Nicole Jordan (8 page)

The powerful convulsions left her so dazed, she could only cling to Dare as he drove himself to his own convulsive climax. When his throes of passion finally diminished, she sagged against him, exhausted.

The tremors faded slowly. She could still feel him pulsing within her own sated flesh, could hear his heart hammering beneath her cheek.

When finally he pulled away, leaving her tender and aching, she could have wept.

He was silent for a moment as he fastened his breeches.

“I think we should call this a draw,” he observed impassively, his voice husky yet without inflection of any kind.

Julienne stiffened, suddenly realizing what she had just allowed to happen. Her mind spinning, she glanced down at her wanton dishevelment and drew a sharp breath, aghast. Sweet heaven.

Flushing with shame, she pushed down her skirts and fumbled to straighten her chemise and bodice. She could feel Dare’s gaze on her, yet she looked anywhere but at him. She felt stripped bare of all defenses, her emotions naked and exposed.

Dear God, what had she done? She hadn’t expected their lovemaking to go all the way, hadn’t meant for their passion to flare out of control. She had only intended to tease Dare, to torment him as he was set on doing to her. She hadn’t wanted him to win so effortlessly.

Her stomach wrenched. Dare had called this battle a draw, but he had gotten precisely what he wanted—her panting and moaning with desire for him. Damn him.

And damn her.

Despising herself, Julienne stole a glance at him. Was he feeling the same profound regret that she was?

He didn’t seem happy about their carnal lapse. His face was expressionless, with no indication of the dismay that was swamping her, but at least there was no sign of triumph, either.

Then he spoke.

“Come, darling, I will take you home,” he drawled, a cynical glint in his eye that mocked them both.

Julienne flinched, unable to protect herself against the pain that sliced through her at his casual dismissal. All she could do was curse herself for acting the fool.

The same witless, love-hungry fool she had been seven years ago.

Chapter

Four

Julienne felt a measure of relief four days later when she was admitted to the salon of Madame Solange Brogard. She had feared she might be the chief topic of conversation at the afternoon gathering of French émigrés. All London knew of Lord Wolverton’s vow to win her and was watching for further developments with avid interest.

But the excited chatter that filled the elegant room now was punctuated with words like “Chaumont” and “Castlereagh” and predictions that “the Monster will soon fall.” Thankfully, world events had overshadowed her own predicament and provided greater fodder for gossip than the scandal Dare seemed set on causing her.

Lord Castlereagh, Britain’s foreign secretary, had persuaded her reluctant allies, Russia, Prussia, and Austria, to commit irrevocably to the defeat of Napoleon. After decades of war, Europe finally stood united to crush revolutionary France. The Treaty of Chaumont that had just been signed was a triumph of policy for Castlereagh, but no one was more pleased than the French nobles in exile, many of whom were in this room.

“It is only a matter of weeks now,” an elderly chevalier prophesied. “And then we will see our beloved King Louis reclaim his birthright.”

Several heads nodded sagely, but another gentleman contradicted him, suggesting that the Corsican’s overthrow would take years longer—which began a fierce argument.

Across the crowded salon, Julienne caught the eye of the hostess, Madame Brogard. The Frenchwoman was one of her few London acquaintances whom she knew well enough to call friend, but Solange was closer to her late mother’s age than her own.

Adele and Solange had been neighbors in their youth and had escaped the Terror at nearly the same time, but Solange had come to London fortified by the Brogard jewels and had soon established a salon where émigrés and bluestockings and poets gathered for clever conversation and exquisite food, both more satisfying to French palates than the stodgy prattle and bland fare most of the English thrived upon. Often the conversation was literary in nature, but today it was all political talk of the war and the new treaty and the chances for Napoleon’s defeat.

Julienne accepted a glass of sherry from a footman and slowly moved through the crowd, smiling and conversing and flirting effortlessly. She was expected to be gay and dazzling and witty, even if her spirits had plunged so low they were more suited to a walking corpse.

At least forcing herself into company served to keep her emotional tumult and heartache at bay. She had been a fool to let Dare make love to her again, for it brought back such painful memories of what she had lost. Worse, she had taken no precautions against pregnancy. Seven years ago, she hadn’t known how, but she couldn’t claim that excuse now. It had been criminal to risk conceiving Dare’s child. What a disaster that would be!

Over the past four days, she’d had abundant time to reflect on his motives for pursuing her. She could draw only one conclusion: Dare North hated her and was bent on exacting his pound of flesh.

The knowledge set a hollow pain churning inside her. It wasn’t hate that Dare woke in her but hunger. Being with him again had left her shaken with the realization of her own need and stirred to life the fervent yearnings she had thought long-buried.

She had meant merely to defend herself that night, and perhaps give him a taste of his own medicine—to torment him a little as he was set on doing to her. But her plan had gone drastically awry the moment he touched her. Her reserve had melted under the heat of his passion, along with any notions of resisting him.

What an utter fool you are,
Julienne swore at herself for the thousandth time. She should have been so much stronger.

Since that evening, she had made certain all their encounters were public. She had to concede, however, that Dare had won the first points in the game he had initiated.

He had appeared at the theater nightly to watch her, and once he’d distracted her so badly that she forgot a crucial line. When Dare called down to her on-stage, prompting her, much to the titillation of the audience and the ire of Edmund Kean, Julienne inwardly gritted her teeth while giving him a deep curtsy to acknowledge the hit. Later, upon taking her bows, she had commended Dare on his thespian talents.

“If you will permit me, my lord,” she had suggested sweetly, “I shall arrange an audition for you with the theater manager, Mr. Arnold. No doubt you could enjoy a splendid career treading the boards.”

Her offer had made both him and the spectators laugh.

She was forced to maintain the spirit of the game, for the crowds were coming to watch the byplay between them as much as the theatrical drama. But Julienne determinedly avoided any more private meetings with Dare. When she went out, she deliberately surrounded herself with her beaux. The rest of her time she focused on her grueling schedule of work—her nightly performances and rehearsing the lines of the next play.

Still, that left too many hours to think of Dare as she tossed and turned in her solitary bed each night. She couldn’t let his planned vengeance go any further. She had spent years trying to mend her shattered heart, and he could so easily break it again.

She was startled out of her dark reverie by her friend’s greeting.

“Julienne,
mon amie, bonjour,
” Solange said in her heavy accent. “I am so pleased you have come. I feared you might have too many other matters demanding your time.”

“You know I try never to miss your Tuesday salons,” Julienne returned as they pressed cheeks.

Solange held her away, appraising her with a keen eye. “You look ravishing as always.”

She didn’t protest the lie, but returned the compliment. Madame Brogard was not considered a great beauty; her allure owed more to artifice and the skilled application of cosmetics. But with her tall, elegant figure and silvery blond hair, she possessed undeniable charisma that would always catch the eye.

“I daresay I am not the only one who will be pleased to see you,” Solange added lightly. She glanced toward a far corner where a tall, fair-haired nobleman stood conversing with several ladies. “Lord Wolverton has been asking for you.”

Julienne’s smile froze on her lips. Good God,
Dare
.

She felt her heartbeat suddenly race in panic, even before his eyes connected with hers.

He sketched her a brief bow in acknowledgement. Then his gaze made a slow, intimate sweep of her body, traveling the length of her bronze silk gown and up again to linger on her breasts.

Flustered by his brazen scrutiny, Julienne cast him a quelling look. His lazy smile leapt back across the room.

Vexed, she turned a cool shoulder to him, but it was far more difficult to dismiss Dare from her awareness, or to deny the effect his unexpected presence had on her. Why did she have this sudden feeling that her life had begun again?

“What the devil is he doing here?” she demanded of her hostess before she considered the wisdom of curbing her tongue.

“He persuaded me to invite him. He had been told that you often attended my functions and wished for a chance to speak to you alone. He claims that you have been avoiding him,
mon amie
.”

Julienne pressed her lips together without responding.

“I heard of the wager he made to win you. Are you not flattered?”

“Hardly. I find it distasteful to be made the public target of his lust and the object of his amusement. Lord Wolverton is the consummate pleasure seeker, a bored nobleman in search of diversion. He deliberately created a sensation with his antics in the theater the other evening for his own sport.”

“Pooh, that was nothing. His pranks are legend,
vraiment
. Did you know that he once got Lord Lambton abysmally cup shot and stole his clothes, then had him transported to Hyde Park during the night, bed and all? Lambton caught a chill walking home with only a bedsheet to cover himself.”

“No, I hadn’t heard that
on-dit
,” Julienne said dryly.

“And I have it on good authority that he abducted his good friend’s
chère amie
to coerce Baron Sinclair into declaring his love. Lord Sin happily wed his lady afterward, but not before he called Wolverton out for the insult.”

She couldn’t deny that Dare would stoop to nearly any maneuver to get his own way. Seven years ago he had bought her entire shop’s stock of hats simply so she would have the time to accompany him on a carriage ride and allow him to command her complete attention, she remembered. But she didn’t intend to tell Solange of her past history with Dare.

Few people knew of their former betrothal, or even of their affair. During his courtship, Dare had respected her desire to keep their relationship as private as possible and had gone to great lengths to shield her from gossip. And his grandfather hadn’t wanted to advertise Dare’s intentions to wed a foreign shopkeeper who was so far beneath him.

Fortunately, her friend was too busy singing Dare’s praises to ask any probing questions. “I find him delightful and audaciously charming, even if he is an
anglais
and thoroughly wicked,” the Frenchwoman confessed.

“Oh, yes, he is universally adored,” Julienne remarked sardonically. “But I’m certain he practices to perfection that devastating charm. And his exploits are too shocking for my tastes, even if they seem to be met with approval by the rest of society.”

“Not approval, precisely, but a rich marquess is permitted to do shocking things other mortals cannot. A man such as Wolverton is considered above scandal and will be forgiven nearly any sin. It is the way of the world,
n’est-ce pas
?”

Julienne nodded in agreement, but not without a trace of bitterness. If one was impoverished and untitled and a woman, she bore the brunt of society’s scorn. A wealthy nobleman, on the other hand, could get away with anything short of murder—and even murder at times was not always condemned, if it came in the form of a duel. Dare had the reputation of being a law unto himself, but only the highest sticklers would censure him for it.

“He is still a conniving rogue,” Julienne muttered.

“
Tiens,
but one who makes feminine hearts beat faster. Come, admit it. You cannot possibly overlook a man like him. And you cannot underestimate the irresistible lure of a rake.”

No indeed, Julienne reflected with reluctance. What woman could resist Dare’s tantalizing smile, the boldness of his glance, his blatant sexual magnetism? He was striking and dangerously exciting, even more so now than when she had first known him. “He cannot be overlooked, certainly,” she conceded.

“And I have heard he has other talents to recommend him in addition to his wealth and looks, such as exceptional skill and endurance in bed.”

Absurdly, Julienne felt a pang of jealousy. Everyone knew of Dare’s celebrated sexual experience. He’d slept with nearly every highborn woman in London, no doubt. And every woman he’d ever slept with probably fell in love with him. Dalliance for him was more than habitual; it was a compulsion.

“I confess,” Solange added wistfully, “I should be very glad to be in your slippers,
mon amie
. If I were ten years younger, I would set my cap at him myself.”

“You may have him with my blessing, Solange.”

Her friend gave her a curious glance. “What, you do not mean to accept his protection? What would be so wrong with that? An attachment based purely on sensual pleasure…And the financial advantages would be enormous. Wolverton is said to be excessively generous with his mistresses.”

Julienne was unsurprised by Solange’s practical outlook. The French took a much more liberal view of lovemaking and carnal arrangements than the English did. But she didn’t share her friend’s sentiments.

“I don’t intend to allow him to win our wager by becoming another of his sexual conquests.”