“I must tell you because I want to trust you,” he said.
“Oh.” A wave of joy washed over her—and broke. She mustn’t make too much of this, and yet she couldn’t help herself. Perhaps if she unburdened herself a little, it would reassure him. “You may do so, I swear. I was unkind because my feelings were hurt—it is no small thing to be repudiated when one offers oneself utterly naked—and striking back in a way that would make you feel a fool as well was all I could do. But I have never been untrustworthy. I never wished you any harm, Philippe, except perhaps a heartache equal to mine. I am sorry.”
“As am I.”
For a while he was silent, and she curled up on the sofa next to him, watching him, reveling in their closeness. On her dressing table, the bouquet of heart’s ease gave her hope for a new life and a new beginning. Please. Oh, please . . .
Her fingers itched to touch him. To caress him—his cheek, his hand, his knee—and to tell him all would be well. But he might take it amiss. She just didn’t know.
He raised his eyes to hers. The yearning in them shook her. She uttered a helpless little moan.
~ ~ ~
He gave up and gave in. If he was a fool, so be it. Her delicate fingers, so restless in her lap, stirred him to action. He took her hand in his and raised it to his cheek. He turned his face into her palm, kissing it, and closed his eyes. He bathed his senses in her aroma. There is no more dangerous intoxication than a woman, and he had resisted this one long enough.
~ ~ ~
He leaned in and kissed her, and with a heart’s leap of relief, Gloriana kissed him back. Shyly at first—for a few moments she was the innocent girl of years earlier—she returned featherlight brushes of the lips. But this wasn’t the same as before. Then, she had quivered with girlish passion, but now she was a mature woman. The manly scent that was Philippe’s and his alone sent tremors of desire to her core.
His large, warm hand cupped the back of her head. He kissed her hungrily, probing between her lips with his tongue. His mouth explored her ear, lingered on her throat, then returned to her lips. He pursued her with kiss after kiss, heady and erotic.
And aggressive. Demanding. Requiring her participation and consent. “Yes?” he asked huskily.
“Yes,” she whispered, aflame with joy, “Oh, yes.” She caressed his cheek and ran her fingers into his hair. I love you so much. But she didn’t say it aloud, because he might feel obliged to say the same, and she sensed that there was something fragile about his decision to lie with her.
He laid her on the sofa and kissed her again. He lowered himself onto her, and she twined her arms around his neck. She squirmed under him, impossibly aroused by the heat of their bodies pressed so close together. She ran her hands over the broad expanse of his back, savored his firm shoulders and powerful arms, and tentatively let her hands drift toward his bottom.
He hissed, and she froze, but immediately his knee nudged her legs apart, and she opened beneath him with a rush of pleasure. His arousal pressed against her mound, firm and insistent through the fabric of his breeches.
“Let us rid ourselves of all this clothing.” He raised himself off her and lifted her to her feet.
“I’m not wearing much,” Gloriana said.
“I could not help but notice.” With one swift movement, he gathered up her nightdress and pulled it over her head. His gaze, hot and dark, drank her in.
She had to force her arms to stay at her sides, for her instinct was to cover herself—to conceal the breasts he stared at in evident admiration, and to cover the patch of soft hair below. Why did she feel so shy? He had initiated this. He wasn’t going to reject her now.
She swallowed down her nerves and made herself watch him in return. He removed his coat, his gaze still fixed upon her. He wore no cravat, merely a colored neckerchief—a man of the people, just like when they’d met in the Spotted Dragon. His shirt was frayed at the cuffs, and his breeches . . . At the sight of the telltale bulge there, a rush of heat assailed her.
She uttered a tiny groan. No, it was a whimper!
“Are you frightened, ma belle? Don’t be.”
She shook her head and smiled. “No, not frightened.”
He laughed and kissed her. He shucked his shirt, and a wafting of male aroma made her sway with heat. She put out a hand to touch his bare chest. A line of dark hair led to the waistband of his breeches. Her heart sped frantically at the prospect of what lay below. She couldn’t keep her eyes off him.
She didn’t have long to stare. He kicked off his shoes, rid himself of his breeches and small clothes, and then he pulled her close and kissed her again. “Let me worship you, my darling,” he said, and she trembled while his hands explored her.
He was trembling a little, too.
He pleasured her breasts first, smiling at her hardened nipples, bestowing kisses and delicate nips and suckles upon them one by one. She shivered with delight. Golden streams of pleasure rippled and coursed through her, sending shimmering trails of arousal all the way to her fingers and toes. She dug her fingers into his hair and clung to him.
He gave a low laugh and trailed his hands to her waist, then her hips and her bottom, kneading gently, and murmuring endearments in both English and French. His fingers slid gently between her legs from behind, and explored her core with soft, insistent caresses. She clutched him, shaking with yearning for more and more and more. “Please, Philippe, please.”
“We have waited a long time for this, non? I am in no mind to hurry.” He nudged her toward the bed, and soon they were wrapped in one another’s arms, limbs entwined. Never in her dreams had she imagined the thrill of skin to hot, smooth skin. They wallowed in heat and touch and open-mouthed kisses, and helplessly she gave in to the mounting pleasure.
At last he slowly entered her, easing himself in until he was deep inside and filling her. She closed her eyes, suffused with joy. She had never been so happy in her life.
He withdrew a little, and then moved in again. And again. And suddenly he paused, utterly still. “Je t’aime, ma belle,” he said softly. “Je t’aime de tout mon coeur.” I love you with all my heart.
Gloriana burst into tears.
~ ~ ~
Philippe’s heart, which was wholly and completely hers and always would be, contracted with dread. “What is wrong, Gloriana? My darling, mon coeur?”
“Nothing,” she sobbed. “It’s just that I love you too, Philippe.” She clutched him close to her breast. “I always have, and I always will.”
He took a deep breath, exhaled a long sigh, and rested his forehead on hers. “That is excellent.” He kissed her, long and slowly, and she wrapped herself around him.
He began to move inside her, with each fierce, tender thrust making her more his own.
~ ~ ~
Afterward, she snuggled against him, tired but too happy to sleep, and suddenly, he began to talk.
“I was the only son, and therefore it was of importance to my father that I marry and produce sons of my own. When I was but sixteen, he betrothed me to a lady six or seven years my senior. This in itself was not so terrible or uncommon. It was a good match by the standards of society and would have added to our family’s coffers.”
For a frantic moment, Gloriana wondered if he might still be this woman’s husband, but that was absurd. Philippe had spoken of marriage five years ago, which he wouldn’t have done if he’d already had a wife.
After a frustrating silence, she prompted him, “But . . .”
“But I didn’t want to marry her. I didn’t want to marry at all. Marie-Louise was pretty enough, and she desired me, as most women do, but she was a vapid fool who thought of nothing but clothing and jewels, while I was already afire with the desire to change the world for the better.” He gave a derisive snort. “I was a fool as well, but in a different way.”
“It’s not foolish to want to change the world.” She caressed his cheek, his jaw.
He turned his head to kiss her hand. “When one is young, one sees only how easy it could be, but could be and will be are vastly different, and the steps forward prove small and bloody.” He blew out a breath. “My father was adamant, and I was stubborn. He beat me, but still I was stubborn. He locked me in my bedchamber, but I escaped. I was a fool to return.” Against her hip, he clenched and unclenched his hand.
She curved her fingers around his. “This still angers you.” She paused. “You needn’t talk about it, Philippe. Not if you don’t want to.”
“I must,” he said, returning the clasp. “I need you to understand. I returned to my home, for what else was I to do? I had no money and no means of support. I hoped my father would understand that I must choose my own bride when the time was right.” He huffed. “It was a foolish hope. My father had made up his mind, and that I, his son, would defy him was intolerable. He beat me again. He locked me up and deprived me of food, but I am stubborn too. Then suddenly he seemed to give up. He told me I would regret my insolence, but for a week all returned to normal—I was no longer confined, and there were no more beatings. I began to wonder if I had won.”
“But you hadn’t.”
“Non, alas. During that week, he arranged to have my bride brought to our estate. He said perhaps we needed a little time to get accustomed to one another. I was stupid. I should have known what would happen.” He raised himself up on one elbow. They had left the bed curtains open, and in the wavering light of the candle, his features twisted into a snarl. “I woke up one night to find her naked in my bed.”
She sucked in a breath.
“I shouted with rage and shoved her away. I got out of bed and dragged her to the door. I stumbled, for I had not quite thrown off the effects of sleep. We both fell, and later I regretted a little that my clumsiness hurt her.”
“Why? She shouldn’t have been there.”
“No, but although she participated in the plot, she had no choice but to do so. It was common enough, you understand, to be obliged to marry according to the wishes of one’s parents. Sophie was thrust into wedlock with a much older man when she was only seventeen years old, and she accepted her fate—which proved to be unhappy.”
“It happens quite often in England too,” she said, thinking of Lady Marianne’s dilemma.
“Yes,” he said, and she knew he was thinking the same. No wonder he was so ready to help her—it wasn’t only revenge against her brother.
“Both Marie-Louise’s father and mine were waiting in the passageway,” he said. “They tried to pretend I had invited her to my bedchamber. They told me she was ruined, and that it was my fault, and that now I must marry her. I refused. Pauvre fille, she wept and wailed, but still I refused. I told them all to go to the devil where they belonged.”
“What happened to her?”
He shrugged. “She married another man not long afterward. It did her no good, as she went to the guillotine along with her husband, her parents, her brothers and sisters.”
“And what happened to you?”
“My father raged at me. He told me I had brought shame upon our noble family. It was my duty to the estate to carry on our proud and ancient name—of which I was not particularly proud. Then he spoke of my responsibility for the welfare of the peasants who labored on our land. He didn’t care about the peasants, but he knew I did because often I brought their misfortunes to his attention.”
“I don’t see what that had to do with marrying then or later.”
“Nothing, but he said if I married Marie-Louise, he would put the management of the estate into my hands.”
“Ah,” she said. “But still you didn’t agree.”
“No. I struggled with myself, but when I looked into his eyes, I knew he lied.” His hand tightened on hers. “And yet, what if he truly meant what he said? How could I be certain?”
“You couldn’t.”
“With a dramatic gesture worthy only of a very young man, I slashed my hand and swore upon my life’s blood never to be forced into marriage.” He sputtered on a laugh. “Stupid, non? And then my loving papa threw me into the oubliette.” He turned to her, his eyes dark. “You know what that is, l’oubliette?”
“A dungeon where, judging by the name, one puts a prisoner and then forgets about him.” Horror rose in her gorge. “Your father did that to you? He left you there to die?”
“A charming parent, n’est-ce pas?”
“And I thought my mother was horrid. Oh, poor Philippe.” She put her arms around him and held him tight. “I’m so sorry.”
“I don’t know whether he would have let me die. He still needed me, for he had no other son. But perhaps his fury overcame all.” He blew out a breath. “He invited many friends the next night. There was much wine and laughter. I heard them even from the oubliette. Perhaps it was to mock me with what my life might have been. En tout cas, my personal servant, Jean-Marc, stole the key to the dungeons and set me free. While my father and his friends caroused, we ran away to Paris, and I became a man of the people.” He shrugged. “For a while.”
“What do you mean?”
“I worked as a groom in the inn owned by Jean-Marc’s cousin, and I was one of those who stormed the Bastille.” He smiled—not a cheerful smile, but a sadly reminiscent one. “Soon I realized that as a son of the aristocracy, I could have more influence. I even tried to advise poor King Louis. He was a good man, but stubborn. If he had heeded my words, he and his family might have escaped in time.”
He shrugged again—each shrug, she realized, a futile attempt to rid himself of old burdens.
“Sophie’s husband, Jean-Esprit, the Comte de Ste-Anne, recognized the danger and took his family to Austria. But he was cruel to Sophie and a jealous fiend, so I stole her and little Charles away and gave her into the care of a lowborn friend of mine. After that, I went to England, for France had become too hot for me. But as soon as I had a place prepared for her, I returned in disguise and fetched her.”
His expression became grim. She wondered what dark memories had surfaced.
“For a while, I became involved in smuggling aristocrats and other unfortunates out of France. That is why, in spite of my revolutionary views, I am accepted amongst the émigrés here in London.” He laughed, but it was a harsh, unpleasant sound. “Some of them, that is. Others were proud and foolish, endangering everyone. I had to threaten to kill some of the women to make them behave.”
By the sound of his voice, she knew that had not been an empty threat.
He grimaced. “They have never forgiven me, but they do not matter to me in the same way as the peasants do.” He lay staring up at the canopy over the bed. “I will never know if I did right.”
“I’m sure you did.”
“You love me and are kind, but what if my father meant what he said? Perhaps, if I had not made a selfish vow to marry only of my own free will, I would have been able to help the peasants and to ameliorate their burdens. Perhaps they would not have arisen so violently in our small corner of France. Perhaps some who died would have survived.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose. “My father was in Paris when they looted the house, killed my old aunt and her servants, and then burned it to the ground. All his pride ended up in ashes—poor man.”
“Poor man?” she said hotly. “He got what he deserved, and you couldn’t have stopped the violence. Some people are never content with their lot, no matter how much help one offers.”
“My lovely Gloriana.” He turned, his expression rueful. “There is more. I am not an innocent sort of man. I have killed to protect those I care for. I consort with smugglers and other rogues. I was a thief and a highwayman and—”
“A highwayman?”
“From time to time, when I needed money quickly. It is not particularly dangerous if one does it seldom.”
“It sounds dangerous to me. As does climbing up the drainpipe outside my window.”
He laughed. “That is the easy part of burglary.”
“Maybe, but I am frightened that you will be caught trying to get my book.”
He kissed her. "Don’t worry. All will be well.” His smile faded. “But do you begin to understand, ma belle? Nothing excuses my cowardice, but it perhaps explains it.”
For a moment, she was all at sea, and then it dawned on her. “You thought I was trying to force you into marriage? That’s why you refused me and ran?”
He nodded.
“But you had already asked me to marry you!” she said.
“Yes, but we were to marry in the future, not then when I was still poor.”
“Granted, but—”
“Gloriana, I have been pursued by women all my life. Marie-Louise was willing enough because of my pretty face. Aristocrats and peasants alike have lusted after me. You have seen what it is like here in London. The fools pursue me no matter how rudely I behave toward them. It was always thus, and then I met you.”
She nodded.
“I fell madly in love, begged your patience until I could afford a wife, and then you tried to force me to marry you immediately. It was like the scene with Marie-Louise all over again. Consider my dismay, my utter devastation. I felt . . . duped. Shamed.” He let out a sigh. “I was disgusted, I am sorry to say, for seemingly you were just another scheming woman driven by lust.”
She grimaced. “There was an element of lust, but mostly I was young and impatient, and you were perfection—the personification of my ideals.”
He uttered an anguished groan. “I’ve never been perfect anything.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry, but you are still perfect to me. I vowed to love you forever.” She tried a rueful smile, but her voice quivered. “After that night, I wanted to hate you, but it would have meant breaking my vow. So I pretended to loathe you and everything you stood for, while I started a school based on what you believed. That was the only way to prove my love.” She paused. “I know that’s not logical. I don’t expect you to understand.”
The Redemption of the Shrew (Scandalous Kisses Book 4) Page 22
