Napoleon's Woman

by Samantha Saxon

  The enormous Scot rose and tugged at his waistcoat. "Wessex, I shall let that pass as you have recently returned to civilized society and may yet be a bit rusty with the requisite niceties. However, you, St. John, are a bloody bastard, and I have nothin’ but sympathy for your bride Lady Pervill."

  Aidan chuckled and inclined his head. "Good afternoon, Lord DunDonell," he said, the model of ‘rusty’ civility.

  "And to you, Lord Wessex," Daniel returned with a sweeping bow.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Celeste often found that the most discreet place to conduct a private meeting was in middle of an enormous crush.

  It had been weeks since she had contacted the emperor, and she needed to send information to convince him of her progress. Celeste took a deep breath and blew out her anxiety as her landau inched toward Lord Hambury’s townhome.

  The door to her conveyance opened, and Celeste turned her head as a young Frenchman settled on the seat opposite hers. Henri Renault was very handsome and had a rather sordid reputation with the married ladies of the ton, which did little to elevate his status as refugee amongst the peerage.

  Henri was the second son of a French duke who had been guillotined in the early days of the Revolution. The duchess had fled with her children to England, where Lord Renault has resided ever since.

  But what polite society did not know was that the emperor had offered to restore his family’s holdings in exchange for Henri’s services. On the surface, Lord Renault was not the most effective of spies, as the ton held the majority of the French nobles in silent contempt and therefore would never confide any important information.

  Fortunately for Henri, several of their wives had. And it was this, along with his ability to relay messages from English collaborators that made the young lord exceedingly valuable to France.

  Celeste considered the man before her. His nose was a shade too large, which only seemed to add to his appeal. And contrary to current fashion, Henri pulled back his long hair into a queue secured at the base of his head. The style made a woman wonder what his golden mane would look like hanging over her head as he made love to her.

  But it was the man’s eyes that seemed to hold the greatest appeal. Yellow turned gold when caught by the sun or the light of an intimate fire. Henri allowed his lips to spread into a lazy smile that was meant to entice, but she was used to his flirtations and continued to look at him with indifference.

  "So, Lady Rivenhall," he began in French. "Do you have anything to give me?" He glanced at her breasts, his meaning clear.

  Celeste refrained from rolling her eyes at his audacity. The fact that she was the emperor’s mistress did not seem to deter the young rake one whit.

  "Everything I have is for the Emperor."

  The man chuckled and slid onto the seat next to her. His eyes roved leisurely over her face. "The emperor is very far away, Lady Rivenhall." He bent his head and pressed his lips to her neck. "An experienced woman such as yourself cannot be expected to spend the war in a cold bed."

  "Are you offering to warm it, Henri?"

  The rogue lifted his head, saying, "Oui," and then bent to kiss her mouth. Celeste turned and his lips fell to her cheek.

  "Take care, Henri. The emperor is not one to share, as evidenced by our involvement in this war."

  Lord Renault chuckled and lifted her chin so that he might look at her face.

  "Lady Rivenhall, I do not know which is more enticing, your exceptional beauty or your exquisite wit." He held her gaze a moment longer and then gave a hiss of regret. "C’est la vie. What do you have for the emperor today, mademoiselle?"

  Celeste pulled the papers given her by Falcon from beneath her cloak. Lord Renault’s brows rose, obviously impressed with the amount of information she had managed to gather in such a short amount of time.

  "It seems you have been warming someone’s bed."

  Celeste did not comment, saying only, "The schematics are for a new cannon that will be produced very shortly. This weapon is far more powerful than anything we possess, so stress to the emperor the need to adjust his battle plans accordingly."

  Of course, there was no new cannon, but any additional troops sent to reinforce current position would mean fewer battalions elsewhere. However, the other information she had given him was real, and was determined to be acceptable losses to the English war effort. Celeste tried not to think of the men that would die protecting these insignificant outposts, but she did…at night, when sleep evaded her.

  "Very well, you know how to contact me if you find any information of interest to the emperor," he said, his hand drifting to the handle of the carriage door. Then, stopping, he turned to her with a warm smile. "Or if you get cold."

  And then he stepped out of her carriage, leaving her to wait her turn at being dropped at the front steps. Fifteen minutes later, her footman handed her down as she alighted from her carriage. The front of Lord Hambury’s home was ablaze with torches, and she ascended the wide marble stairs along with two stylishly clad couples.

  She pulled her cloak around her and listened to the murmur of conversation spilling into the street from the front entry. Once inside, she removed her cloak and nervously awaited her turn to be announced.

  The neck of her cerulean gown was cut simply to enhance her complexion, but it was the back of the silk concoction that had caused her modiste to squeal with delight the moment she described what she wanted.

  She had ordered the gown to be cut so low in the back that it would be impossible to wear a corset. Of course, the moment she stepped onto the ballroom floor the entire ton would be aware of it as well, which is precisely why she had done it. Celeste had only a few short weeks to attract three peers of the British realm. This was no time to be demure.

  "Lady Rivenhall," the announcement sounded over the crowded ballroom.

  The murmurs behind her transformed into an absolute roar the deeper she walked into the crowded room. Heads turned, and conversations stopped as she searched for her uncle. The Earl of Rivenhall had agreed to accompany her this evening once Falcon had explained to him the importance of her mission.

  Her uncle had been shocked to learn that his brother’s daughter had survived his murder. The earl was only now coming to grips with the reality of her relationship with the emperor and the subsequent danger in which she was placing herself. He had felt it his duty to protect her now that her father was dead, and it had taken Falcon a full two hours to convince him of the importance she held in the war effort.

  Her uncle had allowed her to use his townhome while he remained in the country, but Celeste was uncertain if he would sit idly by while she flaunted herself for the ton. She would know soon enough, as her uncle was approaching her from the direction of the gaming room.

  "Celeste, darling." He bent and kissed her cheek, whispering, "That dress is absolutely obscene."

  "I know."

  "You look stunning, my dear," he said for the benefit of the scandalized onlookers. "Would you care for some refreshment?"

  "Yes, thank you."

  Her uncle motioned to a footman and passed her a glass of champagne. Behind his crystal he said, "Hambury, Ferrell, and Cantor, correct?"

  Celeste nodded, and she took his arm. They strolled about the room, and she could feel the eyes of the ton as they walked. Her uncle introduced her to several matrons before arriving at the side of their host, Lord Hambury.

  The married lord was bald and had grown fat through the middle.

  "Lord Hambury, may I introduce my niece, Lady Celeste Rivenhall."

  The forty-year-old lord smiled with an attempt at rakishness, saying, "Enchanted, Lady Rivenhall, and why is it that we have never seen you in town before tonight, my dear?"

  "I have been abroad, my lord, but fearing for my safety, my uncle insisted that I return to England." She smiled affectionately toward her uncle, whom she scarcely remembered, as if he were her father.

  "Quite right, Lady Rivenhall. Who knows where that mad
Frenchman will invade next? You’re better off here at home, what?"

  "I couldn’t agree with you more, Lord Hambury," Celeste said with her most radiant smile. "And now if you will excuse me, my lord, I believe my uncle wishes to introduce me to his acquaintances." Her uncle turned, and they began to walk away when the rotund lord called after them.

  "Might you have a waltz available on your dance card, Lady Rivenhall?"

  Celeste cringed at the thought of those bloated fingers wrapped around her waist. "I believe I do, Lord Hambury," she said, writing his name on the card dangling from her wrist.

  As they walked away, she felt her uncle’s eyes on her. She looked up and was surprised to see sorrow touching them. "I am truly sorry, Celeste. I cannot imagine what you have endured these past four years."

  A lump formed in her throat, and she eased it down with a sip of champagne, saying, "No, you cannot."

  ***

  The moment Lady Rivenhall was introduced, the dark man knew without a doubt that he had found the emperor’s mistress. The girl was exquisite, and he, along with every other male in the gilded room, imagined what she would look like nude and in his bed.

  For now he would have to content himself with holding her in a waltz, rather than beneath him in bed. However, he would need to tread carefully, for the woman was the paramour to Napoleon himself, and for good reason, he thought as he stared at her backside.

  "What I wouldn’t give to get my hands on that," his companion murmured.

  The dark man chuckled and smiled his agreement, but then he was startled by a familiar voice. "There you are, my lord. I have been looking for you so that I might introduce you to my cousin."

  He shrugged at his friend and offered his arm to the admiral’s wife. "Of course, Lady Davis," he said, concealing his rage.

  They strolled in the direction of the less populated gaming room. "I told you never to speak with me in public, Sophie."

  The girl was expecting his anger and attempted to appease him. "What choice have you left me, darling? You refuse to see me in private." She caressed his arm, and he glanced around to see if anyone had noted the intimacy. "I love you, and I know that you love me. If it is my husband that concerns you, I shall leave him. Anything, darling, I shall do whatever you wish."

  He smiled down at the ugly woman. "Very well, dearest, meet me in the gazebo at midnight, and we shall discuss what is to be done." He patted her hand affectionately and whispered, "Now go."

  The girl ambled into the ballroom, oblivious to the hard set of his jaw or the steely glint in his eyes. He downed his remaining refreshment and forced himself to set the delicate crystal flute on the nearest table. Determined, he straightened his cravat before walking into the ballroom to await his waltz with the stunning Lady Rivenhall.

  "Our dance, I believe," he said with a bow, as the disappointed throngs that surrounded her watched helplessly as he led her to the dance floor.

  He pulled Lady Rivenhall into his arms and was thankful that he had removed his gloves. His bare hand rested against the flesh exposed by her provocative gown, and she felt just as he had imagined she would, warm, smooth and very, very soft. His shaft was awakening, and he reminded himself to smile politely.

  "I understand that you have recently returned from the continent, Lady Rivenhall."

  "That is correct, my lord. Austria, to be precise," the girl said. She seemed nervous, and he hoped that he was affecting her. He pulled her a shade closer to his body as they twirled the length of the room.

  "I, myself, returned from the continent not four months ago."

  "Really?"

  He laughed. "Of course, it was the peninsula, and I’m afraid the only memento I came home with was this." He tilted his head so that she could clearly see his scar.

  Her fair brows furrowed and she said, "I’m so sorry, my lord." And for the briefest of moments he thought that perhaps she was.

  He lowered his hand a half-inch on her back as his desire increased with each turn of their waltz. It occurred to him that the best way to keep an eye on his competition was to keep her close, preferably very close.

  The waltz was coming to a close, so he seized his last opportunity. "Lady Rivenhall, have you managed to see the Royal Theater’s production of The Merchant of Venice?"

  "No, I have not," she said with an encouraging smile.

  Confident, he looked directly into her eyes, asking, "Then might you do me the honor of accompanying me Saturday next?"

  "Oh, I’m afraid I shall need to consult my uncle, my lord. I fear we might be returning to his country estate at any moment," she answered, smiling up at him and causing a surge of lust that emanated from his belly and settled in his cock. "Might I send word as soon as our plans are settled?"

  The waltz ended, and he left his hand on the exposed portion of her back as he guided her toward her uncle. "I would be delighted to receive any communication from you, Lady Rivenhall," he said with a seductive smile.

  ***

  Felicity sat with her cousin, awaiting her dance partner for the next waltz. She was still heated from her quadrille with the Duke of Glenbroke and she took a sip of lemonade to cool herself. She discreetly adjusted her chartreuse gown and turned her attention toward her amused cousin.

  "Look"--Lady Pervill indicated the far side of the room--"Lord Summers has not taken his eyes off of you all evening, poor man. I mean just look at him. He’s gorgeous--and rich."

  Felicity sighed. "Don’t be crass, Juliet."

  "I can afford to be crass, dearest. A man like that would never make me an offer, and I must say that if he had enough sense to fall in love with you, then he is worthy of my admiration."

  "It is sentiments such as those that keep me in your company, Juliet."

  "Come now, Felicity. Tell me what is wrong with this one. I know Lord Summers has made you an offer and, as always, you refused him. That makes seven, and I must warn you that wagers are being placed at White’s."

  Felicity shuddered at the thought of her private affairs being discussed in public, and with a heavy sigh, said, "Why people are interested in my personal affairs, I shall never know."

  "Well, Felicity, that is rather the point. You have no personal affairs--no scandal, no lovers locked away, not even an illegitimate child."

  "Juliet!" she admonished, placing her hands on her burning cheeks.

  "I’m sorry, dearest. I was only jesting, but I do not understand your refusal of Summers? I’d murder someone for an offer from the man."

  Felicity’s heart lurched, and guilt washed over her. Her cousin was only a year younger than herself, but had received not one offer for her hand.

  "I told you, Juliet. I am not in love with him."

  "Nor the other six?"

  Felicity lifted her lemonade to her lips. "Nor them."

  "Then who are you in love with?"

  Felicity rolled her eyes in frustration and with uncharacteristic temper, said, "My God, Juliet, you are like a hound on the trail of a fox. I have told you time and time again that you shall be the first to know when I develop a tendresse for a gentleman." She brushed her skirts of imaginary crumbs, adding, "Perhaps if you concentrated on your own affairs, we would not be discussing my offers, but yours."

  The moment she looked up into her cousin’s cornflower blue eyes, Felicity regretted her outburst. She reached out to touch her hand, but Juliet pulled away. Her cousin’s eyes filled with tears, but stubborn to the core, she refused to let them fall.

  Instead, she lifted her head, her anger overwhelming her hurt as she stared at Felicity. "Point taken, cousin. Now if you will excuse me, there is a wall that lacks a bouquet."

  Felicity started after her wounded friend, but the Earl of Wessex arrived at her side, stopping her.

  "Lady Appleton, I must apologize as I will be unable to dance our waltz." He seemed distracted, frantic even, which was so unlike the elegant Lord Wessex that she became uneasy.

  "Is there something wrong, my lord?"


  He stopped looking about the room and smiled down at her. "I’m sorry, Lady Appleton, everything is fine. I do hate to leave you…" He was peering over the heads of the crush. "Ah, I see just the fellow to partner you for our waltz."

  Felicity waited to be introduced to the gentleman. The orchestra began the opening chords and couples started toward the dance floor. It was so kind of the earl to find her a partner, she thought, as she adored a lively waltz.

  "Here he is," Aidan said, prompting Felicity to turn. "Lord Elkin."

  Her heart stopped, and then lodged in her throat. She met Lord Elkin’s piercing eyes and noted that he was just as stunned as she.

  "Thanks, old man." Aidan slapped him on the back and then turned to Felicity. "I shall return as soon as possible, Lady Appleton."

  Felicity smiled, but Wessex was already gone, leaving her alone with the one man she had thought never to see again. He raised his arm and she took it, staring at the polished mahogany floor all the while.

  Her heart was thundering in her chest and she could scarcely hear the music. He stood as far away from her as was possible when he took her in his arms and began twirling her about the floor.

  Lord Elkin stared over her head and the awkward silence was more than she could bear. "I take it from your countenance that you had no idea it was I for whom the Earl of Wessex begged your assistance?"

  His eyes met hers for the second time in two years, but he said nothing, spinning her around a corner. His large hand burned her waist and with sudden clarity she recalled the other times that they had danced together, not like this, but with the comfortable ease of friendship.

  "When you left for the continent, I never thought to see you again," she said, regretting the loss of her closest male companion.

  "Nor did I," he drawled, his deep voice audible only to her. She had almost forgotten the rich reverberation of his voice, and was forced to take a steadying breath so as not to cry in full view of the ton.

  "I would have thought that two years would be enough time--"

  His jaw tensed. "It was not."