Regret Not a Moment (15 page)

“Turn,” Grace commanded, making a spiraling motion with her index finger.

As Devon slowly made a 360-degree turn, Grace took in the deep U in the back; a U that plunged dizzyingly to the curve of Devon’s waist, drawing attention to her perfectly shaped buttocks. Devon’s black hair gave the effect of more satin, falling in soft waves to just below her creamy shoulders. The contrast of Devon’s white skin against the black satin textures of her hair and dress was mesmerizing—and highly erotic.

“What’s come over you?” Grace asked the question in a joking tone, but she was truly curious as to why her sister had selected a dress so out of character for her. Devon was always elegant, usually quite stylish, and sometimes even subtly sexy in her clothing selections, but she had never before worn something so blatant as the daring creation she had chosen for the dinner party at the American embassy that evening.

“Doesn’t it look like something Jean Harlow would wear?” Devon asked with a wicked sparkle in her eye.

“Frankly, yes,” Grace replied with a skeptical shake of her head.

“You disapprove? Is it indecent?” Devon asked, tilting her chin upward defiantly.

“No… but Martha is probably turning over in her grave,” Grace replied in mock seriousness.

Devon looked puzzled. “Martha?”

Grace gestured offhandedly toward the portrait on the wall. Like all the mirrors, it was edged in gilt. “Washington,” she said. The oil painting dominated even the large sitting area, which was empty except for the sisters and the maid.

Grace was usually called upon to arrive early at embassy functions, as she was the wife of the third ranking diplomat in Paris and well liked by the wife of the ambassador. The ambassador’s wife knew that she could count on Grace to ensure that the last-minute touches were carried out correctly while she and the ambassador dressed for the evening ahead.

Devon glanced away from her reflection toward the portrait and let out a peal of laughter. “Ha! That’s all you know. I’ll bet Martha Washington had to be a pretty exciting woman to keep a man like George Washington interested.”

“Well, she never wore anything like that, I’m sure. Even in bed,” Grace said with a smirk.

“I just felt… I don’t know. Like being a femme fatale for a change,” Devon said in an offhanded fashion, walking toward the marble vanity table covered with cut-crystal perfume bottles. She picked up one of the containers. Lifting the stopper, she took a whiff of the scent, then, without using any, replaced it on the table. She picked up another bottle, still avoiding Grace’s eye. Devon didn’t feel like being studied and questioned because she herself did not know why she had chosen such a dress. She only knew that ever since her conversation with John about her pregnancy a few days ago, she had found herself doing little things to annoy or anger him. That had included flirting an unusual amount with their dinner companions the previous night, a duo of old school friends of John.

One was living in Paris as a correspondent for an American newspaper, while the other was simply using a small portion of his inheritance to sample the pleasures of the Continent. The latter was a handsome man, in a dissipated way, but Devon knew he was one of society’s takers, not a contributor, as John and his reporter friend were. Nonetheless, she had found herself smiling warmly at his extravagant compliments, and even encouraging them. And when they had danced together, she knew she had allowed him to hold her a bit too close. It had all ended harmlessly, with John appearing not even to notice, but Devon was at a loss to explain her own uncharacteristic behavior.

Actually, John’s response—or lack of it—had disturbed Devon. He had been pensive and absentminded since he had heard the news of her pregnancy, and she could tell that his mind was often far away, even when they were engaged in conversation. Although the couple went through the motions of enjoying their honeymoon to the hilt—packing each day full of activities—it seemed to Devon as though they had somehow lost contact with each other. John had not tried to make love to her once since hearing the news, and Devon, for reasons she could not explain, felt reticent about initiating sex, although she had done so at other times since their marriage.

“Devon, is something wrong?” Grace asked, startling her from her contemplation. Devon quickly replaced the bottle she had been distractedly holding and turned toward her sister.

“Of course not,” she said with a nervous laugh, “what could be wrong? Come on, we’d better go downstairs.”

“Oh, yes. I have to check the place cards and see to it that the martinis are properly chilled. I don’t know what the French have against cold drinks. It seems things are never…”

Devon did not hear the rest of Grace’s words, so lost was she in her own ruminations. She looked down as they walked, smoothing the dress over her perfectly flat stomach. She wondered when she would begin to show. Why didn’t she tell Grace she was pregnant? They had never kept secrets from each other. Yet if she did tell her, Grace would surely make some reference to John. And Devon was afraid that her shock and disappointment would spill out of her. Somehow, even though John was the cause of those feelings, she felt it would be disloyal to reveal them to a third party—even to her own sister. Devon was sure that if she told Grace of John’s reaction, Grace would say something harsh about her husband. She did not want to hear any criticism of John, though. And she did not know what she could say to defend him if Grace did criticize. She had not even justified his reaction in her own mind. She had tried simply to push it into her subconscious and accept John’s reassurances that he had only been reacting to the initial shock—that he was indeed happy that she was pregnant. But, like a tiny pebble in a shoe, John’s reaction kept poking into her consciousness against her will. And it was crippling her ability to love him as fully and unreservedly as she had done before.

But I love him, she insisted to herself. He’s my husband. I’ve got to get over this. So will he. I
do
love him….

“What?” said Grace, turning to face her with a puzzled look on her face.

“Did I say something?” Devon asked, startled and embarrassed.

“You whispered something.”

“I must have been talking to myself,” Devon murmured.

Grace stared at her a moment, her face a mixture of skepticism and concern.

Devon smiled and took her sister’s arm. “Why don’t we go and have a nice
cold
martini? Although, I must say, it won’t be nearly as good without the forbidden aspect to it.” Prohibition was still in effect in the United States, though it rarely affected the wealthy, most of whom had ample wine cellars, as well as the connections necessary to obtain harder spirits.

John, Philip, and Ambassador Long turned away from the antique wall map they were studying as the women entered the salon. They were enjoying cocktails and a few moments of quiet conversation, knowing that the room would soon be filled with guests. It was a room made for entertaining on a grand scale. On the walls hung ancient tapestries, their colors faded but still magnificent. At each end of the vast room was a fireplace as tall as a man and wider than ten men. They were impressively set off by white marble mantels dating from the Empire period, elaborately chiseled with carvings in a swan motif.

On this warm June evening, however, there were no fires. Indeed, on the wall opposite the entranceway, six sets of French doors stood open to let in a gentle breeze. Outside, lit tapers illuminated a seemingly endless marble terrace. The space was punctuated by a small fountain sending a cascade of water over a giant seashell that held a three-foot-high Venus.

The men’s conversation died away as Devon and Grace approached them. Grace looked smart in a Grecian-style dress of white silk chiffon, the soft draping of the skirt moving gracefully as she walked. But it was Devon who drew the eyes of the men. The play of light against the sleek black cloth of her dress cast a hypnotic spell over the group; each man enjoyed the sight of Devon in silent admiration.

John, far from being annoyed by the daring black gown, had felt an almost irresistible desire to make love to Devon from the first moment he had seen her in it. No, not to make love, but to take her—without the caution or patience. The feeling of desire was welcome, for he had inexplicably felt no urge to make love to Devon since learning of her pregnancy. He did not know why, did not even fully acknowledge the feeling to himself. Yet it was there—an invisible barrier between him and his wife, where once there had been nothing but unreserved love.

But Devon’s entrance in the black dress drove away any feelings of reserve that had been troubling John. It was not that the dress was any more revealing than a thousand others he had seen in the past. It was Devon herself. She gave off an aura of wantonness, while at the same time saying and doing only the appropriate and polite thing. To John, this wantonness was something new in his wife. He did not understand its source, but he recognized it as something that had always lain deep within her; something he had discerned the first evening they had met.

John’s eyes swept over Devon appreciatively and he grinned. A crooked, unconscious grin that sent a frisson of anticipation down Devon’s spine. For a moment she forgot about the hurt he had inflicted—she felt only love. Not just love, but also pure animal attraction that made her, without her realizing it, move with even more languor than before.

It made John think of Loretta. Loretta had that sheer animal sexual appeal that Devon was only now displaying for the first time. But Loretta lacked Devon’s refinement; that utter correctness that ensured that Devon would always he accepted in any society. A burst of pride filled John. Pride and happiness that Devon was his wife.

He took a step toward her and gently lifted her hand to his lips. Not releasing her eyes, he gave her one small whisper of a kiss, then drew her to his side. His arm went around her slim waist, and as she turned to make a remark to Ambassador Long, he felt his fingers brush the shiny material over her stomach.

Then he remembered. For a moment—no, several hours—he had forgotten. But now, much to his dismay, his ardor died within him. Devon did not look like a mother. Was it really possible that she would soon be one? Just a few moments before, he had compared her to his former mistress, and he had found their similarities—and their differences—immensely exciting. But Devon would no longer be like a mistress to him once her child—
their
child, he reminded himself—was born. She would have another person to consider before him.

What John wanted was more time alone with Devon—both as companion and lover. More time to mine fully her hidden sexuality. Each time he tried something new with Devon in their marriage bed, she was at first shocked, then compliant, then an enthusiastic participant. Her innocence allowed him to hold the exclusive key to her sensuality, and he enjoyed slowly unlocking door after door to the most secret depths of her. He could not imagine that it would be the same after the child was born.

John reflected for a moment on his own mother. How to describe her? Well…
matronly
was the only word. It seemed she had always been the formidable, gray-haired dowager she was now. Had she ever been young and eager for love, like Devon? Yes, she had. At least if his parents’ sepia-tinted wedding photograph was any indication. She had been a curvaceous, ash blonde beauty, ample of bosom and slim of waist. Her lips had been generous, her eyes sparkling. She had been desirable once. But even if John reached back for his earliest memories of her, he could not recall an image of a blossoming young woman. Instead, he saw a kind but strict lady who never raised her voice but when angry compressed her full lips into a tight little line. He saw a woman who always wore high collars and never wore any perfume except insipid lavender water.

Nor had John’s father ever shown any sign of spontaneity or youthfulness. Would John become like that after the baby was born? John felt he was too young to have a child. Once the child was born, however, was he not too old to continue the amusing, glamorous lifestyle he had envisioned for himself and Devon? He felt old and weighted down when he considered the inhibiting element the child would impose on their lives.

Of course, there will be a nanny, he told himself. But he knew Devon well enough to understand that she was not one to turn over the upbringing of her child to another woman. His and Devon’s freedom would completely vanish. Was vanishing now, as her responsibility to the child overpowered her responsibility to him.

Devon, sensing John’s withdrawal, reached for his hand, all the while nodding politely at the white-haired ambassador’s monologue on the beauty of the French Riviera. When her fingers met John’s, he simply gave her hand a quick squeeze and withdrew his own. Looking away briefly from the ambassador, Devon turned her head just enough so that she could see John’s profile. Instead of meeting her look, John stared fixedly ahead at the ambassador. Devon, not wanting to draw attention to herself, turned again toward the older man. But a cold stab of anger filled her, for Devon was discerning enough to sense, if not to articulate fully to herself, the reason for John’s withdrawal.

Of course she was too well schooled to show her anger in front of the others. John, though, was aware of it. The evidence was there in the tight little line into which she had transformed her usually generous lips.

The Marquis de la Brisiere was entranced to find himself dining beside the entrancing American who spoke such fluent French. A connoisseur of women, he had been drawn to her immediately upon entering the room. And, since then, his eyes had not left Devon for more than a few moments at any point during the evening.

Now he found that the happiest of coincidences had placed her to his right at the dinner table. The woman to his left, the soignée blonde wife of one of France’s leading industrialists, was also charming. It was not difficult to spend the requisite amount of time conversing with her. But he savored the moments, at the end of alternate courses, when etiquette allowed him to turn once again to Devon.