Chapter 28

That evening, the Grand Hall of the Viscountess d'Arcy's estate glittered with opulence and murmured secrets. Dozens of chandeliers cast a warm glow over marble floors and gilded walls. Aristocrats in jewel-toned silks and finely tailored coats mingled, their laughter and polite chatter rising in waves. A string quartet played a lively waltz from a balcony, setting an upbeat tempo to the night's festivities.

Vivienne glided into the ballroom on Lucien's arm, every inch the poised and radiant companion. She wore a gown of deep wine-red satin that hugged her figure, the color chosen by Lucien himself—a bold declaration to anyone watching that she was under his patronage. A delicate diamond choker encircled her throat, a recent gift from him, glittering like a silent collar. With each step, she felt the gentle pressure of his hand atop hers where it rested on his arm, a subtle but constant reminder of his presence and claim.

Inside, guests turned to observe their entrance. Whispers reached Vivienne's ears—her keen instincts caught snippets: "the Duke of Belfoire and his mysterious lady", "quite inseparable these days", "heard the King's emissary is here too". That last bit snagged her attention. The King's emissary? Perhaps Julian, in his official capacity, if he indeed held such a role publicly.

Lucien led her through the crowd, exchanging greetings with other nobles. He was a master of this world—charming, confident, and inscrutable. Vivienne played her part with equal skill, offering polite smiles and curtsies as introduced. All the while her senses were heightened, searching for any sign of danger or clandestine observers among the revelers.

"Lord Montgomery," Lucien greeted a portly man with a jovial face. "I trust the evening finds you well. You remember Mademoiselle Vivienne Moreau?" He effortlessly used the false surname that had been crafted for her new life.

Montgomery bowed affably. "Of course. Enchanted, my dear." Vivienne dipped her chin gracefully. As they chatted about trivial matters—harvest yields, a recent opera—Vivienne's attention drifted subtly around the room.

Near the grand marble fireplace, she spotted a familiar profile—Julian, here in plain sight. He was engaged in conversation with an elegant older woman. If he noticed Vivienne's arrival, he gave no indication beyond a fleeting glance in her direction, so swift she might have imagined it.

He cut a fine figure tonight: clad in a midnight blue tailcoat and crisp white cravat, hair gleaming under the chandelier light. To most here he was known as Lord Julian Wakefield, an emissary from the royal court who had recently returned from abroad. It was a convenient cover that gave him access to gatherings such as these under official pretext. And judging by the easy smile he gave the woman he spoke with, he played his part as expertly as Vivienne played hers.

Lucien's hand over hers flexed slightly, drawing her focus back. Montgomery had moved on, and now Lucien leaned down to speak privately near her ear. "You seem distracted, my dear," he murmured, the warmth of his breath stirring a loose curl at her temple. To onlookers, it might appear a lover's intimate whisper. "Everything alright?"

Vivienne smiled softly and tilted her head towards him in a fond gesture. "Quite alright," she lied. "It's just a bit warm with all the people, that's all. Perhaps a dance will revive me."

Lucien's eyes crinkled with satisfaction. "An excellent idea." He wasted no time, leading her toward the center of the ballroom as the quartet transitioned into a new waltz. Others were already assembling to dance, couples assuming proper positions.

Lucien faced her and slid one hand to her waist, the other clasping her right hand in his. Vivienne placed her free hand lightly on his shoulder. At the first lilting notes, they began to move in unison with the practiced grace of partners who had done this many times before.

The waltz carried them across the floor, and Vivienne allowed herself to focus on the steps—one, two, three; one, two, three—gliding smoothly. The motion was soothing in its familiarity. Lucien was an excellent dancer, confident in leading her through gentle spins and swoops that made her skirts fan out like a blossom.

As they twirled, Lucien's gaze never left her face. There was a quiet intensity in his grey eyes that made her pulse quicken. "You are stunning tonight," he said under the cover of the music, his tone possessive and admiring at once. "Every man here has noticed. And yet, you're here with me."

Vivienne gave a soft, breathless laugh as he spun her lightly. "Where else would I be?" she replied. It was a safe, almost coquettish answer.

His hand at her waist tightened slightly as he guided her expertly around another couple. "I sometimes wonder," he said in a low voice. "You've been quieter of late. I worry that perhaps I don't give you enough—freedom. Entertainment. I'd hate for you to feel… confined." There was earnestness there, but also an undercurrent of something cautionary in his words.

She understood: he was probing, in his own way. Perhaps he'd noticed her tension and interpreted it as restlessness or unhappiness in his care. In a sense, he was right—she did feel confined, but not for the reasons he thought.

Vivienne met his eyes with a reassuring warmth. "On the contrary, Lucien. You've been more generous than I ever could have hoped. These past months at Belfoire… I've felt truly alive." That last word she imbued with multiple truths—alive with purpose, with danger, with passion.

He studied her, expression softening just a touch. "You've brought a light to that old manor. To my life," he confessed quietly.

The candid admission caught her off guard. She nearly missed a step but he steadied her without comment, slowing their pace to something more languid as the waltz's melody crested. Vivienne's throat tightened. There it was again: the hint of genuine emotion from Lucien that she had never anticipated when she first infiltrated his world. It made her chest ache with a confusing mix of guilt and longing.

Before she could formulate a reply, the dance ended with a flourish of strings. Lucien drew her close, their proximity bordering on impropriety as he held her for a beat longer than necessary. Polite applause rose for the musicians. Vivienne's cheeks flushed, though whether from exertion or Lucien's words, she wasn't sure.

They reluctantly separated as new couples moved onto the floor for the next dance. "I need a brief word with Sir Edouard about a business matter," Lucien said. He lifted her hand to his lips for a quick kiss. "Will you be alright on your own for a few minutes?"

"Of course," Vivienne replied, grateful for the chance to catch her breath. "I'll just get a glass of punch."

He nodded and moved off, his authoritative stride carrying him toward a group of gentlemen in council by the tall windows. Vivienne watched him go, maintaining a pleasant half-smile until he was safely occupied.

The instant she was alone, her façade wavered. She made her way to the refreshment table, intending to use the moment to calm her racing mind. She had not expected Lucien's near-confession. It made her mission feel all the more cruel—he was clearly developing real feelings for her, or at least believed he was. And she…? She could not afford to reciprocate, yet her heart was betraying her with pangs of empathy and perhaps something more.

As she took a crystal cup of punch in hand, a smooth voice spoke at her side. "Mademoiselle Moreau, looking radiant as ever."

Vivienne turned to find Julian standing there, a courteous distance away. In public, with curious eyes everywhere, they had to behave as casual acquaintances. She curtsied lightly. "Lord Wakefield. What a pleasant surprise to see you here," she said, pitching her voice in polite pleasantry.

Julian bowed. "The pleasure is mine," he said. His eyes, however, conveyed more: a quick flicker of concern and inquiry that only she would discern.

They stood a few feet apart, separated by the mere formality required by decorum. Vivienne sipped her punch to cover the whisper she directed his way. "You took a risk, speaking to me."

He pretended to survey the room casually, a smile still affixed. "Had to check on you. You were gone before I could ensure you returned safely this morning." Outwardly, to any who might overhear, it sounded like idle small talk about her day's activities.

"I'm fine," she said, matching his tone. "No trouble at all." Then she added under her breath, "Lucien suspects nothing yet."

Julian gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. He picked up a macaron from a silver tray, playing the part of a guest idly indulging in sweets. "My inquiries are underway. No word yet on our hidden foe, but I expect to know more soon." He took a bite of the confection, then chuckled as if she had told a witty anecdote, leaning just a hair closer. In a normal volume he commented, "This punch is surprisingly good."

Vivienne forced a light laugh to mirror his, murmuring back, "It is. And thank you." The exchange of gratitude was genuine even if hidden. His presence steadied her nerves, which had been frayed by Lucien's intensity moments before.

Julian's gaze slipped past her then, focusing on something behind. His smile tightened fractionally. "Your guardian returns," he said softly.

Vivienne followed his line of sight to see Lucien heading back toward her, his expression unreadable from afar. Quickly, she stepped away from Julian to a more proper distance and gave him a cordial nod. "Do save me a dance later, Lord Wakefield," she said aloud, to maintain the ruse that this was merely a polite social call.

"Nothing would delight me more," Julian responded, bowing again. Then, with a courteous smile directed over her shoulder at the approaching Lucien, he excused himself. "If you'll excuse me, I must pay my respects to our host."

Julian melted into the crowd just as Lucien arrived at Vivienne's side. Lucien's eyes tracked Julian for a second before turning to her, a subtle tension in his posture. "I see you've met Lord Wakefield," he said carefully.

Vivienne gave a light shrug, setting down her half-finished punch. "We were briefly introduced at the opera last month, I believe. It was kind of him to remember me." That much could be plausible public knowledge, as Julian had occasionally crossed paths with her during staged events to bolster his cover.

Lucien's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "He's known to be very charming, especially to beautiful women."

Was that a hint of jealousy or mere observation? Vivienne smiled disarmingly and placed a hand on Lucien's arm. "He was merely being polite. Don't tell me the formidable Duke of Belfoire is worried by a little courtly flattery?"

She meant it teasingly, but Lucien did not quite smile. His hand covered hers on his arm, claiming it. "Of course not," he murmured. "Though I confess, I don't much like other men sniffing around what's mine."

The blunt possessiveness of his words stole her breath for a beat. Vivienne tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach. She leaned in and whispered coyly, "Perhaps you should claim your dance before someone else asks me, then."

That did bring a smile back to Lucien's lips, albeit a determined one. "Gladly." Without further ado, he escorted her back to the dance floor as another waltz began.

This time as they danced, Vivienne sensed a new tension coiled in Lucien. His hand at her waist held her a touch more firmly, and the polite distance between their bodies lessened. She could feel the heat of him through the layers of her gown. They moved slower than before, more a swaying embrace than a formal dance as the minutes passed.

He broke the silence first, voice low. "Wakefield. Have you known him long?"

Vivienne's mind raced. "No, not at all. We truly only spoke briefly that one time. He asked after my health out of courtesy; he's a friend of Viscountess d'Arcy, I gather." It was true the host, the Viscountess, had invited him on behalf of the crown, so that lent credence.

Lucien's eyes bore into hers. "The man has a reputation as something of a Casanova, you know. I'd hate for him to get the wrong impression."

She arched a brow subtly. "And what impression would that be?"

"That you are unattached and available for his flirtations." There was a rough edge beneath Lucien's silky tone now. His jealousy was showing clearly.

Vivienne opted for gentle humor to diffuse him. She laughed softly. "I suspect half the women here would be delighted to capture Lord Wakefield's attention. He scarcely glanced my way, Lucien. You worry over nothing."

Lucien's gaze dropped to her lips, then back up. "Perhaps I do." He spun her slowly, shielding their forms momentarily from the rest of the room behind a column as they moved. In that relative privacy, he murmured, "But I can't help it. You've ensnared me rather thoroughly, Vivienne."

Her heart skipped. The way he said her name was almost like a caress. She felt the dangerous allure of his words working into her, as they often did, stirring genuine emotion where she desperately tried to hold firm. "And you have me," she replied softly, hoping to satisfy him. The half-truth weighed heavy on her tongue.

Apparently it wasn't enough. As the waltz swelled, Lucien suddenly guided her off the dance floor altogether, toward a set of French doors that led out to a moonlit balcony. Caught off guard, Vivienne nevertheless followed, her pulse quickening both at his sudden urgency and at the risk of slipping out of sight.

They stepped into the night air, the sounds of the ballroom muffled behind them. The balcony overlooked a manicured garden, gas lamps lining the pathways below. Only a few other guests were outside, and those were down in the garden, not on the balcony itself.

The moment they were alone, Lucien turned to face her. His eyes in the silver light were stormy. "Tell me truthfully," he said, his voice soft but intense, "are you happy, Vivienne?"

She blinked, surprised by the question and the emotion behind it. "Happy?"

"I know I can be…possessive. Controlling, even," he admitted, stepping closer. "It's only because I've never met anyone like you. I don't want to lose what we have." He paused, and one of his hands came up to cradle the side of her face, his thumb tracing her cheekbone. "If there is ever anything you desire—anything I'm not providing—you need only say the word. I'd do it, to make you happy. You know that, don't you?"

Vivienne's breath caught. The earnestness in his voice was disarming. She had not expected such open vulnerability from Lucien, a man so guarded and powerful. For an instant, guilt crashed into her — the knowledge that much of his devotion was built on an illusion, a role she inhabited. But intertwined with guilt was an ache of sincerity within her. Despite everything, she did care for him, in ways she dared not articulate.

She covered his hand on her cheek with her own, turning her face slightly to press a kiss to his palm. It was a tender, spontaneous gesture. "You have done more for me than I ever thought possible," she said quietly. It was not a lie. "I am…content, Lucien." Content was safe, neither ecstatic nor miserable, just enough to reassure.

His eyes searched hers in the dim light. The tension in his jaw eased somewhat, but something else flared—the glint of desire tempered by emotion. "Content," he repeated, almost a whisper. "I suppose I shall have to work harder then."

Before she could parse his meaning, Lucien leaned in and claimed her lips in a swift, fervent kiss.

Vivienne stiffened in surprise, a muffled sound escaping against his mouth. They had kissed before, of course, but always in private, typically initiated as part of their delicate dance of seduction and power within the walls of Belfoire. Here, outdoors with others potentially nearby, it felt both scandalous and thrilling.

His arm encircled her waist, drawing her flush against him. The stone balustrade pressed into her back as Lucien deepened the kiss, his lips moving over hers with a kind of restrained hunger. Vivienne's head swam; the combined onslaught of his confession, the moonlight, and now his demanding kiss was overwhelming her carefully maintained control.

Instinct and genuine feeling warred within her. For a heartbeat, she considered pulling away—this was dangerous, too intimate, feeding emotions she should not encourage. But Lucien's mouth was persuasive, insistent yet reverent, and she found her resolve weakening. After the day's stresses, there was a sinful comfort in surrendering, even briefly, to the passionate attention of a man who openly wanted her.

Her hands slid up the front of his coat, clutching the fine fabric as she parted her lips and answered his kiss. That was all the permission Lucien needed. He made a low sound in his throat and pressed closer, his kiss turning hotter, more possessive. His tongue teased hers in a dance as intimate as any waltz, and Vivienne felt heat coil in her core despite the cool night air.

A soft gasp escaped her when his lips trailed briefly from her mouth to her jaw, pressing a searing kiss just below her ear. "Vivienne…" he breathed against her skin, the single utterance of her name laced with need.

Her mind spun. Just hours ago, it was Julian's lips she had tasted—tender, seeking, born of concern and longstanding friendship turned to more. Now she was in Lucien's arms, his kiss igniting entirely different fires—passionate, consuming, tinged with the dangerous thrill of being wanted by a powerful man who believed her to be his salvation of sorts. The duality of her reality nearly broke her composure right then. What was she doing? How long could she keep this up before everything collapsed?

Perhaps Lucien sensed a shift in her, or perhaps the distant sound of voices from the garden below reminded him of their semi-public locale. He slowed the kiss, returning to her lips for one more languid, lingering press before pulling back slightly.

They were both breathing harder. Lucien's forehead rested against hers, his eyes closed as he mastered himself. Vivienne opened her eyes, finding her vision a little blurred—not just from the dimness, but from unshed tears of emotional overload that she blinked away.

"I'm sorry," Lucien whispered, not moving away, his thumb gently stroking her lower back now. "That was… ungentlemanly of me."

Vivienne let out a shaky half-laugh, still trying to steady her own racing heart. "I don't exactly feel wronged," she managed softly, trying to lighten the mood. Her lips felt swollen from his fervor, a tangible reminder of how far things were spiraling.

Lucien finally leaned back enough to gaze at her. In the pale light, she could see the concern returning to his expression. "You're trembling." He brushed a hand down her arm. "Are you cold?"

She realized belatedly that she was indeed shaking, but not from the chill. "A little," she lied. "The night air."

Immediately, he took off his tailcoat and draped it around her shoulders, much as he had his jacket the night before. The gesture was becoming familiar—a protector giving her warmth. It caused a piercing pain in her chest for how undeserved she felt it was.

From inside the ballroom, the music changed to a lively polonaise and some laughter drifted out. They had been absent long enough to perhaps raise eyebrows if anyone had noticed, but fortunately the party was large and other guests occupied.

"We should go back in," Vivienne said quietly. She had regained some composure, and she needed to divert him from any further soul-searching questions.

Lucien nodded, but before moving, he caught her chin gently, tilting her face up to search her eyes. "Thank you," he murmured.

"For what?" she asked, genuinely puzzled.

"For trusting me," he replied. "I know… I know I can be intense. But it means a great deal to me that you're here, by my side. You've given me something to fight for beyond my own ambitions."

Vivienne felt that she might break apart at the seams of her heart from the weight of his words. She swallowed hard and simply answered, "I'm glad to be here."

It was the best she could do without choking on the truth.

He smiled and placed a tender kiss on her forehead, then retrieved his coat from her shoulders and slipped it back on. Offering his arm once more, he led her inside.

Reentering the bright ballroom, Vivienne blinked at the sudden assault of light and sound. Immediately, she donned her mask of composure, falling back into the role of Lucien's devoted lady. A quick glance around assured her that no scandalized stares were pinned on them; perhaps their brief disappearance went largely unnoticed amid the revelry.

Across the room, she caught sight of Julian watching them. He stood at the edge of a conversation circle, but his focus was on her and Lucien as they returned. His expression was carefully blank, but she knew him well enough to sense the tightness in his posture. He had likely witnessed at least their return from the balcony, if not the tail end of the intimacy by the way she wore Lucien's closeness like a second skin even now.

Vivienne's stomach clenched. How much had he seen? Enough, no doubt, to understand the ever-deepening complexity of her situation. She forced herself to look away from Julian and focus on the present moment.

Lucien was soon drawn into a discussion with a Minister about some new trade policy. Vivienne stood by his side, smiling and nodding when appropriate, all the while her mind churning. Bits of the conversation filtered through: mentions of shipping routes, increased tariffs, subtle allusions to conflicts overseas. She stored it away—this could be useful intelligence to pass along later.

But part of her awareness remained trained on keeping up appearances. She laughed softly at a quip the Minister made, feeling Lucien's thumb absentmindedly rubbing circles on the back of her hand where he held it.

To anyone watching, she was the picture of contentment and love, standing loyally by Lucien's arm. Only she knew of the tempest inside her: the kiss that still burned on her lips, the memory of Julian's earlier embrace ghosting her skin, the threat of a blackmailer hanging unseen over her head.

As the night wore on, the weight of those secrets only grew heavier. Vivienne maintained her grace, trading pleasantries with those who addressed her, even sharing a brief, careful dance with a young baron at Lucien's polite insistence when he had to step away again. All the while, she felt the eyes of both men—Lucien's protective gaze and Julian's concerned watchfulness—following her at a distance.

By the time carriages were being called near midnight, Vivienne was exhausted. Not physically, for she had endured longer nights, but emotionally. Every nerve felt stretched taut.

Lucien helped drape her shawl around her shoulders as they prepared to leave. He had been nothing but attentive since the balcony, even more openly affectionate than usual—ensuring she had refreshments, introducing her to key people personally, brushing his hand against hers at every opportunity. It was as if something shifted for him out there, and he was no longer as concerned about concealing his attachment.

She responded in kind as best as she could, mindful that any withdrawal now might rouse his suspicions anew. If he was happy, if he felt secure in her, perhaps he'd be less likely to notice any small discrepancies.

As their carriage pulled away from the viscountess's estate, Lucien sat beside Vivienne rather than across, their thighs lightly touching on the plush seat. The darkness inside was broken only by a passing gaslamp's glow now and then. He lifted her hand to his lips in a gentle kiss. "Thank you for accompanying me tonight. You made it infinitely more bearable."

Vivienne managed a genuine smile at that. "Society functions aren't tedious when I'm with you," she said playfully, and it wasn't entirely false—tedious wasn't the word she'd use for what transpired.

He chuckled. "Flatterer." After a pause, he added in a more serious tone, "I hope you know, you've no need to fear any rumor or wagging tongues after our little escape to the balcony. The viscountess is a friend; I doubt anyone will dare gossip."

She realized he was reassuring her that her reputation was intact. Little did he know how low on her list of concerns a bit of gossip was. But she appreciated the sentiment. Resting her head lightly on his shoulder, she replied, "I wasn't worried. I trust you, Lucien." The words were quiet, and she felt him tense slightly at them, as if deeply pleased.

They rode in a comfortable silence after that. For a short while, Vivienne allowed herself to simply exist in that moment: the gentle sway of the carriage, Lucien's arm around her shoulders drawing her close, the cool night air breezing in through a small gap in the window. Despite the turmoil beneath the surface, externally there was peace and a semblance of normalcy—two lovers returning home from a grand party.

But her reprieve could only last so long. As they neared Belfoire Manor, Vivienne's thoughts turned ahead to what awaited. The mysterious blackmailer had promised to contact her soon with instructions. Julian would no doubt find a way to deliver new information to her in coming days. And Lucien… Lucien was drawing ever closer to her, emotionally and physically.

The power dynamic between these players—Lucien's authority and desire, Julian's secret influence and affection, and the shadowy threat—was reaching a combustible point. And she was the tinder among their sparks.

Vivienne inhaled deeply as the carriage rolled through the gates of the manor. Tonight, she had managed to keep everyone satisfied: Lucien felt reassured and close, Julian had seen she was holding her cover, and whoever watched from the shadows remained at bay.

Tomorrow might not be so kind.

As Lucien escorted her inside and up the grand staircase toward her chambers, Vivienne steeled herself yet again. The game was only growing more dangerous, the stakes climbing with each passing day and each stolen kiss.

And though she could not see the path clearly, she knew one thing: she would play her hand to the end, no matter how high the flames of conflict rose around her. Because surrender—to fate, to fear, to any man's will but her own—was not an option she could afford.