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Contents:
Prologue
1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19
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Prologue
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England, 1842
"Emeralds."
She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
He smiled faintly. "I was just thinking, Miss Haislett, that on this ballroom floor, under the light of a thousand candles, your eyes sparkle like precious emeralds."
She swallowed nervously and held his gaze with her own. His voice was so very rich and deep, almost caressing, and suddenly she felt quite shy, a feeling Miss Natalie Haislett of Sherborne had never before experienced in the presence of anyone.
"Thank you," she whispered, lowering her eyes to stare at the ivory buttons of his shirt.
He continued to smile but said nothing more as he expertly twirled her around the dance floor in time to the waltz. She couldn't understand why she felt so anxious, for this was, after all, her father's masked ball, and he was only an invited guest who had graciously asked her to dance. She'd seen him before on several occasions, although they'd never spoken to each other. But this time he seemed to take particular notice of her, watching her closely, almost too closely, and the attention from such an attractive man made her breathless.
"I'd like to see you without your mask."
His smooth, husky words startled her into raising her eyes to his once again. He was unbearably handsome, with thick, almost black hair, a tall, hard body and the most mesmerizing gray-blue eyes.
She stared at him for several seconds, then quietly replied, "I'd like to see you without yours." After looking around cautiously she leaned up to murmur boldly, "Meet me outside in the flower garden, under the south balcony, in fifteen minutes."
He cocked his head fractionally, eyes narrowing behind black satin. "Are you serious, Natalie?"
His sudden use of her given name without permission reminded her, in the purest sense, of her delicate position. "I-I just thought it would be a private place to talk."
"I see."
He continued to stare down at her partially concealed face for a moment, and just as she began to feel a trifle embarrassed by her very brazen behavior, he leaned over to whisper, "I'm looking forward to our … talk."
She shivered from his warm breath on her cheek, then too quickly the waltz was over. He stood upright, his eyes piercing hers as he brushed his lips against the back of her hand. Then he turned and walked away.
Natalie watched him for a moment as he disappeared into the crowd of laughing, mingling people, trying to shake herself of the strange sensations the man evoked in her. She shouldn't have asked him to meet her in the garden unchaperoned, she knew that, but something inside of her compelled her to do so.
She would meet him. She was drawn to him.
Slowly she made her way toward the back of the ballroom, stopping every so often to chat nonchalantly with various members of the gentry. It took her almost fifteen minutes just to reach the balcony, then, slipping away unnoticed, she fairly raced down the stairs and into the garden.
The chill night air brushed her skin, but the moon's full glow and her own anxious thoughts warmed her inside.
Glancing around cautiously, she tiptoed along the path in the hopes that nobody would see or hear her. Her mother would no doubt perish from shock if she knew where she was and what she was doing, and it saddened her to know she wouldn't be able to stay in his presence long without someone in the ballroom noticing her absence.
"I really didn't think you'd come."
She turned toward the sound of his voice, coming from the shadows several feet away.
"Especially," he continued, stepping toward her, "since no one else seems at all desirous of strolling through the garden on this perfect autumn evening. It appears we're all alone."
"Yes," she agreed weakly. Her pulse began to race from anticipation. He had removed his mask, and all she could see of his face under pale moonglow was a vague expression of contemplation.
"Take it off."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your mask, Natalie. I want to see your face, remember?"
He had moved to stand directly in front of her, but she now faced the moonlight so a shadow once again blocked his features from her view. She could feel his warmth, could feel his penetrating gaze, but she couldn't move away. Timidly she reached behind her head and untied her mask, lowering it to hold at her side, growing increasingly shy and afraid to look at him. He forced her to do so, however, as his palm came up to lightly grasp her chin, raising her head in the process.
He was quiet for a moment, studying her intently, and second by second the pounding of her heart grew to a thunder.
"Beautiful…" he whispered.
He glided his thumb across her lips, and she lost herself to his touch, closing her eyes and leaning her head back in response, her mask slipping out of her hands to fall to the ground unnoticed. For a moment she was unsure of what to do or say, and then she felt his warm mouth on hers as he pulled her into his arms.
She hadn't really expected to be kissed. Or had she? Perhaps this was what she'd longed for since she'd first seen him months ago, to drown herself in the splendor of his hard body, his emanating power. His tongue teased her lips apart to invade her warmth, moving, flicking, searching for hers. Oh, God, he felt wonderful. He was warm, inviting, so very masculine. Much more than she had ever imagined.
Natalie instinctively leaned her body into his as the kiss grew more demanding. She raised herself on her toes, wrapping her arms around his neck so her fingers could play with the hair on his nape. She whimpered from pure, raw pleasure as sensations she'd never before experienced melted her inside.
Groaning deeply, he placed his hand on her bottom and pulled her hips boldly against his, holding her snugly to him, his free hand gliding down her cheek, then to her neck to caress it with his fingers.
She was quite aware of the tension, the hardness of every point of him, the raw passion building between them, but she couldn't stop it. Not yet. She wanted nothing more than to stand in the moonlight, in a fragrant garden, and be with him like this for an eternity—kissing, touching, feeling, wanting. The rush of emotion was perfect, wonderful, and every nagging doubt about what she was doing vanished from her thoughts as his lips continued to torment her mouth with excruciating pleasure.
She heard herself gasp ever so slightly when, without warning, he lowered his hand over her gown to place his thumb against her nipple, gently stroking, caressing, teasing the waiting peak through the thin layer of Florentine silk. Guided by impulse, she began to move her hips against his, stroking him gently with her belly.
That action made him come alive with eagerness. He grasped the fullness of her breast with his warm hand as the one holding her bottom, without her total awareness, started to lift her skirt.
With a quick expertise she couldn't begin to understand, he placed his palm against her leg, and whether out of unsureness or simple instinct, she immediately stiffened.
Apparently he felt it as well, for his mouth relaxed against hers as his hand moved in and around to stroke her inner thighs.
"What are you doing?" she murmured, pulling her head back.
"What we've both been dreaming of for weeks," he answered in a gravelly rasp, his lips beginning a trail of feathery kisses down her neck.
His head moved ever lower, lower, until he brushed his mouth against the tops of her breasts, just above the edge of her gown. She started to relax again, closing her eyes to the luscious feelings he expertly created, until she felt him move his hand up to caress intimately the sensitive area between her legs.
That shocked her to reality.
"Don't." She gasped, pushing against his shoulders, enormously embarrassed and quickly overcome with guilt.
Slowly he withdrew his hands and raised himself to stare down at her, his breathing coming fast and heavy through the sudden stillness. Although she knew he was as affected as she by the force of attraction between them, she couldn't read the thoughts on his face through the shadows.
He stood there for a long moment before the hardness of his voice sliced through the chilly night air. "Why did you ask me to meet you, Miss Haislett?"
She couldn't think straight. Her breathing faltered, her body trembled. "I-I wanted to talk."
He remained silent for a second or two, then he drew a long, slow breath. "You've never done this, have you?"
Natalie grasped her elbows with her palms in a small measure of defense, but she didn't move or look away from his hidden expression. "I've been kissed before, if that's what you mean, but—"
"But what?"
She lowered her gaze to study what she could see of her blue satin slippers. "It lasted three seconds and it was on my right cheek."
For a fraction of a moment she thought he might actually laugh. But he didn't. Instead, he moved up to stand directly in front of her once again, placing his hand under her chin to lift her face to his. She shut her eyes tightly against his gaze, instantly filled with an acute sense of shame.
"Look at me," he demanded in a dark, velvety voice.
She took a fast breath and opened her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said in a whisper. "I really didn't mean—"
"How old are you?"
She paused, wanting to sound mature and independent, but in the end deciding it best just to be honest. "Seventeen. Eighteen in a month."
"I see…"
He began to rub his thumb across her jawline, back and forth, back and forth, and she closed her eyes to the feel of it, once again succumbing to his touch.
Finally he put his arm behind her, pulling her up against his chest, hugging her tightly to him, one hand on her head, the other on her back as he slowly ran his knuckles along her spine.
Natalie could hear his heart beating steadily beneath her cheek, could feel his slow, even breathing, and she knew she was losing herself in his embrace once again. It felt perfect to be held by him, to be doing exactly, as he'd said, what she'd been dreaming of doing for weeks.
"You just wanted to talk," he repeated coolly, contemplatively.
"I think I really wanted to be kissed," she sheepishly admitted, snuggling even tighter against his chest. "I like the way you kiss."
He groaned softly and shook his head. "You are undoubtedly the sweetest thing I've come across in ages, Miss Natalie Haislett."
She lifted her chin, gazing up at his face. "Did you like it?"
He looked down sharply. "Kissing you?"
She nodded.
"I liked it more than I probably should have."
That warmed her to her toes. "Do you think we could kiss like that again sometime?"
His body stiffened as he looked once more to the darkened garden. "I don't think it would be a good idea."
Awkwardly she lowered her gaze to his chest.
He glanced down at her again. "What did you want to talk about when you asked me out here?"
Natalie, never being one to keep her feelings wisely in check, could think of nothing to say but the truth. Quietly she confessed, "I think you're the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life and I…" Her cheeks grew hot with color. Casually she tried to free herself from his embrace, but he wouldn't let her go.
"You what, Natalie?"
His voice was deeply smooth, her name sounding achingly intimate as it rolled off his tongue. She couldn't hold back any longer. "If I tell you, do you promise not to laugh?"
"Not unless it's funny."
She sighed with resolution, then closed her eyes and raised her face to the moonlight. "I think I love you."
He said nothing. But he didn't laugh, either, or release her, and for that she felt tremendous relief. She couldn't open her eyes, though; she simply couldn't. Not until he said something.
For a minute or so she heard nothing but the quiet night air charged with distant music and laughter from the ballroom above. Then she felt his lips gently touch hers again, brushing against them, not passionately but with sweet tenderness. She wanted more of him, but the second he felt her begin to respond, he pulled back.
"You'd better go inside before someone comes looking for you," he whispered against her mouth.
Natalie didn't know what to feel. Somehow she knew he wasn't being unreasonable, and that he probably wouldn't say he loved her in return, but a rush of sadness filled her nonetheless.
She moved back from him as he released her from his grasp. Then without even so much as a glance at his face, she picked up her mask, turned, and fled the garden.
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Chapter 1
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London, 1847
"Emeralds."
"Emeralds?" he repeated, surprised.
"A rare and priceless blend of gold and precious green."
Jonathan William Rayburn Drake, second son of the late and most respected earl of Beckford, exhaled heavily and leaned back against the soft burgundy leather of his Louis Treize chair to regard his guest with speculation. Stealing precious emeralds was going to be a nightmare.
"How much are they worth?" he cautiously asked.
Sir Guy Phillips, a very blond man whose middle-aged looks could only be described as wholly unremarkable, scratched his thick side whiskers and shrugged. "I couldn't at this time put a number on their value."
"Hmm. Let's have it."
Phillips paused to collect his thoughts, then began at the beginning. "They originally belonged to the wealthy duke of Westridge who legitimately purchased them from one of the Hapsburgs, probably Charles VI, sometime in the early 1720s. The duke then gave them to his wife, Elizabeth, as a wedding gift, and she had them in her possession for almost sixty years until her death in the winter of 1781. Although Westridge had one child, the boy was sickly and died in 1740 at the age of twelve, leaving the duke with no heir to claim his vast fortune. The lovely Elizabeth, who died fifteen years after her husband, supposedly left all her personal possessions to her cousin Matilda, a spinster who, coincidentally enough, was somehow very distantly related to King George."
Phillips patted the ruffles of his white silk shirt and stood, brandy snifter in hand, and began to pace the room. "Nobody is altogether sure where the jewels were kept, or who actually had rights to them after Matilda's death in ninety-two, but rumor has it that the king became the possessor sometime before his idiot son was appointed regent in 1811. Prinny inherited the emeralds, then to help pay his horrid debts when he became king in 1820, he sold them to the duke of Newark for an undisclosed, though some say an ungodly, amount. And there they remained, in the duke's possession, for more than twenty-five years, locked safely away in a vault on his estate, until three months ago when his wife discovered them missing—"
"Stolen by professionals, then," Jonathan cut in as he raised his glass to his lips.
Sir Guy stopped pacing to look at him directly. "We have reason to believe the emeralds are now in France, stolen after months of keen planning, by those working for high-ranking officials who want very desperately to overthrow the current French government."
Jonathan slumped in his chair and gave a slow whistle. "How the devil did I know the French would be involved, Phillips?"
The blond man chuckled. "They always seem to be, don't they?"
"Go on," he insisted.
Phillips sighed. "Well, speculation has it that the jewels have turned up in the hands of French Legitimists who, of course, view Henri as the true king and want to see him back on the throne." He shook his head, his expression becoming grave as he lowered his voice. "Louis Philippe's court is crumbling, Jonny. The entire country has yet to find stability. The Legitimists want Henri; the people, ever unhappy, are talkin
g of another revolution…"
After a lingering pause, Jonathan asked contemplatively, "So why steal these jewels, aside from the fact that they're worth so much? Whoever lifted them risked a great deal in coming here to do it."
The older man snorted and began pacing again. "Because—and this is only a guess—those involved in their disappearance believe the emeralds rightfully belong to the French people. A justifiable theft."
"Justifiable?"
Sir Guy tapped his fingers against his glass. "Apparently the Legitimists have convinced themselves that the emeralds were not purchased from the Hapsburgs, but confiscated illegally. Stolen. They believe the jewels were never to belong to the British because they were actually supposed to be passed from Charles to Maria Theresa and then to her daughter Marie-Antoinette, and at the time of her unfortunate demise, should have become the property of the French people."
"How convenient for the French."
"Yes, quite."
Jonathan drained the contents of his snifter, then placed the glass on the small table next to his chair and stretched his legs out in front of him. "I can only conclude that you've recently received information regarding the whereabouts of the necklace?"
Phillips nodded as he moved to a side bar to pour himself another bumper.
"A fortnight ago one of our contacts in Paris attended a gala affair, the sole purpose of which was to raise money for the Legitimists' cause. At that function, this same contact overheard an unusually frank discussion regarding jewels that had recently been stolen right from under 'haughty English noses.' After subtle questioning, it was learned that the emeralds are in Marseille for safekeeping until such time that it becomes necessary to overthrow Louis Philippe."
Phillips returned to his chair, placed his glass on the table, and reached into the pocket of his shirt to remove a small piece of paper. He handed it to Jonathan.
"My heart goes out to the duke of Newark and his lovely wife who lost her emerald necklace to French thieves," he somberly continued. "But the reason I'm sending you to France and putting your life in danger, Jonny, is to help Louis Philippe keep his government together, if we can. If the emeralds are pulled from their settings and sold, the Legitimists could come into an enormous sum to be used to further their cause. England doesn't need another war right now. Our boys don't need to die once again because of French arrogance."
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