His Counterfeit Condesa

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Falconbridge mentally echoed the sentiment. He had a good memory for faces and the ability to read those he met. For that reason he could only agree with her assessment.

Sabrina felt more than a little shaken by the incident, and suddenly Aranjuez did indeed begin to assume the quality of a lion’s den. One false step would put them at the mercy of the French, of men like Machart. She shuddered inwardly, recalling what Falconbridge had told her earlier about the risks of capture and interrogation: Everyone talks by the third day. He had warned her but she had elected to come. There was no choice now but to see this through. Her father’s freedom depended on it.

She was distracted from these thoughts by a strong hand closing on hers. Its clasp was reassuring, like its owner’s smile. The effect was to create a sense of melting warmth deep inside her.

‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Our stay in Aranjuez will be brief. Once the ball is over I shall have urgent business requiring my return.’

‘That’s good to hear.’

He gave her hand another gentle squeeze and then released his hold again, leaning back in his seat, surveying her quietly. The sensation of inner warmth intensified. She resisted it. He had meant only to be kind. It would be foolish to refine on something so trivial.

‘I should not like to spend much more time in Colonel Machart’s company.’

‘No, though I believe he would not say the same of yours.’

‘It means nothing. He’s French so he can’t help it.’

Falconbridge bit back the urge to laugh. ‘How so?’

‘All Frenchmen are demonstrative in that regard.’

‘Are they?’

Sabrina saw the bait and refused to rise. ‘So it is said.’

‘And Englishmen are not demonstrative?’

‘Not in the same way.’

His expression was wounded. ‘What a body blow.’

‘I never meant it to apply to you. I was speaking in general terms.’

‘Based on your considerable experience, of course.’

‘Certainly not. I never meant to suggest…’ Too late she saw the expression in his eyes and knew he had been teasing her again. ‘You knew that, you horror.’

‘I beg your pardon.’ The apology was belied by a smile. ‘It was irresistible.’

Her chin came up at once. His smile widened. For a short space neither one spoke, though every fibre of her being was aware of the gaze fixed on her face. Even worse was the creeping blush she could feel rising from her neck to her cheeks.

‘I wish you wouldn’t look at me like that.’

‘Forgive me. I was trying to be more…demonstrative.’

For a second or two she could only stare back but his smile was infectious and, unable to help it, she began to laugh.

‘No you weren’t. You were roasting me and enjoying it.’

The accusation left him unabashed. ‘I can’t deny it.’

‘You are quite shameless.’

‘So I’ve been told. I fear the habit is deeply ingrained now.’

‘I am sure of it,’ she retorted. ‘However, I shall try not to be so easy a prey in future.’

His enjoyment increased. Better still, the apprehension he had glimpsed in her face after the encounter with Machart was gone, just as he had hoped.

‘Good. I like a challenge.’

She shook her head. ‘It’s no use, sir. I shall not succumb. I’m wise to you now.’