The Secret of Flirting

by Sabrina Jeffries

  The count fixed her with a quelling look. “Why not do it in my presence?”

  She matched his gaze with a determined one of her own. “Are you forbidding it?”

  That brought the man up short. He had to realize that “forbidding it” would put her even further on her guard. “Of course not, but—”

  “I am still the ruler of Chanay, am I not?” she said in the unforgiving tones of royalty.

  The count’s eyes glittered, but he offered her a jerky nod.

  She cast him a thin smile. “So I have the right to make these decisions for myself, to speak to whomever I must in order to ascertain what should be done. A few moments alone with his lordship is all I require. You may wait outside while we discuss it.”

  If the situation hadn’t been so dire, Gregory might have laughed at how Beaumonde bridled at that, clearly disturbed that his creation was turning into the very thing she was pretending to be.

  Apparently noticing how intently Gregory was watching the exchange, the count smoothed his features into calm. “If that is what you wish, Your Highness.”

  “It is.”

  Bowing his head to her, Beaumonde left the room.

  Thank God. Perhaps Gregory could finally talk some sense into her.

  Now that Monique had Gregory to herself, she wasn’t sure what to say. He was watching her expectantly. But how to talk to him without admitting to the masquerade? Because if there was still a chance that she could pull this off, she must ignore his attempts to elicit a confession.

  Even at the risk to her own life?

  She shuddered. For all she knew, Gregory had engineered this afternoon’s shooting just to frighten her into telling the truth. She had best tread very carefully—with the count and with him.

  Pasting on a tight smile, she faced him. “Are you absolutely sure that someone wants to kill me?”

  Frustration knit his brow. “Aren’t you? Do you really think anyone wants to do away with me or Flora? We have no holes in our sleeves, after all.”

  “But how could anyone have known we would be at the park?” she pointed out.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, servants talk—sometimes idly, sometimes with malice, and sometimes for pay. I daresay it would have been easy enough to learn your schedule.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “All our staff here was hired by your government. Are you saying that your foreign office hired servants who couldn’t be trusted?”

  “I’m saying that no one can be trusted when it comes to politics.”

  “Even you?” she asked.

  Her candor seemed to take him aback. Then a dark cloud shadowed his brow. “You don’t think I had anything to do with this.”

  “Why not?” she persisted, ignoring his scowl. “You were the one who convinced me to go for a drive, the one who then turned your curricle off into a more secluded path.”

  The deadly calm that came over his features was far more frightening than any anger. “And why exactly would I plot to have you killed?”

  When he put it so bluntly, it seemed . . . rather unlikely. And accusing the undersecretary of the foreign office of attempted murder was probably not the wisest tactic. But, to paraphrase the English saying, in for a sou, in for a franc. “Because you wanted me to be frightened enough by the shooting to admit to this . . . masquerade you keep accusing me of.”

  His jaw flexing, he bore down on her. “So you think I hired people to fire on you in a public place where anyone might get in the way. You think I risked the chance that my lackey might miss and instead hit me or the servant my office hired, and all to scare you into admitting what I know to be true? I daresay that if I did such a fool thing, it would make me the most reckless man in politics, and undeserving of my very career.”

  She swallowed. He had a point.

  “Look,” he went on, “I realize I rubbed you the wrong way the first time we met in Dieppe—”

  “We did not mee—”

  “But no matter what you think of me,” he continued, heedless of her protest, “I do have a conscience. I’m not the sort of man to risk a woman’s life—any woman’s life—for a political reason. I would certainly never risk yours.”

  The fierce tone of those last words took her by surprise. “Then who would?” she asked, her heart in her throat.

  “I don’t know. And until I figure out who might have reason to assassinate—”

  “Stop using that word!” The very thought of this being about assassination stripped the breath from her throat. “As my uncle said, no one is trying to assassinate me.”

  “And you believe him?” Cynicism edged his voice. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that there’s a reason you were asked to masquerade for Princess Aurore? Perhaps your precious count didn’t want to risk her being the one killed. Perhaps he knew she was in danger.”

  The words sank into her flesh like shark’s teeth. He was wrong—the masquerade had come about because Aurore had been sick with—

  Wait. What if Aurore hadn’t been sick, but poisoned? It could look the same, could it not? What if the villain had assumed that he’d botched the murder when Monique showed up in Aurore’s place, so he’d come here to finish the job, thinking she was Aurore?

  If so, Lord Fulkham could be right about her great-uncle. The count had realized he must protect the real princess, and had put Monique in her place to draw the killer away.

  Lord help her.

  “What?” Lord Fulkham pressed her. “Tell me.”

  The urgency in his voice snapped her out of her musings and reminded her that for all his apparent concern, Lord Fulkham was not her friend. Perhaps he hadn’t orchestrated the attack, but he could still be trying to use it to trick her into confessing all now that he’d learned whatever his spies in Dieppe had told him. Because clearly he’d found out something from them.

  Apparently not enough to feel comfortable confronting her great-uncle with his suspicions, though. Which meant she still had a chance at brazening this out.

  She stripped off her gloves with all the nonchalance she could muster. “If I were an impostor, your claims might make sense, but since I was not asked to masquerade for anyone, your supposition that someone is trying to assassinate me is absurd.”

  “It’s not absurd, damn it!” Without warning, he caught her by the arms as if he wanted to shake her. “You were nearly killed, for God’s sake!”

  The genuine distress in his voice shook her. “But I wasn’t.”

  He merely clenched his hand in her sleeve, the very one whose holes had so disturbed him earlier. “You were lucky, that’s all. You might not be so lucky next time.” His jaw tautened. “At least consider the possibility that you were the target, and let me try to get to the bottom of what happened today. Come to Canterbury Court while I arrange for my people to do some digging into who might want the princess—you—dead.”

  Her breath was coming as quickly as his now. “I don’t understand why you care so much. You think I’m some impostor—”

  “All the more reason to care what happens to you. No one should have to die for another without first agreeing to the sacrifice. And you have not. I daresay you had no idea what this was really about when you began it.”

  The truth of that remark hit home, sticking in her brain like a bit of childhood doggerel. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Yes, you do. In your heart you know those bullets were meant for you . . . or rather, for Princess Aurore.”

  She scowled at him. “I am Princess Aurore.”

  “Fine.” Gripping her shoulders, he growled, “Maintain your role. Play the princess if you must. But at least let me keep you safe while you’re doing it. Come with me to Canterbury Court, where I can look after you.”

  The fervency of his words stirred an unruly need deep in her belly. And the way he was staring at her . . .

  She couldn’t look away, but she was equally afraid to fall into those deep blue eyes. “I—I don’t know if my uncle will allow it.”

/>   “If you’re the princess,” he said hoarsely, “then you damned well have the right to demand that he allow it, don’t you?”

  She gave a shuddering breath.

  “Monique—”

  That sparked her temper. “Aurore,” she said firmly. “I told you never to call me Monique again.”

  Something unholy and dangerous flickered in his eyes. Then he said in a guttural rasp that made the words sound more like a prayer than an appellation, “Your Serene Highness.” He moved his hands to clasp her head. “Please, I beg you, let me protect you. I cannot bear the idea of your being hurt if I can prevent it.”

  She caught her breath. It was a supplication, not an order. And the raw emotion in his features sent a shiver of anticipation along her nerves. Because she could tell he meant every word.

  As if realizing he’d exposed too much of his true feelings, he stiffened and added, in a dryer tone, “After all, it would be disastrous to my career to have a princess die on my watch.”

  But she was having none of that nonsense. He’d gone too far, and she knew this wasn’t about his career. She could see it in the stark fear for her that glimmered in his eyes.

  He started to draw his hands from her head, but she caught them, covering them with her own. Then she stretched up to brush a kiss to his cheek. “All the same,” she said softly, “thank you for caring. And for quite possibly saving my life.”

  A harsh breath hissed out of him before he drew her head back to him so he could lower his mouth to hers. As his lips hovered a scant inch away, he murmured, “You’re welcome . . . Princess.” Then he kissed her.

  And the world exploded into a million colors. Unlike their last kiss, this one was fierce and all-encompassing. His mouth took hers over, possessing and commanding it until her legs began to wobble and her heart to race so much that she had to grip his neck to keep from collapsing.

  God, the man could kiss. His tongue drove hard and deep as his fingers buried themselves in her hair, threatening to dislodge her hairpins.

  That should have alarmed her, made her see sense. Instead it drove her to tangle her tongue with his, to see if she could arouse him the way he was arousing her. Apparently she could, for he moaned low in his throat and dropped his hands to her waist to pull her against the thickness in his trousers.

  She might be chaste, but she knew what that signified. She’d spoken of it in the sly words of a play, heard actresses jokingly comment on its power in their lovers, even felt its presence in the few men who’d dared to grab her and try to bend her to their will.

  But never had the feel of it sent an unchecked thrill through her. Never had it sparked a heat that threatened to set fire to her blood. Never had it made her want to lift her skirts just to get closer to the promise of it.

  That was dangerous. Which was why, no matter how much pleasure it gave her, she must put a stop to things before they went too far.

  Nine

  Gregory growled a protest when Monique pressed her hands against his chest to put some distance between them, though he knew that what they were doing was wholly unwise, especially with her great-uncle on the other side of the door.

  “Lord Fulkham—” she began.

  “Gregory.” Holding her gaze, he lifted her hand and peeled back her sleeve to expose the love bite he’d left on her wrist. “Call me Gregory, at least when we’re alone.” Then he licked the place he’d marked her, watching her cheeks flush and her eyes turn sultry.

  “Gregory,” she breathed.

  It was one more intimacy between them. He tried to tell himself these were necessary steps to get her to lower her guard and admit the truth, but that was just a lie meant to preserve his sanity. Because deep down, he knew this was no strategy or scheme.

  He wanted her to be his, simple as that. And the sound of her melodic voice crooning his Christian name was turning him as hard as the marble-topped table behind them.

  Seizing her mouth once more, he plundered it with ruthless intent. She wanted him. He would make her want him enough to be honest with him, no matter the cost.

  As she returned his kisses with ungoverned passion, he backed her toward the table, then swept her hat off it so he could lift her onto the marble. She didn’t make so much as a mew of protest, which emboldened him to do what he’d been wanting to do all afternoon—unfasten the hooks down the front of her bodice so he could slip his hand inside to fondle one breast.

  She tore her lips from his to stare at him wide-eyed. “Gregory, you shouldn’t,” she chided in the dulcet tones that had captivated him from the moment he’d met her.

  But she didn’t push his hand away, and when he pulled her corset cup down enough to thumb her nipple through her shift, she gave a throaty gasp that sent his blood into a frenzy.

  “Why shouldn’t I?” he ground out. “You like it.”

  An uncertain smile crossed her lips. “Perhaps a little.” When he kneaded her breast and a moan of pure pleasure escaped her, she rasped, “All right, perhaps more than a little.”

  He bent his head to kiss her again, but she turned her head. “My uncle—”

  “I don’t give a damn about your uncle,” he said as he turned to kiss her heated cheek, her elegant neck, her perfect ears, “since he clearly doesn’t give a damn about you.” His fury that the man might be using her as a pawn made his words come out harsher than he’d intended.

  She threaded her fingers through his hair as if to pull him away, yet she didn’t stop him from exploring the delicious fullness of her breast with his fingers and palm. “But you care, I suppose.”

  The hint of sarcasm in her tone inflamed him. “Enough to want to make sure nobody harms you.” His voice roughened in spite of himself. He tongued her bared throat. “Do you have any idea what it did to me to realize some arse was firing upon you? Yet your ‘uncle’ won’t even acknowledge that it happened.”

  “He’s not as bad as all that.”

  “Really? Because it looks as if he only cares about whether you become queen, and naught else.”

  She swallowed convulsively, and he felt the motion against his lips.

  It only made him angrier at the count. “I hate men who use women, who hurt them. Men like your uncle.” And his bastard of a father. “You deserve better.”

  A desperate laugh escaped her as she met his gaze once more. “How do you know what I deserve?”

  He paused in his fondling to regard her with a serious look. “I’m not blind. Yesterday I watched you cleverly and articulately convince a roomful of men that you could rule Belgium. Today I watched you bravely keep your head as Flora screamed on the back of the carriage.”

  “But on the inside I was terrified,” she admitted.

  “Good. You have enough sense to recognize the danger. Or I hope you do, anyway. After I saw those holes in your sleeve . . .” The memory of it made his throat tighten. “Do you realize how close you came to death?”

  “But you were there to protect me.” Her features soft, she reached up to stroke his cheek with a tenderness that uncurled something wild and reckless within him.

  “I didn’t do a very good job of it,” he said hoarsely, “considering how close the first shot came.”

  “Yet here I am. Safe. With you.”

  “Yes. And I mean to keep you safe with me until this is over.” This time when he took her mouth, she let him, rising to the kiss like a swan taking flight. And when he resumed fondling her breast, she pressed it against his hand.

  So, once more he slid down into the insanity that was Monique.

  Monique knew she was courting danger, but his words about her bravery and cleverness had seduced her. Perhaps that was what he’d intended, but she didn’t want to believe it. Because what he was doing made her feel alive, young, free. Every inch of her responded to the excitement of it.

  He kissed a path down her neck. “I want to taste you.” He rubbed her nipple again. “Here. Now.”

  “Oh yes,” she breathed. “Please.”
>
  Desire had her in its grip, and she wanted to explore it. Especially with the only man who’d ever heated her blood.

  Now his mouth was inside her gown, closing over her nipple, licking it through her flimsy chemise, then sucking it hard and making her gasp from sheer pleasure.

  No man had ever gone so far with her. Now she had to wonder why she’d resisted such intimacies for so long. What he was doing to her was magnificent.

  “Even here you smell like lilies,” he murmured against her breast. “Do you sleep in a garden?”

  She laughed lightly. “I bathe every day with scented soap. I’m told that’s rather . . . fastidious for someone from—” She halted just before she said “France.” “From Chanay.”

  He glanced up at her with a smirk that said he’d caught her near slip, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead he returned to courting her body with his mouth and teeth and tongue. As she grabbed his head to hold him close, he paused long enough to rasp, “Shall I mark you here, too? I could, you know.”

  “Don’t you dare!” she choked out, though the idea of his leaving a love bite where no one could ever see but her shot a perverse thrill through her. “You are . . . very wicked for a politician . . . my lord.”

  “You bring it out in me.” Eyes alight, he started dragging up her skirts. “I don’t generally try to seduce princesses within hearing of their uncles.”

  A sudden knock at the door made both of them freeze.

  “Speaking of uncles—” Gregory ground out.

  “Oh, God,” she hissed as she slid off the table, “do you think he heard what we were saying?”

  Gregory looked amused. “Not through that door.” He chucked her under the chin with a sigh. “But all the same, we’d best stop this before he storms in.”

  As she swiftly set her gown to rights, Gregory strode for the door. He glanced back at her and waited while she smoothed her hair into place and tucked a final few tendrils in.