Petals in the Storm (16 page)

Their mouths came together again and they shared the same heated, hungry breath. Her breasts crushed against his chest, soft and lush. He ran his open hands down her sides, over her slim waist to the delicious fullness of her hips.

The carriage shook as it hit a hole, almost throwing him to the floor. He lifted himself a little, bracing his shoulder against the side panel and one foot against the base of the opposite seat. She adjusted herself to his new position, her pelvis pressing against his.

Her thigh was firm and shapely, and as he stroked downward he discovered that her skirt had worked its way over her knee. He heard the whisper of silk as his fingers skimmed over her stocking-clad calf. If he had been reasoning, he would have moved more slowly, but he was beyond reason. He caressed upward, over the ribbon of her garter to the bare, warm flesh of her inner thigh.

She sucked her breath in, then drew her head away from his. "Enough!"

As he looked into her stark eyes, Rafe became very still. The glow of a streetlight showed that there was still desire in her face, but her wildness had faded.

The same was true of him. Though passion burned through his veins—ye gods, how it burned!—the madness had subsided. He was profoundly unnerved to realize how thoroughly he had lost control of himself.

Instinctively he retreated. Though his body ached to complete what they had begun, he made no attempt to persuade her to continue. Very carefully he lifted himself away and sat on the facing seat. His muscles vibrated with tension.

Maggie pushed herself upright and tugged her skirt down over her bare legs. "What was that about?" Her unsteady tone belied the banality of her words.

"A brush with danger often provokes a passionate desire to celebrate life," Rafe observed, trying to sound detached, as if they hadn't just been on the verge of ripping each other's clothing off. He was grateful that the darkness concealed his embarrassingly obvious state of arousal.

"The danger wasn't that great." Satisfied that her gown was straight, she began checking her hair. "Such scenes are not uncommon. The royalists are trying to intimidate the rest of France now that they have the upper hand. It's called the White Terror. If we had stayed in our box and waved white handkerchiefs, we would have been quite safe."

"While I admire your aplomb, no one is ever entirely safe during a riot," he said dryly. The horrific image of Maggie under attack flashed through his mind again, and he shuddered. If she had been alone, a white handkerchief would have been a poor defense against men like those on the stairs. "Since you seem to have more courage than sense, I feel responsible for keeping you intact, at least until you find our assassin."

She pulled out a hairpin and reattached a loose lock. "A pity to miss the rest of such a fine play. Luckily I've seen
Tartuffe
before, and leaving early means we will reach Lady Castlereagh's evening salon in good time."

He wanted to laugh at the absurd way they were both ignoring that spectacular outburst of passion. "What, no maidenly vapors?"

'They would be singularly inappropriate since I am not a maiden," she said sharply. She drew a deep breath before continuing. "I've heard that Count de Varenne often attends Lady Castlereagh's evenings. While it's unlikely that an Ultra-Royalist would be behind our plot, I would still like to meet him." After a moment's thought, she added, "I was warned that he is a thoroughly dangerous man."

"I'll bear that in mind. Is he likely to challenge me to a duel, too?"

"No, I believe he is more the knife-in-the-back type."

"Sounds like a charming fellow. Remind me to keep my back to a wall if we encounter him." The uneasiness Rafe had felt at losing control began to fade, leaving him pleased with the progress he had made. Maggie was coming closer and closer to yielding; he didn't doubt that very soon she would be willing to accept him. And soon after that, he would make sure that she got rid of her other lovers.

Satisfied with his conclusions, he stretched his long legs as far as possible in the limited space. "Lead on. I hope that Lady Castlereagh has a good supper planned. There's nothing like a riot to put an edge on a man's appetite."

As the carriage rambled down the boulevard toward the British embassy, Maggie's hands were locked so tightly in her lap that her fingers must be white inside her gloves. She wondered if her voice had betrayed her near-panic at the theater riot.

The episode had brought back all her worst nightmares in hideous detail, and she had been so paralyzed by fear that she could hardly move when Rafe had dragged her from the theater. There had probably been little real danger—she routinely carried both a white and a violet handkerchief in her reticule, just in case— but panic was immune to reason.

While she would have forced herself to stay in the theater rather than give in to her fears, it had been a relief to go along with Rafe. Most of the time Maggie would fight hammer and tongs if a man tried to compel her against her will, but not tonight, not in the face of that seething brawl of mad humanity.

It had been profoundly comforting to have his strong arm around her, and pure pleasure to watch him dispatch those two ruffians so deftly. All in a day's work for the Duke of Candover, of course. He hadn't even wrinkled his perfectly tailored coat, and he had betrayed no more concern at the riot than if a mule cart had blocked his carriage.

She admired his imperturbability. Most of the time she could match it, but not when a mob brought back the horrifying scene that had killed her father and Willis, and changed her life forever.

She tried not to think of their impassioned embrace, even though her body throbbed with frustration. The attraction she had always felt for Rafe had reacted explosively with her fear to produce a shattering degree of need. Though he had responded fiercely, he had stared at her as if she were a stranger when they had separated. Dear God, what must he think of her?

The thought produced a wintry smile. His opinion of her was already so low that her acting like a wanton probably made no difference. A good thing they had been in a cramped carriage, or heaven only knew where it would have ended.

Disaster, that's where it would have ended.

Her hands had almost stopped trembling by the time they reached the British embassy on the Rue du Faubourg-St.-Honore. As Rafe helped her from the carriage, she smiled and said with her most ravishing Hungarian accent, "Lady Castlereagh's evenings are very splendid, with some of the best conversation in Paris. One may see anyone here."

Inside, Lady Castlereagh herself greeted them. Emily Stewart was not renowned for beauty or wit, but she was a kind woman, and she and her brilliant husband were devoted to each other. "Good evening, Candover, how charming to see you." She extended her hand. "I trust that Magda has been making you feel welcome in Paris?"

He bowed over her ladyship's hand. "She has indeed. The countess even found a theater riot for me this evening, so I should be well informed about the events in Paris."

"Unfair, your grace," Maggie said indignantly. "You chose the theater. I thought perhaps you arranged the riot as an alternative to the farce."

"Unfortunately, one needn't look far for disorders,"

Lady Castlereagh said wryly. "Nightly mobs in the Tuileries gardens, duels almost daily between French and Allied officers. There have been disturbances at each of the four theaters where I have boxes, and they are the staidest playhouses in Paris." She glanced at the door and saw another party arrive.

"I must excuse myself now, but I hope to speak more with you later. Was there anyone either of you particularly wished to meet? There's quite a crowd this evening."

"Is the Count de Varenne here, Emily?" Maggie asked.

A small line appeared between Lady Castlereagh's brows, but she said merely, "You're in luck, he arrived a few minutes ago. Over there, in the far corner, talking to the Russian officer." She nodded and left to attend to her hostess's duties.

The splendid reception room was crowded with people, and a dozen languages could be heard, though French predominated. Lord Castlereagh and the British ambassador, Sir Charles Stuart, were part of a group that included Prince Hardenburg, the Prussian foreign minister, and Francis I, Emperor of Austria.

Negotiations were at a critical phase now, and the key figures were striving night and day to reach agreement. With the support of Wellington, Lord Castlereagh's plan for an army of occupation was slowly coming to be accepted among the Allies.

Maggie's eyes lingered on Castlereagh for a moment. He was a tall, handsome man, reserved in public, but generous and unassuming in private. The foreign minister was known for both intelligence and irreproachable integrity, and his death would be a tremendous loss.

Her jaw tightened; he would not become a victim of political terror if she could do anything to prevent it. She glanced at her escort and found the duke also gazing at the British minister, thoughts similar to hers reflected in his face. Sensing her regard, he glanced down and for a moment their eyes met in perfect agreement.

There were a number of Britons present and Rafe knew them all, so it was easy to progress indirectly toward their quarry while they exchanged greetings with fellow guests. Maggie studied the count as they drew closer. He was in his late forties, a powerfully built man of middle height with great elegance and an air of authority.

Mentally she reviewed what she knew of him. The last of an ancient family, he had been involved in royalist attempts to regain control of France ever since the Revolution. Circumstances had made him a dangerous and devious man, and he unquestionably had the knowledge to organize a conspiracy.

For the last decade he had been governor of a Russian province for the tsar. Napoleon's defeat had brought the count home, and he was now in the process of restoring his estate outside of Paris to its former splendor. As one of the most influential Ultra-Royalists, he was thought likely to be chosen soon for an important government post.

As they drew nearer to the count, Maggie was pleased to see that the Russian he conversed with was Prince Orkov, whom she had met several times before. Tucking her hand firmly in Rafe's elbow, she drew him up to their quarry at a lull in the conversation, cooing, "Prince Orkov, so delightful to see you again. Surely the last time we met was at Baroness Krudener's?"

Prince Orkov's eyes lit up with uncomplicated male pleasure. "It has been too long, Countess," he said as he bowed over her extended hand.