She paled, then turned to Vidocq. “Thank you, then we will use your coach.”
Vidocq was eyeing him suspiciously, but Maximilian didn’t care. To gain Lisette as his wife, he would need plenty of time alone with her so he could court her.
And he’d just bought himself that time.
17
THE NIGHT PORTION of their coach trip went better than Lisette expected, mostly because she was too tired from all their traveling to do anything but sleep. Max also fell into a doze as soon as they’d left Paris, and thankfully he stayed on his side of the carriage all night.
But everything changed once the sun came up. First, she awakened to find the carriage halted and Max gone. In a panic, she leapt out just in time to see him and the coachman in rolled-up shirtsleeves preparing to push the equipage up a steep hill that the horses were having trouble with. She could only stand there gaping as they put their backs into it.
Last week she would never have imagined that Lofty Lyons could—or would—shove a carriage up a hill. But Max did his part so admirably that long after the coach had reached the top and they’d continued on their journey, she was unable to blot out the image of him with forearms flexing and windblown hair shining golden in the morning sun.
It got no better as the day went on. He was up to something; she knew it. He made no mention of the conflict between them, but he kept touching her. At first, she’d thought it was accidental—his booted calf bumping hers in a turn, his elbow brushing her thigh when he leaned forward to get something out of his bag, which was stowed beneath her seat.
But the coach was not that small; there was no call for him to touch her. And when they disembarked to dine at an inn midday and his hand lingered on hers while he helped her out of the carriage, she realized what he was up to. He was subtly trying to seduce her, the sly devil. He was still bent on trying to get her with child, so she would have to marry him on his terms.
Very well. He would fight the battle his way. She would fight it hers.
So as soon as they climbed back into the coach, she drew out the ribbon embroidery she’d brought with her but hadn’t had the chance to work, and began to ornament a pillowcase. The next time he “accidentally” rubbed his knee up against hers, she “accidentally” jabbed his knee with her needle.
“Ow!” he cried and scowled at her, rubbing his knee. “What the blazes was that for?”
She cast him an innocent glance and continued to work. “I don’t know what you mean. It’s such close quarters in here that you have to expect a bit of bumping up against each other.”
He eyed her suspiciously. After watching her for a few sullen moments, he asked, “Do you do that often?”
“What? Stab randy dukes in the knee with my needle?” she quipped.
“Embroider. I noticed a great deal of it in your room and at Manton’s and on your gown. Did you do it all yourself?”
She was surprised to find him so observant. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “It seems a rather domestic activity for a woman who wants to be an investigator.”
“I had a great deal of time on my hands when I was a girl, and I was the restless sort,” she explained. “So whenever I got too rambunctious, Maman would sit me down with a needle and cloth and ribbons and teach me how to do ribbon embroidery.”
“That worked?”
“For me it did. It calmed the frenzy in my mind.” She paused to gaze out the window, remembering. “I used to love those times with Maman. She’d learned the skill from her mother, whom I didn’t know, so I got to hear stories about my French family. Eventually, I chose to do the embroidery for my own pleasure. I still do; it calms me when I’m agitated.”
And she was certainly agitated around him.
Forcing that thought from her mind, she held up what she was working on. “Of course, my subjects aren’t exactly . . . typical.”
When he caught sight of her silver ribbon rendering of a dagger Papa had brought back from one of his trips, he burst into laughter. “Leave it to you to figure out how to combine domesticity with a yearning for adventure.”
With a smile she went back to her work.
After a moment, he said, “My mother used to embroider.”
Something he’d mentioned a few days ago tugged at her memory. “Did she embroider that handkerchief that you said was so distinctive?”
“She did, actually.”
Not wanting to pry, she bent her head over her work.
He watched her a moment, then said, “What makes the handkerchief distinctive is what lies between the embroidery and the linen.” He pulled open his coat to reveal a hidden pocket behind the lapel. Then he drew out a handkerchief of ivory-colored linen that she hadn’t seen before.
He stared at it, softness spreading over his features. Then he handed it to her.
She slid closer to the window to examine it in full sunlight. At first it just looked like a very fancy handkerchief, with the ducal crest embroidered in a variety of colored threads, including gold and silver ones. But given what he’d said, she noticed that the bits of the cloth that showed through the embroidery weren’t creamy linen. They were white, possibly cotton or muslin.
When she looked at him in bewilderment, he said, “My mother took a piece of our christening gowns and sewed it to a handkerchief for each of us, then embroidered over and around it. It’s not the kind of thing anyone would notice without knowing to look for it. It’s certainly nothing that Bonnaud would have noticed upon seeing my handkerchief for a few moments years ago.”
“Why did you show it to him back then?”
Max took the handkerchief from her and gazed down at it. “When I was a boy, I was more casual with it, carrying it about in the same pocket with my regular handkerchief. But I was always reaching for a handkerchief and pulling out the wrong one, which is what I did with your brother that day. Then I felt compelled to explain why I had two, one of which was ornate. Of course, I didn’t tell him about the christening gown fabric.” He lifted his gaze to lock with hers. “I’ve never told anyone but you.”
The fact that he trusted her touched her deeply. “I won’t tell a soul.”
He nodded, then tucked the handkerchief reverently into its secret pocket.
“The work on it is very fine. Your mother must have been talented with a needle.”
“She certainly spent enough time at it. Before Father . . . grew ill. After that, she was too busy to do much but take care of him.”
“How old were you then?” she asked.
“Twenty-one. I had just come of age.”
“Tell me about it,” she said softly.
When he tensed, she thought for certain he would retreat into his self-imposed prison. But then he began to talk. And her heart broke a little more for him with each word.
By the time they neared Calais, she began to understand why he was so afraid of letting anyone too close. Perhaps she would be, too, if she’d watched her father forget her name, make wild accusations about her mother, and run amok from mad delusions that people were trying to murder him. Worst of all were Max’s tales of holding his father down to keep him from hurting his mother or himself. Those made her want to cry.
Clearly he was telling her all this to convince her that his idea of a marriage was the best. But it made her even more determined never to abandon him to the indifferent care of servants and doctors.
They reached Calais after nightfall. The inns were teeming with passengers headed for England the next day, and they had to go to three hotels before they found lodgings.
As soon as they entered their small room, she groaned. It contained only a bed, a dresser, and a spindly chair.
Max came to take her cloak. “We’ll share the bed. We both need a good night’s rest. There’s no telling what we’ll find once we reach London.”
“But—”
“I promise to be a gentleman,” he cut in. “Trust me, I’m too tired to be anyth
ing else.”
Though she cast him a skeptical glance, she knew he was right about them needing their sleep. “All right.” She forced a lightness into her tone. “Just stay out of the taproom tonight, will you?”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said irritably, “I’ve gotten drunk in a taproom only once in my entire life, and you happened to be around for it. I suppose I’ll never live that down.”
“I beg your pardon, but what about when you were sixteen and sneaked down to the taproom at that inn in Dieppe?” she teased. “Didn’t you get drunk then?”
He flushed. “That’s not why I sneaked down those stairs. I was going out to the garden to meet with a maid who’d flirted with me at dinner. I was feeling my oats, that’s all.”
Her heart tightened as she imagined a young Max, full of youth and vigor, trying to steal a kiss in a back garden. Before his life was ripped away from him by responsibilities and duties and tragedy.
“After all, isn’t that the second son’s job?” he joked halfheartedly. “To be a rapscallion?”
“Well, you’re not a second son anymore, so you’d better keep your hands to yourself tonight.”
“If I don’t, you can always stab me with your embroidery needle,” he said dryly. “You seem to have mastered that technique.”
She managed a smile. “I doubt that will be necessary.”
An uncomfortable silence descended upon them. Muttering something about seeing to their supper, he disappeared.
The rest of the evening was as difficult as she’d expected. Sharing a room with him felt distinctly different now that she’d shared his bed. Conversation at supper was stilted, and preparing for bed was awkward since she had to have his help in taking off her corset.
His hands undoing her gown felt intimate, his fingers unlacing her corset felt intimate . . . just feeling his breath on her neck felt intimate. He didn’t do a single thing that was improper, yet it didn’t matter. Everything he did made her want him.
He climbed into bed wearing only his shirt and drawers and faced away from her. She sat on the bed and took her time brushing her hair, waiting to hear the even rhythm of his breathing. Thankfully, it came soon.
Only then did she slip off her loosened gown and corset and petticoats, leaving her in her shift and drawers. She wasn’t about to change into her nightdress; that would be tempting Fate.
She carefully slid under the covers to avoid waking him, but he didn’t even rouse.
That ought to have made her relax, yet she lay there for a long time thinking about what he’d told her, wondering if she was making a mistake to be so insistent about how they should go on together. He had offered her marriage, for pity’s sake. Was she being foolish to turn him down?
When at last she fell asleep it was to dream of Max, strong and hearty, shoving Vidocq’s carriage up a hill. Except that in her dream Max wore nothing but a hat. Though she told him he should be careful—since he was naked and all—he merely tipped his hat to her and went right back to shoving the carriage.
Suddenly, the carriage began slipping backward and Max started sliding down the hill, unable to control it, and she tried to scream, but she couldn’t, and she ran toward him down the hill and ran and ran—
She came awake with a start. She was gripping something warm beneath her. Still half asleep and disoriented, she stared about her and realized she was using Max as a bed. Again.
Then she felt something hard pressing into her belly, which seemed to grow harder by the moment. As she caught Max’s gaze glinting up at her in the gray light of dawn, he drawled, “If you want me to keep my promise to be a gentleman, dearling, I suggest that you retreat to your side of the bed.”
For a long moment, she just stared down at him—at his tousled hair and his whiskered chin and his tight jaw. At the face that became dearer to her by the day. Then she kissed him.
He tensed as if in shock, then swiftly rolled her beneath him. His hands bracketed her shoulders, and he lowered his mouth to within a few inches of hers. “Tell me you want this,” he growled.
The rampant heat in his eyes made her swallow, but she’d already decided what to do.
Perhaps it was the lingering memory of her dream. Or the feel of his body so warm and real against hers, or the way he’d lain perfectly still the whole time she’d been sprawled across him. Perhaps it was the fact that she knew they might not have another chance to be alone like this.
Whatever the reason, she had to feel his mouth on hers once more, had to touch him and be with him. Really be with him.
She slid her hands up beneath his shirt. “I want this. I want—”
He smothered the word you with a hard kiss.
After that, there was no turning back. As he plundered her mouth, she put her hands all over him, pressed her body against him, filled her senses with him. She couldn’t get enough of him.
Apparently he felt the same. The sun rose as he sucked her nipples hard through her shift while fondling her below with long, firm strokes of his clever fingers, making her even more impatient for him.
“Max,” she whispered, “Max, please . . . please . . . I need you now.”
“Good,” he said hoarsely as he settled himself between her legs. “Because I can’t wait any longer to have you.”
Next thing she knew, he’d entered her right through the opening in her drawers. She nearly came out of her skin as he buried himself to the hilt.
“Lisette,” he choked out. “Oh, God, Lisette . . .”
Then he began to move. It was so different from before—no pain, no awkwardness. Just Max joined to her, claiming her, making her his own.
The reckless glitter in his eyes as he drove into her with hard, eager thrusts told her that when they were like this, he was not the duke. He was her wild lover.
“This is how . . . it should always be,” he rasped as he quickened his strokes. “You . . . in my bed . . . in my arms . . . Always.”
For the moment, she gave herself up to that dream. He was thunder and lightning and rain, and she was the earth and flowers that drank up the storm. He was the only man she wanted, the only man she would ever want, and she was his only mate.
She felt her release approaching, rising to seize her in its grip and drive her up . . . up . . . up . . . until Max gave one final thrust inside her and let out a ragged cry that triggered her own glorious explosion.
In that moment, as he clutched her to him and filled her with his seed, she knew she’d lost the battle to protect her heart. She loved him. Oh, Lord, how she loved him.
After a while, his breathing slowed. He bent his head to kiss her cheek and nuzzle her neck. Then he slid off to lie next to her on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
Though she knew she had just done the most foolish thing of her life, she snuggled up against him. “You make an excellent bed.”
He laughed. “Feel free to use me as one whenever you like.” He curled his arm about her and held her, stroking her hair. “We could wake up like this every morning, you know.”
She rubbed her cheek over his chest. “At least until you started imagining that you saw signs of madness in yourself. Until you sent me away to protect me, whether or not I wanted or needed protection.”
When he uttered a long sigh, she swallowed her disappointment. The man was so stubborn! And so determined to have everything his way.
She slid off the bed. “We have to go. The packet boat will be leaving shortly.”
He sat up. “Lisette, I want you to know that no matter what happens once we find Bonnaud, my offer of marriage stands. I don’t care what your brother has done or who your mother was, or whether I prove to be the duke or not. You’re the only woman I would ever choose to marry.”
Trying not to cry at those sweet words, she smiled sadly. “And my answer still stands. It’s because you’re the only man I want to marry that I must have a real marriage. That isn’t going to change.”
He muttered a curse under his breath. But at
least he didn’t argue with her.
An hour later, they were aboard the steam packet headed for London. This time, the crossing proved every bit as miserable as her mood. A squall arose, tossing the boat on the churning sea as easily as a matchstick. So they spent their time huddled in the main cabin with the other passengers, trying to stay warm and dry.
“Do you still miss your yacht?” she asked him. “I daresay it would have been torn to bits during this storm.”
He shook his head. “I have an able captain and a very seaworthy vessel. It has made the crossing more times than you have, I’ll wager.” His eyes gleamed at her. “And it will make the crossing many times more. After all, I intend very soon to take a wife who has family connections in France.”
She sighed and averted her gaze. He wouldn’t give up, would he? She didn’t know whether to be thrilled over his determination, or to despair that he continued to insist it be on his terms.
But one thing was certain: If she didn’t get away from him soon, he would win. Because with every passing moment, she lost more of her will to resist him.
18
MAXIMILIAN STOOD ON the dark London dock with Lisette and their bags, having spent the hours since their arrival in arranging this meeting. His heart pounded as he watched a lamplit boat being rowed toward them through the night. He couldn’t see the cargo ship beyond it, but he knew it was there. The Grecian had been quarantined right here, under their noses, ever since it had arrived in London flying a yellow flag six weeks ago.
He’d found two names on the passenger manifest—Jack Drake, a common alias of Bonnaud’s, and Victor Cale. Maximilian wasn’t sure why Peter had chosen to go by another Christian name after the fire, but it couldn’t be coincidence that the surname was Cale. He and Lisette had found the needle in the haystack at last.
Amazing what a man could discover once he knew where to look . . . and once he was able to use his title. Maximilian had spent the past few hours bullying Privy Council members and shipping officials alike to gain information and arrange to be taken aboard the Grecian.
The Duke's Men [1] What the Duke Desires Page 22