This was it. He straightened and moved toward the door as he heard the heavy knocker fall against the centuries-old wood. He reached for the handle and swung the door open, for a moment blinded by the low slant of evening light as it silhouetted a feminine form standing in the entrance. Every nerve in his body sprang to full alert, his blood rushing through his body as if he was preparing for battle.
His vision adjusted as the woman lifted her head and looked him in the eyes. Shock rendered him temporarily speechless as he recognized her.
“Angel?”
Seven
Thierry’s pulse throbbed as his eyes raked over her. It had only been a matter of days since he’d seen her last, yet it had felt like an eternity. He hadn’t expected ever to see her again, let alone here at his hunting lodge—a location so zealously guarded that no one could enter unless it was at his specific invitation. He barely believed his eyes, and yet, there she stood.
He swallowed against the questions that rose immediately in his throat, the need to know who she really was. Was she the Angel he’d met in New York or the courtesan whose services he’d contracted for the next week? Of all the people...
He realized that Angel had not yet spoken, in fact, she looked anxious, unsure of herself. Did he have it wrong? Was she not the woman he’d already met in a city so distant from the country they were now in? He began to notice the differences—the hair that was black instead of blond, the clothing she wore so vastly different from what she’d worn that evening in New York. Even the way she held herself was different—more confident and assured, although the innocence on her face was at complete odds with the way she was dressed in a figure hugging garment that both concealed and revealed at the same time. A dress designed, no doubt, to entice and intrigue a man. And the four-inch spikes she wore on her feet aided in defining the lines of her calves and making her slender legs look incredibly long and alluring.
Then she lifted a delicate hand to her face and removed her sunglasses, exposing the deep-set amber eyes that had so intrigued him. It was her. Positive recognition flooded his mind and his body. He knew her. He wanted to know her better.
This wasn’t what he’d bargained for at all. He’d requested a courtesan to educate him, believing he could separate his emotions from the tutelage. That he wouldn’t even think about breaching his own vow of chastity until he was with his wife for their first time together. But judging by the sensation coursing through his body, the hunger clawing with demand at the very basis of his being at the mere sight of his Angel, this was not going to be a series of easy lessons.
Thierry stepped forward and offered a hand to his guest. “Welcome to my lodge. I hope you will be comfortable here.”
The formality of his words was at complete odds with the chaos of his emotions. Angel. He still couldn’t believe she was here.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. I have looked forward to this time,” she replied, dipping into a curtsy.
As she rose to her full height again, he realized he still held her fingers in his.
“Come inside,” he said, dropping her hand and standing aside to let her pass.
As she did he caught a whiff of fragrance and felt a moment of disillusion. The heady spicy scent was not the same as the lighter, enticing fragrance she’d worn in New York. This one spoke of experience, of sultry nights and even hotter days. It suited her, and yet, did not. It was as if his Angel was two different women. And, dammit, he was painfully attracted to both.
Why did she make him feel so intensely? Why her? He’d met hundreds, possibly thousands, of attractive women over the years. Women of aristocratic and royal birth as well as those from the people. Many had attempted to entice him into bed. But never had he felt like this. It was confusing and disturbing at the same time.
“M-my bags—shall I bring them in?” Angel asked, bending to grab the handle of a large case.
“I’ll see to them myself in a moment. They will be safe there.”
“Y-yourself?”
Again, that slight stutter. Could it be his courtesan was nervous? The idea fascinated him. Why would a woman like her be nervous? Surely she was used to such situations—meeting a client for the first time. Did he dare hope that her response to him left her as unsettled as he felt at the sight of her?
He smiled and gestured for her to precede him into the great hall. “I am quite strong. I think I can manage a few cases.”
His words were teasing, but he saw the way her body tightened in apprehension. This wasn’t how he had imagined his first meeting with a courtesan to be going at all. She was dressed like a siren, smelled like sin and seduction and yet her expression still hinted at naïveté. Perhaps that was her stock in trade, he realized. In her line of business she could be no innocent. But the appearance of it would be a highly prized commodity. He closed the door behind her and noticed her flinch at the resounding thud it made.
Discontent plucked at him, making his voice harsh when he spoke. “Why did you say nothing of this when we met in New York?”
“I—I was not engaged for your service that evening. When I am not working, I prefer to maintain discretion about my particular career. And if you recall, you were the one who bumped into me and began our conversation. I didn’t seek out your company. We were simply strangers enjoying a visit to a foreign city, nothing more. I’m sorry if it disturbs you to see me again,” she said in a voice so soft he wasn’t even certain she’d spoken.
Her eyes were on the floor beneath her exquisitely shod feet, her hair a dark fall that almost curtained her face. He stepped closer and lifted her chin with a thumb and forefinger.
“Disturb me? No, you don’t disturb me,” he lied.
Hell, she disturbed him on every level but he wouldn’t tell her that. Not now and probably not ever. She couldn’t know quite how deeply she affected him. He was King of Sylvain and he was about to be married. He would not yield so much as a gram of his power to another. Weakness was always exploited by others less honorable. He would not give anyone the satisfaction of providing them with an “in” or a point of leverage that might lead to even wider cracks in a monarchy he was determined to preserve and to rebuild its long-lost glory. He would not be played for a fool.
“It’s a good thing, isn’t it? That I don’t disturb you,” she said, looking up beneath her lashes.
“That quite depends on whether we met by accident last week, or by design. If the latter, I should probably have my security team escort you from here immediately.”
* * *
Shock slammed into Mila’s chest and stole her breath away. Be taken away? Already? No. She couldn’t allow that to happen. She had met Thierry by design, but not in the manner he thought. What was another lie on top of the gigantic one she perpetrated already? She lifted her head and straightened her shoulders, staring him directly in the eyes.
“I had no idea that I would meet you in New York,” she said as boldly, and as honestly, as she could.
“But you recognized me, didn’t you?” When she nodded, he added, “And you didn’t see fit to introduce yourself as who you really are?”
“I did not. Meeting you like that was a bonus. A chance to see you unguarded. To understand the man behind the title, if you will.”
It wasn’t a lie—she meant every single word of what she’d just said. She’d treasured every second of the time they’d spent together that night. The chance to know Thierry as a man, not a prince or a king.
“And, Angel? Why go by that name?”
“It’s a name I’m known by from time to time.”
Again, not a lie.
Thierry studied her and she fought not to shift uncomfortably under that steely gaze. Mila allowed her gaze to take in the beauty of the man standing before her. From the second he’d opened the front door he’d taken her breath away.
&n
bsp; Even though he was dressed casually, she couldn’t help noticing the lean but powerful build of his shoulders beneath the knitted sweater. The cream wool offset the olive tone of his skin to perfection and highlighted the stubble on his jaw, making him seem dark and dangerous. A wolf in sheep’s clothing? She almost laughed out loud at the irony. His jeans sat snugly on his hips, with well-worn creases at his groin that made her mind boggle on the idea of what hid beneath the fabric.
A piercing streak of need plunged to her core. Physical awareness warred with a combination of apprehension and a desire for the discovery of what making love would be like with this man. How she kept her body and her voice calm was a testament to her years of training in decorum. She wanted nothing more than to step forward. To inhale the scent of his skin at the hollow of his throat. To feel the rasp of his stubble on the tender skin of her neck, her breast, her thighs.
She had to stop this or she’d be melting into a puddle of craving helplessness. For a second she silently cursed the reading and viewing she’d done—for the want it aroused within her. But then she remembered why she was here, what she planned to do and what was at stake. Summoning every thread of control tightly to her she focused her eyes on his once more. Calming the clamor of body and forcing herself to become the worldly woman she was here representing herself to be.
Thierry appeared to come to a decision and gave her a brief sharp nod of his head.
“It seems I will have to trust you on what you say.”
He hesitated as if waiting for her to say something, but Mila held her silence. One thing she had learned from a very young age was that it was often better to say nothing at all than to open your mouth and step straight into a minefield. You learned a lot more in silence than by making a noise.
Apparently silence was the right choice. Thierry continued, “You must be tired after your journey. Would you like to freshen up before having an evening meal?”
She inclined her head. “Thank you. That would be lovely.”
“I’ll show you to your rooms.”
Her rooms? A moment of confusion assailed her. She’d expected to be staying in his rooms, in his bed. Was that not what he’d summoned a courtesan for? As she ascended the wide wooden staircase beside him her thoughts whirled in confusion. Perhaps he preferred to keep his own rooms and to visit his courtesan in hers. Either way, it wasn’t exactly what she’d expected.
Mila reminded herself it was the end goal in sight that was paramount. She’d travel whatever route it took to get there. After all, hadn’t most of her life been one act or another?
Thierry led her down a long, wide wood-paneled corridor, the darkness of the walls broken here and there with paintings or hunting trophies. She shuddered as they passed one of the latter, the points of the antlers on the deer head intimidating and imposing at the same time.
“You’re not a fan of hunting?” Thierry remarked as they reached the end of the corridor.
“Not especially. Not when it’s for trophies alone.”
“Is that a note of censure I hear in your voice?”
She stiffened, unsure of what to say next. She didn’t want to criticize or to alienate. Not when she’d only just arrived. “Not censure, Your Majesty. Never that.”
“Don’t!” he said, the word sharp in the air between them.
“Your pardon—” she began.
“No, don’t do that. Here, I am Thierry, not Your Majesty. I am simply a man.”
“I beg to differ. You are not simply a man. In fact, I doubt you’re simply anything.”
He pierced her with another of those looks. But she held her ground. And then he smiled, the expression on his face easing as mirth crept into his gaze and softened the imperiousness of his stare.
“You’re probably right, Ms. Romolo. However, I would prefer that you not use my title while we are within the walls of this estate. If you will not use my first name, perhaps you will continue to call me Hawk, as you did in America?”
“If you will continue to call me Angel,” Mila suggested.
“Angel,” he repeated, lifting his hand and stroking the curve of her cheek with the back of his index finger. “Yes, it suits you better than Ottavia.”
She was glad he thought so, since she didn’t think she could stand to hear him call her by another woman’s name when they were intimately engaged. “Then we are agreed?”
“Yes.” She offered him her hand. “It’s a deal.”
He took her hand in his and she felt the heat of his palm against her own. The sensation made her catch her breath, her imagination already working overtime imagining that dry heat on other, more sensitive, parts of her body.
Thierry let her hand drop and turned to open the door before them. They entered a tastefully furnished ladies’ sitting room. It looked as if it had barely changed in the past hundred years.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, walking toward the deep-set window and looking out over the lawn and gardens. As far as she could tell the outlook here was the only manicured part of the property, the rest had been left in its natural forested state. The lush foliage now appearing on the trees afforded the lodge its own special brand of privacy, locked as it was in a wooded cocoon. They could almost be the only two people in the world. “You must love it here. It’s so isolated.”
“I do,” Thierry answered. He crossed the sitting room and opened another door. “This is your bedchamber.”
She smiled at the old-fashioned term, but as she stepped through the doorway she acknowledged that the phrase far better fit the opulence and beauty of the furnishings than the term “bedroom.”
“And you call this a hunting lodge?” Mila commented as she reached to touch the lovely, feminine silk drapes that hung at the window. “I thought hunting lodges were generally a male domain?”
“This suite has always been reserved for the mistress of the house.”
Was it her imagination or did his lips curl somewhat over the term mistress? And did he mean mistress as in the female head of the household, or as another word for a temporary paramour, such as she was pretending to be?
“It’s lovely. Thank you. I shall be very comfortable here.”
“Fine, I shall get your bags. Your bathroom is through there. Please, take your time and come downstairs to the great hall when you’re ready.”
He was gone in an instant. For a big man he moved with both elegance and stealth, she realized. Mila rolled her shoulders and forced herself to relax a little now that she was alone. She’d take a shower, she decided, and change into something fresh—provided he brought her bags up as he’d promised. Strange that so far she’d seen no staff at the lodge. Why would he fetch and carry for her himself, when he should have a full complement of staff to complete his every wish?
She stepped through to the bathroom and began to disrobe, deciding that she would find out all that, and no doubt more, about him in due course. While the guest sitting room and bedroom were exquisite examples of old-world elegance and femininity, the bathroom was a tribute to unabashed luxury. Gold-veined cream marble surfaces abounded and the heated tiled floor was warm beneath her bare feet. The shower was a large glassed-in area with multiple showerheads and settings. She chuckled to herself as she figured out how to do the basics and lathered up beneath the generous spray of hot water, luxuriating in the sense of feeling fresh and clean again after her journey.
After her shower she dried herself off with a thick soft towel and shrugged into the pristine white robe that hung on the back of the bathroom door. If Thierry hadn’t brought her bags up yet, she would have to attend their supper together dressed just as she was. Or maybe that had been his intention all along? A frisson of nervousness prickled across her nape. Was she well enough prepared for this charade? Could she be convincing enough? She had to be, she told herself as she tightened the sash
around her waist. That was all there was to it.
In the bedroom she found her luggage—well, Ottavia Romolo’s luggage. She felt like little more than a trespasser as she opened a case and began to sort through its contents. It really didn’t sit comfortably with her, touching the other woman’s personal things this way, but Mila steeled herself to do it. She couldn’t have switched out the woman’s luggage for her own without alerting the driver. The end had to justify the means. She uttered a silent thank-you to Gregor, who had suggested she pack her voluminous handbag with her own specially-purchased intimate apparel—undergarments that were far racier and far more enticing than what she would usually wear—because, while she was virtually slipping into another woman’s skin, she absolutely drew the line at using her underwear.
Mila put the lace confections that were Ottavia’s lingerie to one side and concentrated on unpacking the rest of the garments from the large cases. Looking at the variety of clothing, she wondered just how many changes per day the courtesan had planned for the short duration of her stay. Several, by the looks of things—or perhaps Ottavia was just the kind of woman who preferred to have multiple choices at hand.
She held up a pair of wide-legged pants in amethyst purple and a matching tunic that was deeply embroidered and beaded around the neckline and at the ends of the three-quarter-length sleeves. This outfit would do for this evening, she decided. She dressed quickly and shivered a little as the silk trousers skimmed the surface of her buttocks. She was unused to wearing such scant underwear as the G-string she’d pulled on, but she had to admit the sensation of the finely woven fabric against her skin was a sensuous pleasure in its own right. She quickly finished unpacking and shoved the cases away in the small box room she discovered off the sitting room.
Once dressed, Mila reapplied her makeup, darkening her eyes with thick black eyeliner and a charcoal-colored shadow and applying a sultry ruby-red gloss to her lips. She brushed out her hair, leaving it to swing loose over her shoulders and slid her feet into a pair of black sandals with a delicate heel. Thank goodness she and the courtesan shared the same shoe size.
Arranged Marriage, Bedroom Secrets Page 7