Your Scandalous Ways (10 page)

Her eyes fluttered open. She stared at him. In the noontime light, he could make out the flecks of gold in her green eyes.

“Good grief,” she said. “Did I faint?”

“Perhaps, madame, this was too much excitement for you, so soon after rising from the bed,” Lurenze said. “I am so stupid. Why do I not think wisely, to tell Mr. Cordier to wait until you have something to eat? All you have is one small piece of pastry, and only two bites from this do you take.”

“Perhaps you're right,” she said. “But how embarrassing! I've never fainted before.”

“
Mi dispiace
,” James said. “I do apologize.”

Imbecille,
he rebuked himself.
Idiota.

He had no conscience, true. The trouble was, he'd let his emotions rule his brain, on about a dozen counts.

He'd been callous, deliberately so.

He'd been there. He'd seen what she'd endured, how shocked and frightened she was. Now, in the bright light of day, he could see the faint marks on her neck.

The trouble was, he could see Lurenze, too, almost visibly floating on his cloud of post-coital bliss.

“But this is good news, yes?” Lurenze said. “One man is found. He is in the prison. The other one, too, they will find soon, unless he is dead and the sea has carried him away. You must be comforted, madame. No one will allow you to come to harm. I keep the guard in the night, and here is Mr. Cordier to take my place.”

James blinked and looked up at him. “Take your place?”

“But here are you, and what is it more important for you to do?” said his highness. “Me, I would not leave madame alone, but my life is not mine to live as I wish. I must give the audience to these Russians who plague me. I do not mind to keep them to wait some hours, but I must appear to them before the time of dinner, when I have the engagement, also impossible to avoid. The Bavarians make a great dinner in my honor, where I must show myself. I must have clothes fresh and my face to be shaved.” He rubbed his jaw. “Madame is so patient. She makes no grievance. But the pricks of the beard are not agreeable to the ladies, I know.”

A short while later—after he'd reminded James several times to make sure madame ate properly—
his highness departed.

By this time, madame had fully recovered. She left the sofa and walked with Lurenze as far as the door to the
portego
, where she gave him a kiss on the cheek. He reddened with pleasure. Then he took her hand and kissed it, not like a boy but like a royal and a man of the world.

Then, finally, he was gone.

She did not return to the breakfast table but sauntered past James to the window.

The noonday light made the seed pearls shimmer. The light also rendered her garments—such as they were—nearly transparent.

Though the dressing gown glimmered in the light, and the ruffles danced with the slightest movement, he could clearly discern the shape of her breasts. His hands cupped involuntarily, recalling the way they fit his hands, their smoothness, their firmness. He had no trouble remembering the warm scent of her skin. If he'd been a dog, his nose would have quivered. As it was his brain was closing the thinking door and preparing to hang the “Closed” sign on it.

He tried to look away but his gaze helplessly slid lower. He could discern the outline of her hips, her long legs.

“What are the chances of their finding the other one?” she said.

“The other one?”

James dragged his attention upward, to her profile. She was looking out of the window.

“The other criminal,” she said.

“Bonnard, put some clothes on,” he said.

“No,” she said.

“You're doing this on purpose,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“To punish me,” he said.

“Yes.”

“You knew I'd come.”

“Yes.”

“That's why you sent the peridots.”

“Yes.”

“And you bedded him for spite.”

She turned her head then, and looked at him. “Oh, no,” she said. “I never bed anyone for spite. I'm a businesswoman.”

“He doesn't know that! He's over head and ears in love with you!”

“Ah, yes. First love. There's nothing quite like it. What does Byron say? ‘But sweeter still than this, than these, than all,/Is first and passionate love—it stands alone,/Like Adam's recollection of his fall;/The tree of knowledge has been pluck'd—all's known—'”

“‘And life yields nothing further to recall,'” he continued, “‘Worthy of this ambrosial sin, so shown,/No doubt in fable, as the unforgiven/Fire which Prometheus filch'd for us from heaven.'”

While he quoted the lines from
Don Juan
, her expression changed, and the color came and went in her cheeks.

“Is that how it was with you the first time you loved?” he said. “Sweet? And because you had a rude awakening are you compelled to pass the favor—and the poison—on to the next innocent?”

“How tender your heart's become on his account,” she said. “Your brain must be tender, too, if you
take me for an idiot. You don't give a damn about him. You're only vexed because you tried to play games with me and lost. I know games you never dreamed of, Cordier. And I always play to win. I tossed the bait and you chased it, the way a dog chases a stick.”

In an angry swirl of ruffles, she swung away from the window and strode to the table. She picked up the jewelry box and threw it at him. Reflexively he caught it.

“But now I'm bored with this game,” she said. “Go home, little dog, and take your toys with you.”

He looked down at the box in his hand. He looked up at her haughty face.

 

Francesca held her breath.

She'd gone too far. He'd throw her through the window. He was strong enough to do it.

And she wasn't sure she could blame him.

She braced herself for she knew not what: if not strangulation or a trip through the window into the canal, then another flaying from that cold, cutting tongue of his.

He couldn't know how deeply he'd cut with his remarks about her first love. Or perhaps he did know.

Very slowly, he set down the jewelry box on the table.

She thought of edging toward the bell, to summon help.

He started toward her.

She froze.

“You,” he said. “You.” Then he stopped, and put his hand to his head. His shoulders began to shake.

He let out a great crack of laughter, sudden and sharp as a pistol shot.

She jumped.

He laughed, turning away from her.

She only stood where she was, staring.

“
Diavolo
,” he said. He shook his head. “I'm going now.” He walked to the
portego
door, still shaking his head. “
Addio
,” he said.

And out he went, taking the jewelry box with him, and leaving her still staring after him.

She stood for a moment, clenching and unclenching her hands. Then, “You conceited, arrogant beast,” she said. She marched to the door and through it into the
portego
.

She'd had enough. This was the last time he'd turn his back on her, the last time he'd walk out on her.

She knew ways to stop men in their tracks, and he—

She stopped in her tracks.

Two men stood not twenty paces away. At the sound of her angry footfall, both turned and looked at her.

One was Cordier.

The other was a few inches shorter, and about three decades older.

“Madame,” came a voice to her right. Belatedly she noticed Arnaldo. She must have walked straight past him as he was coming to announce the new visitor. He cleared his throat. “The comte de Magny,” he announced.

“
Ma foi
, Francesca,” said the count. “Have you taken leave of your senses, child, to run about these drafty corridors naked? Go put some clothes on.”

“Monsieur,” she began.

“Run along, run along.” He waved his hand. “I will entertain your friend.”

M
onsieur de Magny was not the feeble old man James had envisioned. The count stood only a trifle under six feet tall, and the gold-knobbed cane he carried was merely a fashion accessory. Deep lines marked his patrician countenance, mainly at his eyes and mouth and above the bridge of his long nose. His wavy brown hair was streaked with silver. His brown eyes held a gleam—of humor, cunning, or cruelty, James couldn't be sure.

He could be sure that monsieur spent a good deal of time and money on his appearance. He was elegantly turned out, his linen starched within an inch of its life. A gay profusion of chains, fobs, seals, and medals adorned his waistcoat.

“You are not obliged to entertain my caller, monsieur,” Bonnard said. “Mr. Cordier was leaving.”

“Cordier?” said Magny. “I know this name.”

Who didn't? James wondered. His family, on both sides, was old and extensive. His father and mother were well known in Europe's courtly circles. Lord and Lady Westwood had always spent a great deal of time abroad. Even in wartime, they'd refused to remain safely at home.

“The name is French but you are not,” Magny said.

“Not our branch,” James said. “Not for some centuries. My father is the thirtieth Earl of Westwood.”

The count nodded. “A family of Normandy.”

“A very
large
family,” Bonnard said. “Mr. Cordier is one of several children of the second marriage.”

Merely one of those extraneous younger sons, hardly worth knowing
, her tone said.

The count gave her a look James couldn't read.

“And he's leaving,” she said.

“Not quite yet,” James said. He patted his coat as though looking for something. “I seem to have left my pocket notebook in your bedroom.”

Cold green murder glittered in her exotic eyes. “That's impossible,” she said. “You were never—”

“There's no need to summon a servant,” he said. “I can find it myself.”

“You don't know the way,” she said.

“Don't be silly,” he said. “I wasn't
that
drunk last night,
mia cara.
I'm sure I can find my way…back.” He moved to her. “But since you're going to get dressed anyway…” He offered his arm. He smiled down at her.

She smiled up at him. He remembered the serpent on her back, a cobra. Had she owned fangs, she'd have bared them. She took his arm, though.

“Cordier,” she said in an undertone, “I'm going to make you very, very sorry for this.”

“Oh, good,” he said, not troubling to lower his voice. “That sounds like fun.”

 

Her bedroom, James discovered, comprised a set of apartments on the other side of the
portego
at the courtyard end of the house. The parlor in which she'd first tried to seduce him opened into a sitting room or boudoir. This in turn gave way to another set of rooms. Her bed stood within an alcove. Curtained, arched doorways on either side led to other, smaller rooms, one clearly a dressing room.

Like the parlor, these rooms were modestly decorated by Venetian standards. The color scheme was lighter: soft pinks and greens, gold, and white. There was not a
putto
in sight. Instead, several choice landscape paintings adorned the walls and small circular scenes of mythical beings, framed in swirling gilt, appeared on the ceilings.

He saw no portraits of anybody, including her, but numerous other signs of her. A stack of books stood on the stand by the bed. Her toiletries were tumbled about a delicately carved writing desk in the boudoir. There, too, the pearls—those magnificent pearls!—lay as well, spilled carelessly among combs and jars and bottles.

As was the case with the beds in his
palazzo,
hers was not curtained. Nothing concealed the
rumpled bedclothes from view. This wasn't the only evidence of what had passed last night. Her clothes were strewn about the room. A sea green silk slipper lay on its side near the bed. Another lay upside down under the desk chair.

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.