Of course, if she were the princess, kissing her could ruin him. But she wasn’t—he’d never been so sure of anything in his life. And not exposing her subterfuge could ruin him, too, if it came out later. He’d look the fool for not seeing through her disguise. His enemies would make mincemeat of his political aspirations.
He glanced around. The garden was empty, everyone having drifted inside. And nothing else had provoked her into making a mistake. Unfortunately, until he could get her to admit her masquerade, he couldn’t get her to tell him why there’d been a need for it.
“Now, sir,” she began, “if you are quite done, I should like to return to—”
“Not yet,” he said firmly. Once she rejoined her companions, he wouldn’t have another chance at unraveling this deception. At least not tonight.
He snagged her about the waist, taking her by surprise, and pulled her into a nearby gazebo obviously kept dark for a reason. Then he murmured, “We should take up where we left off in Dieppe.”
“I told you, I’m not from—”
He kissed her, covering her mouth with his in a most insolent manner and praying she was not the princess. Though even if she was, she would probably try to extricate herself from the situation diplomatically, without insulting the man who could make her a queen.
She froze, then jerked back to glare at him. “What are you about, sir?”
He stared her down. “You know what I’m about. Reminding you of what we once meant to each other.”
Her eyes glittered at him, and he held his breath, sure that she was about to call him a liar and tell him that Monique Servais would never have let him touch one hair on her head.
Instead, she smoothed her features into coyness. “We can hardly have meant anything to each other since we haven’t met until tonight.” She lifted a hand to cup his jaw, the impudent caress shocking him into rigidity—in more places than one. “Though I don’t see why we can’t mean something to each other now. I’m happy to pretend to be this Mademoiselle Servais for you in private . . . if you will champion me as queen of Belgium in the end.”
“Are you actually attempting to seduce me, Monique?” he said, unable to mask his incredulity.
“Why not, if you pine for Monique so much that you would look for her in every stranger’s face?”
“I don’t pine for her, damn it!” He gritted his teeth. She was making him lose control. Forcing some calm into his voice, he added, “And if you think seducing me will buy my silence—”
“On what subject?” she asked in the silky tones he remembered only too well, the ones that had thrummed through his senses that night even when she’d been provoking him. Especially when she’d been provoking him.
She trailed a finger down his jaw in a sensuous stroke that stirred danger in his blood. God help him. He should have known she would be an expert at temptation.
“I don’t need your silence,” she murmured. “I am the Princess Aurore, after all.”
“The Princess Aurore would not be touching me like this,” he choked out.
“Clearly, you know nothing about me. But since you persist in this nonsense, I might as well receive a reward from it, non?” She wrapped her hand about his cravat and fixed her gaze on his mouth. “Seduction would be going too far, I think, but perhaps a little . . . mutual enjoyment would not be amiss.”
Then she pulled his head down to her for another kiss. Bold. Hot. Yet somehow innocent. The way the real princess’s might be.
That’s when he realized his error. He’d assumed that he could remain unaffected through this little dance, that he would be immune to an actress’s tricks. But the very smell of her—lilies and apples—seeped beneath his defenses. Her mouth was as delicious as he’d imagined, and her waist as tiny as he’d remembered it looking backstage.
If he had wanted her three years ago, despite her caked-on cosmetics and her outrageous gown and wig, he wanted her even more now that she was free of such things.
So this time when he kissed her, it was not on behalf of his country or his career. This time it was for him and him alone.
Four
As he clutched her to him, Monique wondered if she’d lost her mind, attempting this. But he’d kept pushing and badgering her, trying to make her slip up.
So she must make him falter, make him question his dangerous suspicions. Monique Servais had treated him with contempt, so Princess Aurore must kiss him into oblivion.
She couldn’t just slap him and dart off; he might expose her to everyone. Or he might simply voice his suspicions to the count, who would see that as her not holding up her end of the bargain. She was supposed to convince people she was Aurore, and that was what she would do.
Looping her arms about Lord Fulkham’s neck, she flattened her body against him. And then everything got more interesting.
“Damn you,” he murmured against her lips. Then he took her mouth again with a shocking impudence, licking along her closed lips and inviting her to open for him.
So she did. And instantly regretted it. Because the moment he thrust his tongue into her mouth, she felt hot and aroused and so dizzy she had to cling to him for balance.
She’d been kissed in this manner a few times before, but never like this. His boldness made her body tremble and her mind swim as if through a fog. His tongue delved and searched, turning her into a quivering mass of wanting, and desire flashed over her like lightning through the sky, searing everything in its path.
The dark gazebo became their own private grotto as he kissed her more and more urgently, sending her up on her toes to enjoy his kisses to the fullest.
“God, woman, you have the most luscious mouth I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured in English.
She didn’t know that word, luscious, but she could guess what it meant. And the fact that she’d broken through his cool calm made her want to crow. “Do you taste many mouths?” she whispered.
“Enough to know that this is madness,” he growled against her lips before trailing kisses down her jaw to her neck.
“But pleasurable madness, non?”
He tongued her throat, sending exquisite shivers along her spine. “Oui. A very pleasurable madness.”
“Pleasurable enough to gain me a crown?” she asked, just to see what he would say. Or do.
He nipped her earlobe, and the tiny burst of pleasure-pain nearly made her swoon. She hated him for doing such things to her, for making her feel such things. But she wanted him, too. Madness, indeed.
“That will show, curse you,” she murmured as she buried her hands in his hair to shift him away from her ear.
“No, it won’t.” He nuzzled her ear. “Though I wish it would. Actually, I wish I dared mark you somewhere more intimate, in a place no one would see but me.”
The words brought her to her senses and reminded her that her purpose had been to catch him off guard. Which apparently she’d done. So now she must extricate herself from this . . . increasingly dangerous situation.
She drew back to cast him a chiding look. “Now you are being ridiculous. I am not that sort of woman.”
His hooded gaze trailed down to her modestly cut gown. “The princess might not be. But you most certainly are. Actresses are known for their lovers.”
A burst of anger swelled in her chest and she tamped it down with difficulty. He was probably waiting for her to lose her temper. “Well, I regret that as the princess, I cannot be your lover. I must be chaste when I marry.”
That arrested him. “Marry? Is that what this masquerade is about? Snagging a husband for Princess Aurore?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Why do you persist in this insanity? Surely you realize I cannot be both an impostor and snag Aurore a husband. The moment the real princess entered the man’s bedchamber, he would know he’d been deceived.”
“Unless it was an arranged marriage where the parties never meet. That happens often between countries seeking a political alliance.”
She shook her
head. “If the parties never meet, then there’s no need for an impostor to masquerade. Your suppositions don’t even make sense.”
“Princess?” a voice sounded from outside the gazebo. “Are you out here?”
Lady Ursula! Oh, thank God.
Monique started to step out of the gazebo, but he caught her by the arm and whispered, “We’ll continue this discussion later, Monique.”
“Aurore,” she hissed under her breath. “Princess Aurore to you. And if you ever call me Monique again, I will tell my uncle about your kissing me, and he will have your head.”
“Then I will expose you for who you are.”
She grabbed his hand where it lay on her arm. “You would not dare to make such a spurious accusation without proof. Especially when there’s no proof to be had, because I am the princess.”
“We’ll see about that.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “One way or the other, I’m getting to the bottom of this.”
“Your Highness?” Lady Ursula cried.
With his lips thinning into a line, Lord Fulkham led Monique out of the gazebo. “We’re over here,” he said, as poised as any politician.
“Are you all right, Princess?” the lady-in-waiting asked Monique, the lamplight falling full on her worried expression.
Hardly. Her heart thundered in her chest, and the flex of his muscle beneath her hand as he waited for her answer perversely catapulted an undeniable thrill through her. Juggling her two personas with a man who knew the true one was more difficult than she would have imagined. Especially when both personas were horribly attracted to the fellow.
She forced a smile for the woman’s benefit. “I’m perfectly fine. Merely discussing politics with his lordship. Though I don’t believe you two have met. Lady Ursula, this is—”
“I know who he is.” Her eyes assessed him coolly. “The Baron Fulkham, correct? One of the Englishmen helping to decide who will become queen of Her Highness’s country?”
“Indeed,” he clipped out. “I take it you are not from Her Highness’s country?”
“I am Lady Ursula Weber of Hanover, the princess’s lady-in-waiting.”
The woman was breaking all the rules of protocol by introducing herself. She must truly be agitated at finding them sequestered in a gazebo.
Casting him a dismissive glance, she turned to Monique. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I was sent out here to fetch you for dinner. You’re to be taken in by the Duc de Pontalba.”
“Thank you.” Relieved, Monique released Lord Fulkham’s arm. “I enjoyed our discussion, sir.” It wasn’t entirely a lie.
“The enjoyment was all mine.”
Before she could turn away, he captured her hand, angling himself so that her body blocked Lady Ursula’s view. Swiftly, he lifted her hand to his lips, but he didn’t kiss it. Instead, he turned it over and nosed her bracelet up enough so he could suck the tender skin of her inner wrist. Hard. Enough to leave a mark.
Why, the annoying devil had given her a love bite!
As she snatched her hand from him, he winked at her. Ooh, how she wanted to rage at him for it! But she couldn’t, with Lady Ursula watching.
“I look forward to seeing more of you, Your Serene Highness,” he said in a far-too-intimate tone.
Not if she had anything to say about it. All she could manage was a tight nod before turning on her heel and joining Ursula.
Her wrist burned where he’d sucked her skin. Though she knew her bracelet would cover the bruise—and her sleeves and gloves would do the same tomorrow—the thought of his having marked her deliberately, “somewhere more intimate, in a place where no one would see but me,” had her pulse beating wildly in that very spot. It was all she could do not to rub it.
“Forgive me for not having noticed your absence sooner,” Lady Ursula whispered to Monique. “I had no idea that his lordship had cornered you out here or I would have raced to your side.”
“It’s fine,” Monique murmured. “He was a perfect gentleman.”
The woman searched her face. “That’s good. His reputation is stellar when it comes to women, but you never know with these Englishmen. They seem to think all ladies from the Continent are free with their favors.”
“I can handle any fellows of that sort, I assure you. We saw plenty of them in the theater.”
“Oh yes. I keep forgetting you were an actress. You just . . . look so much like Aurore and behave so much like a princess that I think of you more as one of the family. And truly, you are, you know.”
Monique cast her a grateful smile. “Thank you. That’s reassuring. My grandmother never gave up hope that the family might one day take her back. She made me learn all the rules and protocols, everything. I thought it was silly, but it made her happy. And now I’m glad of it.”
Lady Ursula squeezed her hand. “Well, we appreciate what you are doing for the princess. Never think otherwise. I know the count can be overbearing, but he means well. And if Aurore could speak, I know she would tell you—”
Her voice grew so choked, she had to leave off to clear her throat. Then she pasted a smile to her lips. “Oh, look, there’s the duke just inside the doors. He’s a handsome fellow, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” But not half as handsome as a certain insolent lord.
No, she was not going to think of that man. With any luck, she’d avoid being alone with him in future, and this would all be over in a week or two.
She could only hope.
Gregory watched the two women disappear into the building but dared not follow right away. He was too aroused by his encounter with the “princess,” whom he was almost certain was Monique. Whose luscious mouth had left him hard as stone.
Well, at least he’d left her with something, too. He hadn’t really intended to “mark” her . . . until it occurred to him that such a mark could be useful. If her people tried to switch her off for the real princess in the next few days, he would know.
Right. That had been his only reason. It hadn’t had anything to do with the intoxicating idea of her secretly having a reminder of him. An intimate reminder of their very intimate embrace.
He hardened again. Bloody hell!
The mark hadn’t been about that. It had been about being sure of who was who, in case the two women really did look that similar. Such a strong resemblance would explain why the Rochefort family had picked Mademoiselle Servais for this subterfuge—that and the lack of decent images of the real princess.
Still, he couldn’t fathom how the Rocheforts would have known of some obscure actress in Dieppe, no matter how accomplished she was. And even if they’d heard of her somehow, they couldn’t have been aware that Mademoiselle Servais would resemble Princess Aurore to such a marked degree.
Unless it was the resemblance that had set everything in motion. Someone who had seen the portrait as well as the actress could have remarked upon the resemblance to Beaumonde.
But that didn’t explain the reason for the masquerade in the first place. And Monique had told him nothing that would explain it, either, curse her. She hadn’t slipped up and revealed her true self once. It was enough to make him question his own eyes.
Perhaps he just wanted her to be the actress, so he’d feel free to pursue her as a mistress. Even a man with his political connections and wealth couldn’t marry a royal. The Princess of Chanay was under the same restriction as the English royals—she must marry another royal.
But he could take an actress as his mistress, if she agreed to it. Judging from their explosive kiss, she might. Actresses, after all, were experienced in such matters.
You need a wife, not a mistress. And she won’t exactly fall into your arms after you unmask her.
True. Even so, the possibility of taking Monique Servais to bed made him . . .
Hard. Again. Damn her. It had been years since a woman had aroused him so profoundly. Three years, to be precise. Generally he was too careful to allow himself such an indulgence, but she got under h
is skin. He wished he knew why.
A pity there was no one with whom he could confer about her real identity, to at least confirm his suspicions. Unfortunately, he was the only one who had met her outside this arena.
Wait a minute—Hart had met her, too. It might not hurt to have the man’s opinion to bolster his own. And if Hart agreed she was the actress, he could nose around the staff at the house where the Chanay contingent were staying to see if he could learn more.
The chap had turned into quite the useful investigator in the past three years. He’d be discreet and thorough.
Gregory would talk to Hart tonight at St. George’s. Hart had recently become a member, which had surprised some of the others, given the fellow’s reputation with women. St. George’s was supposed to be a place for pooling information to uncover rogues dangerous to members’ female relations—in Gregory’s case, it had been his sister-in-law—not a place for protecting such fellows. But Hart was an exception, given his connections to both Edwin and Warren.
Privately, though, Gregory suspected that Hart’s reputation might not be as scandalous as the gossips claimed. For all the man’s flirtations and talk of women, Gregory had never actually seen him in a brothel unless Hart was on a mission.
Thoughts of suspicions and missions banished Gregory’s arousal, so he headed inside. To his surprise, he found Lady Ursula awaiting him.
She curtsied. “My lord, it appears that you are taking me in to dinner.”
Ah, of course. He wasn’t of sufficient rank for the princess, but he certainly was for one of her ladies.
“I would be honored,” he told her, offering his arm. This could be a good opportunity. Perhaps she wouldn’t be as tight-lipped about the masquerade as the impostor herself.
When he caught sight of Monique disappearing through the doors with the Duc de Pontalba, he tensed. The French duke was too good-looking by half, with his carefully coiffed blond hair and his surprisingly fit physique. Not to mention that the broad-shouldered fellow was possessed of a smooth tongue—the sort of chap one did not want to see nosing around one’s sister.
The Secret of Flirting Page 6
