Four
As he clutched her to him, Monique wondered if she’d lost her mind, attempting this. But he’d kept pushing and badgering her, trying to make her slip up.
So she must make him falter, make him question his dangerous suspicions. Monique Servais had treated him with contempt, so Princess Aurore must kiss him into oblivion.
She couldn’t just slap him and dart off; he might expose her to everyone. Or he might simply voice his suspicions to the count, who would see that as her not holding up her end of the bargain. She was supposed to convince people she was Aurore, and that was what she would do.
Looping her arms about Lord Fulkham’s neck, she flattened her body against him. And then everything got more interesting.
“Damn you,” he murmured against her lips. Then he took her mouth again with a shocking impudence, licking along her closed lips and inviting her to open for him.
So she did. And instantly regretted it. Because the moment he thrust his tongue into her mouth, she felt hot and aroused and so dizzy she had to cling to him for balance.
She’d been kissed in this manner a few times before, but never like this. His boldness made her body tremble and her mind swim as if through a fog. His tongue delved and searched, turning her into a quivering mass of wanting, and desire flashed over her like lightning through the sky, searing everything in its path.
The dark gazebo became their own private grotto as he kissed her more and more urgently, sending her up on her toes to enjoy his kisses to the fullest.
“God, woman, you have the most luscious mouth I’ve ever tasted,” he murmured in English.
She didn’t know that word, luscious, but she could guess what it meant. And the fact that she’d broken through his cool calm made her want to crow. “Do you taste many mouths?” she whispered.
“Enough to know that this is madness,” he growled against her lips before trailing kisses down her jaw to her neck.
“But pleasurable madness, non?”
He tongued her throat, sending exquisite shivers along her spine. “Oui. A very pleasurable madness.”
“Pleasurable enough to gain me a crown?” she asked, just to see what he would say. Or do.
He nipped her earlobe, and the tiny burst of pleasure-pain nearly made her swoon. She hated him for doing such things to her, for making her feel such things. But she wanted him, too. Madness, indeed.
“That will show, curse you,” she murmured as she buried her hands in his hair to shift him away from her ear.
“No, it won’t.” He nuzzled her ear. “Though I wish it would. Actually, I wish I dared mark you somewhere more intimate, in a place no one would see but me.”
The words brought her to her senses and reminded her that her purpose had been to catch him off guard. Which apparently she’d done. So now she must extricate herself from this . . . increasingly dangerous situation.
She drew back to cast him a chiding look. “Now you are being ridiculous. I am not that sort of woman.”
His hooded gaze trailed down to her modestly cut gown. “The princess might not be. But you most certainly are. Actresses are known for their lovers.”
A burst of anger swelled in her chest and she tamped it down with difficulty. He was probably waiting for her to lose her temper. “Well, I regret that as the princess, I cannot be your lover. I must be chaste when I marry.”
That arrested him. “Marry? Is that what this masquerade is about? Snagging a husband for Princess Aurore?”
She planted her hands on her hips. “Why do you persist in this insanity? Surely you realize I cannot be both an impostor and snag Aurore a husband. The moment the real princess entered the man’s bedchamber, he would know he’d been deceived.”
“Unless it was an arranged marriage where the parties never meet. That happens often between countries seeking a political alliance.”
She shook her head. “If the parties never meet, then there’s no need for an impostor to masquerade. Your suppositions don’t even make sense.”
“Princess?” a voice sounded from outside the gazebo. “Are you out here?”
Lady Ursula! Oh, thank God.
Monique started to step out of the gazebo, but he caught her by the arm and whispered, “We’ll continue this discussion later, Monique.”
“Aurore,” she hissed under her breath. “Princess Aurore to you. And if you ever call me Monique again, I will tell my uncle about your kissing me, and he will have your head.”
“Then I will expose you for who you are.”
She grabbed his hand where it lay on her arm. “You would not dare to make such a spurious accusation without proof. Especially when there’s no proof to be had, because I am the princess.”
“We’ll see about that.” He tucked her hand in the crook of his elbow. “One way or the other, I’m getting to the bottom of this.”
“Your Highness?” Lady Ursula cried.
With his lips thinning into a line, Lord Fulkham led Monique out of the gazebo. “We’re over here,” he said, as poised as any politician.
“Are you all right, Princess?” the lady-in-waiting asked Monique, the lamplight falling full on her worried expression.
Hardly. Her heart thundered in her chest, and the flex of his muscle beneath her hand as he waited for her answer perversely catapulted an undeniable thrill through her. Juggling her two personas with a man who knew the true one was more difficult than she would have imagined. Especially when both personas were horribly attracted to the fellow.
She forced a smile for the woman’s benefit. “I’m perfectly fine. Merely discussing politics with his lordship. Though I don’t believe you two have met. Lady Ursula, this is—”
“I know who he is.” Her eyes assessed him coolly. “The Baron Fulkham, correct? One of the Englishmen helping to decide who will become queen of Her Highness’s country?”
“Indeed,” he clipped out. “I take it you are not from Her Highness’s country?”
“I am Lady Ursula Weber of Hanover, the princess’s lady-in-waiting.”
The woman was breaking all the rules of protocol by introducing herself. She must truly be agitated at finding them sequestered in a gazebo.
Casting him a dismissive glance, she turned to Monique. “Forgive me, Your Highness, but I was sent out here to fetch you for dinner. You’re to be taken in by the Duc de Pontalba.”
“Thank you.” Relieved, Monique released Lord Fulkham’s arm. “I enjoyed our discussion, sir.” It wasn’t entirely a lie.
“The enjoyment was all mine.”
Before she could turn away, he captured her hand, angling himself so that her body blocked Lady Ursula’s view. Swiftly, he lifted her hand to his lips, but he didn’t kiss it. Instead, he turned it over and nosed her bracelet up enough so he could suck the tender skin of her inner wrist. Hard. Enough to leave a mark.
Why, the annoying devil had given her a love bite!
As she snatched her hand from him, he winked at her. Ooh, how she wanted to rage at him for it! But she couldn’t, with Lady Ursula watching.
“I look forward to seeing more of you, Your Serene Highness,” he said in a far-too-intimate tone.
Not if she had anything to say about it. All she could manage was a tight nod before turning on her heel and joining Ursula.
Her wrist burned where he’d sucked her skin. Though she knew her bracelet would cover the bruise—and her sleeves and gloves would do the same tomorrow—the thought of his having marked her deliberately, “somewhere more intimate, in a place where no one would see but me,” had her pulse beating wildly in that very spot. It was all she could do not to rub it.
“Forgive me for not having noticed your absence sooner,” Lady Ursula whispered to Monique. “I had no idea that his lordship had cornered you out here or I would have raced to your side.”
“It’s fine,” Monique murmured. “He was a perfect gentleman.”
The woman searched her face. “That’s good. His reputation is stellar when it comes to women, but you never know with these Englishmen. They seem to think all ladies from the Continent are free with their favors.”
“I can handle any fellows of that sort, I assure you. We saw plenty of them in the theater.”
“Oh yes. I keep forgetting you were an actress. You just . . . look so much like Aurore and behave so much like a princess that I think of you more as one of the family. And truly, you are, you know.”
Monique cast her a grateful smile. “Thank you. That’s reassuring. My grandmother never gave up hope that the family might one day take her back. She made me learn all the rules and protocols, everything. I thought it was silly, but it made her happy. And now I’m glad of it.”
Lady Ursula squeezed her hand. “Well, we appreciate what you are doing for the princess. Never think otherwise. I know the count can be overbearing, but he means well. And if Aurore could speak, I know she would tell you—”
Her voice grew so choked, she had to leave off to clear her throat. Then she pasted a smile to her lips. “Oh, look, there’s the duke just inside the doors. He’s a handsome fellow, don’t you think?”
“Yes.” But not half as handsome as a certain insolent lord.
No, she was not going to think of that man. With any luck, she’d avoid being alone with him in future, and this would all be over in a week or two.
She could only hope.
Gregory watched the two women disappear into the building but dared not follow right away. He was too aroused by his encounter with the “princess,” whom he was almost certain was Monique. Whose luscious mouth had left him hard as stone.
Well, at least he’d left her with something, too. He hadn’t really intended to “mark” her . . . until it occurred to him that such a mark could be useful. If her people tried to switch her off for the real princess in the next few days, he would know.
Right. That had been his only reason. It hadn’t had anything to do with the intoxicating idea of her secretly having a reminder of him. An intimate reminder of their very intimate embrace.
He hardened again. Bloody hell!
The mark hadn’t been about that. It had been about being sure of who was who, in case the two women really did look that similar. Such a strong resemblance would explain why the Rochefort family had picked Mademoiselle Servais for this subterfuge—that and the lack of decent images of the real princess.
Still, he couldn’t fathom how the Rocheforts would have known of some obscure actress in Dieppe, no matter how accomplished she was. And even if they’d heard of her somehow, they couldn’t have been aware that Mademoiselle Servais would resemble Princess Aurore to such a marked degree.
Unless it was the resemblance that had set everything in motion. Someone who had seen the portrait as well as the actress could have remarked upon the resemblance to Beaumonde.
But that didn’t explain the reason for the masquerade in the first place. And Monique had told him nothing that would explain it, either, curse her. She hadn’t slipped up and revealed her true self once. It was enough to make him question his own eyes.
Perhaps he just wanted her to be the actress, so he’d feel free to pursue her as a mistress. Even a man with his political connections and wealth couldn’t marry a royal. The Princess of Chanay was under the same restriction as the English royals—she must marry another royal.
But he could take an actress as his mistress, if she agreed to it. Judging from their explosive kiss, she might. Actresses, after all, were experienced in such matters.
You need a wife, not a mistress. And she won’t exactly fall into your arms after you unmask her.
True. Even so, the possibility of taking Monique Servais to bed made him . . .
Hard. Again. Damn her. It had been years since a woman had aroused him so profoundly. Three years, to be precise. Generally he was too careful to allow himself such an indulgence, but she got under his skin. He wished he knew why.
A pity there was no one with whom he could confer about her real identity, to at least confirm his suspicions. Unfortunately, he was the only one who had met her outside this arena.
Wait a minute—Hart had met her, too. It might not hurt to have the man’s opinion to bolster his own. And if Hart agreed she was the actress, he could nose around the staff at the house where the Chanay contingent were staying to see if he could learn more.
The chap had turned into quite the useful investigator in the past three years. He’d be discreet and thorough.
Gregory would talk to Hart tonight at St. George’s. Hart had recently become a member, which had surprised some of the others, given the fellow’s reputation with women. St. George’s was supposed to be a place for pooling information to uncover rogues dangerous to members’ female relations—in Gregory’s case, it had been his sister-in-law—not a place for protecting such fellows. But Hart was an exception, given his connections to both Edwin and Warren.
Privately, though, Gregory suspected that Hart’s reputation might not be as scandalous as the gossips claimed. For all the man’s flirtations and talk of women, Gregory had never actually seen him in a brothel unless Hart was on a mission.
Thoughts of suspicions and missions banished Gregory’s arousal, so he headed inside. To his surprise, he found Lady Ursula awaiting him.
She curtsied. “My lord, it appears that you are taking me in to dinner.”
Ah, of course. He wasn’t of sufficient rank for the princess, but he certainly was for one of her ladies.
“I would be honored,” he told her, offering his arm. This could be a good opportunity. Perhaps she wouldn’t be as tight-lipped about the masquerade as the impostor herself.
When he caught sight of Monique disappearing through the doors with the Duc de Pontalba, he tensed. The French duke was too good-looking by half, with his carefully coiffed blond hair and his surprisingly fit physique. Not to mention that the broad-shouldered fellow was possessed of a smooth tongue—the sort of chap one did not want to see nosing around one’s sister.
Or one’s mistress.
He grimaced. She’s not your mistress, you fool, and not likely to be, either—especially if you don’t keep your head in the game. Pay attention.
Lady Ursula leaned close. “They say that the duke is looking for a wife. It would be an eligible match, you know, a way of pacifying him when the French prince he’s championing loses his bid for ruler of Belgium.”
She was correct. As a high-ranking French noble, the Duc de Pontalba was one of the delegates in charge of choosing the ruler. But the Dutch would protest any French candidate. They wanted a buffer between their country and France, not a puppet ruler who would always side with their enemy.
“What makes you think his fellow will lose his bid?” Gregory asked the young lady. He judged her to be older than Monique by a few years, but she still had a fresh countenance and a wealth of flaxen hair. Any other man would find her quite beautiful.
He did not. She was slender, with the body of a gazelle, not his sort at all. She didn’t smell of lilies and apples, or have a prominent chin and sparkling emerald-green eyes. Nor did she have full breasts that would make a grown man weep.
Lady Ursula blinked up at him. “I assumed that Princess Aurore is considered first choice. Is that not true?”
“Nothing is certain yet, so the duke’s prince has as good a chance as anyone.” That was laying it on a bit thick, but he wanted to gauge her reaction. Would she champion the impostor? Or try to undermine her?
She sniffed. “A Frenchman cannot rule Belgium. The people would revolt. They don’t like the French.”
“True.”
They entered the dining room, and he looked for Monique. She was near King William, of course, with the duke on her other side and already watching her like a man waiting to pluck the best rose on the bush.
The hell he would.
“She is not for you,” Lady Ursula said in an undertone.
Had he been that transparent? Devil take it. “Of course not. I wouldn’t presume. I’m merely trying to determine how a possible alliance between them could alter the negotiations.”
Liar.
Her face cleared. “Oh, of course. I never think of such things. I’m not very political.” She ventured a smile. “I am more concerned that Aurore not be taken advantage of.”
“Surely her years of preparation as a princess would make her able to head that off on her own.” He watched Lady Ursula’s face, but she betrayed nothing.
“Perhaps.” She grew pensive. “Still, young women can be blind where an attractive man is concerned, especially those who have not been out in the world much.”
Clearly the lady was part of the subterfuge, trying to smooth Monique’s way in her role as the princess. Yet Lady Ursula didn’t seem the sort to support such a masquerade. What the devil was going on?
He would have probed her for more information, but they were being seated now. And the next time he had a chance to speak to her, she was engrossed in a conversation with the man seated to her left.
Gregory leaned forward to see who it was. Ah, James Danworth, private secretary to the prime minister. No doubt he’d been invited because the prime minister was in the north at present. And now the fellow was either picking Lady Ursula’s brain about the princess in order to report back to his employer, or he’d noticed the woman’s attractions and was trying to court her himself.
Danworth was an ambitious sort. But somehow Gregory couldn’t see him marrying an obscure German lady to further his ambitions. He’d be better off marrying an English heiress.
Gregory couldn’t make out what they were saying over the din of the banqueting room, but fortunately, Danworth was also a member of St. George’s. So questioning him about the princess some other time should be easy enough.
Whatever the two were discussing was so engrossing that Lady Ursula never turned Gregory’s way again, leaving him to spend the entire meal attempting conversation with the elderly countess on his right, who was famous for her reticence. By the time the main course arrived, he’d given up on trying to engage her and had turned to observing the princess’s behavior.
Odd how she never made a slip, never used the wrong fork, never seemed ill at ease in such a setting. Some of it he could attribute to her ability as an actress. But the rest? Someone would have had to train her for months for this. He itched to know why they would go to so much trouble.
There was one point in the evening when the syllabub was served and she regarded it with a slight frown, her fingers toying with a dessert spoon as she looked over at Lady Ursula. How intriguing.
Lady Ursula picked up her syllabub and sipped from the glass. With a hint of relief on her face, Monique did the same. It was the only time he caught her trying to get direction from someone else on how to behave.
Though she still didn’t succeed in drinking it without getting a charming line of the thick cream along her top lip. When she licked it off, she caught him staring at her, and a soft pink spread over her cheeks. It fired his blood, sent him right back to that moment in the garden when she’d kissed him with all the impudence of a courtesan. He held her gaze in a duel of wills that only ended when Pontalba leaned over to whisper something to her that made her stiffen.
Gregory had to fight the urge to leap over the table and throttle the man. Which was ludicrous. She was an impostor!
Yet something about her roused every protective instinct in his soul.
That shook him. God, it was going to be a very long night.