Although he could not say he altogether cared for the way it placed him in the position of being a paternal figure to her in the eyes of others. Such as the fresh-faced Davy, now assisting him in dressing. A presentable and handsome young man who was of a similar age to Lisette.
Was Christian feeling the unfamiliar pangs of jealousy again?
He did not wish to answer that question.
But one thing he knew for certain—he did not appreciate Davy’s obvious admiration for Lisette.
Chapter Seven
‘The Duke of Sutherland?’
Christian gave a wince at the accusation he could hear in Lisette’s voice as she glared at him across the best bedchamber at The Dog and Rabbit Inn in Portsmouth.
He had intended to talk to her, tell her of his title, before they arrived at the inn. But in truth, he had been so discomfited by the time he departed the sloop, having also had to stand by as witness to Lisette bidding a fond farewell to the Captain before they could enter the waiting carriage, each jolt of that vehicle on the way here causing him immeasurable pain, that it had been all he could do to remain conscious.
Unfortunately, the landlord at the inn knew him only as the Duke of Sutherland and had greeted him as such, along with much bowing and scraping, as he accompanied the two of them up to the luxurious suite of rooms where Christian now gratefully reclined upon the bed in the main bedchamber.
He gave a dismissive shrug. ‘It is merely another one of my titles.’
‘The Duke of Sutherland is not “merely” another anything.’ Lisette was now staring at him as if he were a creature come from another planet. ‘Dukes are very important men in England, are they not? The elite of the aristocracy?’
Christian grimaced. ‘I am not sure that “elite” quite—’
‘Do not play games with me, Monsieur le Duc.’ Lisette had hardly been able to believe her own ears when she heard the landlord of this fashionable inn address Christian so formally. A duke! She had felt completely out of her depth knowing he was the French aristocrat the Comte de Saint-Cloud, but this—an English duke—was beyond her comprehension.
Perhaps...
Lisette narrowed her eyes. ‘You are not at all what you pretend to be, are you...?’ It had just occurred to her that an English duke would not have frequented a lowly Parisian tavern such as the Fleur de Lis.
‘I do not pretend to be anything, Lisette,’ Christian answered her firmly. ‘I have every right to use the title of Comte de Saint-Cloud, as well as that of the Duke of Sutherland. I merely prefer, when I am in France and in such places as the Fleur de Lis, not to flaunt the English title.’
It made a certain sense, Lisette conceded reluctantly; the war between France and England might be over, but in some quarters of France it would still be painting a target upon any man’s back for him to admit to being English. In a lowly French tavern such as the Fleur de Lis, it could have been lethal.
It might also be, she acknowledged grudgingly, that the Duke of Sutherland would not wish English société to know of his visit to such a bawdy establishment.
And yet...
Christian Beaumont—if that was even his true name—had never seemed to her the type of man who would come to the tavern in search of a willing woman to share his bed. Or possibly a man—since arriving at the tavern, Lisette had become aware of such relationships.
This man had drunk his share of wine that first evening, yes, and flirted a little with Brigitte and also with her, but it had not been an overt or predatory flirtation such as she had witnessed in the past of members of the aristocracy in search of a night’s bawdy entertainment.
Her mouth thinned. ‘You are English, then, rather than French?’
Another grimace. ‘I am, yes.’
‘Did Helene know this?’ Lisette now eyed him speculatively. ‘Is that the reason she pressed a pistol to your back that first evening?’
Christian would have much preferred to have had this conversation when he was not feeling at such a physical disadvantage. Although he acknowledged that might not be for some time, and Lisette was certainly entitled to some sort of explanation from him. An explanation he doubted she would take too kindly to.
‘I believe the lady to have stated at the time that her reason for doing so was as a warning for me to stay away from you,’ he answered mildly.
Lisette’s eyes widened before narrowing again. ‘You did not answer my question, Monsieur le Duc. Did Helene know who you were that night?’
Christian could have continued to avoid answering the question directly, but he knew by the angry glitter in Lisette’s eyes and the same flush of anger in her cheeks that it would not be wise for him to do so. Lisette might bear no physical resemblance to the woman who was her mother, but he now knew she most certainly shared the older woman’s fiery temperament. He might just find himself at the receiving end of another pistol if he continued to fob Lisette off with half-truths and lies.