A License to Wed: Rebellious Brides (6 page)

“I see everything very clearly now.” The words were calm and firm. “As you said, this was a momentary lapse. Too much champagne and all that.”

Uneasiness stirred in his belly. “I don’t take your meaning.”

“We shall both continue on as before. You have your numismatic pursuits and I have a Season to look forward to.”

He stared at her. “You intend to go forward as though nothing has changed?”

“Of course; I’ve already ordered a number of gowns.” She stood and brushed grass off her clinging chemise, which exposed just about everything of her lithe legs and slender curves. “No one ever has to know of this. We shall never speak of it again.”

He sat back on his arse, the chill of his wet clothes seeping through his skin and into his bones as the reality of just how strongly she wished to avoid marrying him settled in. “That is what you wish.”

“Yes.” She stooped to pick up her ruined gown and turned to go. “This never happened.”

An excited roar from the Frascati’s game room cut into Will’s thoughts. The tables had likely turned in someone’s favor. He took a deep breath and buried the painful memories of Elle back in the past where they belonged. Picking up the wafer she had deserted on the table, he scooped some of the melting cream back into the cone.

She was with Duret now, which clearly illustrated he’d never understood her at all. What kind of woman would desert her child as his mother had? She also seemed to be taking a decided interest in Lucian. He’d have thought Elle would find the diplomat too priggish, but she could easily be drawn to his physical good looks—Lucian possessed even features and a tall, athletic form. Perhaps she meant to bed him next.

A shock of cold numbed his hands. Without realizing it, he’d crushed the cone he’d been holding, causing the cold thick cream to overflow onto his fingers. With a colorful curse, he flung the shattered remnants down on the table.

Damn Elle and her miraculous return from the dead. He wiped his hands with the napkin she’d left behind. The chit had never been anything but trouble and, God help him, trouble seemed intent on finding him wherever he went.

Elle gave herself a final assessing look in the mirror before going down to greet Mr. Verney, who’d arrived a quarter of an hour before the appointed time to visit the exposition. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to it—the idea of spending her afternoon admiring machinery did not sound particularly engaging—but it was a way to become better acquainted with the diplomat in the event he could inadvertently provide information about
Le Rasoir.

Her fine lawn white gown draped smoothly over her hips, which wasn’t terribly surprising since she had few curves to speak of. The flesh-colored pantaloons she wore beneath the gown hinted of indecency but, if anything, the gown was overly discreet. Especially with the chemisette Sophie had insisted on tucking into her low-necked gown to protect her modesty.

“Bother,” she said to the girl, who was fussing with a stray thread in the hem of her gown. “This tucker causes my neck and chest to itch.”

“You’ll be half-naked without it,” Sophie said, completely without sympathy. “There, I’ve taken care of the loose thread.
Enfin.
You are ready.”

Elle grimaced. “Not quite.” She tugged on the lace half-blouse. “Help me remove this contraption.”

“Mon Dieu.”
Sophie shook her head. “No decent English lady should bare her neck and her bits in the bright light of day.”

“You were in England too long; you’ve become a prude. Besides, we are in Paris.” Elle searched for the side fastening that kept the chemisette in place. “Hurry; Mr. Verney awaits.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Sophie dipped her hand into the low square neckline and easily unfastened the lace. “There. I hope you’re pleased that your cat-heads are out for all to see.”

“Do not be insolent.” Elle adjusted her neckline. The cut was low but revealed very little. “I have no breasts to speak of so nothing is exposed. Bring my topaz necklace.”

“I see what you are about,” Sophie said when she returned with the jewels. “You wish to turn the cull’s head.”

She sat at her dressing table. “Duret wants information, and if there is some to be had, I will obtain it.”

Sophie’s belligerent posture eased. “You truly believe the general has your babe?”

Elle’s gaze caught Sophie’s in the looking glass. “I cannot know for certain.” She inhaled deeply against the sudden pressure in her chest, the usual sensations of regret and loss assailing her whenever she thought of her baby girl, a child who had never known a mother’s love. “But I cannot risk Susanna’s well-being if the general is telling the truth.”

“I’ve seen the way Duret looks at you.” Sophie fastened the jewels around Elle’s neck. “
Zut
. It’s a wonder he doesn’t make bedding you a condition of the child’s release, to see if you can cure what ails him.”

Elle shivered with disgust. “Don’t even speak of it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t care to embarrass himself with a gentry mort the way he does with the whores.” She cast a gimlet eye at Elle’s exposed décolletage. “Although you don’t look like much of a lady with your dairy exposed for all of Paris to see.”

“I don’t know why I continue to abide your impudence.” Elle stood. “If the sight of my bare neck and modest chest compels Mr. Verney to share his secrets, all the better.”

They arrived at the Louvre to find the public exhibition had been set up under stately porticos in the courtyard. Crowds filled the expansive space, the spectators lingering at the dozens of individual exhibits. There were separate halls for the art and sculpture displays; the craftsmen had been separated from the snobbish artists who’d refused to show their work in the same space.

As expected, Mr. Verney lingered over the machinery exhibits and proved knowledgeable about them, carefully answering any questions she posed. He was patient and attentive when she took an interest in the lithograph and engraving exhibits. As the afternoon progressed, Elle was surprised to find herself enjoying Mr. Verney’s company. He could be quite companionable once he relaxed a bit.

After a couple of hours of wandering among the stalls, they paused for refreshment. Elle welcomed the steamy cup of tea and delicious fresh bread Mr. Verney bought for them. The bread’s exterior was a crispy golden brown while the inside was light and chewy. As they enjoyed the repast, she gently nudged the conversation toward his work at the embassy.

Like most men of her acquaintance, Mr. Verney was happy to talk about himself at length, but his description of his work—mostly boring reports and endless social engagements—revealed little about whether he could be the mysterious
Le Rasoir.
When he mentioned that Will had recently attended an embassy affair, she seized the opportunity to expand their discussion.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. Naismith through your embassy work?” she inquired.

“No, our acquaintance precedes Paris. We attended the same university.” He sipped his tea and carefully replaced the porcelain cup on its saucer. “Although Will was a few years ahead of me.”

“Does he have business at the embassy?” she asked, tearing off a small piece of the warm bread. Even though she didn’t take Will for the spy, she had to consider the possibility.

“Mr. Naismith? No, he has acquaintances there who he calls upon whenever he is in Town.”

“He always did travel a great deal.” She’d never forgotten the gut-wrenching sensation she’d felt after learning Will had left for Town the morning following their tryst. For weeks, she’d waited anxiously for his return, before coming to the shattering realization he had no intention of returning for her.

“Yes, his numismatic interests take him all over the world. It’s a good thing he hasn’t married. No wife would countenance his being absent for months at a time.”

“I suppose he will limit his travel once he weds.” The words were light, but her heart twisted painfully at the thought of Will marrying another woman.

“Will marrying?” Mr. Verney laughed. “I cannot imagine it.”

“Why ever not?” she asked evenly, her focus on her tea.

“He plans never to wed.”

She looked up. “Why is that?”

“His prolonged absences would be hard on a family. He’s quite sought after as an expert in the field of ancient coinage, and I don’t believe he’ll ever curtail his interests in that area. As a matter of fact, he’s in Jersey on a numismatic matter as we speak.”

Jersey? She was momentarily distracted. Will had said he was bound for the country, not Jersey Island. She must have misheard him.

Mr. Verney sipped his tea before continuing. “No, I cannot imagine Will staying in one place long enough to gather around the hearth with a family.”

Despite the warm tea, frigid disappointment settled in her stomach. Mr. Verney confirmed what she’d always suspected: that Will had never wanted to marry—not her or anyone else.

On the way home, the hired coach rumbled along the traffic-laden streets, jerking to abrupt stops to accommodate wayward carts and the people attempting to negotiate the sodden streets on foot. She watched the people hurrying along while keeping a light conversation going with Mr. Verney.

A familiar glint of dark copper caught her attention. It was Will, dressed in a dark coat, striding purposefully into a
passages couverts
, a covered shopping arcade positioned between two buildings. She watched until he disappeared inside before turning to Mr. Verney. “Are you certain Mr. Naismith is abroad?”

He nodded. “Absolutely. He declined to dine with Lord Whitworth this evening because of it. One does not rebuff an invitation from the Crown’s ambassador to France, if one is in town.”

She murmured in agreement, but strange possibilities began to turn over in her mind. Unless there was some misunderstanding, Will had lied to both her and Mr. Verney about his whereabouts—telling her he was bound for the country while Mr. Verney thought he was in Jersey. Yet here he was, still in Paris. She didn’t know what it meant. It certainly didn’t prove that Will Naismith was
Le Rasoir,
but it did prove he was a liar.

Two days later, Will absently flipped a worn calling card between his fingers while watching two elderly men play chess at the table next to him at the crowded café. The air was full of smoke, the sounds of clinking glasses, and animated discussions between a group of writers and intellectuals several tables away.

Will barely heard them. He’d just returned to Paris after spending a couple of days on Jersey Island, where his operatives had recruited a fair number of fishermen and smugglers to act as informants. The island and its inhabitants were crucial to intelligence efforts and would be even more so once the peace broke down. Therein lay his problem, the one that had brought him to Paris in the first place.

Hamilton Sparrow, one of his best agents, who’d successfully operated out of Jersey for more than a year, had vanished a fortnight ago, just days after sending a coded message indicating he’d made a compelling discovery. Will feared the worst; Sparrow wasn’t one to go to ground without a word to his superiors.

To make matters worse, throughout it all—the visit to Jersey and the discreet inquiries into Sparrow’s whereabouts—thoughts of Elle had occupied his mind and intruded upon his work. There was now little doubt about the nature of her liaison with Duret. He’d just received his first report from the man he’d assigned to watch Elle’s residence. Several mornings ago, the man had arrived to begin his surveillance assignment just in time to see the general depart Elle’s house during the breakfast hour, a time when society’s denizens did not entertain visitors, except for the intimate acquaintances who’d stayed overnight.

“The prodigal is returned.” Lucian Verney’s voice cut into his musings as he settled into a wooden chair opposite Will at the small, round café table.

“Lucian.” He nodded in greeting. “How goes your dalliance with Madame Laurent?”

Lucian frowned his displeasure. “The party to whom you refer is a lady. I’ll thank you to remember it.”

Clearly the flirtation still flourished, despite the affair with Duret. Elle certainly was a busy woman these days. “So that’s the way of it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You do realize she could be working for Duret. Has she prompted you to reveal any Crown secrets yet?”

“No, she most certainly has not.” Heat rose in Lucian’s voice. “I have not overstepped with the lady. If that is what you are implying.”

“Calm yourself.” Will tried to ignore the intense relief cascading through him at the confirmation Lucian hadn’t bedded Elle. “I am merely suggesting that you should watch yourself where Madame Laurent is concerned.”

Lucian gave him a searching look. “Just how well acquainted were you with Madame Laurent back in England?”

Not a line of questioning he wished to pursue. “Well enough to know the lady cannot be trusted.”

“And why is that?”

“As a gentleman, I can say no more.”

Lucian gave him an odd look, but any forthcoming reply was interrupted by the server, who came over to take his coffee order. Once they were alone again, Lucian asked, “I trust your journey was successful.”

Will welcomed the change of subject. “Not as much as I had hoped.”

Lucian jutted his chin toward Will’s hands. “What is that?”

He flipped the paper over, revealing a calling card that was blank, except for the etching of a bird where the name should be. “Sparrow’s calling card.”

Lucian’s face lit up. “You’ve had word from him.”

“Unfortunately not. I found this among his things in Jersey, but otherwise, there’s no sign of him.”

Taking the card, Lucian examined it. “How do you know it’s his? There’s no name on it.”

“This card often accompanies Sparrow’s messages to verify their authenticity.” They quieted as the server appeared with Lucian’s coffee and waited until the man was out of earshot to continue their conversation.

“And you found no hint of the great discovery he made just before he vanished?” Lucian asked.

“None.”

“Perhaps your little bird has flown the coop.” He sipped his coffee. “His grandmother was a frog, after all.”

“Naturally, I’ve considered the possibility.” Ham Sparrow’s Gallic connections had no doubt played a role in his intelligence successes; the man spoke and looked like a native, and easily blended in among the French masses. But Will had worked closely with Sparrow on a number of missions. He doubted his friend would willingly cross over to the French side.

“But you don’t think he’s turned.”

Will shrugged. “It’s possible he’s gone in deep somewhere and will contact us when he can. In that event, all we can do is wait.”

Their conversation moved on to other things, including Lucian’s observations of Paris and of the notable French officials he’d met since arriving in the capital.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Lucian said after they’d risen to depart and were weaving their way through the crowded tables. Once outside, he pulled a sealed missive from his pocket. “This came for you at the embassy.”

“For me?” Surprised, Will took it and examined the unfamiliar red seal of an elaborate letter
L
. He opened it, and his heart kicked when he read the words.

“Is it bad news?” Lucian eyed him curiously. “Your color is a bit high.”

Will suppressed another curse. He’d become so adept at controlling his emotions that his fair skin rarely betrayed him anymore. “It’s nothing.” He scanned the lavish curves and loops of Elle’s handwriting. “An old acquaintance who resides in Paris has asked me to call.”

“Do you intend to go?”

“Yes.” Will pocketed the missive. “I always enjoy becoming reacquainted with old friends.”

He couldn’t help wondering what Elle was after when he answered her summons the following morning.

It came as no surprise that as the widow of a
vicomte,
Elle lived in a house located in one of the city’s finest neighborhoods. The symmetrical structure with baroque ornamentation wasn’t overly opulent, which might explain how Laurent had somehow managed to hold on to the property despite the revolution.

The stern-faced butler who opened the door directed him to the parlor while he went to inform his mistress of her guest’s arrival. As he waited, taut with an anticipation he didn’t want to feel, Will examined his surroundings.

Large arched windows and high ceilings allowed for an airy, sunlit room. Aside from the elaborate molding on the ceiling and framing the windows and fireplace, the room was simple, furnished comfortably with a bright patterned carpet and stuffed chairs and sofas. Books and papers were piled on tables while sketches and paintings graced almost every surface of the walls. The room was vibrant and inviting, much like its mistress. Everything about this place spoke of her.

“Excuse me, monsieur
.
” He turned to the young maid who appeared on the threshold. “If you will follow me, s’il vous plaît.” He followed her up the stairs and down a corridor, assuming Elle meant to receive him in her sitting room.

“This way, monsieur.” The servant stopped before a closed door and pushed it open, gesturing for him to enter. “Madame is expecting you.”

Will stepped inside and the powdery scent of violets folded around him. This was no sitting room. Elle sat at a dressing table with her back to him, clad in a flowing white dressing gown with her loose golden-honey hair cascading down her back in silken waves, bringing to mind a lioness in her lair.

A myriad of bottles, perfumes, and creams littered the surface before her. Vibrant scarves and a long strand of pearls were draped over the corner of the mirror. A pile of silky clothes were strewn over the back of a chair by the window, and a decorative dressing screen graced the opposite wall of Elle’s dressing chamber.

She pivoted to greet him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Beneath her open dressing gown she wore only a diaphanous chemise and stays, baring her long porcelain neck and décolletage, and the soft upper swells of her high breasts. She smiled. “Will, it is good of you to come.”

He indulged himself for a moment, allowing his gaze to run over the refined structure of her face before bowing in greeting. “Viscountess.”

Her brows lifted with amusement. “I am simply Madame Laurent now that all titles have been abolished in France.”

“I am sorry for it.”

“Do not be.” A corner of her mouth kicked up. “I’ve never put much store in titles, as you are well aware.”

He understood nothing of the sort. She’d married a wealthy viscount after all, a man she’d been acquainted with for less than a month. Will might have known her as a girl, but it was increasingly clear that the woman she’d become was a complete mystery to him.

“I wish to apologize for my behavior at Frascati’s,” she continued.

“Why?” His words were almost harsh. “You spoke the truth.”

“I was wrong to speak of the past at all. Anything that transpired between us is just that, the past, and is best forgotten.”

He felt an upwelling of anger at the realization that she preferred to forget their night together, yet again. She turned back to the mirror and picked up a brush, pulling it through her hair in long, languorous strokes. “How was your visit to the country?”

“Uneventful.” He was riveted by the movement of the brush through the satiny strands. “I authenticated a coin for a collector.”

“Mmm.” She eyed him in the mirror. “Where did you go exactly?”

“Not too far from Paris, near Fontainebleau.”

“I hear it is beautiful there. Was it to your liking?”

His impatience bubbled to the surface. “Did you invite me here to discuss the merits of the French countryside?”

“I invited you as a peace offering, to put the past behind us.” She tilted her head. “Have you had an opportunity to see much of Paris? Given your numismatic interests, you might appreciate the
passages couverts.
I’ve seen a number of coin collecting shops there. The covered shopping arcades are also quite pleasant to visit; they’re kept clean and the temperature is moderate. We have nothing like them in England.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure of visiting one of your arcades.” Taking in her state of dishabille, he became powerfully aware of the blood pumping hard through his body. “I had presumed the ceremony of the toilette was abolished along with the French monarchy.”

“It would be a shame if that were so.” Putting her brush down, she reached for her rouge pot and swiped a subtle slash of color across each pale, regal cheekbone. “Dressing to greet the public can be so tiresome. Why not enjoy the entertainment of friends while completing one’s toilette for the day?”

They were interrupted by the young servant girl who had shown him to Elle’s dressing chamber. She carried a tray laden with tea and breakfast foods, which she placed on a brass inlaid table positioned in front of a silk dove gray
lit du jour.

“I do hope you haven’t eaten.” Elle rose, lithe and graceful, her white robe fluttering behind her as she moved to the backless settee. She picked up an open book that had been set facedown on the settee, and closed it with a snap before placing the tome on a side table. Lowering herself onto the settee, she lounged against its low-arched scrolled arm as regally as the Empress Josephine might and, in a ballerina-like motion, gestured for him to take the tufted velvet chair opposite her.

He obliged, painfully aware of her presence, of her soft feminine form reclining opposite him in a state of undress. His attention shifted to the title of the book she’d put aside. His heart skipped a beat. “You are reading about Cleopatra?” He thought of the coin he’d given her, the one bearing the Egyptian queen’s likeness. Perhaps she hadn’t completely forgotten her old life after all.

She glanced at the book. “Yes, she was a remarkable woman. Cleopatra controlled virtually the entire eastern Mediterranean coast; she ruled the last great kingdom of any Egyptian leader.”

He thought of her liaison with Duret. “You are drawn to powerful leaders.”

“I admire a woman who controls her own destiny.” She reached for a strawberry, the movement offering a tantalizing glimpse of her pale breasts. “And I suppose I have a romantic nature. I cannot help but be moved by the great love she shared with Marc Antony.”

It rubbed his nerves raw to hear her speak of great love affairs. “Antony betrayed Cleopatra by taking up with another woman.”

“True. Even the most intelligent woman can be brought low by loving a man who doesn’t return her regard.”

“Then why admire their liaison?”

“In the end, he loved her unreservedly, and she him. I don’t imagine a love like theirs exists today.”

Resentment smoldered behind his inscrutably polite mask. Her response told him all he needed to know about how deeply she’d ever cared about him. Yet, he couldn’t resist asking, “Do you still have the Cleopatra coin I gave you?”

The sudden coloring of her cheeks beneath the rouge told him she remembered precisely what had occurred after he’d presented the gift to her. A slow burn spread through his blood at the memory of her soft limbs intertwined with his, of the urgent, heated strokes and tender murmurs. Of an exquisite intimacy he hadn’t experienced since.

“The coin? Oh yes.” She waved a careless hand. “Undoubtedly, it is around here somewhere. I haven’t thought to look for the old thing in ages.”

His entire body flushed at her cavalier attitude. For years, he’d tormented himself over a flighty woman who couldn’t care less about him. Their lovemaking had left him certain in the knowledge there could be no other woman for him, while she barely seemed to recall it at all.

“Since you’ve invited me here to view the ceremony of the toilette,” he said in a frosty tone, “should I presume that I am to play the role of cicisbeo?”

One of her arched brows inched up. A cicisbeo could either be one’s lover, or simply an amusing male companion. “Why? Do you have any news or gossip of interest to impart?”

“The only news of interest I’ve learned since arriving in France is that you still walk among the living.”

She reached for another strawberry and bit into the fruit. “Do you still favor strawberries?”