Napoleon's Woman

by Samantha Saxon

  "What did you discover?" she asked when they were nearing her carriage.

  "Troop estimates and supply routes, and dates for departure of various military vessels."

  "But no Lion seal."

  "No."

  Lady Rivenhall spoke to her footmen as if they were her French soldiers and then they settled in for the return trip to town. She stared outside, her fair brows creased as she concentrated on the matter at hand.

  "Lord Ferrell did not strike me as the sort of man to betray his country."

  "And how did our handsome lord strike you, Lady Rivenhall?"

  She shook her head in disbelief. "How dare you speak to me in such a manner? Other than saving your miserable life, on several occasions, would you mind enlightening me as to how I offend you, my lord?"

  Aidan thrust his long legs in front of him and crossed his arms over his chest. "Well, let me think. Perhaps it is that you have lied to me at every moment of our association."

  The lady lifted her chin and turned her head to study the passing trees.

  "Or that I have been forced by my own brother-in-law to aid you in your inquiries. Or that a dear friend was murdered in the process of this investigation."

  She flinched, turning to stare at him with pain contorting her exquisite features, causing Aidan regretted his harsh words. He held her light gaze and leaned toward her, his heart thundering in his chest.

  "Or that you have endangered your life for the past four years when you should have been the toast of London."

  Her brows furrowed.

  "Or that you continue to endanger yourself. Or"---he reached for her hand and drew her to him---"That you have allowed men to touch you when the only man that should be holding you in his arms is me."

  Aidan kissed her, his arms banding around her in an embrace meant to possess, to brand. Her fingers curled at the nape of his neck as she returned his kiss, devouring his mouth and his soul.

  She gave a soft mewling of pleasure and he was lost. He stroked her tongue, drinking her in. She bit his lower lip, sending a flash of heat to ignite his burning desire. His mouth fell behind her ear, and he raked his teeth down her neck.

  Lady Rivenhall yanked off his jacket and threw it on the far side of the carriage. He ripped off his cravat as he tugged at the laces of her bodice. Aidan stared down at her exposed breasts and reveled in the sight. He lifted her onto his lap, bending her backward so he might have better access the luxurious mounds.

  "You’re so beautiful," he whispered.

  His mouth closed around her nipple, and he suckled her in a rhythm meant to enflame. She cried out, arching toward him, and he moaned with expectation. His hands dove under her skirts as he lifted them to reach his goal. He stripped away her drawers, and she opened her thighs for his ministrations.

  Aidan touched her thatch of curls and slipped a finger between her moist petals. He suckled her breast with each stroke of his finger and she began to anticipate his thrusts. His shaft was aching, and her rhythmic movements were bringing him precariously close to the edge.

  He lifted her right leg and pulled it across his chest so that she was straddling him. He unbuttoned his breeches and yanked at the flap, exposing his arousal. Lady Rivenhall met his eyes and he impaled her. He moaned and grasped her backside with both hands, plunging deeper into her soft folds.

  Aidan had intended to stimulate her, to cause her to crest before he found his pleasure. But the woman began riding him with her own need driving her and all thoughts washed away on wave after wave of ecstasy. He grabbed her slender hips and pulled her down as he drove into her.

  And when she began crying out with each thrust, he knew he was lost. His hips instinctively increased their pace and within moments he fell into the abyss, taking her with him.

  ***

  At ten o’clock the following morning, Aidan found himself walking down the corridors of Whitehall in something of a daze.

  His intimacy with Lady Rivenhall had shaken him to the core and he was having a difficult time finding his footing. He clutched the papers he had found in Lord Ferrell’s home and tried desperately not to remember the feel of Lady Rivenhall in his arms, the feel of being buried deep inside of her.

  Aidan had bedded his share of ladies, but never had he felt such an overwhelming need to possess, to claim a woman as he did Lady Rivenhall. He realized, of course, that his obsession with the lady was fueled by the unusual circumstances in which they met.

  Had she been another debutante at Almack’s, the intensity of his feelings would not be this profound. But the woman was more than beautiful. She was courageous, daring, intelligent, and honorable, and he could not stop thinking about her, could not stop wanting her.

  Aidan found himself at Falcon’s office. "Morning, Cunningham. Is the old man in?" he asked Falcon’s capable assistant.

  "’Fraid not. Just went to dine at his club."

  The earl handed the man the documents from Lord Ferrell’s study, saying, "Please, give him these papers the moment he returns."

  "Of course."

  Aidan thanked the man and headed down the corridor. He paused at the room where John had been killed, noting that a fine carpet had been laid over the blood-stained wood. He stared at the floor and vowed to avenge his friend by seeing the traitor hanged.

  Aidan emerged from the gloomy building and stared at the blue sky. He allowed the sun to warm his face, and he felt a new man by the time he settled into the warmth of his carriage. He sighed to himself, wondering when it would all be over, wondering even more what would become of his relationship with the addictive Lady Rivenhall.

  ***

  Celeste had spent the morning admonishing herself for allowing her body to control her mind.

  She should never have allowed herself to make love to the Earl of Wessex. She was just begun to forget the feel of his muscular arms around her, his large hands wrapped about her waist as he entered her body. She had almost forgotten the look in his emerald eyes that make her feel the most desirable woman in all the world. She had almost forgotten the sound of his moans as came into her.

  Damnation!

  Celeste shook away her thoughts and dabbed perfume behind her ears. She glanced down at her lilac day gown, and decided it was the perfect attire for Lady Cantor’s musical tea. She pinched her cheeks and rose from her chair.

  "Has the carriage been brought ‘round, Marie?"

  "Oui. Now you will be careful?"

  Lady Rivenhall laughed. "I will be perfectly safe," she said, kissing her companion on the cheek.

  Celeste arrived at the musical a quarter of an hour before the performances were to begin. She gathered a plate of assorted fruit and sweets and sat toward the back of the room, waiting for the daughter of her hostess to launch the event.

  The biscuits were superb, and Celeste was on her third when a man settled in next to her.

  "You’re late," she said, her tone testy.

  Henri Renault shrugged and took a large bite of cucumber sandwich. "Forgive me, Lady Rivenhall, I was tutoring our hostess on the fine art of pleasing a man with her mouth." He chuckled. "Of course, if Lady Cantor knew that I spent last night plowing her daughter, she might not have been as willing to pleasure me."

  The Frenchman threw his sandwich on the bone china in disgust. "This English food is enough to make one ill. I would kill a man for some pâté."

  Celeste watched her hostess enter the room and look toward Monsieur Renault with longing. "Might we begin before the music starts?"

  "Very well," he said, his smile subtle. "The man you are looking for is tall, dark haired, young, and, according to a chambermaid, handsome but not nearly as handsome as me."

  Celeste rolled her eyes. "No name?"

  "No."

  "No carriage bearing a crest?"

  "The man rode a horse, no markings of any kind. This man is thorough, clever, and bold." Henri smiled. "I like him."

  "I will be sure to convey your admiration. If you discover a nam
e, do let me know."

  "Oui."

  "Now, go away before these ladies believe you are more than a libertine trying to seduce me."

  "Am I succeeding?"

  "No."

  "Then it will be my pleasure to keep trying."

  Henri Renault stood, smiling at her with sensual promise that would have made most women swoon, but having seen the green eyes of the ebony earl burn with desire, Celeste found other men decidedly lacking in masculine appeal.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  The dark man gave three sharp knocks on the door to Lord Wellesley’s outer office and entered without being invited.

  Wellesley’s clerk, Woodson, was bent over some papers and took several moments before lifting his head. His eyes registered his surprise, but the clerk sat up and smiled toward his visitor.

  "Oh, hello. What can I do for you?"

  "Nothing, really," the dark man said, fiddling with his watch, which was buried in the pocket of the waistcoat that perfectly complemented his eyes. "I was just heading to my club for dinner and wondered if you would care to join me."

  The clerk’s brows rose. "Oh, uh, well…I’m afraid I have quite a lot of work left to do this evening."

  The dark man strolled around the desk, placing one arm on the back of Woodson’s chair and planting the other firmly on the desktop. He bent down to peer over the clerk’s shoulder, making sure he was close enough that his breath would be felt on the man’s neck.

  "Surely these papers can wait a few hours, old man," he said, pressing his muscular chest against the clerk’s back as he looked more closely at the documents.

  "I…uh…"

  The dark man rose, clasping the clerk on the shoulder and rubbing his thumb back and forth. "You’ve got to eat sometime, Woodson," he said, releasing him just as the man was tasting his desire. "Come on, we’ll return in no time," he encouraged, walking toward the door.

  The clerk’s eyes darted about the papers on his desk and then up at the dark man, who presented his most devastating smile.

  "Very well, but I really must return within the hour."

  "Certainly."

  "It will just take a few moments to tidy my desk."

  The dark man leaned a shoulder against the doorframe in a manner that displayed his powerful legs to their advantage. "Very well."

  Woodson had expected him to leave, but when he did not, the clerk busily stacked documents and locked them in the cabinets behind the desk. He made sure to appeared bored, but his eyes took in every detail of the smaller man’s movements, where and how items were stored, if a key was required to access the documents.

  "Ready," Woodson said some five minutes later.

  He smiled down at the clerk and they left the office together. The familiar sounds of the congested London streets assaulted them the moment they emerged from the sanctuary of the extensive building.

  He cut through the crowded walk as the clerk attempted to keep up with him by dodging determined pedestrians. But the moment they ventured into the street Woodson said, "Damn," as he stepped in a pile of horse manure. He kicked his right heel on the curb to dislodge the offensive material as the dark man waited impatiently for him finish.

  "The oddest thing happened yesterday." Woodson concentrated on his filthy shoes.

  "What was that?" he asked, not caring.

  "Yesterday, I was hailing a hackney at this very spot when a Frog came up to me and asked if I worked at Whitehall."

  The dark man tensed, his mind spinning. He waited as they started across the street.

  "The Frenchman said that he had attended Lord Hambury’s ball, where he had met a gentleman working at the Foreign Office, but he could not remember the man’s name. And I must say he described you rather well, although I suppose it could have been Lord Eubanks or perhaps even--"

  "What did this Frog look like?" The question was casual.

  "Tall, fair hair tied back in a queue."

  He shook his head. "No, I don’t recall speaking to any Frenchman at Hambury’s. Must have been some other gentleman."

  Woodson kept his eyes on the cobblestone street to further avoid any offending heaps, so he missed the tension in the dark man’s jaw.

  ***

  The two gentlemen sat in the Duke’s study, their weekly chess match long since complete.

  Gilbert noted the gray pallor of the elderly man and wondered if the stress of his unenviable position was taking its toll. The traitor still remained active, and with Wellesley due to depart in eleven days, the situation was becoming desperate.

  "Where are you with the investigation?" Gilbert asked as he handed the man a scotch and took his ease in his favorite leather chair.

  The old man lifted unruly brows. "Not very far, I’m afraid. We have just discovered incriminating evidence at Lord Ferrell’s home. I have men watching his movements as well as the others, but thus far the gentlemen have done nothing to implicate themselves further.

  Lady Rivenhall and the Earl of Wessex will search Lord Cantor’s home Sunday next. The man gives his staff the morning off so they might attend services and the house will be empty."

  "And if they find nothing?"

  The old man lifted his crystal tumbler to his lips and took a long draw of the fiery liquid.

  "Then she will go back."

  Gilbert’s silver eyes narrowed. "Who will go back?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

  "Lady Rivenhall will depart for France and the emperor. If the traitor is not found, she will be invaluable in supplying Wellesley with information. And if the traitor is caught, the man will be in custody and unable to identify her as an English agent to the French. Either way she leaves for Amsterdam in ten days’ time."

  Gilbert stared at the carpet and then tossed back the remainder of his scotch. "Does she know?"

  "Yes. She sent a letter to the emperor last week, along with intelligence information we had supplied."

  The duke held the old man’s gaze. "Wessex’s escape, Beresford’s victory at Albuera, the information she will supply Wellesley…the French are not stupid. She will eventually be caught."

  Falcon sighed. "I know."

  "Then why are you sending her back?"

  "I’m not. She asked to go. Demanded, really."

  "Why?"

  The old man set his empty glass on the small side table to his right. "The girl feels responsible for not having saved more men. Penance, I suppose."

  "You do realize that Aidan Duhearst is in love with her."

  "Yes, and she him, which makes these events all the more tragic."

  "What can we do?"

  "Nothing we can do, Your Grace. If the traitor is not found, England needs Lady Rivenhall in France."

  "And if he is?"

  The man shrugged his sloping shoulders. "It is her decision to make, but the girl knows her value to the Crown. And if I were to wager, I’d say this war is far from over."

  ***

  Celeste was having her hair braided in preparation for bed when a maid rapped on the door.

  "Yes," Celeste said without moving.

  The young girl entered and, with a curtsy, said, "The Earl of Wessex to see you, my lady."

  Her spine stiffened, and she stole a glance at Marie.

  "Send him up please, Ruth."

  "Yes, ma’am."

  Madame Arnott looked down at her, appalled. "The earl should not be permitted in your suite, Celeste."

  Lady Rivenhall rose and reached for her dressing gown, tying it about her waist with quick, impatient tugs.

  "Really, Marie. I have already bedded him, so what difference does it make if the earl sees me in my nightclothes?"

  "It is not proper."

  "Yes, well, I have done many improper things. At least this one will allow me to stay in the comfort of my nightclothes rather than dress just to meet with the man in my parlor. You may retire, Marie, thank you."

  "But--"

  A knock at her door caused Celeste to stare at her com
panion. "Enter," she said, and without turning to greet her guest added, "Goodnight, Madame Arnott."

  "Good evening, Lord Wessex," Marie said before leaving with obvious reluctance.

  Celeste took a deep breath and turned to greet the enticing earl. She avoided his mesmerizing eyes. "Good evening, my lord. What is it that I can do for you?"

  Aidan Duhearst remained silent, forcing her to look at his handsome features, his striking coloring, his alluring lips before he used them to speak.

  "I wanted to discuss last night."

  Celeste’s heart slammed against her ribs as she searched her mind for a means of self-preservation. "I assumed that you had given the documents to Falcon this morning. If you had difficulty you should have--"

  "That is not what I am referring to, Celeste."

  "Then what are you referring to?" She spoke to his black Hessians.

  "I am referring to what occurred afterward. In the carriage."

  Celeste could not breathe, and she was becoming light-headed. She walked to her dressing table and sat on the cushioned stool, removing her earbobs.

  "What do you mean?"

  Aidan stood behind her and spoke to her reflection in the dressing mirror. "You know damn well what I mean." Her head snapped up, and she held his gaze, wanting to be anywhere else when he said, "It was a mistake, Celeste." She pinched her lips together so they would not quiver. "I--"

  "Surely, you do not think I expect you to marry me after a mere dalliance, Lord Wessex?" she scoffed. He looked stunned and she was glad, prompting her to continue. "You’ve introduced me to the pleasures of the flesh, and I wanted to experience more." Celeste shrugged as she stood, walking to her bed. "I knew when I accepted this mission that there would be sacrifices that would be made."

  Wessex laughed. "So, last night was a sacrifice?" he asked arrogantly, knowing that she had desired him as much as he had wanted her.

  "No," she said, needing to hurt him. "Last night was research for future assignments. You’ve taught me many things, Lord Wessex." She took off her robe and grabbed a tome for protection. "Next time I need to bed a man, I now know what will satisfy him." Celeste smiled and slipped under her counterpane, adding, "And me." His mouth fell open. "Now if you will excuse me, I really would like to read."