“Well, minx?” he said hoarsely. “How do you enjoy that?”
“You’re making me . . . insane . . .”
“Good,” he whispered against her ear. “You’ve been making me insane since the day I met you.”
The swaying of the coach made her rock atop his lap, and now she felt something hard pushing up against her bottom. His arousal? It must be. She knew that much about a man’s body. Oh, Lord, was that what his . . . his braquemard felt like? So thick and sturdy?
She wriggled her bottom over it again, and he groaned. “Holy God, Lisette . . . don’t . . . do that.”
“It’s my turn,” she said coyly, repeating the motion. “How do you like being teased?”
“I like it . . . too damned much,” he growled.
Taking her by surprise, he suddenly shifted her to sit sideways across his knees. Then he fumbled with his breeches, and next thing she knew he was pressing her hand down onto something heated and long and hard.
Ohh, it was his braquemard. How fascinating. She’d never thought it would be that firm. Yet supple, too.
“Please,” he said in a guttural voice. “Stroke me, dearling.”
“How?”
“Like this.” He closed her hand around his flesh, then showed her how to pull on him. “Not too hard . . . yes . . . Oh, God, yes, exactly like that.”
His moan made her exult. He was as much a prisoner to desire as she. How thrilling to have him so seemingly helpless in her hands, as thrilling as when she’d realized he was actually jealous of Vidocq. Max had even admitted to caring for her. The haughty and powerful duke laid low by her? It seemed impossible.
Yet he was breathing even harder than she, his braquemard was rigid as stone and growing longer and harder with each stroke, and he was calling her dearling and minx with what sounded like real affection.
Then he released her hand so he could return to fondling her between her legs, and she gasped. It felt wonderful, more wonderful than she’d ever expected.
And the best part was that it was Max doing it, Max kissing her neck and shoulder, Max who was thrumming that sweet little button between her legs with such an expert touch that she could feel something rising deep in her belly, a twisting tension fighting to break free.
“Max . . . Oh, Lord, Max . . .”
“Yes, dearling,” he rasped. “Take what you want . . . take it . . .”
Her blood was like a fever in her veins and her heart was racing and any minute now she was going to come apart like a piece of glass . . . vibrating so furiously that it shook . . . shook . . . shattered!
“Lord save me!” she cried, rocked by a piercing pleasure.
Then he came apart, too, in her hand. As he released a cry of his own, something wet spilled over her fingers and onto her bared thigh, startling her.
For a moment they both just sat there, their bodies shaking and their breathing heavy.
Then he brushed a kiss to her ear. “Lisette, my wild French rose . . . you’re a wonder,” he murmured, his mouth trailing languid kisses over her hair and down her neck.
A powerful embarrassment overtook her, and she ducked her head against his shoulder to hide her flaming cheeks, which was ludicrous because it was dark. What had she done? She had sworn not to let him this close, and now . . .
He drew a handkerchief from his pocket and began to wipe her hand. After he had also wiped his own, she took the handkerchief from him to wipe her thigh.
Mortification swamped her. What was wrong with her? How could she have encouraged this, reveled in it? Was it because of pleasures like these that Maman had become so enthralled by Papa?
Men were devils. Amazing, sweet devils who made a woman forget who she was.
“Lisette . . .” he began in a low voice.
Gaslight suddenly flooded the carriage. She jerked her gaze to the window to see houses flashing past them. They were in a town, and now the coach was slowing down.
“Oh no,” she whispered, “we’re stopping to change horses!” Had that much time passed already?
Muttering a string of French curses that would have done Maman proud, she vaulted off his lap and onto the other seat, then began dragging her skirts down. He was cursing, too, as he hurriedly rebuttoned his breeches.
“We should have drawn the curtains,” he grumbled.
“No. We shouldn’t have . . . have . . . done what we did at all.” Good Lord, she didn’t even know what to call what they’d just done.
He stared at her, his jaw going taut. “Right,” he clipped out. “You’re right.”
Her heart sank. He didn’t have to agree with her so readily. And how could he regret it already? Not that she could blame him. She regretted it already.
Didn’t she?
The carriage halted in an innyard, and the grooms hurried to change the horses. To her shock, Max opened the door and leaped out. “Dinner was hours ago,” he said as he held the door open for her. “I’ll get a supper packed up for us. And you probably want to visit the necessary.”
Though both suggestions were considerate, they took her aback, coming on the heels of what they’d just done. But she nodded her agreement, incapable of speech as she snatched up her reticule and let him help her down. In a few blessed moments they were inside the inn where she could flee him, at least temporarily.
The coaching inn had a rather nicely appointed retiring room for ladies, which was abandoned at the moment. Thank God. A glance in the mirror told her she looked a fright even by candlelight, her bonnet missing and her hair mussed and her lips a bright red from Max’s many kisses. Anyone who looked at her would know her instantly for the shameless wanton she was.
Then again, she was supposedly married.
A mad laugh escaped her. Well, at least there was that. And Max was even behaving like a husband, going right from touching and caressing her to talking about fetching supper. How like a man! He’d had his pleasure, and now he was ready to have his belly filled.
You had your pleasure, too.
She swallowed. Yes. She’d behaved like some trollop, letting him touch her all over, caress her all over, kiss her until she ached and yearned and—
Stop that! she chided as her body began to melt all over again, just remembering the things he’d done. She wasn’t supposed to let some arrogant Englishman make her feel like this, all because he’d given her pleasure and she’d done the same to him.
Glaring at her offending hand, she bit out a curse, then filled the washbasin from the pitcher nearby and began scrubbing her hand with the soap, as furiously as Lady Macbeth could ever have done. When she’d rubbed it raw, she lifted her skirts and washed her thigh.
Odd how her body looked exactly the same as before, but it felt so utterly different. She felt utterly different.
That’s when the tears began to flow. Truth was, she would do it again if she had the chance. Not merely because she’d enjoyed it, but because Max had been the one giving her the enjoyment. Somewhere along the way, what he thought of her had begun to matter. She’d begun wanting him to . . . to desire her. No, to care for her.
How utterly foolish. She knew better! A duke of his consequence could never feel anything but desire for a woman like her. And that wasn’t what she wanted. Or it wasn’t all she wanted, anyway.
She dried her hands and blew her nose, then set about making herself look more presentable. Time was ticking away and they had to put as many miles between them and Hucker as possible, but she felt an urgent need to return everything to the way it was.
For a moment, she stared at herself. Her eyes were red, but she looked halfway decent. Unfortunately, she still smelled of . . . of what they’d done, the way Maman’s bedroom had always smelled after Papa’s visits.
With a groan, she jerked out her scent bottle and dabbed some perfume on her wrists, then added some to her neck for good measure. She’d probably overdone it, but she didn’t care. It was better than smelling of something that would remind him of what they’d be
en doing. Because she absolutely could not let herself fall into the same trap with him as Maman had done with Papa.
When she returned to the coach, Max was waiting to help her in. If he noticed her heavy perfume, he didn’t say anything. And once they were in the carriage together, a different scent took over—a heavenly one of baked goods and roasted meat from the box he’d set on the floor.
“I prevailed upon the innkeeper’s wife to sell us some leftovers from dinner,” Max said in a low rumble. “She even included a bottle of wine.”
Lisette hadn’t realized until she smelled the food how truly hungry she was. That might even explain her headache earlier.
As the coach set off, Max pulled out a crusty loaf of bread, some pont l’évêque cheese, and a couple of roasted pigeons wrapped in paper. She fell on the meal like a ravenous dog, partly because she was hungry and partly to avoid talking to him.
After a few moments, she became aware that he wasn’t eating quite so avidly. Instead, his gaze was fixed unnervingly on her. Normally she would relish the French cheese and bread that she’d dearly missed in London, not to mention pigeons cooked with some flavor to them and not in the boring fashion of the English. But having him watch her so intently dampened her enjoyment.
“About what happened earlier, Lisette—”
“No, we don’t need to talk about it. I understand.” She couldn’t bear to hear him speak the usual lies; she’d just as soon pretend it hadn’t happened.
She bent forward to remove an apple from the box, but he caught her by the arm to stay her. “We do need to talk about it, and you don’t understand. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I need you to know that I—”
“I know!” Snatching her arm free, she hunched back into the seat and drew her cloak about her like a shield. “I already know what you’ll say. That it was a mistake. That we shouldn’t have gotten carried away. And I agree.” She forced a lightness into her tone that she didn’t feel. “We enjoyed ourselves, but it didn’t mean anything.”
“It damned well meant something to me,” he ground out.
“Did it? What, exactly?” When he let out a curse and glanced away, she added, “You don’t have to say it. You enjoyed . . . what we did together, but you’re a duke and cannot marry someone like me.”
His gaze shot back to her. “That’s not what I would say.” He dragged in a heavy breath. “All right, I can’t marry you, but not because of who you are, because of your parentage or station or any of that rot. Not even because I’m a duke. I just . . . can’t.”
That was why she hadn’t wanted to talk about it, curse him! She was already growing to care for him deeply, and she couldn’t stand the humiliation—the pain—of hearing exactly how little he cared.
“As I said,” she bit out, “I understand. So there’s no reason to speak of it any further. You can’t marry me and I don’t want to marry you, so—”
“You truly have no desire to marry me.” His hands flexed on his knees as if he fought the urge to reach for her. Or throttle her. “Not even a little?”
What did he want? For her to beg him to marry her so he could trample all over her pride while he continued on with his I can’t marry you? She would not do it! “No, Your Grace, not even a little. I like you, but I’m not seeking a husband. So let’s just forget what happened earlier, shall we?”
“You can do that?” he said, his voice suddenly ragged. “Because I don’t think I can.”
“You will have to. I refuse to engage in an affair, and you have no interest in anything else. So once again, we find ourselves at an impasse. Except that I don’t think this particular impasse can be resolved.”
He dragged one hand through his hair, then offered a tight nod. “Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps it would be better if we try to forget what happened.”
“Yes, I think that would be best,” she choked out, then steadied her shoulders. “Now, didn’t you say there was wine?”
His eyes glittered at her in the dim light of the carriage, and for one long, tempting moment, she thought for sure he would throw caution to the winds and drag her into his arms and kiss her again. And if he did, she knew she would not have the strength to resist.
But he didn’t. With a shuddering breath, he turned to hunt in the box.
As she watched his bent head glistening golden in the moonlight and remembered how sweetly he’d kissed her, her throat ached with unshed tears and her heart felt ripped from her chest. Yes, it would be best if she forgot how he’d stroked her and caressed her and called her pretty names. It really would.
So it was a wretched shame that there was no chance in hell of that ever happening.
12
MAXIMILIAN SAT THERE numb, long after Lisette had fallen into a fitful sleep. He’d handled the whole thing badly. First he’d accused her of all manner of perfidy and behaved like a jealous, besotted fool, then he’d nearly taken her innocence, and finally he’d made that idiotic speech about not being able to marry her.
No wonder she’d withdrawn from him to cloak herself in her pride.
If that was what she’d been doing. Perhaps she’d really meant it when she said she had no desire to marry him. Given what she’d endured watching her father muck up her mother’s life, it would be understandable.
But he’d gone to the retiring room to fetch her, and heard her crying through the door. The sound of those tears still echoed in his brain. No, she hadn’t meant it.
It was one more measure of how different she was from other women. Any other woman would have pressed her advantage, tried to extract some promise of a future from him after he’d put his hands all over her so insolently.
Not his Lisette. She was too proud for that. Instead she went off and cried her heart out alone. And even knowing that, he had still hurt her.
He was an insensitive, arrogant arse.
At the very least, he should have revealed why he couldn’t marry her. He should have told her that both his great-uncle and his father had died raving mad, that odds were good he would as well, and that she would not enjoy watching it.
But after hour upon hour of having the woman treat him like a regular person, he hadn’t wanted to give that up. Because if she knew the truth, she would look at him the same way every other woman did—as the duke who was sure to degenerate into madness any moment.
At least other women weighed the advantages of being married to a rich duke against the possibility of madness and sometimes chose to ignore the latter. But she didn’t care about the former, so she would only see the latter. That would kill him. Better to have her think him an arse.
Not only an arse but a heartless rogue.
What had she said? I refuse to engage in an affair, and you have no interest in anything else.
Little did she know. The idea of marrying Lisette had begun to have an intoxicating appeal. He knew it would only end in tragedy, yet he couldn’t stop imagining what it would be like.
She would turn the ton on its ear. Ladies would gossip endlessly about her, and when they realized she didn’t care a whit, they would lionize her. Because the ton always worshipped whoever had no use for them, especially when that person was the wife of a wealthy duke.
In those long, lonely nights at Marsbury House, he would have her to hold, her to joke with, her to tease. He would no longer have to lie in his bed waiting for the madness to start. She would distract him from it.
But only until the day when his mind started to go. And since Lisette would undoubtedly care deeply about him by then, the thought of what it would do to her was more than he could stand.
She shifted restlessly on the seat, pulling her legs up beneath her cloak as if trying to get them warm. It was rather cold in the coach. It might be spring, but the nights were still cold.
Telling himself he just wanted to make her more comfortable, he slid onto the seat beside her, pulled her against him, and covered them both with his greatcoat. With a sigh, she burrowed into him, and his heart constricted
in his chest.
He closed his eyes and laid his head back, pretending that they were married, that she was his wife and they were traveling to Paris for pleasure. He sat like that a long time, thinking he would never be able to fall asleep himself, with her so fragrant and warm in his arms.
But to his shock, the next time he opened his eyes, it was broad daylight. Sometime in the night, he must have stretched out on the seat with his back to the squabs, for she lay stretched atop him. Her raven curls had come loose from their pins, and he couldn’t resist the urge to stroke them.
Rousing, she opened her eyes to stare up at him in clear confusion.
“Good morning . . . Lisette,” he murmured, choking off the word dearling just in time.
“Max.” A soft smile touched her lips that made his heart soar. Then, to his chagrin, she came fully awake and cried, “Max!” and threw herself off him and onto the other seat.
She wouldn’t look at him as she straightened her skirts. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know how I ended up using you for a bed.”
“It’s all right. I didn’t mind.”
If that was the closest he could get to having her in his arms, even temporarily, he would take it.
“I suppose I look a fright,” she murmured, running her fingers through her wild curls.
“You couldn’t look a fright if you tried.”
She shot him a wary glance, then gazed out the window. “We made good time, didn’t we? We can’t be more than an hour from Paris. I think we should go to Tristan’s lodgings and see what we can find out there. That will also give us a chance to make ourselves presentable before we talk to Vidocq.”
Clamping down on a burst of jealousy, he said, “We don’t have time to dillydally, Lisette. Let’s only spend as much time at your brother’s as we need, assuming that he doesn’t turn out to be there.”
“All right.”
“And we can consult with Vidocq, but if he doesn’t know anything—”
“We will have to speak to the head of the Sûreté. I understand.”
The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires Page 16