“I don’t know.” His brain wasn’t entirely functioning. “The work, I suppose. You were off doing the secret things you do, and I was—”
“Hunched over your desk, like so.” She laughed, pushing up to a sitting position and bending forward, her hair slipping and sliding over her shoulders and breasts. “Then you scowled, like so.”
Dear God, please tell him he didn’t look like that.
The ferocious frown seemed ridiculous on her, particularly when she broke into a laugh as bright as the candlelight glowing over her skin.
His hand moved of its own accord, reaching for her. He skimmed a finger down her arm, not quite sure what he had done in his past to deserve such a beautiful woman in his bed. Or, rather, to be in her bed, if he were to be accurate.
“I feel as though I didn’t see you for all those years.” Perhaps they had not been meant to see each other before, he thought. Which was a fatalistic idea utterly without basis in logic.
“It does not matter if we did not see each other then.” Her dark eyes had sobered. They were pretty with that seriousness in them. “We are here now.”
She rose up beside him, kneeling on the bed. Her leg bumped against his, her skin soft and silky. He could see all of her this way. Every shadow and valley and curve—
She set a hand on his chest, fingers warm and soft. His blood pumped fast, and he realized her hand was over his heart. She would feel every feverish beat.
Her lips curved up in a knowing smile. “Ah, Maximilian. Oui.” She leaned over and set her mouth to his, brushed her lips against his. She tasted of sin and secrets, and it was heady.
She was simply too much for him.
It wasn’t just her mouth. It was her curling hair, sliding across his shoulders and face. Her breasts, pressing against his chest. The sweetness of her skin. The slow, genuine smile that crossed her face. The quick and clever fingers tangling with his.
“Maximilian.” The word sighed out of her.
He drew her down beside him so she was tucked against his side. He turned to face her, traced a finger over her lips. He only wanted to kiss her. To bring her taste and scent and soul into him. A ridiculous notion, but it was what went through his head.
“May I stay?” he murmured. “May I stay with you?”
She looked up at him, her brows drawing together, then at the small clock on the mantel. She was thinking quickly. He could all but see her mind moving behind her secretive eyes.
“Yes. Until dawn.”
…
Vivienne stretched, luxuriating in the feel of limber muscles. She had not performed her exercises last night, yet she felt quite flexible this morning.
Making love was as good as exercise, then. Or, at least, making love with Maximilian.
She was tucked against him, back to chest, as he had pulled her in after asking to stay. The hair on his chest tickled her back. It was nice and strange, all at once. His hand was resting on her hip, warm and heavy. And though it mattered that she’d felt his heart bump against her palm like a wild thing trying to get free, and that hers had ached as she’d felt the rhythm, it would not matter forever.
She could not let those things matter.
There was Anne. Always Anne. Vivienne had taken her fleeting, momentary happiness with Maximilian, as Jones had said. It was over now, and though Anne had not left Vivienne’s mind, Maximilian must be put from it.
She must say good-bye to Maximilian, then take today for what it was. Dawn could not be far away, and Henri would arrive not long after.
She opened her eyes—and saw the bright light of the midmorning sun.
“Merde!” Leaping from the bed, she scurried to the basin. Cupping her hands, she splashed the water over her face. It was icy, but useful. “Merde! It is morning, Maximilian!” Her teeth would chatter in a moment.
“Hmm?” He sounded lazy and sleepy. Very un-Maximilian.
“Henri will be here soon. He always arrives at ten o’clock.” Henri could not find Maximilian in her bed. If he did—well, she did not know, but one of them would pay. She in blood, Maximilian in some other commodity. Money, reputation.
Perhaps blood. It was possible.
What had she been thinking? It was foolish to take a lover. However much she wanted Maximilian, it was foolish and there might be consequences.
Vivienne turned to look at him, thinking to hurry him along. He nearly made her smile. He was sitting up, his hair mussed, eyes bleary. It was very endearing.
She did not have time for endearing.
“You must go.”
His clothes were piled on the floor where he had shed them. She gathered them up and was conscious of Maximilian watching her every movement. He was quite focused on her body. His mouth might not be speaking, but his eyes told her clearly enough what he thought. Had he not had enough of her?
“Hurry!” She straightened, his clothes clutched to her chest.
He only stared at her. Perhaps not all of his very large brain worked this early in the morning.
“Your clothes.” She dumped them on his lap—and the part of him that clearly did work this early in the morning—in a heap of wrinkled fabric. “You must leave. Before Henri arrives.”
“If he’s not your protector, then who—” His voice sounded like carriage wheels on gravel.
“It is a ruse, yes.” She spun away, searching for a dressing gown. She could not meet Henri wearing nothing. He expected her to be well-groomed. “Still, I cannot have a man in my bed.”
“I don’t understand.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed to slide them into his trousers.
“It is quite complicated.”
“I agree.” His tone was very dry. “I feel as though I’m going to be robbed of an answer, which is worse than being tossed out on my ear.”
“You are not tossed out on your ear. You can—”
“Vivienne!” The call came from below them. It wasn’t angry, it was simply loud. “There is no one to answer the door.”
She froze. A strange sort of horror gripped her. Henri.
“Go.” Panic could clutch at one’s lungs so that there was no air to breathe, but it did not freeze the body. She stumbled to the dressing table and its glass to twist her hair up and pin it.
In the glass, Maximilian’s reflection put on its boots. The reflection did not bother with a shirt, but grabbed it, the coat, and cravat and tucked all of them under its arm. She turned, hands full of pins, to look at the real Maximilian. This was not how she wanted the night to end. The need to weep tugged at her heart, but her mind knew it was weak—perhaps not weak, only foolish.
Jabbing a pin into the pile of hair atop her head, she said, “Stay here. Once Henri is in my boudoir, you may leave through the other door.” Two more pins. Perhaps one. It would not be perfect, but perhaps would appear artfully en déshabillé. “Do not come into the adjoining room. Please.”
“How do I get out?” He bit off the words, the short and angry sounds arrowing into the air between them.
There were footsteps in the hall. For one breathless moment, Vivienne thought Henri might enter her bedroom, but he had never done so before, and he did not today.
“Do not be angry, Maximilian. I cannot change what is.” Stepping forward, she set her lips against his. “Not just now.”
“I know.” Mouth strong and hot, he seemed hungry for her. The hand that snaked around her waist held her firmly, yet gently.
One more kiss, she thought.
“Go.” Then she turned away from this man who had touched her so deeply. This man who saw her so clearly. His arm fell away. She could not look into his eyes. If she did, she would forget herself.
She pushed open the door to the sitting room—the boudoir, as Henri called it—and deliberately angled the door so Maximilian could not be seen behind her.
&nbs
p; “Bonjour, Henri.” She stepped through and closed the door. Carefully. Very, very carefully.
“Where are the staff?” he asked.
“Both are on their day off, the others have not yet arrived. I do not mind.” She shrugged, making sure the movement was French. Where was Maximilian now? In the hall? “It is nice to have an evening alone.”
Henri did not speak. He took a seat in the armchair closest to the fire. It was his usual place, but with no one to light the fire, the room was chilled. His eyes were on her. Just as chilled.
What did he see?
She pulled her wrap higher. It was one she usually wore for him, but she always had stays and chemise beneath. Just now, she was nude. There was nothing between her and discovery but thin silk.
“What is the assignment today?” She walked to the chaise, pleased her legs were steady and her voice calm. Lowering herself to the cushioned seat, she sent her best smile—the one she practiced for the dandies of the ton who visited backstage.
Henri watched her steadily. Would he notice she did not have clothing beneath the wrapper? Yes. He would notice everything. She would use this, then. If he was distracted by her body, he would not notice her discomfort. Diversion was the simplest of tactics if one knew one’s opponent’s weak point.
She slid her legs out along the chaise. Slowly. They were covered, but the thin silk clung to her shape. “Am I not to be active this night?” It was difficult not to grit her teeth. Her legs were still warm where they had tangled with Maximilian’s.
Henri did not look at her face when he spoke, but at her legs. She saw the hunger there, the lust. “I have an assignment for you.”
“Yes?” It was not difficult to position her body to its best advantage. A shift of her hips, the arch of her back. Her stomach roiled and her mind screamed in protest of such machinations, but she smiled at him as though he were all that was important. She must not let him suspect she had been with Maximilian. But Maximilian’s scent was still on her skin, creating a tear in her heart as she posed for Henri. This tear became a chasm, dark and very deep, that nearly swallowed her whole.
“There’s a dinner party tonight. A particular gentleman attending is leaving for Brussels. He’s been secretive about his reasons.” Henri’s gaze flicked toward hers, then back again to linger on her breasts. “If you can’t find out what he’s planning at the party, then I expect you to search his house.”
“Of course.” She had performed such assignments before. Different circumstances, different diplomats, different parties. But she had done this before. Her apprehension abated.
“Michel Lessard is your second assignment.”
Her heart skipped, a hard jolt followed by frantic beating. She could not speak beyond it, but only watched him, waiting.
“The Vulture is making plans. The underground is full of reports. We need to know what is happening.” Henri looked pointedly at the empty fireplace, waving his hand toward it. “Do not offer both your servants a day off at the same time, Vivienne. It is not acceptable.”
“My apologies, Henri.” It did seem cold in the boudoir. Her bones, even, were chilled. “What of Lessard? Of Marchand?”
He looked to her face again, his gaze arrested. Her skin prickled with unease. Perhaps one’s face changed after making love. Perhaps her hair was too untidy, her cheeks flushed. He might read these signs and know.
“You are looking lovely this morning, Vivienne.” Softly, he spoke, yet with no hint of admiration. Only a chilling lust.
“Merci.”
“I am the envy of many a man in London, though I have not earned such envy.”
Acknowledgment required only a nod. She could not manage more. Did he suppose he could earn such envy? He could not. She would not.
“There are many who want the dancer and woman I have cultivated,” he continued. “Others who would want the spy I have trained.”
“Yes.” So many undercurrents. So many things unsaid.
“Lessard would be one such man. He has an affection for beautiful women.”
“You believe he would have such an affection for me.”
“Perhaps.” He crossed his legs. It was not comfort or ease that changed his position. It was command. “Approach Lessard. How you do so is up to you, but he must be turned. He’ll be difficult. He’s been with Marchand for a long time, but he is known for being first a businessman and second, his own master.”
“What shall I offer in return?” she asked.
“Whatever he asks for, Vivienne. Except information.”
Fear ran the length of her spine. Lessard would know the Vulture held Anne. If she went to Lessard to turn him as Henri demanded, it would not be what the Vulture expected of her—they would suspect a trap. A ruse. They would expect her to arrive, ready to accept the Vulture’s commands. If she asked for something else, it would be Anne who paid the price.
For Henri, she must turn Lessard against Marchand.
For herself, she must befriend Lessard.
The path she walked was thin as one of her own knives, and as sharp.
It was good she was skilled with a knife.
Chapter Thirty-One
Maximilian couldn’t work. The words were only random letters on paper.
She’d done this to him.
For years, he’d had the comfort of letters and numbers and the statistical combination of codes, even when he’d worked for the government. Letters on paper were like musical notes to a composer. Except now Maximilian couldn’t hear the music. He hadn’t been able to hear it all day and into the evening.
“Sir.” Daggett crept into the room, careful as a mouse waiting to be pounced upon. Apparently his assistant had developed an instinctive sense for his employer’s black mood.
“What?” Maximilian tossed his quill across the desktop. He wasn’t going to complete a single task at this rate. The words were crisp on the page but blurred in his mind.
The ever-present ledger hung loosely in Daggett’s hand. “The Russian Embassy has sent a messenger asking for the—”
“I haven’t finished it yet.” He’d barely started the translation. A headache was brewing behind his eyes. He should be feeling good after his night with Vivienne. She’d been amazing and gorgeous and—well. He didn’t want Daggett to notice what Vivienne did to him. But now he was left worrying about her. Did her “protector,” Wycomb, suspect Maximilian had been there?
He wished he understood that relationship. Father? Uncle? Friend? God’s toes, he was probably a spy—and if so, it grated that she hadn’t trusted him with that information.
Whoever he was, Maximilian hated him. Whatever the ruse, Wycomb could see the Flower whenever he chose. He could enjoy her rare humor. Listen to that sultry voice. More, he did not have to hide, to pretend. Whatever else he was to her, the Flower belonged to him in some way.
Breathing deep, Maximilian tried to turn those thoughts into a hard ball he could lob into oblivion. Part of him understood base jealousy, another part understood idiocy. The Flower could never be his.
He stood, not certain what he would do but certain he could not sit.
“Sir. Sir!” Daggett’s face popped up in front of him, looking harried and rather concerned. “The Russians.”
“Hang the Russian Embassy. I’m going out.” He pushed his chair back from the desk and ignored Daggett’s sputtering. “What is the time? Is Gentleman Jackson’s open?”
“No, sir. It closed hours ago.”
“Unfortunate. I shall have to be civilized and refrain from hitting someone.”
Maximilian had no idea where he was going when he tossed his greatcoat around his shoulders and slipped a pistol into the deep pockets, or when he stepped out in the damp, cold night. But he should have been able to predict his excursion would end at the Flower’s front step.
Light blazed fr
om the windows, illuminating curtains and the rooms behind. No dark windows for the Flower’s residence tonight. The interior looked warm in comparison to the chill of the night air.
He debated knocking on the door, but he was uncertain as to his welcome. She might be happy to see him and invite him in. Or she might toss him out again if her protector were visiting. Or she might be tired of him after a single night.
He was acting idiotic. Like a lovesick swain chasing after his chosen lady, seeking her favor. Lancelot to Guinevere—except King Arthur was King Arthur in name only.
He turned away and began to stride down the street. He should be at home, sitting by his warm fire and working for the Russians, not fancying himself playing Lancelot.
The door to her house opened. He swung around, his heart bumping hard in his chest. The footman limped out first, waving to a carriage coming down the street. Then she came out. Something deep inside him leaped at the sight of Vivienne. She was beautiful dressed in full evening wear. A feather adorned her hair—no, two—and her gown seemed to sparkle as the interior lights moved over it. She was smiling at someone in the hall behind her.
A man stepped out.
The protector.
Jealousy bubbled up inside Maximilian. Jealousy and anger and all manner of messy emotions he’d never felt until he’d become involved with the Flower. He supposed it was misplaced jealousy. Wycomb was not Vivienne’s lover. He’d never felt her body move around and over him, or watched her eyes flutter closed as she sighed.
Still, Wycomb stood in the open with her. Maximilian was relegated to the shadows.
The carriage clattered to a stop in the street. Maximilian fisted his hands and watched as Vivienne and Wycomb moved toward it. She looked graceful and poised, her hand resting on the man’s arm as he escorted her, her head high and the pointed chin proud.
They paused at the carriage door while the footman lowered the steps. Wycomb set his hand on Vivienne’s lower back to guide her forward. He glanced up to the coachman, calling out some instruction.
A Dance with Seduction Page 19
