My Fair Temptress (21 page)

“Yes, my darling girl.”

She felt his smile against her cheek. He turned her head to his and kissed her. A single, close-lipped press of the lips. Yet she had sampled his flavor of passion before, and now she recognized his declaration of intent. She relished it. Blindly, she lifted her hand and laid it against his jaw.

Lifting his mouth, he whispered, “I’ve dreamed about you. About doing to you what you did to me.”

His voice rasped along her nerves, deep and restive, compelling memory when she would prefer to be guiltless, without a past, without reliving the sensation of his skin against hers. Opening her eyes, she saw half of his face, dimly lit by the stage lights. The other half was in darkness, inscrutable, unknowable. His eyes glinted like dark jewels, all his purpose bent on her.

She had a sense about Jude…he seemed more alone than any man she’d ever met. She thought he was a man who carried a burden.

That was ridiculous, for he dressed like, acted like, a fool. Her imaginings were just that, imaginings.

His arm hugged her waist, then grasped her skirt and bunched it in his fist. He lifted and bunched, lifted and bunched.

“No,” she whispered, but she didn’t stop him.

“No one can see. It’s dark. We’re behind the rail. Mum is asleep,” he whispered urgently. “No one knows what we’re doing here.”

But she shouldn’t let him. This was disgraceful behavior at the opera. Disgraceful behavior anywhere. They could be caught. They could be humiliated. Yet she grew damp at the mere idea that he would touch her here in the magnificence of the Royal Italian Opera House while the sound of violins swelled around them and magnificent voices exalted love.

He pulled her skirt up to her waist. Her petticoats rustled. His palm stroked her knee above her garter, and the thin material of her drawers allowed her to feel each tender touch as if it were on her skin. His hand ascended her thigh. He opened the slit in her drawers, and when his fingertips brushed the curled hair over her most feminine parts, he goaded her toward anguish and pleasure.

She reached for his wrist, wrapped her fingers around it, tugged him away.

And he placed her hand on the arm of her chair. Again his voice brushed her ear. “No, Caroline. It’s your turn to hold fast and suffer while I take my pleasure of you.”

“Why should I do that?” she whispered, her voice tentative.

“Because that’s fair.”

“Fair? I don’t care about fair. I like being in charge.” She spoke with betraying honesty.

“You’ll like this, too.” Lifting the curls of her hair, he kissed the nape of her neck. He had made her a promise.

As he urged her thighs apart, she stared straight forward, her unseeing gaze fixed on the gilt and paint above the stage. His thumb slid into her folds and he opened her to his touch. Her lunge of desire took her by surprise. His fingers danced across her, gentle as a mist, yet she soared as high as the soprano’s notes. She gripped the chair. She bit her lower lip hard enough to bring tears to her eyes, yet she dared not make a sound. If she did, someone might hear, and although they sang onstage, she felt certain that everyone would recognize the cry of a woman whose body ripened with yearning.

His fingertips taunted her. He fondled her, skimming her womanly nub in slow circles, then moving down and sliding around the entrance to her body. Her desire increased. The moisture increased. She wanted him to put his finger inside her. She wanted…she wanted
him
inside her. She was insensible with need, desperate for satisfaction. In the cradle of darkness, her hips swayed, moved in a seated dance that beckoned with primitive grace. She was woman. He was man. The trappings of civilization around them meant nothing compared to the demands of her body.

As if the whole opera house moved toward the same climax, the music rose to a crescendo. The singers gathered on the stage and warbled their approval—and abruptly, they were through.

The music stopped. The curtain fell.

Conversations broke out everywhere. The attendants moved rapidly through the crowd to light the lights.

Jude lowered her skirt. He kissed her cheek, a tender nuzzle that seemed to make promises—but he said nothing.

From the back of the box, Nicolette’s voice asked, “Is it finally over?”

“It’s the interlude. We have the third act to go.” His voice sounded reasonable, not gripped by unfulfilled desire.

Caroline was gripped. Caroline had been teased to the edge of climax…and abandoned. Abandoned, her body tense, swollen, ready. She remained in her seat, her gaze watching the box opposite as if interested by the footman who lit the lamp and the people who stretched and spoke.

Silently she cursed the opera with its dreadful timing and the lights and the noise. She disliked the audience and everyone in it. She hated the whole lot, because she needed release. Never had she been so aware of being a woman, of her body’s urgent requirements. She needed to be alone with Jude, and she needed it
now
.

“We’ll have visitors.” Nicolette’s chair scraped back, and her voice moved close. “My friends will be here, as well as Caroline’s, and we’ll have the people who want to view the woman who routed Lady Freshfield. In addition, we’ll have the young ladies you’re attracting, Jude.”

Caroline didn’t want to stand, but Jude put his hand under her elbow and urged her to her feet.

Of course she had to behave normally. She could scarcely howl her frustration to the crowd. But her legs wobbled and her smile stretched her lips in a parody of sweetness. She felt uncoordinated, her movements as jerky as a marionette’s.

Something of her distress must have shown in her face, for Nicolette frowned. She took Caroline’s hand. “Dear girl, are you all right? You’re trembling!”

Caroline could scarcely tell her the truth. It would be too humiliating. It would result in her dismissal. And it wouldn’t help. Nothing could help. “It’s the music,” she said. “It moves me.”

Jude slid a sideways look at her, a smiling glance that mocked her story.

And in shock, she realized—he had done this on purpose. For some nefarious reason of his own, he had teased her, brought her almost to climax—then left her unfulfilled.

J
ude saw the moment Caroline realized what he’d done.

Her eyes widened, her nostrils pinched. She fought with disbelief—so he smiled at her, sending her a message she couldn’t misconstrue.

He had played her like the finest violin, taunted her with thwarted desire, and he relished her frustration. Let
her
know what it was to be at the mercy of a ruthless lover.

Yet he’d created one insoluble problem…he was as frustrated as she was. The footmen were even then lighting the lamps on their sconces. Guests would soon be wending their way to visit the duchess, her stepson, and the infamous Miss Ritter. If anyone glanced at his trousers, they’d see the evidence of his desire.

This would not do. This wouldn’t do at all.

Turning away, he stood at the rail and looked down at the floor as if the antics there fascinated him.

Mum joined him. “What do you see?”

It was what he didn’t want her to see that mattered, so he shrugged and muttered, “Just watching.”

“You’re so evasive,” she said in exasperation. “You were always a private young man, very contained, not given to confidences or to wild acts of exuberance, and since you’ve come back from the Continent, you’ve been the exact opposite. I don’t understand you and your clothes and your silly mannerisms. I swear that you show every emotion—and I wouldn’t give you a ha’pence for any of them. I can’t believe that you’ve changed so much.”

And he couldn’t believe she had chosen
now
to express her complaints. He didn’t need word of Mum’s doubts to come to the ears of Bouchard and de Guignard. That would be disaster indeed.

Even worse, Caroline walked up on the other side of Mum, and he did not want
her
to question his behavior. Not when she knew him better than any other person in this world. Not when he felt as if she’d been so close to him that she lived in his skin.

“I haven’t changed,” he assured Mum with equal parts bravado and deceit. “France opened my mind to a new life of fashion and pleasure. I always wanted to give myself over to those things, but until France I didn’t know how.”

“Is he really so different, Your Grace?” Caroline asked with taut civility. “To me he seems to be so perfectly without thought.”

“Actually, I’m not without thought at all.” He bowed mockingly at Caroline. “I am quite deliberate in my…pleasures.”

Caroline tossed her head in disdain, and with her chin tilted at that angle and her mouth curled with scorn, she looked untouchable, distant…a challenge.

The memory of the night before, the sight and the feel of her today, drove him to a madness of need. Jude had always thought of himself as sensible, but a suspicion niggled at him; this recklessness, the madness of desire seemed to arise from some hitherto hidden part of himself. It was as if Caroline mined the depths of his soul and brought forth a new metal, unknown, shiny…and unpredictable.

“Jude is pretending to be someone else,” Mum declared.

He took a sharp breath of dismay.

“Who is he pretending to be?” Caroline’s voice was as warm as the North Sea in February.

“His brother.” Mum placed her hand on his arm. “But he isn’t Michael, and I feel as if I’ve lost both of my older sons. I want my Jude back.”

“Oh, Mum…” Jude recognized a plea when he heard one. He needed to become himself again for, as he was, he was hurting his father, his stepmother, his younger brother…and Caroline. Once again it was borne in on Jude that he had to get this Moricadian business finished as soon as possible and at last go on to live his life as he wished to live.

In a tone that urged confession, Mum said, “If you have something to tell me, Jude, I wish you’d just…” She trailed off. She stiffened.

He looked where she looked. He saw what she saw. He wanted to groan. Walking down the stairs off the stage was Miss Gloriana Dollydear, and Garrick Throckmorton stood offering her his hand to help her down.

Throckmorton couldn’t have been more ill suited to the role of
bon vivant
. Jude grinned to see him look so uncomfortable and impatient.

Luckily, Throckmorton had such a reputation as a humorless stick that Mum didn’t notice his lack of enthusiasm, and she hissed, “That jackass. His wife is increasing, and he’s here romancing a lightskirt!”

“Now, Mum, we don’t know that for sure.” Jude could think of no one with whom he wanted to talk less about mistresses than his stepmother—unless it was Caroline. Caroline, whose eyes glittered with the brittle fury of a woman tormented and forsaken.

“He’s kissing her wrist.” Mum’s petite figure radiated fiery indignation. “What would you call it?”

“Admiration for her singing?” Jude suggested.

“Feeble!” Mum said. “Jude Edward George Durant, you’re not making an excuse for Mr. Throckmorton’s activities, are you?”

Jude surrendered to the inevitable. “No. No, of course not. It’s disgusting. The old lecher should be shot.”

“Lord Huntington finds that it’s not wise for him to make excuses for bad behavior.” Caroline’s voice was pure vitriol. “He’s so splendid at wickedness himself.”

“Comte de Guignard is in the box across the way, Miss Ritter, and he has bowed to you.” Jude felt no compunction about changing the subject, and even less about what he’d done to Caroline in the dark.

She solemnly curtsied to de Guignard.

In the light of a thousand golden flames, Caroline’s skin glowed like muted sunlight. Oddly, the blue-green of her eyes caught a gold tint, also, and shone so brightly Jude understood why men had attempted to kill themselves for love of her. He hoped de Guignard was ready to cast himself off a cliff for her.

Guilt niggled at Jude. He’d promised himself that she wouldn’t be exposed to danger, and now he encouraged her kindness, knowing Comte de Guignard would construe it as interest—and knowing, also, that Bouchard watched his compatriot with a narrowed gaze. Jude saw his impatience with de Guignard’s unrequited love, for Bouchard’s intent never wavered. He had no weakness except for his impatience. He felt no kindness except for himself. He needed de Guignard for his entry into society, nothing more, and Jude sensed in him a keenness to finish the job for which they’d come, and an anticipation about its execution.

Bouchard loved to kill.

“Look, Caroline, there, down on the level below. Young Turgoose is trying to get your attention,” Mum said.

“Yes, by making an idiot of himself.” Jude grinned unrepentantly at his friend as Goose waved and pantomimed adoration for Caroline.

With a smile and a wave, Caroline curtsied to Turgoose. “It’s good to know that no one is using me to attract dear
Goose
to our company.”

Did she know…? Did she suspect…? As Jude stared at her, trying to comprehend her mind, he saw her rather than heard her draw a breath. A startled, terrified breath.

A glance showed him her nightmare. Freshie loitered in the box down and across from them. He stared directly at Caroline. He didn’t smile; he projected menace, so much menace that he made the air toxic and the temperature plunge.

Caroline’s hands crushed the rich velvet of her gown.

Jude met Mum’s comprehensive gaze.

“Our friends have arrived,” Mum said brightly.

Jude turned Caroline with a hand on her arm and gave her a gentle push toward the small, boisterous crowd that squeezed their way into the box. Then he turned back toward the spot where Lord Freshfield had stood—and Freshie was gone.

Of course. He was the kind of man who preyed only on those weaker, because those stronger would beat him to jelly.

Grimly, Jude decided that as soon as the Moricadian matter had been dealt with, he would do something about Freshie, perhaps speak to him in a manner Freshie understood, with his bare knuckles and a lot of ruthless purpose. When Jude got done with him, Freshie would never bother Caroline again.

Nevett’s footmen brought in champagne and refreshments, and before long the level of dialogue rose to earsplitting levels. Conversation died when Miss Dollydear arrived, dressed in her lavish costume and painted with rouge and kohl, but rose again to greater strength as young men swarmed her to express their admiration for her singing—and more.

With many a modest disclaimer, Caroline accepted exuberant congratulations for her rout of Lady Freshfield; clearly Lady Freshfield had few friends among the ton. Caroline hugged her female friends. She observed as Jude lavished careless praise on Lady Pheodora for her gown and her entourage of young men. She teased Goose until he flushed and grinned, and all the while she was aware of her body. As she stood talking, she pressed her thighs together, trying to relieve the desire Jude had aroused in her. She wondered if her skin glowed from the heat of her longing. She conjectured that she was different than she had been a day earlier, a week ago, a year ago, and marveled that no one noticed.

She wished she’d never seen Jude, wished she had him tied to a bed where she could take her pleasure and leave him without redress.

“Mademoiselle, you seem distressed.” Comte de Guignard spoke softly into her ear.

She jumped. “My lord! Sir! Comte! I…no, I’m not upset at all.” She hadn’t meant to show it, anyway.

De Guignard moved around to stand before her, a tall, handsome man with influence and money. If she were smart, she’d forget Lord Huntington and use her power to make de Guignard her slave. Instead she stood there miserably speculating which one of the debutantes Jude would wed.

Monsieur Bouchard joined them, reeking of the cigar he’d gone to the lounge to smoke. He curtly answered her greeting and watched Comte de Guignard with impatient eyes.

“I witnessed the scene last night at the baron’s ball, and I swear to you, no such attack would have occurred in my country. A lady such as you would be treated with fairness, and a
canard
such as Lord Freshfield would be reviled for his cruel disregard for the flower of your womanhood. And as for your father”—de Guignard folded his lips tightly and took a long breath—“but I will not cast asperions on the man to whom you owe your very life. The man who should be protecting you with
his
life!”

“That is good of you.” Actually, she thought Comte de Guignard’s entire speech was presumptuous to the extreme. She knew very well he spoke out of softness for women and a foreigner’s misunderstanding of what should and should not be said in conversation, but right now, she wasn’t inclined to give de Guignard or any man the benefit of the doubt. They could all burn in hell…as she was burning.

She cast a glance of loathing at Jude. He looked absolutely genial and calm as he spoke to that lush and gorgeous opera singer.

Caroline wanted to push him over the rail.

“Have I displeased you, Miss Ritter?” Comte de Guignard bowed. “I meant no impertinence.”

She yanked her attention back to him. “Not at all. I’m sorry I gave you that impression. I appreciate your kindness.” How to say it? “But this is a struggle I have to win on my own.”

Comte de Guignard bowed his head in acceptance—or homage. “May I at least offer you a place of sanctuary?”

Monsieur Bouchard made a noise of distress.

Comte de Guignard ignored him. “We’ve found, quite by accident, that the Moricadian embassy is no longer safe.”

“I’m sorry,” Caroline said. “Are you in danger?”

In the corridor, the attendant walked past, playing the notes to recall the spectators to their seats.

“That we do not know.” Comte de Guignard struck a pose appropriate for a hero posing for a statue. “But not only have we been robbed, we also suspect we are under surveillance.”

“I beg you, comte, do not,” Monsieur Bouchard said.

De Guignard ignored him. “So we have moved all matters of import to a different location and taken great care that it remain secret.”

Again the attendant walked past, playing the notes that announced the opera was about to begin its last act. In Nevett’s box, the guests began to leave.

“Yet for you, most beautiful Miss Ritter,” Comte de Guignard continued, “I will compromise my own safety and the safety of my compatriot and tell you the location.”

“No, don’t!” Caroline could see the trouble with this situation. If anything happened at their new embassy, she would be a suspect—and she’d had enough adversity in her life without wishing for more.

But Comte de Guignard waved away her objection. “Please. Set my mind at ease. Accept this information and keep it close to your heart.” He pressed a slip of paper into her hand.

Accepting defeat, she took the paper and slipped it into her reticule. “Thank you. I’m honored by your confidence.” And promptly forgot it as, through the thinning crowd, she saw Miss Gloriana Dollydear slipping a similar note to Jude.

“That is uncalled for,” Caroline whispered.

“Miss Ritter?” Comte de Guignard followed her gaze.

So did Monsieur Bouchard. His little eyes narrowed. He stroked his flourishing mustache. “Most interesting,” he said in his cold voice. “Most interesting indeed.”

Jude caught them staring at him and the stunning woman before him, and he taunted Caroline with a smile.

“Really!” Caroline took a step toward him, ready to attack.

“What do you suppose she wants of him?” Comte de Guignard speculated.

“Fashion advice,” Caroline snapped.

Comte de Guignard looked shocked at her temper.

“Yes, I’m sure that is it.” Monsieur Bouchard chortled. “Look—Monsieur Throckmorton has arrived searching for his
jeune fille
.”

Looking as suspicious as any cuckold, Throckmorton thrust his way through the last of the guests to come to her side. “Miss Dollydear, I lost track of you.”

“I am here, my darling.” Placing her hand on his arm, Miss Dollydear looked up at him adoringly. “Take me back to the stage where I must die for love…of you.” As he led her from the box, she glanced back and rolled her eyes at Jude.

“Uncalled for,” Caroline muttered again.

Jude wanted to laugh at Caroline’s expression. His governess was frustrated and jealous, and the two emotions played havoc with her good nature. She refused to look at him. She nodded curtly at de Guignard and Bouchard as they took their leave of her. And when the last guest had left she seated herself with a flounce.