by Allegra Gray
“Starving,” the Frenchman averred. At the raw heat in his voice, Bea’s throat went dry. He wasn’t talking about food.
Bea gazed back at the path. Where was Lily? If she were here to assist, it might calm the tension sparking between artist and muse. Perhaps infuse some sensibility back into Bea, for she seemed to be losing her own.
Unfortunately Lily—not to mention the picnic lunch—was nowhere to be seen. Bea could find no overtly objectionable qualities to Elizabeth’s cousin. She was ever cheerful and friendly. But she was also turning out to be nearly as unreliable, at least when it came to the usual duties of a companion, as Elizabeth herself had been.
Finally they heard footsteps on the path, accompanied by humming. But the face that appeared seconds later belonged to a young woman Bea recognized as one of the kitchen maids. Since the night she and Charity had visited Vauxhall Gardens, she’d begun paying unusual attention to the faces of the servant class.
The maid held up a large basket, attempting a curtsy but wobbling under the container’s weight. “My lady, and monsieur, your luncheon.”
“Please, set it just over there.” Bea cast a hand toward the bench.
The maid hurried over and gratefully relinquished her burden. “Cook prepared a lovely spread. Shall I set it all out for you?”
“That won’t be necessary,” Bea said. “But you can tell me—did you happen to see Mrs. Moffett on your way?”
The maid’s eager smile drooped and she shuffled her feet.
Philippe cocked a brow, plainly curious at her reaction.
She looked between her superiors, finally focusing on Bea, and answered, “I did, at that. I’m right sorry to tell you, my lady, your companion felt a trifle…indisposed, when I left her. She says she’s terrible sorry, and hopes you’ll be able to continue without her this afternoon.”
“Oh, dear. Does she need assistance?”
“No, no,” the maid hastily assured her. “She’s in good hands.”
Philippe folded his arms but held his tongue. Bea would have dearly loved to know his thoughts on this newest development.
“Is there aught else I can do for you, my lady?” the maid questioned.
“No, thank you. You may return to your other duties.”
The girl curtsied again and went tripping down the path.
Bea turned to Philippe. In unison, they eyed the picnic basket, then the length of fabric Philippe had left resting on the edge of the stone basin.
Bea took measure of the sun once more, and made her decision. He would see her, study her every curve, soon enough. It seemed silly to insist upon modesty now.
“I am not so very hungry after all. Better we make use of this fine afternoon,” she said softly. She gestured to the back of her gown. “I cannot manage the hooks myself,” she told him. “If we are to begin today, you will have to do it.”
His eyes darkened. “You’re sure? I could catch that maid if I hurry.”
“Yes, I’m sure.” To confirm it, she turned her back to him, suppressing a shiver as he began working to undo her clothing.
His fingers were deft but not hurried, his breath warm on her neck.
“Beatrice.” His usual smooth tone had been replaced by one deeper, huskier.
She turned her head, slightly, toward him.
His fingers stilled. “If you do not wish your skin to be caressed as it is bared, you should find a maid and ask her to do this chore.” He cleared his throat. “I can promise that once you are draped in the silk, I shall be once again caught up with the need to capture your image, to do justice to your beauty, your spirit, with my paints. I am, first and foremost, an artiste.” He blew out a breath. “But I am also a man. To ask me to unclothe, yet not touch, you…I cannot promise such restraint.”
He was giving her a choice. But she’d already made her decision.
“I do not wish a maid to do this for me.”
His hands exerted gentle pressure on her shoulders, turning her until she met his eyes. Her knees grew weak at the intensity she saw there, the acknowledgement of her choice and all it meant.
His fingers returned to the hooks, still unhurried, and this time she longed for him to complete the task, so she might feel his touch on her bare skin, as he’d promised. He worked the bodice loose, until her sleeves slipped down and the rest of the high-waisted gown billowed to the ground at her feet. He paused to press a kiss to her bare shoulder, then pushed the thin straps of her chemise over her shoulders, sending that garment down to meet her gown.
Her breath came faster at the feel of the spring air, the dappling of sunshine, in places never before exposed to such elements. How very wild she’d become.
Next went her stays. She hadn’t been daring enough to go without them—but after today, she might reconsider. She’d have little left to fear after this.
“Ah, belle,” Philippe murmured, his breath sending pleasurable little shivers across her skin. He skimmed her shoulder blades and bent in to kiss her neck while his thumbs came together to stroke down her spine, past the small of her back, stopping only when they came to her bottom. He took her into his arms, pulling her close, until she felt the solid wall of his chest at her back, the thrill of his erection brushing against her buttocks.
She wiggled against him, then felt her body rocked by the jolt of pleasure that shot through her as he used one hand to haul her tighter against his hips, the other to cup her breast, brushing over her peaked nipple.
Oh, God, she needed him to keep doing that. She arched into his hand. When had she become such a wanton?
She heard his breath grow as ragged as her own. Finally he turned her to face him, the force of his movement setting her off balance as his mouth swooped down to claim hers, tasting, plundering, until she could think of nothing but her need for him—to touch him, to explore and offer him the same mindless pleasure she felt at his touch.
But he was still fully clothed.
She felt the strength of his back, his lean torso, even slid her hands over his bottom, then beneath the hem of his shirt until her fingers met warm, taut skin. Never had she dreamt of touching a man this way, of desiring to touch a man this way, yet now she whimpered at how good it felt. She lifted the shirt, expecting him to rip it off and toss it away. But he paused, just long enough to rasp, “Beatrice, if you do that—and dear God, I want you to, I must warn you, I will lose control.”
Her breath caught. She pulled back to meet his gaze, though her hands continued to roam his back, unwilling to cease touching, seeking. But if he was about to lose control…“Shall I stop?”
He shook his head slowly, a smile playing at his lips. “No. Control is indeed a worthy accomplishment, mon coeur, but it is only when one relinquishes control that one is truly able to experience passion. To experience life.” The smile grew. “It is not a bad thing, chérie, to lose control. Not if you accept it is what you want. What we both want.”
She heard truth in his words, for she had enough experience to know she’d been missing something for most of her life. In her marriage, “relations” had consisted of a few mercifully short encounters in the bedroom. The difference was literally night and day. Now she stood gloriously naked, no bedroom in sight, and she hoped desperately this encounter would not be short-lived.
As for what was surely about to happen, as for physical intimacy…Bea had been so wrong about everything else, it only stood to reason she had a lot to learn where that was concerned, too.
At her lengthy pause, Philippe gave a low chuckle and pulled her close. “Stop thinking so hard.”
That did it. At the touch of her breasts to his chest, the feel of his erection pressing toward her, nestling against her hips, desire raced through her anew. “All right.”
She tipped back her head, surrendering to the sensation of Philippe kissing her neck, trailing his tongue down her throat, her collarbone, until he drew one peaked nipple into his mouth and tugged.
She cried out, arching toward him. The
pleasure was unbearable—and yet she needed so much more.
He released her, just long enough to toss the picnic blanket across a grassy spot and divest himself of shirt and trousers. He pulled her to the ground with him, lying atop the blanket.
He rolled her onto her back and hovered over her, murmuring French endearments she only half-registered between kisses, between his tongue doing maddening things to her breasts while his fingers dipped between the folds of her sex.
Bea mindlessly opened further for him—never had she imagined such need, such pleasure.
“Mon Dieu, Beatrice,” he rasped. “Tres belle. Chérie, you drive a man to madness. I can wait no longer.” He positioned himself at her entry. Bea braced herself.
“Relax, my sweet,” he murmured. “You are so wet, oui, so ready. This will be only good.”
He pushed forward, and Bea arched up at this new onslaught of pleasure. Never had she felt like this. He drew back, then drove in again, and she lifted her hips to meet him. “Yes, oh, yes.”
His thrusts formed a rhythm, growing faster as he teased her nipples, his other arm bracing his weight just above her. Her hands dug into his back, pulling him closer again and again as the pleasure built into a desperate need, a need indefinable, undeniable.
He thrust deep, just as his mouth closed again over hers, and Bea came undone, the answer to her need coming in a shower of sensation that left her trembling. He sensed it and drove into her once, twice more, his head lifting, falling back as he gave into his own desire and she felt him coursing inside her.
He collapsed, rolling to the side and pulling her with him. He cradled her head to his chest, his heart thundering nearly as much as her own. What was he thinking? Ought she say something? She lacked the sophistication of her Parisian counterparts…though she had learned one thing.
“You were right,” she told him. “Never have I experienced such passion—or even imagined such utter abandonment of control.”
He laughed and squeezed her tight.
The breeze blew across her skin, reminding Bea she was lying naked in the woods. As though of the same mind, Philippe shifted next to her, propping himself up on an elbow. “Beautiful Beatrice,” he murmured. “Perhaps we should dress?” He eyed the picnic basket. “And also eat? I am famished.”
“How like a man,” she teased him, attempting to keep the mood light and cozy. As desperately as she wanted to know his deeper thoughts, she wasn’t sure she could bear it if they did not match her own—if what they’d just done had not meant as much to him as it had to her.
She allowed him to help her dress, at least to a point of half-modesty. There was no point redoing all those buttons if she were going to be clad in the rose silk after they’d eaten. She laid out the luncheon. The staff had thoughtfully sent both lemonade and wine. She chose and poured the wine, preferring to soften the remaining edges of the day. When they sat, Bea was surprised to discover she was just as ravenous as Philippe, and they both ate heartily. She let her gaze wander as she bit into herbed pheasant and spiced cucumbers.
Philippe’s paints still sat at the edge of the rose garden, virtually unused this day. The afternoon had not yet waned. She only hoped that if Lily returned, her companion didn’t question too closely the lack of progress on the painting. Bea felt heat creep up her cheeks.
How very much her life had changed in a few short weeks. As for her brief foray into the world of espionage, she was glad that was over. But everything else, everything since meeting Philippe—she wouldn’t change for the world. Of course, eventually he would complete his painting, and what then? She didn’t want to look that far ahead. Because Bea knew she could never go back.
Going back meant the endless procession of teas and soirees that left her mind full of meaningless chatter and her heart an empty void. She couldn’t go back to that life, which had really been no life at all. Not now that she’d known the first taste of passion. To do so would be naught but a slow death.
She was in over her head already. Because as much as Bea knew she could never go back, she feared what would become of her if she gave herself over, fully, to this desire. No flame could burn so hot and last for long.
He would paint her, consume her with that passion of his. And when he was done, she’d be alone again, left clinging to memories in the face of a bleak future.
Chapter 12
The note consisted of two lines:
Network compromised. Being watched.
Must act soon.
Merde. Richard crumpled the scrap of paper. Matters were getting out of hand. André had promised him they were close, but the fact was, Richard did not yet have the British war plans in hand.
He kept his breath controlled. Panic was unacceptable. And “being watched” was not the same as being caught. Richard strode to his closets, grabbed the bag he always kept ready, and summoned his carriage and driver.
“Le port de Calais,” he told the coachman, and settled in for the short journey to the port.
There was a slight chance—depending on how much had been leaked—he could salvage this. Or rather, he could salvage himself. There was no pride in going down with a sinking ship.
But there was no pride in the action he was considering, either. Richard had never been close to his son, never understood his complete disinterest in world affairs, but he’d always stopped short of using him as a pawn in those affairs.
The stakes, however, had risen. The future of France was at risk. Philippe, whether he knew it or not, was already involved. Richard’s network hadn’t been able to prove Philippe was intentionally conspiring with the light-skirted British informant he’d chosen as the subject of his work, but the likelihood grew stronger with every day Philippe remained in England. It appeared his son had fallen prey to the long tradition of female informants who used their charms to accomplish their mission. The boy had told him he was planning only a short visit to the country, “as a favor to Maman.” Now, it seemed, he was in no hurry to leave.
Philippe’s presence there, and his activities, presented Richard with an opportunity he could not ignore. Because if he didn’t take action, the name Richard Durand would soon be linked with whatever other members of the network were known, and after that there would be no saving him. Whether by official court trial or a knife in the dark, the British would find him. There was the possibility they’d forgive a popular artist who made a mistake. There was no possibility they’d forgive a known supporter of the Emperor. And Richard did not relish the prospect of prison, exile, or death.
First things first. Richard needed to join his son in England. Then, he would see.
Bea had heard nothing. And she’d written nothing—nothing of her own, that is.
She’d been so caught up in writing and deciphering words pertaining to spies and war, she’d had no time for spring’s usual words of growth and love. Yet spring held the intoxication of new beginnings, the idyllic pleasure of hours spent rediscovering nature’s wonders. She felt it every time she and Philippe ventured to the rose garden, and she itched to set her thoughts to paper.
She understood, for the first time, the depth of passion that had driven the poets of old. She longed to emulate them, to infuse her own writing with her newfound wisdom.
Especially now that Bea was away from London, the threat of sinister plots, of French spies with dark purposes, seemed remote indeed. Instead, she had only the pleasurable routine of posing for Philippe—sometimes with her erstwhile companion Lily, but more often not. The abandoned rose garden became a haven, a place where no one could touch them, no one could shatter the spell Philippe wove each time he picked up a brush and paints.
Her fingers itched to follow his lead, to pick up pen and paper and capture her thoughts in verse, but it would have to wait. Philippe seemed understanding that his model was human, and therefore must shift occasionally from the pose in which he set her, but she doubted that his tolerance extended to painting her while her head was bent over a notebook.
Besides, she’d never mentioned to him that she wrote.
One other matter also kept Bea from being able to relax fully into the idylls of spring: the promise she’d made to aid the Foreign Secretary. Why hadn’t she heard anything from him? London was not far—he should have received her note by Sunday evening. He was a busy man, but surely he would not hesitate to respond.
Until she knew for certain the matter was resolved, she could not put it completely behind her.
Alternate venues of information—sought in the absence of direct words from Viscount Castlereagh—were proving just as fruitless. The day she’d arrived at Montgrave, Bea had professed a fondness for London news to the staff. They’d seen to it she received all the notable circulars and gossip sheets, beginning that same day. She scanned each one as they came, searching for any clue as to the fate of the French spy ring, but neither Monday or Tuesday’s paper contained anything useful—only a mention of Miss Kettridge’s latest performance in Love Laughs at Locksmiths.
The fact that the actress was still performing clearly meant she hadn’t been arrested. Why? Viscount Castlereagh was a clever man. Alex trusted him. Perhaps the Foreign Secretary was laying a trap, or biding his time while gathering stronger evidence. Maybe what she’d provided wasn’t enough to hold up in a trial. Of course, Bea wasn’t certain spies were often brought to court. In her poet’s imagination, such things were handled by cloaked men in the quiet of the night.
Although she’d wanted to wash her hands of the intrigue, Bea now wished she knew what was happening. Beyond idle curiosity, she felt a responsibility to see this through. She’d turned her knowledge over to more capable hands. But she couldn’t shake the sense of impending trouble.
Her sense of foreboding was confirmed on Wednesday morning, when she received a note from Viscount Castlereagh.
Actually, she received two. The first was illegible—until a second messenger arrived bearing a translation key. Then, the message became very clear…and very worrisome.
