Tonight or Never

  There was a fire in her that would be evident to every court card of the beau monde.

  It wouldn't be long before word got out and the mansion was under siege. Add to that fact that Chloe was an heiress…

  This was bound to be trouble.

  And he knew for whom.

  He already had a busy season planned; he didn't have time for this. John scowled. "What have you done to yourself?"

  Chloe pursed her lips. This was not the reaction she had hoped for. "Whatever do you mean, John? And you can take that scowly-bear look off your face right now!"

  Scowly-bear? Chloe always had a strange way of turning a phrase. He didn't think she realized that she always mixed up questionable adjectives with descriptions of the animal kingdom whenever she was angry with him. He always thought her attempts at categorizing him when she was upset most adorable. And he had a delightful way of teasing her with it.

  So his lips twitched.

  Momentarily.

  "I have grown up, John, in case you have not noticed!" The violet eyes flashed lightning at him.

  Yes. White-hot fire.

  Despite himself, he grinned slowly. "Oh, I noticed," he drawled.

  Mistaking his meaning, Chloe's felt her face break into a delighted smile.

  "The question is—how much trouble is it going to cause me?" He stroked his chin in what was to Chloe an insufferably arrogant gesture. The smile died on her face.

  Her delicate brows slanted down.

  So that's where the rascal thought to go, did he? Going to play his long-suffering, I'm-responsible-for-you routine. I don't think so, Viscount.

  For some reason, John had always considered himself accountable for her. Why exactly was a mystery to everyone, including Chloe. No one had ever remotely suggested the possibility to him. Mystery or no, she was not above using that inexplicable quirk of his to her advantage.

  She spoke the words she knew would rattle him. "Whatever does it have to do with you?"

  John eyed her suspiciously, green eyes narrowing slightly. "And I suppose you're not going to embroil me in one of your schemes the next time you get yourself into hot water? Which, knowing you, should be in about, oh, say, an hour and fifteen minutes?"

  Chloe swallowed. Actually that was just about the time she was thinking of springing her trap on him. It was uncanny how well he knew her.

  "What's the matter, Chloe-rabbit, cat got your tongue?" His deep voice teased her.

  The corners of Chloe's generous mouth turned down at the silly sobriquet, one of many he irked her with. John had a habit of tacking animals onto her name. She could never figure out the reason.

  "Stop calling me Chloe-rabbit; it is just not done, John! After all, I am a woman now."

  John looked up at the ceiling, then settled his mocking gaze on her. "Are you really?"

  She nodded, her soft mouth curving in an enigmatic half smile.

  John didn't want to believe what he was thinking. He bent toward her, bringing his face level with hers. "And tell me, just what did you do in the Colonies that has brought about this change?" The mocking lilt in his voice did nothing to disguise the mercuric glint in his eyes.

  Chloe had never seen precisely that expression on John before.

  She stepped back from him and almost lost her balance on the stairs. His strong arm shot out to steady her. And bring her closer to him. He did not release her elbow.

  "I'm waiting."

  Chloe tossed her head back, breaking free of his hold. "Don't be a snibble-toad! It is none of your concern what I have done!"

  Snibble-toad hardly registered because her nonanswer was answer enough for him. His emerald gaze met hers in silence for an eternity.

  Good, let him think the worst! This was an unexpected bonus for it fit in perfectly with her plans. She convinced herself that the slight sheen of moisture in his left eye was a trick of the light. Surely his feelings were not hurt in some way?

  Nonsense!

  Smiling softly, Chloe stood on tiptoe and patted his cheek. This close she could discern the clean scent of his hair; it always reminded her of a field of clover. "I had a wonderful example," she purposely goaded him in the softest of tones.

  Against expectations, John flinched at her words and swiftly grabbed her wrist in a crushing hold, bringing her flat against him. This time she knew she saw real emotion in his eyes.

  "What do you mean by that?" he hissed.

  She threw her head back, bringing her lips close to his chin, so he could feel the warmth of her breath on him. "Even in the Colonies I heard about your women, John."

  Her words surprised him. He hesitated briefly. "So what?"

  His long lashes fanned his cheeks, the rich black color a stunning contrast to the long golden hair framing his face. Then he raised those lashes, meeting her questioning look.

  "I am sure nothing I have done has ever been a shock to you, Chloe-cat." The deep male voice literally purred a sexual challenge.

  Chloe flushed. It was the first time John had ever toyed with her in such a blatantly seductive manner. She wondered if he was even aware he was doing it.

  She had never imagined how… how potent he could be. No, that wasn't exactly true; she had imagined it. Who would have guessed that the reality far surpassed the fantasy? Chloe wasn't sure whether she should inhale or exhale.

  She settled on a better technique.

  "All of these lovers," she returned in a low, intimate voice, "they must bring you great satisfaction. N'est-ce pas?"

  He observed her in stony silence, a muscle working in his jaw.

  In that moment Chloe knew she had discovered something. Something he kept well hidden. Instantly she became serious. "Why do you need all of these women, John?"

  The question was a mistake. She knew it the second the words left her mouth.

  John pulled away from her, moving down one step, his distance now not just physical.

  Crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned against the wall. The grin that crossed his face was arrogant, rakish, and terribly annoying. "Well, I do like it, Chloe."

  She had no doubt of that—he was a rake. Perhaps she was expecting too much from him in this regard? The man was notoriously oversexed.

  "Why else would I do it?"

  Why else indeed? It had been a question that had plagued her for years. This time Chloe felt the sheen of moisture in her own eyes. His seemingly careless assessment of his sordid life upset her deeply. If she did not know him as well as she did, she would have believed that was all there was to the story.

  However, Chloe knew better.

  With a resolve she never knew she possessed, she said very calmly, "Yes—that is my point. I believe I will like it too." Whereupon she smiled like a true Chloe-cat.

  The smug look died on John's face. He abandoned his casual stance. "What are you saying?"

  "I am saying, dear, imaginative rake, that I intend to be exactly… like… you." She picked up her skirt and breezed by him down the stairs. John's jaw dropped.

  He still hadn't recovered when she paused to say over her shoulder, "I mean with men, of course."

  Continuing down the stairs, she began counting to herself. One. Two. Thr—"

  "You intend to what?"

  A mischievous grin made her violet eyes sparkle as she ignored the bellow behind her and nonchalantly made her way to the central hall.

  "What is all this yelling about?" Chloe's grandmother, the Countess de Fonbeaulard, rushed into the foyer from the drawing room.

  John was not overly surprised to see his uncle, Maurice Chavaneau, the Marquis of Cotingham, at her side. The man had been slavishly in love with the countess for thirty years and had even left his own French estates to follow the woman to England when she had become Chloe's legal guardian.

  Chloe's father had been an Englishman, like John. In his will he had stipulated that Chloe must be raised on English soil. His English soil, to be precise. So the countess, who loved her granddaughter far more
than her beloved chateau, had left France, although she never let anyone forget the grand sacrifice she had made, nor forgiven "that Engleeeshman," Chloe's father. In retaliation, when she had moved with the six-year-old Chloe into the father's Georgian estate, she promptly renamed it Chacun à Son Goût—Each to his own taste.

  The new name of the house reflected the countess's personal philosophy on life. She was a flamboyant, interesting woman, who maintained her enormous popularity with the males of her set. In her youth, the widow's reputation in the boudoir fell just short of John's.

  Nowadays, her dazzling personality and great beauty still were admired and respected by all her contemporaries. Indeed, the marquis had been slavishly in love with her for decades. It was rumored he asked her to marry him once a week. On Fridays. At teatime.

  Maurice Chavaneau, John's only living relative, was also a French marquis and preferred to be called such. John himself did not have French blood, although he could lay claim to Norse, Celtic, and Saxon blood.

  The marquis was John's mother's half brother, having inherited his English title from that side of the family. And so, too, John was his only living relative. In other words, John was his heir.

  It was not such a comforting thing to have one such as John as one's heir even if one was very Gallic in temperament and had a tendency to shrug off the foibles of youth. After all, John was a complete wastrel, and had never pretended or aspired to be anything else.

  Still, his uncle, a kindhearted man, had great affection for the younger lord. Even if he did despair of him ever producing an heir to carry on the line.

  At this point, the marquis thought even an illegitimate heir would be welcome, but John had been very careful in that regard. And apparently very knowledgeable too. No Sexton bastards had ever appeared on his lordship's doorstep.

  "Ah! It is John—come to see our Chloe." Countess de Fonbeaulard smiled fondly at the handsome lord.

  "Oh ho! I knew he would not stay away long!" The marquis spoke English with a thick French accent.

  "Is she not beautiful, John? Almost I did not recognize her!" Maurice winked at the countess. "All the Fonbeaulard women are beautiful."

  The countess tapped his arm with her fan. "Really, Maurice, you are a consummate flatterer—but I agree with you; Chloe has come into her own."

  "Thank you, Grandmere," Chloe said sweetly. "You too, Maurice." Chloe joined them at the bottom of the stairs and gazed innocently up at Lord Sexton, who was still standing in the middle of the stairs, nostrils flaring.

  "I think soon we shall have the coming-out party for you, my little angel."

  Little angel? John gave the countess an incredulous look.

  "We have already put it off far too long." Grandmere raised a scented handkerchief to her eyes, dabbing them. "It will not be long before she leaves us, Maurice. How shall I bear it?"

  Grandmere was ever the dramatic one. Chloe tried not to laugh as, predictably, the marquis put his arm around her grandmother, patting her back consolingly. She knew Maurice was about to impart the Gallic wisdom that always accompanied these little nuances of life.

  Right on cue the marquis shrugged his shoulders in a very French gesture. "It is the way of things, mon amour. We cannot go against nature."

  Chloe's lips twitched with suppressed amusement. At that moment her eyes met John's. Despite his vexation at her, there was an answering glint of humor in his expression. The two of them had been watching the same scenario in various forms for most of their lives.

  As usual, Grandmere recovered remarkably fast, all traces of tears somehow vanishing immediately. The countess took the phrase c'est la vie as a personal motto.

  "Yes, why be upset on this glorious day when we should be dining?" Turning, she took the marquis's arm. "Come along, John, we have had a place set at the table for you."

  Desultorily, John ambled down the stairs. "How did you know I was coming?"

  Maurice raised an eyebrow at him. "Ho ho!"

  John glared at him.

  The marquis wasn't fooled. Singing a silly country tune in French under his breath, he led the countess into the dining room.

  A smattering of the lyrics reached John. Some nonsense about a mouse that ate a cat…

  "Shall we go, John?" Chloe said amiably.

  The viscount wasn't fooled by her act for a minute. The minx had the audacity to bat her eyelashes at him.

  He took a deep breath and exhaled it. "We are not through with this, you and I."

  "Oh, I should hope not! Why, I have only just begun," Chloe murmured mysteriously as she took his arm.

  "Mmm. I was afraid of that."

  Twice he tried to trip her as he led her into the dining room.

  When they entered the dining room, the man known simply as Deiter was already seated at the table.

  This was no great surprise.

  Despite the strange man's unfortunate tendency to fall asleep at the oddest times, he never missed a meal.

  Simply put, Deiter was family, although no one was quite sure exactly whose family. He had been with them for so long, it was naturally assumed he belonged on someone's side.

  Deiter greeted Lord Sexton with his customary grunt. It was one of two responses the man possessed, the other being a piercing stare.

  Both expressions, John had to admit, accessorized the man's constant wardrobe of black to perfection. He nodded to the squat German as he took his seat across from Chloe.

  Schnapps, an exceedingly ugly pug dog—who was never far from Deiter's lap—provided the piercing stare. The one tooth the dog possessed stuck out of its mouth at an odd angle, lending a maniacal impact to the sentiment.

  Between the two of them, we are sure to get the entire range of emotion. An amused dimple curved John's cheek.

  John rather liked the presence of Deiter.

  Not because he was fond of the man himself—one would have trouble admitting to a fondness for Deiter—it was rather because Deiter represented to John everything unique that he had come to associate with Chacun à Son Goût.

  He had always had a special attachment to this house. It was one of the few places where he felt comfortable down to his toes. That the countess was a consummate hostess was an indisputable part of the reason.

  But it was more.

  There was for John a sense of happiness about this house. A sense of life and laughter that he had rarely seen elsewhere.

  What was more, the countess always kept a room ready just for him. The same room. Since John was a rather impoverished viscount, having no estates of his own, the gesture she made, fueled in part by her affection for Maurice, touched him deeply. Chacun à Son Goût was the closest thing to a home he would ever likely know.

  Luncheon was served.

  Years before, the countess had brought her cook with her from France, stating seriously that one would give up the coat of arms before one gave up a good French chef. Therefore, the table at Chacun à Son Goût was exceptionally well laid. So why had he suddenly lost his appetite?

  John gazed across the table to the young woman cheerfully scarfing down her coq au vin. Prosaically, he acknowledged the source of his problem. Cherchez la femme.

  It wasn't Chloe's ridiculous pronouncement that she intended to imitate his manner of life that had startled him the most. Obviously she wasn't serious and had only been goading him—a thing Chloe always took great pleasure in doing. No, it was Chloe's seemingly innocuous observation that had unnerved him. All of these lovers… must bring you great satisfaction.

  The truth was… they didn't.

  Oh, he enjoyed himself, to be sure. In fact, he was very pleased with his life. But great satisfaction? Somehow that peak had always eluded him.

  He had no idea why.

  "John?" Chloe broke into his thoughts. He looked up at her questioningly.

  "After we finish, I wonder if we might go into the garden. There is something I wish to discuss with you." She looked at him meaningfully over her wineglass.


  So she was going to continue with this absurd idea of hers. He gave her a patient look. "No, Chloe."

  John was being stubborn. Time for a little incentive, she reasoned. Dipping her index finger into her wine, she ran the moistened tip slowly back and forth across her full bottom lip exactly as she had seen a playactor do.

  It was a shame she had no way of knowing that a droplet of red liquid had dribbled onto her chin.

  Goblet raised midway to his lips, John glanced over at her and stared agog. What on earth is she doing?

  Chloe, pleased with John's undivided attention told herself it was working. Why, look at his face… he's—he's captivated!

  Propelled by her apparent success, she decided to go all-out and give him what she considered her most alluring maneuver. She unfocused her vision, donning the faraway, dreamy look of a courtesan.

  Too bad it made her appear cockeyed.

  John's facial expression became that of a man who had been hit sharply on the head with a cudgel.

  "My lord, I insist," Chloe croaked in a gravelly voice. Violet eyes crossed.

  The wine he was halfheartedly drinking caught in John's throat, choking him.

  "John, are you feeling well?" The countess leaned forward in her seat, concern on her face.

  Maurice whacked his nephew on the back. "This strapping boy?" Whack! Whack! Whack! "But he is the picture of health!"

  John grabbed his uncle's wrist to stop the hammering he was receiving. "Ex—ahem—excuse me, Countess; I thought I saw something… improbable." He gave Chloe a penetrating look.

  "Do be careful; Chef LaFaint would be terribly upset if you collapsed at his table." The countess smiled kindly at him.

  John smiled back, then covertly turned to Chloe with a thunderous expression.

  The garden, she mouthed stubbornly.

  "Very well, Chloe." John threw his napkin down and rose. He knew that when the ginger-pate had something on her mind… well, it was in his best interest to find out about it and nip it in the bud. There was no telling what that dangerous little brain of hers had concocted.

  A lifetime of experience told him that, whatever it was, it would be the last thing he expected.