It sounded absurd when he put it like that. He knew as well as she that under such a circumstance love was rarely a motivating factor in a marital union.
She clutched her fan against her skirt. "We're in France, Jonathan. The French are a passionate people and won't give it a second thought. I also think it could be to your advantage with the count."
"Really? How so?"
Her eyes flashed with inspiration. "To keep our stories straight, for one. I can't tell him we spent last summer in Vienna if you've told him thirty minutes before we were in Naples."
"A reasonable thought," he admitted.
"He might also feel you're more respectable, more stable or reliable, with a loving wife at your side." She straightened. "But of course I'm only guessing."
"Of course." He pulled a piece of lint from her velvet collar. After a lingering moment of thought he asked guardedly, "Do you think you can act that well, Natalie?"
He was beginning to annoy her with the endless questions in a conversation going nowhere on his part. She peered into engaging eyes framed with thick, black lashes, to flawless, clean-shaven skin, to his firm, sculpted jaw. The man carried a constant, heady scent of marked masculinity, so rich and potent no woman could possibly resist him. He knew it, too, which had a tendency to make her mad when she thought about it. But right this moment, in the bungalow they shared between just the two of them, she felt a sudden rush of jealousy toward all the women in his life up to that moment. Not a broad disapproval of his libertine reputation like before, but a different feeling. One deep within her, altogether private, vulnerable, and maybe a little bit frightening. Realizing this now made her fume at her own inconsistent, complicated feelings.
Risking everything, she placed her hand on his cheek. Then with calculation, and before she could change her mind, she lifted her face and touched his lips with hers. The contact shocked her more than she thought it would, sending waves of both uneasiness and exhilaration through the center of her. He didn't move, but it wasn't at all what he expected, she knew that instinctively, and by the fact that he didn't immediately react.
She stroked his jaw with a feathery wisp of her thumb, then ran her tongue once, very slowly, along the inside of his top lip. He drew a sharp inhale, and with that she pulled away, beaming in satisfaction, feeling a sudden, marvelous sense of power.
"If it's what you want for the game, Jonathan, I could display a great, intense love for you. I'm a magnificent actress."
For several long, silent seconds he did nothing but stare at her. Then his eyes hardened to blue ice. "I'm looking forward to watching you perform at center stage, Natalie," he said quietly. "Tonight should be enlightening for us both."
She blinked and took a step back, thoroughly confused by his disdain. She'd expected a teasing retort or light rebuff, as was his congenial nature. But as she considered it now, he'd purposely distanced himself since their picnic on the beach, and for the first time since that night she realized she didn't like it at all.
"Love it is, Mrs. Drake," he said coolly, interrupting her troubled thoughts. Then he tightly grasped her elbow and walked her through the door toward their waiting carriage.
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
Jonathan was worried. Or perhaps it was just plain, old-fashioned nervousness that plagued him. He'd come to France to do a job, a big job, and tonight everything would be on the line—except he was having difficulty keeping focused, and he knew from experience just how critical that could be to success. He hadn't considered that this might occur when he'd offered to bring Natalie along, which was, if he thought about it honestly, a singularly stupid thing to overlook. Every job he'd done before now had been smoothly accomplished because he'd planned, and planned meticulously. Women were only diversions to assist him, if needed, in the final performance.
But for the first time that he could recall, a woman filled his mind more than the issue at hand, and with irritation at himself he realized this alone could bungle an effort of immeasurable cost to French and English national security. It was that important. He'd already made his first mistake in placing his unusual concern for Natalie ahead of the emeralds. Those who paid him for his services would not be pleased if they knew, and it was surprising that this had not occurred to him until tonight.
They rode the short distance to the count's estate in virtual silence. He stared out the window vacantly, aware of how she squirmed in the squabs from excitement, her beautiful gown billowing over his legs and feet as she smoothed her skirt when she wasn't rubbing her fingers together or lightly tapping her fan in her lap. He didn't have to look at her to be acutely conscious of her presence. She affected him that much.
Every day she confused him more, which he found altogether troubling. Troubling to his rational mind, and more embarrassingly so to his ego. He was growing increasingly suspicious of her, too, and he wasn't sure why. In his experience he'd found women either forward and forthcoming, or virtuous and sweet, but always readable. Not so with Natalie. Each passing day in her presence, he found her to be ever more calculating and smooth, more devious, more of the actress she claimed to be. She was sneaky beyond compare, although she hadn't really done anything outwardly to warrant such feelings in him. It was more intuition on his part that brought this to attention. She just seemed to be in control, and he couldn't quite shrug off the vague notion that she was using him. That made him furious.
His anger had grown since their encounter on the beach, and it was mostly directed toward himself for dropping his guard. He felt, suddenly, like all the women he'd taken mild advantage of through the years, women who had fallen in love with him because he'd charmed them with his good humor and attention, his devotion to their needs both innocent and intimate. He had taken nothing from Natalie four days ago, and had been mare open with her than any lady he could recall, and yet she had, in a very peculiar way, snubbed him. Her reaction to him physically had been overwhelming as he thought about it now. No woman had ever succumbed to him so easily and quickly, and with so much uninhibited passion. Rationally, though, she just didn't seem to be interested, and the harder he tried, the more oblivious she was to his efforts.
But one thing was becoming clearer to him as the days went on. Suspicions about her motives aside, she was nothing more than a well-bred, lovely, albeit shrewd, English lady. Whatever she was hiding from him, whatever reason she had for coming to France, it couldn't be complicated. So, upon that he'd made this very rational decision: He would take her virginity on this trip as he longed to do, she would enjoy it as much as he, and he would marry her upon their return to England, which he now had to admit was a union he wanted almost entirely because she wouldn't approve of it at all. Only days ago he'd vowed not to marry her or anyone who didn't want him as an individual, but her actions of late had changed his mind. And what was marriage, anyway? Just a contract between families to legitimize heirs, really. He'd have to choose someone eventually, and thinking about owning Natalie in bed and out of it made him smile in the darkness. All her ideas of remaining aloof to his affections would fail her in the end because he would take her and she would belong to him for the rest of their natural lives. He would win, and he couldn't wait for the moment to inform her of this. She would argue that she didn't love him or that her father would never approve. He'd then calmly remind her that she was a baron's daughter, love was irrelevant, and he was a wealthy, unattached, socially admired son of an earl. Her father would approve wholeheartedly, and she would be bound to accept him. Jonathan would relish that moment soon to come. It would be a triumph like no other.
But first he had a job to finish.
They arrived at the count's seaside home in lingering twilight, but already the estate was lit up spectacularly both inside and out. It was two stories in height, constructed of polished gray stone chiseled into delicate arches and sharp angles of contrasting design. It sat only a short distance from the edge of the cliffs and was surrounded by a la
rge, immaculate garden of various trees, shrubs, and flowers. The party guests were made to stroll through it on a winding brick path to reach the front door, and Jonathan was immediately struck with the pungent, weighty odors of honeysuckle and roses clinging to the balmy night air, flying insects buzzing as they circled the foot lamps along the walk.
Natalie stood very close to him as he handed their invitation to the footman. Then he placed his palm on her back and guided her into the foyer.
The inside was typical of design, and he had studied it well. The ground floor consisted of a morning room to the immediate right, followed by a music room and other various rooms for entertaining, all leading toward the kitchen, and finally the servants' quarters and their staircase to the second floor in the back of the house, To the left was the grand ballroom where they would spend most of the evening, behind which was the ladies' withdrawing room, then the smoking room and dining room, in that order. Straight ahead loomed the wide staircase of dark oak leading to the second floor—the family sleeping quarters to the right, various guest rooms to the left, followed by the family library and finally the count's study at the end of the hallway.
Six doors down to the left, in the southwest corner, with the greatest view of the evening sun and picturesque Mediterranean Sea, the emeralds contained in a relatively easy-access safe behind a small, romantically frivolous Fragonard oil above the mantel. The evening was starting, and Jonathan relaxed as he considered the plan, a very good one indeed. This was what he did, and did best, and in only hours the priceless emeralds that once belonged to the empress of Austria would be back on British soil where they belonged. That aside, Natalie was soon to encounter the greatest shock of her life. Yes, indeed, it would be a night to remember.
Grasping her elbow, he ushered her toward the ballroom, standing alert to the atmosphere and the mood of other guests as he followed them to the receiving line. Already her gaze darted from one man to the next, calculating, estimating age, bearing, description, and how each one matched the Black Knight and rumors of his appearance. Jonathan watched her, feeling power coupled with mischief and an odd sense of enjoyment at her frustration in waiting.
Moments later, as they neared the count and his bride of three years, Jonathan leaned toward her and broke the silence between them. "Here we go, my darling wife," he whispered in her ear. He felt her stiffen, although whether from the implication of his words or from the knowledge that the game was beginning, he wasn't sure. Spontaneously he rubbed his thumb along her elbow in a measure of comfort.
"Monsieur et Madame Drake," came the presentation from the man to the count's right. "The Englishman," he mumbled as an afterthought, though purposely forgetting to add, "who buys properties," which would have been indelicate during an introduction but was undoubtedly understood by all parties.
"Monsieur Drake," the count boomed in thickly accented English. "How nice of you to join our celebration for my daughter Annette-Elise. I am hoping we will be able to talk at length of your travels and stay in our country. Madame DuMais holds you in the highest regard."
Jonathan swiftly took in the count's appearance. Average in height, balding on top as thick, coarse hair receded from his expansive forehead in the most unusual color—not quite brown, not quite gray, yet not exactly a salt-and-pepper mixture of the two. His jaw, probably square and hard in youth, was now fleshy, and he attempted to hide this with long, full side whiskers. His cheeks were ruddy and nose was pink, as if he had imbibed a good deal of wine. His mouth, wide and drawing and somehow unbefitting his face, was soft and full of humor, quite unlike the rest of his bearing, especially his eyes. They were shrouded by dark, heavy brows, the clear circles striking and nearly black in color, sly and deep set, exuding intelligence.
The man was dense of build though not quite fat, perceptive of mind, overindulged in life's pleasures, but was probably pleasing to the gentle sex and not unattractive for his middle years. Women would no doubt find him so, regardless of his physical assets, if this one great home was any indication of his wealth. Tonight he wore a perfectly tailored dark-blue tailcoat of superfine over a blue-and-white silk waistcoat, dark trousers, and a black cravat over pointed collar. Quite fitting for the occasion, albeit conservative, but then his political ties would suggest that.
Jonathan smiled and bowed ever so slightly, though his eyes, lit with charm, never left the Frenchman's. "Comte d'Arles. Thank you for your gracious invitation. It would be my pleasure to spend time in discussion this evening."
"I am looking forward to it," he replied readily. Turning, he added with pride, "My wife, the countess of Arles."
Jonathan's gaze shifted to the man's immediate left where his wife, Claudine, stood rigid and grossly thin in a gown of pale pink taffeta covered with large, white bows that did nothing but make her look older than her twenty-six years and her bronzed coloring unnaturally orange. She was a pretty woman but far from feminine, her blond hair now piled on her head, faded from hours in bright sunshine which also undoubtedly accounted for the deep grooves already appearing on her face. Her eyes were hazel and fiercely penetrating, though somewhat lacking in wit and trust, and she stared at him with lips pulled into a thin, pink line.
With his most disarming smile he grasped her gloved fingers lightly and brought them to his lips. "I am enchanted, madam."
"Monsieur Drake," she said formally.
Already the count had shifted his gaze to Natalie with obvious appreciation, and Jonathan took the cue. "May I present to you both my wife."
"My dear lady," the count addressed her smoothly, his eyes grazing her throat and bosom in an almost indecent manner. "How lovely. Your husband is a very fortunate man, if I may be so bold. Welcome to France and my home."
The man not only took occasional mistresses but was also an open flirt, Jonathan mused, which his wife obviously did not appreciate by the look of her ever-narrowing lips as she stared at Natalie with hard assessment. Madeleine had left that out of the equation, but it could be useful. He watched in amusement as Natalie recognized it, too, and came alive with radiance.
"I am most charmed, sir," she replied through a gracious smile, curtseying gently. "My husband and I are delighted and honored to be a part of this festive occasion."
"Indeed, madame." The count's smile deepened, and he had yet to release her hand. "Perhaps we can share a dance or two later, hmm?" He glanced to Jonathan abruptly as if he'd only just recalled he was there. "With your permission, of course, Monsieur Drake."
Jonathan nodded once. "And your lovely wife's?"
He expected Henri or Claudine to speak, but it was Natalie who took the lead, with keen observation of what needed to be said at the moment. "And what a beautiful home you have, Madame Lemire. You have such grand taste."
"Thank you," Claudine replied tightly.
Natalie carried on, glancing around the entryway and into the ballroom. "It's marvelously decorated, but I knew it would be the minute we stepped through your garden, so lush and well tended."
Claudine gave her a brittle smile. "Is your home in England rather too small for a garden, Madame Drake?"
It was a direct insult given without the intelligence for subtlety, and Jonathan wondered if it stemmed from simple jealousy or her dislike of the English as a whole.
Natalie rose to the occasion with wide-eyed innocence. "Oh, we have lovely gardens in England, of course, but not with such sweet aromas brought out by daily sunshine and warm, offshore breezes. And may I add that your steady exposure to sunshine has brought out such a healthy glow to your skin, Madame Lemire, unlike those of us who remain pale from lack of it."
She touched her cheek, eyes narrowing with light mischievousness as she leaned toward the Frenchwoman, pretending a whisper like old friends discussing their beloved husbands in their presence. "Perhaps I'll someday persuade my dear Jonathan to buy us a home on the shore, or maybe you can persuade him for me tonight with your good charm. How you must adore it here, as I'm sure you have for man
y, many years. And how I envy you!"
She was perfect and enchanting, and Jonathan swallowed a laugh.
Claudine blinked quickly, unsure if she had been complimented by a beautiful woman or completely duped by one more astute than she. Henri simply watched the exchange with half an ear, implying that talk between ladies, whatever the topic, was unimportant, even bordering on the silly. Something that could also, if needed, be useful.
"We're very happy here," the Frenchwoman affirmed with growing confidence. "Tonight we are quite engaged, but perhaps you'll visit us later in the week when you can view our home and grounds by daylight, Madame Drake."
It was a frank dismissal, and Natalie responded accordingly. "That would be lovely, and I look forward to it." She turned to Jonathan and grasped his arm. "But come now, darling. We're holding up the line."
"Yes, of course," he agreed, nodding once to his hosts.
From there they moved down the line, introducing themselves with light conversation to relatives and other local notables. Jonathan found it of interest but not unexpected to meet several men of old nobility from as far away as Anjou and Brittany, whose families dated from long before prerevolutionary days and whose political ties paralleled those of the count, at a ball to celebrate the eighteenth birthday of his daughter. There was much going on behind the scenes, in anticipation of another revolution if Sir Guy was correct, and Jonathan was now convinced this party was a front for strategic planning. Those involved were ready to sell the emeralds. A triumph for arrogant minds that would be very short-lived. He was counting on it.
At last they wandered into the ballroom proper, already filled with people dancing and mingling, with music and laughter. Men in formal attire and top hats, and ladies in fine silks, taffeta, velvets, and lace of every color stood in small groups of deep discussion over politics and social issues, trivialities and gossip. Footmen in scarlet livery carried trays of steaming food to buffet tables, the aroma of it permeating the air along with heady perfume and the scent of a thousand burning candles. Four magnificent crystal chandeliers hung in line above their heads. Two of the four walls were adorned with enormous paintings and tapestries, the others with long, gilded windows, floor to ceiling, all lavishly decorated with drapes of red velvet, drawn back by golden ropes and tassels, golden cherubs sitting atop them as they stared down at those present with frank regard.
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