Wicked (31 page)

"I mean ... it was so rushed when we were in Lisbon, I don't specifically recall each gown."

"Lord Rochefort might remember," Lady Hamilton sweetly said, watching her.

"His memory for ladies' wear is quite acute," Serena replied, her temper rising, not only at consideration of his expertise in the area of female clothing, but at his arrogant presumption that he could disregard her wishes. "I'm sure he would recall all the details," she tightly said.

"Wealthy young men have a particular charm, don't you think?" Lady Hamilton lightly said, her own experience with wealthy young men vast and varied.

"On occasion they overstep their bounds," Serena coolly replied, although her smile was gracious.

"But then they're all such children, aren't they, my dea
r
—
m
en, you know. I say allow them their little whims. And I must admit, dear, your charming wardrobe will quite take everyone's breath away. Do let's pick out a gown for tonight," Emma gaily said, rising from her chair. "I scarce know where to begin with such a delicious a
r
ray," she added, standing for a moment in contemplation. "What color do you particularly like?"

Lady Hamilton it seemed liked a muted lavender velvet with pearls embroidered on the sleeves, the low neckline framed by a Vandyke collar of priceless cream lace. "This is the one you must wear," she declared after surveying each gown. "The queen will
love
it," she exclaimed, stroking the soft velvet. "And you must wear pearls at your throat. Horatio will adore it as well," she said. "There, it's all settled," she pronounced, with the same confidence that had brought her from her humble birth to her present position as confidante to a queen. "I'll send up my hairdresser once he's finished with me. Oh, won't it be fun! The men wil
l
cluster around you
l
ike bees."

******************

After her hostess left, Serena allowed her fury release, pacing and fretting, her resentment building with each gown she passed in her stalking perambulations about the room, her relegation to St. Jule
s
's harlot, with all its attendant privileges and favors, stinging her self-respect.

A doze
n
—
n
o, mor
e
—
t
wenty gowns, she counted and then, God in heaven, she realized, opening the armoire doors, there were more.
Thirty
gowns! The armoire was stuffed, the lingerie she hadn't noticed at first carefully folded in the drawers, along with silk stockings and sleeping gowns and beautiful corsets. He'd like those, of course, she fumed, her temper at tinder point. And she thought for a moment about tearing them all to shreds before cooler reason prevailed or perhaps the waste of such beauty stopped her. But she despised what he'd don
e
—
w
hat he'd done to her.

"How dare you!" she cried when Beau finally entered the room.

"You saw the gowns," he calmly said, surveying the colorful collection scattered about the room.

"Is that all you can sa
y
—
y
ou saw the gowns?"

"Did you find the diamonds?"

"Oh!" she squealed, turning a violent shade of pink.

"I had them brought up from the yacht; in the event a brigand came aboard the
Siren
tonight, Sicily being what it is," he nonchalantly added, loosening his cravat.

"Damn you! Don't think you can calmly ignore me!" Her hands were clenched at her sides, her spine rigid.

"When you get rich on your painting commissions, you can pay me back," he said, shrugging out of his coat as though he were immune to her fury. "It's not that much with the Portuguese exchange rate," he dismissively went on, "and with the queen in attendance tonight, I thought you might like a choice of gowns."

"You
thought."
She was quivering with rage. "Did you ever think what I might like?"

"I know what you like," he softly said, tossing his coat on the bed atop a gauzy green confection. "And after Minorca," he lazily murmured, his smile sinful, "I've added a few more subtleties to the
l
ist."

"Everything isn't about sex," she hissed.

It's about money and power too, he cynically thought. "I know, darling," he murmured, his voice placating, soothing, his graceful hands unwrapping his cravat from around his neck. "And I'm sorry if I offended you."

"Sorry?" Her voice was scarcely a whisper. She was without words, her rage trembling down her nerve endings, his casualness outrageous.

"I'm very,
very
sorry," he gently said, standing a short distance away, relaxed, the strength of his powerful tanned neck and chest visible at the open neck of his shirt, his expression bland or expectant or perhaps amused.

"I'm not your tart."

"I know, of course not." He took a step toward her.

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing." Moving forward another step, he watched her retreat. "Did you like your tea with Lady Hamilton?"

"No . . . yes ... it was . . . tea, for god's sake. Don't think you're going to touch me," she snapped, easing around a small table behind her.

"I don't want to fight over some stupid dresses," he quietly said, following her, his polished boots soundless on the fine carpet.

"Let's fight about the diamonds then."

"What diamonds?"

"The ones you were supposed to return."

"I'm not sure. Maybe I did," he lied; she obviously hadn't found them.

"Stop!" She held her hands up, palms out.

And he stopped, diverted momentarily by her sharp fiat. And then he softly said, "Don't want to," and lunged for her, lifting her off her feet in a great sweeping hug, twirling her around, smiling down at her. "Cut up the dresses into little pieces for all I care, but don't be angry, lollipop," he playfully murmured. "I apologize for everythin
g
— everything," he cheerfully added. And he kissed her and laughed a second later at her surprise and then he kissed her agai
n
—
a
sportive, baiting kiss at first, full of jest and amorous challenge but before long it changed into a heated, devouring kiss, a sighing, breathless, lingering kiss. And when at last he set her down, she found her agitation had indelibly changed.

"I don't want to fight," he murmured, his mouth brushing hers, his hands gently massaging her back.

"And I don't want to be treated like your newest whore." Her voice quivered with more than anger now.

"Never," he whispered, touching the corner of her mouth with a butterfly kiss.

"You embarrassed me."

"I'm sorry." His mouth drifted leisurely over the curve of her upper lip.

"Beau, listen to me." She struggled in his embrace.

"I'm listening. You don't want the dresses, so throw them out. H
m
m . . . you taste good," he murmured, restraining her easily, fitting her body more snugly against his.

He felt delicious as always and tempting ... so damnably tempting, it took a moment to regain her train of thought. "Lady Hamilton already picked one out for me to wear tonight."

"Keep that one then and toss the others." His lower body stirred against hers, his erection rampant.

"You'll say anything, won't you, when you're in rut?"

"Not anything." There was amusement in his voice. "Have you seen the mirror over the bed?"

"There's no mirror."

Releasing her marginally, he held her at arm's length. "There's a mirror under the shirring of the canopy," he softly said.

"How do you know?" A flash of pique shone in her eyes.

"Sir William told me."

"That's quick, Rochefort."

"It's the truth; I haven't stayed here before."

"Am I supposed to be diverted now by the possibilities of a mirror?"

"Why are we fighting? This is so trivial, lollipop. If the gowns are a problem, we'll get rid of them."

"It's not just about the gowns," Serena said with a small sigh, wondering if she was expecting too much from a man who viewed women as objects of pleasure and her new wardrobe as insignificant.

"I know." The jest was gone from his voice.

"Really?"

He nodded. "I misjudged you
r
—"

"Reaction?"

"No, your sense of respect. And while we may not agree on the definition"—
h
e'd lived too long in the Ton to be overly concerned with reputations of any kin
d
—"I understand your feelings."

"You're insightful after all."

"Just not obtuse, darling."

"No, definitely not that," she softly replied. This man understood refinement of sensation better than most.

He heard the hint of clemency in her voice, the auspicious tempering of her resentment, and having learned long ago how to take advantage of a lady's compliance, he kissed her with that fine nuance between tenderness and temptation that was his special gift.

"I'm still going to make you pay," she whispered when his mouth finally lifted from hers, desire alive inside her.

"Anything," he breathed. "I'm at your command."

"I shall flirt unmercifully tonight."

"Then I shall too." Mocking eyes met hers.

"You're not allowed. You must watch me as your penance."

"Cut out my heart instead," he said with whimsy. "How can I watch you tease other men when I adore you so."

"Do you really?" Artless and flattered, she forgot that a man of his notoriety adored women indiscriminately but never for long.

"I do . . . desperately," he whispered, pulling her closer. "So you must stay by my side tonight and not look at other men and make me happy."

"Then you must do as much for me."

"I don't like me
n
—
t
hat way." His dark eyes were teasing until she punched him in the stomach and a delectable heat replaced the amusement. "And in terms of women," he softly said, "I prefer you above all."

She had no experience combating such fluent charm, nor had any woman, experienced or no with Beau St. Jules's potent beauty so near. "You won't look at other women?"

"Never." His mouth warmed her temple and then her cheek and as it gently covered her mouth, he whispered, "I promise."

A moment later, he tossed a half dozen gowns on the
f
loor without regard for their delicacy or cost and lifting Serena, placed her gently on the bed. Lowering himself over her, he pushed her skirts up, settled with the ease of much practice between her thighs, his breeches already unbuttoned and guiding his hard length to her dewy wet cleft, he murmured, "Welcome to Sicily."

His hard length slid into her with excruciating slowness so she felt her body opening to him with a degree of ecstasy she marveled at, and she wondered if he knew something about Sicily she didn't. His body was warm through the fine lawn of his shirt, heated her flesh, her bare thighs rubbed against his nankeen breeches, the soft leather of his boots brushed her calves. The powerful rhythm of his lower body, driving, plunging, eradicated all but shuddering sensation. The panting shock, the pervasive need, the acute, staggering pleasur
e
—
a
ll were beyond the ability of her consciousness to comprehend. Always . . . always with him she felt it.

And she wasn't alone in he
r
rare, attenuated pleasure; Beau St. Jules wasn't so sure she hadn't spoiled him for other women. A heretic thought he quickly discarded for more immediate sensations. He pressed deeper and she cried out in pleasure. He pressed deeper still and she came as she always did, swiftly, with little panting moans that stirred his libido, that excited him and brought him harder, that propelled his own hurtling, shuddering climax.

He brought her to orgasm twice more in quick succession, a kind of dazed surfeit melting her limbs at the last and then he made love to her with measured languor, sustaining each soul-stirring sensation for prolonged moments, curbing her impetuous haste, making her wait until he knew she couldn't wait any longer. And when she'd climaxed in a wild exaltation, he only paused briefly before beginning again.

"No, no . . ." she whispered. "No." And half stupefied, she gazed at him and saw herself in the mirror above, her eyes languid, sated.

"Yes,
"
he murmured, sliding back into her. "Just a little more ..."

Perhaps it mattered that there would be men tonight wanting her, perhaps he wished to leave his mark on her because of that or perhaps he only wanted to keep her in his arms and under him, impaled on his virility because the degree of satisfaction and bliss was so intoxicating.

And later when she was replete beyond measure, he sat with her in his arms in a chair near the window while she slowly returned to the cooler reality of twilight in Palermo. The overcast sky turned somber gray and then darker still as evening fell and he talked quietly to her as one would to a sleepy child, telling her stories of the officials and royals, nobles and odd characters in Sicilian society. Making the court seem strangely real and unreal at the same time the way picture books bring an unknown land to life within a narrow confine. He explained the well-known ménage in Sir Hamilton's household. Lady Hamilton and Admiral Nelson, lovers and in love, enjoyed the friendship and favor of her husband. Sir Hamilton, British Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary at the court of Naples for twenty years, at sixty-nine and in ill health, understood both the beauty and corruption of the world and recognized the uselessness of jealousy.