Tonight or Never

  "Are you feeling all right, Maurice? Calloway told me you had returned to your rooms." The Countess de Fonbeaulard stood in the doorway to the marquis's room.

  "I am perfectly fine, Simone." He opened the top drawer of a bureau and began removing the contents.

  The countess watched him in confusion.

  Maurice walked over to his bed and tossed the items inside a small portmanteau.

  "What are you doing?" she whispered.

  "What does it look like I'm doing?" Maurice closed the lid with a snap.

  Before the countess could respond, Calloway appeared at the door with some servants.

  "These here and those over there." Maurice pointed out the cases he wanted taken down.

  The men dutifully bent to the task; they closed the door behind them on their way out.

  "You are going to your estate?" she asked, perplexed.

  "Yes."

  The countess let out a sigh of relief. "You have received a message of some kind? You should have told me; I—"

  "There was no message. I am going to my estate," he intoned.

  "What do you mean?"

  "I think I was perfectly clear."

  The countess paled. "You—you are leaving me, Maurice?"

  He hesitated, hating to have to put that look on her face, yet set in his choice of action. "That depends."

  "On what?"

  "On whether or not you come with me."

  Mistaking his meaning, she immediately brightened.

  Until he added, "As my wife."

  "What are you talking about? You know that—"

  Maurice interrupted her. He was through listening. "My coach is waiting for me. The Cyndreacs will be following me out to Somerset in the morning. They will be residing at my estate.

  I know you are fond of them, as I am. If you come with me, I have arranged for a marriage ceremony en route."

  The countess pulled herself up straight. What had gotten into him? He had no right! "When you return, we will discuss this." She waved her hand, trying to dismiss the objectionable subject.

  The marquis stood firm. "I will not be returning unless you are beside me as my wife."

  "Maurice, you are being unreasonable!"

  "Am I?" He took out his pocket watch and checked the time. "I will wait five minutes for you, Simone. Five minutes." Snapping the lid shut, he strode purposefully to the door.

  The countess was stunned. Surely he didn't mean this? She knew him; he would think it over and—

  Maurice stopped at the door. "I won't be coming back, Simone," he said quietly before he shut the door behind him.

  It took a few moments for the silence of the room to penetrate her fog.

  Maurice had walked out! Left her. A dull ache started in her chest. She glanced at the clock. Four minutes.

  He was bluffing! He would be back… he always came back. Three minutes.

  Who did he think he was? Telling her that—Two minutes.

  The Countess de Fonbeaulard picked up her skirts and, for the first time in her adult life, ran down the hall to the center stairs.

  She literally raced through the front door of the house.

  At the bottom of the stairs the marquis's personal coach emblazoned with his family crest prepared to depart.

  As the countess reached the bottom step, the door to the vehicle was flung wide and an outstretched hand yanked her inside.

  "This is ridiculous, Maurice! I have no clothes with me—"

  "I will get you what you need Marchioness." Strong arms embraced her.

  "But—"

  His mouth silenced her.

  Merde! He should have done this years ago, he realized as the coach rolled down the drive.

  "Might I have a word with you, John? Out on the terrace?"

  John nodded, excusing himself from the group of men he was conversing with on the sidelines of the dance floor. He followed Percy outside onto a deserted terrace.

  The two men, shielded by plants and an overhanging tree, leaned on the ledge and looked out at the night. Clouds dotted the sky, weaving in and out of a crescent moon.

  John waited for Percy to speak his mind.

  "Malleaux seems to think he will find the Black Rose here. What do you think, Sexton?"

  "I think the Rose has exposed himself to great danger and his chances of being discovered grow greater every day."

  Percy was silent for a few minutes. "Perhaps he likes this type of danger."

  John exhaled. "Most likely he does, but I don't trust Malleaux. Even if the Black Rose should happen to be an Englishman, he might very well wake up to find himself in a French prison. About to lose his head."

  "Some risks are worth taking."

  John nodded. "Yes, they are. Nonetheless, the Black Rose has done more than his share of risk-taking. It might be time for him to stop testing his luck and be happy for what he has accomplished."

  Percy said nothing.

  "Perhaps he should remember those he has saved."

  "One might wonder if the man thinks more of those he didn't," Percy murmured reflectively.

  John raised a brow. There were levels here he knew nothing about. "He is only one man."

  Percy smiled obscurely showing a hint of white teeth. "They say he is many men, what with his disguises and all."

  "So I've heard." John turned to face him. "Such a man who dons these disguises might even seek a friendship with someone like myself—knowing I would not turn him in to the authorities. He might use that friendship for his own ends."

  "In what way?" Percy spoke very low.

  "He could use my home as a point of operation; he could come and go here as he pleased under the cover of his disguise; he could have many types of dealings no one would know about or suspect. There's no end to the amount of mischief he could be engaged in."

  Percy's lips turned upward in a poignant half smile. "You forgot one thing."

  "What's that?"

  "He might genuinely value your friendship, John."

  John was taken aback; he looked out over the gardens. "It is dangerous for the Black Rose here; Malleaux will not give up until he has his head."

  Percy seemed to listen to John's warning; he adjusted the lace cuff on his sleeve. "I'm afraid I shall have to leave, John."

  John smiled slightly. The fop was back once more. "When shall we see you again, Percy?"

  "I'm not sure—when one is in fashion, one is forever in demand!" His lace-trimmed sleeve punctuated the air.

  "Then take care of yourself, my friend." He warmly clasped Percy's shoulder.

  "And you, John," Percy said softly. "Although I somehow think you have found where you want to be."

  John nodded, surprised to feel deep sadness at Percy's leaving. He supposed he had gotten used to him always hanging about. Even as a fop, the man had been… well, likable. He turned to leave.

  Percy called out to him, "Do you know what you get when Heart is wed to Sexton, my good man?"

  John shook his head no.

  "Why, everyone knows heart and sex together form a perfect match! 'Tis called romance!"

  John snorted. Grinning, he turned and walked back into the house.

  "And what you get is very, very lucky. Ave atque vale, my friend. Hail and farewell." He saluted the direction of the door John had entered and agilely leaped over the stone wall to disappear into the night.

  The ball was winding down.

  Most of the guests had already departed, either returning to their rooms or their coaches for the journey home. John's rumor was already starting to work.

  Chloe and John circled the dance floor one last time, the final dance of the evening. A Scotch reel.

  When the lively dance ended, he pulled Chloe along with him out of the ballroom, as the amused onlookers waved a last good night.

  Instead of taking the stairs as she expected, he tugged her along to the other side of the mansion.

  "Where are we going?" She tried to dig her heels in but she was n
o match for his determination. Especially in silk slippers.

  "You'll see."

  This end of the house was still and quiet. Almost deserted.

  The tap of his top boots along the parquet flooring was the only sound to be heard as he pulled her resolutely along.

  He took her down a long side gallery, through a secret panel she hadn't known about, and through another gallery, not stopping until a specific door stood in front of them.

  Standing to the side and in front of her, John unlocked the door, letting it drift slowly open.

  "Welcome to paradise, my lady." He gestured to the space beyond with an outstretched hand.

  Flowering plants of differing hues and sizes greeted her in a wave of color and scent. Chloe closed her eyes, inhaling the lovely combination of fragrances.

  "It's another door to the conservatory!"

  "Yes. I hadn't known about it until Maurice showed it to me today. He said something about finding it instructional; I wasn't quite sure what he meant." John drew her inside, closing the door behind them.

  At once they were enclosed in a tropical world of exotic plants and lush foliage.

  "It's so lovely!"

  "Yes, you are, Chloe," he agreed in a low, sultry whisper.

  Chloe glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. She'd recognize the roguish tone in her sleep. Indeed, she had heard it in her sleep on many an occasion. John was getting sportive.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. "And just why did you bring me here, my lord?"

  A slow, sensual smile was the rake's answer.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Immortelle

  "Here?" she uttered, astonished. Only John would think of something like this.

  "Yes, here," he whispered.

  Chloe viewed the room that was bursting with a profusion of blooms. Flowers and herbs carpeted the stone floor, seeming to climb up the very walls in places. Some pots even hung suspended from the ceiling, their vines trailing down.

  There were pink roses filling the air with their scent; pots of fragrant French lavender, with its gray, fringed leaves and tiny, bluish-purple buds; fragrant jasmine hung in overflowing baskets from above, its delicate blossoms the color of moonlight. It was said the intoxicating fra-grance held magical properties at night. Breathing deeply of the glorious aroma, Chloe could well believe it.

  Her gaze took in true myrtle as well, the large, brilliant white blooms emitting a spicy scent that fired the senses.

  Interspersed in pots were Grandmere's herbs: rosemary, thyme, French basil—there were too many for her to name, although she was learning to distinguish them all.

  John drew her down to the floor.

  They were surrounded by a sea of flowers bathed in moonlight.

  A white stone fountain—its cherub pouring out a continuous ewer of trickling water—gurgled in the corner. They were in the center of a night garden, a magical kingdom of lush serenity.

  They knelt facing each other.

  Silently John began to undo the buttons on the back of her dress. Chloe reached over to slip his jacket off his shoulders.

  He gathered her dress in his hands and lifted it over her head. She undid his waistcoat, then his shirt, sliding them off.

  He kissed her then, his muscular arms coming around her to pull her tight to his naked chest. The thin cotton of her chemise acted as the scantiest barrier to touch, adding to, rather than detracting from, the sensation. Her hands smoothed over his shoulders, feeling the contained strength under the warm, golden skin of his masculine structure.

  The touch of his mouth brought with it tiny shivers cresting throughout her body.

  John released her from his embrace, sitting back on his haunches once more. He drew her chemise over her head, removing it along with the rest of the items she wore.

  Wordlessly, he ran his fingers through her hair, removing the pins that held it in place, so that it tumbled freely down her back.

  She knelt in front of him, naked in a night of flowers. Waiting for him. Moonlight shining through the tall windows shimmered around her.

  John had never seen anything more lovely; he drew in a sharp breath.

  Fingers skimmed the band of his breeches, her nimble hands dipping under the placket to release the buttons.

  The feel of her fingers lightly brushing him there as she went about her task seemed to him one of the most erotic experiences he had ever had. A simple thing like that and it moved him so much…

  When she finished with the buttons, her hands slipped inside the material at his sides and slid down his backside, until she was gently cupping his buttocks in her palms.

  Closing his eyes at the tactile sensation, John dipped his head and captured her mouth in a savory, burning kiss.

  She returned his kiss, slipping the breeches off his hips entirely so that she could rub against him—skin to skin.

  A rough, gravelly sound of approval vibrated from him to her.

  He released her to tug off his boots quickly and remove his breeches. Taking their clothes, he scattered them across the stone floor, making a unique pallet out of the combined materials. Then he carefully laid her down on the bed he had made.

  "Are you comfortable?" he asked tenderly.

  "Yes." She smiled softly up at him.

  "Good—we might be here awhile." He winked roguishly at her.

  A dimple popped into her cheek. "If I know you, my lord—and I do—I would say a great while."

  "You underestimate me," he drawled.

  Chloe's eyes widened.

  Spotting one of Grandmere's worktables by the window, John got up and went over to it. He picked up several of the small, dark bottles she had left, examining the contents of each of them by pulling the stoppers and sniffing.

  "This one, I think," he declared, carrying it with him back to her.

  At that moment the first rays of dawn broke the horizon, streaming through the east windows, capturing him in a wash of golden light as he stood naked among the exotic hothouse blooms.

  It was such an erotic, sensual picture that Chloe knew she would retain the memory of it forever. Her private portrait of the Viscount Sexton.

  He knelt down beside her.

  Chloe frowned. "What are you going to do with the oil, John?"

  "You'll see," he replied mysteriously as he cradled the small bottle between his palms to heat the contents.

  The broad palm of his hand rested against the center of her chest, effectively keeping her in a supine position.

  Taking the dropper out, he held it above her and released the warm oil drop by drop.

  Chloe immediately recognized the woodsy scent as John's personal fragrance. She was pondering why he had chosen that particular one when the flat of his hand—the one on her chest—began a circular motion, rubbing the oil into her skin.

  "Oh, that feels lovely."

  He acknowledged her compliment with a tiny curve of his lips.

  Chloe swallowed. He was up to something…

  Before he continued, his fingertips brushed the red curls between her legs, spreading her nether lips. Bending over, he gently placed a soft kiss there.

  Chloe trembled in reaction to the passionate gesture.

  "Forgive me." His green eyes glittered in the early light. "I got carried away."

  The rogue didn't look like he wanted forgiveness. For anything.

  Just the points of his fingers skated over her skin, soothing her with a light stroke. Over her collarbone, across the sensitized peaks of her breasts, skipping lightly over the plane of her torso, swirling around her hipbones, down the sides of her thighs and her calves, to the responsive arch of her foot.

  Wherever he touched, a wash of warm, woodsy oil soaked into her skin.

  Putting down the dropper, John took her foot in his hands and began to knead the muscles and tendons with a rare skill.

  His two thumbs pressed in and stroked up the center line of her foot, igniting key pleasure points along the sole of h
er foot. Cupping her heel, he rotated it into the palm of his hand, loosening every tight muscle in her body.

  Chloe melted like butter in the sun.

  When he was through with one foot, he placed it flat against his warm chest for safekeeping while he proceeded to attend the other one.

  "I can't tell you how good that feels, especially after dancing all night."

  He simply smiled again, saying nothing.

  Chloe bit her lip; he was definitely up to something.

  Soon his capable hands began stroking their way up the entire length of her body, massaging, kneading as they went, until she was so relaxed, she wondered if she could force herself to move.

  When John reached her shoulders, he neatly turned her over. He brushed her hair off her back with the edge of his hand.

  Picking up the dropper again, he dripped oil down her back, over her buttocks, across the backs of her knees…

  Then the flats of his hands were on her—massaging in deep, firm strokes—shoulders to back.

  She felt the oil slide down the underside of her breasts; his hands followed the track, slipping underneath her from behind.

  Chloe held her breath but he didn't stay long—just long enough to heighten her sensitivity by rotating her hardened nipples in the palm of his hands.

  More oil… more caressing.

  She was so languorous from his ministrations that it took her a few moments to realize he was rubbing the oil in with more than his hands!

  John had brought his body over hers. The entire length of his body slid the oil against her as he pressed down on her at intermittent points. She was covered by his oil and him.

  Heated lips brushed down the curve of her spine to the small of her back. She jumped when a hot tongue lightly grazed her buttocks.

  "J-John," she choked out.

  "Mmm?" Male teeth nipped her right buttock.

  Chloe scooted away from him and turned over onto her back.

  He chuckled low. "However do you expect to be a female rake, sweet, when you get so embarrassed at certain things?"

  Chloe's face flamed. "Never mind that! I-I… it's none of your business!"

  He arched a brow. "No?"

  Chloe did not like the look on his face. She swallowed. "N-no."

  He just smiled again.