My Fair Temptress

by Christina Dodd

  Caroline’s hands crushed the rich velvet of her gown.

  Jude met Mum’s comprehensive gaze.

  “Our friends have arrived,” Mum said brightly.

  Jude turned Caroline with a hand on her arm and gave her a gentle push toward the small, boisterous crowd that squeezed their way into the box. Then he turned back toward the spot where Lord Freshfield had stood—and Freshie was gone.

  Of course. He was the kind of man who preyed only on those weaker, because those stronger would beat him to jelly.

  Grimly, Jude decided that as soon as the Moricadian matter had been dealt with, he would do something about Freshie, perhaps speak to him in a manner Freshie understood, with his bare knuckles and a lot of ruthless purpose. When Jude got done with him, Freshie would never bother Caroline again.

  Nevett’s footmen brought in champagne and refreshments, and before long the level of dialogue rose to earsplitting levels. Conversation died when Miss Dollydear arrived, dressed in her lavish costume and painted with rouge and kohl, but rose again to greater strength as young men swarmed her to express their admiration for her singing—and more.

  With many a modest disclaimer, Caroline accepted exuberant congratulations for her rout of Lady Freshfield; clearly Lady Freshfield had few friends among the ton. Caroline hugged her female friends. She observed as Jude lavished careless praise on Lady Pheodora for her gown and her entourage of young men. She teased Goose until he flushed and grinned, and all the while she was aware of her body. As she stood talking, she pressed her thighs together, trying to relieve the desire Jude had aroused in her. She wondered if her skin glowed from the heat of her longing. She conjectured that she was different than she had been a day earlier, a week ago, a year ago, and marveled that no one noticed.

  She wished she’d never seen Jude, wished she had him tied to a bed where she could take her pleasure and leave him without redress.

  “Mademoiselle, you seem distressed.” Comte de Guignard spoke softly into her ear.

  She jumped. “My lord! Sir! Comte! I…no, I’m not upset at all.” She hadn’t meant to show it, anyway.

  De Guignard moved around to stand before her, a tall, handsome man with influence and money. If she were smart, she’d forget Lord Huntington and use her power to make de Guignard her slave. Instead she stood there miserably speculating which one of the debutantes Jude would wed.

  Monsieur Bouchard joined them, reeking of the cigar he’d gone to the lounge to smoke. He curtly answered her greeting and watched Comte de Guignard with impatient eyes.

  “I witnessed the scene last night at the baron’s ball, and I swear to you, no such attack would have occurred in my country. A lady such as you would be treated with fairness, and a canard such as Lord Freshfield would be reviled for his cruel disregard for the flower of your womanhood. And as for your father”—de Guignard folded his lips tightly and took a long breath—“but I will not cast asperions on the man to whom you owe your very life. The man who should be protecting you with his life!”

  “That is good of you.” Actually, she thought Comte de Guignard’s entire speech was presumptuous to the extreme. She knew very well he spoke out of softness for women and a foreigner’s misunderstanding of what should and should not be said in conversation, but right now, she wasn’t inclined to give de Guignard or any man the benefit of the doubt. They could all burn in hell…as she was burning.

  She cast a glance of loathing at Jude. He looked absolutely genial and calm as he spoke to that lush and gorgeous opera singer.

  Caroline wanted to push him over the rail.

  “Have I displeased you, Miss Ritter?” Comte de Guignard bowed. “I meant no impertinence.”

  She yanked her attention back to him. “Not at all. I’m sorry I gave you that impression. I appreciate your kindness.” How to say it? “But this is a struggle I have to win on my own.”

  Comte de Guignard bowed his head in acceptance—or homage. “May I at least offer you a place of sanctuary?”

  Monsieur Bouchard made a noise of distress.

  Comte de Guignard ignored him. “We’ve found, quite by accident, that the Moricadian embassy is no longer safe.”

  “I’m sorry,” Caroline said. “Are you in danger?”

  In the corridor, the attendant walked past, playing the notes to recall the spectators to their seats.

  “That we do not know.” Comte de Guignard struck a pose appropriate for a hero posing for a statue. “But not only have we been robbed, we also suspect we are under surveillance.”

  “I beg you, comte, do not,” Monsieur Bouchard said.

  De Guignard ignored him. “So we have moved all matters of import to a different location and taken great care that it remain secret.”

  Again the attendant walked past, playing the notes that announced the opera was about to begin its last act. In Nevett’s box, the guests began to leave.

  “Yet for you, most beautiful Miss Ritter,” Comte de Guignard continued, “I will compromise my own safety and the safety of my compatriot and tell you the location.”

  “No, don’t!” Caroline could see the trouble with this situation. If anything happened at their new embassy, she would be a suspect—and she’d had enough adversity in her life without wishing for more.

  But Comte de Guignard waved away her objection. “Please. Set my mind at ease. Accept this information and keep it close to your heart.” He pressed a slip of paper into her hand.

  Accepting defeat, she took the paper and slipped it into her reticule. “Thank you. I’m honored by your confidence.” And promptly forgot it as, through the thinning crowd, she saw Miss Gloriana Dollydear slipping a similar note to Jude.

  “That is uncalled for,” Caroline whispered.

  “Miss Ritter?” Comte de Guignard followed her gaze.

  So did Monsieur Bouchard. His little eyes narrowed. He stroked his flourishing mustache. “Most interesting,” he said in his cold voice. “Most interesting indeed.”

  Jude caught them staring at him and the stunning woman before him, and he taunted Caroline with a smile.

  “Really!” Caroline took a step toward him, ready to attack.

  “What do you suppose she wants of him?” Comte de Guignard speculated.

  “Fashion advice,” Caroline snapped.

  Comte de Guignard looked shocked at her temper.

  “Yes, I’m sure that is it.” Monsieur Bouchard chortled. “Look—Monsieur Throckmorton has arrived searching for his jeune fille.”

  Looking as suspicious as any cuckold, Throckmorton thrust his way through the last of the guests to come to her side. “Miss Dollydear, I lost track of you.”

  “I am here, my darling.” Placing her hand on his arm, Miss Dollydear looked up at him adoringly. “Take me back to the stage where I must die for love…of you.” As he led her from the box, she glanced back and rolled her eyes at Jude.

  “Uncalled for,” Caroline muttered again.

  Jude wanted to laugh at Caroline’s expression. His governess was frustrated and jealous, and the two emotions played havoc with her good nature. She refused to look at him. She nodded curtly at de Guignard and Bouchard as they took their leave of her. And when the last guest had left she seated herself with a flounce.

  As the footmen dimmed the lights, Jude sat behind her again. He watched her profile against the light from the stage, and by her rigid posture, the way she held her head, and the way she ignored him, it was clear that she was livid.

  Mum suspected nothing, but chatted in a whisper for the first few minutes of the opera.

  Caroline answered without enthusiasm.

  Mum slumped in her seat. Within ten minutes, her head bobbed. She caught herself, focused on the stage once more, then nodded again.

  It was exactly the opportunity which he’d anticipated. Lightly he touched her on the shoulder. “Mum, do you want to sit in back?”

  “Hm?” Blinking, she looked around. Standing, she shook out her skirt. “No, I’m going to the
retiring room.”

  He was the luckiest man in the world.

  “There’ll be other women there who are bored and want to gossip. Be good, children.” Mum quit the box…

  …Leaving an ever-deepening pool of silence. In the chair in front of him, Caroline sat stiffly. Placing his hands on her bare shoulders, he whispered, “Why are you angry?”

  “I’m not angry.” Her voice was too loud and very firm.

  “I think you are,” he purred in her ear. “I think you want me to finish what I started.”

  “Your affairs are of total indifference to me—as long as you keep your hands off me.” She shrugged her shoulders trying to dislodge him.

  He leaned close to her ear. “Really?” Gently he bit the lobe.

  She swung around to face him. “Don’t…do that!”

  He couldn’t distinguish her features, but he heard aggravation and something else in her voice—arousal. And her arousal brought his body back to full attention. His heart thumped in his chest; his cock strained against his buttons. “If we were where we could be assured of privacy,” he declared with brutal candor, “I would take you here on the floor.”

  “Nonsense,” she said crisply, “you’re in total control of yourself.”

  A challenge.

  He didn’t pause to think. With his hands on both her elbows, he lifted her from her chair and propelled her ahead of him into the darkest corner. She tried to jerk herself free, but her words burned along his nerves. He’d show her control. He’d take her where she’d never been before.

  Catching a chair with his toe, he pulled it toward them and pressed her into the seat.

  She tried to get up.

  With his hand on her waist, he pushed her back.

  She whispered heatedly, “I don’t know what you’re doing, but—”

  “I agree. You have no idea what I’m doing.” Snatching up another chair, he stuck it under the doorknob and wedged it tightly. No one would come through that door.

  He didn’t wait. He showed no finesse, bothered with no foreplay. Lifting her skirt, he slid underneath and between her legs. He heard her gasp muffled by petticoats and silks. He smelled the warm, sweet scent of woman. Of Caroline. She tried to shove at him, but he paid no heed. He was done teasing. She wanted satisfaction. He would give it to her.

  If he’d thought about it, he would have realized how uncharacteristically he was behaving. He didn’t think about being caught, didn’t care whether his stepmother rattled the doorknob and demanded entrance. A part of himself he’d never before met now directed him, and he would do as he wished with the woman of his dreams.

  He was already familiar with the lace and the make of her drawers, and unerringly he found the gap that covered her feminine parts.

  She tried to kick him away.

  He laughed, loving the danger and the excitement, knowing that she wouldn’t fight him. Or not very much, anyway, for her antagonism was based on need, desperate, fiery need. With his fingers he opened lips still swollen with desire. When he put his mouth against her, he experienced the same jolt that went through her. She froze as if she didn’t dare move again, as if a single motion would take her over the cliff.

  She didn’t yet know…he intended to push her over the cliff.

  She tasted like desire, sweet and glorious, and his passion rose as she trembled. He hadn’t much time. Soon someone would notice the blocked door. So he pushed her toward her climax, licking her in small, tantalizing motions.

  Her trembling grew greater.

  He probed her with his tongue, savoring her passion. He pushed into her, withdrew, pushed into her, withdrew.

  Her body arched in the chair. Her thighs flexed as she struggled to control her reactions.

  As if he would allow that. Taking her most intimate bud between his lips, he delicately sucked while at the same time he slid his finger in her.

  Her inner muscles clamped down. Her body convulsed in a long rush of need. Climax swept her, and at last he heard it, the sound she could no longer contain—a sweet, reckless groan of completion.

  He loved taking her to orgasm there, with the crowd all around and the music soaring. He loved knowing he forced her to explore a sensuality she had never imagined. So he drew out her pleasure, plunging his finger inside the warm, tight sheath, using his tongue in every wonderful way he’d ever learned. But at last she slumped, exhausted, her passion depleted…for the moment.

  And he knew they had to return to their chairs. Swiftly he arranged her drawers to propriety, withdrew from under her skirt, and removed the chair from under the doorknob.

  Helping her to her feet, he smiled at the dazed expression on her shadowed face. He seated her facing the stage, and seated himself beside her. Taking her hand, he kissed it, and when she turned her stunned gaze on him, he murmured, “Revenge has never tasted so sweet.”

  Chapter 23

  “Miss Ritter, ye’re home!” Daisy rose from her chair before the fire where she dozed and bustled through Caroline’s bedroom to light the candles. “How was the opera?”

  “It was inspiring,” Caroline said. More than that, it was embarrassing, revealing—and arousing.

  “I’ve heard the Italian Opera House is all painted pretty.” Daisy helped Caroline off with her mantle.

  “It’s beautiful.” Caroline discarded her outer garments into Daisy’s hands and stood, dazed, in the middle of her bedroom while the maid put them away. Caroline had never felt like this before, as if her skin stretched across bones and veins and nerves all clamoring for possession. Jude’s possession.

  “Ye must have had a good time. Yer cheeks are all flushed pink and rosy. Ah, I’ll wager the gentlemen fought to sit next to ye.”

  “Behind me.” And under my skirt. Caroline stumbled on the fringe of the rug in her bedroom.

  “Careful, Miss,” Daisy warned. “Are ye tired?”

  “I suppose I must be.” But that wasn’t the problem. Caroline’s muscles didn’t work. She could scarcely walk, had to think how to unclench her fingers to set her reticule on the dressing table.

  “Then we’ll get ye right to bed.” Moving behind her, Daisy opened the long line of buttons down Caroline’s back.

  “Thank you.” But bed wouldn’t help. It would probably make things worse, to rest there, staring up at the canopy and thinking of him.

  “There ye go, Miss. And yer jewelry.”

  As Daisy unfastened the intricate necklace and earrings, Caroline instructed, “Those must go back to Her Grace tonight.” Nothing would ease this need…except Jude inside her, on top of her, beneath her.

  “Aye, Miss. I’ll see to it myself.”

  During intermission, Caroline had imagined that if she could simply experience one of those marvelous sensations of…of completion such as she’d experienced that night at Jude’s apartment, she would feel fulfilled. But Jude had brought her to completion, and still she wanted. She ached. If she had Jude there, she would once again tie him to the bed and use him to her own satisfaction.

  “Ye have such an odd expression on yer face.” Daisy studied Caroline. “Do ye have the headache, Miss?”

  “No, not a headache.” Most definitely it was not her head that ached.

  Obviously Daisy didn’t believe her, for she asked, “When ye’ve donned yer nightgown, do ye want me to brush yer hair?”

  “No, thank you.” Caroline’s voice held an unusual bite, and she softened it with, “Really, I am quite fine.” She walked around the dressing screen in the corner, holding her dress around her shoulders.

  It was dim back there. A row of hooks hung on the wall, with her nightgown on one and her nightcap on another. There was a small table with a bowl where she could set her pins and whatever other small objects she discarded, and a straight-backed chair—

  She leaped back, stifling a scream.

  Jude sat there, his shirt a blot of white against the dark wood, his teeth gleaming as he keenly smiled, his eyes observing every disheveled
inch of her. He was as immobile as a statue…except for the long, sharp, thin-bladed knife he flipped over and over.

  “Miss, are ye all right?” Daisy called anxiously.

  Caroline clutched her gown in suddenly damp palms.

  While he nodded, he continued to flip the knife, twirling it, spinning it with the expertise of a magician. His command was clear. Answer her. Say yes.

  “I…I’m fine.” Caroline’s heart beat in her chest, her wrists, her neck. “I saw a rat,” she murmured so quietly she knew Daisy couldn’t hear her. She watched, rapt, as the spinning blade came to an abrupt halt.

  His free hand reached toward her.

  Her heartbeat accelerated.

  He caught the loose neckline and tugged at it.

  She swallowed. She knew this was a game, a sensuous game, but a thrill akin to fear slithered up her spine.

  How ridiculous. Caroline could hear the sounds as Daisy busied herself in the open space just beyond the screen. Caroline had only to tell her that Jude was there, and he would be removed.

  But she didn’t want anyone to know that he dared enter her room, didn’t want anyone involved in the affair between them. In the dark recesses of her soul she relished the secrecy and was flattered by his daring. To sneak into his father’s house, into her bedchamber, and wait for her there…it was the act of a buccaneer and a lover.

  So she said nothing to Daisy. But this was dangerous; she couldn’t play without calamitous consequences, so she shook her head no to Jude.

  His lips grew taut. A look developed in his shadowed eyes, a dangerous glint that promised retribution, peril and pleasure.

  Without a word, he made his demand again.

  And she realized she was frightened. Not that he would hurt her, but that he would change her from the woman she had been to the woman he would force her to become.

  Yet irresistibly, she rose to his challenge and lowered the gown.

  It caught on her wide petticoats, and he gestured. Remove them.