A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  Sabine tried to think, but it was hard to concentrate with Richard’s mouth pressing butterfly kisses down her stomach and his tongue swirling in a wicked dance over her hipbones.

  Would it hurt? She wasn’t afraid of pain. It couldn’t be worse than trapping a finger in a printing press, or getting lemon juice in a cut when cleaning ink from her hands. But perhaps she should tell him he was her first.

  Presumably one of the reasons he eschewed virgins was because he’d be expected to marry them shortly afterward. Clearly he didn’t have to worry about that with her. But perhaps another reason was that he was simply too big for a virgin to accommodate. Maybe only women with a little experience—

  “Wait,” she panted. “About all those ‘other lovers.’ I haven’t—I mean, I’ve never—”

  She didn’t finish. His hand slid down between her legs. His fingers slid over her core. And he touched her exactly the way she touched herself.

  Sabine’s mouth opened in an astonished O of pleasure as he found the little button that made her jerk and writhe. She closed her eyes and heard a deep sound of longing, then realized with amazement that it had come from herself.

  Oh, God, he was a master. He teased and tormented and she rolled her hips, urging him to go deeper, to ease the building, throbbing ache, but with a wicked, knowing chuckle he withdrew his hand and slid back up her body.

  In one swift move he rolled to one side, removed his breeches, and rolled back on top of her, forearms bracketing her head. Sabine gasped at the feel of hot skin pressing full length on her. She’d never been naked with anyone before.

  He slid against her, between her legs, and she shivered in both anticipation and trepidation. Suddenly impatient, she tilted her hips, urging him on. “Please,” she breathed against his lips.

  With a groan he caught her face between his palms and took her mouth at the same moment he pushed forward and entered her. Sabine tensed, expecting pain, but the slight resistance eased as he slid inside her with a smoothness that left her breathless. She stilled, partly in astonishment, partly in dread that he would call her out for lying to him.

  “Christ, you feel so good,” he whispered. “I have wanted you for so long.”

  Sabine slid her hand down the long line of his back and smiled in relief. The ridges of his muscles were delicious. “Eh bien, you have me, monsieur. Do your worst.”

  Her mocking challenge freed some demon inside him; he started to move.

  “I have you,” he echoed, the rough edge of triumph in his voice. He pulled back and thrust again. Little familiar shivers of delight raced through her.

  “I have you, Philippe Lacorte.” He slid back, then thrust again, plunging deep, and Sabine’s breath caught in her throat. “I have you, Sabine de la Tour.”

  She couldn’t deny it. His fingers pressed into the flesh of her thighs as Pluto’s had done on the statue of Persephone. He drove her upward and she urged him on, recognizing the spark she knew from her own experimenting. When he hit one particular spot inside her that made her buck and writhe, she arched her back and wordlessly encouraged him.

  She didn’t care if this was what she was supposed to do. Didn’t care if all his other women had simply lain beneath him, acquiescent and unmoving. She had to move.

  “Say my name,” he ordered huskily.

  “Richard!” she gasped.

  “Do you want more?”

  Sabine could barely speak. She dug her nails into his back. “Yes!”

  He reclaimed her mouth in a kiss that was both savage and tender. Sabine wrapped her arms around him and gloried in the strength of him, the taste of his skin, the scent of him in her nose.

  It was wonderfully overwhelming. Every sense was full. She wanted him with a fierce desperation that was almost unsettling. She threw her head back, mouth open, eyes closed, and reached, reached for that spark that would send her up in flames. Unbearable tension coiled through her body.

  “God, I can’t wait.” He dropped his head to her shoulder as his movements became almost aggressive, thoroughly uncivilized. He drove into her, and his body shook with a deep and powerful passion. “You make me—”

  He seemed unable to finish that thought and Sabine bit her lower lip, too close herself to even smile at his confusion because her own matched it. He made her something, too. Crazy? Happy? In love?

  “Now, Sabine,” he ordered roughly, “come now.”

  And she did. She hit the peak and trembled there for a split second before she was lost—and simultaneously found. Sparks exploded behind her closed eyelids as her body convulsed around his, the climax familiar, but so much better with him inside her; fuller somehow, all-encompassing.

  In the midst of her own pleasure she dimly realized that he was pulling back from her. She clutched at him with her hands, trying to make him stay, but he withdrew and with a loud, shuddering groan of completion, he pressed himself hard against her stomach.

  Sabine understood the warm wetness against her skin for what it was. Thank God one of them had been thinking of contraception. She hadn’t been thinking at all.

  Chapter 48

  Sabine blinked as her breathing returned to normal and she came to full awareness of where she was. Richard was a wonderful, heavy weight on top of her, but even as she tried to savor the feel of him, he pushed himself up on his arms. She tensed, expecting him to say something, but he rolled away from her, off the bed.

  She stared at his exquisite back as he walked naked across the room, totally unashamed. He was astonishingly beautiful. Her gaze roved his broad shoulders, the long line of his back, the intriguing shadowed indents on his buttocks. Her mouth went dry. She hadn’t had time to really look at him before—everything had happened too quickly. Now she ogled him shamelessly. He was just as she’d imagined when she was drawing him: perfect.

  He poured water from a pitcher into the bowl on the washstand, dipped a washcloth in it and wrung it out, then brought it back to her. Sabine couldn’t tear her eyes away from his naked form. He gazed down at her, apparently amused by her regard.

  “Here, let’s clean you off.”

  Sabine was convinced it was possible to die of mortification. He was obviously used to such casual intimacy, but her cheeks heated as if she were in an inferno as he used the cloth to gently clean her stomach.

  Why feel shy now? Considering what they’d just done, it was beyond foolish. She closed her eyes and pretended she lay naked in bed with men all the time. She was worldly, sophisticated. She’d done this a hundred times.

  Should she return to her bedchamber now? What was the etiquette? She was just debating getting up when Richard drew the covers up and slid into bed next to her. He propped his head on his elbow and regarded her solemnly.

  “That was—” he said, and Sabine tensed for his condemnation, “long overdue. And over far too soon.” He made a rueful face and brushed her hair from her temple. “I place the blame entirely on you.”

  That sounded like criticism, but he bent and placed the softest of kisses on her lips. “You are completely irresistible.”

  Another kiss, this one clinging a little longer. She shivered.

  “Next time, I promise, I will have a lot more stamina.”

  She shot him a haughty look. “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Richard rolled her over onto her side, then tugged her back against his body, fitting them together like nestled spoons. Sabine bit her lip, amazed at the intimacy of the gesture, at how right it felt to be held in the warm circle of his arms. Oh, this was a dangerous game. Far too easy to forget they were only temporary allies. She closed her eyes as he kissed the back of her neck. She had no regrets. But now that he’d had her, would he lose interest?

  —

  Richard closed his eyes, bemused and yet oddly content. Making love to Sabine de la Tour had been as explosive and satisfying as he’d imagined. But at the same time, he couldn’t quite believe his own loss of control.

  He, who was usually the one drawing ou
t his partner’s pleasure, playing and teasing with consummate skill, had barely lasted five minutes. Never before had he been so desperate, so completely driven to have a woman, to take her to the peak of pleasure and give himself in return.

  He felt as though he’d been hit in the head with a shovel—stunned and slightly disoriented. Thank God the one remaining shred of sanity he’d possessed had forced him to withdraw before he climaxed.

  He shook his head, amazed he’d managed even that small gesture of self-preservation. He always used a contraceptive sheath with his mistresses—even though he hated them—because he didn’t want to expose himself to either disease or an illegitimate child.

  He hadn’t even thought about using one tonight. He’d been so caught up in the intensity of the moment, in the savage, driving need to possess Sabine, that it was as if his body had sabotaged his brain. It had been an exquisite pleasure to be inside her with no barriers between them at all.

  Richard frowned against her neck. There were barriers between them, though. Despite the fact that he wanted her again with almost devilish intensity—as though his body had been starved of her touch for so long that he wanted excess of her now—there were still the barriers of lies and half-truths between them. Still deception and mistrust.

  He kissed her temple and enjoyed the way she gave a little shiver. “Where have you hidden the money, Sabine?” he murmured.

  She stiffened in his arms and he cursed himself for having spoken the thought aloud. Her rib cage rose as she inhaled.

  “You think I am so dazed and addled by your lovemaking that I have lost my wits?” she mumbled, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “You’re good, but not that good, Richard Hampden.”

  He slid his hand over her shoulder and down the fascinating undulations of waist and hip. “I don’t suppose you deposited it anywhere as obvious as a bank?”

  She made a scoffing sound. “You think I would trust the Bank of England?” She laughed, a rich, deep sound that he felt all the way down in his gut. And lower. “They’re nothing but bewigged crooks. I’d sooner trust a highwayman.”

  He skimmed his hand back up and cupped her breast. She inhaled sharply and arched her back, pressing herself into him. He squeezed. “Clearly you’re not addled enough,” he teased. “I’ll have to do better.”

  She made a purring murmur of appreciation. “By all means, try. But I warn you, I am not such an easy conquest.”

  He would have been disappointed if she’d caved in to his unsubtle fishing, Richard admitted to himself. He liked the fact that she continued to defy him, challenging him mentally even as she melted in his arms.

  “Well, if we can’t use your fake fortune, what are we going to give to Visconti?”

  She rolled onto her back and frowned at him. “Surely you don’t need any money. Just wait until he tells me where to meet him, then go there and arrest him.”

  “He’s not such a fool. He’ll be expecting to be duped. We’re going to have to prepare some money, either real or fake, for him to inspect. I don’t want any reason for him to think that you’re leading him into a trap.”

  He sighed. “Despite what you think about the limitless depths of my pockets, even I can’t get my hands on half a million pounds at such short notice. And I doubt Castlereagh will allow us to take real notes.” He raked a hand through his hair. “How long would it take for you to forge that much money?”

  “To engrave new printing plates? At least three weeks.”

  Richard swore softly. “Too long.”

  —

  Sabine bit her lip as the desire to help Richard warred with her sense of self-preservation. A man as evil as Visconti undoubtedly needed to be stopped, but if she trusted Richard with yet another of her secrets she would leave herself without a backup plan. Defenseless.

  She closed her eyes in desperation. This unexpected closeness, this desire to share not just her body, but her thoughts and troubles as well, was something she both craved and despised. To be so unguarded and vulnerable was a grave mistake. And yet her heart told her it was time to trust. She’d opened her body to him. Maybe it was time to open her soul a little too.

  “Wait here.”

  Richard made a sound of protest as she slipped out of bed, grabbed her chemise from the floor, and shrugged into it. She wasn’t as comfortable as he was with running around the place naked.

  She found the door by the fireplace that connected her room to his, grateful that she didn’t have to venture into the corridor and risk being seen by the servants.

  Richard gave a confused frown when she returned with her paint box and the two small portraits of her parents that had been on her mantelpiece.

  “Are you going to paint my picture?”

  She was very tempted. He looked delicious, sprawled amongst the sheets, his torso and muscled arms visible. “Not right now.”

  She opened the box, took out a rag, and soaked it in turpentine. He wrinkled his nose at the smell. With a deep breath—and a silent apology to her mother—she swept it over the surface of the first painting. Right across her mother’s face. The paint dissolved beneath the solvent, smearing the delicate features into a hideous, streaky blur.

  Richard sat up in alarm. “What are you doing?” His expression was horrified. “You’re ruining it!”

  Sabine ignored him. She applied more spirits to the rag and repeated the process, rubbing hard at the surface of the painting.

  Richard gaped at her apparent act of desecration. Sabine glanced up at him and smiled. “These are not originals. The real portraits are stored safely in Paris. These are copies I painted myself just a few weeks ago.”

  There was almost no paint left on the surface now. She angled the wooden panel toward him so he could see the smooth layer of gesso, the chalk-based primer she’d used to create a nice flat surface on which to paint.

  Richard still looked mystified, even more so when she dipped the wooden block in the basin of water and began scrubbing at it. The chalky layer gradually fell away to reveal the etched metal plate concealed beneath. Sabine returned to the bed. “It’s a printer’s block.”

  Richard regarded it, then her, in wonder.

  “It is the front side of your English ten-pound note,” she said.

  “I suppose your father,” he tilted his head at the other painting, “conceals the obverse plate?”

  Sabine nodded. Her heart was pounding. “Nobody pays any notice to things that are left unguarded. I don’t know why museums don’t realize that. There’s no surer way to get something stolen than to rope it off with a sign saying ‘do not touch.’ It is irresistible to human nature.”

  “It is to your nature,” he said wryly. “What most normal people interpret as a polite warning, you translate as a direct personal challenge.” He shook his head. “You’re the sort of woman who sees a notice that says ‘please do not walk on the grass’ and immediately sits down for a picnic. You revel in disobeying authority.”

  Sabine couldn’t help but smile at that. He knew her well.

  Richard tilted his head and his tiger eyes warmed her from the inside out. Was she just imagining the approval and respect she saw in them?

  “Are you suggesting that we print our own money, Miss de la Tour?” he asked gravely. “Because that would be counterfeiting. On a grand scale.”

  His face was serious, but the curl at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

  “Can you think of another way of coming up with half a million pounds by next week?”

  His hair flopped across his forehead as he shook his head, and Sabine’s fingers itched to reach out and smooth it back. He collapsed on the pillows with a pained, resigned expression. “All right, you little criminal. You win. What else do you need?”

  Sabine’s heart stuttered with elation. “We’ll need a press. Can you get access to a newspaper office or printing shop?”

  “I expect so. What else?”

  “Paper and ink.”

  “It shall
be done.”

  A strange silence descended between them and Sabine cleared her throat, suddenly awkward. “Well, I, ah, suppose I should return to my rooms, then.”

  If he was disappointed, he didn’t show it. She waited for him to issue a denial, to open his arms and beckon her back to the bed. He did neither.

  “Good night.”

  She felt his gaze on her back as she crossed to the panel door, but he said nothing more. Back in her own bed, she buried her nose in the sheets and tried to assimilate the evening’s astonishing chain of events. She was no longer a virgin. And Richard hadn’t even noticed.

  Perversely, she wasn’t sure whether she was disappointed by that or not. It might have been nice for him to have appreciated the fact that she’d chosen him as her first lover. Then again, he might have treated her differently if he’d known. He might have stopped entirely, and she wouldn’t have traded his passionate, uninhibited haste for anything.

  It had been more than she’d ever imagined. Compared to her solo efforts, his lovemaking was a full-orchestra symphony as opposed to a single, scratchy violin. There was no doubt that he could be dangerously addictive. Her body was still warm, aching, pleasantly replete. She already wanted a rematch.

  Chapter 49

  “Where are we?” Sabine demanded as the carriage rocked to a halt. She peered out at a row of shop fronts.

  “Cheapside.” Richard lowered the step and jumped down, then turned to assist her. He led her to the nearest shop, whose many-paned windows displayed a proliferation of prints and satirical cartoons. The painted sign read THOMAS TEGG, BOOKS & PRINTS.

  He produced a key from his pocket and unlocked the front door. Sabine followed him inside and immediately felt at ease. The shop smelled wonderfully familiar, like Carnaud’s—a mix of leather, glue, sheet paper, printing ink, and vanilla, with a faint overlaying mustiness.

  Ignoring the shelves of books and easels displaying scurrilous prints, Richard rounded the wooden counter and beckoned her into the back room.