Gabrielle knew more than what she was willing to share, Sasha concluded as the woman simply nodded.

Yet what more could she expect from the Court of Arms? They held many secrets and rightly so because their task was to protect Belcourt, the children, and the ladies.

"He does not require or wish to engage in a sexual relationship with me or any Belles. He became a flower for his one goal."

Gabrielle frowned at this. "You have to get yourself invited into his home. Do whatever is necessary. Find out what he intends to do. Surely, there is a plan."

"That is my current predicament. He procured a villa for our meetings."

Gabrielle sighed, shaking her head. "He is proving to be challenging, then."

"He is quite smart."

"Most of them are." Gabrielle focused her gaze back on Sasha. "You did agree to his proposal?"

"I initially refused, but after I was given my mission, I agreed to him."

"He already made his purpose known before you came to Belcourt? Before you met us in Lady Mariam's study?"

Sasha swallowed. "Yes."

"And you did not tell us?"

She nodded. "Because I knew I was going to receive a mission. I had to know what I had to do first before I said anything."

"Did he make you sign a contract?"

"An agreement, yes."

Gabrielle nodded her redhead slowly, her eyes thoughtful. "Then he had been planning this for quite some time."

"He must have. If we are to believe him, he has been in search of his sister for quite a while. Belcourt is his last resort."

"Were there any information about the sister?"

Sasha told Gabrielle everything West told her.

"Elizabeth Blackwood?"

"His mother, the one he shares with his sister. They do not share the same father," she informed Gabrielle. "Surely we can check if the woman indeed existed. She was never mentioned in any of our lessons on history."

"She does exist. I am quite certain. He would not provide you with a non-existent name. Her name would be in the public records."

"He believes she left Belcourt alone." When Gabrielle did not reply, Sasha wondered aloud, "Does this have something to do with the sister's father?"

"If she is indeed a bastard, it would be very hard to know who the father is. Most of these women do not share such things."

"He refuses to tell me anything more. I am expected to find his sister with just his mother's name." She scoffed. "He is giving me two months."

"That is not enough."

Sasha shrugged. "He had not seen Belcourt."

"You ought to have asked for more time."

"I reckoned that I would have already completed my mission on him in two months. I do not have to find his sister, do I?"

Gabrielle nodded. "You are correct. But should you find that you need more time for this mission, you demand more time from him."

"Then two months should suffice. For now."

"But it shall not be enough if you cannot access his home, Sasha."

Sasha smiled. "Then I should try harder, yes?"

*****

Mrs. Barbara Compton was a jaunty old woman who did not only bake the best apple tarts but also seemed oblivious about her neighbor's standing in society.

In Sasha's first week in Coulway, she had met quite a few people, some random and others within the circle of the Belles such as Ruby's friends from the different balls she attended.

With the random people she met, she most definitely noticed the change in their demeanor the moment they learned where she came from. Most cordially excused themselves and were never seen again. Others were interested, always wanting to get as much information as they could about the mysterious orphanage.

Was it true that the bastard of the king was hidden there?

Was it true that Belcourt had dungeons? Their rooms located underground?

Was there a lake in Belcourt?

How rich is Belcourt?

How vast?

How nice?

How cruel?

After her first week, Sasha had decided that engaging in any random conversation with anyone she met in shops or anywhere near the villa was not wise. Iyana had pointed out that she was too accommodating.

"You know that words travel fast, my lady. Everyone who approaches you in the streets is already aware of where you came from."

And it was true. In merely a few days, it seemed that everyone she met knew who she was—and what she was.

Everyone suddenly had an opinion.

But obviously not her neighbor, Mrs. Compton.

The woman had been religiously sending all sorts of tarts she baked herself to Sasha's villa. Twice, she asked if Sasha wanted to join her for a walk to the park, and both times Sasha courteously refused.

But she could only refuse the kind lady too much. She would hate to see the disappointed look in the woman's face again and she most definitely did not like the look of near-desperation in Mrs. Compton's eyes when she asked for the third time that afternoon. This woman was lonely, Sasha guessed as she grabbed her fur coat and joined the woman for a walk.

"I know you are from Belcourt, Sasha," Mrs. Compton said, voice knowing. "Is that why you refused my invitation twice?"

Sasha's face heated. "I would hate for you to—"

"Oh, I am too old to think about my reputation, dear."

"No, I would hate for you to find out and be disappointed that I never told you."

"Oh. Well, you should have known I know."

Sasha smiled. "And you simply do not care."

"Why would I? Did you choose to be in Belcourt?"

Yes.

"No orphan deserves to be judged simply because the other orphans before them act the way they are when they go out in society. Such as every child is not answerable to the actions of their siblings." Mrs. Compton tapped Sasha's hand with her rough, wrinkled hands. "I have heard other stories about other Belles, darling. They are not always horrid."

"Truly? From whom?"

"Well, my son, of course! He is a baron, see? He works is a member of the House of Commons and works closely with the House of Lords."

"He does?"

"Yes. And he speaks highly of some Belles. And I believe my son more than anyone. He is a respectable gentleman who earned his title all to himself. I should make certain you meet him in the future whenever he comes calling."

Sasha could only smile. If the baron was respectable, he might consider the same thing as West—keep his distance from a Belle.

"He tells me," said Mrs. Compton, "that some Belles are even better than the aristocrats!"

Her eyes widened with amusement. "Oh, no, he did not!"

They had reached the park faster than she expected. The woman may be old, but she was not weak.

"Just look at those two fine gentlemen," said Mrs. Compton. "They inherited their titles simply by coming out of the right womb."

Sasha was laughing at what Mrs. Compton was saying as her eyes searched. And then her laughter caught in her throat and she started to cough.

Not far away was West riding on horseback. Alongside him was another man on a black horse. No one had to point out their station, for the horses were enough to speak of their status.

"The Duke of Eaton and the Earl of Keene," Mrs. Compton whispered in a not so low voice beside Sasha who was struggling to catch her breath, all the while looking for a way out of the path the two were taking—toward them. "Both fine young men, I should say. Eaton, I believe suffered his father's bad reputation but worked his way up again by supporting the right people in the House of Commons. His support has given us the best policies thus far. Everyone now follows whatever Eaton supports. As to the other fine lad beside him, Keene is known to be with the best-polished reputation. His family had been naught but a stellar example of good conduct and reputation for generations. His support for Eaton was a great help, as a matter of fact."

For a moment, Sasha forgot that West and his friend were coming nearer as she turned her head at Mrs. Compton, entirely amazed. "Do you read these things from somewhere or does the baron share them with you?"

Mrs. Compton laughed. "When you are my age, dear, you are left with days of endless boredom." And then she added in a whisper, "This park is filled with stories."

Sasha's laughter rang out and it was only then that she remembered West. She stopped laughing, turning her head. Clearing her throat, she squared her shoulders, ready to pretend that she did not see him.

Her companion clucked her tongue. Sasha focused her gaze back on the woman, her ears very aware of the clicking of hooves against the cobbled path of the park.

"Too bad such fine gentlemen are destined for a boring life with a boring aristocrat lady who was groomed to be boring simply to fit society's standards."

Sasha got lost in her thoughts as she saw the two black horses pass them by from the corner of her eye. She stole a glance. West's back was on her, straight and proud. He had not seen her.

Good.

But why was she disappointed?

Shaking her head, she focused on the answer she intended to speak before the distraction passed by earlier.

"It is not anyone's fault now, is it? For we are all bred and reared to be something, Mrs. Compton," she said with a small smile. "Mayhap it is the standard that is at fault, for if it is nonexistent, so shall the expectations that come with the rearing."

Mrs. Compton grinned. "You are a smart woman, Sasha. You truly ought to meet my son."

*****

West stood before the window of the villa, looking down at the cobbled street, his face impassive, his mind addled with many things at once.

He watched as Sasha stepped down from her tiny carriage and rushed up the stairs where the door must already be open to permit her entrance.

Her dress was different from when he last saw her at the park that morning.

He was quite surprised to see her there and it was odd to find her in a company of an old woman. She was engaged in a conversation then but West was sure she saw him and deliberately ignored him.

As she should have, the voice in his head whispered.

With one hand, he massaged his shoulder and turned away to go back to his seat behind the table. As he settled, the door to the study opened.

Darren's smiling and knowing face greeted him, followed by Sasha's serious and proud mien.

Her hair was up again, a disappointment. But it bared her neck and shoulders to him. No wonder she always felt cold. She could barely cover herself.

His gaze turned into a glare when he caught Darren still standing by the door. His valet smiled back. West cocked an eyebrow. Darren understood and hesitantly turned to leave.

As Sasha settled in the seat near the fire, she began to take off her gloves.

"I will have to stay a little longer, lest my staff shall wonder, and I would hate to have rumors start at Belcourt."

He frowned, content that there was enough distance between them. "What rumors?"

One shoulder lifted in a shrug.

"Do I have to force it out of you?"

Her stinging gaze sailed straight toward him. "And you believe force is potent enough to get what you want?"

"It was rhetorical, my lady."

"It was a statement with words that meant what you meant them to be," was her immediate response.

West's jaw tightened. "Very well, you are one who takes things too literally then."

"No, I simply have this innate instinct to protect myself."

From whom? From what? He wanted to ask but stopped himself. Had any of her previous flowers hurt her before?

"Forgive my careless words." When she simply nodded, he continued, "Now, will you answer what rumors shall spread if you stay less than you should in this villa?" he asked with a slight edge of sarcasm.

"They will think you do not want me."

He was stupefied. "Who would think that? Belcourt?" She did not answer, but he saw it in her eyes. "The other Belles."

"They will think I am an unwanted Belle."

No, you are not.

West cleared his throat, tearing his eyes off her and her bare shoulders. Her hair. Her eyes. Her lips. Bloody hell, even her bare hands, and fingers.

"You can stay the night if you wish," he offered, his voice cold and crisp, echoing in his own ears. "I will not, of course, but this villa is at your disposal."

She looked around. Was that disappointment he saw in her eyes?

"But I see that you find it lacking."

There was that sigh again and his body, traitor at her presence, tensed, reacting at the simple gesture as if she touched him; as if her fingers brushed against him.

"Your library is empty."

West blinked, looking around. "There are sufficient books for you to devour although there is a great lack of fictional materials that you may be looking for."

"That will be quite all right. I used to read things on economics and..." Her voice trailed.

West was impressed. "Economics? Belles do read economics?"

She stood and he watched her slowly make her way to the bookshelf across the wall from him. "Some do."

"And where did you get your books?"

She cleared her throat. "My previous flower." Her back turned to him; West's eyes devoured the sight.

His jaw clenched. How many flowers had she had before? Did she tease them the way she was doing now?

He saw the muscles of her shoulders move, noticed how the dress stretched around her waist as she reached for a book, teasing him with a glimpse of what he could only imagine.

His muscles bunched without warning as she bent her head, exposing the back of her neck, elongating her spine before him.

Good mighty lord, he was sitting behind his desk almost ten paces away from her, and yet he was reacting as though she was standing there stripped and bare before him.

Jumping to his feet while internally cursing himself, West went to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a brandy.

"Would you care for a drink?" he offered, biting the offer through his teeth.

"You do not sound generous at all," she said and he turned just in time to see the teasing smile on her lips, a look he had never seen from her before.

Blazes of fire surrounded him in that one moment. He was burning. And he had not even taken a sip from his drink yet.

"I am being generous."

She shrugged. "I should refuse, but since you kindly asked, I am inclined to accept. A glass of what you are having is good."

"I have sherry."

"Not my cup of tea," she said, a scoff escaping her throat at her own intentional use of the idiom.

His lips quirked at the remark and he cleared his throat. As he poured another glass for her, a thought occurred to him.

He disliked what she was, but he did not have to dislike her.

He may have to fight a constant battle trying to ignore the obvious physical attraction, but he did not have to fight the obvious wit and other qualities she possessed.

They did not have to be friends.

They could simply be comfortable enough so they could work together.

She was still reading when he approached to hand her the glass of brandy.

Without looking, she reached for it, her fingers brushing against his as she enclosed them around the glass.

West felt as though he was burned and he immediately retreated back to his table. But then he stopped, turning to go near the fire.

He looked at her, growing uncomfortable with the silence. "Do you find it interesting?"

"I have read this before," she said, closing the book single-handedly with a snap.

West swallowed his drink as she reached up to put the book back. The side view of her was even worse.

He gulped another drink, loving the scathing heat that traveled down his throat, satisfying the thirst for something else.

"You are a duke." She was walking back, her bluish-grey eyes reflecting the fire. He knew he should have stayed behind the table where it was safe, but somehow, he felt he needed to test his reserve.

"It is not important." The crisp tone was the soldier he needed to ward off the power her very presence had over his treacherous body. "My title does not have anything to do with our relation—I believe affair is a better term."

A small, bitter smile formed on her lips as she sat across from him, a queen with a faux crown sitting in a throne made just for her. And she looked regal and deserving in it.

That was her charm, West finally realized.

She believed what she was, and so she was.

And so, he did. Which was why he had to be careful.

"You mean to say that your title shall have to remain untouched and untainted by me."

West's jaw tightened. Did she just demean herself again? Was this the same woman who took offense at his statement about using force?

No, she was not degrading herself for the bitter smile on her lips was still there. She was judging him. "I do not have to tarnish your reputation with... mine, yes?" She carefully sipped from her glass and swallowed. "A whore."

He fumed. "You said it. I did not."

Her brows cocked high in mock amusement. "You were thinking about it. Are thinking it."

"You Belcourt women may pride yourselves with the pristine reputation of Belcourt, but there are enough people who know that it is far from that. You breed women to use men," West coldly said. Her expression remained unchanged. "Is that the kind of insult you wish me to throw at you every time we meet?" he scathingly asked.

She simply shrugged.

"Do not provoke me at every turn, my lady. I may have an opinion on Belcourt, but it does not mean I treat its women like the other gentlemen who pay them for pleasure." When she blinked, West saw her eyes clear and her expression softened. "I am treating this affair as naught but business and I expect not to be taunted simply because you believe I have the wrong impression of Belcourt. Can we not simply have a good chat with our glass of brandy?"

She was motionless for a long time before she finally blinked and shrugged. "Very well, if that is what you wish. What would you like to talk about?" she asked, sarcasm clear and precise.

West sighed. "How you intend to find my sister."

"Ah, of course. Business it is then." She smiled at him. He was nearly undone. Any form of a smile from this woman was virulent.

*****

"You will be foxed before we can finish this discussion," he sternly said as Sasha poured herself another glass.

She agreed.

But it was the only way she could ignore his presence or the confusing emotions she felt toward him.

She wanted to hate him for having such a horrid opinion about Belcourt. But she also pitied him for being too ignorant.

And she was also curious. And wary.

Why was he looking at her like that?

She had felt the intense manner he looked at her ever since she walked into the room hours earlier.

It sent shivers down her spine when they discussed her plans to find his sister, not because she was cold, but because he pulled off his cravat and nonchalantly unbuttoned the top of his shirt. As though her very presence did not warrant for him to appear respectable!

He was rude.

And he was also too bloody handsome.

"Did you hear me, or are you purposely ignoring me?" she heard him ask.

Sasha nodded. She was feeling the effects of the spirit.

Her vision was getting cloudy and her speech would slur if she spoke now.

Closing one eye, she carefully finished her task and returned to her seat.

Her knees wobbled.

A giggle escaped her lips and she hated the sound. Yet she couldn't help it.

Almost there, she told herself, taking one step after the other toward the winged chair.

The room spun around her and Sasha stopped. "As I was swaying—I mean, saying, I will need a visit to the Library. It is where all records of all Belcourt children are," she managed to say, hoping that her words were enough to cover the slight sway.

Obviously, it was not because he was now standing before her, looking down at her with a frown.

Sasha looked down at the glass in her hand. She should stop drinking; else she might speak about things she should not in his presence.

Belatedly realizing the fact, she gasped. "I should not be drinking."

"And you only realize that now?" his voice asked above her.

The glass was snatched out of her hand in one fluid motion.

Sasha's head snapped. The room refocused and so did his face. She peered closer at him. "Do you realize you are quite stunning?" The question was out of her mouth even before she realized she was thinking it. His eyes darkened.

Why was she not afraid?

Warm.

She was far from the fire, but she felt warm.

It was not the brandy.

It was him standing too close.

Sasha's breath caught in her throat. Her heart started to race.

Was she having one of her fainting spells?

The room was indeed getting darker. And her knees seemed weak.

She swayed and he held out a hand to steady her.

"You are foxed, Sasha."

Sasha.

She liked how her name sounded in his voice—his irate voice.

It could be the brandy or another fainting spell.

Or it could simply be just him, but the room was moving again and it was stretching her breath with it until Sasha felt that she could take it no more.

His hand tightened around her arm. He stepped closer.

He did not have to, really.

Sasha looked up.

And he did not have to look at her like that, she thought.

"I cannot breathe," she confessed.

His eyes dipped down from her eyes to her lips. His jaw clenched. His eyes darkened.

Sasha saw it all beyond the fog of bewilderment.

"It must be your corset." He said it so nonchalantly, so naturally. She was awed by the control in his voice for his eyes were far from that. His eyes were telling her things that were wild and dangerous.

"It is not the bloody corset," Sasha said through gritted teeth. Suddenly, her mind cleared and she pushed away from her, putting as much distance from what she now realized was the source of her instability.

She swallowed, blinking a few times.

She moistened her lips, slanting her eyes to him. A tingling sensation ran to the tips of her fingers when she saw his eyes anchored on her lips.

"Perhaps we—we sh-should discuss this s-some another day," she stammered, rushing to the door.

"Then I will see you the same time on the morrow?"

"Perhaps," she said over her shoulder.

As Sasha rushed down the stairs, any remnants of the brandy melted by the rush of blood, she realized something she should have been prepared for.

This was unexpected.

And irrevocably dangerous.