The Courtesan's Bed (19 page)

Now Régine Laflamme and her escort approached their table. Ivy stared at her expectantly, hoping that the famous courtesan would recognize her from the auction and acknowledge her. For if she did, her notice would confer instant celebrity. When she saw Ivy, her expression brightened and she smiled sweetly. For one moment, Ivy thought the courtesan would stop to chat for a few seconds and cause Ivy's life to change forever.

Her gaze next fell on Serge. Régine Laflamme's smile died and her warm expression froze.

Puzzled, Ivy glanced at her lover, wondering what had caused the courtesan's reaction, and was taken aback to see a bald, unguarded look of yearning in his dark eyes.

And then she knew with blinding clarity that Régine Laflamme was the woman who had refused his gifts of diamonds.

The woman he really wanted.

Ivy's rival.

The Queen of Fire swept past quickly, without stopping or giving Ivy a second glance.

Her escort glared at Serge as though he'd like to slide a dagger into his heart.

Serge glared right back, his broad shoulders stiffening and his jaw clenching.

Ivy put on an expression of innocence. “Mademoiselle Laflamme seemed to know you.”

He drained his glass and poured himself another, his third already. “She was Odile's good friend. She is one of those pathetic fools who blames me for her death.”

“Ah. That would explain her look of hostility.” Ivy watched the couple take their seats. “Is her escort Luc Valendry, the banker? I thought he'd be much older.”

Serge made a motion of dismissal. “He's just some Englishman.”

Ivy suspected he knew the Englishman's name quite well, but for some mysterious reason did not want to reveal it.

He nodded toward another table. “That is Valendry the banker.”

Ivy's eyes widened. “His companion looks so young. Is she old enough to be allowed into this place?”

“She is much older than she looks but prefers dressing like a little girl.” He shrugged. “Some men prefer women to look like little girls.” Then he frowned at her. “How do you know so much about Régine Laflamme?”

Ivy looked over at her idol, her beautiful face animated as she leaned toward her lover, sharing secrets. The gold of her crown and gown gathered all the light in the room and enrobed her in warm radiance, causing streaks of fire to appear in her auburn hair. Oh, if Ivy could only trade places with this goddess for one night. She would surely have the world at her feet.

“All of the girls at Madame Soubrise's know every detail of her life—where she buys her fashionable clothes, the names of her friends and lovers, the food she eats, the places she frequents. The Queen of Fire is famous. We all adore her.” And aspire to
be
her.

He made a face. “She is beautiful.” He smiled. “But so are you.”

His compliment startled her. This was the first time Serge had called her beautiful. “I'm quite flattered that you think so.”

“If I didn't, you wouldn't be sharing my bed.”

Ivy hid her irritation by drinking more champagne and studying all those around her, what they wore, how they acted. But her gaze always returned to Mademoiselle Laflamme and her charming, attentive lover.

Sitting here with Serge was turning into a major disappointment. He knew few people, or if he did, he didn't care to talk with them. What little gossip he did deign to share was as stale as week-old sheets. Even the caviar was becoming more appealing than his surliness.

She watched Max Montblanc rise from his table and approach them. Now perhaps some fireworks would enliven her dull evening.

“Good evening, Ivy,” he said. “What a…surprise to see you here tonight.”

She gave him her most dazzling, flirtatious smile. “What a surprise to see you too.” She introduced him to Serge, who seemed singularly unimpressed by the older man.

“Coco misses you,” Max said.

Ivy shrugged. “When one moves on, one often has to leave old…friends behind. Most regrettable, but
c'est la vie
.”

A faint blush of annoyance stained Max's high cheekbones. “Yes,
c'est la vie
.”
He seemed to expect her to make another comment, and when she didn't, he bowed stiffly and wished her good night.

She waited for Serge to ask her all about the other man, but he didn't. A bit of jealousy on his part would be welcome, but he sat there in stony, brooding silence.

“Max was one of my best patrons at Madame Soubrise's,” she said.

“He can't have been very good if you left him to strike out on your own.”

“He liked to have a
ménage à trois
with me and Coco, who is a very exotic black woman from Africa.”

Now she had his attention. “Is she now? Perhaps I shall hire this Coco to come to the house and share our bed.”

Ivy leaned forward. “Am I not woman enough for you, Serge?”

He laughed. “You're the one who put the idea of a
ménage à trois
into my head, my dear, so don't become indignant when I rise to your bait.”

Ivy could've kicked herself for opening her big mouth. “You would not like her. She is quite crude and lacks the finesse you demand.”

Régine Laflamme and the earl rose to leave, stopping to talk with Monsieur Beaucaire for a minute. After they'd left, the journalist made his way to Ivy's table, obviously sent there by Régine Laflamme herself. Such an act of kindness touched Ivy, and she regretted thinking ill of her rival.

“Good evening, Count,” he said. “I believe I've never met your lovely companion.”

Ivy beamed at him and extended her hand. “Ivy Doucette, Monsieur Beaucaire.”

He kissed her hand. “It's always a pleasure to meet such a lovely young woman. You shall be a welcome addition to Parisian society.”

“You are too kind.”

“May I ask the name of the modiste who designed your gown?” He was going to mention her in his column! Ivy could hardly contain her exhilaration. “Madame Louise Racette.”

He jotted something in his notebook. “Your amber jewelry complements your ensemble beautifully. An excellent choice.” He smiled. “Perhaps you shall start a trend of Parisian women throwing away their diamonds and pearls and wearing nothing but amber.”

Ivy almost swooned at the very idea that other women would want to copy her personal style the way they copied the grand horizontals. “The necklace and earrings were gifts from the count.”

“He has excellent taste.”

Serge looked bored. “Are you through with your meaningless scribbling, Beaucaire? We were just about to leave.”

He closed his notebook and gave Ivy a conspiratorial smile, then bowed. “I hope to see more of you about town, mademoiselle.”

He turned and returned to his table, leaving Ivy walking on air with her head in the clouds.

Serge drained his glass, then rose and took Ivy back to the townhouse.

Chapter Fifteen

Molly had left the foyer's gaslight on low before retiring for the night so that Régine and Darius wouldn't come home to a dark house.

“What a relief to see that Dragomilov has a new mistress.” She locked the door securely behind them.

“Now maybe he'll leave you alone.” Darius set his hat on the table next to Undine.

“I hope so.”

No sooner did she put the key in her bag, which she set beside Darius's hat, then he reached for her, his eyes dark with wanting, his gorgeous lips quirked with single-minded purpose. “Come here.”

She took a few seconds to remove her diadem before she flew into his arms. He placed his hands on either side of her face to hold her steady so he could ravage her mouth with his own for a deep, open-mouthed kiss. His skillful touch ignited Régine's body all the way down to the tips of her toes. She groaned and stroked his tongue boldly with her own, savoring the delicious taste of champagne and his own fresh sweetness. His skin smelled pleasantly of citrus shaving soap that made her think of trade winds and exotic tropical climes.

His hands slid down to her waist and his eager lips traversed her exposed neck, refusing to release her as he slowly drew her toward the stairs. Régine matched her steps to his, and when they bumped up against the staircase, he finally released her reluctantly, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps to match her own.

She kicked off her shoes, gathered her skirts in her left hand, grabbed the banister with her right, and raced up the stairs as fleet as a deer running from a determined hunter.

“Ah, so the fair maiden would deny me.” He laughed lasciviously and charged after her, just as eager as she to reach the boudoir and Odile's bed.

She risked a glance over her shoulder and squealed in mock dismay to see him gaining on her rapidly. When he caught her in the upstairs hallway and pulled her into his arms once again, she cried, “Oh, please, kind sir, I am a virtuous young maiden who has never known a man's possession.”

“You will know a man's possession tonight,” he growled, giving her another fierce, passionate kiss, “and you will willingly surrender your maidenhead to me.”

She giggled girlishly and pushed at his chest just hard enough to make him release her, then she gathered her skirts again and darted for the boudoir's open door.

Considerate Molly had left the gaslight burning low in this room as well, so they didn't fumble around like two blind mice when they came running into the boudoir, laughing and gasping from their exciting little game of The Virgin's Pursuit.

“Quick.” She turned her back to him and pulled out her hairpins with eager fingers. “My clothes are so heavy and hot. Undress me. Now.”

“With pleasure.” Darius made short work of the many covered buttons running down the back of her gown and pushed it off her shoulders with practiced ease, his fingertips as red hot as pokers, leaving a burning trail on her flesh. The silk rustled as it fell to the floor and Régine stepped out of the gown. “My corset. Hurry, hurry!”

His fingers flew to unlace her, and Régine breathed a sigh of relief when he quickly dispatched the constrictive undergarment to the growing pile. She watched him tear off his own clothes as she pulled her lawn chemise over her head, followed by her pantalettes and silk stockings.

At last they faced each other, both gloriously naked.

By the soft glow of gaslight, Darius did indeed resemble a Rodin sculpture, shadows lining the strong, forceful lines of his face, his arms and legs proportioned and graceful. Her gaze traveled down his strong chest with its small masculine nipples now erect, along his flat belly, and down to his groin and rampant erection. Surely a bronze sculpture of his glorious naked body would become the talk of the Parisian art world.

He held out his hand, beckoning her.

She covered her breasts modestly. “You may have lured me to your bedchamber, monsieur, but if you want to have your way with me, you'll have to catch me first.”

And with a come-hither look, she darted off, racing around the bed until it stood between her and Darius.

“Saucy wench.” He slowly stalked her as stealthy as a panther. “You may run, but you can't escape me.”

After Régine circled the bed twice with Darius in hot pursuit, he suddenly changed direction too quickly for her to stop in time. Their bodies collided in a tangle of limbs, and he hoisted her up as if she weighed nothing and threw her onto the bed, which Molly had turned down for them.

Régine landed with a loud peal of delighted laughter as she bounced on the mattress. Darius dove in after her, triumph lighting his eyes as he pounced.

Régine's laughter finally died, and she relaxed against the pillows. “The best part of flight is getting caught.”

“You did indeed lead me a merry chase.” He released her so he could sit up. As his ardent gaze traveled down her body, his expression turned from passionate to thoughtful. He reached over and hooked his finger around one of the rings bolted to the bedpost. “When I first saw these, I thought they belonged in a medieval dungeon rather than on such a feminine piece of furniture.”

Régine stilled and watched him, but said nothing.

He released it. “Since they're on a bed used by lovers, I think I can guess their purpose.”

“They're used to secure a lover's bound wrists and ankles so they are helpless.” She looked at him with growing suspicion and unease. “Is this just idle curiosity?”

“Much more than that.” He gazed deeply into her eyes as though searching the darkest, most private corners of her soul, the ones she kept well hidden, even from herself. “I would like you to allow me to make love to you using these rings.”

A picture of Odile tied helplessly to this bed and screaming while Dragomilov tortured her with his sharp dinner fork flashed in Régine's mind.

She fought down the rising teeth-chattering panic that made her want to bolt from the room in earnest, but this was Darius, not Dragomilov. He would not force her to do anything against her will.

“I—I dislike being tied down,” she said, staring at the sheet so she could avoid his gaze, “for any amount of gold Louis.” She'd never trusted any man enough to grant him such control, even her first love, Darius's own father. Yet the thought of experiencing the ultimate surrender at Darius's hands, of allowing him to relentlessly caress her in any way he desired and being helpless to touch him back, sent a rising swell of erotic excitement flooding through her.

“Just because I provide you with an allowance doesn't give me the right to own your body,” he said gravely.

She thought of all the men she had known who'd felt that because they'd bought and paid for her, they did indeed own her.

“In spite of my misgivings,” she added, looking up at him, “I know I could trust you not to hurt me.”

He kissed her shoulder. “I would never, ever hurt you the way Valendry expected you to hurt him. I only want to bring you the most sublime pleasure a woman can experience, not pain. But you must be very sure before we embark down this particular road. Don't agree to this just because you feel obligated, or to please me. I would never forgive myself for forcing you to do something distasteful.” He smiled in his seductive way that fueled her growing lust. “Especially when I know of so many other novel ways to pleasure you.”