All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  “I doubt he understands the concept of hurrying—this or any other necessity in this life.”

  “He most certainly does.” She jumped up and down and Meg was horrified to note that the Princess wore no shoes. “Vite, Halibut, vite. There, you see how obedient he is? He does what he is told. No, Halibut, you are not done. I want more, and I will have more. Vite. You will not come out again until morning, so use your opportunity well.”

  “You will catch cold,” Meg said. “Your feet are bare.”

  “Pah! I am as strong as an ox—and as plain as one. Ask my father.”

  “Halibut is done,” Meg said, avoiding saying what she thought of a father who would be so cruel to his child. “Up the stairs you go. I will carry Halibut.”

  His fur was cold, but his tongue on her nose was warm and as rough as ever.

  Princess Désirée was quickly settled in bed with Halibut beneath the covers. Meg hadn’t the heart to protest. “Should you like me to talk with you for awhile? Or read something? The Bible, perhaps.”

  “Thank you for being with me today,” Désirée said. Her eyes were already closed. “Now I must sleep. You saw where your rooms are. Good night.”

  Dismissed again. Even though it wasn’t seen, Meg dipped a curtsey and backed from the room. She would try not to think of how worried Sibyl must be. She wished she could believe her sister would go to Number 17 to find out what had happened, but doubted she would do any such thing for fear of displeasing Meg.

  She entered her quarters by a pleasant sitting room where pink had again been employed, this time accented with posies of violets. Still chilled from Halibut’s jaunt, Meg was grateful for the fire and held her hands near its warmth.

  “There is nothing I can do about getting back to Sibyl tonight.” Lecturing herself, even aloud, didn’t deaden her anxiety one jot. She would ready herself for bed and settle to guide her thoughts. Now, of all times, she would make good use of the meditation she’d set out to embrace only as part of her assumed mystery.

  Another fire burned brightly in the bedchamber. Pale green abounded, and gilded French furniture. Meg could not help but admire it all, and feel a twinge of regret that this would likely be her only night there.

  Clothing caught her attention, clothing spread on the high bed, and she approached with a mixture of apprehension and curiosity. She had already decided to sleep in her chemise.

  The gown and robe that lay there were of the most delicate peach color. Embroidered silver leaves edged the neckline of both—a neckline that sank to a deep vee. Tiny silver buttons closed the robe, and silver satin ties trailed from the point of the neck. On the floor beside the bed, placed precisely, was a pair of soft slippers of the same peachy shade.

  Meg touched the fabric. She had worked on such finery often enough, but never for her own use.

  The voluminous garments would be so much more comfortable to think in than her chemise. And since Lady Upworth had been kind enough to offer them, Meg ought to at least try them on.

  Practiced in attending to herself, she took little time to shed her own clothes and don the beautiful garments. The gown floated over her skin so softly it felt as if it were all satin rather than cotton. The robe was sumptuous. She did up the buttons and tied the satin bow that draped from the lowest point of the neckline—low enough to ensure that much of her breasts were revealed.

  Meg bent to slip her feet into the silver-trimmed slippers and immediately straightened her back again. The gown and robe were not decent.

  She washed quickly at the basin provided, brushed out her hair, retrieved the mantilla from her reticule and slipped into the sitting room. One could not achieve true abstraction where one slept. In fact, evading the temptation to sleep was the greatest challenge to concentration. The light was low, but not so low she couldn’t see.

  Too much warmth only added to the difficulty in staying awake. Meg sat on the carpet some distance from the fireplace. Spreading the borrowed finery in a flowing circle, she drew up her legs beneath the gown and crossed them. “I will not fight my mind,” she said. “Mmmm.” The vibration of her voice hummed in her throat. “Wander at will, and I shall draw you back when you are ready.”

  With the mantilla draped over her head and shoulders, she visualized a white light within her, filling her, passing along her veins. The light warmed her, softened her, expanded to fill her more and more.

  The light fled. What must Sibyl be thinking by now? She would not sleep, that was for sure. The one hope that had surfaced was that Adam—who was rather stubborn and determined—might have insisted on going to Number 17. Meg gritted her teeth. He would demand to know exactly where she was and probably make a great fuss in the process.

  Sibyl suffered now, but soon the morning would come and a man would go to reassure her. As the Count had sensibly pointed out, nothing could be done tonight.

  This time the white light advanced quickly. She opened her hands, palms up, and began the process of relaxing her body. Starting with her feet, humming all the while, she pinched each muscle tight, held it so, then allowed it to fall limp. The sensation that followed was warm and heavy.

  One day this marvelously refreshing discipline would be practiced by all.

  Fiddle dee dee. Once again her concentration had failed and she must start again.

  “I am,” she murmured on an indrawn breath. She exhaled and repeated, “I am,” as she breathed in again. “I am.” In. Exhale. “I am.” In.

  A small amount of pain as a focus was always followed by deeper and deeper connection with self. Keeping her legs crossed beneath the flimsy gown and robe, she eased to lie flat on the carpet. In the places where her limbs joined her body there was much stretching. Her back hurt. But she maintained discipline and started with her feet again. Tightening, holding, releasing. Working slowly upward.

  “I am.”

  With the serene assurance she continued to gain, she would also catch the attention of someone who sought a peaceful sort of wife. First she would draw him to her with her mystery and the deliberate enhancement of what physical attributes she possessed, then she would make him so comfortable, so sure of her loyalty and her devotion to everything he was and did, that he would celebrate the quiet order she brought him.

  And in return he would make sure she and Sibyl were not forced into reduced circumstances. Oh, they would happily continue to do what they could for the financial good of them all, but they would no longer worry as they did now.

  “I am,” she murmured, drawing in the next breath, holding it, releasing the breath and visualizing the darkness of despair flowing out with it.

  Meg spread wide her arms. “I am.” A cooling draft passed over her body.

  Behind her closed eyelids she saw the darkly intent face of Count Etranger. She certainly didn’t know him. Not at all, really. But she would like to. His need for her sprang from his need to be free of caring for Princess Désirée at this time—probably at any time. He had interests of his own, yet Meg did not think Lady Upworth was more than a small part of those interests. Other, more enigmatic and perhaps more important issues were on the man’s mind.

  He was kind to her and on occasions today he had studied her with what appeared to be interest. But then, he had also laughed at her. She was beneath his notice. And she wished that were not so, because if she could have absolutely anything in the entire world, it would be Count Etranger.

  She lay still, her body pulsing. Just thinking about him made her come alive as she had never felt alive before. But they were strangers. True, they were strangers in strange circumstances that could very well lead to an unusually speedy involvement between two people.

  “I am.” Her next breath released the band of constriction that had formed around her brow. “I am.”

  Coolness wafted over her again. She pulled aside the neck of the robe and gown to bare her shoulders and arched her torso from the carpet. Her back felt hot, and the breeze helped chill the skin pleasantly.

&n
bsp; Standing just inside the door that had not been completely closed, Jean-Marc regarded Meg Smiles with a fascination so profound it shook him. On her back, her head swathed in black lace, she lay with her limbs drawn up beneath a voluminous and insubstantial robe. Her arms were thrown out at her sides, and her back arched from the floor.

  He was transfixed. Enough of her features could be made out to show her eyes were closed. From time to time she murmured, “I am,” and seemed to stiffen, then relax.

  Coming here had been a whim. He was a man besieged and she was the only person detached enough to offer some hope of impartiality.

  His presence was an intrusion on some very private ritual. He should not have come. And he should certainly leave at once.

  She had bared her shoulders. The robe opened wide to reveal a good deal of her, dare he say, large breasts. Yes, they were large and luminous in the flickering light. It was quite possible that before long they would be entirely revealed.

  His manhood responded vigorously to the notion, and his thighs jerked hard. Deep in his belly more tension gathered, spreading fullness and hardness and pumping need.

  Odd she might be, but she was not a jade for his taking—not even if only with his eyes, his mind.

  Meg’s concentration waned. She felt the spaces around her shift, grow smaller. And there was another, a more subtle heat in the room. And a scent, as if the breezes she’d felt had swept in the essence of the flowing river and the waving grasses at its banks.

  She held still, and then she heard the faintest of sounds. A sigh, or someone remembering to breath. Meg grew tense and frightened.

  Jean-Marc doubted he could leave unnoticed. Already he sensed her becoming aware of him.

  Meg lowered her back to the floor. Sensation climbed her spine, like fingers brushing lightly, painting fervent excitement a subtle touch at a time. Not a creation of her own, but the reaching out of another consciousness, one with the power to make her feel without the meeting of skin.

  Her stillness in the firelight, the unknowing supplication in her upturned palms, her innocent voluptuousness…She moved him.

  In the silence Meg felt him.

  She was no longer alone. He was here.

  9

  “Please excuse me. I have no right to intrude on you.”

  Slowly, Meg opened her eyes. He stood a few feet from her, a solid, faceless silhouette, but with a glimmer of white—his shirt. He wore no coat. How could she ask him to stay without his thinking she lacked modesty? “Why did you come?”

  “You should be angry.” He was humbled by what she made him feel. “You don’t know me at all. My presence must be a shock.”

  His low voice had broken—just a little, but definitely—as if with emotion. To have such feelings for a man who was a stranger must be very wrong. No doubt she was being foolish, perhaps even walking into a dangerous trap set by a man of the world for a girl of little experience.

  “Miss Smiles, may I…” Did he know what he intended to ask? Why had he come here? Was he looking for a dalliance with an interesting girl who posed no threat to him? No threat in the form of potential demands for commitment?

  Meg clutched the robe and gown together at the neck and sat up. She wasn’t dressed. “Please tell me why you are here.” She pulled off the mantilla and wished she had not let her hair down. This was too intimate.

  “I wandered,” he told her. “I didn’t know where I intended to go until I arrived at your door. May I sit with you?”

  He wanted to sit with her, with Meg Smiles, orphan of almost no means, seamstress ashamed of practicing her skill to make a living, a woman whom he had hired because she fabricated her experience and played on his need?

  “No, of course not,” Jean-Marc said, as much to himself as to Miss Smiles. “I’ll go.” If she decided to leave once they returned to London, it would be his fault.

  “Please do sit with me,” she said, and watched him pause before coming closer. “Do you find it difficult to sleep?”

  “Occasionally.”

  Rather than take a chair, he dropped to sit, cross-legged, his knees almost meeting hers. Rank and privilege did not necessarily make a person different, less likely to feel downcast, more likely to treat those of humbler beginnings with contempt. Did it?

  Count Etranger was as silent as she. Could he be as lost for words as she was?

  What was he thinking?

  “Miss Smiles, I am deeply sorry for what is completely inappropriate behavior.” His own sudden laughter actually calmed him. “And you would be less intelligent than I know you are if you did not question my sincerity. Rather than go away and try to forget I ever blundered here, I sit before you on the floor. I have interrupted you in…I have interrupted you and you are probably frightened. Of course you are. Forgive my laughter, but I have managed to amaze myself.” He propped his elbows and buried his face in his hands.

  If she could, she would comfort him. Any such attempt would be insolent.

  Silence settled.

  Silence filled with the small sounds, the small feelings of rich awareness. Soft breathing. Settling sighs in aged wood. White linen pulled taut over hard flesh. Hands painted beautiful by shadows. Firelight on his hair. Legs so unlike her own, the muscles long and solid, legs that invited forbidden touches. She was lost in him, happily lost.

  “What ritual do you practice, Miss Smiles?”

  Ritual? Such a question had never occurred to her. “Ritual? I am learning the benefits of abstracted thinking. Combined with physical disciplines. One attempts to attain a quiet mind and heart—to achieve peace that allows serenity at all times.”

  “Serenity at all times?” Abstracted thinking? Mysterious minx. He had heard of such things, but surely they were only interesting to men.

  She laughed a little, and said, “I didn’t say I had conquered my own darting mind, or found serenity—most certainly not at all times! But I have come to need these opportunities for solitude and thought.”

  “I see.” And he believed he might. “I may give you another duty—to teach me how to find peace. At some later date, of course.”

  “I would try, and gladly.”

  Jean-Marc did not dare risk a glance at her. She might see just how he longed for companionship that gave as much as it took. He must have drunk too much after having unpleasant words with Ila.

  Miss Smiles touched his hair so lightly he might not have noticed if he hadn’t heard and felt her move. There was the briefest of hesitations before she withdrew her hand.

  “No, no,” he said, and caught her wrist. “Oh, no, please don’t offer comfort and steal it back so soon. I should like you to hold my hand. Come, press your palm to mine just so. Perhaps I will feel your peace and serenity and take some of it for my own.”

  Meg trembled. He took her hand and placed his left palm against her right. If he sought to undo her, to steal away whatever logic she’d managed to cling to, be it ever so tenuous a connection, then he succeeded.

  “Cold,” he said, and she knew he meant her hand.

  He laced his fingers through hers. The two of them remained there, arms extended, hers raised higher than her shoulder. When she would have weakened, he supported the weight for both of them without seeming to notice.

  “You are warm,” she said, not at all certain he would hear what she said.

  With his free hand he stroked her raised forearm. Very slowly, with utter concentration. So many sensations overwhelmed Meg. He said, “Then take my warmth in exchange for your peace.”

  Jean-Marc covered her hand with both of his and settled them on his calf. He had already taken her beyond any acceptable boundary. What further harm could come from his sharing this innocent interlude with her?

  How innocent could this be on his part?

  “There is nothing acceptable about our being here, My Lord, is there?” To be less than honest would rob her of any joy she might hope to take away from the night.

  “Not unless we convince eac
h other there is. If we forget who we are, how we are different—even how we are the same—and grant ourselves permission to accept whatever we have to offer and take, then I believe our actions are not only acceptable, but necessary. And we should also have to forget that we met only hours ago.” He tilted his face to the ceiling and expanded his lungs. “I am a man who is torn between two countries, and between what is expected of him and what he craves for himself. The responsibilities I am ordered to assume weigh heavily. I would like to please those who expect these things of me. But my heart is elsewhere, and I do not know what to do.”

  “My Lord,” Miss Smiles said softly. “I feel for you in your struggle.”

  Yes, he believed she did. “These matters are most private. I have not shared even a hint of my true feelings with anyone else.”

  “Why do you share them with me?” Only a gullible person would refrain from asking, Meg thought. “A stranger?”

  “Are you a stranger?” He smiled to himself. “I suppose that is so in hours and minutes, but in here—” he struck his chest “—it is as if I have been coming toward you for a long time. Oh, I didn’t know it, but I do now. You are familiar to me. Familiar yet mysterious, and I want to know you…. Meg, I should like to know you very well.”

  He used her first name and the sound of it on his tongue was unbearably sweet, as sweet as it was startling. The turning, turning, turning of her stomach made her light-headed. She might well regret her impetuousness later, but for now she believed he was sincere.

  “You have a great deal of hair,” he told her, and she bit her lip at the almost boyish dip of his head. “That was personal. Forgive me again. But I will tell you nevertheless that I do admire your hair. It invites me to sink my fingers into its softness. Look at me, sweet Meg—you have nothing to fear.”

  She would not think now of Mme. Suzanne’s Mixture for Fine Red Hair, or her little pots of potions for darkening the lashes and brightening the cheeks with an exquisite subtlety that vied with nature. Should she try to tell the Count that she hoped to capture the attention of a good man desirous of a gentle and supportive wife?