The large lump rolled onto his side, taking her with him. "Sorry," he whispered into her ear, his breath reawakening all the nerves that had been squashed into silence with her precipitous descent to the bed. "I tripped."
"I noticed," replied Henrietta, although she was having trouble noticing much of anything at all as Miles pressed his lips to the hollow of her throat.
"Did you?" It was clear Miles's mind was not on the conversation either, as his lips trailed down her collarbone, to the bodice of her dress, which was obligingly drooping far below where it ought to be. His teeth nipped at the edge of her bodice, which obediently slipped another crucial inch. Momentarily distracted, Henrietta realized that the shivers down her spine were caused by more than the sensation of Miles's breath against bare skin. At some point, the long row of buttons that had fastened her twill traveling dress had been deftly undone.
Henrietta's chin dropped sharply down, nearly banging Miles on the head.
"How did you do that?" she asked incredulously. "I never even noticed."
Miles freed her arms from the dress with an expert tug. Henrietta made an automatic grab for the fabric as her bodice plunged to her waist, but Miles grabbed her hands, lifting them one by one to his lips. "I have many talents of which you know nothing — yet," he added meaningfully.
"Evidently," said Henrietta bemusedly, as the rest of her dress followed her bodice.
"Absolutely." The pile of fabric landed with a dusty thump by the side of the bed.
Henrietta propped herself up on an elbow, resisting the urge to dive under the covers. Clad only in her chemise, her arms felt very bare. "Have you ever considered a career as a lady's maid?"
"I'm better at the undressing bit" — Miles yanked his shirt over his head, revealing a very impressive expanse of chest — "than the dressing."
"Hmm," said Henrietta, watching the ripple of muscles along Miles's chest as he tugged the sleeves from his arms. She wasn't going to think about the women he had undressed in the past. They were in the past. Gone. Finished.
And Henrietta was seized with a determination to make quite sure there was never another. He was hers now, all hers, and even if he hadn't married her for love, well, there was nothing that said she couldn't do her best to seduce him, was there? Even if she had no idea how to go about it. Even Cleopatra had had to start somewhere.
Tentatively, Henrietta placed a hand on Miles's chest, fascinated by the way the muscles contracted in response. She ran her hands up to his shoulders, tilting her head back so that her hair flowed over her shoulders. It felt oddly sensual against her almost bare back, and she swished it back and forth.
"Hen," whispered Miles, staring at her transfixed, in a way that made Henrietta feel lithe and beautiful and bold.
"Hello," she said softly, tracing the line of hair on his chest down until she encountered the waistband of his breeches.
"Hello to you, too," gasped Miles, grabbing her hands before she could go further. Lifting them over her head, he leaned in for a long kiss, trying to bring his raging passions under control. His body, unfortunately, had other ideas.
He wanted to jump up and down and shout, "Mine, mine, mine, mine, mine!" but since he had the sense to realize that might alarm Henrietta — and overset the ancient bedstead — he rendered his message in a more subtle way, running a ringer down the strap of her chemise until it slid down her shoulder. She shivered, looking up at him with wide, unfocused eyes.
Miles decided subtlety was highly overrated.
"You," pronounced Miles, "are wearing too many clothes." Grabbing the thin fabric in both hands, he tugged. Rüüüip. The chemise parted jaggedly down the middle.
"Miles!" gasped Henrietta.
"I'll buy you another," said Miles thickly, cupping her breasts in his hands. "Just not now," he added, as his head lowered to her chest. "Maybe next week."
For once, Henrietta was in no condition to argue. The sensation of Miles's tongue teasing her nipple wiped out coherent thought, and what would undoubtedly have been a highly witty rejoinder turned instead into an inarticulate gasp, as her ringers threaded through his hair, instinctively drawing his head closer. His lips tightened, tugged, sending shivers of sensation rolling straight down to Henrietta's toes.
Together, they sank back into the ancient mattress, arms locked around each other, bodies fitting perfectly together. Feeling wonderfully wanton, Henrietta pressed closer to him, sensing more than hearing him groan as she brushed against the bulge in his breeches. Emboldened, she wiggled against him, enjoying the way his breath speeded in her ear, and his hands tightened on her back.
Desperately trying to school himself to go slowly, Miles wrenched his mouth from Henrietta's, trailing kisses along her neck, her ear, as his hands explored the tantalizing arch of her waist, the generous curve of her hip. Her skin felt like silk beneath his fingers as they slid up the inside of her thigh. Somewhere between her knee and the tangle of curls between her legs, Miles had stopped breathing. He didn't notice. What remained of his mind was concentrated on far more pressing matters.
Spitting out a mouthful of hair he had accidentally ingested, Miles scrambled with the fastenings of his breeches, yanking them hastily over his hips. Clumsily, Henrietta tried to help, laughing breathlessly as Miles tried to kick the breeches off his legs, cursing as the fabric clung to his foot.
"Laugh, will you?" he demanded, triumphantly sending the breeches flying, and pouncing on his wife. "We'll see about that."
Henrietta's laugh turned into a squeal of surprise as Miles pressed a kiss to the inside of her thigh. His tongue moved higher, flicking between her legs, sending quivers of sensation jilting through her. Her skin felt too tight for her body, tension building in the core of her being. She suddenly desperately needed Miles's arms around her, his lips on hers.
She tugged on his hair, and he surged up along the mattress to join her, his hand moving to replace her mouth. Henrietta knew she was making little mewing noises, but she couldn't find it in her to care; she pressed herself against Miles's ringers.
"I don't think," Miles's voice came as though from a long way away, even though his mouth was right next to her ear, "I can wait any longer."
"Mmm," said Henrietta, which Miles correctly interpreted as license to proceed.
Slowly, he began to enter her. At least, he intended to go slowly, with proper deference to her virginal state. Instead, Henrietta twined her arms around his neck, making little panting noises as she moved anxiously against him, driven by the restless pressure building inside her. Murmuring her name, Miles plunged deeply into her, ripping through the thin barrier that barred his passage.
Henrietta let out an indignant gasp. Miles froze, suspended above her.
"Hen?" he rasped. "Are you all right?"
Henrietta considered. Miles's heart wrenched in a way that almost distracted him from the clamorous demands of certain parts of his anatomy as Henrietta's nose squinched and her lips quirked in a heart-stoppingly familiar expression. After an endless moment — as Miles's arms began to quiver with the agony of holding still — she gave a little nod.
She moved experimentally against him, arching her hips the tiniest bit.
"I think so."
"Are you sure?" gasped Miles, even though he wasn't at all sure what he would do if the answer were no. Jump out the window, most likely. He was spared that fate by Henrietta tightening her legs around him in a way that left no doubt as to her intentions. She strained against him, nodding as emphatically as she could, because little jolts of pleasure made speech a perilous prospect at best. She could feel him beginning to move, rilling her, his shoulders warm and familiar beneath her hands, the fine hairs on his chest teasing her already sensitive nipples.
Henrietta clung to sanity, fighting the waves of sensation threatening to sweep over her.
"Miles?" she said uneasily.
"Still here," he murmured into her ear, his hands moving tenderly over her waist, her hips, stroking, coaxing
. Using his hands to gather her closer, he drove deeper and deeper into her, pressing to the very core of her being. "Always."
Henrietta cried out in surprise as pleasure scintillated through her, like a thousand champagne bubbles glistening by candlelight, oscillating and bursting in a golden glow. As she convulsed around him, Miles groaned and surrendered to his own release. Together, they collapsed back against the dusty counterpane in a state of satiated somnolence.
Miles rolled to his side, taking Henrietta with him. She sighed contentedly, fitting herself against his side, one leg thrown over his, and her head tucked in the crook of his neck. Miles rubbed his cheek against the top of her head, enjoying the scent of her hair, the feel of her sweaty skin against his, the pressure of her breast against his side. He ran one hand down the tangled length of her hair, enjoying the silky feel of it beneath his palm. Henrietta gave an irritated wriggle as his finger snagged on a knot, but didn't say anything.
"Hen?" Miles poked her. "Are you alive?"
"Mmm," murmured Henrietta.
"That's all you have to say?" protested Miles.
"Mmm," repeated Henrietta, and nesded deeper into the crook of Miles's shoulder.
Miles grinned. "Eighteen years, and I've finally rendered you speechless."
Henrietta shifted slightly. "Mrr-grr-grr," she mumbled into Miles's shoulder.
"What was that?"
Henrietta tilted her head back. "Wonderful," she sighed. "Splendid. Superlative. Superb."
"Couldn't resist, could you?"
"Blissful, ecstatic, euphoric, brilliant…"
"Enough!" exclaimed Miles, rolling her over onto her back.
Henrietta had a decidedly wicked glint in her eye. "Marvelous," she said deliberately, "magnificent, glorious…"
"Right," said Miles. "You leave me no choice."
By the time the first rays of dawn began to peek through the bed curtains, Henrietta was forced to agree that there were moments for which even adjectives were entirely inadequate.
Chapter Thirty-One
Poetry: a series of instructions from the War Office, couched in code. Reserved for the most imperative of communications. See also under Verse, Verbiage, and Verbosity.
— from the Personal Codebook of the Pink Carnation
Even the gauze draped over the candle flames could not dim the glitter of diamonds threaded through ladies' curls and broad shoulders laden with epaulettes in the Yellow Salon of the Tuileries Palace. Dowagers chattered, military men guffawed, and fans spoke their own whispery language in secluded corners of the room. The usual swarm of dandies, beauties, and Bonapartes clustered at Josephine Bonaparte's Thursday night salon, appraising one another's clothes and exchanging the latest on-dits.
Among the throng moved the Pink Carnation, gliding seamlessly between groups, picking up and storing information with all the industry of an ant at a picnic. Jane had left off her black breeches. She had left off her white cap and itchy hair dye. And she had made sure to leave off the odiferous shawl that accompanied her guise as fishmonger's wife.
Tonight she wore a disguise of quite a different sort: She came as herself.
Her dress was both modest and modish. Amid garish diamonds and a veritable portrait gallery of cameos worn at the fingers, the neck, the ears, even the toes, Jane's only ornament was a modest enameled locket, bearing the picture of a small, pink flower. Flowers, after all, were an eminently appropriate ornament for a young girl.
Who would possibly suspect Miss Jane Wooliston, cousin to Edouard Balcourt — why, that was he over there, my dear; yes, the puffy-faced man in the puce cravat, such a toady to the First Consul, but then, really, who wasn't nowadays? — of posing the slightest danger to the French Republic? She was, agreed the dowagers, a most pretty, mannered girl. She knew when to speak and when to be silent, showed a most pleasing deference to her elders, and her manner in dealing with the masculine gender combined a quiet wit with an absolute lack of flirtatious contrivances. So unlike those fast young things one saw nowadays! This last was usually said with a glare in the direction of Bonaparte's sisters, Pauline and Caroline, of whom "fast" was the least of what was whispered from fan to fan.
The old ladies approved of her, and gossiped in her presence without reserve. The young dandies liked her for quite another reason; among a people so susceptible to physical beauty, at a time so much in the sway of the ideals of classical antiquity, Jane's beautifully boned face and aloof mien put them in mind of Roman carvings and they regarded Jane much as they would a particularly fine piece of statuary, beautiful to look upon and largely deaf. Jane had picked up quite a number of useful tidbits of information that way.
Just now, however, Jane was making a masterful effort to evade the garrulous matrons, love-struck young bucks, and budding poets she had so successfully cultivated. Her one interest was to leave the salon as rapidly — and as discreedy — as possible. Her lips remained curved in a guileless smile as her brain rapidly assimilated the information she had just acquired, information so unexpected, so alarming, as to be scarcely credible.
But there could be no doubt. All the pieces fell evenly into place, like the fragments of a Roman mosaic reconstituted into a vivid tableau. In this instance, the picture was as unpleasant as it was shocking. They had, all of them, been looking in entirely the wrong direction. In the meantime, the deadliest spy in London, the one person who above all ought to have been observed and curtailed, roamed free.
Henrietta must be warned. At once.
Jane smiled sweetly at Captain Desmoreau, who showed a stubborn refusal to leave her side, and told him she was really quite perishing of thirst. Would he be so kind… ?
He would. Desmoreau set off into the throng. Rising, Jane wended — , her way past a cluster of dowagers merrily ripping apart reputations like so much disorderly tatting, past the gloomy Louis Bonaparte, complaining about his myriad phantom illnesses, past the admiring circle who thronged Bonaparte's wife, Josephine, her step steady, her expression serene, a Galatea with no other purpose but to adorn a pedestal at the Bonapartes' court.
The door was in sight. Four more paces, and she could escape into the hallways, and thence to her cousin's house, to pack for a hasty journal for England. This was not a task Jane cared to entrust to another. Couriers had an unfortunate habit of disappearing en route. Three paces. Jane's mind was already leaping ahead. She would ride dressed in male clothes; it would be faster than taking the coach and cause less comment. She would have Miss Gwen put it about that she had taken sick and was keeping to her bed. Something nasty, something contagious, something that would ward off well-wishers. Two paces. She would cross at Honfleur rather than Calais; the port was less closely watched, and she had a fisherman in her pay, on the condition that his boat be at her disposal whenever she should need it. One pace left…
"My goddess!" A white-shirted figure lolled dramatically in her path, waistcoat open and sleeves billowing. Augustus Whittlesby, English expatriate and author of the most execrable effusions of verse ever to assault the ear, flung himself at Jane's feet in an aspect of adoration. "My muse! My peerless patroness of sesquipedality!"
"Good evening, sir," Jane replied for the benefit of any listeners, adding softly, "Not now, Mr. Whittlesby!"
He pressed a languid hand to his forehead, ruffles billowing about his face. "I swoon, I perish, I expire at your feet, if you will not do your humble servant the inestimable honor of giving ear to my latest ode in praise of your prodigious pulchritude." For her ear alone, he muttered, mouth hidden from the company beneath the flowing muslin of his sleeve, "You really must hear this, Miss Wooliston."
Jane's face tightened, but she knew better than to object when her fellow agent spoke in such a tone. Having perfected his role years ago, Whittlesby almost never broke character, and would certainly not do so in the heart of the enemy's lair, Bonaparte's palace, for any but the most pressing reasons. Placing a hand on Whittlesby's arm, she said sternly, "One moment only, Mr. Whittlesby
. My cousin grows alarmed if I stay out too late."
Whittlesby flourished a bow that ended somewhere in the vicinity of Jane's silk slippers. Taking her arm and leading her through the door, into a small anteroom, he said loudly, for the benefit of those behind them, "I assure you, my ardent angel, you shall not regret this small mercy." In a harsh whisper, he added, "Orders. From England."
"Mr. Whittlesby, you do me too much honor with these effusions. What are they?"
"Honor itself pales before such divinity," declaimed Whittlesby. He bowed over Jane's hand. Jane leaned forward slightly. "Trouble," he muttered. "In Ireland. Wickham wants you there."
"Honor may pale, but you put me to the blush, sir," protested Jane, making a show of retrieving her hand. "I can't. I return to England tonight."
"Oh, the beauty of your blush! Blessed, blithe, bounteous blush! Like the dew-touched petals of the fairest rose, spreading their bounty to the awe-struck sun." Whittlesby flung himself to his knees before her, lifting his face in exaggerated awe. "My orders were clear and urgent. Tonight. A carriage will be waiting. Bring your chaperone."
A shadow of a frown passed along Jane's serene face as she extended a gracious hand to the prostrate poet. "Only a heart of stone could resist such a plea, Mr. Whittlesby, and mine, alas, is of far more malleable matter."
Whittlesby pressed his forehead to her hand in humble obeisance, and extracted a roll of parchment tied with pink ribbons from the billowing muslin folds of his shirt. Flourishing it in the air to make sure that anyone in the salon watching might have a good view, he pressed the roll into Jane's hand.
"Every third word of every third line," he muttered. While Whittlesby's verse always served as vehicle, the code changed each time. The Ministry of Police knew Whittlesby only as a writer of bad poetry — it was a measure of Whitdesby's devotion to the cause that he was, in fact, quite a proficient poet, and had, before the war, entertained genuine ambitions in that direction — but the agents of the English Crown were taking no chances.
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