At Her Service

  Aurore finally gave up trying to make small talk. A relief in a way. It was difficult enough trying to disregard Darley’s stark beauty, dressed as he was in his fine evening clothes with diamonds sparkling in his cravat. Ever efficient, Bizot had seen that their luggage was delivered forthwith and now she was forced to behold the spectacle of the Marquis of Darley lounging in his chair like some prince of the blood. He wore a half smile on his face, the devil was in his eyes, and despite his fine tailoring and formal attire, he flagrantly exuded male virility.

  Which flaunting exhibition of brute sexuality made it even more difficult to control her ardent longing. She knew exactly how virile he was, how long he could last, how sumptuously blissful he made her feel. How he could maintain her sexual desires at fever pitch. How he was—bar none—her aphrodisiac of choice.

  Jolted from her musing, she glanced up to see Bizot.

  “Forgive me, miss. Count Choiseul and Monsieur Nolhac are in the drawing room. I told them I would see if you were at home.”

  Bizot must have spoken to her before. He would not have touched her shoulder otherwise. Looking down the length of the table, she observed Darley’s sardonic smile, as if he somehow knew that she had been thinking of him. “Would you like visitors?” she asked.

  “Not particularly.”

  His insolent drawl annoyed her or perhaps it was the degree of certainty in his voice. That assurance that she would accommodate his wishes—that any woman would. Particularly when she was struggling to maintain some independence in their heated relationship. “Certainly I’m at home to them, Bizot,” Aurore declared, a doctrinaire note in her voice. “Show the men in.”

  Darley’s gaze narrowed.

  Rankled by his critical gaze, fighting for a certain personal autonomy, she defiantly raised the bid. “Bring up the Napoleonic brandy, Bizot,” she added. “It’s a favorite of the count’s.”

  Darley poured himself another brandy and drank it in the silent interval before their guests appeared. “Some people rate Napoleonic brandy I see,” he murmured as a footman hurried in with two bottles from the cellar.

  “I didn’t know you liked it,” she replied a trifle coolly.

  “But you know the count does.”

  “We’re old friends.”

  “Friends like we’re friends?”

  Her nostrils flared slightly. “I don’t see that it’s any of your business.”

  “An answer in itself.”

  “Don’t jump to conclusions,” she said stiffly.

  “Why would I not, having met you under such impromptu circumstances and spending that very same night in your bed.”

  “That’s quite enough,” she murmured, indicating her servants with a sideways glance.

  “I didn’t know you were so proper.”

  “And I didn’t know you were so rude.”

  “If your guests stay too long,” he said softly, “you’ll see just how rude I can be.”

  “I don’t answer to you,” she snapped.

  “I beg to differ with you in that regard. If the servants weren’t here, I might explain in more detail.”

  “For heaven’s sake, Gazi!”

  “Darley,” he said, cold and brusque. “We are long gone from the mountains.”

  “As you say, and with that distance you seem to have altered,” she returned with equal chill.

  “You as well,” he curtly replied. “Now that you are with your friends.”

  The door to the dining room was thrown open, curtailing their verbal skirmish.

  Aurore offered a dazzling smile to the two men who entered. “Philip, Bertrand, how nice of you to call,” she said, gracious and affable. “Do come and join us.”

  “We met Etienne at the club,” the count explained, walking toward Aurore. “He said you were in Paris so we came to see for ourselves. May I say, you are looking magnificent as ever, my dear.”

  “More magnificent, Rory,” Bertrand Nolhac noted with a wink as he kept pace with his friend. “It must be the Crimean air.”

  Aurore laughed. “Hardly. At the moment the air is alive with gunshot and cannonballs.”

  “Then, how nice that you are safely here,” the count said.

  “With us,” Nolhac murmured as they reached Aurore.

  Both men made their bows and kissed her hand with the exquisite grace of Frenchmen born and bred.

  “Allow me to introduce the Marquis of Darley,” Aurore offered. “Darley, Count Choiseul and Monsieur Nolhac. Darley was kind enough to escort me home from the Crimea.”

  Darley should have risen to his feet. He didn’t. “A pleasure,” he said in a tone of voice that made it clear that it was not in the least a pleasure.

  “Sit please,” Aurore quickly interjected, waving her guests to chairs held out by her servants. “And tell me what has transpired in Paris in my absence.” She smiled. “Bizot brought up your favorite, Philip. The ’05.”

  “Ah, it’s a real pleasure to have you home, my dear,” the count drawled. “Along with access to your cellar I might add. Now, as for the latest gossip,” he said, and went on to elaborate on the current state of the Parisian haut monde.

  The men were handsome, cultivated and obviously friends of long standing. They chatted about mutual acquaintances, disclosed the latest gossip at court, brought up amusing stories from their childhoods. The three had often spent vacations together at Deauville. Plans for future entertainments were discussed, the spring round of social engagements in full swing.

  And all the while, the Napoleonic brandy continued to be poured.

  A tic appeared over Darley’s high cheekbone as he listened to the conversation. It was not a discussion for the uninitiated. The talk was of family, common memories, mutual friends.

  Perhaps by design.

  That the men were vying for Aurore’s attention was plain.

  That she was rashly flirting was plainer still.

  No one could deny that Aurore’s visitors were handsome, young men of the world—easily amused and amusing, relaxed, convivial.

  And becoming increasingly annoying to Darley.

  He probably shouldn’t have said what he said. If not for the considerable brandy he’d consumed before their arrival and the subsequent imbibing of the fine ’05 vintage, he might have held his tongue. On the other hand, his temper had been under severe duress for quite some time as he listened to the intimate, warm exchange between friends.

  That there would be the devil to pay was inevitable.

  Abruptly pushing his chair back, Darley came to his feet and in a voice smooth as glass, said, “I’m so very sorry, but we had plans for the night.” He met Aurore’s startled gaze, held it for a taut moment, then turned to the two men with an icy smile. “Perhaps you would like to come back some other time. Tomorrow for tea, perhaps. What do you think, dear?”

  On hearing the word dear spoken in that hard tight voice, Aurore understood that the situation would only get worse if she balked.

  The word dear also made it abundantly clear to Philip and Bertrand that the Marquis of Darley was something more than a friend. Not that either man would consider deserting Aurore should she need them.

  “We are at your disposal, Aurore,” the count said with exquisite courtesy. That they were friends and champions should she need them was also exquisitely clear. “Whatever you wish, of course. It was not our intention to impose.”

  “You’re not imposing, but Darley and I were invited out,” she lied. “Perhaps tea tomorrow would better serve.”

  “Of course,” Bertrand murmured, immediately rising. “Say at five?”

  “Five would be excellent.”

  “Should you need us for anything beforetimes,” Bertrand murmured, shooting a dark look at Darley, “you need but ask.” It was a formal offer of assistance.

  “No, no, I’m quite comfortable.” The men were all glaring at each other; she did not want the situation to escalate into a duel. “And with Etienne here, should I need anything he
will oblige me.”

  Understanding that Aurore’s brother would protect her should she require it, the men respectfully made their bows and left.

  The door closed on their visitors.

  Silence descended on the room.

  Darley sat down, reached for the brandy and filled his glass.

  “That will be all tonight,” Aurore calmly announced, giving a nod of dismissal to the servants in attendance.

  She waited until the last footman exited the dining room before turning on Darley. “How dare you,” she hissed, seething with fury. “How dare you embarrass me in front of my friends.”

  “You invited them in to piss me off.” He scowled at her. “What the hell did you expect.”

  “I expected you to act like a gentleman.”

  “Maybe we could have shared a foursome,” he said with icy malice. “Would that have been polite enough for you?”

  “Bastard.”

  “Bitch. Admit, you were trying to make me jealous,” he growled. “Well, you fucking succeeded. Are you finished eating?”

  “Whether I am or not is no concern of yours,” she snapped.

  He laughed—a sharp, caustic utterance. “That might work in a drawing room somewhere, but I’m long past drawing room manners. It’s all the killing of late,” he said with silky derision. “One loses one’s fine sense of deportment.”

  She stared him down, her hands flat on the table, her diamonds at her ears and throat incongruously sparkling brightly. “You don’t frighten me if that’s what you’re trying to do.”

  He shook his head, took a deep breath, counted to ten, then counted to ten again. “What I am trying to do,” he said with soft restraint, “is get you upstairs and into bed. Are you finished?”

  “I have no intention of going upstairs and getting into bed with you.” Each word vibrated with distaste.

  “Suit yourself.” He nodded toward the servant’s door. “I’d suggest you tell your staff not to come in and clean up then.”

  Her astonishment showed for a second. “I’ll do no such thing!”

  “Then I will.” He stood.

  “No, stop.” She jumped to her feet. “That won’t be necessary.” She couldn’t possibly involve her staff in this row.

  Darley was drunk. Unpredictable. And suddenly she was sorry she’d lost her temper and invited Philip and Bertrand to join them. It had been childish and petty of her.

  Standing at opposite ends of the table, they watched each other.

  Breaking the obstinate silence first, Darley lifted his glass to her. “My compliments on your cellar.” Tossing down the liquor, he set down his glass.

  “I’m pleased you enjoyed it.”

  “Who wouldn’t.”

  They both spoke with stiff civility.

  Darley flexed his fingers, clenched his jaw, softly exhaled, then drawing in a breath, he said, half to himself, “I was going to pick you up, toss you down on the floor and have my way with you, but now I’m not so sure.”

  Aurore lifted her chin. “I was going to order you out of my house, but now—”

  “I wouldn’t have gone,” he interrupted.

  “That’s what I was thinking.”

  He dropped down into his chair. Still moody, in a voice more testy than penitent, he muttered, “I apologize for my temper. But you shouldn’t have flaunted your friends in front of me. Notice, I’m being polite. I didn’t say lovers.”

  “That’s a leading remark, I presume. You don’t actually think I’m going to respond to such impudence.”

  He gave her a glowering look. “You are an extremely difficult woman.”

  “In contrast to what—all the obliging ones?”

  “Damn right.” A sullen grunt.

  “You’re not exactly the usual fawning suitor.” Au contraire.

  “Please, the word usual always offends me with you.”

  She smiled despite herself, liking his jealousy. Understanding the feeling. She would keep him locked away for herself if she could. “I’ll probably regret telling you this”—she was no different she supposed than all his other obliging women now—“but if you must know, the word usual refers to nothing more than casual suitors. I have not slept with countless men like you have women. There have been some, not many, and I was engaged to a lovely man who drowned while out sailing. You were the first since then.” She smiled again. “Which may have accounted for my impatience that night in Sevastopol—although it might have been your allure. I still have not decided which.”

  He was astonished how his mood instantly improved on hearing her explanation. He was even more astonished that her impatient desire for him pleased him so. He sat up straight, his sudden smile like a bright rainbow after the storm. “You have made me a very happy man.” He grinned. “Happy as a king, as a lark, as the day is long and every other gratifying analogy.” He gracefully dipped his head. “Now, if you would allow, I would like to make you happy in return.”

  “I should refuse. You’ve been embarrassing and shamelessly rude.”

  “And yet,” he whispered, rising to his feet, recognizing capitulation when he heard it.

  She nodded. “And yet…”

  “The craving remains,” he murmured, moving toward her. “I have no explanation. Nor do I care.” Reaching her, he took her hand and smiled his glorious smile. “Your bed or mine?”

  “I should say neither,” she said with a pretty little pout.

  “Don’t. I will make you happy.”

  Arrogant man, she thought. But she couldn’t fault his assurance. She smiled. “Perhaps I’ll give you a list of my requirements tonight.”

  “The mood I’m in you may carve it on my body if you wish.” He tugged on her hand and smiled. “Talk to me upstairs—of this list.”

  As they walked up the stairs, hand in hand, she allowed herself to contemplate how lovely it would be if he stayed. They would go to bed like this every night and he would wake beside her and make her happy as he’d promised. She had never before given herself up to fantasy. Even with Petros, she had thought of him as a companion first, a lover second. They had shared common interests, family ties in the area, a love of the land. She had never trembled at the sight of him or been roused to passion by his merest touch.

  Yet with Gazi—she half smiled at such wistful daydreams.

  Fortunately, she understood the difference between wanting and having.

  And with Darley perhaps part of the excitement was in knowing there was nothing lasting. She must seize her happiness while she may.

  A sensible maxim for life in general, she decided, the war having driven home that unvarnished truth.

  Darley had noticed both her smile and her contemplative air, but he’d learned long ago not to ask a woman what she was thinking. It might oblige one to hear or do something one would rather not hear or do. Nor did he ask her again which room she preferred.

  Rather excessively focused, he chose for them, understanding from her silence that she had relinquished that decision.

  Opening the door to the India room, he followed her in, shut the door and locked it for good measure. Their recent guests may have made him cautious or maybe he simply chose not to be interrupted.

  “There’s another entrance to the room,” Aurore said with a small smile, taking a seat in a nearby chair as though they had come here for conversation instead of sex. “In the event you’re thinking of keeping me captive. Although I doubt you’ll find the door.”

  Darley quickly scanned the room. “Since it’s apparently well hidden, I must see that you don’t wish to run,” he murmured, taking a seat opposite her. It was early. They had all night. If she wished some style of conversational foreplay, he was more than willing. As for her running, he rather doubted it. Her cheeks were flushed that rosy pink of arousal, her breasts were swelling above her decolletage with each breath. With each tempestuous little breath. “Family diamonds?” he casually inquired, indicating her jewelry with a flick of his hand. He was willi
ng to sit here as long as she wished.

  “Yes.” She touched the glittering necklace. “A prerevolution remnant.”

  “Lovely.” He smiled. “You keep a wardrobe here as well, I see. I like your gown.” She was stunning in embroidered Lyon silk, a pale creme confection embellished with flower garlands. “Very—virginal.”

  It took her a fraction of a second to respond, his dark gaze predatory and compelling. “Thank you,” she said a moment later, the tremor in her voice only faintly heard.

  But heard nonetheless. “Are we going to sit here long?” His voice was silken, his lounging pose serene. “If so, I might bring a bottle closer.”

  “I can make you wait.” A small pettish sound.

  He smiled. “Yes, I know.”

  “And I intend to.”

  “In that case,” he said, imperturbable and urbane, “pardon me while I avail myself of that brandy over there.” He rose, walked to a table outfitted with decanters, lifted one stopper, then another, before finding what he wished. Walking back to his chair, he sat down again, said, “Pardon my manners,” and lifted the decanter to his mouth.

  “You’ve already drunk a good amount tonight,” she said, her gaze critically assessing.

  “You needn’t worry. I am quite sober. What were we discussing, now?”

  His languid drawl annoyed her. He had been here like this a thousand times before, she suspected. Calmly waiting, certain of the outcome. “I thought I’d make my list of requirements.”

  His brows rose an infinitesimal distance. “Ah. Would you prefer a pen or a knife, then?”

  She gave him a jaundiced look. “Very amusing.”

  “I’ve been carved up for much less pleasant reasons,” he murmured. “Feel free.”

  “You mean it?” No reasonable person would.

  “If you wish, of course.”

  She didn’t quite know what to say. Obviously, he meant what he said. There was a nervelessness about him that was undeniable. And irresistible. “You’re mad,” she said. “Although I expect you know that.”

  “Mad for you,” he softly replied.

  She sighed. “I don’t know what made me think I could resist you.”

  Conscious of the merits of tact in situations like this he chose not to reply.