by Diana Quincy
Color rose in her face, and he sensed her arousal was as keen as his own. The bodily sensitivity to each other was potent and palpable. She stepped into the petticoat and held his gaze while the maid tied her into it. The slender cords of her throat worked beneath snowy white skin. Next, she stepped into the crimson dress, the color vibrant against her pale skin, and stood still as her maid worked the tiny buttons in the back.
Finally, when he thought he might not be able to stop himself from vaulting over the chair and making her his again, she turned away to sit at her dressing table. Her maid moved behind her, gathering the cascade of silky strands in her hands, and began to manipulate them into exacting designs atop her mistress’s head.
He watched it all in silence, mesmerized as she donned her hair and clothing in the methodical manner of a knight putting on his armor ahead of an impending battle. The performance he knew was for him, although he hadn’t quite discerned the purpose for it. If her intention had been to torment him, she’d succeeded admirably.
If she prepared for war, he couldn’t be certain who she saw as the enemy. Elle carried herself with the intent of a woman who intended to win, no matter the cost to her or to anyone who stepped in her path.
“I am giving a party this evening,” she said lightly, watching him through her dressing table mirror. “Will you come?”
He rose and executed a short bow. “You may depend upon it.”
—
“You observed the ceremony of the toilette?” Henri’s caterpillar eyebrows twitched as they walked, doing their best to sidestep the mud and horse dung. No matter what the weather, a mire of black slime always streamed down Paris streets. “From this you deduce it is a campaign of seduction?”
“She certainly appears to hope that I will think it so.”
“Perhaps Madame Laurent wishes to reunite with an old amour. Invitations to her soirees are not easily had, and yet she has included you on this evening’s guest list.”
“The party can hardly be that exclusive,” he said wryly. “After all, you were invited as well.” His heart sped up as they neared Elle’s house. After her performance earlier today, he couldn’t help but wonder what she had planned for him this evening. “And I never said she was an old love.”
“You didn’t have to. It is plain from the way you look at her.”
The idea that he could be so transparent irked him. “Like what exactly?”
“Like a man who has been denied dessert for many years, who suddenly has a tin full of the finest sweetmeats placed before him.”
“Really, Henri, only you would compare everything to food.”
“And why not? Eating, like the sexual act, is one of life’s most sensual experiences.” They paused to allow a carriage to pass before forging across the sloppy sodden street. “You still desire her. You should be willingly seduced.”
It wasn’t as though he hadn’t succumbed to temptation before, but Henri didn’t need to be made aware of that. “She is the sister of one of my closest friends.”
“If you must be so provincial—and I would expect nothing less of you—then you should just marry her.”
He scoffed. “Do not be absurd.”
“It is obvious you care for her.”
“I shall never marry. My work and travels leave no time for a wife and family. Nor do I desire either of those things,” he added pointedly. He had wanted them very badly once, with Elle, before she’d run off and married her French nobleman. Since then, a carapace had hardened around his heart, and nothing akin to love could ever flourish again in that arid terrain. He simply wasn’t capable of forming tender connections with any woman.
Besides, his work was far too hazardous for him to take a wife now. Before Elle’s desertion, his expertise had been in cryptography, and he’d expected code breaking to be his primary occupation with the Home Office. But after Elle married Laurent, he’d lost patience in that painstaking endeavor, preferring to ease his restlessness by undertaking clandestine—and far more dangerous—assignments behind enemy lines.
He saw now that he’d been a fool to expect Elle to behave any differently than she had. The daughter of a marquess would naturally reject the bastard son of an earl in favor of a French vicomte. He’d captured her interest only because she’d been locked away in Dorset, far from society. Now that she was out in the world, Elle seemed well aware of her power over men. She commanded everyone’s attention the moment she entered a room.
His brother, Giles, the current earl, would have been a far better match for a diamond like her. Giles was tall, broad, and handsome, effortlessly charming, whereas Will was smaller in every way, both in stature and body, contained and bookish, awkward in social situations mostly because he had no interest in them. Even their father, the old earl, had noted more than once in his presence that Elle and Giles would make a fine match.
“You clearly have an interesting history with Madame Laurent,” Henri said.
It was that shared past with Elle—and his firsthand knowledge of her capricious nature—that now aroused his suspicion. “She is Duret’s mistress. Perhaps she is now sympathetic to the French cause.”
Henri tsked. “This would surprise me.”
“I suspect her abundant supply of fine food and wine has affected your ability to think rationally.”
A hum of sarcastic agreement sounded from Henri’s throat. “One of us is certainly less than clearheaded when it comes to Madame Laurent.”
“Do you not think it strange that, although she only returned to the capital a few months ago, her salons already draw people from the highest levels of government, both French and English?”
Henri turned a bloodshot gaze on him. “You think Madame Laurent gathers intelligence for the French?”
“She was detained for five years, they could very well have coerced her, slowly twisting her thoughts and beliefs against her will,” he said. “Furthermore, if she were working for our side, I think I would have knowledge of it.”
They reached the steps to Elle’s townhome to find it teeming with life. People filled every window visible from the outside, and the layered chatter of multiple conversations spilled out into the street.
“What do you think she is after?” Henri asked.
“I’ve no idea.” Will started up the steps leading to Elle’s front door. “But I intend to find out.”
—
“I expect you to execute this evening,” Duret said as Elle smiled and nodded at various diplomats and other notables in attendance. This evening’s party was one of her best attended, but now that she knew her daughter’s fate, she had little appetite for entertaining. “Time is running short.”
“I gave you my word that I will learn what I can.” Nervous agitation roiled her stomach. She missed the soothing sensation of rolling her Cleopatra coin between her fingers, but the revealing nature of the current style left no room for pockets. “But you must consider the possibility that you are mistaken about the identity of Le Rasoir.”
“Our information regarding this matter is excellent.” He fisted one hand and squeezed hard with his free hand, cracking all of this knuckles at once, the resultant popping sounds putting her even more on edge than she already was. “Naismith is very likely the man we seek.”
“I can’t even be sure he will attend this evening,” she lied. “I can hardly enthrall a man who isn’t present.”
“I have it on excellent authority that your Mr. Naismith will be in attendance.”
She shot a look at him. “You are having him watched?”
“We make it our concern to know the whereabouts of all our foreign guests.”
She wondered how much the French knew. “Mr. Naismith was said to be absent from Paris for several days, do you know where he went?”
“He eluded the man we assigned to follow him,” Duret answered, clearly irritated. “We have no idea where he went. Such things are now for you to discover.”
“He was in the country, near F
ontainbleau.” She didn’t divulge that Will might very well have been in Jersey. Or that he might never have left Paris at all.
Although she couldn’t fathom him as Le Rasoir, she’d begun to think Will was involved in some sort of intrigue; he’d lied about being in the country and denied ever visiting the passages couverts, even though she’d seen him there. The more she thought about it, the more plausible it seemed that a clerk from the Home Office could be in league with Le Rasoir, perhaps acting as a courier of sorts.
Her mind raced with the possibilities. If Will had gone to Jersey Island, would he have lied about it because he was meeting with Le Rasoir? The island, just a few miles off the French coast, was under English control. Rumors circulated that Napoléon intended to invade the tiny enclave, which was home to many French nobles who had pledged their loyalty to England after fleeing the revolution.
“You do not have much time to unmask Le Rasoir,” Duret reminded her.
“Why the sudden urgency?” she asked.
“I travel to England in a fortnight and wish for you to gather as much information as you can from Naismith.”
She paused to greet a passing guest. Once they’d moved on, she said, “Why are you going to England?”
“I shall carry certain documents of interest to our ambassador there. But that is none of your concern. Ah, Monsieur Naismith.” With a start, she realized he’d steered her straight to Will. Her heart leapt as he bowed in greeting, his inscrutable gaze sweeping over her. He looked splendid. His dark copper hair was brushed back, emphasizing the sharp angles of his cheeks, and the slim cut of his dark evening clothes showed his sinewy form to excellent advantage. “How nice to encounter you here.”
“Madame Laurent was kind enough to invite me.” He spoke with formal courtesy, and if Duret’s approach surprised him, he did not show it.
“But of course, you are acquaintances of old,” Duret said. “Far be it from me to keep two old friends from becoming reacquainted. Madame Laurent was saying she would like to take a turn in the garden. Unfortunately, I must attend to more pressing matters. Perhaps you will be so kind as to escort her.”
“Of course.” He offered his arm. “Madame Laurent?”
Feeling like a fatted calf being offered up for sacrifice, she took it, feeling the taut strength of his arm beneath her fingers. They strolled through the doors leading to the terrace and down the steps to the garden.
“Does it not bother you that he has a wife?”
Her neck heated. “His family life is none of my concern.”
“I find it most curious that you have not asked for news of home.”
A sharp pang sliced through her at the thought of her father and brother. “I trust my father and Cosmo are well,” she said lightly.
“Actually, your father took ill for some time. Cosmo was even more of a profligate after your supposed death. He was racked with remorse because he couldn’t reach Paris in time to save you.” His voice was hard. “But it appears you weren’t in need of saving after all.”
Alarm spiked her insides. “Is my father still ill?”
“He is much improved.”
“Thank goodness.” Longing stretched painfully in her chest. She missed her family terribly. One day soon, she would take Susanna to Dorset, and they would play together on the beach just as she and Cosmo had done as children.
So many lost years. A tear slipped loose. Will’s gaze sharpened at the sight of it. He brushed it away with a tender swipe of his thumb across her cheek. The gentle, almost loving gesture made emotion swell in her chest. She ached to be in his arms, to forget all about Duret and Le Rasoir, to be able to lose herself in the warm, comforting press of Will’s body against hers.
His tone softened. “What is really going on here, Elle? Won’t you trust me enough to tell me?”
Chapter 7
The moon shimmered in her glistening eyes, the smoky gray gaze transporting him back to those moments by the pond on the evening of her eighteenth birthday, the night she’d completely stolen his heart.
This evening, when he’d first laid eyes on her, she’d taken his breath away in much the same way as she had that night. She wore a gown of white silk, but beyond the color, there was nothing innocent about it. An elaborate ruffle trimmed the deep round neckline, emphasizing the pale swells of her breasts. A thickly roped gold necklace nestled in the valley between the soft feminine flesh. Just looking at her made his chest hurt.
Then Duret had handed her over to him like an elaborately wrapped gift that was his for the opening. The bastard couldn’t have been more obvious; he’d even gone so far as to suggest they take advantage of the seclusion of the garden. It seemed clear that Duret wanted something from him and expected Elle to retrieve it.
“Oh, Will.” She sighed softly and pressed herself into his arms. He breathed in the feel and scent of her, his blood pounding hard through his veins. “Hold me before I float away.”
The urge to encase her in his arms, to hold and safeguard her, welled within him. It was a ridiculous notion; Elle had made clear that she didn’t need or want his protection. And yet an aura of vulnerability surrounded her this evening, almost as if she’d discarded her battle gear, rendering herself completely defenseless.
She nestled her face into his neck and pressed soft, pliant lips against his throat. His breath caught, and the old pain associated with losing her flared in his heart again. Lust rose in him like a vicious animal breaking free after being caged for too long. He wanted her with a vehemence that drove the air from his lungs.
Over the years, he’d convinced himself the urgent heat that had pulsed between them was the product of youthful lust and infatuation. But now he couldn’t explain the need ravening through him, except to acknowledge that he wanted her in the fiercest way. Even after all this time. Despite the possibility that she might be toying with him at Duret’s direction.
For years, he’d resisted her charms because she was Cosmo’s sister. But now, he was tempted to accept what she gave Duret so freely. Ignoring all rational thought, he removed his spectacles and placed them carefully in his pocket. He’d craved her like this for almost as long as he could remember, even though he could no more hold on to her than he could contain air or time or happiness. Tilting his head down, he touched his mouth to hers in a kiss so sweet and simple, it was almost innocent.
But nothing between them had ever been simple. And all innocence had been lost long ago. Her willing lips trembled under his and, on a soft exhale, she opened them, prompting a mix of joy and urgent desire to arrow through him. He pushed inside the satin moisture of her mouth, voracious for her after too many years of abstinence. She tasted like champagne and strawberries and something he couldn’t define that was indisputably unique to her.
His heart pounding, he slipped his arms around her willowy waist and drew her tight against his body. They had always been a perfect fit this way, on account of their almost identical height. Mouth to mouth. Chest to chest. Hip to hip. His prick swelled at the contact and strained toward her feminine softness.
“Elle,” he said because no other words would come. “Elle.”
“Yes,” she said.
He kissed an urgent trail down the column of her throat, tending to the point where her neck met her shoulder because he remembered how well she liked it. She moaned, and if she was acting, she was doing a damn fine job because he believed her. His hand slipped inside her bodice to fondle the soft flesh there. She’d never be buxom, but she had filled out a bit since the last time he’d known her in this way; she was less of a girl.
Every cogent thought flew out of his brain. His self-control vanished. At the moment there was nothing but Elle. His Elle, the woman he’d loved forever who would never be his to cherish. Pressing her back against a tree, he tugged at her bodice with both hands, revealing her small high breasts. He sent up a prayer of gratitude for this French style of dressing that required almost no undergarments. He cupped her soft flesh, runni
ng his thumbs over the raspberry-colored tips. An indecipherable utterance of pleasure that tore from her throat reminded him of just how tender and responsive her breasts were to his touch.
Desire shuddered through him. He ran his tongue down the line of her throat, laying kisses across the top of her chest before reaching the delectable plump flesh. He teased the tip, flicking it with his tongue while he fondled the other breast with his hand. When he took the pearl tip into his mouth, she cried out softly.
He mouthed and laved and worshipped her. Need throbbed in every cell in his body. He could think of nothing but being inside her as quickly as possible. He tore at the placket of his breeches, desperate to bury himself in her feminine warmth.
But the blood began to flow back to his brain, bringing with it some semblance of reason, repeating the dire warnings that this woman could not be trusted. She’d carved his heart out once before. The remembered anguish of her rejection was suddenly as fresh as it had been six years ago. He couldn’t return to that dark place. He dropped his hands.
She leaned into him, warm and languid, her breaths coming in quiet exhalations. She still smelled of violets, her favorite bloom, which she’d cajoled him into picking with her more than once. He inhaled, the elusive powdery scent as ethereal as having Elle in his arms again. Struggling to regulate his ragged breathing, he put his arms around Gerard Duret’s mistress and wondered what any of it meant.
—
Hungry for more and wondering why Will had paused, Elle sought his lips again.
She’d missed his touch, his taste, the warm scent of his skin. For this one brief moment, she wanted to forget everything and pretend nothing else existed in the world except her and Will alone together in her garden.
Sealing her mouth to his, she tasted him with the urgent, seeking motions of her tongue. She sensed an initial reluctance, but then he caught her lower lip between both of his and lightly touched his tongue to it. Sensation rippled through her, and the place between her legs pulsed with urgency. He took control of the intimacy, his kiss hungry and demanding, prompting her legs to lose all sense of balance. He broke the contact and rained small kisses along her cheeks and throat before burying his face in the crook of her neck.
