Fourteen
Gregory’s eager response heartened Monique. She truly did want to show him her gratitude, so he wouldn’t regret this. So he would think twice before confronting her great-uncle.
It wasn’t because she wanted to banish his ghosts. Or because this secluded spot made her yearn to explore the attraction between them. Or because every time he kissed and caressed her, it unwound a little more the coiled rope of past longings and urges and needs that she’d spent years ignoring. Years suppressing.
With him, she wanted to suppress nothing.
Taking her by surprise, he swept some books off the chaise longue behind them, sat down, and then dragged her onto his lap. Men had tried to pull her onto their laps before, and she’d fought them.
She didn’t fight Gregory. She looped her arms about his neck again, eager to let him do as he would with her.
“From the moment I saw you on the stage,” he whispered against her cheek, “I wanted to touch you. Explore you.” He trailed kisses down her jaw. “To have you in my arms like this.” He covered one breast and kneaded it through her gown and undergarments. “To have you at my mercy.”
The idea of being at his mercy shot a thrill through her. Cursing herself for wearing so many clothes, she arched her neck to give him better access to her naked throat.
“Then you are a better actor than I,” she murmured as he licked the pulse beating wildly there. “I could not tell that you wanted me so.”
“Couldn’t you? I suppose not. I was too caught up in my—”
“Self-importance?” she quipped.
He drew back with a scowl. “Is that what you thought? Because it’s not true. I was merely irritated that Hart was there, that you seemed to fancy him over me.” He nuzzled her throat. “You didn’t, did you?”
That hint of uncertainty surprised her. “He was nothing compared to you,” she admitted. When a self-satisfied smile crossed his face, she added, “Although I was irritated that you disapproved of my art.”
“I could tell. The truth is, I was merely annoyed with myself for falling under your spell like all your other admirers. For desiring you as badly as the rest of them.” His voice hardened, and he began to unbutton her front-opening bodice. “The way I desire you now, to distraction.”
The admission warmed her down deep. “You can have me, if you wish.”
He paused to stare at her with the unreadable expression of the diplomat. “This is not . . . just gratitude, is it?” Vulnerability crept into his features. “Because if so, I couldn’t bear that.”
She vacillated between protecting herself and confessing the truth. The truth won out. “No.” She tongued his throat, the light scruff of beard there reminding her that he was a real man, not like the sycophants who surrounded her in the theater. “It isn’t merely gratitude.”
Apparently that was all he needed to hear, for with a groan, he got her gown open somehow and fell upon her breasts, sucking and teasing and driving her out of her mind.
Meanwhile, his hands roamed down to drag up her skirts and burrow through her petticoats until he discovered the opening in her drawers. “My sweet princess . . .” he murmured as he delved inside her curls with his clever fingers. “My darling girl—”
“Not a girl,” she corrected him, “and not a princess.”
“But mine,” he said. “At least for now.”
Those last words were a taunt she had to return. “Yes, Gregory. As you are mine . . . for now.”
If he realized it was a taunt, he didn’t show it. Instead, he took her mouth again as he drove two fingers inside her, tantalizing her, arousing her. At the same time, he thumbed the part of her that throbbed and ached for him, and her blood rushed through her veins . . . and lower.
It was so intense she nipped his lip.
He drew back with a chuckle. “The actress has claws.”
“Teeth,” she muttered, and shifted atop his growing arousal. “Though I can show you my claws if you wish.”
“Go ahead.” He resumed his caresses with relentless intent. “I don’t mind being scratched if it means having you.”
She couldn’t imagine any other man saying that to her. It turned her to mush, made her desire him even more. With him, she didn’t have to be the princess or the sophisticated Mademoiselle Servais. He seemed to actually like the woman who hid her softness beneath her prickly remarks. With him, she could be herself.
“Gregory . . .” she whispered on a breath, which was all it took to have him plundering her with his hand below while his mouth plundered her breasts above.
Oh. Mon Dieu! She began to see why Grand-maman and Maman had thrown away everything for a man. Clearly Monique had their reckless blood running rampant through her veins, because the way he was caressing her made her want to tear her clothes off and let him do as he wished with her body.
“My sweet Monique,” he said as he fondled her. “You’re so . . . wet for me.”
She squirmed against his hardened verge. “And you’re so . . . firm for me.”
“You have no idea,” he growled. “I’ve been ‘firm’ for you since the day I met you. I’ve thought of you often since then.”
Drawing back to stare at him, she said, “Truly?”
His eyes had the heavy-lidded gaze of a man aroused, and he thrust up against her bottom as if to confirm it. “Do you doubt me?”
Her throat went dry. “No.”
“Good.” He shifted her off his lap and onto the chaise longue so she was reclining on it while he hovered over her. “Because I can think of nothing but tasting you and taking you. Here. Now.”
She was so blinded by her need that she could only nod.
To her shock, instead of opening his trousers, he slid down the chaise longue so he could place his mouth on her minou. Then he began to tongue her. There, where no man had ever kissed her.
What a revelation. She knew of this intimacy—actresses spoke of such things from time to time—but she’d had no idea it would feel so . . .
Incredible. Delectable. To have a man arouse her while ignoring his own arousal . . . so magnifique! “Gregory,” she begged, hearing the plea in her voice with a tiny bit of shame. But not enough to stop her from saying, “Please . . . please . . .”
“Whatever you wish, my sweet,” he said, his very tone a smug smile.
He could smirk all he liked as long as he kept licking and teasing and caressing her minou as if feasting on her. It overwhelmed her . . . the heat of his lips, the delicious pleasure of having his tongue inside her . . . the very knowledge that he could seduce her body with just his mouth. How unfair!
But fairness ceased to matter as she felt a sort of buzz beginning in her loins. As he continued his ministrations, it rose to weaken her thighs, swamping her with such glorious sensations . . . “Sacrebleu . . .” she breathed and buried her fingers in his silky hair to clutch him more tightly to her. “Oui . . . Take me . . . like that, yes . . . oh, oui . . .”
The buzz grew to a pounding in her ears, then a roar of sensation between her legs, then an outright explosion that rocked her from her head to that soft, silky place he was ravaging with such intent.
“Mon Dieu!” she screamed as the explosion shattered her into shards of herself. She lay there trembling in ecstasy, marveling at the beauty of it, while he wiped his mouth on her drawers. Then, as her joy began to wane, she whispered, “Oh, my dearest Gregory. That was . . . was . . .”
“Indescribable?” he teased.
“Amazing.”
“Good.” His eyes shone jewel-bright as he moved up over her. “Because you, my princess, deserve ‘amazing.’ ” He rubbed against her, the fine wool of his trousers abrading her bare flesh ever so slightly. “I want to be inside you. Will you let me?”
Even as she reached down to unfasten his trousers, she cast him a provoking smile. “You were just now inside me.”
With his hands gripping either side of the chaise longue, he hovered over her. “You know what I mean, Mademoiselle Tourmenteur,” he growled, and bent his head to nip at her earlobe. “Tease me at your peril.”
Smiling coyly, she reached in his trousers to cup his rampant erection through his drawers. “Are you sure it will be my peril, monsieur?”
His eyes slid shut. “Oh, God, yes. Touch me there.” When she began to rub him, he rasped, “You may torment me as much as you wish as long as you keep . . . doing . . . precisely that.”
It was as if his words unleashed the coquette in her. It made no sense, but she reveled in his hunger, delighted in his thirst for her. Perhaps because in that moment, he was just a man and she a woman, and all the subterfuge and machinations between them vanished.
While she stroked him through his drawers, he began kissing her again, his mouth as ravenous as a bird of prey’s. The firm thrust of his verge against her hand inflamed her, though it also made her curious to know if it really could give such enjoyment as her fellow actresses claimed. It seemed so . . . massive—
“Fulkham!” came a shout from below. “Where are you, old chap?”
They both froze.
Gregory muttered a string of curses. “Danworth is out here now? Why the hell is everyone in the whole damned party looking for us? Can’t they leave us alone for one bloody moment?”
Amused by his burst of temper, she gazed up into his scowling face. “Perhaps he too will go away if we keep quiet . . . and you stop cursing.”
“Not Danworth.” He pushed up from the chaise longue and began to straighten his disordered clothes. “Not if he has any inkling that we’re out here. He’ll send a search party for us, blast him. Especially given the reason we came to my estate in the first place.”
“He knows of that?” she asked in alarm, jumping up to put her own clothing to rights.
“The prime minister told him. That’s the reason he’s here: because Wellington wants to make sure the ‘princess’ is kept safe.”
She glanced out the window to see Mr. Danworth coming down the path toward the knot garden, searching the area with what appeared to be concern. He would be upon them in moments if he entered the pavilion.
Gregory came up beside her to tuck a tendril back into her coiffeur. “You stay up here and finish straightening your hair and clothing while I speak to him alone.”
“Yes, you would not want your friend to think that you might actually desire the princess, eh?” The bitter words left her before she could stop them. “Especially since you intend to expose me in the end. A dalliance with an actress, an impostor, couldn’t possibly help your career.”
He swore under his breath. “Monique—”
“Forgive me,” she said instantly, and meant it. She faced him, the remorse in his gaze making her wince. “I should not chide you for doing what any man would do when a woman throws herself at him.”
His jaw tightened. “It’s not as simple as that, damn it.”
“Isn’t it?” A wave of sadness swamped her. “We could never have a legitimate connection even if you wished it—even if I wished it. Half of good society has met me and thinks they know who I am. To marry you, I would have to be exposed for a fraud. And that would ruin you. Not to mention that it would leave Grand-maman with no one to take care of her.”
The sound of Mr. Danworth entering the pavilion downstairs struck terror in her that only deepened when the man cried, “Princess? Fulkham?”
Gregory wasn’t the only one who could lose everything if they were found in a compromising position that might cause a scandal.
She had to fix this, since he wouldn’t. Touching a hand to her hair to make sure it was presentable enough to pass, she swept past Gregory to the stairs. “We’re up here, Mr. Danworth! You must come see.”
Gregory tensed. “What the devil are you up to?” was all he had time to growl before Mr. Danworth was hurrying up the stairs.
She met the man at the staircase. “Lady Fulkham has set out a new knot garden. It is truly a magnificent design. You probably couldn’t tell it from outside, but you can see it wonderfully from up here.”
Mr. Danworth glanced beyond her to Gregory and raised an eyebrow.
Taking his cue from her, Gregory rolled his eyes heavenward. “The princess is a bit obsessed with knot gardens. I suppose they’re a favorite in Chanay. She wouldn’t rest until she got a look at Mother’s new design from a better vantage point.”
“Oh yes,” she gushed, “and it’s wonderful.” Clasping Mr. Danworth by the arm, she tugged him over to the windows. “Look there. Do you see how the edges curl around what is marked to be a lilac bush? Lord Fulkham tells me that his mother plans to have overlapping hedges and embroidery effects and everything. I only wish I could see it once it’s completed.”
“I’m sure Mother would be happy to host you here again,” Gregory said dryly from behind her.
She ignored him to focus all her attention on Mr. Danworth, who was peering out the window incredulously, as if incapable of believing anyone cared that much about a garden.
“And look over there.” She pointed to the far corner. “That circle will be a birdbath. Imagine how lovely this garden will be once the robins and the sparrows come to preen in the sun. Not to mention the butterflies.”
“Butterflies?” Mr. Danworth asked, rather stupidly.
“Of course there will be butterflies. The painted ladies will come north in the spring and lay their eggs, which cocoon. Once their young emerge—”
“Right,” he said. “More butterflies.” Looking over at Gregory, he said, “She really does enjoy gardens, doesn’t she?”
Gregory only shrugged, though his eyes glittered at her as if to say, We are not done with our discussion.
Determinedly she lifted her face to Mr. Danworth and flashed him a flirtatious smile. “Why are you here? Did you come to call us in to dinner? Or were you hoping for a private word?”
The man looked suddenly uneasy. “Er . . . I merely thought . . . that is . . .”
“A private word with your friend,” she added. “Lord Fulkham.”
Relief spread over Mr. Danworth’s features. “Yes. Of course. With Fulkham. Or rather . . .”
“Pay her no mind, Danworth,” Gregory drawled. “Her Highness likes to toy with us Englishmen.” He smiled thinly. “She thinks we are all too serious by far.”
“But not you, Mr. Danworth,” she said, and tugged him toward the door. “Lady Fulkham says you know all the choicest bon mots. Is that true?”
Casting a nervous glance back at Gregory, he said, “I know one or two.” And with that, he proceeded to regale her with some as she let him lead her out of the pavilion, with Gregory following.
Along the way she flirted and teased, waxing philosophical about plants and insects and anything else she could think of. By the time they reached the house, she was fairly certain she had distracted him from dwelling on the impropriety of her and Gregory being alone together in the pavilion.
Now, if only she could distract herself from wishing she and Gregory had been alone a bit longer. Which was absurd. She had dodged a figurative bullet this time. Next time she might not be so lucky. And the last thing she needed was to give her virtue to a man who would end up destroying her.
It didn’t help that once they entered the house she found the count waiting for her, obviously annoyed about something.
He took her aside as soon as he could get her alone. “Now, see here, girl, Danworth is of no importance. Don’t waste your smiles on him.”
She bristled. “Did you not see that I was also with Lord Fulkham?”
“Yes. But I gather that you avoided the duke in order to spend time with Fulkham. That isn’t a good strategy either. Pontalba was quite put out. Meanwhile, Fulkham is clearly already in your clutches. Do not slight one fellow for the other. You must charm them both if we are to succeed. And unlike Fulkham, who fancies you, the duke is already predisposed toward his candidate.”
She tightened her hands into fists at her sides. Oh, the things she wanted to tell him—that she was done with the masquerade, that Lord Fulkham knew she was Monique Servais . . . that if the duke breathed his garlic breath on her one more time, she would shove her scented handkerchief down his throat.
Instead, she flashed the count a brittle smile. “I shall do my best to please you, Uncle.”
That seemed to bring him up short. “Well . . . then . . . see that you do.” He paused. “You do realize I say these things only for your own good. This is too important for all of us.”
How well she knew.