Maximilian stepped back and looked up at the windows of the town house. Muted light flickered on the second floor. A single candle, he judged.
Well, someone was home.
Fingers curled around the handle, Maximilian set his thumb on the latch and pressed. Unlocked. That was fortuitous. The hall was dark aside from a single wall sconce. The rooms on either side were dark as well. Not a sound was audible in the darkness. Nerves skittered along the back of his neck as the door slid closed behind him. Where were the housekeeper and the footman? The Flower?
Dash it all, after deliberately practicing his marksmanship, he had failed to bring his pistol. Clearly, he had learned nothing after weeks of renewed associations with spies. At the very least, he could have brought a knife.
A thud sounded above stairs. It seemed ominously like a limp body hitting the floor. He braced himself for attack, scanning the entryway. He didn’t much care for thuds in dark houses. Which meant he had to do something about it. The Flower could be injured. Or worse.
Boxing at Gentleman Jackson’s might prove a boon, as he was weaponless beyond his fists.
Hmm. Perhaps not entirely without defenses. An umbrella handle poked out of the stand near the door. Polished wood met his palm as he pulled it from the stand. Dim light masked the color, but he could see three rows of lacy ruffles marching across the expanse of fabric.
Brilliant.
He was confronting an unknown evil with a frilly parasol. Did one hold it like a sword or a cricket bat? A bat seemed the most threatening.
Well, there was nothing for it. He was going up.
He took the steps two at a time, up one flight to the next level, parasol at the ready. It was dark and silent as the floor below, except for a thin line of light beneath a single door. He heard footsteps in that room. Not loud, not running. Just footsteps.
His uneasiness faded a bit. There was no screaming. No weeping. Maybe no one was in trouble after all. Still, he should check—and the Flower had asked for him to come.
Very carefully, very quietly, he pushed open the door and peered into the room. He realized he was holding his breath and expecting a French spy to jump out at him. No one did. Instead, there was only the Flower.
In all her naked glory.
His mouth went dry. Good Lord, she was enough to make a man weep with gratitude that woman was created. Dimly, he noticed the hip bath beside her, the pile of black clothing heaped on the floor. A single candle flickered on a nearby table. Beyond that his brain noted rose and gold decor, a bed of massive proportions, tables and chairs and other furniture.
He could only focus on her body as she reached for the thin linen towel draped over a chair back. Candlelight gilded the skin of her buttocks, the shift of her shoulder blades as she moved. He had never noticed shoulder blades before, but the play of skin over bone could fascinate a man.
Fabric billowed as she snapped open the linen and began to dry herself. She was a study of efficiency. Neck, breasts, waist, legs, all were dried with competent movements—and then the linen fell to the floor as she spun around to face him.
His knees buckled, and he dropped the parasol in favor of gripping the doorframe. She was gorgeous. Exquisite. A fantasy of skin and candlelight and contours. He supposed he was accustomed to women with softness about them. Womanly softness.
Not the Flower. There was a dancer’s strength there, in every fiber. In every sinew.
He should look away. A gentleman would back out of the room and give her privacy. His feet didn’t move. He could only look and dream of touching. She was so slim. Her thighs and calves were defined in the most elegant of curves. She was narrow hipped, with a dip above to show her waist. Then her breasts. On that small frame they were magnificent, though not large by other standards. Pink tipped, with nipples pebbled and begging to be kissed.
Dear God, he wanted her. The need to touch that glorious body crashed through him, a thousand waves beating against the shore.
“Monsieur.” She had borne his perusal without a word, but her skin flushed and her eyes were bright. She licked her lips, and his breath hitched. “Maximilian. We are alone. No one will be in the house but you until the morning.”
He didn’t understand what she was saying. His ears heard her words, but his brain had disengaged.
Then he did understand.
“Are you certain?” Was that rasp the sound of his voice?
She nodded, her gaze never leaving his.
“Thank all the gods.”
Her laugh bounced around the room as she held out her hand to him. Suddenly, he didn’t care a whit about her protector.
It seemed to him the Flower belonged to no one but herself.
Crossing the floor, accepting her outstretched fingers. He brought them to his mouth, pressed his lips against her knuckle. Then another. He turned her hand over and spread her fingers wide to reveal her palm. It was smooth and soft and warm from her bath. He pressed a kiss to the center, then on her wrist. He felt her pulse jump against his lips, and his own pulse beat out a quick rhythm in return.
He looked into her face and saw her smile had dimmed. Perhaps she’d expected something else from him, given she was naked, but kissing those lovely hands was the only thing he could think to do. Pink lips parted on the lightest intake of air. The breasts so wonderfully displayed for his view rose slightly. Her eyes searched his face, and he saw a question there.
He had not expected hesitancy from this siren.
“Is this how it starts, then?” she asked. She sounded wary now. “I only thought it would be—faster?”
“I don’t understand.” He looked down at her hand again as her fingers curled into a loose fist.
“I have only done this once before.” Her voice was low. Hesitant. “It has been some years. I don’t know the movements—the positions.”
Shock rippled through him. “What of your protector? Wycomb?”
“It is a ruse.” Dismissing both the man and the lie, she shook her head. “I will not say more.”
She was not a virgin, but she was as close as possible. Disquiet settled in his stomach, twisting it into tight knots. What if he hurt her? The hands that itched to touch the flesh bared to him became damp with nerves.
“The first time—” He broke off, unsure of what he’d even intended to say.
“Just a boy I knew.” She spoke quickly, not looking at him now. “Others have wanted to be with me, but they do not pursue with any seriousness. Because of Henri.”
The nerves beneath her skin practically hummed, but she didn’t cover her body. That spoke of a confidence he admired. Her voice held the lightest touch of breathlessness—and he had put it there, he thought satisfactorily.
“A ruse.” He repeated her words with whatever air he could summon from his own breathless lungs. He was missing a vital piece of information of her relationship with the man. He knew it. Some bit of the code had not fallen into place. Whatever it was, he would ask later. Just now, a naked woman stood before him—but not any woman. The Flower. A spy, it was true, but for now, he could only see the woman before him.
Vivienne.
“There has been no man.” She shrugged, delicate shoulders moving up, then down, so that her breasts moved as well. He fought the urge to touch them. To touch all of her. Her lashes rose, and dark, dark eyes met his. His brain told him it was her pupils, dilated in the dim light—his body knew it was desire reflected in her gaze.
“No other man,” she whispered. “Until you.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
There was no one else she had ever wanted. Not like this. Something had built in her as he’d looked at her, still damp from her bath. His eyes and their bursts of gold had followed all the lines of her, touching her and warming her as his hands would do if he’d been closer.
And now, after so much looking, parts of h
er ached that she had not known could ache.
“Your clothes,” she said. Perhaps he had forgotten he wore his clothing.
His cravat would go first. And so it did, as she untied it and dropped the linen to the floor a moment later. The buttons of his jacket were next. Spreading his coat wide, she set her hands against the waistcoat beneath. His heartbeat fluttered against her palm. Aside from that fast rhythm, he seemed very still beneath her hands.
“Let me.” His voice was soft, with a rasp that shivered through her. “You will undo me otherwise.”
She smiled and stepped back. His eyes did not leave hers as he began to disrobe, as if he wanted to see each of her thoughts as he bared himself for her.
He was very broad in the shoulders. This was not by the design of his tailor. She saw now that his coat and waistcoat and shirt were removed. Hair was sprinkled here and there across his chest. She wanted to touch him, to feel the light hair beneath her fingertips, to listen to his heartbeat.
He was also narrow in the waist and muscular in the thigh. She saw this as his boots were removed, as his trousers joined the mountain of garments on the floor. And there, his manhood was ready. Very ready. As was she. This, he would read on her face. He would hear it, if she spoke, but she found her throat dry, her voice absent.
Her gaze dropped to his mouth, to the lips that kissed her with need. She wanted it on her, wanted to taste him without fear of discovery. She reached up and set a thumb over his lips. They were full and sculpted and pressed a small, openmouthed kiss to her thumb.
She had no breath. No air at all. Her stomach muscles fluttered and sent liquid waves to the very center of her.
“Maximilian.” She had located her voice but could still scarcely speak. “Kiss me. Please.”
His eyes went very dark and very focused. He cupped her face, thumbs feathering light touches across her cheekbones. He bent his head, capturing her mouth with a dedicated concentration that could rob a woman of strength.
It robbed her of strength so that her body quivered. Again, as he shifted the angle of the kiss. And again, as he delved deep, tongue seeking tongue. His lips were firm and they were strong and gave her the taste of him she craved. He pressed a kiss to the underside of her jaw, then trailed his lips down her neck to press another kiss on her collarbone. Then another. More, here, there, on the curve of her shoulder, again just below her ear.
He made love with his mouth as she’d hoped he would, so that she was hollowed out and refilled with nothing but urgent heat.
She lifted her chin so that he could access her throat and felt the brush of her own hair against her buttocks. Her hands fluttered over his shoulders, skimmed up his neck to tangle in the hair there. She tugged, not painfully, but enough that he would understand her need for him.
“Do not go slow, Maximilian. Later there will be time for leisure.” She pressed her lips against his, and the low hum in her blood quickened. “Not now.”
She leaned her body into his. His manhood pressed against her belly, hot and hard. Her breasts brushed the hair on his chest she had wanted to feel, sensitizing her nipples so they rose up.
He groaned quietly, and his hands grazed her collarbone, skimmed over her shoulders, arms, and to her hips—then around so he cupped the round globes of her buttocks, pulling her closer to him. Harder.
“Maximilian.” She breathed the word into the space between them and wrapped her legs around his waist, her mouth moving desperately over his. She could feel him pressed against the center of her. She was wet there, and it seemed he would slip right inside her.
He did not, instead carrying her to the bed where the silk coverlet was cool against her heated skin. He laid her down gently, despite the tensed muscles in his arms, and then stood back, looking at her again. His eyes moved first to her toes, skimming along her body. They rested on her thighs, then her hips. Darkened as he considered her breasts. Finally, he focused on her face with such intensity she felt his passion burn beneath her skin.
“Come, Maximilian.” She reached for him—the man she had chosen.
He moved over her, propping himself up so that he did not crush her. Always thoughtful, was Maximilian.
His body was long and hard, with muscles not of a trained spy, but of a man who was too disciplined to become soft. She ran her hands over the muscles of his arms as he raised himself up. Over the evidence of discipline he carried with him.
“Are you certain?” He murmured the words into her ear. Desire lowered his voice to a husky, nearly inaudible level.
The sound of his voice, the meaning there, sent her back arching so her breasts pressed against his chest. Her legs came around him, pulling him closer. He was there, at the entrance of her body. At that most intimate place. She closed her eyes, breathed in the scent of Maximilian. Reveled in his strength, his gentleness.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He kissed the soft spot beneath her ear and made her sigh. She opened for him, and he slid inside her.
They both stilled. Perhaps time had slowed. Perhaps the earth was motionless on its axis. Vivienne could only revel in the feel of his arms around her, of his strength, of the heat that filled her.
“Vivienne,” he whispered against her neck, holding himself motionless. “It seems I have been waiting a long time for you. I didn’t realize how long until now.”
Why this made her want to cry, she did not know. Blinking back tears, she tightened her arms around him.
He moved within her, shifting, thrusting, but still gently. Always with care and deliberation, using as much science and study as he used for life. He did not thrust wildly, but waited for her reactions, each contraction of muscle and sigh on the air. He saw every movement of her body, every shift in her expression.
He set his lips against hers, inhaled, drawing in a breath that seemed to bring with it her very essence.
Then he drove her to the edge and over.
Chapter Thirty
“Do you know, Vivienne, your face has the most stunning shape. The cheekbones, the widow’s peak.” It was all there for him to see now, as they lay side by side in her bed. “Your face drove me to madness when it would appear in my study without warning.”
“I did not intend for such a thing.” Her lips curved up. They were plump and red from his kisses—his kisses. Quite satisfactory, when he thought about it.
“You did, nonetheless.” He propped himself up so he could look down at her. “Did I drive you to madness?”
She lay on her side, hands tucked beneath her cheek. One shoulder curved inward, and her folded arm lay pressed against her breasts. He supposed it might have been modest of another woman, but the Flower’s breasts seemed to be playing hide-and-seek with him.
“Not in the same way, I think.” Her eyes seemed to laugh at him. “You provoked me with your scowls and frowns and precise folding of paper.”
“My what?”
“Precise folding of paper,” she repeated, sitting up. The sheet fell away, exposing her to his view, though she didn’t seem to notice.
He nearly swallowed his tongue. She was utterly exquisite, with her hair tumbling around her face and body and—well. His eyes crossed. But his ears functioned properly enough, as he heard her say, “Each corner, perfectly aligned to the other. Every crease, so flat the fold disappeared. This drove me mad. I do not have time for such precision, but I am glad you have it.”
“Why?”
“Because.” Her eyes were serious, though she still smiled at him. “This precision. You make love this way. No detail of my person is missed.”
He had no idea why, but her words sounded much more important than making love. He shied away from that thought and put their conversation back in the realm of the physical.
“The details of your person require proper examination.” Amazingly, though he should have been sated, he wanted to
have her again. His body stirred to life, hardening. The need for her began to build, stronger this time. “Perhaps I missed some bit of code. We should try again, just to be sure.”
“Perhaps we should.” She tilted her head, smiled at him. “Only you do not break codes any longer. It is always someone else I must take my codes to.”
“Yes.” He fingered a soft curl curving around her shoulder and grinned. “I’m busy with all sorts of translations—none of which I can think of at the moment.”
“Why do you not work for the government any longer?” She leaned forward, taking his hand and twining her fingers lightly with his. The touch was so much less than their contact only a short while before, but it touched more of him than fingers. She was making him soft inside, like pudding. Or custard. He didn’t want to think of code breaking for the government. All of that wild, glorious hair spilled over her body.
She was there—with him.
Waiting for his answer, she shifted so that she lay across his chest, face pillowed on her hands and looked up at him. Her black eyes held the entire world just then, with all the joy and sorrow that could be in it.
“After Waterloo I knew I would retire as soon as was practical. I had only wanted to live my own life in the first place, not be pressed into a world of half-truths after university.” He could not help but touch her cheek, running a finger across the smooth skin. “I believe in duty to my country and possessed a useful skill, so they pressed harder until I agreed.”
“This I understand,” she murmured. “Very much. Though if you had not agreed, we would not have met and would not be here now, like this.”
“How did you become a spy, Vivienne? Were you pressed into it?” Maximilian wanted to know more of her, everything before she delivered her first code to him. “What of your family?”
“A fever took them when I was a girl. I was recruited and trained not long after.” A shadow passed over her face, quickly enough he might have imagined it. “Eventually, I became a spy. Why was it so long before we became lovers, do you suppose?”
A Dance with Seduction Page 18
