The Secret of Flirting

by Sabrina Jeffries

  So he did.

  And to his shock, she responded beyond his wildest dreams. She opened her mouth, let him deepen the kiss, then tangled her tongue with his, as if she’d never wanted anything more.

  He was no fool—he took advantage, kissing her with all the urgency in his loins. He wanted her. Even now that he knew who she was, and what she and her great-uncle had planned, he still wanted her. In truth, it was hard not to want a woman who would risk everything for her grandmother.

  But even before he’d known that about her, he’d desired her. Because when it came to her, all his vaunted control and logic went right out the window.

  Right now, his entire life didn’t make sense. She was the last person he should desire—an actress who could do nothing to further his career. Who could actually harm it irreparably.

  Yet he didn’t care. All he knew was he wanted to keep kissing her, holding her, touching her . . .

  “Is he gone?” she whispered against his mouth.

  The words drew him briefly from the sensual cloud she wrapped around him every time their lips met. He looked out. “I think so. I don’t see him.”

  “Good,” she whispered, then tugged his head back down to hers.

  The kiss rapidly spiraled beyond his control. Her mouth, so soft and wet, made him want to plunder and ravage her like some conqueror of old. He manacled her waist with his arm and smoothed his other hand down over her skirts to cup her sweet bottom, pleased to find how shapely she was beneath her petticoats.

  God, how he wanted to taste her, caress her . . . take her.

  She tore her mouth free to murmur, “You see how it could be between us? All you need do is promise not to say anything to the count.”

  That sparked his anger, making him clasp her head in his hands. “I told you I will not let you barter your body for my silence.”

  Her eyes narrowing, she slid her hand down over his rapidly hardening cock and rubbed it, silkily at first, then more roughly. “Are you sure? Because it seems to me that your body is more than willing to barter for mine.”

  He hissed a breath through his teeth. “You don’t play fair, my sweet.”

  “Says the man who marked my wrist with his love bite.” She stretched up to press a kiss to his neck just above his cravat. “Shall I mark you, my lord? So that every time you look in the mirror, you remember how you had a chance at me and threw it away for your ambition?”

  “Not for my bloody ambition, for damned sure.” A groan escaped him as she licked the spot, tantalizing him with her tongue. “I risk my ambition more with every hour I let this masquerade go on. Even if I did agree to your terms and keep silent, I can’t prevent someone else’s unmasking you. And if it comes out that I knew the truth and didn’t speak, I’ll be ruined.”

  She drew back to stare at him. “How would it come out, when the only ones who know of it are you and I?”

  “And Hart and Lady Ursula and the count. Not to mention the princess and whoever else is looking after her in Calais.” He thumbed her lips, so sweetly swollen from the ferocity of their kisses. “I’ve been in politics long enough to realize that secrets known by a number of people don’t stay secret for long.”

  That brought a frown to her brow. “Even when those people have a vested interest in staying silent? Except for Lord Hartley, who I assume is under your control, the others have to keep the secret or lose everything.”

  “And what about the assassin? Do you think he will keep quiet? He knows you’re not Aurore. First, he tried to poison Aurore. Then, when the count’s response was to put a substitute in her place, the assassin shot at the substitute. Whoever is bent on not letting Aurore take the throne will resort to revealing the truth about your masquerade, if that’s what it takes for him to get what he wants.”

  She pondered that a moment, then brightened. “Not necessarily. If Aurore was poisoned—and we’re still not sure she was—he could have managed that without ever actually seeing her. Besides, the count put her into seclusion in Calais once I stepped in, so this villain could have just assumed the poison didn’t work and still be trying to kill the woman he thinks is Princess Aurore.”

  “I suppose that’s possible.” He hardened his tone. “But that only means you’re in more danger than we thought. And that the count knew it from the beginning.”

  “He didn’t.”

  Gregory eyed her closely. “What makes you so sure?”

  “I asked him about it. He truly believes that Aurore has cholera and that the shooter was not trying to shoot at me.”

  “Then he’s a fool.” The very idea that she was putting her trust in the count, who clearly wasn’t concerned for her welfare, made him want to shake her.

  “Perhaps so, but he’s my only hope of making sure Grand-maman is cared for.”

  “What about me?” he bit out without thinking.

  She gaped at him. “You? You want to expose me.”

  That stung, even though she was right. “I seek only the truth.”

  “Which would destroy me. And Grand-maman.”

  He cupped her chin in his hand. “I don’t wish to destroy either of you.”

  “Then don’t say anything to my uncle.” When he stiffened, she added in a pleading tone, “Think of it this way. You can’t catch the assassin if you end my masquerade. And you want to catch him, don’t you? Assuming there is one? Because if he’s trying to kill his competitor for the crown, you don’t want him winning, do you?”

  That made sense. Either that, or his cock was guiding his brain. Which rarely happened. Except, apparently, around her. “Let’s say I allow this travesty to continue until we . . . find the culprit. That would mean you’d be acting as bait for this monster.”

  “Not here. You said I’d be safe at your estate.” She lifted a guileless, trusting gaze that fairly slayed him. “And if I’m not, you’ll protect me. I know you will.”

  Fighting the absurd satisfaction that her faith in him brought him, he growled, “Then how am I to catch the bastard, if you stay here safe?”

  “You said you had spies. I assume that your men will be looking into what happened at the park. My being here for five days will give them time to find him.”

  “And if they don’t? You expect me to further risk your life by bringing you back to London?”

  She stared off through the window as if seeking answers in his mother’s design. “I don’t know. Perhaps the soldiers will have scared him off. He might not try again.” She gave a shuddering breath. “All I know is that there’s no future for me in Dieppe if this does not succeed. My great-uncle will make sure of that. He doesn’t want Aurore to lose her chance.”

  “That’s something else you haven’t considered. What if she dies in the end?”

  Monique shrugged. “Then I will ‘die’ and the masquerade will be over.” She met his gaze. “I have no desire to rule Belgium. I’m only making sure that Aurore can do so.”

  “I suspect your uncle would have something to say about that.”

  She frowned. “What do you mean?”

  “He wants the throne for Chanay. If Aurore dies, I daresay he’ll want you to take her place.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t!” she said hotly. “And he can’t make me.”

  “He’s making you do this.”

  She thrust out her chin. “Yes, but this is to help Aurore. And Grand-maman. The other would be wrong.”

  Gregory shook his head. She was so refreshingly naïve in some ways.

  “Besides,” she said, “what do I know about ruling a country? No, he wouldn’t ask that.”

  “Are you sure? Perhaps that was his plan all along—to put you in Aurore’s place.”

  The shock on her face made it clear that hadn’t occurred to her. “I would never agree to that!”

  “Even to take care of your grandmother?”

  A troubled frown knit her brow. “Not even for that.”

  He shouldn’t believe her, but he did. She seemed caught between a rock
and a hard place. As was he. Because the minute he revealed her identity, it could come out that he’d known all along. She might even admit it herself to save her own skin.

  Then everyone would question why he hadn’t acted from the beginning. And all his protests that he hadn’t been sure of who she was would fall on deaf ears.

  Damn. He should have exposed her the moment he’d suspected the truth. But he hadn’t, so now he was in a quandary. “How about this?” he said. “The decision won’t be made until we return. So for now, I’ll let you go on with your masquerade while I try to find out if anyone truly is trying to murder your cousin, and why. By then we should know if Princess Aurore has survived, and we can move on from there.”

  He was stalling, giving himself time to think his way out of this mess.

  But judging from the way her face brightened, he had just given her the keys to the kingdom. “Oh, Gregory!” she cried, and threw her arms about his neck. She kissed both his cheeks. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “Hmph,” he grumbled. “I know I’m going to regret this.”

  “You won’t, I swear,” she told him. Then she kissed his mouth. Sweetly. Tenderly.

  His pulse broke into a stampede. “What are you doing?” he growled as he jerked back from her.

  She stared up at him with eyes as luminous as the setting sun shining through the window behind her. “Making sure you don’t regret this.”

  “Monique—”

  She cut him off with a kiss that set his body afire. No woman had done that to him in a very long time. He was always too conscious of his position and what it would cost him to have a dalliance with someone he couldn’t trust.

  But she made him want things . . . need things . . .

  Clasping her close, he kissed her with all the fervent longing in his blood. And she gave as good as she got, twining her tongue with his, pressing her breasts against him, and making him ache down deep where he never ached. Not for anyone.

  What did it matter if she did it out of gratitude, really?

  But the rational part of him knew it mattered. It protested this lapse in his conscience. Yet the part of him that desired her stifled all protests, reminding him that she was no young virgin, that she could be his for the taking. That she was soft and giving in his arms, her mouth a wonder and her body eager for him. He wanted her so badly, he could hardly think.

  So he abandoned thought and, without looking back, plunged in where angels feared to swim.

  Fourteen

  Gregory’s eager response heartened Monique. She truly did want to show him her gratitude, so he wouldn’t regret this. So he would think twice before confronting her great-uncle.

  It wasn’t because she wanted to banish his ghosts. Or because this secluded spot made her yearn to explore the attraction between them. Or because every time he kissed and caressed her, it unwound a little more the coiled rope of past longings and urges and needs that she’d spent years ignoring. Years suppressing.

  With him, she wanted to suppress nothing.

  Taking her by surprise, he swept some books off the chaise longue behind them, sat down, and then dragged her onto his lap. Men had tried to pull her onto their laps before, and she’d fought them.

  She didn’t fight Gregory. She looped her arms about his neck again, eager to let him do as he would with her.

  “From the moment I saw you on the stage,” he whispered against her cheek, “I wanted to touch you. Explore you.” He trailed kisses down her jaw. “To have you in my arms like this.” He covered one breast and kneaded it through her gown and undergarments. “To have you at my mercy.”

  The idea of being at his mercy shot a thrill through her. Cursing herself for wearing so many clothes, she arched her neck to give him better access to her naked throat.

  “Then you are a better actor than I,” she murmured as he licked the pulse beating wildly there. “I could not tell that you wanted me so.”

  “Couldn’t you? I suppose not. I was too caught up in my—”

  “Self-importance?” she quipped.

  He drew back with a scowl. “Is that what you thought? Because it’s not true. I was merely irritated that Hart was there, that you seemed to fancy him over me.” He nuzzled her throat. “You didn’t, did you?”

  That hint of uncertainty surprised her. “He was nothing compared to you,” she admitted. When a self-satisfied smile crossed his face, she added, “Although I was irritated that you disapproved of my art.”

  “I could tell. The truth is, I was merely annoyed with myself for falling under your spell like all your other admirers. For desiring you as badly as the rest of them.” His voice hardened, and he began to unbutton her front-opening bodice. “The way I desire you now, to distraction.”

  The admission warmed her down deep. “You can have me, if you wish.”

  He paused to stare at her with the unreadable expression of the diplomat. “This is not . . . just gratitude, is it?” Vulnerability crept into his features. “Because if so, I couldn’t bear that.”

  She vacillated between protecting herself and confessing the truth. The truth won out. “No.” She tongued his throat, the light scruff of beard there reminding her that he was a real man, not like the sycophants who surrounded her in the theater. “It isn’t merely gratitude.”

  Apparently that was all he needed to hear, for with a groan, he got her gown open somehow and fell upon her breasts, sucking and teasing and driving her out of her mind.

  Meanwhile, his hands roamed down to drag up her skirts and burrow through her petticoats until he discovered the opening in her drawers. “My sweet princess . . .” he murmured as he delved inside her curls with his clever fingers. “My darling girl—”

  “Not a girl,” she corrected him, “and not a princess.”

  “But mine,” he said. “At least for now.”

  Those last words were a taunt she had to return. “Yes, Gregory. As you are mine . . . for now.”

  If he realized it was a taunt, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took her mouth again as he drove two fingers inside her, tantalizing her, arousing her. At the same time, he thumbed the part of her that throbbed and ached for him, and her blood rushed through her veins . . . and lower.

  It was so intense she nipped his lip.

  He drew back with a chuckle. “The actress has claws.”

  “Teeth,” she muttered, and shifted atop his growing arousal. “Though I can show you my claws if you wish.”

  “Go ahead.” He resumed his caresses with relentless intent. “I don’t mind being scratched if it means having you.”

  She couldn’t imagine any other man saying that to her. It turned her to mush, made her desire him even more. With him, she didn’t have to be the princess or the sophisticated Mademoiselle Servais. He seemed to actually like the woman who hid her softness beneath her prickly remarks. With him, she could be herself.

  “Gregory . . .” she whispered on a breath, which was all it took to have him plundering her with his hand below while his mouth plundered her breasts above.

  Oh. Mon Dieu! She began to see why Grand-maman and Maman had thrown away everything for a man. Clearly Monique had their reckless blood running rampant through her veins, because the way he was caressing her made her want to tear her clothes off and let him do as he wished with her body.

  “My sweet Monique,” he said as he fondled her. “You’re so . . . wet for me.”

  She squirmed against his hardened verge. “And you’re so . . . firm for me.”

  “You have no idea,” he growled. “I’ve been ‘firm’ for you since the day I met you. I’ve thought of you often since then.”

  Drawing back to stare at him, she said, “Truly?”

  His eyes had the heavy-lidded gaze of a man aroused, and he thrust up against her bottom as if to confirm it. “Do you doubt me?”

  Her throat went dry. “No.”

  “Good.” He shifted her off his lap and onto the chaise longue so she was reclini
ng on it while he hovered over her. “Because I can think of nothing but tasting you and taking you. Here. Now.”

  She was so blinded by her need that she could only nod.

  To her shock, instead of opening his trousers, he slid down the chaise longue so he could place his mouth on her minou. Then he began to tongue her. There, where no man had ever kissed her.

  What a revelation. She knew of this intimacy—actresses spoke of such things from time to time—but she’d had no idea it would feel so . . .

  Incredible. Delectable. To have a man arouse her while ignoring his own arousal . . . so magnifique! “Gregory,” she begged, hearing the plea in her voice with a tiny bit of shame. But not enough to stop her from saying, “Please . . . please . . .”

  “Whatever you wish, my sweet,” he said, his very tone a smug smile.

  He could smirk all he liked as long as he kept licking and teasing and caressing her minou as if feasting on her. It overwhelmed her . . . the heat of his lips, the delicious pleasure of having his tongue inside her . . . the very knowledge that he could seduce her body with just his mouth. How unfair!

  But fairness ceased to matter as she felt a sort of buzz beginning in her loins. As he continued his ministrations, it rose to weaken her thighs, swamping her with such glorious sensations . . . “Sacrebleu . . .” she breathed and buried her fingers in his silky hair to clutch him more tightly to her. “Oui . . . Take me . . . like that, yes . . . oh, oui . . .”

  The buzz grew to a pounding in her ears, then a roar of sensation between her legs, then an outright explosion that rocked her from her head to that soft, silky place he was ravaging with such intent.

  “Mon Dieu!” she screamed as the explosion shattered her into shards of herself. She lay there trembling in ecstasy, marveling at the beauty of it, while he wiped his mouth on her drawers. Then, as her joy began to wane, she whispered, “Oh, my dearest Gregory. That was . . . was . . .”

  “Indescribable?” he teased.

  “Amazing.”