And still stung after all this time no matter how hard she’d tried to forget it.
She loathed everything about the older twin.
A self-indulgent roué. Coldhearted. Arrogant and callous to the core. There was nothing appealing about Joseph d’Alumbert. He bore none of the fine qualities Vincent had. The mere thought of Joseph touching her filled her with rage. With outrage. With stomach-churning revulsion.
They’d reached the grand staircase, and he was beginning to lead her up the stairs. She’d gone no farther than the second step when she yanked her hand away as if it burned, surprising him with her action.
“I know it is against the rules, but I’ll need your name before we proceed,” she said, amazed her voice didn’t quiver, alerting him to her discomposure. If this was Joseph, she’d feign a malady and remove herself from his distasteful presence. Posthaste.
He glanced past her and scanned the crowded vestibule, then returned his gaze to hers. A slow grin formed on his mouth and he leaned in. She tensed. “It is against the rules,” he said softly in her ear. “And it is me, Vincent.”
Joseph pulled back and was immediately bedazzled by the sheer radiance of Emilie’s smile. Beguiling green eyes—a combination of innocent sensuality—stared back at him through her mask, mirroring her content.
“I was wrong . . .” she said, more to herself than him. Then a sound of jubilation squeaked out her throat. She threw her arms around him, her soft body colliding against his, taking him off guard. With a grunt, he grabbed her waist and caught his balance just in time to keep them from tumbling down the stairs; his experienced hands instantly noted a delectable female shape.
“I’m so delighted it’s you, Vincent,” she said in his ear, seemingly unconcerned by their near fall. The soft scent of lavender emanated from her skin and tantalized his senses. She pulled away. “Come. I have something to show you.” Grabbing hold of his hand, she raced up the stairs.
Accustomed to others ceding authority to him, Joseph found himself the one being led up the grand staircase. Dieu, not your usual greeting. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, amused by her antics despite himself. She was as delightfully unconventional in person as she was in her letters. This was, after all, “Vincent” and Emilie’s first real meeting.
This was also Joseph and Emilie’s first real meeting.
There hadn’t been a real meeting ten years ago. Just a horrible fiasco.
Her warm hand securely holding his own, she briskly walked ahead of him down the upstairs corridor, the shapeless cloak enveloping her form ruffling with each rapid step she took.
He shouldn’t be here with her. He shouldn’t have attended the Comtesse’s masquerade because of her. Most assuredly, he should have ceased his letters long ago. And he was bent on believing it was nothing more than guilt that motivated the heightened attention he gave her.
Looking back every so often, she flashed him a smile. His groin tightened. This was the closest he’d been to her in a decade, and her mouth grabbed his focus every time she glanced his way. Dieu. There was no denying it. She had a pretty mouth. So lush. So perfect.
The kind of mouth that could give a man hours of carnal pleasure.
Emilie reached her door and pulled him inside her private rooms.
It was late afternoon and the sun shone from the tall windows in the antechamber, giving the motifs adorning the walls of white and gold a warm glow.
“I’m so pleased you found me.” She stopped in the middle of the antechamber, and released his hand. Oddly, he had the urge to grab hold of it again. “I’ve only just arrived and I was hoping I’d see you sooner rather than later. I’m glad I mentioned I’d be wearing a yellow cloak in my letter. Clearly it made it easy for you to find me.”
Yellow cloak? He’d forgotten. He’d been too stunned by her plan to remember the details of her intended wardrobe.
With her usual smile on her distracting mouth, she pulled off her mask, tossing it onto a nearby settee, then her wig.
A mass of flaxen-colored curls tumbled out, looking so soft he wanted to reach out and play with a silky lock. Joseph drank in her visage. It was less girlish, more womanly now. Big fathomless green eyes. Hair as pale as moonlight. She was ravishing.
She had the face of an angel.
Taking hold of both his hands, she gave them an affectionate squeeze.
“Your turn,” she said. “Remove your mask, Vincent.”
His brows shot up in surprise. That sounded a lot like a command, not something he would have responded to favorably had someone else dared. But no one else would dare to make demands of any of Richard d’Alumbert, Duc de Vernant’s sons. One of the most powerful men in the realm.
For the life of him, Joseph had no idea why he found her non-conforming ways charming.
But he did.
Was this forwardness simply the way she was? Or had she been secluded for so long that she wasn’t accustomed to the usual rules of etiquette?
Joseph pulled off his mask, tossed it carelessly at the settee, and returned her smile.
Instantly, Emilie’s smile dissolved. She took a step back.
Her reaction astonished him. “Emilie?”
Her smile returned. Not as bright. Nor as natural. “I’m sorry . . . it’s just that . . .” She shook her head and waved off the rest of her sentence.
He frowned. “It’s just what?” he pressed.
“It’s nothing really. It’s just . . . well, when you removed your mask, it felt as though I was staring at Joseph.”
Merde.
“I know that’s silly. You’re identical . . .”
Not identical. Not in her eyes. In her eyes, Joseph was loathsome. He didn’t know which bothered him more, that she despised him—when he shouldn’t care a whit what she thought. Or that deep down inside, he couldn’t fault her for the way she felt.
At some point during the last year he’d connected with her, when he’d normally maintained a comfortable level of detachment in all his dealings with women. This was yet another example of how far he’d let matters veer off course with this particular female.
Something he needed to rectify where she was concerned.
He was too uncomfortably aware of her. Too in tune with her emotions for his liking.
He wanted to snap the disconcerting connection.
“Actually, I’m far better looking than my brother,” he jested, trying to leaven the moment and take the stricken look from her face.
She burst into a laugh. A delicate sound he found appealing. “Well, now that we’ve established that, I have something I want you to see.” She walked over to the writing desk.
He followed her, and tried to ignore her arousing scent.
“I asked my maid to unpack my books first,” she said. “I wanted to show you a very special volume.” Emilie leaned forward, searching through the books that were piled on the desk. Her cloak gaped open. Joseph got an instant view. Just above the décolletage of her gown he saw the top curves of her breasts. The sweetest, most tempting tits. And even more surprising, the expanse of lovely—unmarred—skin.
Lavender-scented skin.
His cock stiffened. Joseph yanked his gaze to the stacks of books on the desk, in need of a distraction. He’d be damned if he was going to think about what else he’d find appealing under all those clothes. He’d thought about her body too many times, her scars be damned, especially on those nights when her innocent—yet so stirringly sensual—letters had him on fire. Asking him unabashed questions about sex. Confiding in him how and where she wanted to be touched. Taken.
There was no way he would allow her to torment him any more than she already was.
“Really. And what volume might that be?” he asked. A discussion about books was good. A neutral subject. One that wouldn’t drive him to distraction.
“Ah, here it is.” Picking up a book, she opened it and held up an illustration for him to see.
Before him was a graphic depictio
n of a naked woman bent over the edge of a bed while a man took her from behind.
Jésus-Christ.
“It’s an erotic text,” she announced.
No argument there. His eager prick gave a hungry throb in full agreement, as it strained harder against his breeches.
She placed the book down on the desk, open to the inciting illustration. “I didn’t realize there were so many positions to do this in.” Her delicate brow furrowed. “I don’t care for this one.” She flipped a few pages forward. “I like pages five to twelve.” Slowly she turned the pages, showing him her “favorites.”
Heated illustration.
After heated illustration.
No doubt about it. Emilie would surely derive a measure of satisfaction if she knew the amount of torture she was presently inflicting on Joseph.
“Oh, and I like this one,” she said, tapping the page. “This one” was a woman being taken while standing. Her back was against the wall as her lover drove his cock into her core. “Have you done this one, Vincent?”
All right. Enough was enough. Joseph closed the book, shutting out the stimulating images. The ones racing through his brain were another matter. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
“I’m not going to answer that.” Thanks to Emilie, he hadn’t had sex in nearly two weeks—if you added the travel time it took to arrive at the Comtesse’s country estate and last night’s baffling eve of abstinence. He was ready to climb out of his skin. The last thing he was going to do was engage in a sexual conversation with her. Not when images of Emilie’s breasts and the damned depiction of the couple fucking against the wall were running rampant in his head. Only he was picturing taking this highly inquisitive virgin just the way she wanted. By God, he had the most powerful urge to sink his length into her, wondering just how tight her untried passage would be.
Her moss green eyes widened. “Oh? Why not? You’ve always answered my sexual questions before.”
True. But that was through their correspondence. And not when she was standing in front of him looking like a sweet temptress, smelling better than any woman had a right to. His fingers itched to fist that silky blond hair, tilt her head back, and feast on that luscious mouth.
He resented her ability to so effortlessly inflame him the way she did.
He was changing the subject.
“Why are you showing me this volume, Emilie?” There had to be a reason, other than to drive him mad.
Her smile returned to her comely face. “Because I know you have misgivings about my plans here. And as much as I appreciate your concern, I have the matter well in hand. As you can see, I’ve studied everything thoroughly. I am well prepared.”
“Well prepared? You’re contemplating having sex. Not going into battle, ma belle.”
Emilie froze, his words unbalancing her.
Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. Had he just called her . . . my beauty? No one had ever called her that. In fact, they’d called her just the opposite.
What could he possibly see that was beautiful?
There hadn’t been a day in her life she’d felt pretty, much less beautiful . . . well, maybe just one time. One night. But it had turned from a dream to a nightmare.
You fool, he’s simply being kind. Because that’s what Vincent is. Kind. And he is—gracious God—pure male perfection . . .
Though she was trying, it was impossible to ignore his tall sculpted form. His dark hair and knee-weakening blue eyes. Or the heat he inspired low in her belly. Vincent d’Alumbert was as disarming in person as he was in his letters.
His appeal wasn’t tainted—like his brother Joseph’s—by poor character.
And she was drawn to him. Intensely so.
He’s waiting for a response, Emilie. Answer him . . . She cleared her throat and collected her wits. “I’m quite aware I’m not going into battle. I’m simply trying to assure you that I am fully knowledgeable about the subject of sex and seduction. Thanks to your answers as to what a man likes in bed, and my books, I am prepared to proceed.”
He sighed. “Emilie—”
She silenced him by pressing a finger against his sensuous mouth. So warm and firm. Emilie tamped down the regret that surged inside her heart, knowing full well she’d never experience a kiss from this man. No man would knowingly indulge in an amorous encounter with Charred and Scarred Emilie de Sarron. The only way for her to have some pleasure of her own was to be with a man who didn’t know her. Didn’t know she’d been in a fire. “I know what you’re going to say. One needs to experience sex to be truly knowledgeable.” Reluctantly, she removed her finger. She liked touching him. A little too much for her own good. “I agree wholeheartedly. That is why I’m going to have my first experience tonight.”
He scrubbed a hand down his face. “Emilie, there is nothing wrong with anonymous sex. People do it all the time. But a man is going to want . . .” Vincent faltered.
“To have me naked,” she supplied.
“Exactly. It’s part of the pleasure. Skin against skin. Sex involves the senses, touch, taste, smell, sight. A man is going to want to see—”
“I’ll manage.” The words came out sharper than she’d intended. She didn’t want to be abrupt, but his comments were undermining her confidence. And being in the presence of this beguiling man—whose letters oozed charm and had made her laugh, who’d impressed her with his intellect and honesty, and who’d given her the most tantalizing insight into a man’s mind during sex—made it difficult to concentrate on her plan.
The allure of Vincent d’Alumbert was even stronger in person than she’d imagined. And she had to resist it. It was bad enough her feelings for him ran deeper than she’d like. She wasn’t going to dwell on what she couldn’t have in her life—a man of her own.
This delicious man.
Why long for something that was impossible? Instead, she was going to focus on what she could have.
And she could have some bliss in her life.
Nothing was going to stop her.
“You are a dear friend, Vincent,” she said. “You’ve done a great deal for me already and . . . I loathe to ask for a favor. Or rather two favors . . .”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “What two favors?”
“I know you want me to succeed. But if I’m to concentrate on finding the right man to give myself to, I need you to keep Joseph away.”
He stiffened slightly. “And . . . ?”
She smiled. “Oh, and I need you to help me choose a lover.”
3
Merde! He must be mad, utterly insane, to have come here and made himself a party to this!
Joseph stalked down the corridor on his way to the dining hall. The “favors” she’d requested had echoed in his head since he left her. Hours later, his ire was full blown. White-hot. Prickling his skin.
Help me choose a lover. The hell he would! He didn’t care how troubled his conscience was. He would not do her bidding. He didn’t do anyone’s bidding.
And he certainly did not find women their bed sport.
Dieu! She’d actually asked for his help in finding someone to bed her.
He could only imagine the amusement his brothers would derive from learning a woman had made that request of him.
Chatter and laughter emanated from the dining hall, violin music drifting through the din. Joseph secured his demi-mask in place just before he reached the threshold.
I need you to keep Joseph away . . .
Oh, he was going to stay away, all right. No problem there.
Once and for all he was going to stop voicing his concerns. In fact, he wasn’t going to be concerned. He wasn’t going to think about her attempts to be debauched tonight. Or how disastrously it might turn out.
For his involvement ten years ago, he owed her an apology—one he couldn’t even offer because she wanted nothing to do with Joseph—but that was all. He didn’t owe her a lover.
He wasn’t getting involved with this plan of hers. No
matter what.
She was a grown woman. She’d made her decision.
And he was making his: He’d decided Emilie de Sarron had occupied his thoughts long enough. She wasn’t going to be a mental distraction anymore. Or a physical one. While she gave herself to God knows who and attempted God knows which sex act she’d chosen from her book, Joseph was going to do what he should have been doing at the Comtesse’s masquerade from the start.
Delving into some much-needed sexual oblivion.
Joseph entered the grand dining hall. The mirrors on the walls reflected the candlelight from the wall sconces and the silver candelabras on the long linen-covered dining table that ran down the center of the room. The noise in the room was more boisterous than the usual noble gathering. No formalities or respectable social conduct on display here. Not when the purpose of the evening meal was to find a partner or partners for carnal entertainment afterward.
Open fondling and flirting were everywhere.
Joseph marched straight to his usual seat near the head of the table. His brothers and his friend, Georges, Marquis d’Attel, occupied the chairs near him.
“There you are. I was beginning to wonder if you were going to show up,” Vincent said. “We still don’t know where you disappeared to last night.”
Into a brandy decanter. Fool that he was.
Joseph snatched the crystal goblet off the table and held it up. A servant was quick to appear and fill the vessel with wine. He downed it, and held it up again for more, eager to take the edge off his vexation. The sooner his irritation subsided, the sooner he could begin to enjoy himself. It surprised even him just how furious he was. And he refused to dwell on or attempt to decipher why her requests had made him this incensed. “I’ve been occupied. And last night is none of your concern.”
The Princess in His Bed Page 12
