A Counterfeit Heart

by K. C. Bateman

  “I have no money!” she wailed.

  “You have three hundred pounds from selling that diamond necklace,” he said dryly.

  “I gave half of it to Anton.”

  His lips quirked. “Very well, I’ll accept a hundred and fifty pounds as your dowry.” His thumb stroked her jaw, a mesmerizing petal-soft caress. “Sweetheart, I have enough money for both of us. And if you marry me, half of everything I own will become yours anyway.”

  Her throat closed up at the expression on his face—fierce and tender at once.

  “You already own half my soul,” he whispered. “It seems only fair you should get half of everything else as well.” The dimple reappeared. “And maybe giving you access to real money will curb your unnatural inclination to make your own.”

  His smile warmed her from the inside out.

  “I cannot imagine anyone else as my wife. Show me another woman who could do what you have done. Show me a woman I can admire and respect as much as you. There is none.”

  She opened her mouth to argue, but he forestalled her with a teasing finger over her lips.

  “And don’t tell me you’ll never get used to signing another name, because we both know that’s not true. You already have my surname down to a fine art.”

  She stamped her foot in frustration. “Richard! You’re not listening!”

  “No. I’m not,” he said amiably. “Because you’re talking nonsense.” He lowered his head so his lips were almost on hers. “I love the way you say my name. ‘Ree-shard.’ Say it always. Just like that.”

  Sabine gripped her skirts so she didn’t throw herself into his arms. “I am going back to Paris,” she said shakily.

  “Je t’aime,” he whispered against her mouth.

  “Oh, don’t,” she breathed desperately. The way he spoke French made her insides liquefy.

  He switched back to English. “It doesn’t matter what language I say it in. The meaning’s the same.” He pressed a kiss against her jaw and Sabine closed her eyes, hardly daring to trust the treacherous sensations unfurling inside her. Happiness was flowing through her like warm honey.

  “Ti amo,” he murmured. “That’s Italian. Te amo. That’s Spanish.” His large hands cradled her face. Another kiss, closer to her mouth. “I love you,” he groaned. “I can’t pinpoint the exact moment, but somewhere in the middle of all of this madness it stopped being fake and started being real. It’s got nothing to do with my brain and everything to do with what’s in my chest.”

  “Your lungs?” she added helpfully, unable to resist teasing.

  “My heart, you wretch!” He scowled and tilted her jaw to press a hot kiss just below her ear. She shivered.

  “Useless, disobedient organ that it is. My heart wants you. Needs you. And since I need it to keep on beating, you’re just going to have to marry me. That’s all there is to it.” His breath warmed her lips. “You know how relentless I am when it comes to pursuing something I want.”

  Sabine felt like her heart was breaking and re-forming at the same time. Elation and a wild recklessness bubbled up inside her. “I suppose becoming a viscount’s wife would be a good way to avoid future prosecution—”

  His lips cut her off. His arms went around her and his mouth plundered hers, demanding and coaxing a response, igniting the need that had been building between them for days. Sabine didn’t even think of denying him. Her whole body rose to meet his, every sinew aching to get closer, urgency replacing languor. His lips shaped hers and his tongue probed her mouth, advancing and retreating in a desperate rhythm that made her blood heat white-hot in an instant.

  “Say yes,” he panted, lowering himself into the chair and tugging her down so she straddled him in a flurry of rustling skirts. “Say you’ll marry me.”

  Sabine caught his lower lip in her teeth and gasped as his hands slipped down her back and slid beneath her skirts. He cupped her bottom and arched his hips, bringing her into full, shameless contact with his arousal through his breeches. She rolled her hips, grinding onto him. They both groaned.

  She speared her fingers through his hair and tugged his head back, struggling for control when all she wanted to do was surrender. “Your rules for bedding women need to change,” she managed to gasp as his wicked fingers slid up her thighs.

  “How so?”

  She could barely speak—he’d found her core. He teased and slid. “No wives and no virgins, you said.”

  “Let me amend that,” he panted. He fumbled with the buttons of his falls, impatience robbing him of his usual grace. He sprang free, hot and silky-hard between her thighs, and Sabine reached down and encircled him with her fingers, amazed at her own boldness. He felt wonderful—an intriguing contradiction of hard and soft at once. She gave an experimental stroke and he hissed through his teeth.

  “God, that feels good.”

  A flash of exultant pleasure warmed her. She did this to him. She made him burn, lose control. “You were saying?” she prompted wickedly.

  He fisted his hand around hers and guided himself to the entrance to her body. Sabine was light-headed, panting in anticipation.

  “No virgins,” he promised hotly. “No mistresses.” He pressed himself against her. “And only one wife. Mine,” he growled. “You, Sabine. Only you.”

  His eyes met hers and Sabine read the truth in them, the sincerity. The adoration.

  She caught his shoulders, reveling in the muscled strength beneath his jacket. “Then yes,” she breathed on a ragged laugh. “Yes.”

  His eyes closed in relief even as he caught her hips and brought her down on his body in a slow, delicious slide. Sabine gasped at the sensation of him pressing into her, the sense of belonging, of fitting together so perfectly. Her skirts puffed around them, and the knowledge that they were so intimately joined beneath the formality of their clothing only added to the piquancy of the moment. She rose up on her knees and then eased back down, drawing another stifled curse from him.

  He tugged at the front of her dress and freed her breasts, then rolled his hips and sank deep into her again. And again.

  Sabine closed her eyes in blissful surrender and threw her head back. The pins in her hair lost the battle for control and the heavy coil fell down over her shoulders. Richard drew it forward and buried his nose in it, his tongue finding her peaked nipple unerringly through the silky mass.

  “I love the taste of you,” he groaned. “Ink and lemons.”

  He seemed intent on drawing out her response. Her nails dug into the bunched muscles of his arms as he rocked himself beneath her in a tantalizing rhythm designed to drive her mad. When she gasped out his name he laughed darkly against her skin and caught her head in his hands, pulling her down for a ravenous kiss.

  “Always,” he murmured against her lips. His tongue probed her mouth in perfect imitation of the way he drove into her body. Pleasure shimmered through her with every deep, possessive stroke.

  She was his. He was hers.

  It felt good.

  “Come for me,” he panted. His hand slid between them and Sabine felt herself spiraling away. She held her breath as the pressure built and built, and then, with a muffled cry, she hurtled over the edge. Beats of pleasure radiated through her, endless and infinitely satisfying.

  Richard joined her at the peak and she pressed her face into his shoulder, loving the feel of his powerful body shuddering beneath her in release. She collapsed against him, deliciously weary, her heart throbbing with a joy she could barely contain.

  After a few breathless moments she raised her head. “Oh, God, the servants!” she uttered in a scandalized whisper. “You didn’t even lock the door!”

  Richard gave a sleepy smile. “You’re fooling yourself if you think they don’t know exactly what we’ve been up to,” he said. “There’s not a thing that goes on in this house without Hodges knowing about it.”

  Her face suffused with heat as she struggled to disentangle herself from his lap. He laughed. “It wouldn’t surprise me
if they were already laying bets on the birth date of our first child.”

  “Oh, God,” she groaned again, then stilled, half on, half off his lap. “You really want that? Children? A future? With me?”

  He leaned his forehead against hers, then kissed the end of her nose. “Yes. I really do.”

  Sabine lowered her cheek to his shoulder with a sigh. Her eyes came to rest on the painting on the far wall. Was it just her imagination, or did Saskia have a satisfied, congratulatory look in her eyes? Richard didn’t paint, of course. But if he could, she suddenly knew that he’d paint her the way Rembrandt had painted Saskia: beautiful in her imperfections, with love in every brushstroke. She sighed again in happiness.

  Richard stroked her hair. “Come on, get up. Things to do. We’ve got the prince’s ball tonight.”

  Sabine groaned. She’d meant to be long gone before that. Except now the whole world was different. She could face it with Richard by her side.

  He helped her stand—her legs were still decidedly wobbly—and raised her hand to his lips. “You know, if you don’t want a huge wedding in St. George’s, we could go and get married today. I do have that special license.”

  His eyes met hers and her heart swelled at the tiny hint of uncertainty she encountered in his gaze.

  “The prince’s ball could be your first official engagement as Lady Lovell,” he coaxed.

  She tightened her fingers on his. “Yes,” she said in an aching voice. “Yes, please.”

  He pulled her into his arms. “Bloody hell. I’d better go back to Rundell, Bridge & Rundell and tell them you’ve changed your mind about that necklace.”

  Sabine smiled against his chest. “Please do. I promise I’ll never sell it again.”

  Chapter 62

  A few hours later, Richard opened the connecting door and beckoned her into his room. Sabine suppressed a wistful sigh at the sight of him in his evening attire. The stark black of his jacket and snowy white shirt made him look thoroughly delicious. She still couldn’t believe she’d actually married the man this afternoon.

  His eyes lingered hungrily on her figure as he took in the dress that Heloise had ordered from Mrs. Triaud and Mrs. Bean, the same dressmakers who’d worked on Princess Charlotte’s trousseau.

  She knew she looked good: she shimmered like a firework. Silver lamé net sparkled over a gossamer-thin slip, and the entire gown had been embroidered with hundreds of tiny three-dimensional bellflowers fashioned from silk-covered wire and decorated with silver thread.

  Richard held out a familiar flat velvet box. “I do hope you’ll keep this rather longer than last time,” he murmured softly. He fastened the diamonds around her neck and dropped a kiss in the hollow at her nape. “My beautiful wife.”

  Sabine opened her mouth to thank him, but he tugged her through the door and into his bedchamber. A fire was burning in the grate, but her eyes went immediately to the leather satchel next to it. Her eyes widened. “Is that my money?” she demanded hotly.

  He opened the bag and pulled out a handful of counterfeits. “Our money,” he amended with a chuckle. “Half of everything you own is mine now, remember?” He pressed the paper into her hand and gestured at the fire. “Go on. Throw it on.”

  Sabine sighed heavily. “Oh, if I must.”

  She tossed the bundle into the flames and felt as if her soul were flying up the chimney with the ashes. A lightness settled about her, a great weight lifted from her shoulders. The past was done. It was time for the future. “Adieu, Philippe Lacorte,” she whispered softly.

  Richard stood behind her and gathered her in his arms. He kissed her bare shoulder. “Bonjour, Sabine Hampden.”

  She glanced up at him with a sparkling smile. “Bonjour.”

  Epilogue

  GALERIE CARNAUD, RUE DU PÉLICAN, PARIS

  “Why are we in a dusty Parisian cellar?” Richard demanded. He ducked his head to avoid a large cobweb and glanced around the gloomy vaulted room.

  His wife of precisely ten days shot him a chiding glance over her shoulder. “I told you. To retrieve my father’s legacy.”

  She set a bag of tools on a dusty table and raised her lantern. Richard did the same, and the combined glow illuminated the back wall of the underground room. He raised his brows. The entire wall was covered with an enormous mural painted directly on the plaster: a great writhing mass of soldiers and horses in the midst of a pitched battle.

  He frowned. “Your father painted that? Why on earth did he do it down here?”

  Sabine gave him a mischievous smile. “No. I painted that. It is inspired by a lost painting by da Vinci called The Battle of Anghiari.”

  “But—”

  She selected a heavy-looking hammer and approached the wall, and he was momentarily distracted by the sway of her hips as she moved. He didn’t think he would ever get tired of watching her.

  “You know I like to have a backup plan,” she teased. “And how fond I am of hiding things in plain sight.” She pointed to a soldier, high up in the top right corner. He was holding aloft a green flag inscribed with the words Cerca Trova.

  “He who seeks, finds,” Richard translated.

  “Exactly.” She raised the sledgehammer and aimed a blow straight at the wall.

  Richard gasped in shock. “You madwoman! What are you doing?” He reached out and tried to grab her arm but she shook him off, laughing, and aimed another blow at the plaster.

  “Trust me, Richard. Watch.”

  The wall crumbled. To his amazement the head of the hammer went straight through, leaving a gaping hole.

  “It is not solid brick at all,” she said, taking another swing. “Merely plaster and a wooden frame. The real wall is about two feet farther back.”

  Richard narrowed his eyes. “A false wall? Very sneaky.”

  “Why, thank you.”

  He took the hammer from her hands. “Let me do that.” He enlarged the hole so it was at least a couple of feet wide, revealing a dark gap behind it. Sabine pushed the lantern through and he leaned forward, intrigued. The dusty gilded edge of a picture frame caught the light. The corner of a painted canvas—red drapery and a pair of folded hands—followed.

  Sabine raised the lantern higher and let out a crow of delight. “They’re all still here!”

  Richard inhaled sharply. At least thirty or forty paintings hung from nails on the real wall or rested on the floor, stacked three deep.

  “What are all these?”

  Sabine glanced at him. “I told you that my father worked at the Louvre, did I not? Well, whenever he knew that a work of art sent for restoration had been stolen, he or Jacques would copy it.” Her eyes twinkled. “They would return the copy and hide the original, waiting for the day when it could be returned to its rightful owner.”

  “My God.”

  Her face fell. “But Father died before he could complete his task. Jacques and I hid the artworks and I painted the mural as a distraction, in case anyone came down here.” She reached into the void and withdrew a small square bundle wrapped in cloth. “Ah, and here is the book.”

  The cloth revealed a leather-bound journal. She opened it up with a bittersweet smile. “My father’s handwriting,” she whispered reverently. “He risked imprisonment and even death to keep these records.” She glanced up, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. “This is a list of the original owners. Aristos who had them confiscated, or who were forced to sell them for a pittance. It was my father’s wish to return their property after the war. Will you help me finish what he started?”

  Richard leaned forward and placed a tender kiss on her mouth. “Of course.”

  After a breathless moment, Sabine pulled back and directed her light to one of the nearest portraits. “Actually, we don’t need to return all of these paintings. A few of them belong to me.”

  Richard suddenly recognized the woman in the painting. She had the same lustrous eyes, the same vivid beauty, as the woman standing next to him. That same face had disguised Sa
bine’s printing plates in London. “Is that your mother?”

  She nodded proudly. “Yes. And that,” she shone the light on the adjacent portrait, “is my father. They were painted by my grandfather, Maurice de la Tour. Anton and I stole them from my old house when it was given to one of Napoleon’s men.”

  She lifted her chin in that defiant, unrepentant way he loved so well. “Don’t they look like they’re smiling? I think it’s because they’re finally proud of me.”

  Richard chuckled and pulled her into his arms. “Yes,” he agreed softly. “I think so too.”

  To my three bad rats, and M, with much love

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to Patricia Nelson and Junessa Viloria—two ladies who make everything I write better! Thanks to the Tuesday morning coffee girls, (you know who you are), without whom I’d be even crazier than I am now, and finally, to my fellow CIA authors and the wonderful ladies of the RWA Heart and Scroll chapter, whose unstinting advice, enthusiasm, support, and friendship has been invaluable.

  BY K. C. BATEMAN

  To Steal a Heart

  A Raven’s Heart

  A Counterfeit Heart

  K. C. BATEMAN is the co-founder and director of Bateman’s Auctioneers, a fine art and antiques auction house in the United Kingdom. Now living in Illinois with her husband and children, Bateman returns to England regularly to appear as an antiques expert on several popular BBC television shows, each of which reaches up to 2.5 million viewers.

  kcbateman.com

  Twitter: @katebateman

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