STOLEN CHARMS

by Adele Ashworth

  She closed her lids serenely and whispered, "I've decided to become your mistress—"

  "What?"

  She reached out with one hand and lightly placed her palm on his chest. "I want to wake up every morning in your town house and put on a silk wrap and have coffee with you in your kitchen."

  With her eyes shut and her expression flat, Jonathan had no idea if she was serious about something so outrageous, or teasing him. He was very nearly speechless.

  Then she raised her lashes, peeking up through them, and her face beamed with mischief. "But I refuse to wear the one worn by your former mistress. You remember her, don't you? The tall, perfectly formed creature with the long, dark hair. What was her name?"

  He squeezed his lips together to suppress a laugh. Right now, in this crowded, stuffy hall, where conversation was political and growing louder by the second, everything dimmed but her.

  "I don't now recall," he mumbled thickly.

  She dropped her chin fractionally, one corner of her mouth turning up faintly. "How very clever you are, Jonathan."

  "I've always thought so."

  She grinned. Someone brushed against her, and he grasped her elbow, drawing her so close to him her taffeta skirt blanketed his legs from his thighs down.

  "But do you know what I do recall about that morning in vivid detail?" he carried on contemplatively, feeling the warmth of her body penetrating him.

  She arched her brows in innocence. "Probably how nothing has ever fanned your pompous ego so much as to have two women discussing you at your kitchen table over coffee."

  "No, that happens to me weekly," he corrected with an exaggerated sigh.

  "I've no doubt."

  He caressed her elbow with his thumb in long, smooth strokes. "What I recall about that particular morning is your peach gown clinging to your marvelous breasts. I recall you stupidly cutting your hand on a sword. I recall your sweetness, your conniving little mind, and your stunning, pleading eyes all working together to persuade me to do something irrational like cart you off to France with me. But most of all, I recall how startled I was to find my dog's nose between your perfectly formed thighs and how, at that very moment, I would have done anything on earth to switch places with him."

  Her skin flushed, and her lips thinned. "You're despicable."

  "You're beautiful," he whispered huskily.

  That twist surprised her, but she caught herself, rubbing a palm along her forehead and shaking her head stiffly in negation. "Madeleine is beautiful. I have a face that freckles from too much sun and thick hair so wavy I cannot, for the life of me, control it."

  Jonathan refrained from a delicious, offhand reply, because it occurred to him suddenly that he'd been given the opening he needed. And he would use it. It was time to make her understand.

  He took another drink or two of whisky in an attempt to calm the unexpected anxiety rippling through him. Then almost methodically he set his glass on the buffet table and looked back into her eyes, stalling only for a moment to collect his thoughts.

  "Natalie, I think Madeleine DuMais is probably the most physically beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life."

  She blinked, flustered by that admission and noticeably dismayed, which he had to admit thrilled him in an odd way.

  He continued before she could comment, concentrating on every word. "And you're right, she is nothing like you. She is exotic and untouchable. You, on the other hand, are approachable and enjoyable. She's the kind of woman who will live on through the ages because men will write songs about her. You are the kind of woman men want to cuddle next to and wrap themselves in. She is regal and polished. You are amusing and vibrant. You're the kind of woman I want in my bed, to hold and make love to and satisfy. She's the kind of woman I'd like to … stuff, and hang over the mantel in my study to admire when I work."

  She giggled from that, and Jonathan smiled contentedly into her eyes.

  "You are the kind of woman who sweats—"

  She gasped through a laugh, appalled. "I don't sweat. Horses sweat."

  He ran his hand from her elbow down her arm to clasp her fingers lightly. She didn't appear to care as she locked them around his.

  "What I mean is that you are real," he explained with a mounting nervousness he refused to let her detect. "Madeleine is a doll. When she looks at me, I see a remarkable beauty—like a priceless painting with fine lines and brilliant color to stare at and appreciate. When you look at me, I see smoldering passion and giving loveliness and a desire to please."

  His tone grew reflective, his gaze intense, and he lowered his voice. "When you look at me with your stunning eyes and expressions of longing, my heartbeat quickens, and all I can think of is taking you in my arms and kissing you breathless, of holding you against me and comforting your hurts and laughing in your joys."

  A wave of uneasiness descended upon her. Her fingers moved, and she tried to pull them from his grasp.

  He wouldn't let them go. The noise grew to a thunder around them, the room smoky and hot, the people unruly as they heavily imbibed fine liquor. A most unusual place to assert himself, but considering how unusual their relationship had always been, it seemed appropriate. No. It was perfect. She sensed what was about to occur. He knew it and marveled in it.

  Leaning very close to her, he pulled her champagne glass easily from her grasp and placed it next to his on the table. Then he reached up and lightly cupped her chin, forcing her to remain face-to-face with him, staring starkly into her eyes.

  "Madeleine is a lovely woman, Natalie," he revealed in a whisper. "But you are the strength of my soul, do you understand this?"

  She started trembling, and it jarred him with a surge of tender emotion.

  "You are everything I need. You are the beauty that belongs to me. I feel nothing special for her, but you nourish every sense I possess. I don't care anything for Madeleine, or any woman in the world who is as beautiful as she is. But I do, very much, love you."

  She stood entranced by his words, shivering uncontrollably, barely able to breathe, eyes huge and unblinking.

  Jonathan calmed inside, knowing at last that she understood. She said nothing in reply but she radiated a mixture of complex feelings that seeped through his skin and warmed his heart. And above them all, through the pleasure of absolute confidence, he knew she believed him.

  He smiled gently, caressing her jaw with his thumb. "I knew I loved you two nights ago, when we sat together in the garden. And I also think you knew how I felt then or you wouldn't have let me love you in bed. I've never had anything so wonderful fall into my lap and surprise me so much."

  She blinked finally, with a wavering gaze, but he continued to hold her face a breath away from his.

  His mouth widened to a playful grin. "Perhaps it's more accurate to say I've never had anything so wonderful climb into my lap."

  A trace of a smile tugged at her quivering mouth, but her eyes filled with tears, and he realized she was close to breaking down.

  He swallowed hard to keep his own feelings contained, so powerful and indescribable. Then he leaned over and touched his forehead to hers. "If you cry now, my sweet Natalie, you'll smear all the color you painstakingly applied to your face, and it will run down your cheeks."

  She laughed softly at that, holding his fingers tightly and placing her free palm on his chest, shivering despite the heat in the hall and the raucous activity surrounding them.

  He wiped a sliding tear away with his thumb, wishing he could embrace her completely, wishing they were far away from here, back at the inn together, that he could have told her these things in the rose garden where he had discovered them.

  He softly kissed her brow, then moved his mouth to her cheek, grazing it with his lips, smelling flowers on her skin, aware of her fingers coiled around his, of the sentiment flowing from her to bathe him in contentment.

  "I know you love me, too, Natalie," he said in a breath against her ear. "You started loving me years ago."
r />   She shook her head vehemently.

  "Shh…" Her reaction was one of confusion, he knew, not contradiction, and he cupped her cheek, holding her steadily against him, his lips brushing her temple. "I know you do. Trust me with it, Natalie."

  "Jonathan…"

  Her voice sounded so pained, so small, and he ached inside for her. Then he caught a glimpse of Madeleine walking toward them, followed by the comte d'Arles and four or five others, dressed impeccably and ready for battle if the hard lines of their features were any indication.

  "We're about to be rudely interrupted," he whispered, sighing with aggravation. He kissed her cheek and pulled himself upright. "The timing in this romance of ours has always been laughable." He braced her face in his hand and looked into her eyes. "Regardless of what's about to happen, believe what I've just told you, sweetheart. Play the game brilliantly now and don't, in any way, stay mad at me."

  Natalie couldn't respond to his last remark. Her mind had gone numb; her body shook from bewilderment and shock at the impassioned intimacies he'd shared with her that she never expected to hear from his lips, but that yes, she believed because she wanted so desperately to. He frayed her sensibilities to the edge with his smile, his light caress, his deep, velvety voice that resonated longing and desire and his own devotion to something new and marvelous.

  And then Jonathan moved to the left of her a little, leaving her in plain view of those approaching. She had imagined the evening to be taut with an excitement of its own, and she'd been looking forward to it with rational thought, hoping to surprise Jonathan with her appearance in his priceless jewels, and she knew she'd accomplished at least that. He'd been most definitely surprised to see her, had looked even astounded if one could describe his facial features exactly, and that alone had filled her with self-assurance and pleasure.

  Then he'd stripped it all away in minutes with his gentle tongue and caressing words, to leave her feeling dreadfully exposed in the presence of the comte d'Arles and others who sought to alter history with the sale of the emeralds clasped around her neck. Her only protection now was Jonathan because her mind had crumbled to nothing with his oddly timed confession of love. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to cry. She wanted to wrap herself in his embrace and never leave. Instead, she poised herself for the impending confrontation and wiped her cheeks with her white gloved fingers, glad to note her eye color hadn't rubbed off as feared.

  Suddenly the two of them were surrounded by several angered Frenchmen, and Madeleine, who had carefully moved in to place her body protectively on Natalie's right. The count's side whiskers flared from clenched teeth, and his black eyes bore into hers for a long, static moment before he lifted them to Jonathan.

  "Monsieur Drake," Henri began in a controlled but frigid voice, "how coincidental that we should see you here at my Parisian home tonight. And with your wife who is wearing my jewels. You found them, I assume, and are returning them to me?"

  Someone coughed within the small, hovering crowd at the offensive implication that the Englishman had more correctly stolen them. Abruptly Natalie realized how stupid it had been for her to wear them here. She and Jonathan stood against a wall, encircled by Legitimists who wanted their king dead and would use the emeralds to fund his murder, and who would also go to extremes for their cause. Only two things could come of this: the deceitful men in front of her would physically rip the necklace from her throat, or she would have to hand it over to them. Either way Jonathan would lose, and for the first time, as the fog in her head began to clear, she wondered why he hadn't been cross with her for her lack of judgment.

  Someone in a far corner of the room yelled, "Death to Louis Philippe!" while others cheered in response. A low rumble filled the hall, and Madeleine, standing between Natalie and Henri, was the first to react civilly to the count's question, gingerly touching his arm with a hand encased in black satin. "I'm sure you didn't mean to be so abrasive, Comte—"

  "Please stay out of this, Madame DuMais!" the man bellowed in French. "I did not ask for your opinion."

  Madeleine pulled her hand back, having the good graces to appear startled, although Natalie knew she probably expected such a reaction to her comment.

  Jonathan cleared his throat to speak at last, and, still clasping her fingers, squeezed them in reassurance. "I believe there has been a grave misunderstanding on your part, Monsieur Comte."

  Natalie stiffened at his boldness. His tone was firm and forthright, though not unkind, as he subtly returned the insult without any obvious awareness that he did so.

  The count blinked, temporarily stumped by the reply as spots of red appeared on his puffy cheeks. His body, clothed in dove-gray superfine, stood out like a shield, and his expression was murderous. If she were alone with him like this she'd be frightened.

  The tall man with the droopy eyes who had been so forward and enraged in Marseilles reached in between the count and Madeleine and clasped the emeralds around her throat with long, bony fingers.

  Natalie gasped and pulled back a little. Jonathan reacted just as quickly by grabbing the man's wrist.

  "I wouldn't do something unwise," he warned through clear eyes and a dangerously dark voice.

  Madeleine took the cue. "Indeed, Monsieur Faille, that is quite enough. We should at least allow the Englishman to explain himself."

  "Explain himself?" he seethed, looking from Jonathan to Madeleine and then to Natalie. He reddened, and the muscles in his neck stood out against his black cravat, but he jerked his wrist free of Jonathan's grasp and dropped it awkwardly to his side again. "How can he explain his stupidity in allowing his wife to be seen here tonight in these?"

  A logical point, Natalie considered, and it left Jonathan in a difficult position. She felt his warmth beside her, his fingers wrapped firmly around hers, sensed his annoyance at the situation they now faced. But surprisingly he conveyed no concern or even nervousness in his stance. He was smooth in voice and confident in bearing.

  Ignoring Faille, Jonathan looked squarely at Henri to divulge his secrets at last. "These emeralds weren't stolen from you—"

  A thunderous cheer erupted in the hall, followed by several angered shouts, causing his words to be cut off. Two or three in their vicinity turned spontaneously at the noise, but both Natalie and Jonathan kept their eyes on the count who glowered at them in bright fury, his thick body stiff, forehead perspiring, eyes bloodshot from drink and the heavy tobacco smoke saturating the air.

  Jonathan stood relaxed, waiting for his moment to strike. Natalie knew this as she knew him. He was poised, prepared, and knew exactly what he was doing. She trusted him.

  "Indeed, Comte," he continued as the ruckus died a little. "These are not emeralds at all. This is a paste necklace I had made for my wife in Paris only several days ago. She admired the one worn by your daughter at the ball in Marseilles, and I consequently saw fit to indulge her."

  Natalie stilled and slowly turned her head to stare at him.

  His mouth twisted into a caustic smile for Henri alone. "Stealing precious emeralds is risky, Comte. Likewise, only a fool would risk letting his beloved wear priceless, stolen jewels in public. What my wife wears now is green glass worth only a trifle less than the pearl-studded pin in your lapel."

  Natalie bristled beside him, her feet rigidly set, body like cold stone. The revelation registered like a blow to the gut, clarifying everything—the lies, the deception, the humiliation and hurt. For two weeks he'd allowed her to think she'd bested him, only to play her for the fool in the end. He didn't look at her but he felt her reaction because he curled his fingers around hers even tighter, refusing to release them.

  Commotion ensued between those in their general vicinity. Someone in the hall stood on a table and, raising a glass that sloshed with amber liquid, began a lengthy, drunken exchange regarding the politics of the current government and those of a better time. Many yelled back in agreement, others stood atop chairs and countered. Natalie had never seen anything like i
t, and anywhere else she would have been fascinated to observe gentlemen, and even some ladies, behaving so shamelessly. But at this moment her attention stayed riveted on those directly in front of her—on the comte d'Arles and his fellow Legitimists. On Madeleine, and Jonathan—the world's most crafty liar.

  "I don't believe you," the count spat in deadly calm. "Both your credibility and my imagination and tolerance cannot be stretched that far, Monsieur Drake."

  Faille moved closer, blocking light from the large chandelier with his head.

  "He is lying, Henri," said another stout Frenchman. "Nobody could produce paste so perfectly in less than a fortnight."

  Quite possibly true. Still, Jonathan disregarded them all, glaring subtly at Henri. "And yet I assure you this necklace is a well-crafted forgery."

  Natalie shuddered, enraged at his arrogance, the devious use of his cleverness. But through it all she believed him. The jewels around her neck were glass. This was the Black Knight at his best—shocking everyone with daring and unforeseen disclosures. And yes, she'd play her part brilliantly because he'd asked her to. He wouldn't have done so unless he trusted her not to spoil his life's work in a loud, crowded banquet hall in Paris. She would never do that to him, and he knew it.

  Natalie angled her body so that she moved a step forward, in front of the artful thief of her insane desire. She rubbed her thumb across his knuckles to assure him, and with that wordless gesture, he finally let her go.

  "Goodness, gentlemen, such a misunderstanding where there is no cause," she reasoned as a woman intolerant of foolish men. With a forced smile she placed her palm on Henri's arm. He flinched, but she pretended not to notice. "Please, monsieur, I insist you have these."

  "Natalie, darling," Jonathan pleaded, aghast.

  She sent him an icy grin. "It's quite all right, my darling. Proof is needed now, and under the circumstances, we can't expect to leave here tonight with them." Her eyes melded with his in feigned sweetness. "You'll buy me lots and lots of others, I'm sure." For a second she thought he would break his character and laugh.