Synopsis from author:A spy mission to Paris brings Rafe Whitbourne, a duke who prides himself on cool control, face to face with Margot Ashton, a beautiful betrayer who is the only woman he has ever loved. A revised and expanded version of the Regency The Controversial Countess.
My rating: 4 stars
Excerpt: [from Chapter 2]
"NO!"
Though the perfume bottle whizzed by his temple with no more than two inches to spare, Robert Anderson made no attempt to dodge, knowing that Maggie had an excellent aim and no real desire to damage him. She was merely, so to speak, sending him a message. With her usual good sense, she had chosen to throw the bottle of cheap scent given to her by a purse-pinching Bavarian with poor taste.
Robin smiled at his companion. Her magnificent bosom was heaving and her eyes flashed sparks; gray ones today, because of the silvery robe she wore. "Why don't you want to meet this duke that Lord Strathmore is sending? You should be flattered that the Foreign Office is taking such an interest in you."
A spate of Italian profanity was his answer. He tilted his blond head to one side and listened critically. When her outburst was over, he said, "Very creative, Maggie, love, but it isn't like you to slip out of character. Surely Magda, Countess Janos, should swear in Magyar?"
"I know more profanity in Italian," she said loftily. 'And you know perfectly well that I never slip out of character with anyone but you." Her look of aristocratic dignity gave way to an impish chuckle. "Don't think you can change the subject, which is the Most Noble, the Duke of Candover."
"So it is." Robin studied his companion thoughtfully. They had known each other for a long time, and though the relationship was no longer an intimate one, they were still the best of friends. It was unlike her to be temperamental, even when she had been acting the part of a volatile Hungarian noblewoman for two years. "What do you have against the duke?"
Maggie sat down at her vanity table and lifted an ivory-backed brush, then began pulling it through the tawny waves of hair that fell over her shoulders. Scowling into the mirror, she said, "The man's a prig."
"Does that mean he didn't adequately appreciate your charms?" Robin said with interest. "Strange— Candover has the reputation of being quite the lady's man. I can't believe that he would ignore a tasty morsel like you."
"I am nobody's tasty morsel, Robin! Rakes are the biggest prigs of all. Pious hypocrites, in my experience." She tugged viciously at a knot in her hair. "Don't try to pick a new fight until we've finished with the current one. I refuse to have anything to do with the Duke of Candover, just as I refuse to continue spying. That part of my life is over, and no one—not you, not the duke, not Lord Strathmore—can change my mind. As soon as I take care of a few matters of business, I will be leaving Paris."
Robin came to stand behind her. Taking the brush from her hand, he began pulling it gently through her thick, dark gold hair. It was odd how they still shared some of the intimacy of husband and wife, though they had never married. He had always enjoyed brushing her hair, and the faint sandalwood scent took him back to the years when they had been impassioned young lovers, challenging the world with few thoughts for the future.
Maggie was looking stonily into the mirror. Her eyes were now a cold gray, not sparkling as they had been earlier. After several minutes of brushing, she began to relax.
"Did Candover do something dreadful?" he asked quietly. "If it would upset you to see him, I won't mention it again."
She chose her words carefully, knowing that Robin was uncomfortably adept at detecting hidden meanings. "Though he was rather despicable, it was a long time ago and it wouldn't bother me to see him. I simply don't want another man nagging me to keep doing what I don't want to do."
Robin's gaze met hers in the mirror. "Then why not meet him once to tell him that? If you want to wreak a bit of vengeance for past injuries, a fitting punishment would be to look your seductive best. You can drive him mad with longing while you turn down his request."
"I'm not sure that would work," she said dryly. "We parted on rather poor terms."
"That makes no difference—he's probably been thinking lustful thoughts of you ever since. Half the diplomats in Europe have let state secrets fall from their lips while struggling for one of your smiles." Robin grinned. "Wear that green ball gown, heave an alluring sigh as you refuse his request, then glide gracefully from the room. I guarantee it will cut up his peace for at least the next month."
She regarded her reflection thoughtfully. While she had a great deal of whatever it was that drove men mad, she was not convinced that Candover would succumb to her charms. Still, anger and lust were closely elated, and Rafael Whitbourne had been very angry indeed at their last meeting___
A slow, wicked smile curved her lips. Then she drew back her head and laughed. "Very well, Robin, you win. I'll meet with your ridiculous duke. I owe him a few nights of ruined sleep. But I guarantee he won't change my mind."
Robin dropped a quick kiss on the top of her head. "Good lass." In spite of her protests, if she saw Candover there was a chance that she could be persuaded to continue her work for a while longer. And that would be a very good thing.
When Robin left, Maggie did not immediately summon her maid to complete her toilette. Instead, she crossed her arms on the edge of the vanity and laid her head on them, feeling sad and tired. It had been foolish to agree to see Rafe Whitbourne. He had behaved very badly, yet even then she had seen how his cruelty had come from pain, and she had been denied the pleasure of hating him.
Nor did she love him; the Margot Ashton who thought the sun revolved around his handsome head had died over a dozen years before. Maggie had been many different people in the ensuing years, as Robin had taken her under his wing and given her a reason to go on living. Rafe Whitbourne was only a bittersweet memory, with no relevance to her present self.
Love and hate were indeed opposite sides of the same coin because both meant caring; the true opposite was indifference. Since indifference was the only feeling Rafe could rouse in Maggie now, minor forms of revenge were not worth the effort. She just wanted to be done with this phase of her life, with deceit and misdirection and informers.
Most of all, she wanted to accomplish the task that had been delayed too long, then go home to England, which she hadn't seen in thirteen years. She would have to start over again, this time without Robin's protection. She would miss him bitterly, but even her loneliness would contain relief; the two of them knew each other too well for Maggie to reinvent herself if he was near.
She lifted her head and propped her chin on one fist while she regarded herself in the mirror. Her high cheekbones made her a convincing Magyar, and she spoke the language well enough so that no one had ever doubted that she was Hungarian. But how would Rafe Whitbourne see her after so many years?
A wry smile curved her full lips—lips that had had at least eleven pieces of bad poetry dedicated to them. Apparently the man could still arouse some emotion in her, even if it was only vanity. She studied her image critically.
Maggie had never been a great fancier of her own appearance, for her face lacked the classic restraint of true beauty. Her cheekbones were too high, her mouth too wide, her eyes too large.
But at least she looked little different from when she had been eighteen. Her complexion had always been excellent, and riding and dancing had kept her figure shapely. Though there was more fullness to the curves, no man had ever objected to that. Granted, her hair had darkened, but instead of becoming dull tan as blond hair often did, it was now the shade of rippling, golden wheat. Overall, she decided, she looked better now than when she and Rafe had been engaged.
It was tempting to imagine that he was fat and balding, but the damned man had the sort of looks that would only improve with age. His personality was another matter. Even at twenty-one he had not been free of the arrogance of wealth and rank, and the intervening years would only have made him worse. By this time, he must be insufferable.
As she resumed dressing for dinner, she told herself that it would be amusing to try to pierce his smugness. Yet she could not rid herself of the uneasy feeling that meeting him would prove to be a mistake.
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