Chapter Thirty-Two
“Ah, you’ve arrived!” Prinny gestured wildly for Maximilian to come closer.
Unfortunately, if he stepped any nearer he was likely to be splashed by whatever beverage had inebriated Prinny. The bloody glass was waving in the air, gold liquid splashing all over the opera box.
It was a miracle the men around him—politicians and dandies, if Maximilian had any guess—were still dry. In thinking on it, the dancers were likely to get sprayed as well. Prinny’s box was perilously close to the stage.
“Your Highness.” Maximilian bowed but avoided stepping forward and into the spray of liquor. He only had one coat Daggett considered appropriate for such an occasion, since he’d gotten blood on the last one. His assistant would never forgive him if he ruined this one as well—and good assistants with exceptional filing systems were difficult to find. “I appreciate your invitation this evening.”
“Nonsense. It wasn’t me who issued the invitation. It was your brother.” The Prince Regent grinned and waved the glass toward the corner of the opera box.
Anger settled in Maximilian’s belly. Odd that anger could feel icy. Turning toward the corner Prinny had gestured to, Maximilian found the figure he’d missed upon entering the box.
“Highchester.” Maximilian ground the word out in the most polite tone he could manage.
“Max.” His brother would be characterized as elegant in his evening wear, Maximilian was sure. He rarely looked anything else, so the ladies said. Dark jacket, a crisp white cravat, a striped waistcoat Maximilian would never have worn. Too bad Highchester’s nasty grin ruined the effect. It was the grin he used when he believed he had the upper hand.
“An opera dancer, Max?” Prinny waggled his brows in that ridiculous way a roué did when he thought he was being amusing. “Your brother was vexingly silent on her identity, but I’m most curious. Sit down and tell me, which lady do you have your eye on?”
Maximilian accepted the last empty seat, closest to the stage. “None, Your Highness.”
Prinny guffawed, belly shaking. His glass was dangerously near to upending itself on the dandy next to him.
The dandy righted the glass quickly enough, saying, “Discreet, are you, Mr. Westwood?”
“Always, my lord.” Maximilian nodded his head to acknowledge the man.
Prinny saluted the dandy and took a drink. “Don’t be discreet, Maximilian. I want to know.” He leaned forward, winked. “Who is she? The little Italian dancer? I’ve heard she’s got a— Well.” Prinny slid his gaze toward the stage, where the dancers performed and the soprano wailed. “Who is she?”
Another man leaned forward, from Prinny’s other side. “You’re not known for dalliances, Mr. Westwood. She must be particular.”
“Quite particular, isn’t she, Max?” Highchester drawled from his seat. His delight at Maximilian’s discomfort was obvious in the relaxed posture, the slight twist of lips, the mocking light in his eye.
Maximilian did not bother to answer his brother. Highchester would do his utmost to make Maximilian uncomfortable. What was most important now was ensuring Vivienne was not discovered for a myriad of reasons, not the least of which was her position as spy.
“We shall guess, Max,” Prinny said gleefully. “In the meantime, do think up another code for my own lady, won’t you?”
He turned away, and Maximilian was blessedly forgotten for the moment. It wouldn’t last long, but a momentary reprieve was better than none at all.
He turned his attention to the stage, his gaze focusing on Vivienne. He’d been vaguely aware of the stage and the dancers since he stepped into the box, he realized. Sort of an instinctive knowledge of where she was in relation to him.
She seemed to him the most graceful dancer on the stage. Though there were other beautiful women there, including the soprano, there was something about Vivienne that caused a visceral beat in his blood.
Maximilian wondered if predators in the wild felt this strange craving when stalking prey. It was a hard and fast churning in his belly—and farther south. A physical pull that kept his eyes tracking her across the stage. Vivienne La Fleur might belong in another man’s house, but that man did not hold her mind or her soul.
Or her heart, but that was neither here nor there.
Absently he listened to Prinny and his cronies rattle on about a horse race one man challenged another to, but he watched her. The distance to the stage was not far, and it seemed as if he could feel the air move as the dancers crossed the wooden surface. Vivienne danced at the rear of the stage, providing a moving backdrop for the singing soprano. Yet she was the center of the performance for him.
Her feet moved in time with the music, and with each swirl and beat he could see the delicate bones of her ankles, the flash of the lean calves above. Those quick, talented feet fascinated him.
Until he saw her eyes.
Perhaps he thought she would be blind to anything but the music. Perhaps he’d thought dancing was her passion—in a way, he supposed it was or she wouldn’t continue. But it was not all she thought of when she was on stage.
She looked everywhere. No part of the theater was untouched by her gaze—including him. Her gaze flickered over him, registered his presence, and then moved on to this box or that. A twirl, a pointed toe, then her gaze landed on him again.
This time, her lips tipped up in one corner.
He caught his breath. Was it flirtation? Greeting? Laughter? He could not read her half smile. The sight created a yearning inside him. Not for her body, but for the understanding of what she was thinking.
A crafty voice slithered into Maximilian’s ear. “You seem to be absorbed in the performance.”
Maximilian clenched his jaw and breathed deep before turning to his brother. “I like the music,” he answered. Deliberately he looked back at the stage and the Flower.
She made another spin then a series of small, controlled leaps across the stage. She slid another look in his direction. He swallowed hard as her lips tipped up again.
The soprano’s voice soared over the music. He heard it, but it seemed like only a hum compared with the rushing of blood in his veins. He was certain there was a story behind the words of the song, but he couldn’t translate it just now.
As the crowd began to buzz around him, he realized others watched Vivienne as well.
She’s going to steal the show… The soprano won’t like that…but look at her. She’s never danced better…
The Flower spun on the stage. She was dancing with a fan now. She fluttered it then set it against her face to hide her lips. Her eyes were downcast, demure, just like those of the other dancers as they sank into some sort of low curtsy. The song trailed off in a final series of notes. Things were beginning to draw to a close. He began to turn away, to say something to the prince—
And her lashes swept up. Her gaze latched on his, and he could not breathe. The fan lowered, and her smile bloomed. Sly and sensual. For him.
His fingers clutched the arms of his chair as his body began to thrum and pulse and rage. Some primitive male part of him wanted to possess her. To take her from this room and hide her away for his very own.
The crowd was clapping, some enthusiastically like the prince. Others politely, as if they had not watched the performance. All of it was a dim pounding that could not match the beat of his heart.
“She danced exceptionally well this evening, didn’t she?” Beside him, Highchester tsked quietly. “You should be more discreet.”
He was correct. Maximilian should be more discreet. Yet their gazes were still locked. He could not look away from her.
Tonight, Vivienne. Will you steal into my bedroom?
His mind asked the question. His body screamed it. Could she read it in his gaze?
Her smile curved up a little bit more. Her eyes swept down, the fan fluttering near her breasts. She didn’t say the words, but he knew her answer.
…
It was late. The performance had ended, there had been many people—men—backstage to fawn and to flirt and to compliment her dancing. She had left the theater much later than intended.
They did not know it was Maximilian she had danced for, sitting in the prince’s box, eyes focused only on her.
Now, here she was. Slipping past the pitiful locks of his window and into his room. She could not see him at first, so she closed the window, set the latch.
“You came.” Very soft words. They slid around her senses to play at the base of her spine.
She turned and found him sprawled in his bed, one arm behind his head to prop it up. Watching her. Waiting for her. He was not naked—he would likely think that presumptuous. Still, he wore nothing but trousers. The single candle on the bedside table gilded him. Muscle, bone. Breadth in the shoulders, trim in the waist. His jaw with its late-night shadow.
And the question in his eyes.
“I came for many reasons.” She began to unbutton her jacket. He did not look away from her. He saw each movement. Each flick of her fingers on the buttons.
This was one of those reasons.
But there were more reasons, not all that she could share. Maximilian would stop her if he knew what she planned later—with good reason. She was edging the line between treason and espionage. A misstep one way or the other and her plan would fall apart, yet she could not do what must be done that night alone.
“I have a need for you tonight, Maximilian.” She pulled off her boots.
He kept those hazel eyes on her. What did he see? Spy? Dancer? Thief? She did not know, but his lids were half closed in that thinking way he had.
It was most arousing.
Perhaps it should not be, but in this quiet moment, when his brain was busy but his body was still, she could do nothing but want him. Pine for him.
What a foolish notion, she thought. One couldn’t pine for someone who was right there in front of one.
“I have a need for you, too.” He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. But he did not stand. He only looked at her with hot eyes, his elbows balanced on his knees.
“I have a need that is not only here in your bedroom. In this way.” She began to work on her shirt buttons, but her fingers moved irritatingly slowly. “I have need of you much later. After.”
“That will be full morning, if I have my way.” A smile lurked around his eyes as he stood and began unfastening his fall-front trousers.
“You will have to be quick, for we have somewhere to be.” He was handsome with those smiling eyes. She grinned at him and pulled the shirt from her head in one easy motion.
His sharp inhale made her muscles quiver. “Whatever you ask, Vivienne, if it means I can have you.”
“Very good. It is important, this night.”
He stepped forward and reached for the waistband of her pants. A moment later, they had fallen away. He ran his thumb from the tip of her breast down the curve of her waist and hip.
“Tell me what you need,” he said as he took her hand. His was warm, strong. And purposeful. She liked this purpose in him. It was different from before. She wondered if it would be different every time they made love, but she would not know this answer. They would not be together always. Jones had said it. She was not meant for permanency. Love and family did not accompany her line of work.
This did not stop her from wanting Maximilian.
He sat down on the bed, and she knelt beside him. His fingers skimmed over her shoulder, her waist. Gently. There were no groping hands. No men with greedy smiles here. No men with secrets she must steal.
Only Maximilian.
A strange, uncomfortable feeling spread through her. Part pain. Part joy. And part uneasiness. This line between spy and lover, she would not be able to walk it forever. But she did need to walk it this night. And so she would not tell Maximilian of Henri’s assignment or of Lessard’s associates.
…
Vivienne was in his bed. That, in itself, seemed a wonder. This gorgeous woman was his. He couldn’t understand the why and how of it, but for this fleeting moment in time, she belonged to no one but him.
“I must speak with someone,” she said, setting her palms on her thighs. “A courier. Perhaps not courier—that implies he travels. He does not. He sits in the brothel he owns, sells his wares”—the Flower shrugged a shoulder, as though accepting this selling of flesh—“and he lords over the little kingdom he has built selling secrets.”
He was having trouble concentrating on the words. She was too naked. Vivienne slid down to lie on her stomach, pillowing her head on her arms so she could see him. Now all he could see was the curving line of her body, uncovered, unconcealed.
“I cannot steal into the establishment, as it is too well guarded. But I also cannot walk through the front door alone.” She watched him carefully, face resting on the crook of her arm. “But I need to speak with the courier.”
“Hmm.” Walking into a brothel owned by a man who sold secrets to the French seemed like a dangerous proposition. “What do you expect me to do?”
“I need your protection, Maximilian, so that no patrons will consider me available. It would make me vulnerable.”
That sent a spear of possession through him. The other men couldn’t have her. She was his. For now, at any rate, she was his.
“And when we are inside?” He ran his finger along the curve of her cheek. The candlelight danced along her skin there, and he could not keep from touching her. “What then?”
“If I ask you to leave me alone with the courier, I need you to do so. Alone, Maximilian. Alone.”
He reared back, staring down at her delicate, gilded features. “No.” He wouldn’t be able to. “I’m not leaving you alone with—”
“Please, Maximilian. I must speak with him alone. About Anne. If you are there, it may be more dangerous for all of us.” She reached for him, lightly touching his arm. “I will be safe enough. I am well trained.”
He gripped the edge of the bed, the coverlet bunching beneath his hands. He supposed he could tell her no, but she would likely go at any rate—alone, confound it.
“Very well.” He would have to trust her training and skills.
“Do you give me your word?” Her eyes were serious. Even vulnerable, as though she didn’t expect he would make and stand by a promise. “You will do as I say? You will leave if I ask?”
He breathed deep, then let the coverlet slip from his fingers. “My word.”
“Thank you, Maximilian.” She sounded vulnerable. The tone, the set of her face, crept into his chest and lodged itself there. She smiled lightly, sweetly, and everything inside him twisted and tightened, then loosened as some part of her became part of him.
It was damn near painful to feel so much inside.
She moved, reaching for him to draw him down beside her.
“Wait. Vivienne, wait.” He could not let the moment pass. “Stay there.”
She stilled with her face pillowed on her arms and her torso pressed against the bed. Waiting. Watching.
Her body was a magnificent thing. She was a dancer, with all the wonders of a dancer’s body. The delicate spine, the lean strength. There was the dip at her low back just before the rounded curves of her bottom. And then her legs—dear God, her legs. Dancer’s legs. Each contour, each hollow and valley and shift was like watching the entire ballet corps move across her skin.
“No more espionage for now.” He didn’t care about the courier, or the brothel, or her plans. Just now, there was only her body displayed before him. No shame. No embarrassment. This was the Flower. Vivienne. The woman he wanted in his bed and in his study, with the frown between her brows that meant she was concentrating. The woman he wanted to surprise him, to interrupt him.
“I will always want you, Vivienne. Always.”
She pushed herself up so she was propped on her elbows, and his mouth went dry as he took in the line of her back. Graceful as a swan’s neck, the curve, the arch, the indentations just above her buttocks. Her breasts swung full and free.
“Do not wait any longer, Maximilian.” Her eyes raked over his body, held him in place.
He leaned down and their mouths met, hers as forceful, as demanding, as his. When he moved his lips to her cheekbones, her jaw, she angled her head so he could access the soft skin there. He shifted closer, his hand running along her spine, feeling each vertebra and the smooth skin. As his mouth moved to her shoulder, his hand slid over her buttocks. They flexed beneath his touch and his body reacted, growing harder, hotter, and needing to be inside her.
“Stay on your belly,” he whispered into her ear as he rose over her.
Candlelight played over her shoulder blades as she did as he commanded. He kissed her shoulders, her long neck, the most wonderful dimples just above her buttocks. She turned her face to the side and his gaze traced the contour of her forehead, nose, lips against the white pillow. So graceful. The line of brow, furrowed now in concentration, the bow of lips, curved up delight. Each bit of her, each movement, seemed the most extraordinary discovery.
He slid between her legs, moved them farther apart to accommodate his body. Then he moved his hands beneath her torso. She didn’t speak, but he felt her belly contract against the palms of his hands. As badly as he wanted to plunge into her, he set one hand to the curls hiding the most secret center of her. With only the tiniest touch, he set her body quivering, and she opened wider for him.
He could no longer wait. He slid inside her. Her soft sigh of pleasure nearly undid him. But he waited, held, then moved in and out. Her hand fisted in the pillow as she angled her body to better accommodate him.
He was lost in her pleasure, in her response. In the way the light played over her back, in the feel of her bottom against him. He leaned over her, pressed his lips to the space between her shoulder blades as he thrust. Buried his face in her hair as he thrust again. Then again.
A small sound escaped her throat, something excited and anticipatory. He couldn’t move hard enough or fast enough to meet that sound. He wanted to hear it again. More.
“Maximilian.” His name was barely a sound on her lips, but he heard it.
Somehow, it moved him. He slid his hand up to cover hers where she gripped the bed linen. Their fingers tangled as he continued to take her. Her hair, that curling, clean-scented hair, seemed to be his whole world just now. He buried his face in it, kissed whatever skin of her he could reach. Neck, shoulder, that sweet, sweet curve between.
When he felt her inner muscles clench around him, he thrust one final time. This was what he had waited for. This moment, when she came undone and cried out in release.
This was all that mattered.