in annoyance at his outburst and forced himself to sink into his seat instead of giving into the impulse of lunging at her and curling his fingers around the smooth column of her throat.

"Well," he snapped. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

"Wh-what should I have need to say, Monsieur?" she stammered, averting her face so that the brim of her hat shadowed her face once more.

"Take it off."

"Excuse me?"

"Remove your chapeau."

Her head jerked up, her eyes glittering with what seemed to be annoyance. He stiffened in surprise, his nostrils flaring as he watched her slender arms raise, the fall of lace that adorned her sleeves fold back to reveal pale, slender wrists. He contemplated running his tongue along the rapidly beating pulse he detected there, before he ruthlessly shoved the thought away. He chose instead to focus on the quick movements of her hands as they removed the hatpin and hat in successive motion.

Her hair gleamed brightly in the fireplace, a sleek, fiery sheen to the dark tresses that he hadn't remembered her possessing. That annoyed him as well. She tilted her chin defiantly, the plumed hat perched rebelliously on her knees as she met his steady regard.

"Is this to your approval, Monsieur?"

"Non."

"Non?"

"Must you repeat what I say? You sound like a parrot."

"Forgive me, Monsieur, I merely wished for you to clarify what else displeases you."

Bastien felt a surge of heady emotion flood his veins at her cheeky response. It had been so long since someone had responded to his words, his few servants alternatively acquiescing meekly or meeting his needs before he had need to speak them.

"Take your hair down."

She hesitated before inclining her head, deftly pulling the pins from her hair, causing it to tumble about her shoulders in a heavy fall of burnished silk.

"Is this to your approval then?"

He narrowed his eyes on the lace fichu that was tucked into the neckline of her bodice, watching the faint rise and fall of her breasts beneath the clinging fabric. Somehow sensing where his attention lay, she raised her questioning fingers to the enameled brooch that clasped the edges of the fichu together.

"Remove it."

The fichu and brooch were quickly removed, joining the small pile of discarded garments. His breath strangled in his throat and his fists clenched against the arms of his chair in reaction to the creamy swells pressing impudently against the stiffened bodice. A wave of molten heat singed his blood as it coursed through his body to settle in his rapidly arousing cock.

"D-Does this meet with your approval, Monsieur?"

Her breathy voice sent shivers to dance a minuet down his spine, blanking out the hatred and unquenched thirst for revenge as his mind focused on the one physical pleasure that had been denied to him.

"Come here," he commanded hoarsely, pointing a finger to a spot before him.

"I beg your pardon?" she said, her breath hitching in her throat as her fingers fluttered against the hollow of her throat in a well acted display of feminine modesty.

"Come here. Now."

He moistened his lips in anticipation as he watched her warily rise from her seat, her feet moving hesitantly across the Aubesson carpet as she made her way toward him. She halted before him, as tall and proud as an oriflamme rising into the sky.

His lust glazed mind briefly noted the fact that she seemed taller than he remembered, but the thought was quickly discarded as he reached for her, his hand encircling her wrist to yank her into his lap.

Her eyes glittered brightly, their blue depths shimmering and darkening beneath the ridge of her brow. He snaked an arm about her waist to fit her more tightly against him, and a deep groan was wrenched from his throat as her warm, cinnamon scented curves sank into him.

The skin of her neck was smooth and warm, each breath she took causing her breasts to swell against his chin. He raised his face from her neck and tugged her chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing her face towards his for a kiss.

He was jolted from the sweet, molten heat of anticipation by her apparent unresponsiveness. Her spine was pole straight, her arms limp and unresisting between their bodies; revulsion flattening her mouth and burning in her eyes.

With a violent oath, he flung her from him in a tangle of satin and muslin. He held onto his sanity enough to resist the urge to kick her as she lay crumpled at his feet, as unresponsive as she had been in his arms. Pain thundered through his brain, dimming his vision as memories of vile taunts and averted faces jumbled behind his eyelids.

"Get up," he rasped, rising to tower over her.

She raised her head from the tangle of petticoats, her eyes dark and wary as she inched backwards on her hands, blindly searching for the chair she had abandoned. He offered her no assistance as she attempted to raise herself onto the seat while keeping her loosened coiffure from collapsing across her face.

Her fingers trembled violently in her lap as she sat ram-rod straight in her chair, her face averted toward the fire, as though the smoldering flames could offer her succor. Her full bottom lip escaped her upper teeth from time to time, allowing sharp intakes of breath to further betray her fear. He closed his eyes, swearing he could smell her terror rolling from her body like waves of spice scented energy.

"Why have you returned?" he asked quietly, watching as her head jerked, yet continued to stay averted. "Certainly you were aware that I have been unable to touch a centime to a livre of money. So, lack of funds isn't the reason."

He circled her , catching a glimpse of the vulnerable curve of her pale neck from another angle.

"Your clothing does seem to be of fine quality." Her arm quivered when he placed his thumb on the seam of the cool, smooth silk gown near the juncture of her shoulder. "So you have no need of warm clothing."

"You appear to have been well fed during your extended absence." He ran a finger down the curve of her cheek, lingering near the corner of her mouth. "So you approaching me for a filling meal cannot be your design."

An ugly thought raced through his mind as he contemplated the ripeness of her figure, noting the ample curves beneath the shimmering satin.

"Are you enceinte?" He grasped her shoulder, digging his fingers into the delicate flesh and yanking her to face his direction.

"N-No!" she said, in short jerky gasps of pain.

He allowed his fingers to squeeze her shoulder for one moment longer before yanking his hand away.

"Of course not," he replied mirthlessly. "That leaves only one other purpose for your return."

"And what would that be?" she asked breathlessly, this time angling her body to follow the sound of his voice.

"The abruptness of your return was facilitated by your longing for me."

Her silence was a bitter affirmative to his partially mocking statement.

"I thought not." He circled back to his former position, retreating into the shadows beside the fireplace. "Since I can conceive of no other reason for your unexpected visit, perhaps you could enlighten me?"

He snorted derisively in response to her continued silence. "What is the matter my dear? I recall that your tongue was in avid use before we became acquainted."

"I have nothing that I wish to say."

"Do you not?" He narrowed his eyes.

"I am tired, and a bit famished, Monsieur. Perhaps if you would put your questions to me at a later date," she said, her tongue tripping over the words, as if her haste would keep him from interrupting her.

"A cruel tyrant I would be if I were to allow you to waste away from lack of sleep and a well-balanced meal."

He moved towards the door and pulled it open, twirling his hand in a mockery of the effected flourished hand movements of the court's footmen.

"By all means, please allow me the pleasure of escorting you to a late supper."

She hesitated a moment, before clutching her skirts between whitened knuckles and rising from her seat, her warm, sweet scent tickling his nose as she swept past him, her head held up high in a commendable imitation of Queen Marie-Antoinette ignoring the jeering crowds when she had deigned to travel through Paris.

***

From his perch in the shadows, he could sense her wariness as she beheld the glittering table setting he had ordered placed at the opposite end of the oak dining room. Gilt covered silverware gleamed beside the painted china plates, set at precise angles against the brace of narrow, white candles flickering and dancing against the papered walls.

The stooped figure of his lone manservant shuffled into the nexus of light, a crystal goblet and a bottle of crimson colored wine balanced precariously on a wooden tray. When her pale hands moved to intercept the tray as his manservant, Bruteil, began to lower it onto the clean, lace tablecloth, the slender gold band that encircled the third finger on her left hand flashed in the candlelight. It clinked ominously against the delicate glass when her hand curled around the goblet.

His breath flew in on a sharp intake, his eyes riveted on the precise movements of her hands as they uncorked the bottle and angled it over the mouth of the goblet. A steady stream of blood red liquid trickled into the glass, swirling delicately around the curve and settling sedately at its base.

A burning sensation zipped across his heart as she continued to stand, her left hand angled deliberately in his direction, as though she wanted him to know that she still had one card up her lace edged sleeve.

"What are you waiting for?" he rasped, pushing aside the pain and focusing on what truly mattered. "Sit."

She started visibly at the sound of his voice, setting the glass down on the table with a dull thud and slowly lowering herself into the seat Bruteil brandished for her. His spindly servant was ever the gentleman.

She fussed with the embroidered napkin that sat beside her empty plate. The way her eyes continued to seek his whereabouts in the darkness was the only outward sign of her discomfort,. He had deliberately ordered the candles arranged in a way that caused the flames to encompass her person like a halo, casting light only where he wished it to be-on her.

The remaining darkness dwarfed her vicinity, giving the illusion of isolation, as though she and the yard of table around her were confined in a space she could never depart nor escape from. The image was satisfying, bringing a quirk to his lips, the first sign of amusement he had felt in quite some time. He had her in his web, and he wasn't about to allow her to disentangle herself until he had had his fill.

She ate neat and precisely, each morsel that passed through her parted lips measured and cut exactly, the silverware held between her slender fingers sitting awkwardly, as though she hadn't much use for eating with proper utensils.

Against his will, Bastien felt his pulse quicken and his body stir once more as she wiped the crumbs from her pink lips with a napkin, her tongue darting out afterwards to lick the remnants from about her mouth in an oddly erotic movement. He breathed heavily, moistening his suddenly dry lips as she continued eating, choosing to place fluffy mounds of crème brulee on her fork, the sweet, sticky entrée leaving a her lips shiny and wet-a replica of the state of her mouth after he had kissed her in the sitting room.

The clattering of her fork against the empty china jerked his attention away from her mouth and he scowled, shifting deeper into the shadows as he focused on the bitter hatred that had sustained him for so long. But simple pride forced the words from his lips, as he noticed her casting an inquiring look at the empty entrees.

"As you may have noticed, my staff size is severely reduced, but I'm still vain enough to stretch my funds in order to keep my chef in relative comfort."

She inclined her head to show she had heard him, quietly folding her napkin and replacing it, her attention seeming to focus on the efficient movements of Bruteil, as the servant whisked away the empty plates, leaving the half empty wine bottle and glass before her.

"Is that the only comfort you've kept?" Her voice was as bland as the look she turned towards the shadows.

Her lack of emotion galled him. Of all the reactions that had gleefully run through his mind whenever he fantasized about forcing her to return to him, her near total and complete lack of any response heated his blood.

"Besides the usual amenities? Nothing else," he replied tightly.

"No…" She waved her left hand in the air. "Physical indulgences of any kind?"

Her voice held a hint of challenge, the very angle of her head proclaiming her disbelief that he'd been able to forgo the activity that she had found so distasteful with him. He swallowed the vile words that bubbled on his tongue at her gall, forcing himself to stay his hand and not allow his cutting remarks to goad him into displaying his cards all at once.

"Are you offering to make up for my lack?"

She stiffened at that, color blooming in her cheeks in an affecting display of modest outrage. Bastien's shoulders shook in mirthless laughter in response to the deep slice of disappointment that had had the nerve of splicing through his veins at her response. He had known better, had been a witness to her response in the sitting room, a response he had experienced countless other occasions. But he kept allowing the slender, willowy woman that had been foisted upon him to slip past his defenses. But no more.

A sudden draft of bitter wind whistled through a crack in the bay window, billowing the heavy drapes and thankfully dousing the candles that would have illuminated his approach. Her eyes widened, and her breath hitched in her throat as she became aware that he had moved to stand beside her.

His gloves contrasted starkly against the pale color of her skin as his fingers encircled her neck, his thumb pressing gently against the rapid pulse beating just beneath the smooth skin at the base of her throat. He pressed his lips to her ear, taking a brief moment to inhale her spicy scent before murmuring in her ear.

"Regardless of my earlier lapse, wife, I find your charms quite lacking for my needs."

Her breath paused, audibly catching in her throat, her frame trembling from the rolling timber of his voice. He allowed his words to sink in before pulling his hand from her slender throat and tucking an errant curl behind the sleek curve of her ear. But he was lying, to her and to himself. And as Bastien strode from the cold, silent room, the truth resonated within him.