“If you had the money,” he said, exasperated, “why did you not simply pay the man?”
“I wouldn't expect you to understand. It's the principle of the thing. He was trying to bully me because I am a woman. I shouldn't have to payâ”
“Because you are a woman?”
“I should not have to pay for food I did not order,” she said, frowning. “It's intolerable that
you
should pay for it, however. And besides, I wouldn't want a man like that to know I keep money in the house. He might come back and rob me. I'm fairly certain
you
won't come back and rob me. Come, I'll show you out.” She started to move past him, from the landing to the stairs, but he stood in her way.
“What's your hurry? Have you got a lover waiting for you upstairs?”
“Naturally,” she said. “You're welcome to join us if you like,” she added. “Unless, of course, you are too exhausted from your exertions with Mrs. Archer and her lovely daughter.”
Leaning forward, he murmured in her ear. “You're jealous.”
She laughed. “I? Jealous of Mrs. Archer? You must be joking.”
“You know very well I am talking of Belinda.”
“Oh, her. I feel sorry for her, that's all.”
“You're so jealous you can hardly see.”
“Why should I be jealous of Belinda Archer?” she wondered. “You're the one who's jealous! I suppose Dorian told you I dined with him last night?”
“Among other things,” he said coldly. “How long have you known him? Was he your first lover?”
“Who? Dorian?” She seemed genuinely shocked. “Of course not! How could you think such a thing?”
“Is he your lover now? Are you his mistress?”
“Certainly not. We dined together, that is all. You don't really think that I would be so crass as to take him to my bed afterâafter everything that has passed between us?” she cried.
“What exactly has passed between us?” he wanted to know. “Three years ago, when I held you in my arms, I thought I was the most fortunate man in the world.”
“I am sorry!” she said. “I chose marriage over love. Whether you believe it or not, I have regretted it ever since. I have suffered for it. I know that you will never forgive me.”
“I'm sure you did regret it, my dear,” he said curtly. “I'm sure you regretted it very much. When did you find out that he never meant to marry you?”
She bit her lip. “Who told you that?”
“It must have been quite a blow to your pride.”
“Yes, if you must know,” she said crossly. “When the war ended, Armand thought he would be restored immediately to all those honors and privileges formerly enjoyed by his family before the Revolution. But it was not so. His lands had been confiscated, sold more than once. He petitioned the French king, of course, but there were legal and bureaucratic hurdles to be got over. All that costs money, you know.”
“That's why you never left the stage.”
She nodded. “I had to keep working; he needed the money. As it turns out, a French marquis can be rather expensive.”
“How expensive?” he asked, not without sympathy.
“When he died, I had nothing left but this house and my name,” she said. “I've only just cleared all his debts. But I shall be all right. You needn't feel sorry for me.”
“I don't. In some ways, I actually admire you.”
She smiled faintly. “You admire me? And yet, you chose to spend the evening with Miss Archer.”
“And who is waiting for you upstairs?” he returned.
“Wouldn't you like to know?” she said, laughing.
To her surprise, he suddenly pushed past her, vaulting up the stairs. On the next floor up, he found her bedroom, and threw open the door. The room was quiet. The light from the fire in the hearth allowed him to see that the bed was unoccupied, though Dorian's brief rest there had left wrinkles in the coverlet. As Celia came into the room with her candle, he was rifling through the wardrobe. Crossing the room, she placed the candle next to the bed and watched, amused, as he looked under it. “Do you really think I could love a man who would be so craven as to hide under my bed?” she asked softly.
Still down on one knee, Simon watched as she sat down on the edge of the bed. The bed-curtains, of pretty, flowered chintz, hung loose on either side of her, framing her like a picture. “Your taste in men is baffling, to say the least. Palmerston! De Brissac! Fitzclarence!”
“I chose
you
,” she retorted.
“You seemed to regret it afterward,” he said.
“No,” she said. “I never regretted it. Did you?”
He made no answer.
“The war had just endedâor so we all thought,” she said, her voice soft yet filling the room. “London was full of men. Real menâfighting menâand they all wanted to make love to me. They all wanted me to leave Henry and run off with them. I was besieged on all fronts! I could have named my price. But I chose you.”
“Why?” he asked her. “Why did you choose me?”
“I thought you were the finest man in London,” she answered, closing her eyes briefly, as if to summon the memory from the depths of her consciousness. “And you wanted me so much; more than the others, I thought. When I told you I would meet you in Brighton when the theatre closed, I meant it. I would have gone. I planned to go. But . . .”
“But you got a better offer. I understand.”
“I don't think you
do
understand,” she said, laying her hand on his arm. “If you did, you wouldn't be looking under my bed or behind the curtains. If you understood me at all, you would not be jealous. You would know there's no one else.”
He looked down at the hand on his arm but did not shake it off.
“I did betray you,” she went on. “I chose de Brissac over you. But, believe me, I am sorry for it now.” Her other hand crept to his face, and to her amazement and joy, he actually allowed her to caress his cheek. “I never loved anyone but you.”
He seized her hand, pressing it to his face. “I wish I could believe you, Celia.”
“You need not believe me,” she said, “to take what I am offering.”
He could bear no more. Taking her in his arms roughly, he pressed her close to him, kissing her hungrily. Almost maddened with desire, he surged onto the bed, lifting her out of her shoes and dragging her with him.
“Wait!” she cried, laughing as she fumbled at his sword belt. “You won't be needing this to slay any dragons tonight.”
Impatiently, he unbuckled the sword and let it hit the floor. Weaponless, he took her in his arms, and again their mouths melted together as if there had been no interruption.
“I thought I'd never feel your arms around me again,” Celia murmured a long time later, resting her head against his chest to listen to the hard and fast rhythm of his heartbeat.
His arms tightened around her. “I've been a fool,” he said harshly. “For three years, I've been an absolute fool. I've tried to hate you. I even thought I had succeeded.”
“What could I do but pretend to hate you, too?”
“Why did you not tell me the Frenchman had offered you marriage?” he asked.
“What would you have done? Matched his offer with one of your own?”
“No,” he admitted. “I could not have done that.”
“No,” she said, pulling away from him. “Of course not. You would have given me up.”
“I would not give you up now,” he said fiercely.
“You don't have to.”
Sitting up, she loosened the laces at the back of her dress. Reaching out to her, he pulled her to him, easing the gown down from her shoulders and trailing his lips over her skin as her breasts were revealed. Celia wriggled out of her muslin slip, impatiently kicking it to the foot of the bed. Then she was naked in his arms.
What she offered was irresistible. Her body was slim, her breasts small but perfectly formed. Naked, she seemed more angel than Venus, an angel sculpted of shimmering white porcelain, but he knew there was nothing fragile or angelic about Celia. She was quite surprisingly athletic when aroused. With her head arched back, she murmured encouragement as he kissed and caressed her breasts. Her nipples formed tight pink buds in response as he suckled gently. It was she who pushed his hand lower down, she who placed his hand at the soft joining of her thighs, she who arched her back in silent demand. For a moment, he was startled to find that all the soft golden hair had been removed. The pudenda gleamed like pearls.
“What the devilâ?” he murmured. “What have you done to yourself?”
“Do you like it?” she asked, displaying herself to him shamelessly. “I think I look like a statue. It's for the painting,” she explained. “Sir Thomas wanted me to look like a classical statue. Do you not like it?”
“It will take some getting used to,” he murmured. “I have thought often of your golden triangle these last three years.”
“It will grow back,” she assured him. “Is it really so dreadful?”
“I suppose I can bear it.”
Actually, it fascinated him. He had never seen a woman so unclothed. Her sex was tiny and perfect, the neatest he had ever seen. If he didn't know better, he would have thought it was the innocent, untouched girlhood of a virgin. The soft pink lips seemed to pout as he stroked them gently with his finger. She wanted his mouth, and told him so. No stranger to pleasure, she gave herself up entirely to his probing tongue, her legs falling naturally over his strong shoulders. The warmth of his mouth alone was almost enough to send her into spasms, and it did not take him long to wring fierce cries of joy from her throat.
All this he remembered. She was wanton, and yet there was a sweetness in her surrender. When she gave herself, she gave completely. As she lay recovering, he slipped from the bed to undress. Celia watched with half-closed eyes, not bothering to cover herself, but as he pulled his shirt over his head, she suddenly cried out in dismay. Kneeling up on the bed, she ran her hands across the crisp black hairs on his chest. “What is this?” she demanded, finding the ugly, thick seam of a scar slanting from his navel almost to his armpit.
He caressed her cheek as her mouth moved over the old injury. “Did you memorize all my cuts and scrapes?”
“I know every inch of this body,” she said. “I thought I did, anyway. I heard you were wounded at Waterloo. My poor darling. It must have hurt a great deal. You must have been in agony.”
“I am in agony now, madam,” he said, laughing.
“What?” she cried, then laughed as she guessed his meaning. Climbing out of bed, she helped him out of his boots and breeches. His sex fell neatly into her hands, pleasingly large and so rigid that it was hardly necessary for her to take its velvet tip in her mouth, but she did so anyway, kneeling at his feet to luxuriate in the taste and scent of his manhood.
He had neither asked for nor expected this service on their first meeting, but she had seemed so eager . . . Afterward, she had explained that the maneuver served a practical purpose; she did not want a child. The first spending was more dangerous than the second, and once she had taken him in her mouth, he could then enjoy her as he willed.
She would have suckled him in earnest now, but Simon suddenly drew her to her feet and, gripping her in his arms, fell with her onto the bed. Celia made no protest, but clasped him joyfully with her arms and legs. He took her then almost violently. It was over too quickly for her to find pleasure again, but Simon, shattered by his crisis, collapsed in her arms, his back shiny and slick with sweat.
Celia lay with him uncomplaining, knowing that he would soon rise again. After a moment, he threw himself down on his back beside her.
“I heard that you captured a French general at Waterloo,” she said, touching his wound again. “Is that when you were wounded?”
“Hmm?” he murmured sleepily. “That old story.”
A smile touched her lips. “You mean it's not true? You didn't capture a French general at Waterloo?”
He chuckled. “I'm sorry to disappoint you. 'Twas one of my officers who captured the general. He has since sold out. I turned my back on him for one minute, and the damn fool catches sight of the
maréchal
and off he goes! Brains of goose, he had.”
She frowned, disappointed. “So
he
captured the general?”
“Having pulled the
maréchal
across his saddle like a sack of flour, the young idiot suddenly found himself surrounded by cuirassiers.”
“What happened?” she asked, her chin on his chest.
“Somebody had to go save him from his own idiocy, and I was his commanding officer.”