“She’s quite a bit larger than a pea in the pod.” As Exeter palpitated, he smiled down at her. “At this point, you may be feeling more pressure and an occasional, sharp little twinge—that would be the infant turning her head.”
America nodded. “Yes, I have felt both the twinge and the pressure.”
“All completely normal, nothing to worry over.” He slid his fingers up into her vaginal canal. A bit wide-eyed, America inhaled a breath. Exeter gently palpitated. “Your cervix has softened a good deal—I suspect there may be some dilation, as well.”
He glanced at Mia, who was leaning over his shoulder, all round eyes and flushed cheeks. Her towel had slipped off a shoulder, exposing a lovely shaped breast and a hint of beige nipple. “And how are you holding up, my dear?” he asked.
“I’m . . . completely and utterly . . . enthralled, Doctor Exeter.” Mia moved up beside him. “Might I—watch?”
“Even better, I shall put you to work.” Exeter reached for his bag and pulled out a bar covered in paper. “Extracted from the cacao bean. Cocoa butter.” He peeled back the wrapper and placed the waxy square on America’s distended belly. He gently pressed it to her skin and circled slowly. “Her body heat will cause the bar to melt as you stroke her skin.” Exeter showed Mia how to use her fingers and massage. “This conditions the skin and prevents striae—red marks from the skin being stretched.” Exeter handed Mia the cocoa butter. “The baby will enjoy the rubdown, as well.”
“Mmm, like a cup of hot chocolate.” Mia inhaled the scent as she smoothed the bar over America’s belly. A sudden bump sent Mia upright. “Oh, my!”
Chapter Fourteen
“I BELIEVE I AM IN A STUPOR OF EUPHORIA.” Mia sat comfortably beside Exeter as the carriage turned onto Rue de la Paix. “America’s belly ripe with child, tight as drum—when I massaged her with the cocoa butter and the baby kicked, oh, Exeter, I felt so close to the life inside her.”
She suspected she looked a bit glassy-eyed, even dreamy, and for some inexplicable reason, she could not let go of her reverie. “Apologies for rabbiting on, but . . .” Mia caught Exeter staring at her over the top of his news sheet. “Did you feel it, too—during the exam?”
“There is great delight in the birthing of babies.” Lowering the paper, he used his enigmatic smile—the unbelievably attractive one. “Something stirring about a new life, I suppose.” He calmly returned to his reading. How could he possibly be so nonchalant about such an experience? She could only wonder at how miraculous a birth must be.
She blinked at him. “Exeter, you were brilliant with America. Sensitive and thoughtful. I very much suspect those stiff-collared Harley Street physicians aren’t half as competent as you are. Why on earth did you decide not to practice? A specialty in women’s medicine—relief from hysteria, perhaps?” Mia grinned. “Good Lord, they’d be lined up around the block hoping for a massage by Doctor Exeter.”
Exeter snapped his paper, though he cracked enough of a smile to cause a deep crease and a glorious dimple—glorious for its rarity. He lowered his paper. “Did the exam bother you?”
Mia returned his gaze. “At first I was curious—” A thought stopped her speech, and nearly left her breathless. “You’ve no idea what a marvel you are.” There had been a lighthearted reverence in the way he examined America. After locating the baby’s head position, he’d taken her hand and pressed it to her belly. “Do you talk to the baby often? My mother sang Persian songs to me in the womb.”
Responding to the doctor’s query, America had propped herself up on her elbows. “Are you smiling at Doctor Exeter, Luna?”
And when he found the baby’s head, he advised, “I suspect it won’t be long now. My best guess is a few days . . . or a few weeks.” Exeter had smiled at the disappointed look. “Nature nearly always makes doctors look a bit dotty when it comes to predicting the onset of labor, so I leave it sketchy.”
After the exam, he’d grinned at America. “So you have decided on the name Luna . . . even if it’s a boy?”
America had exhaled a funny, exasperated sigh. “She is definitely a girl. Phaeton met our daughter in the Outremer. As he was sucked into Lovecraft’s transporter, his last words to me were: ‘Her name is Luna . . . let go of me, America.’ ”
Having never heard this story before, both she and Exeter had exchanged glances. Mia had swallowed a rather large lump in her throat. “You never told us, America.”
“I couldn’t speak of it until now—without crying.”
Exeter had folded America’s clothes and helped her into Mia’s wrapper. “Take a good long nap—doctor’s orders.” He had seen her down the hall and returned to their room for a quick bath. They’d dressed in relative silence for her appointment with Charles Fredrick Worth of Maision Worth, the famous couturier of Rue de la Paix.
Mia rocked against him as the carriage braked in front of the salon. “You were born to be a physician, Doctor Exeter—a healer. I’ve never seen you as joyful in your lab.”
He arched a supercilious brow. “That is because my work on blood typing is a serious matter.”
“Indeed. So very serious, you rarely leave your laboratory except for fencing twice a week. Or your standing appointment at Shaftesbury Court.”
The very mention of his arrangement with Mrs. Parker caused the cat to stir inside her and Exeter to lower his paper. “Do you suppose there will be time this afternoon to purchase pretty matching undergarments for your gowns?” He folded his paper and tossed it onto the seat, opposite. There was a sparkle in his eyes that caused her heart to flutter inside her chest. He helped her down from the carriage.
“A clever way to change the subject, Doctor.”
He placed her hand through his arm. “Clever, I think not. I have in mind something more bestial in nature.”
Was it just her imagination, or was he flirting with her?
Exeter checked his hat with a footman in House of Worth livery and helped Mia out of her coat. Her essence had changed recently. He no longer considered her his charge. Instead, he thought about her night and day, in the most carnal ways possible.
“Ah! Baron de Roos, you have arrived.” They both turned toward the effusive gentleman wearing a velvet beret over thinning gray hair. He flourished a courtly bow and turned toward Mia. “Charles Worth, at your service.”
Exeter was faintly amused. “Allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Anatolia Exeter, Baroness de Roos.”
“Baroness.” Worth kissed the back of her hand. The couturier batted his eyelashes and continued to view Mia with a good deal of regard. “The salon is right this way.” The man gestured and led them through a gallery that opened onto an elegant room, styled after a lady’s boudoir and papered in an intricate chinois motif. Several settees were arranged around a low dais that ran the length of the room.
A matronly lady of obvious aristocracy sat on an opposite sofa, attended by a handsome gentleman many years her junior. “May I introduce La Contessa di Castiglione, and her escort, Etienne Artois?”
Exeter’s bow stiffened as Worth made introductions. The modiste continually returned to admire Mia’s lithe frame. “Quelle beauté!” he murmured. “May I?” He lifted her chin and turned her cheek. “Observe the length of curve from shoulder up the nape—très élégant—a swan.”
“She will make a show of your gowns in London, Charles,” the Contessa remarked. “And you will make another fortune this season.”
Mia nudged Exeter with her elbow. “You’re glaring.”
“Indeed.” He murmured under his breath. “Escort—is that what they’re calling male prostitutes in Paris these days?”
Mia leaned into him. “If I’m not mistaken, the Contessa is a former mistress of Napoleon the third.”
“Quite the pair.” He harrumphed.
“Mmm, almost as scandalous as you and I.” Mia sipped her tea and sneaked in an eye-roll.
The first model entered the salon from behind a curtained backdrop. “A vision in apr
icot.” Charles Worth spun a mesmerizing tale of exotic fabrics and intricate embroideries as gown after gown was presented for their approval.
As models traveled through the room, they came close enough for Mia to examine the exquisite artistry, impeccable drapery, and tailoring of the House of Worth. She chose several morning frocks, afternoon and tea gowns, as well as a sleek champagne-colored evening gown. It was cut narrow with a draped apron that gathered above the bustle, in the shape of a rose.
Exeter was quite taken with the evening wear and chose a black velvet opera cape, embroidered with graceful sprays of gold and red flowers. “Tulipes Hollandaises,” Worth called it. He also fancied a daring gown with plunging neckline, front and back—and a corset so beautifully embroidered it was designed to be seen.
The Italian countess admonished Exeter with a chuckle. “You will have all of London ogling the baroness.”
Mia sat up, pressing her hand to his arm. Something blue was headed their way—an understated froth of a gown strolled through the room. Embroidered silver dragonflies shimmered through a thin layer of transparent overdress. And the décolleté? Exeter imagined perky round globes and a hint of cleavage. His sudden surge of arousal, however, was very real. He turned to Mia, who tore her eyes off the dress long enough to meet his gaze. Yes.
After a near endless parade of evening wear, the showing was finally over. Mia was shuttled into a fitting room to be measured, as Exeter finalized their purchases. He inhaled a quick gasp—twice as much as he imagined. He nodded to Worth, “I look forward to seeing Anatolia in the loveliest gowns money can buy.”
“Absolument! Stunning on such a beautiful baroness.” Worth took him on a tour of the back rooms, ending in the fitting area, where Mia was being measured by two female seamstresses. She stood with her arms out, in camisole corset and petticoat, and she was listening quite intently. There was to be a fitting in the next few days—and another, in London, by a House of Worth–approved seamstress, who would unpack the wardrobe and make final alterations.
“Ah, here you are!” The Contessa wove a path around stacks of fabric rolls and cutting tables. “You must both come to my soiree—très intimate—this evening, eight rue de Talleyrand.”
Following close behind the Contessa, Etienne Artois hadn’t taken his eyes off Mia. “Baroness, you would not, by any chance, be an acquaintance of the Countess of Bath?” Exeter quickly made his way to Mia.
“Why yes, I know Lisbeth, as well as her sister Phoebe.”
“Ah, Phoebe—she is a minx, that one, but also enchanting.”
The Contessa’s prostitué stepped forward, just as Exeter swept Mia off the podium. Gripping her elbow, he led Mia to a smaller stall and pulled the curtain. “Any additional measurements will be taken in the changing room.”
Artois reluctantly backed away. “I did not mean to offend Baron de Roos.”
The Contessa chuckled, “Anglais, always so serious! Please do bring your lovely wife tonight and help us celebrate, oui?” The bold woman snapped her fan shut and left the room on the arm of her escort.
Mia opened the curtain enough to poke out her head. “I’m so sorry, Exeter—I didn’t think—until it was too late.” Her cheeks flushed with pink.
He could kick himself. “This is my fault, I should not have continued the Baroness de Roos . . . ruse.”
Mia’s brows lifted in amusement, then crashed together. “But what are we to do? Our elopement—”
He winced at the word elopement.
“Exeter, you know that is what they’ll call it. The gossip will be all over Mayfair.”
He could almost hear the tittle-tattle being tapped out in Morse code, traveling by undersea cable, arriving in Mayfair days ahead of them. In no mood to think about the scandal they had just created, he shrugged. He would think about it later.
For the rest of the afternoon, he escorted Mia up and down the Rue de la Paix, dutifully carrying hatboxes and opening shop doors. But whenever they were alone in the carriage, he managed to do a great deal of grumbling.
“Exeter, I have apologized profusely, I don’t know what more—”
“This is my problem—I’ll figure something out.”
“Why can’t it be our problem? I can ignore the snide remarks and whispers if you can.”
Exeter looked at her for a moment. “Just let me grouse a bit, Mia. I am responsible for your well-being and happiness and—”
“And, I’d be a great deal happier without your grousing and grumbling.” Mia appeared exasperated—then her lips curled upward, and her eyes crinkled. “Are we bickering, Exeter?”
He could not resist her. Locked in her impish grin, he cracked a half smile. “Where to now?”
Mia checked her list. “Hermine Cadolle. Seventy-one, rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin.”
“More hats?” He didn’t groan, exactly.
“Lingerie.” Mia stuffed the notes in her reticule. “We don’t have to—”
“Skip the one shop I’ve been looking forward to all day?” He tapped on the trapdoor of the carriage. “Seventy-one, rue de la Chaussée-d’Antin.”
Madame Cadolle’s proved to be well worth the wait. Not only were there exquisite corsets and brief pantalettes made of silk and handmade lace, but the woman had invented something new—a two-piece undergarment called le bien-être. The lower part was a corset for the waist and the upper supported the breasts by means of shoulder straps.
After an arousing, near naked fitting for Mia, his smile had returned, though he was perhaps more on edge than ever. He had sat in rapt attention as Mia’s breasts were stuffed, plumped, and lifted into corsets, camisoles, and yes, even le bien-être.
On the way back to their hotel, he exhaled a breath and checked his timepiece. “After four o’clock.”
Mia gazed out the carriage window. “There is almost no place in Paris one can travel and not see the Eiffel Tower.” She looked a bit pale in the afternoon light.
“You must be exhausted from all the shopping and fittings.” Exeter noted the furrow in her brow, a sign of a headache. “How are the two of you feeling?”
Mia continued her gaze out the window. “Soon, Exeter.”
Good God. He was hard from her answer. The hot blood of pure lust burned in his veins. He’d spent the day admiring beautiful gowns and underthings—imagining Mia in all of them. No wonder he was irritable. Yesterday, he had let her handle his cock, bring him some relief, and already he thought of her as his concubine.
Inside the hotel, Exeter arranged for their packages to be brought up. He pocketed a few messages and joined Mia at the stairs. On the sixth floor, Tim Noggy answered the door looking a bit deflated.
“What’s wrong?” Exeter asked.
He shook his head. “The bugs are on the move—it’s just that they’re slow. We’re not going to have a bead on Prospero’s hideout until morning.” Tim led the way to the dining room. Jersey, Valentine, and America already sat at the table. “Sorry we’re late.” Mia sat down.
“You haven’t missed much.” Tim rolled the pocket doors closed. “As I said—the bugs are slower than anticipated.”
Exeter moved around the table to get a closer look at the activity in the catacombs. The electronic map displayed a flurry of tiny green dots moving at a snail’s pace. “How long before they run out of power?”
Tim stuck his lower lip out. “Ten, twelve more hours.”
Exeter turned away from the map. “Cutting it close, Noggy.”
The big man’s eyes flicked toward the ceiling and over to the map. “You’re telling me . . . Doc.”
“Where’s Ping?”
“He’s having a walk through the catacombs from the Outremer.” Valentine offered.
“I expect Prospero has some sort of forbidding presence in the Outremer.” Exeter fished in his pocket and opened a gilt-edged envelope. “A formal invite from the La Contessa di Castiglione . . . who likely worked as a spy for Napoleon the third—no doubt she—”
�
��Got the hotel name from Charles Worth.” Mia pressed her lips together and stifled a laugh.
Exeter moved on to the next message, but not before he shot Mia a look across the table—the spanking look. “This one is— ah! We are all welcome to visit the exhibits at the exposition grounds, including Mr. Eiffel’s Tower, compliments of L’Hôtel Claude.”
Exeter crumpled the notepaper and opened the next. He read the words once to himself, and then read them again, out loud. “ ‘Meet me at L’Enfer tonight.’ Signed, Phaeton Black.” Exeter surveyed the room and didn’t bother to pose a question. It was obvious the note was a tempting trap of some kind.
America’s tawny cheeks drained of color. “Phaeton wants us to meet him in Hell?”
Chapter Fifteen
“IT APPEARS HELL HAS A STREET ADDRESS.” Exeter handed the missive to America. “Fifty-five Boulevard de Clichy.”
Valentine read the note over America’s shoulder. “If memory serves, Boulevard de Clichy is in Montmartre.”
Exeter searched for the bell pull. “Perhaps one of the staff can enlighten us further.”
“A café of ill repute, messieurs.” The young maid stated in a whisper. “In Montmartre—the Pigalle—le secteur de lumière rouge.”
“The red-light district.” America’s almond-shaped eyes perused the ceiling. “Phaeton shall feel right at home.”
“As well as the devilishly wicked Prospero.” Exeter handed the girl a few coins and saw her out of the suite. This last invite was intriguing, but more than that, the message felt . . . diabolical. It deliberately dared them to come after Phaeton. As Exeter paced the dining room, he noted a small black dot, high up on the wall. The dot moved—just a fly. He changed direction, and halted.
Just a fly . . . on the wall.
The Miss Education of Dr. Exeter (Paranormal Investigator) Page 13
