Louisa Rawlings by Stolen Spring Page B

here,” he said, his hand raising the bottom of her skirts. “It will be easier for me to reach your feet.” He laughed wickedly. “And other parts!”  
    Sitting on the floor, she giggled and allowed him to slip on her shoes. But her mind was on the rest of her plans. She would stand up, grant him a brief kiss—while she tucked the key back where it belonged in his pocket. And then she’d… “Name of God!” she gasped. “Señor!” He had thrown himself upon her, pushing her flat onto her back and covering her slender frame with his ponderous bulk. The force of his attack skewed his wig, revealing a large patch of bald scalp. His body was heavy on hers, hot and sweaty. The pig! she thought. It was all she could do to keep from cursing him aloud. But wait a moment! If she could just maneuver one hand between their bodies, she could return the key. A moment’s distraction would give her time. She dimpled prettily at him. “If you must take your kiss, Don Lopes, do it now.” He smiled and bent his head to hers. She closed her eyes to keep from seeing the fleshy lips descending, the foul lust in his eyes. She nearly gagged at the feeling of his mouth, twisting beneath him in pretended passion while her hand slid toward his pockets. But the key—at last!—was safely restored. Curse you, Torcy, she thought, preparing to cry out her disappointment at missing the illuminations, and thereby end this disgusting charade.  
    She heard a strangled sound from somewhere above Don Lopes’s head. “You slut. You lying whore! Is this the virtue that you trumpet to the heavens?”  
    She opened her eyes in astonishment and horror. Arsène de Falconet was scowling at the twined bodies on the floor. He reached down, grabbed Don Lopes by the back of his waistcoat, hauled him roughly to his feet. “Get out, señor,” he said through clenched teeth. “For the sake of our two countries, I should not like to challenge you to a duel!”  
    As Don Lopes—his face white with fear—scurried about the room and gathered the bits of his clothing, Rouge stood up, smoothing her skirts. She took a deep breath and waited until he had gone. Then, “Arsène,” she said softly.  
    His blue eyes glittered in fury. “You wanton! Was it less than a week ago that I thought you worth marrying? Mon Dieu! I would have given you my name to besmirch with your strumpet’s ways!”  
    “Arsène. Please. It was a mistake. He was…somewhat drunk. He took me by surprise. I hardly wanted…”
    “Is that why you were laughing as I came in?” He gestured angrily at her tucker and engageantes. “Why your laces are scattered about the room? Why I found you lying beneath him with your eyes closed in rapture?”  
    “Arsène…”  
    “How many times was I forced to humble myself?” he spat. “Beg your forgiveness because I’d insulted your chaste purity?”  
    She turned away, fighting back tears of helplessness. What could she tell him? She was sworn to secrecy by Torcy, at the risk of her father’s freedom and his good name. And it was bitterly ironic that Arsène himself had been her hope of release from Torcy. She felt a great weariness. She retrieved her laces. “I didn’t welcome his attentions, Arsène. I swear it to you.” She sighed and turned to the door. “Perhaps tomorrow you will find it in your heart to think more kindly of me.” She escaped the contempt in his eyes and fled to her room, throwing herself across her bed and sobbing out her frustration. Unless she could marry Arsène, or someone like him, and pay off Tintin’s debts, there would be more scenes with men like Don Lopes. Of that she had no doubt. Torcy was an unprincipled devil; he knew exactly the kind of spying he had bargained for with Rouge.  
    In the morning, she sent word to Albret that she wished to see him. As before, they met in his apartment, where Torcy was waiting to receive the wax impression, and to congratulate her on her cleverness. She