STOLEN CHARMS

by Adele Ashworth

  For the first time in her life, she felt a pang of sadness and compassion for her mother. She had married a man she didn't love because she was raised to expect nothing else. The only excitement in her life had come from her short, passionate love affair with a Frenchman she could never claim as hers. That her father had fallen in love with her mother over time Natalie now had to admit was unusual, although the path of love rarely seemed to be usual or logical. Marriage for love was a dream, not a reality, in her world. She'd known this all along. That was the hope she'd carried for the Black Knight for years.

  But the Black Knight wasn't her dream; he was her fantasy—an unreal and childish expectation of a blissful happiness that had never existed and could never be. If Madeleine's words were to be taken as truth, Natalie knew her dream was a tangible, beating heart full of hope now sitting in the palm of her hand, waiting to be grasped and cherished. The only way for her to live this dream, though, would be to expose her deepest thoughts and feelings to Jonathan, and with a gut-tearing sorrow, she just didn't know if she could ever come to terms with them and do that.

  Natalie raised her head and clasped her arms around herself in a protective hug. "I don't know what to do. I said some very cruel things to him this morning. He may never forgive me."

  "Nonsense." Madeleine placed her now-empty plate on the tea table, stood, and fairly glided across the carpet to stand beside her at the window. "He will recover from it easily enough. Men do with the right persuasion, which is nearly always sexual in nature. I suggest you put your naked form in front of him, make love to him again, treat him as if he were the only man alive, and he'll never remember you said anything at all except what a perfect lover he is."

  Natalie suppressed a giggle at the thought, both scandalous and delightful. Her mother would swoon to hear such audacious talk between ladies in a pink parlor during tea.

  Madeleine stood next to her for a moment before draping an arm around her in a gentle embrace. "We will discuss what to do next," she soothed, "and the decision, of course, is yours. If your trunks are at the hotel, we will have them brought up, and you may stay here tonight. That will give you time to think."

  Natalie shook her head and momentarily closed her eyes. "I didn't leave a note for him, Madeleine. He'll think I left him for England—with his emeralds."

  The Frenchwoman softly laughed. "I have the grave suspicion he'll be more concerned about you and your thoughts and whereabouts than a silly necklace. And good for him. Let him worry."

  Natalie wanted to argue that assumption, but Madeleine turned her toward the tea table and spoke again before she could comment.

  "Now please, eat something before you wither away to nothing. Then we will dress in finery and spend an enjoyable evening on the town—without the nagging presence of any member of the male sex." She shook her head in feigned disgust. "Such disconcerting creatures they are."

  Natalie hinted at a smile, then moved back to her chair without remark, strangely comforted by the sudden closeness she felt to the colorful, sophisticated Frenchwoman who had become her friend.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Jonathan stood alone at the end of the buffet table, thoroughly miserable. The banquet had only just begun, and few people as yet graced the hall of the comte d'Arles's private Parisian home. It was the same home, in fact, that the man was attempting to sell and in which Jonathan had pretended to take an interest. His false identity was still believed, which was probably the only reason he'd been able to work his way in to observe the festivities tonight. He had arrived early, partly because he had nothing else to do, but mostly because he wanted to get this dreary evening finished so he could at last return to his own country, his home, his dog, and Natalie—the stubborn, idiotic, calculating enchantress who held him captive and shredded his reason.

  It had been only a day and a half since he'd last seen her, and yet it felt like ten years. He was furious with her, crazy for her, and worried out of his mind. Logically he realized she could get home without him, that she spoke the language and carried sufficient funds for the trip. But the people of France were restless; it wasn't entirely safe for her to be traveling alone, and he sure as hell didn't want her locking herself away from him in her bedroom in England, either. He wanted her in his, wherever that might be, even if the only way to convince her she belonged there was to pound it into that scheming little head of hers. But of course that wouldn't happen unless she saw him, spoke to him again.

  God, it was just an argument. They'd said some hurtful things to each other, but he never thought she'd leave him. If he'd had the slightest idea of her intentions he wouldn't have left her alone; he would have dragged her with him across town. He would never forget the panic that had flared through him when he'd stepped inside their room at the inn only six hours later, ready to face her wrath, only to face instead an empty wardrobe and an unmade bed with crumpled sheets to remind him of the night before.

  She had trouble accepting his past. He knew that, understood why, and was willing to give her time. But what frightened him now was that she'd decided to give up on them without trying, without accepting how much she cared for him, and that's why she had left. She was giving up on them, and it was ripping him apart inside. What made him want to laugh, though, instead of tear the room to shreds was the simple acknowledgment that he'd never once, in all of his nearly thirty years, thought a woman could do this to him.

  Jonathan looked down at the full glass of whisky in his hand. He'd been holding it for ten minutes and had yet to take a drink. It was probably outstanding, smooth, and would no doubt go straight to his head to make him at first carefree then later more despondent than he felt already. He didn't need that. He needed to keep his mind clear for the events to ensue this night.

  Placing the glass on the table to his left, he leaned his head back against the tapestry-covered wall behind him, watching those around him with only mild interest. This home was smaller than the count's home in Marseilles, but just as extravagantly decorated in dark oaks and plush auburn, teal, and gold. Rich food lined three buffet tables, the drink flowed, the smoke of expensive tobacco filled the air, and yet this wasn't a party—not, at least, like the ball two weeks before. Few women were in this hall tonight, and although everyone dressed in finery, it was silently understood that the reason for this commingling was to raise money to pay Louis Philippe's assassin. And that would have to be a great deal of money. Only a professional would risk such a calculated attempt to murder the king of France.

  Jonathan had wanted to go to the authorities, but he had no proof of anything, and what would he tell them? That several nobles wanted to change the course of history? Natalie had been right about that being boastful talk, which was why he couldn't fault her for not immediately confiding this to him. Deposing the king was a common thought among the French and no doubt wouldn't surprise or concern anyone of authority. But if the assassination attempt was planned for tomorrow, and tonight's banquet was the front for Legitimists to strengthen their political ties, boost their egos, and collect their needed funds, he might learn something he could forward. He had to take the chance. Tomorrow he would leave the country.

  Jonathan scanned the crowd. The count had yet to appear for the evening, but the room was quickly filling with people, mostly men, starting some rather boisterous exchanges at tables and in corners. Eventually it would get crass, and the women would leave. At least now he had something appealing to look at, although he was actually starting to bore of doing even that.

  Jonathan closed his eyes with a light groan and folded his arms across his clean, pressed frock coat, uncaring whether he wrinkled it.

  The world was filled with beautiful women, and he would admire them until he died. But he couldn't have them all. Of course he'd been with many before Natalie, and apparently everyone alive today was aware of this fact. Curiously, though, he now found himself unable to recall the specifics of even one episode with an
y of those women. They were all enjoyable romps that extinguished his desire and gave him a short time of companionship at his will. It wasn't that these women meant nothing to him, but that they only meant something sexual, and they, for their part, were perfectly aware of this. Nobody, including him, had ever been truly disappointed or hurt, and physical pleasure had generally been the only reason for coupling in the first place.

  His sexual experience with Natalie two nights ago, however, was in many ways different. It certainly wasn't the most relaxing of his life, and to be fair he'd probably have to say it wasn't the most erotic. But if he had to choose one word to describe their first time together, that word would be "beautiful." Their lovemaking had been beautiful to him, which made him smile inside because he didn't think beautiful was a word the average, rational man would ever use to describe a bedding. And of course it was something he'd keep to himself. Maybe someday he'd tell Natalie.

  He'd lain with her afterward, satiated and overwhelmed, and so stirred emotionally he couldn't think productively, or talk. He'd never experienced that before with anyone. She'd been at one time innocent and soft, yet magnificent in her desire to please him. That's how he knew it had meant something deeply to her, too. It was her first time; she had nothing to which she could compare it. But he knew because he'd observed many women in bed with him, and not one of them had ever expressed such intense feelings for him as Natalie had during that one hour. It was obvious to them both, and she was scared of it. She had run, and now he'd have to coax her into trusting him, which he was fairly certain he could do over time. Of course, he'd probably have to kidnap her first, as she likely wouldn't see him if he called on her formally. Then again, maybe she'd be pregnant. Another first for him, he conceded with a grin. His greatest fear in life had always been getting a woman with child, and now it occurred to him that under the circumstances that would be the best thing that could ever happen to him.

  Jonathan rubbed his eyes with his fingertips and opened them again. The group assembling in the hall had grown, and it was becoming stuffy and warm. A quartet played a Bach minuet in the distance, but no one danced. Everyone mingled, which he supposed he was going to have to do to keep up appearances. He gazed indifferently at men in bright, embroidered waistcoats and black top hats, women wearing swirling skirts of red, purple, and yellow silk; limegreen, white, and midnight-blue taffeta. The latter made him think of Natalie because it was her favorite color, and he knew she'd look smashing in it with her hazel-green eyes, creamy skin, and reddish-blond hair curling down over her breasts.

  Then he realized it was Natalie wearing the midnight-blue gown, walking slowly toward him, a half smile on her lips, her eyes absorbed in his, and the emeralds gracing her neck.

  Jonathan stared. The vision of her seemed so illusory, and yet it was her, in a gown fitting snugly to her long, narrow waist, sleeves puffed off the shoulder, the bodice cut far too low over her full breasts. Revealing so much of her splendid figure in ball gowns was something he was going to have to discuss with her, and he wondered for an absurd moment why he suddenly thought of such a thing.

  His first impulse was to grab her wrist and yank her against him, but that would only cause others to stare and likely serve no purpose but to irritate her. She had nearly reached him before he stood erect again and masked his astonishment, which irritated him because she'd probably already noticed it. His heart began to pound, his hands started shaking, and he put one behind his back and reached down with the other to clutch the glass containing his untouched whisky so she wouldn't notice that.

  She sauntered up to him, her features unreadable, and he raised his glass to his lips and took a full swallow, to calm his nerves, to hide them. But his eyes never strayed from her face.

  He'd never seen her so breathtaking. She was beautifully clothed and adorned, the emeralds adding an elegant touch, drawing attention to her pale, tapered throat. She'd piled her hair high on her head, allowing stray curls to fall loosely around her forehead and cheeks, down her back. And she'd very definitely painted her face, which pricked him with amusement. That was Madeleine's touch.

  "Hello," she said softly, standing in front of him at last.

  "Hello," he replied, just as quietly.

  She hesitated after that, watching him closely.

  "You're wearing my emeralds," he offered to break the strain.

  She smiled awkwardly and glanced quickly at the buffet table. "I thought it might help tonight."

  That admission was the final touch. She'd made a decision on her part, and being here now was the proof of all that she felt inside for him. She might never put her feelings into words he could hear, but her actions, the fact that she was at the banquet instead of bound for England, cast the last fraction of doubt aside.

  But he would bask in his joy internally. For now.

  He took another sip of his whisky. "It will certainly cause an uproar when the comte d'Arles appears and sees you wearing his necklace."

  She twisted gloved fingers tightly together in front of her. "My thoughts exactly. I-I thought it might draw them out."

  "How clever you are, Natalie."

  "I've always thought so," she agreed, pulling her painted mouth up coyly.

  She was just so incredibly sweet. His heart ached, and he longed to touch her, to hold her against him and rub his cheek against hers and breathe in the scent of her hair—

  "I thought you'd like some champagne." Madeleine interrupted his thoughts, standing beside them, exquisite as always in shining rubies and a gown of deep burgundy.

  She held a glass out to Natalie who mumbled a quick thank you and took it in one of her hands.

  Madeleine sparkled as she raised calculating eyes to his. "I see several acquaintances of mine, Jonathan, so forgive me for leaving the two of you alone. Have a lovely chat." Without waiting for a reply, she lifted her skirts with dainty fingers and whisked away.

  Very tactful, he mused, and he'd have to thank her for that sometime.

  He focused again on Natalie. "You stayed with her since yesterday, I presume?"

  "Yes," she returned without prevarication. "I found her in her hotel suite, and we've had a delightful time together."

  "It seems she's had quite an effect on you."

  She paused. "Do you mean the face color?"

  "Mmm."

  "You don't like it, Jonathan?"

  He cocked his head and inspected it. It was subtly applied, with only a shimmer of pink to her lips and cheeks, and a brownish tint to outline her eyes. He shrugged negligibly. "I don't suppose I dislike it."

  She seemed satisfied with that. "Not that your approval matters—"

  "Of course not."

  "—but tonight will be the only time in my life I'll wear it, I'm sure. My mother would disown me if she knew, but I am in France, doing what French ladies do, and Madeleine said it would accent my best features."

  "Did she?" He reached forward and lifted a curl of her hair as it hung over her right breast, rubbing it between his fingers. "She must not realize your best features never see the light of day."

  She narrowed her eyes, shaking her head in disgust. "Jonathan—"

  "I was angry that you left me," he cut in quietly. "And hurt."

  She stiffened as the conversation turned serious, breathing deeply and dropping her lashes so that all she could see was his waistcoat. "I'm so sorry for what I said," she admitted shakily. "I was … overwhelmed by everything that happened. Confused."

  The urge to pull her against him was so powerful now he squeezed his glass until his fingers whitened. "I was overwhelmed, too, Natalie," he confessed instead. "It was a night of firsts for both of us."

  She looked up, disbelieving. For seconds she didn't know how to respond, or what exactly he meant by that, but her eyes bore into his, searching, and he refused to move his gaze.

  In a voice both husky and tender, he whispered, "Tell me how you feel in your heart, and I'll forgive you."

  A shrill burst
of laughter sliced through the air, followed by a shout or two from one end of the hall to the other. Horrible timing, and it broke the spell between them.

  She jerked her head to the sound, skimming the room uncomfortably. "This isn't a typical party, is it, Jonathan?"

  "No," he answered through a sigh. "You probably shouldn't be here, either. It's likely to get … lively later."

  That annoyed her a little. Her mouth tightened, and she tapped her fingers rapidly against the rim of her champagne glass. "You cannot spend your life protecting me from likelihoods."

  He didn't know how to take that. Part of him was startled to hear such an implication from her. But she still looked across the hall, surveying party guests, which he supposed caused the uncertainty in him because he couldn't see her eyes.

  "Maybe that's something I'd enjoy," he countered.

  For a moment she did nothing. Then, with another deep inhale, she raised her gaze to lock with his again. "Madeleine said you, being a typical man, would forgive my words of yesterday morning if I told you what a magnificent lover you are."

  He sipped his whisky to hide his choked expression. "Really? I'm almost afraid to know what she's been teaching you."

  "And you probably never will," she intimated in a tone of triumph. She raised her champagne to her lips, briefly tilted the glass to her mouth, then slowly lowered it again. Resolutely she admitted, "I do, however, think you are a magnificent lover."

  He reeled from that, melting inside. "You're forgiven." Grinning devilishly, he added, "But you have nothing to compare it to, my darling Natalie."

  She ignored that, took another long swallow of champagne, licked her painted lips, and pressed on. "I've made some decisions about us."

  The muscles in his shoulders flexed from the immediate buildup of anxiety and he shifted from one foot to the other, his skin growing warm under his formal attire. "I'm engrossed, so please enlighten me."