by Allegra Gray
“I must also depart. I shall see Lady Pullington home safely,” Philippe said.
Alex and Elizabeth looked at one another, but neither uttered a word of objection.
And so as Charity was borne upstairs by her family and the kindly doctor, Philippe escorted Bea back to a waiting carriage.
Good thing he had maintained his hotel lodgings, he thought wryly, as the interlude at Montgrave had proven shorter than he’d anticipated. Not that he was headed back to the hotel quite yet. He needed to be alone with Beatrice. Needed to shake some sense into her. Needed to issue a few choice words to her.
Needed to make love to her.
Oh, but first they would have words. He knew, finally, what sort of “business” she was involved in. He’d seen it in that underground room. And while he would keep the promise he’d made to Alex—no detail of what he’d observed there would ever cross his lips—his English rose had one hell of a lot of explaining to do.
Bea settled into the seat across from him, sinking into the plush velvet without any pretense at maintaining a ladylike posture. Though exhaustion and strain were written in the paleness of her face, though he was angry at the secretive, dismissive manner in which she’d treated him, he could not help but think her beautiful. And noble, in the truest sense of the word. She’d been willing to risk herself in place of her friend.
Why either one of them had been at risk in the first place, however, remained a mystery. One he needed to unravel, before he could pull his vexing beauty back into his arms, where he could both ravish and protect her.
Bea sensed Philippe’s tension in the carriage, as she had in Alex and Elizabeth’s home, but he did not speak until they arrived at Bea’s town house.
“You are inviting me in.”
It was a statement, perhaps a command, but definitely not a question. There was an awkward moment of silence as Bea considered denying him, then realized that would only delay the inevitable—and likely keep her tossing and turning all night.
Still, she didn’t have to like it. “As you wish,” she acquiesced.
The butler saw them in, and Bea informed him they would like a light repast.
“I shall see to it, my lady. The rest of the staff has retired for the evening, as we did not anticipate your return from the country. I apologize, and will see that everything is readied at once.”
“No need to wake the others,” Bea said tiredly. “Just a cold platter will suffice. And then you may retire as well. I have business tomorrow morning for which I shall require your alert and excellent service.” Thank goodness he was the sort of servant who’d sooner die than betray the fact that his female employer was entertaining a man, alone, at such an hour. She’d been raised to understand that the lady of the house need not explain herself to a servant, yet she hoped the mention of business in the morning would stifle any misgivings her longtime employee might have.
In truth, Bea had nearly lost track of the hours since Alex arrived in Montgrave. It seemed days ago. She did know she hadn’t sat down to a meal since the previous evening. As light-headed as she was feeling, she didn’t relish the idea of immediate confrontation.
Philippe, unfortunately, was not of like mind.
“You are a spy. How could you have kept something like this from me?” he demanded as soon as the servant disappeared.
“An informant,” Bea corrected stiffly. “And it did not concern you.” A lie, but less hurtful than the truth: she had not confided in Philippe because he was one of the suspects she’d been charged with watching.
“What do you mean? Of course, it concerns me. You concern me.”
“Because I agreed to sit for you, I must also have agreed to share all other aspects of my life as well?” The question wasn’t fair. But with the emotions of the past twenty-four hours riding high, for once she didn’t care about being rational.
“You know that isn’t so. I believe we willingly shared a great deal.”
“Maybe so.” Bea dropped her gaze. The hurt in his eyes was matched only by the heat of his anger. She ran a fingernail across the back of the sofa, studying the pattern she traced. “Trust me, it is only by accident I came into this role. It is not one I would have chosen for myself.”
Philippe paced. “That may be. But it does not change the fact that what we shared…or rather, what I thought we shared…it does not change the fact that I do not know you. I do not know, when you speak, what is truth, what is half truth, or mere deception. And yet you ask me to trust you?”
“I promise, I am telling you the truth now. If you would but try to listen, to understand—”
“Ah.” Philippe interrupted. “That night at the theater—when you disappeared in such a hurry. That is what you were doing. You knew, even then, the Wilbournes’ footman was involved in this terrible plot.”
“Yes,” Bea admitted. “I did not know he was the Wilbournes’ footman until you identified him later, but…yes. Everything I did, I was doing only out of loyalty to my country, and in the hope that whatever small information I could provide might somehow spare lives and end our nation’s conflict sooner.”
He put a hand to his forehead. “I am a fool.”
“No,” Bea countered. “You are a good man. Of which, I have learned of late, the world contains too few.”
“You think me insignificant,” he accused her. “A mere artiste. A simpleton who plays with paints, while greater men—and, apparently, women—handle the more important matters of nations.” His lips twisted as though the words tasted bitter. “I know. You are hardly the first to think such thoughts.” He paced the room. “I was ever a disappointment to my father.”
“No, Philippe,” she protested. “I do not think you a fool. Indeed, if more men like you existed, the world would hold more beauty and less strife.”
She could see the disbelief in his eyes. Had she treated him so shabbily, so dismissively, then? A creeping guilt told her she had. She prayed the damage could be undone.
A tap on the door signaled the butler’s entry. Bea used the interruption to carefully consider her next words. She made no move for the food, though—her stomach was too tied in knots to consider eating.
Alone once more, she told Philippe, “You have honor, which you showed today, along with an abundance of bravery. Beyond that, every day you seek that which is good, which is beautiful and wondrous, in the people you know and the world you live in. And that is a rare gift.”
He blew out a breath and passed a hand through his hair, but he stopped pacing. “That was my belief for a long time,” he admitted. “But I have come to understand this ‘gift’ is not respected or shared by many, nor can it sufficiently safeguard those I love from the ills of the world.
“Beatrice, don’t you realize?” He gestured toward her, passion giving force to the motion. “That could have been you in that room—captured, dragged through town, and left to die.” His anger could not mask the fear behind his words.
“It should have been me,” Bea said fiercely. “I am the one who got us into this mess, and I would give anything to have spared Charity from such…” she gulped, “such terror.”
“I would never wish such a thing upon you,” he replied seriously. “I can barely stand imagining it. I do, though, admire the strength, the loyalty of your friendship, for I believe you truly mean that. And I cannot help but wonder…what would happen, if you were to give that same devotion to a man—to a lover? He would be lucky indeed.”
How did one reply to such a thing? His words wound her in circles. Did he refer to himself? Did he want that kind of devotion from her? But he’d never promised any lasting devotion of his own. “If I met a man who showed me devotion of that same kind, I should willingly give him mine,” she whispered.
“Have you not met such a man?” he asked softly.
She turned away. “I have met a man who is gallant and courteous, sensual and captivating. But devotion? We do not speak of that. More the fool am I, for losing my heart to an a
rtiste whose popularity with the ladies is legendary. I had no more sense, no more discretion, than any of them.”
“Have you lost your heart to me, Beatrice?” Some of the anger in his tone had dissipated, yet Bea did not answer. She couldn’t. She turned her head, just enough to see that he stood with head bowed. Her body ached to go to him, let him take her in his arms and make her forget everything—but if she did, she would be left to face the same demons the moment he let go.
“If you had,” he said, his voice hoarse, “lost your heart to me, that is, I would not trample on it. Though, if indeed that is true, you have a most unusual way of showing it. Your heart, perhaps, but not your soul, the hidden secrets that make you who you are.”
Shame seeped through her defenses, filling her conscience, for his words were even truer than he knew. Intentionally or not, she’d hurt him. Hurt the man she admired, respected, and even loved. How could she expect devotion from a man she’d deliberately held at arm’s length?
“I am so very sorry,” she whispered. “Please understand. I could not share this with anyone. Not my dearest friend, or even my parents. Charity knew only because she was with me when we discovered the lovers we’d mischievously thought to eavesdrop on were engaged in something quite different from romance.
“We were in far over our heads, so we turned to the duke—he was the only one we told. Once he got us to the officials, our instructions were to speak of it to no one. That is why even Elizabeth, my close friend, was unable to tell you much when Charity went missing. She has been my confidante for years—if I could not go to her, please do not feel slighted I could not confide in you either, though I wished desperately to become closer to you.”
“And you did. Or so I thought. I know you do not take lovers lightly, Bea. What you may not understand is that I do not either.” He cleared his throat. “I admit to enjoying a good flirtation—I would be ashamed to call myself a man, let alone a Frenchman, if I did not.” When she cracked a smile, he continued, “But you, Beatrice, ceased being a mere flirtation nearly from the moment I met you.”
Her breath caught. He’d never directly spoken of feelings for her—at least not feelings beyond desire. Desire to paint her, to make love to her. But beyond that? She willed her heart to calm its noisy thudding, for she desperately needed to hear his next words.
He unfolded his long frame from where he leaned against the wall and came to her, taking both her hands in his, then sliding down the length of her forearm until he held her lightly at the elbows. Close, but not too close. Or not close enough. Which was it?
“You, chérie, are far more than I bargained for in coming to England.”
“How so?” He was back to calling her chérie. That had to be a good sign.
“I have been captivated since I first laid eyes on you. We have spent hour upon hour together, and yet I have only begun to scratch the surface, to truly know you. I wake each morning anticipating the moment I will see you, wondering if I can do you justice, convey your contemplative yet passionate spirit through art in a way that pleases you. No other woman has ever held my attention so utterly.
“Beatrice, the rest of the world drops away when I am with you.” His searing gaze made her throat go dry. Behind her elbows, his hands exerted gentle pressure until she stepped forward. Scant inches remained between them. “And then,” he told her, “there is this.”
His lips dropped to hers, tasting. A sensual haze stole over Bea, as it always did when she touched this man. Instinctively she moved closer, her hips and breasts pressing against his lean muscle as she opened her mouth to his kiss.
He made a sound in his throat that resembled a growl as he took advantage of her offering, his tongue driving in to stroke hers. The kiss took on a wild edge, thrusting and stroking until Bea’s knees buckled and she clung to him for balance, desperate that he never let go. Finally she had to pause to draw a breath. As she pulled back, she knew the fierce need she saw in his eyes was matched in her own.
“Yes,” she murmured, after retrieving her voice from the dark jungle of passion into which it had disappeared, “there is that.”
Philippe expelled a choked laugh, staring at the flushed and beautiful woman before him.
He could think of no more words—in French or English—that could even begin to convey his need to love and touch her, possess her, know her. To be as close as two people could be. He only hoped that where words had failed him, touch would not.
He claimed her mouth again with a kiss both powerful and hungry. Her response was immediate, and he tightened his arms, hauling her against his length as the fear that had driven them earlier that day gave way to a desire, a need for intimacy that could not be restrained.
His gaze dropped to her bosom, displayed to mouthwatering advantage by a gown cut in the French style—not as flimsy as the rose silk in which he’d begun to paint her, but still no match for his determined fingers. He tugged the bodice down, cupping her breast, lifting it as he bent his lips to her tightly peaked nipple. She moaned, her body molding to his. His trousers had grown uncomfortably tight. She exacerbated the problem, rubbing her hips against his hardness. This time, he wasn’t sure who moaned.
He raised his head to take her mouth again, his tongue delving into the welcoming warmth, tangling with hers, promising more.
Mon Dieu. He had to have her.
Bea understood, and apparently shared, his need, for she tore her mouth from his long enough to get out the word “upstairs.”
A few hurried adjustments of clothing and a peek out the door to check for servants, and Bea grabbed his hand and tugged him toward the stairs. He followed willingly. When he dared to smooth a hand over the enticing backside just ahead of him on the stairs, she stumbled and he laughed softly.
Then they were in her room, and there was no more laughter—only a frenzy of fingers undoing hooks and buttons as they shed their clothing. Then a hushed “oh” as he came back to her, pulled her into his arms and felt the softness of her breasts against his chest, her body warm and welcoming in all the places he needed it.
His erection pressed against her stomach. He was harder than he could ever remember—and on the verge of losing control. There would be time to linger later. Not now.
He hooked one of her legs around his hips, cradling her head as it fell back, giving him access to her neck, her breasts. He drew a nipple into his mouth.
“More,” she begged, and the knowledge that she wanted him as badly as he did her sent him over the edge.
He found her entrance, wet and ready. He lifted her to the edge of the bed. She wrapped her other leg around him and he drove into her, filling her in one deep thrust.
She was so warm, so tight. He wasn’t going to last long.
Neither, he hoped, was she. Her spine arched as she fell backward, and her breath came in short gasps that matched the timing of his thrusts.
He pinched her nipples lightly, eliciting another moan of pleasure before switching the attention of his fingers to the sensitive nub at the opening to her sex. He thrust deeper, faster, stroking the nub all the while. Her head tossed back and forth on the bedding. Need for release hammered at him and he tried desperately to hold back, increasing the pressure of his fingers, the tempo, until she shrieked and convulsed around him.
Not a moment too soon, for his own orgasm ripped through him, his cock throbbing with release, pulsing into her, until he collapsed. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him. They couldn’t stay like this all night. But he’d be damned if he was going to let her go now.
He couldn’t stay. To do so would mean certain ruin.
Bea knew this as surely as she knew her life would never be the same for having met Jean Philippe Durand. But they’d already risked enough. If he remained in her home—let alone in her bed—until morning, and the full staff began stirring, the damage would be irreparable. As much as she trusted her servants, gossip like that was bound to get out.
She was hardly the first wi
dow in the ton to take a lover, but discretion was paramount in such matters.
Beside her, Philippe raised his head. “Chérie, it is my fondest dream to hold you as you drift into slumber. Instead, I fear I must sneak away, like a thief in the night.”
“I fear you must,” she agreed, disappointed and yet relieved to know he understood the capricious nature of societal standards as well as she.
Bea slid from the bed and drew on a robe as Philippe dressed. She directed him to a side entrance, where he could leave unobserved. She hated this. The need to hide him, the way his slipping into the dark made her feel.
“I will call on you in the morning, ma belle,” he promised, kissing her good-bye.
Bea returned to her room and drew the covers over her head. She’d expected the turmoil of the last day—had it only been a day?—to leave her exhausted, but instead she tossed in bed, unable to sleep. She’d never spent the night with Philippe, yet she felt bereft at his sudden absence. The sheet was still warm where he’d lain next to her.
Lord, she loved that man. His passion for finding beauty in the world and replicating it, his easy charm, and, more than that, the ingrained honor that made him set all else aside to assist a friend in need.
It wasn’t the love she’d planned. She’d thought to find a man for whom she held a simple affection, a courtship that led to marriage and family, perhaps growing someday into a steady sort of love. Instead she’d found Philippe, and a greater passion than she’d ever imagined, tempered by uncertainty about their future.
Was there any hope this could last, and even expand to include those things she’d dreamed of? Or was she being greedy, hoping for too much?
One thing she knew. There was no hope for them at all if their relationship was not built on honesty.
Last night he’d accused her of not being open with him—an accusation in which he’d been fully justified. No longer, Bea decided. Her love demanded she open herself to him. He already knew her as a widow, a lady, a lover, and a spy. When he called upon her tomorrow morning, she would come to him as a poet.
