Never Resist Temptation (14 page)

“
Mon Dieu
, what?” she asked in rising excitement.

He seemed loath to continue and hemmed and hawed for a moment or two before picking his words carefully.

“Something someone said to me indicated, perhaps, that it's just possible that Bellamy might—how can I put this?—not much care for women.”

Jacobin, ready to wriggle with frustration during this mealymouthed recitation, nodded knowingly. “A molly, yes?”

“You know about such things?” he asked in surprise.

“Of course. The night you helped me in Brighton. Those men who were attacking me—that's what they thought I was. Who told you Bellamy was like that?”

“An acquaintance. And as I said, it was just a hint. But I will look further into both matters.”

On one level Anthony was attending to the conversation about Bellamy. On another he throbbed with awareness of her proximity.

He didn't want to think about Lord Hugo now, and his other revelation. He didn't want to think about Jacobin's identity in case he revealed that he knew it. What he wanted to think about was the woman at his side. Her hand was sending waves of heat through his own to his thigh, heat that suffused his body and filled him with ideas about leading her to the bedroom upstairs. It would be cold but he'd soon warm them up.

She gazed up at him, her eyes glowing with gratitude. “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” she repeated.

Time to make his move, now she was so pleased with him. He lowered his head and brushed his lips across hers.

“Oh,” she murmured, but she didn't withdraw. He leaned closer, covering her slightly open mouth with his own, and breathed in soft warmth. Before he could go further she pulled back, though her hand remained on his.

“This is not proper, my lord.” But her husky voice belied the statement, or at least suggested that impropriety wasn't troubling her overmuch.

He put his arms around her, drew her close, and kissed her thoroughly.

It was an excellent kiss. Jacobin's kisses were like her cooking: sweet, intriguingly textured, subtly flavored.
But he wanted more. He ached to touch every inch of her, to taste warm skin he knew would be as lush and silken as cream. He pushed aside her cloak and found her breast. Even through her sturdy gown he could feel it tightening, straining for his touch. He heard himself moan with desire.

Her arms were now about his neck and she was kissing him back with her warm mouth and lissome tongue. Then she stopped and drew back a couple of inches.

“I am a servant,” she whispered. “There can be nothing between us. We have to stop.”

He leaned against the back of the sofa and pulled her close. His chest heaved with exertion or excitement, and her head, resting against his upper body, reflected the movement.

“I want you,” he said. “So much. I want you as my mistress. And I think perhaps you want me too.” A nipple, pressing through God knew how many layers of cloth, was communicating with his caressing fingers.

“I do,” she admitted in a small voice. “But I'm not sure I want to be a mistress. What does it mean?”

He couldn't help laughing.

“Not that,” she said, raising her head and pummeling his arm with a playful fist. “I know it means I would share your bed. But what else does it mean? Would I still work as your cook?”

“If you wanted. Perhaps you'd like to cook just for me. Little puffy things,” he whispered into her ear, running his tongue around the tender whorls for good mea
sure. He rather thought she was purring. “I'd find you a house in London, perhaps one on the estate too. You'd have clothes, jewels, a carriage, anything you wanted. I'm quite rich, you know.”

She frowned. What did she want? Whatever it was, he was ready to offer it, and more.

“I'd make sure you had enough money to take care of yourself if we parted. And I'd take care of any children, make sure they were educated and provided for.”

She was now definitely unhappy. “I don't think I'd like to have children like that,” she said. “They'd be bastards, and that's not nice for children.”

“There are ways of ensuring that there are no children.”

“Really? I had no idea!” She was more naïve than he'd thought. She'd been lucky to have avoided pregnancy with her precious lover, the cook.

He didn't want to think about the damn cook.

“Please,” he whispered, inhaling the faint scent of vanilla that always hung about her. “Please, J-Jane, I'll make it good for you, I swear.”

She felt herself weakening, succumbing to the promise of his warm breath, his hand stroking her breast, the melting heat between her legs.

“What if I say no?” she asked, desperately. “Will you throw me out?”

“Never. If this happens between us, it will be because we both want it. If you say no, you can go on as you were before, cooking those delicious confections.”

“Which you appreciate so much.” The attempt at humor came reflexively. Her mind dwelt on the clean, masculine scent of him and the weight of his hand sending shivers through her belly and his soft hair tickling her temple.

“I'm appreciating them more every day.” His voice was dark and velvety against her ear. Irresistible.

“And you'd still help me find the one who poisoned Lord Candover?”

“Of course. I gave my word.”

She wanted to say yes. Every instinct urged her to trust him. Yet she tried to be wise, to think the matter through. For once in her life not to act on impulse. Resting her cheek against the lapel of his coat didn't help. His nearness flooded every sense, driving out rational thought.

She was going to say no. He was astonished at the dread and anxiety he experienced as he anticipated her response. He didn't believe he'd ever desired a woman as much. She twisted her neck to examine his face, her eyes big with apprehension. After a moment or two their expression softened, sending a rush of heat to his chest.

“You'd make sure there is no child?”

“I promise.”

Why not? she asked herself. What—or who—was she saving herself for? She could never now make the alliance her parents would have planned for her. Who would want a lady who'd disguised herself as a man and earned her living as a cook? Though untouched, she
was already ruined in the eyes of decent society. There was no place for her there. She'd long ago faced the fact that life wasn't fair.

And she suspected making love with Lord Storrington would be the most exciting, pleasurable thing that had ever happened to her.

She took a deep breath.

“Very well, I will share your bed. As for the rest? The houses, the clothes, and such, we shall see.”

He gave a little grunt of triumph and swept her into his embrace. Quickly she found herself on her back and his hands were meshed in her hair, holding her head still as he ravished her mouth with kisses. Giddy with pleasure, she met his tongue thrust for thrust with her own, reveling in his taste, his scent, and the weight of his body on hers. Burrowing through his heavy topcoat and jacket she pushed her arms around him, sensing his racing heartbeat even through his winter waistcoat. She ached to feel his firm-muscled flesh through skin and nothing else.

And soon she would. She gave herself up to the heady moment and the promise of even better things.

Whoever had made the sofa—for King Louis himself or a member of his court—had designed it for sitting. Storrington cursed softly when, wrestling to remove her cloak, his elbow banged against the ornate carved wood of the backrest. Jacobin became aware that this was no feather bed.

He rolled off her and perched on the edge of the seat beside her recumbent body.

“This is a damn uncomfortable piece of furniture.”

She giggled. “So what do we do now?”

“I'm tempted to take you upstairs straightaway,” he said. “There's a bedroom. But it'll be cold and this place is depressing.” He looked with disfavor at the neglected room.

“I think it's beautiful,” she demurred. “It just needs to be cleaned. But perhaps it reminds you of your mother, since it was her retreat.”

“No. She hardly ever came here.” He laughed without humor. “My father spent a fortune on it, and on the furnishings, all valuable French pieces, because he thought it'd make her happy, but she didn't care.”

She'd pulled herself up and sat next to him again, companionably curling her arm round his. “It seems such a waste.”

“It is a waste,” he said suddenly, smiling down at her. “And if you like it then let's make use of it. I'll have it cleaned up and we can use it. It wouldn't do for us to meet at the house, anyway. While you're still employed here we don't want the other servants to know of our liaison. It would be difficult for you.”

He was right, she realized. The Simpsons, butler and cook, were hostile enough, and the rest of the staff took their cue from them. She shied away from the word he'd used:
liaison
. Somehow it sounded tawdry.

“We'll have supper here tomorrow.” His face was now alive with enthusiasm, making him seem younger and infinitely attractive and terrifyingly dear. “Go to the gatehouse and I'll send a carriage for you. Only Jem
will know, and you can trust him to keep his mouth shut.”

“You're sure you don't want to just run upstairs in the cold?” Jacobin asked. To her amazement she now felt enough at ease with the situation to be saucy.

Hands on her shoulders he kissed her, close-mouthed but with a promise of greater pleasures. “Anticipation heightens the appetite. As a cook you should know that.”

H
owever often she looked at her two shabby gowns, neither became remotely suitable for a romantic tryst. What was she going to wear?

As she examined her meager wardrobe, Jacobin's mood approached panic. Her stomach fluttered with nerves and growled with hunger. She'd hardly eaten a bite at the servants' dinner, too keyed up to fancy the plain but hearty fare served in the servants' hall. Besides, she'd be eating later.

The kitchen buzzed with the news that His Lord
ship was taking supper at the Queen's House; he'd never done such a thing before. The cleaning staff had been run off their feet and complained vociferously about the work they'd had putting the place in order in a single day. Equally extensive was the speculation about who would be joining him there. The scarcely veiled innuendos of the male staff were enough to make Jacobin profoundly grateful that her participation in tonight's entertainment was a secret.

She knew the menu for the evening. And then there was dessert. Jacobin had been busy that afternoon. His Lordship had made a special request. And then…

Afraid her courage would fail her, she tried not to think too much about afterward. She preferred to think about lobster, which a groom had been dispatched to the coast to fetch. She hadn't tasted it in years. Such delicacies were reserved for the master of the house at Hurst Park.

She kept telling herself that she wanted what would happen tonight. That it was her own decision, freely made, to give herself like this. Yet it was far from the romantic—and post-nuptial—bedding of her youthful dreams. How shocked her mother would be. She'd always wanted Jacobin to be a proper English lady. Well, she thought defiantly, if her mother hadn't wanted her to become a mistress—hateful word—then she shouldn't have died and left her to the untender mercies of her abysmal brother. Her father would have understood her decision. He never cast judgment on others.

And she was going to enjoy
it
. From everything she'd
heard about
the act
from the servants' gossip at Hurst, it was most agreeable once you got used to it. She wouldn't think about the maids' horror stories about blood and pain the first time. Old wives' tales, no doubt.

By the time the discreet Jem Webster deposited her at the door of the Queen's House she was on the verge of bolting. Then Storrington greeted her at the door, and she remembered why she'd said yes. Her heart pounded in a way she hadn't experienced since her sixteen-year-old self had first set eyes on Jean-Luc. And even the handsome Frenchman had never looked as gorgeous as Storrington in black trousers, a cream silk waistcoat figured in silver, and an evening coat of dusty burgundy that seemed to intensify the subterranean gray of his eyes. Eyes that were gazing at her in unalloyed admiration, despite her tatty cloak.

With a brave flourish she untied the strings and swung it off to reveal her best clothes.

Anthony's eyes nearly popped out of his head. She wore her breeches and a linen shirt and tall shiny boots and looked good enough to eat. Luckily women weren't in the habit of dressing thus—at least women built like her. They'd never manage to cross the street unravished.

“I don't own a gown suitable for the occasion,” she said with an air of defiance.

His mouth felt dry. “It's entirely suitable.” It was too gauche—or too early—to admit that what he really wanted was to get her out of that costume as soon as possible and discover if the feminine reality underneath
matched the promise of those figure-hugging masculine garments. Not that he had much doubt. Always partial to long slim legs on a woman, he discovered that male attire revealed their existence without having to wait and get under her skirts.

“I have something for you that will enhance this delightful fashion.” He opened a box on a side table and picked up the result of a quick expedition to Rundell and Bridge, his last stop before he left London. A much more expensive one than any he'd made before. Confident, he awaited her reaction to the impressive diamond and emerald necklace. And was disappointed.

True, her eyes glinted for a moment, then faded to uncertainty.

“I don't believe this is
comme il faut
.” She'd never seen such beautiful jewels, but such a lavish present sat badly with her. She'd rather have had something modest, or nothing at all. It made her feel…bought. A hint of arrogance in his stance as he held the necklace up irked her.

“Everything is
comme il faut
between lovers.” Now his expression held nothing but warm admiration and even a tinge of anxiety. His low voice sent shivers down her spine. “I saw it and it made me think of you. So beautiful, and so much fire.”

She was softening but didn't want to let it go without giving him an intimation of her feelings. “You must have been very sure of me, to spend so much money.”

“I wasn't sure,” he said quietly. “I hoped.”

He should have guessed she wouldn't react like the
average ladybird, who would have crowed with pleasure and snatched up the opulent gift without more ado. Jacobin's unpredictability was no small part of her appeal. Her prickliness boosted his confidence in the decision not to reveal his knowledge of her identity. He knew she'd be furious if she found out, so he'd just have to make sure she didn't.

Not that he was entirely comfortable. He
ought
to tell her he knew she was Jacobin de Chastelux, not Jane Castle. But his motives were pure—in one sense of the word. He wanted her to come to him freely, without feeling she owed him her body for reasons of obligation, gratitude, or any other emotion save desire. Once their relationship progressed, and she learned to trust him, she would no doubt tell him herself, and he'd feign decent surprise. So he ignored the niggling conscience that accused him of specious rationalization and listened to the part of him that wanted her badly. Immediately.

“Won't you try it on?” he asked, removing the necklace from its velvet nest. “Let me.”

She turned and lifted her neat queue of hair, tied at the back with a black ribbon. Working the clasp he inhaled her scent, clean, warm, and slightly soapy with that faint hint of vanilla. Below her hairline light fuzz gave way to the slender arc of her neck. As he pressed his lips to her nape, he found the skin as silken to the touch as it looked. Taking her by the shoulders, he steered her to the gilt-framed mirror over the mantelpiece.

“Look,” he murmured from behind. “Perfection. You could start a fashion.”

The odd disparity between her beautiful face, set off by a small fortune in precious stones, and the masculine severity of her clothing was extraordinarily erotic. She stared at herself in the mirror, then at him, their eyes meeting in the glass. Her lips curved into a perfect bow. “Thank you. I should like to wear it tonight. It makes me feel more dressed.”

“Shall we sup?” he asked, offering his arm and imagining her less dressed. Food first. They'd both need their strength for later. He led her over to a small table where supper was waiting.

“I sent Jem home and thought we'd serve ourselves. It'll be more enjoyable to be alone.” He poured champagne for them both and asked her to serve the soup, which was keeping warm over a lamp.

He wondered what they should talk about. He'd noticed her looking with interest at the furnishings in the house. His father had spared no expense in finding pieces his wife might enjoy.

“Does this room make you think of home?” he asked. “All the furniture is French and some pieces are said to be of royal provenance. My father bought them at auction from French émigrés.” He recounted the history of some of the objects in the room, then frowned.

“That piece.” He pointed to a desk between two tall windows. “I don't know why it's here. My mother had it in her sitting room. My father must have had it moved here. Anyway, it was built by a cabinetmaker who worked for Queen Marie Antoinette.”

“Very beautiful,” she replied. “And much finer, of course, than anything my family owned.”

He repressed a smile. Jacobin de Chastelux must know about such things. Or maybe not. She would have been born at the height of the revolutionary Terror, and he had no idea how such aristocrats as had survived Madame Guillotine lived. He'd be interested to ask her about it. Instead he had to pretend she was Jane Castle, a cook.

He couldn't bring himself to call her Jane. He needed a nickname, or perhaps an endearment.

“Sweetheart,” he said, trying it on for size. “Darling.” Better. “Could you give me some of that lobster?”

She raised her eyebrows as she handed him a plate.

“Don't you like such names?” he teased. “Would you prefer me to speak to you in French?”

“Your French isn't very good, is it?”

It was true, though he didn't particularly like being told as much. “What makes you think that?”

She started to gabble in very fast French, and he didn't understand a word of it.

“Very well, I admit it,” he interrupted with a raised hand to stop the flow. “I neglected that portion of my studies. How did you know?”

“You misunderstood something I said to Count Lieven in the Pavilion kitchen.”

“Really? What?”

“I don't recall now,” she said evasively, flicking a speck of mayonnaise from the side of her mouth with her tongue.

Like hell she didn't. No doubt some detail about her fictitious career. “What did you say to me just now?”

“It's not important,” she said shortly. “Why didn't you like learning French? Don't you like the French?”

He shrugged, which was answer enough, and sipped his wine. “I like
you
and that's what matters. Would you prefer me to address you by some French endearment? You'll have to teach me some.”

She cocked her head with a naughty smile, and he wondered what was coming.

“
Ma biche, mon lapin, mon poulet, ma puce
,” she recited.

“I understand
mon poulet
—‘my chicken,' isn't it? But not the others. What do they mean?
Biche
doesn't sound polite.”

“It's just a female deer. A doe. Isn't that pretty?”

“
Ma biche
,” he repeated. “And the others?”

“
Un lapin
is a rabbit
and une puce
is a flea.”

“A flea! That's not very romantic. Tell me some more.”

“
Mon trésor. Mon coeur
.” He understood those ones and approved, especially when spoken with Jacobin's seductive inflection.

“
Ma mie
,” she purred. He watched, riveted, as she raised a spear of asparagus to her luscious mouth.

“What does that mean?” he asked hoarsely.

“The
mie
is the soft inside of a loaf of bread.”

“You're quite strange, you French. Animals. A flea, for heaven's sake! And now an obscure culinary term. Appropriate for a cook, I suppose.”

She piled a plate with pheasant and potatoes for him and didn't answer. Truth to tell, she felt skittish again. Ever since her arrival there'd been moments of awkwardness. For one thing, she was a little irked that he seemed to expect her to serve him all his food. In an intimate supper she'd have thought he could have shared the labor, instead of just keeping their glasses plied with champagne, the one task apparently not beneath his male aristocratic dignity. That last reference to her being a cook wounded her
amour propre
. Surely between lovers there should be nothing of the master/servant?

And there was his attitude toward the French. True, England had been at war with France for many years, but that was all over now. And they were sitting in a building modeled after a French house, filled with French furniture, drinking French champagne, and eating French food. Conveniently forgetting that she was half English, had lived in the country half her life, and spoke the language without a trace of an accent, that she'd loathed Napoleon and rejoiced in his downfall, Jacobin perversely decided that in disparaging the French he slighted her.

But what disturbed her most was an undercurrent of frustration that she was living a charade. Her disguised identity made for a fundamental dishonesty in their connection. Between lovers, even illicit lovers, there should be ease and openness. Instead she had to watch every word to maintain her mask.

Then he smiled at her, with affection surely, and
something else, something scorching hot that melted her dissatisfaction. Pushing aside his plate, he leaned across the table and took her hand.

“
Ma biche
—my deer—” he said, meeting her eyes in a sizzling exchange. “Shall we
remove
the
dessert
upstairs.”

She loved the play on the English and French words for the course that was the last to be served before the end of the meal. How could she resist a witty man?