He remembered the way she’d teased off her gloves—and remembering was a mistake, because he promptly envisioned her discarding the rest of her garments under Lurenze’s delirious gaze.
Now Magny was here. His easy informality and assumption of command left James in no doubt of their relationship.
His head began to pound.
“How many lovers do you have, exactly?” he asked as he closed the door behind them. “And how many of them know about the others? Does Magny know about Lurenze? Does Lurenze know about him? Is there anyone else I ought to know about? I should hate to say the wrong thing, inadvertently.”
“No, you’d rather say the wrong thing deliberately,” she said. “Were you looking to start a fight, perhaps, with a man old enough to be your father?”
“I shan’t ask what you’d want with a man old enough to be your father.”
“Oh, don’t be shy, Cordier. Ask away.”
She began untying the dressing gown.
“There’s a screen,” he said, pointing to a handsome one, painted with a pastoral scene of shepherdesses and lambs. Behind it, he supposed, was a commode and a washstand. “Why don’t you pretend to be modest and undress behind it? Or, here’s a novel thought: What about undressing in the dressing room?”
“How curious,” she said. “Most men would give a great deal to watch me undress.”
“That’s the trouble, you see,” he said. “So many men have.”
“And yet you won’t go away,” she said. “Curious.”
He stalked to the nearest window and stared out. “We need to talk.”
“Is that what we need to do?”
He fixed his gaze on the well head in the courtyard. “We do need to talk, reasonably and rationally. But you are so provoking. Do you recall my asking why Elphick divorced you?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “I couldn’t believe a man would give you up simply because you were not perfectly faithful. Even English gentlemen usually overlook their wives’ peccadilloes in order to save face publicly and maintain a semblance of peace privately. Such indiscretions are rarely a secret in the Beau Monde, I know, but that is a small, closed circle. Why should a gentleman seek a divorce—and let every street sweeper and pie seller know he’s a cuckold?”
“You might ask His Majesty King George IV the question,” she said. “He was more than happy to have Queen Caroline’s dirty linen washed in public not many weeks ago.”
“Kings are another species,” he said. “In earlier times, they sent adulterous wives to the chopping block—the penalty for treason.”
“That’s how men view it, isn’t it?” she said. “Treason. Women are mere vassals, property. When we vow to love, honor, and obey, it must be blind obedience. I had not realized that, and Elphick did not understand what sort of woman he’d married. You make the matter unnecessarily complicated and mysterious, Cordier. The reason he divorced me is simple enough. You’ve seen for yourself: I’m impossible.”
He swung round to look at her. She’d thrown off the dressing gown. She stood defiantly in a flimsy yellow and pink nothing, the lewdest nightdress he’d seen in all his life, and he’d seen more than his share of women’s lingerie.
His heart instantly doubled its tempo, and its fierce beat sent blood rushing straight to his loins.
His mind started to close down.
Don’t, Jemmy. Don’t muck it up again.
But there she was, all creamy smooth and sinfully curved under a mere wisp of cloth. He could clearly see her nipples thrusting against the thin silk.
You’ve been tortured by experts, laddie. Pretend it’s torture.
Given a choice, he’d rather have his nails pried off.
He set his jaw. “We need to talk,” he said, “but you insist on provoking me. With excellent success, I might add. The trouble is, it’s only a game to you. All you want is to make me crawl and beg.”
“That’s not all I want,” she said. “But I should enjoy it.”
“I’m not saying I wouldn’t enjoy it, too,” he said. “But then you’ll throw me away, which is not to my liking. Look at the way you treat those pearls, those splendid pearls.” He nodded at the tumble of jewelry on her dressing table.
“I ordered my maid to stay out of this room until sent for,” she said. “Call me old-fashioned, but I dislike having servants come into my bedroom as they please, regardless of who is there.”
“Old-fashioned,” he said. “Old-fashioned?” He laughed. “By gad, Bonnard, you are a precious jade. For the first time in my life, I harbor fantasies of killing all of my older brothers, that I might be taken seriously as a lover.”
“According to your treatise,” she said, “that course of action would not be unprecedented.”
She made him laugh. She made him furious. She made him crazy. He was half Italian. How could he keep away?
He closed the distance between them. He wrapped one arm about her waist. With his free hand he clasped the back of her head. “You are wicked,” he said.
“Yes,” she said.
“All you’ll get from me is a kiss or two,” he said. “I’m not one of your baubles. You won’t use me as you use your jewelry. I won’t be used, to prove whatever it is you want to prove, and cast aside.”
“That’s what you think,” she said. She tilted her head back. She smiled the long, slow, lazy smile.
“First thing I’m going to do,” he said, “I’m going to wipe that smile off your face.”
He’d drive her boy prince out of her mind, make her forget he’d ever existed. James knew more about women than the sheltered Lurenze would ever learn, if he spent a lifetime studying nothing else.
He kissed her, but not on the wicked smile. He kissed her temple, and one spot at the top of her cheekbone. Then, remembering what she’d done last night, he followed the path she’d traced with her finger, around the delicate curve of her ear, and down. He pressed a tender, lingering kiss upon the spot where she’d paused.
She trembled.
Then, so did he.
Lightly, so lightly, as though she were the innocent girl he’d been dreaming of for years, he made his way down her neck. With his mouth, he moved the edge of the nightdress aside and kissed her shoulder. He made a necklace of kisses where the pearls had hung last night. He followed the path she’d drawn at the upper swell of her breasts. He knew her heart beat faster, as his did.
She tried to remain still, but he felt the tiny shudders she couldn’t suppress. She couldn’t hide, either, the quickened rise and fall of her bosom as her breath came and went, faster and faster. She couldn’t mask the heat that deepened the scent of her skin, with its dizzying mixture of jasmine and woman.
He wanted to lose himself in her scent, in her. He wanted to forget everything else, to heed only this siren’s call.
Tie me to the mast.
He lifted his head.
Her eyes slowly opened. Her gaze, unfocused, drifted to his.
She cupped the sides of his face. “Beast,” she said, her voice husky.
“Tame me, then, beauty,” he said. “I dare you.”
He dragged his hands down over her breasts, to linger at the perfect inward curve of her waist, then down, to savor the sweet flare of her hips.
This isn’t why you came, the voice reminded, the inner voice that had kept him alive for all these years.
He knew he hadn’t come for this. He knew it was only a means to an end.
Yet the light touch of her smooth hands held him. She held him, too, with her softened gaze…and with the ghost he saw in those hazy green depths: the shadow of another girl, one not so cynical and sublimely self-assured. He saw a lost soul, an innocent who might believe anything, and who was capable of trusting absolutely.
He told himself this was mere fancy, and he was getting soft in the head because he was so hard lower down, but he felt a stab, in the heart he couldn’t afford to have.
To shut out the feeling, to shut out the troubling vulnerability he
saw in her eyes, he kissed her.
It was long and deep, passionately deep, and still she held him so gently, her hands framing his face as though she’d hold him forever this way, as though the easy yielding of her mouth wasn’t surrender but an invitation, beckoning him into a place that had no way out.
He knew there were no forevers and there was always a way out, yet he lost his way, lost his balance. He lost the warning voice, his guide. His senses filled with her, with the taste and scent of her. The silk slid under his hands as they moved over her, learning the rich curves of her body. She moved under his touch, urging him to fill his hands with her, to fill his world with her, leaving room for nothing else.
His inner guide would have told him this was merely the harlot’s art, but he’d lost his guide. All he could find was the warm, inviting woman in his arms…the scent of jasmine mingled with the scent of her skin…the warmth of her body under the silken veil…the fullness of her breasts against his chest…the softness of her belly as she pressed against his swollen cock.
His hands fisted in the silk at her hips and he pulled up the shift, inch by inch, while the kiss went on, the game of seduction deepening and darkening into pounding need.
He pulled the garment up to her hips and let the fabric slither over his hands while they slipped underneath to travel over her velvety skin: the tops of her thighs, the smooth curve of her bottom. He slid his hand between her legs, and she broke the kiss. She made a sound, like a sob, and trembled.
She was damp and ready and he could have her now, as every animal instinct roared at him to do.
But winning was a driving need, too, and stronger than any other.
I’m better than any of the others. I’m the one who’ll make you surrender, completely.
He slid his fingers through the soft curls and cupped her. He let his fingers stroke, gently and lightly at first while he listened to her sighs. As she moved more urgently against his hand, he responded, giving her more, but little by little. He wanted to be done. He wanted to make her his completely. But he wanted, even more, her surrender, and so he made himself take his time pleasuring her.
Her head drooped against his chest. His heart pounded so hard it must deafen her. But her heart must be pounding, too, because her breathing came faster and faster. Her body shook, and she gave a little cry.
Then at last she sank against him, shaking.
He drew his hand away and wrapped his arms tightly about her, crushing her to him.
He lifted her up, to carry her to the rumpled bed.
Then he set her on her feet again.
From somewhere in the distance came sounds: voices, the click of heels on the terrazzo floor.
He heard the sounds without fully realizing and he reacted without thinking, training and experience coming to the fore. He’d learned to detect a footfall from several rooms away, through closed doors, upon carpets. He had the senses of a cat, some of his colleagues said.
If he was a cat, he’d been doing a fine imitation of a blind, deaf, and lame one.
He put her away from him, aware of her eyes and the flash of emotion in them. Anger? Hurt?
It lasted but an instant, until she noticed the sounds, too. Her gaze shot to the door.
The voices coming from the portego became plainly audible.
A female servant was saying, “But of course, monsieur le comte, I will remind the mistress that you are waiting.”
“I’ll remind her myself,” said monsieur.
Francesca wasn’t ready.
She was shattered, lost.
She didn’t understand.
She understood pleasure. She’d studied how to give and receive it.
She’d learned, as well, to keep the upper hand, never to yield altogether.
She’d surrendered completely to him after a laughably short struggle. He’d touched her, kissed her, and her strength, her hard-won strength, seeped away.
Heart beating too fast, much too fast, she looked about her and tried to think.
She was aware of his bending down and picking up something. She made herself focus. Her dressing gown. Yes. She must…cover up.
He tossed it to her. She hastily thrust her arms through the sleeves while he returned to the window and clasped his hands behind his back.
The door opened.
The maid came in, the older man close behind her.
Francesca had to struggle before she could find the casual words she needed: “There you are, Thérèse.” Her voice sounded strange, not her own. Too high-pitched. She took a quick breath and went on, “What was I thinking of, not to send for you? It is not as though I can dress myself. But having all these gentlemen stomping about the place is so distracting.”
Magny’s brow furrowed.
“Well, then, I shall take my leave,” Cordier said.
“You found your notebook, I trust,” said the count.
Cordier patted his breast pocket. “Yes, I did, at last.” He looked at Francesca. “What a strange place for it to end up in, eh, cara?”
Cara. What a joke. She wasn’t dear to him at all, merely a conquest. An easy one, more shame to her.
Beast.
He took a polite leave of Magny and an impolite one of her, catching up her hand and planting a wet kiss between the rings on her middle and third fingers.
She wanted to weep.
She wanted to kill him, to hurl a dagger into his back as he walked away, through the door.
She listened to his footsteps fade away.
Monsieur gave her one of his looks, then stalked to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back, exactly the way Cordier had done.
Trying to block out from her mind all else Cordier had done, Francesca walked past the count into the dressing room.
Thérèse followed, leaving the door open. She’d been with Francesca since the early days in Paris. Being French and eminently practical, the haughty maid was not in the least troubled by her mistress’s morals or lack thereof. To Thérèse, what mattered were Francesca’s hordes of admirers, her wealth, and her jewels. Not another lady on the Continent, save a few royals, could match the mistress in this regard. Furthermore, one of madame’s grandmothers had been a French aristocrat.
All these factors made Thérèse fiercely protective of her position. No bribe was great enough, no one important enough to pry from her a syllable of her mistress’s secrets. None of madame’s suitors received special treatment, no matter who they were. Madame ruled. Thus Thérèse would not close a door when a man was present or make herself scarce unless told to do so. And, most conveniently for Francesca and her guests, the maid condescended to understand and speak only as much English as she deemed absolutely necessary to performing her duties. She was equally scornful of Italian.
Magny took no more heed of Thérèse than she did of him. All the same, he spoke in English. “You should not have left Mira. I told you this was an unhealthy time to come to Venice.”
“You should not have come,” Francesca said, watching Thérèse fill a wash basin. She wished it were possible to scrub Cordier’s touch away. She wished she could cleanse herself of the weakness he’d somehow uncovered.
“That was the whole point of my note,” she went on. “It was supposed to reassure you. I knew you’d hear stories—and of course they’d be horribly exaggerated. I was sure you’d hear I’d been murdered. I know what gossip is like, especially in country villages.”
“Speaking of gossip,” he said.
“Gad, I knew this was coming,” she muttered.
“I hear stories,” he said, “of you and Lurenze. But when I arrive, I find an Englishman. Do you know who his father is?”
“I never met Lord Westwood,” she said. “Elphick and he did not travel in the same circles—though I don’t doubt that my former husband tried as hard as he could to worm his way into those exalted circles.”
“Westwood is a great hero, especially to the French aristocracy. One cannot count the number of hea
ds he and his lady saved from Madame Guillotine, at great personal risk.”
The image jumped into Francesca’s mind, as it had done time and again: Cordier lunging into the felze and wrapping his arm around the villain’s throat…the brute struggling helplessly, futilely…then going limp.
“Taking risks runs in the family, then,” she said. “Apparently Cordier jumped from one of his balconies into the canal to save me. Still, I should distinguish between physical daring—or recklessness is probably more like it—and heroism. He’s a black sheep. He told me so himself.”
She heard a long, loud sigh. She glanced toward the doorway but Magny was not there. No doubt he still stood at the window, looking—or glaring—out.
“I won’t ask what goes on between you,” he said.
“What else?” she said easily. “Games.”
She could not have guessed how dangerously sweet a game Cordier could make it. She could not have guessed how the light caress of his lips upon her skin could touch something hidden deep within her, a part of her being she’d buried long ago. It was as though he’d reached straight down into her soul and turned her inside out.
He’d remembered everything she’d done last night when she’d tried to seduce him. Everywhere her fingers had gone, his mouth had gone. He’d done what she’d silently invited him to do, but what he’d done to her was not what she’d bargained for.
He’d touched her and kissed her exactly as she’d instructed. And he’d made a shivering wreck of her—she, who was an expert at the give and take of dalliance. But his mouth took possession of her so easily. His touch simply stripped her, leaving her naked and blind with longing. He’d pleasured her—and she liked to be pleasured—but this was not the same. He’d cracked something inside her and she’d come within an eyeblink of weeping. She didn’t understand and wasn’t sure she wanted to understand.
Why the devil hadn’t he been quicker? Why hadn’t he thrown her on the bed and had his way with her…and let her have her way with him, let her simply enjoy his big, strong body?
Beast.
“I do not wish to know,” Magny said. “I find it is better not to know. But if you own a particle of common sense, child, you’ll send this one about his business. I survived my trials and lived this long because my judgment of men is keener than most. This one, I promise you, ma cherie, is trouble.”