Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  “Damn,” he said again. He fumbled with his breeches, buttoned them, leaped off the bed. He strode to her basin, poured out a bit of water, and splashed it on his face. He scowled as he looked for a towel, then contented himself with drying his face on his sleeve. “Get up.”

  Trembling, Topaze sat up. “Are you angry with me?” she ventured.

  “I should be, I suppose. Lord knows I hadn’t planned on this. But I’m not angry.” He held out his hands. “Come.” He took her by the hands and pulled her to her feet.

  Her lip quivered. “You are angry.”

  He sighed. “Only with myself.” He finished unhooking her bodice and pulled it off. Then he reached around to the back of her skirts and untied them one by one, pushing them to the floor at her feet. She was left with only her chemise.

  She stared at him in bewilderment. “But, Lucien…”

  “Hush.” He lifted her over the pile of skirts, then set her on her feet again. “I’d scarcely want you to think that that was the best I could do.” He laughed. Was he mocking her? Or himself?

  “Go away, Lucien,” she choked, unable to hold back the tears any longer.

  “No.” He cupped her face in his hands and kissed her. It was the kiss she’d dreamed of, soft and tender, his lips moving over hers in gentle homage. He kissed her cheeks, and then her closed eyes. “I made you cry,” he said.

  “No. Truly.”

  “I can taste your tears. Sometimes…sometimes I forget that there are good people in this world. Like you. And Martin.” He bent his head to her collarbone and kissed the bare flesh. His hands caressed her back through the thin muslin of her chemise and pulled her close to him. This time he didn’t have to guide her arms around his neck; she embraced him willingly, warmed and cherished by his sweet kisses. He smiled down at her. “Shall I stay?” At her nod, he swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed, depositing her gently. Then he stepped back, pulled off his shirt, released the buttons of his breeches once again. She shivered. His body was lean, strong, narrow-hipped. Beautiful. He eased himself down beside her. He started to untie her chemise, then changed his mind and laughed softly. “No. I was too quick before. Let me prove to you that I’m not a clumsy oaf every time I take a woman to bed.” He put his hand on her breast. It was warm, enclosing the soft orb with a gentle pressure. His fingers moved, rubbing and scratching at her nipple through the fabric.

  “Oh!” she breathed. His fingers were tantalizing, playing a cadenza on her breast to make her heart sing. She felt her nipple pucker and harden, responding to his touch with a reaction that was not of her own doing. She gasped in wonderment; could flesh be so eager that no self-will could control it? Lucien put his hand on her other breast and coaxed from it the same response. Only then did he loosen the strings of her chemise and bare the pink softness of her bosom. She waited—trembling in anticipation—for him to repeat his caresses on her naked skin. Instead, he bent his mouth to her breasts and teased them with his lips, his tongue, his teeth. Now her whole body sang, reverberating in response to his wondrous mouth.

  He lifted his head and smiled. “Sweet. And far too disturbing. When I tease you, I undo myself as well.”

  His body was stretched out beside hers. She blushed at his words, and tried not to look at the swelling evidence of his passion. “Would you…shall I…take off my chemise now?”

  “Lord, no. I promised you a graceful courtship. I don’t intend to abbreviate my efforts simply because my…friend is impatient.”

  She giggled. His joking made him human, erased the memory of the lust-filled stranger who had taken her with such a want of concern. “He was far too impatient before,” she said. “I didn’t like him at all.” She meant it for a reproof.

  “Why then, I’ll have to send an emissary this time, to assure his reception.” He put his hand on her belly, then moved it down to the juncture between her legs. The covering chemise, far from dulling the effects of his exploring fingers, seemed to diffuse the sensation. Waves of feeling radiated from the delicate, quivering bud of her womanhood. She writhed in ecstasy and kneaded at his back with frenzied hands as his fingers penetrated ever deeper, and the chemise grew damp with her passion.

  “Oh, please, Lucien,” she gasped.

  “Will my friend be welcome now?”

  “You’re roguey villains. You and your friend.”

  “But will he be welcome now?” He smiled down at her; only his blue eyes betrayed the intensity of his emotion.

  She felt as though her body would explode from longing, from burning desire. “Yes, yes, yes, damn you!”

  He smiled in triumph, sat up, and stripped off her chemise. When he entered her, she cried out in pure joy, moaning and tossing her head from side to side. There was no quarreling with his skill; by the time their bodies had merged in a final crescendo, he had roused her to a climax again and again. Still trembling, she lay in his arms and felt her thudding heart slow to normal. She sighed and nestled against his chest. His strong hands caressed her back, her rounded bottom. Suddenly she squeaked, feeling a sharp pinch, and sat up angrily. He looked up at her, his mouth twisted in his mocking half-smile. “That’s for swearing. Véronique wouldn’t swear.” Before she could protest, he pulled her back down into his arms. “I’ll stay the night. So you can sleep well.” He extinguished the candle, wrapped them both in the coverlet, and closed his eyes.

  She lay in his arms. Her body was sated and content. She’d won his sweet kisses, if not his heart. Then why did she feel like crying? Perhaps because there was still a part of him that was cool, detached. He’d been angry when he’d pinched her, she’d seen it in his eyes. He couldn’t forget Véronique, his scheme—not even in a moment of passion. And maybe his tenderness as a lover had been less to please her than to show how gentle he could be, how far removed from the pirate.

  She slept and dreamed of pursuing him through the woods, unable to overtake him, and hearing only his laughter—impersonal, distant, mocking.

  Chapter Twelve

  When she awoke in the morning, he was gone. She could almost imagine that their night of passion had been a dream. Lucien’s eyes were bland over his morning cup of chocolate. He nodded a greeting; with a certain disinterest (and-only because Madame Le Sage stared intently at him) he came around the table to hold Topaze’s chair for her. He returned to his own chair, picked up his cup. “No sense in wasting the day. Martin won’t be back until evening, I think. There’s time to review a few more names and facts this morning.”

  “On Easter Sunday? Can’t I have a small reprieve for Easter?”

  Madame Le Sage bobbed her head. “I went to church at sunrise. It was very beautiful, the service.”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was.” Lucien smiled tightly and turned to Topaze. “But you see, my dear Véronique, we only have a few more days to rehearse. Martin has already arranged to leave for the coast on Tuesday. I should think by Wednesday you’d be ready for your performance, and we can leave as well.” He looked askance at Madame Le Sage. “If that’s agreeable with you, madame.”

  “I shall be sorry to see you go. I’ve so enjoyed your company. And who knows when I’ll see my dear nephew again? Well, finish your breakfast. I must see how Cook is doing with our feast.”

  Topaze picked up her cup and walked to the window. “Such a pretty day. A fine April morning. I wonder if it’s too soon for hearts-ease.”

  “Very good.” His voice was sharp with sarcasm. “You haven’t forgotten Topaze’s sly tricks. But you have forgotten that I’m used to your wheedling. And I don’t intend to give up a morning’s work so you can go searching for a damned flower.”

  “But it’s spring!”

  “And will be for some months,” he growled.

  She refused to be intimidated. “What a crosspatch!” She turned to him, all wide-eyed innocence, and smiled. “Didn’t you sleep well?”

  He stared for a moment, then gave in. He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “As a matter of fact, I spent mo
st of the night with your elbow in my nose.”

  She giggled. “And you didn’t retaliate?”

  He rubbed his chin. “Frankly, I was tempted to…engage one of your parts with one of mine. In retaliation, of course.”

  “Of course. An engaging thought.” She felt a sudden warmth flood her face.

  He laughed. “You blush charmingly. But I’ll not be distracted. Lessons this morning.” His voice dropped to a seductive murmur. “Tonight will come soon enough.”

  She trembled at the look in his eyes. He wanted her. “Lessons, then.”

  They spent the next two hours in Martin’s room, reviewing all that Topaze had learned, discussing plans, strategies, alternatives should there be trouble. But Topaze’s heart wasn’t in it. Henriette had thrown wide the casement; the spring-scented breezes beguiled her senses. And Lucien was being tiresome and difficult. When he snapped at her for the third time, because she’d forgotten the name of Adelaïde’s cousin-german, she tossed her head and jumped up from her chair. “Oh, fiddle-faddle! Who cares about the old witch anyway?” She glared at him and stuck out her tongue.

  He chuckled. “You saucy imp. I see there’s nothing for it but to take you on your hunt for hearts-ease.”

  Her eyes shone. “Oh, Lucien! Would you?”

  “I’ll do better than that. Lord knows you don’t deserve it, but I’ll have Madame Le Sage make us up a picnic. Did Madame Benoîte and her lovers take you on picnics?”

  She frowned. “I don’t remember.”

  “Why then, this will be your first picnic.” He tried not to smile. “Your…virgin picnic, as it were.”

  She felt the color rise in her cheeks.

  “You were a virgin, last night, weren’t you?”

  “Couldn’t you tell?” she countered.

  “Your blush tells me you were. Your body told me otherwise.”

  “I have no memory of another man,” she snapped. “Shall I go down to the kitchen and get us a basket of food?”

  Furnished with their picnic, they roamed the hills in companionable silence. The budding trees lifted their branches to the warm sun. Here and there—between fallow fields—a green pasture was given over to a herd of cows, a solid farm horse or two. Lucien watched in detached amusement as Topaze knelt before every clump of thick grass, searching for hearts-ease. At length, beside a gurgling brook, she found what she had been seeking. A little violet flower, its yellow and white markings giving the appearance of a tiny face. “Look, Lucien,” she exclaimed. “The first of the season. They grew behind our cottage in Bordeaux.’’ She plucked a flower and handed it to him.

  “Pensée,” he said. “For thoughtfulness.”

  “And remembrance.” His eyes were as blue as the sky. Will you remember me, Lucien? she thought.

  A small crease disturbed the smoothness of his forehead. “Funny little flower,” he said. But his eyes were on her face, not on the hearts-ease in his hand. From far off came the song of a cuckoo bird. Lucien shook his head. Whatever his thoughts had been, he chose to reject them. He smiled—his familiar sardonic grin—and straightened. “Now that we’ve found the pensées, is it necessary to gather every one? Or can we eat now?”

  They found a large tree, its branches hazy green with the first sprouts, and sat down under it. The food was good. And Madame Le Sage had thought to pack a bottle of wine. Sated and comfortable, Topaze leaned against the dark trunk of the tree and closed her eyes. She hadn’t meant to sleep, but the wine had done its work. She sighed. Well, perhaps a little nap…

  She awoke feeling chilled. The sun, briefly warming at midday, was already low on the horizon. She shivered and turned to Lucien. “I fell asleep.”

  He yawned and stretched. “So did I. We should be going back.”

  They packed up the remains of their picnic and started off. Topaze felt wonderfully refreshed, filled with a sweet contentment. She skipped beside Lucien, occasionally running on ahead of him to turn about and make faces until he rejoined her again. He shook his head, clucked his tongue at her antics, but she knew he was amused. Her heart warmed with the joy of pleasing him. At length they came to the crest of a steep hill. The grass was short, rolling smoothly down to the bottom. It looked inviting. Topaze giggled. “Did you ever roll down a hill?”

  He snorted. “Lord. Are you mad?”

  “No, really. Did you, Lucien?” She grinned. “Before you became an old sobersides?”

  His mouth twitched. “A skillful frontal attack, you imp. I can scarcely frown now.”

  “Well, did you? Roll down a hill?”

  “I must have. But I can’t remember.”

  “Come on, then.” She took the basket from him, put it on the ground, and pulled him to the edge of the hill. Though he muttered a protest, he lay down on the grass as Topaze directed, arms at his sides, and waited for her to join him. They lay head to head. Then, at her signal, they turned themselves over and over until the gravity of the hill caught them and they went spinning to the bottom. Topaze felt her hair come loose. Beside her Lucien shouted with merriment. The sky danced past her eyes, spinning crazily, and then she was at the bottom of the hill, in a heap of tumbled hair and skirts and grass, and Lucien was laughing beside her. She rolled over on her back and closed her eyes. The earth still whirled beneath her.

  “What a fanciful creature you are.”

  She opened her eyes. Lucien smiled down on her. He brushed the tangled hair off her face, then leaned over and kissed her. Her heart melted. I love him so, she thought. Dare I tell him? “Lucien, I…” she began.

  “Monsieur Renaudot! Are you there?” The call echoed from just beyond the hill. Lucien scrambled to his feet as one of the farm boys came into view. “Monsieur Renaudot. I was sent to find you. Monsieur Ducellier has arrived.”

  “Martin? Good.” Lucien reached down and helped Topaze to her feet. She tried to straighten her disordered hair, while Lucien worked at a grass stain on the elbow of his coat. They ignored the knowing snicker of the farm boy, and laughed all the way back to the cottage.

  Martin waited at the door. He greeted Lucien with a warm handshake, but his eyes were solemn as he kissed Topaze on the cheeks. “It goes well?” He brushed a twig from her hair.

  “We had a picnic.” She wasn’t sure how much he wanted to know; she wasn’t sure she wanted to tell him.

  He turned to Lucien. “Come inside. I’ve brought you your banker.”

  Before the fire stood a little man in a brown velvet coat that was stretched to bursting over a round paunch. He had a cheery smile, a large and bulbous nose, and sparkling eyes. He looked like a kindly old schoolmaster, except for the fineness of his garments, and an extraordinary wig of light brown hair—curls and waves foaming up to a ridiculous height on the top of his head.

  Lucien held out his hand. “Monsieur Farigoule.”

  “Monsieur Renaudot. It’s been some time, has it not?”

  “Five years, I think. When you sent me to England.”

  Farigoule smiled in remembrance. “Yes. A tidy profit, that.”

  “You’re…still engaged in that line of work?”

  “From time to time. It helps to supplement the banking.” His eyes twinkled. “I understand you had dealings quite recently with our old friends in England.”

  “Yes. An unexpected opportunity.”

  “And now your friend Monsieur Ducellier tells me you hope to catch a rather large fish.” He smile at Topaze. “This is the bait?”

  Lucien scarcely glanced in Topaze’s direction. “Yes. I trust Martin has given you some idea of what we have in mind. We’ll discuss it at length in the morning, after you’ve had a good night’s rest. In the meantime, shall I send for some wine?”

  “A moment.” Martin’s jaw was set in a hard line. “Don’t you intend to introduce your wife?”

  Lucien looked surprised. “Yes, of course. If you think it’s necessary. Monsieur Farigoule, may I present Véronique?”

  Farigoule kissed Topaze’s hand. “A
charming creature. I shouldn’t have overlooked her, Renaudot.”

  Martin scowled. “But then you’re not as blind as my friend Lucien.”

  Ave Maria, thought Topaze. Let them not begin to quarrel again! She laughed brightly. “Let me see if Madame Le Sage needs my help.” She nodded at them and hurried away.

  Upon further reflection, she decided that it was best not to tell Martin that she’d slept with Lucien. And there was no reason for him to find out. He was leaving in two days, and Lucien would be discreet in coming to her room at night, she felt sure. By summer, all this would be over. Martin and Lucien would be together in Guadeloupe. They were partners, friends. Why create a further gulf between them?

  She made a special effort to treat them evenhandedly during supper. Madame Le Sage had prepared a sumptuous meal. Monsieur Farigoule was a lively guest, a charming scoundrel who kept them all laughing. Topaze had guessed—from his first conversation with Lucien—that the man was involved in smuggling. All during supper he and Lucien exchanged stories of various “business ventures”, couched in euphemism so that Madame Le Sage—listening intently, her pudgy fingers occasionally cupped about her ear—was none the wiser.

  After supper Lucien and Farigoule continued their reminiscences in lowered tones; Topaze assumed they were speaking more frankly now. Madame Le Sage sat at her spinning wheel, and Martin challenged Topaze to a card game. At last Farigoule stood up, stretched, yawned discreetly behind his hand. “It’s been a long day. I beg your leave, Madame Le Sage.”

  Martin discarded, then glanced at the banker. “You’re welcome to share my room and my bed, monsieur.”

  Madame Le Sage looked up from her spinning. “That won’t be necessary, Martin. Lucien has offered his room.”

  “How kind. Lucien will sleep with me, then, Aunt Louise.”

  “No. At his request, I’ve moved him to his wife’s room.” Martin stared at Topaze across the card table. “Is that so?” Ah, Dieu, she thought, seeing the pain in his eyes. She’d hoped to avoid this. But Lucien had acted without her say-so. What must Martin think now?