Royal 02 - Royal Passion (23 page)

"Here, drink this."

She looked up to find Roderic standing above her. Under one arm was a pair of folded blankets, while in his other hand he held a small silver tray. On the tray were two deep silver cups filled with a liquid from which steam rose in small eddies.

"What is it?” It smelled alcoholic.

"God and Sarus know. Drink it."

Even the thought of something warm was reviving. She reached to take a cup from the tray and brought it to her lips.

She sipped, then choked on a brew so vilely strong that she could not breathe. He had moved away. There was no place to set the cup down without rising to expose herself.

"It tastes,” she said on a gasp, “like every known liquor stirred together with sugar and heated."

"A fairly accurate description of a seaman's punch."

"Take it away.” She held the cup out to him.

"Empty only."

She thought of throwing it, then turned her gaze instead to measure the distance to the fire. It should make a merry blaze with so much alcohol.

"There would still be mine,” he said as if he had read her mind exactly. “You need it worse than I do."

"If this is yet another attempt to warm my blood with annoyance, then it's succeeding!"

He surveyed her flushed face and the anger sparkling in her gray eyes. “What felicity. I meant only to chase the rheums of winter."

"Did you, indeed? And then?” She took another cautious sip.

"And then take my bath, if of course you can bring yourself to leave it?"

It was no answer. She sipped again as she considered it, lying back against the upswept end of the tub. Warmth was spreading from her stomach along her arms and legs. The tension, hard held, began to leave her. She was tired, so tired. Her brain could not seem to function, refused to come to bear on the problem of Roderic's volte-face. It hardly seemed to matter anymore. He had moved to stand somewhere behind her. From the sound she thought that he was putting more wood on the fire. The flames crackled and sputtered, filling the room with their orange light. The smell of smoke and hot candle wax was heavy on the air, along with the sandalwood scent of the soap that lay in its dish, warmed by the fire.

She put out her hand to pick up the soap, then, after another swallow of her punch, set her cup in the soap dish and began to bathe. She splashed the hot water over her to remove the soap residue, even rinsed the river water from her hair. Mindful of the heat leaving the water, she did not linger, but took up the toweling and got to her feet.

Roderic watched her from where he leaned against the mantelpiece; watched the water cascade, shimmering with the fire's glow, down the slender lines of her back and legs; watched her hair clinging in dark silken mesh to the pearllike texture of her skin around her hips. He did not think that she had forgotten him, rather that she had accepted his presence as unavoidable and chosen to ignore it. It was not a pleasing conclusion, despite its advantages.

He drained his punch cup and set it aside, then reached to take up a blanket, shaking out the folds and holding it to the fire. As Mara finished towel-drying her hair, he stepped close to wrap the warm blanket around her.

"Thank you,” she said, her voice low, and without expression. She did not look at him.

He made no answer, but swung from her and levered off his boots, at the same time unbuttoning his trousers. Mara, staring hard at the fire, heard him step into the water and begin his ablutions. Slowly and carefully, she seated herself in the chair before the fire and began to comb her hair with her fingers, spreading it to dry. She did not turn when after long moments she heard Roderic surge to his feet and dry himself with swift economy on the toweling she had discarded, nor when he leaned over to lift his robe from behind her. She started a little, however, when he went down on one knee beside her chair, reaching to close his fingers on the hanging curtain of her warm hair.

"Dry enough,” he said.

"For what?” she asked, her throat tight.

"The purpose."

He came to his feet with easy power, picking her up from her chair with no more effort than he had used to lift the robe he wore. She caught her breath as he swung around with her toward the door and pushed through it into his bedchamber. Here, too, a fire burned, stretching fingers of light into the dark corners, glinting on the gilded crown surmounting the coat of arms high above the bed, dully shining in the white velvet and silk hangings depending from it. The great bed was turned down. Roderic put her, still wrapped in her blanket, on the yielding mattress, then slid in beside her. He stretched his arm out for the thick down coverlet, drawing it up around them, then lay back on one elbow, a detached expression in his dark blue eyes as he looked at her there in his bed.

"Why?” she asked through dry lips, whispering the one question that consumed her.

"I am God's own jester, a creature formed, pure, of curiosity and self-immolation. What other reason could there be?"

"Many, I fear."

"Later, there may be, but not tonight. Go to sleep—Chère."

When Mara awoke, the pale sun of winter was edging around the drapes at the windows, lighting the room. The fire under the marble mantel had died to blackened ash and the bedchamber was cold. The bed where she lay was warm, but she was alone in its vast and regal expanse.

She pushed herself up. Her hair was a wild tangle and she flung it back over her shoulder. She reached out to touch the cool linen where Roderic had lain. Her blanket fell away, and abruptly she felt her nakedness, knew it deep inside her with a sense of peculiar abandon. At the same time, she was aware of unease. She had slept the night through in the bed of the prince and nothing had happened. What was the matter with her that she was still untouched? She was grateful naturally; certainly she had no wish to rush upon her fate. Still, she was female enough to be piqued that he could so easily resist her charms.

There came a soft sound from the salon. Mara snatched her blanket into place. An instant later, the door opened. It was Lila who eased into the room. In her hands she held a tray containing a pot of chocolate and a plate of rolls, while over her arm was Mara's underclothing, freshly laundered, and her garnet-red dress. The maid put the tray on Mara's knees, then turned to lay out her garments.

Mara did not question how the woman knew where she was to be found; it was an accepted fact that servants always knew everything. No doubt Roderic, with his usual thorough organization, had ordered breakfast and a change of clothing brought to her.

"Where is the prince?” she asked.

"He has gone out, mademoiselle. I know not where."

There seemed nothing to be done except to drink her chocolate, eat her rolls, and go about her day in the pretense that nothing had changed. In truth, she was not sure that it had.

Dressed, and with her hair in a neat coronet of braids, Mara left the bedchamber. On her way through the salon she paused, noting the remains of Roderic's breakfast and the strewn remnants of his morning post, including three crumpled newspapers and a pile of hand-delivered cards of invitation. Among the latter she caught sight of an envelope of thick, heavy paper. She moved closer, extracting it by a corner from the pile of discards. It was, as she had expected, the invitation from the Vicomtesse Beausire. Roderic, all too obviously, did not expect to attend.

She had to do something. The knowledge remained with her throughout what was left of the morning and into the afternoon. She could not be distracted from it for long. The news that the crown prince of Prussia, sneezing at every breath from a fresh and virulent head cold, had left Paris for good held only momentary interest. Juliana's escapade of going riding in the wilds of the Bois du Boulogne for four hours with only Luca for protection failed to upset her. A crisis in the kitchen brought about by the delivery of a large order of tripe, instead of the expected veal, was an irritant handled without engaging more than the surface of her attention. The arrival of an officious little man with a large bundle who demanded to see Sarus and remained closeted in Roderic's chambers with the majordomo for two hours was only a matter of mild regard. The only thing that exercised her mind as the evening advanced into night was wondering where Roderic had gone and what he would do when he returned.

The first thing he did was to speak to his sister behind closed doors, an interview that Juliana emerged from white-faced and tight-lipped, but with apologies to Luca for expecting him to bear the responsibility of being her sole protector. The second thing he did was to send word to the kitchen that he would dine in his apartment with service for two. The third action was to send for Mara.

Her heart began to pound as she received the summons in her bedchamber. Was this the moment? She was glad that she had bathed early and redone her hair in an upswept style with a waterfall of curls down the back. She wished that she had something else to wear, some of the lovely gowns that were at this moment hanging in the armoire at her cousin's house. The gown she had on was becoming, but it lacked the advantage of novelty since the prince had seen her in it several times.

There was no point in repining. And none in anticipating by thinking of the lovely embroidered underwear she owned, made for her by the nuns in New Orleans. Roderic might well require nothing but a companion for his evening meal.

The food had been placed in the salon on a small table drawn up before the fire with a chair on either side. The firelight danced in the wineglasses and reflected red-gold from the silver. Roderic stood beside the table with his hands clasped behind his back and his feet slightly spread. His uniform coat was speckless, luminously white, slashed by bars of turquoise edged in braiding of gold thread. His hair was damp, falling forward in a glinting curl, as if he had not long come from his bath. His gaze was pensive as he watched her approach.

"I told Sarus that we would serve ourselves,” he said as he moved to hold a chair for her. “Do you mind?"

"Not at all."

She sent him a quick upward glance and found herself suddenly conscious of how isolated she was here in this wing of the house with him. The others were in the public dining room some distance away. Even if she called out, it was doubtful that they would come. She was nothing to them, a woman without a name, while the man beside her was their prince. An odd frisson ran along the surface of her skin, and she had a sudden vivid memory of herself, blanket enwrapped, being carried in his arms. She wondered again, as she had so often before, if she had some minor portion of her mother's second sight, some ability to read the thoughts of others. At this moment she did not want to think so.

Roderic saw that small betraying tremor and was satisfied. A guileless innocent this woman might not be, but neither was she accustomed to being alone with a man. His first impulse, very nearly exercised the night before, to take her by force into his bed, keeping her there until she confessed precisely who she was and what she wanted, would not be necessary. It had, he suspected, been driven more by disappointment and rampant desire than considered design. There were other, more subtle ways to achieve the same purpose. They might take longer, but he was in no hurry.

Mara. Marie Angeline Delacroix, a visitor to France, staying with a cousin. On terms of friendship with de Landes, a man with ambition and flexible loyalties. Luca's report, made the day before, had contained that much, but no more. The reason for the alliance was plain; it would be no accident that Mara was his mother's goddaughter. De Landes would wish to make use of the relationship. The purpose of the charade in his house, which had resulted from the alliance, was obscure, as was the reason Mara was lending herself to it. Neither would remain so for long.

Mara ate and drank, but the food she put in her mouth might as well have been the despised tripe and the fine wine mere
vin ordinaire.
She could think of little to say to the man across the table from her. He seemed remote, preoccupied with his own thoughts, and yet she felt that there was nothing she did, no smallest movement she made, that he did not see. It was unnerving.

Roderic finished his meal and tossed his napkin aside.

Mara pushed her food about a little longer, then put down her fork. Roderic smiled, a caressing movement of his lips.

"You ate very little."

"I wasn't hungry."

"You feel well? No effects from ... the accident?"

"No, no, nothing like that."

"Good.” He rose, holding out his hand. “Come, I have something to show you."

His clasp was warm and firm. He drew her toward the bedchamber door and pushed it open, guiding her inside. She moved a few paces into the room, then stopped, her eyes widening.

The air in the bedchamber, warm from the effects of a blazing fire, was heavy with the fragrance of Parma violets. The deep blue-purple flowers were everywhere: in small vases on the mantel, nestled among ferns in silver filigree holders lying on a low table; scattered in profusion across the floor. But most of all they were pinned to the new hangings of sheer violet silk that had been hung as under draperies on the royal bed and strewn over the cream silk sheets. On a chair, delicately placed, was a nightgown of white lace as fine as cobwebs and no more concealing, and on the monogrammed case of lace-edged silk that covered the fluffy down pillow on one side of the bed was a blue-velvet-covered box in the shape of a seashell stamped with the emblem of the most exclusive jeweler in Paris, Fossin. The box stood open to reveal a parure of diamonds, including necklace, bracelet, and earrings, on a bed of white velvet.

Mara swung around to face Roderic. “What is this?"

"Naivete, or even the pretense of it, is not the fashion. It must be obvious to you that this is nothing less than a scene for seduction."

"Mine or yours? I am compelled to ask because of what has passed between us before."

"Whichever you prefer,” he answered, his smile guileless and singularly sweet.

She swallowed hard. “I thought you were determined to resist me, for my own good."