“When?” Juliette persisted.
“If we decide to help”—Nana Sarpelier picked up the tray—“I’ll let you know when we’ve accomplished the task. Leave your address with Raymond.”
“Raymond?”
“Raymond Jordaneau, the man who served you. He owns the café and is one of us.” She picked up the tray and sauntered through the crowded tables, stopping here and there with a smile and a word.
“It’s done.” Jean Marc sipped his wine. “And now we wait.”
Juliette nodded and reached for the paper fan portraying Danton’s face. “It’s perfectly dreadful. Do you suppose she really sells any of them?”
Jean Marc smothered a smile as he watched Nana Sarpelier move about the room. “She probably does a very good business.”
“But the work is shoddy and she …” Juliette glanced at Jean Marc’s face and then at Nana, who was bending over the obese gentleman escorting the red-haired demimondaine. “He’s buying a fan from her.”
“Yes.” Jean Marc took another sip of wine. “So I noticed.”
“Do you suppose he’s looking for William Darrell too?”
Jean Marc chuckled. “No, I think he’s looking for a pleasant romp in any convenient bed or alcove.”
“Oh.” Juliette looked at the fan vendor with new interest. “Why with her and not his red-haired lady? His companion is far prettier.”
“Because a man can tell when a woman will open her thighs because she enjoys a man and when she does it because she enjoys the clink of coins.”
“Does it make such a difference?”
Jean Marc finished the wine in his glass and motioned to the man who had served them. “Yes, Juliette, it makes a great difference.”
“How long do you think we’ll have to wait to hear?” Juliette turned to face Jean Marc as he closed the front door. “We should have urged her to hurry.”
Jean Marc crossed the foyer and dropped his cloak and gloves on the tapestry-cushioned bench beneath the oval mirror. “It would have done no good.” He turned and walked toward her.
“But we could have—What are you doing?”
“Unfastening your cloak.”
“I can do that.” She could feel the heat of his body and catch the scents clinging to him. He smelled different from the men at court. Not overly sweet, just clean and … pleasant.
“But you must become accustomed to these small attentions.” Jean Marc slowly slipped the cloak from her shoulders, letting her feel the caress of the velvet on her bare shoulders before he tossed it atop his on the bench. “It’s only what I would accord any woman who gave me pleasure. It’s courtesy to return kindness with kindness, and I consider it my duty to see to your comfort.”
He hadn’t moved away and she was experiencing a warm languor as she looked up at him. “It was … only pretense.”
“Was it? I take my role most seriously. For instance, you mentioned experiencing a certain discomfort in the café. I didn’t think it fitting to aid you there, but now there’s no reason to hesitate.”
“What discom—” She inhaled sharply.
He had dipped his thumb and forefinger into the bodice of her gown, grazing her nipple as he searched for and then found one of the handkerchiefs. An instant of warm, hard flesh pressing against the soft underside of her breast, then the tug of material, the delicate abrasion of the lace as it slid slowly over her nipple.
The muscles of her stomach clenched in response which wasn’t at all reasonable. He wasn’t even touching her stomach. He wasn’t really touching her breasts either, yet they were beginning to feel heavy, full, and tingling. He was pulling a second handkerchief from her bodice, and she gazed up at him helplessly while sensation after sensation moved through her.
A faint flush mantled his cheeks, and she could see the rapid throb of a pulse in his temple as he slid the third handkerchief from her bodice. “Almost over. Three more. Six in all, you said?” His voice sounded thick, rough. His fingers searched beneath her other breast, deliberately rubbing the hard ball of his palm against the nipple.
She swayed forward, biting her lower lip to stifle a cry.
His gaze rose to her face as he pulled the handkerchief over her nipple, soothing and inciting at the same time. “As I said, you don’t need these. If you wish to appear more womanly in public, there are things I can do to help you accomplish your goal.” He pulled another handkerchief from her bodice. “Look at yourself,” he whispered.
She looked down at her breasts and found them ripe, engorged.
“Next time we go to the café, I’ll close the curtains of the carriage.” He was pulling the final handkerchief from her bodice with excruciating slowness. “There are things I can do with my hands.” He suddenly whipped the handkerchief past her nipple, leaving a streak of fire in its wake. “And with my mouth. Would you like that?” His nostrils were flaring slightly and his black eyes shimmered in the candlelight. “I think you would. Shall I show you?”
The air around them seemed to be thickening, darkening, vibrating. “You make me feel … strange.”
“But you like it?”
“Yes. No. I’m not sure.”
He pushed her gently down on the third step of the staircase and sat down beside her. “I’m sure. You wish to play the game. I knew you were ready to make the first moves the moment I saw you walk down the stairs tonight.” His head lowered slowly until his lips were hovering over the exposed flesh swelling from the bodice. His breath was merely warm; it shouldn’t have burned her. Yet it did burn and caused her to shiver as if with a fever. “You’re trembling.”
His lips touched her flesh.
She made a low sound and involuntarily arched upward. “Jean Marc …”
“Shh.” His warm, wet tongue moved over her left breast, into the valley between, and then shifted to caress the right breast. “I used to wonder how you’d taste. Warm, sweet …” His hands slowly pushed down the bodice of the gown. “I want to see you.”
Her breasts tumbled from the gown, the nipples pointing up at him, hard, erect. She felt heat sear her cheeks, her throat, her shoulders as she lay on the steps, her breasts lifting and falling with her quickened breathing.
He carefully arranged the velvet gown so that the low neckline was beneath her breasts, framing and lifting them into prominence. “Now, there’s a lovely picture.” His voice was thick as he looked down at her. “White velvet and exquisite pink flowers. But they don’t have to remain pink. Let’s see if we can make them the same wine color as your gown, shall we?”
His mouth closed on her right nipple.
Fire, fierce hunger.
She arched helplessly upward as he sucked, bit, tongued. She could hear the low groans he uttered deep in his throat as his hands cupped, squeezed, as his mouth worked its own sensual magic.
He lifted his head to gaze down at her with glazed eyes. “Look at yourself.”
Her nipples were deep, deep red, pointed and flaunting. As she watched he slowly took one between his teeth and gently tugged upward.
She gasped as hot pleasure rippled through her.
“I’ve pleased you.” He licked delicately at the engorged tip. “Now it’s time to please me.”
She looked at him in bewilderment.
“I only want you to ask me to pleasure you,” he whispered. “Isn’t that fair? I’ll give you the words and you only have to say them.”
“I don’t—” She broke off as she saw his expression that contained desire, hunger, and something else. Something reckless, bitter, and infinitely darker in nature.
“Why are you doing this? Why do you want to make me feel this way?”
“How do you feel?”
“Weak, trembling, as if I want—” She stopped, stiffening as she saw a flicker of satisfaction on his face. “That’s the way you want me to feel.”
His beautifully shaped hand, olive dark against her fairness, squeezed and released her breast. “Yes.”
Her gaze sear
ched his face. “It’s lust but not lust. It’s something else too.” She pushed him away, sat up, and drew a deep breath. “You want to hurt me. Why?”
“I wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Why?”
“Why do I want to bed you?” He smiled crookedly. “Because you taunt me and challenge me. Because one moment I think of you as a child I have to protect and the next as a woman I’ve no intention of protecting.” He paused. “And because you’re perhaps the strongest woman I’ve ever encountered.”
She pulled her bodice back up over her breasts. “And that’s important to you? Do you want to break me just because I have strength?”
“I didn’t say I wanted you to break. It’s only the game.”
“What game?”
He smiled at her. “Why, the one men and women always play with one another. There’s always a victor and a loser in that most interesting of battles. I prefer to be the victor.” He lowered his lips to brush her shoulder. “No one needs to be broken. I know how to win without crushing my antagonist.”
“But you’d hurt me. Not my body, perhaps. You would try to wound me in some other ways. I can feel the anger in you.” She moistened her lips. “I don’t believe you are able to feel true affection for any woman. You just want to conquer me as my mother used to conquer all those men she brought to her bed. It was a game for her too.” She stood up, her hands nervously smoothing the skirts of her gown. “It’s a game I don’t know how to play.”
“You’ll learn,” he said cynically as he rose to his feet. “Believe me, you have a greater instinct for the game than anyone I’ve ever known.”
She was fumbling for the pins that held her wig in place. “But I don’t want to learn. It would get in my way.”
His lips curved in a sensual smile. “Yes, it most certainly would.”
“You needn’t feel so satisfied with yourself. I didn’t really feel anything. Oh, perhaps a little, but it was all a part of the pretense.” His knowing glance lingered on her breasts, and she wished desperately they’d cease betraying her. “Like the gown and the handkerchiefs.” She jerked off the blond wig. “And this thing. None of it is me.”
“I believe it’s very much—” He stopped as his gaze rose from her breasts to her hair. “My God, what have you done to yourself?”
“I had Marie cut it all off.” She ran her hand through the short dark curls that clung to her fingers and formed riotous wisps at her brow and cheekbones. “The wig was hot and since I’m going to be wearing it all the time I shall be much more comfortable without my own hair beneath it.”
“You look no more than eight years old.”
“I was right to cut it.” She glanced in the mirror on the wall across the foyer. She did look surprisingly young. The shortness of her hair made her eyes appear enormous and her retroussé nose and bare throat enhanced the air of youthful vulnerability. “It got in my way.”
Jean Marc started to laugh, and she glanced at him warily.
“Don’t worry, our passage of arms is over.” He shrugged. “You’ve disarmed me. How can I seduce a child? I’m no Duc de Gramont. I told you that you had an instinct for the game.”
She smiled uncertainly. “We’ll both be much more content if this evening is forgotten.”
“Can you forget it?”
“Of course.” Juliette turned and started up the stairs.
“Juliette.”
She glanced over her shoulder.
Jean Marc was smiling faintly. “I have no intention of forgetting. You knew very well what you were starting when you came down those stairs this evening. You’re not the child you look and, as soon as I can force myself to get beyond that barrier, the game resumes.”
She should be angry with him. He clearly had no honor where women were concerned and would think little of taking her virtue.
She wasn’t angry. Whatever she was feeling was more complicated than mere anger; elements of fear, anticipation, and finally a heady exhilaration at the prospect of the challenge to come.
She veiled her eyes with her lashes so that he wouldn’t see her reaction to the challenge he’d flung down and turned and ran up the steps.
“She’s impatient.” Nana Sarpelier began to unfasten her woolen gown. “If we don’t get her the information she needs, she’ll try herself. She’s not going to wait long.”
“What’s her name?” William Darrell’s brow knotted in a thoughtful frown as he lazily raised himself on his elbow on the bed to watch her undress. It always excited her to have him look at her as she readied herself for him, and she felt a tiny tingle of heat begin between her thighs.
“Juliette de Clement.” She turned around in front of him. “I can’t get this last hook. Will you help me, William?”
William’s deft fingers accomplished the task quickly and efficiently, and the gown slipped from her shoulders. She looked down at his hand that had fallen to the coverlet. It was square and powerful, the hand of a soldier or a man who worked with the soil. A little shiver of anticipation surged through her at the thought of what those fingers were going to do to her in a few minutes. She had never known as skilled a lover as William, or one who could read a woman’s responses with such accuracy. She had been married to a man twice her age for five long years and when widowed swore she would never marry again. Yet sometimes with William she wondered what she would do if he demanded sole ownership of her body.
Not that he would demand it. William wanted only what she wanted. To come occasionally to this small, shabby inn where no one asked questions, to exchange information, and then take from her body the same intense pleasure he gave her. If there were times when they shared an instant of warm companionship or a fleeting moment of laughter, it was only a bagatelle. “The man was Jean Marc Andreas. I think she’s his mistress.”
William kissed her shoulder blade. “Really?”
She nodded. “There’s something between them.” She stepped away from him and took off the gown. “Do you think the risk is worth the money?”
“Perhaps. She didn’t tell you what the object was?”
“No. Should I have pursued it?”
“No, you did well. We can find out anything we need to know once we have the information to bargain with.”
“You’re going to send a message to the queen?”
“For two million livres? Of course. We always need money. Monsieur is not as generous as he should be—and with so much at stake.”
“You could always send a message to London to the prime minister.” Nana’s eyes were twinkling as she glanced over her shoulder at him. She finished undressing. “I should think a fine English gentleman like yourself would have many avenues to explore.”
“If you’ll come to bed, I’ll show you an avenue or two we can explore together, minx.”
She giggled as she moved naked toward the bed. “I’m not sure you know the way of it. You know how fond I am of bedding Frenchmen. Now, they know how to please a woman. You English are too—” She shrieked with laughter as he pulled her down on the bed, parted her thighs, and entered her with one bold stroke. No teasing anticipation tonight, just a hard, hot stroking until she was whimpering for release. She hadn’t known she had wanted it this way tonight, but William had known. William always knew. She bit her lips to keep from screaming as the rapture climaxed, leaving her weak and mindless with contentment.
It was several minutes before her breathing became steady enough to speak. “A very interesting ‘avenue.’ ” She nestled her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder. “Will you stay with me for a while?”
“Yes.” His fingers touched her cheek. “I don’t want to be alone tonight.”
She lifted her head and looked down into his face. It was a peculiar thing for William to say. Except for carnal pleasures, he had never appeared to need anyone. He did the tasks given him by Monsieur with a keen intelligence that caused all the group to lean upon him for leadership, but she had never seen him show emotion regarding those dut
ies. Now that she thought about it, there had been a restlessness about William ever since the last message had come from Monsieur.
“Why do you …” She trailed off as she saw his expression become shuttered. He didn’t want either her curiosity or her help. They worked well together and they gave each other pleasure. It was enough. She kissed his shoulder and made her tone deliberately light. “It’s just as well you’re staying. You can’t leave me in this state.”
He looked at her in surprise. “You weren’t satisfied?”
“Oh, you did very well.” She winked at him. “For an Englishman.” She rolled over and held out her arms to him. “But come here and let me show you how much better this Parisian can be.”
The front door was opening.
Jean Marc frowned as he looked up from his ledger to the clock on the mantel of the study. It was the middle of the night. Who could be about at this hour? The sound had been very faint through the closed door of the study. Perhaps he had been mistaken. He had locked the front door himself after Juliette had run up the stairs and left him in a state of frustration so intense he’d known he’d not sleep.
No, dammit, he wasn’t mistaken. It had been a door opening.
He pushed the ledger away, rose to his feet, and strode across the study, out the door, and into the dark foyer.
“Robert?”
No answer.
The front door was open wide and a bitterly cold rain was driving into the foyer, forming puddles on the marble floor.
A thief? No, he was sure he had locked that door. He crossed the foyer and stood in the doorway, the wind whipping his shirt against his body, his gaze searching the empty street.
No, it was not quite empty.
A glimmer of white shone in the darkness a few yards away.
Juliette!
Dressed only in a billowing white nightgown, Juliette was trudging determinedly down the street.
“Christ!” He ran down the steps and tore down the street after her. She had reached the corner by the time he caught up with her. He grabbed her shoulder and spun her around to face him. “What idiocy are you committing now? Mother of God, you don’t even have shoes on! Where do you think you’re going?”