The Secret of Flirting

by Sabrina Jeffries

“Good.” His eyes shone jewel-bright as he moved up over her. “Because you, my princess, deserve ‘amazing.’ ” He rubbed against her, the fine wool of his trousers abrading her bare flesh ever so slightly. “I want to be inside you. Will you let me?”

  Even as she reached down to unfasten his trousers, she cast him a provoking smile. “You were just now inside me.”

  With his hands gripping either side of the chaise longue, he hovered over her. “You know what I mean, Mademoiselle Tourmenteur,” he growled, and bent his head to nip at her earlobe. “Tease me at your peril.”

  Smiling coyly, she reached in his trousers to cup his rampant erection through his drawers. “Are you sure it will be my peril, monsieur?”

  His eyes slid shut. “Oh, God, yes. Touch me there.” When she began to rub him, he rasped, “You may torment me as much as you wish as long as you keep . . . doing . . . precisely that.”

  It was as if his words unleashed the coquette in her. It made no sense, but she reveled in his hunger, delighted in his thirst for her. Perhaps because in that moment, he was just a man and she a woman, and all the subterfuge and machinations between them vanished.

  While she stroked him through his drawers, he began kissing her again, his mouth as ravenous as a bird of prey’s. The firm thrust of his verge against her hand inflamed her, though it also made her curious to know if it really could give such enjoyment as her fellow actresses claimed. It seemed so . . . massive—

  “Fulkham!” came a shout from below. “Where are you, old chap?”

  They both froze.

  Gregory muttered a string of curses. “Danworth is out here now? Why the hell is everyone in the whole damned party looking for us? Can’t they leave us alone for one bloody moment?”

  Amused by his burst of temper, she gazed up into his scowling face. “Perhaps he too will go away if we keep quiet . . . and you stop cursing.”

  “Not Danworth.” He pushed up from the chaise longue and began to straighten his disordered clothes. “Not if he has any inkling that we’re out here. He’ll send a search party for us, blast him. Especially given the reason we came to my estate in the first place.”

  “He knows of that?” she asked in alarm, jumping up to put her own clothing to rights.

  “The prime minister told him. That’s the reason he’s here: because Wellington wants to make sure the ‘princess’ is kept safe.”

  She glanced out the window to see Mr. Danworth coming down the path toward the knot garden, searching the area with what appeared to be concern. He would be upon them in moments if he entered the pavilion.

  Gregory came up beside her to tuck a tendril back into her coiffeur. “You stay up here and finish straightening your hair and clothing while I speak to him alone.”

  “Yes, you would not want your friend to think that you might actually desire the princess, eh?” The bitter words left her before she could stop them. “Especially since you intend to expose me in the end. A dalliance with an actress, an impostor, couldn’t possibly help your career.”

  He swore under his breath. “Monique—”

  “Forgive me,” she said instantly, and meant it. She faced him, the remorse in his gaze making her wince. “I should not chide you for doing what any man would do when a woman throws herself at him.”

  His jaw tightened. “It’s not as simple as that, damn it.”

  “Isn’t it?” A wave of sadness swamped her. “We could never have a legitimate connection even if you wished it—even if I wished it. Half of good society has met me and thinks they know who I am. To marry you, I would have to be exposed for a fraud. And that would ruin you. Not to mention that it would leave Grand-maman with no one to take care of her.”

  The sound of Mr. Danworth entering the pavilion downstairs struck terror in her that only deepened when the man cried, “Princess? Fulkham?”

  Gregory wasn’t the only one who could lose everything if they were found in a compromising position that might cause a scandal.

  She had to fix this, since he wouldn’t. Touching a hand to her hair to make sure it was presentable enough to pass, she swept past Gregory to the stairs. “We’re up here, Mr. Danworth! You must come see.”

  Gregory tensed. “What the devil are you up to?” was all he had time to growl before Mr. Danworth was hurrying up the stairs.

  She met the man at the staircase. “Lady Fulkham has set out a new knot garden. It is truly a magnificent design. You probably couldn’t tell it from outside, but you can see it wonderfully from up here.”

  Mr. Danworth glanced beyond her to Gregory and raised an eyebrow.

  Taking his cue from her, Gregory rolled his eyes heavenward. “The princess is a bit obsessed with knot gardens. I suppose they’re a favorite in Chanay. She wouldn’t rest until she got a look at Mother’s new design from a better vantage point.”

  “Oh yes,” she gushed, “and it’s wonderful.” Clasping Mr. Danworth by the arm, she tugged him over to the windows. “Look there. Do you see how the edges curl around what is marked to be a lilac bush? Lord Fulkham tells me that his mother plans to have overlapping hedges and embroidery effects and everything. I only wish I could see it once it’s completed.”

  “I’m sure Mother would be happy to host you here again,” Gregory said dryly from behind her.

  She ignored him to focus all her attention on Mr. Danworth, who was peering out the window incredulously, as if incapable of believing anyone cared that much about a garden.

  “And look over there.” She pointed to the far corner. “That circle will be a birdbath. Imagine how lovely this garden will be once the robins and the sparrows come to preen in the sun. Not to mention the butterflies.”

  “Butterflies?” Mr. Danworth asked, rather stupidly.

  “Of course there will be butterflies. The painted ladies will come north in the spring and lay their eggs, which cocoon. Once their young emerge—”

  “Right,” he said. “More butterflies.” Looking over at Gregory, he said, “She really does enjoy gardens, doesn’t she?”

  Gregory only shrugged, though his eyes glittered at her as if to say, We are not done with our discussion.

  Determinedly she lifted her face to Mr. Danworth and flashed him a flirtatious smile. “Why are you here? Did you come to call us in to dinner? Or were you hoping for a private word?”

  The man looked suddenly uneasy. “Er . . . I merely thought . . . that is . . .”

  “A private word with your friend,” she added. “Lord Fulkham.”

  Relief spread over Mr. Danworth’s features. “Yes. Of course. With Fulkham. Or rather . . .”

  “Pay her no mind, Danworth,” Gregory drawled. “Her Highness likes to toy with us Englishmen.” He smiled thinly. “She thinks we are all too serious by far.”

  “But not you, Mr. Danworth,” she said, and tugged him toward the door. “Lady Fulkham says you know all the choicest bon mots. Is that true?”

  Casting a nervous glance back at Gregory, he said, “I know one or two.” And with that, he proceeded to regale her with some as she let him lead her out of the pavilion, with Gregory following.

  Along the way she flirted and teased, waxing philosophical about plants and insects and anything else she could think of. By the time they reached the house, she was fairly certain she had distracted him from dwelling on the impropriety of her and Gregory being alone together in the pavilion.

  Now, if only she could distract herself from wishing she and Gregory had been alone a bit longer. Which was absurd. She had dodged a figurative bullet this time. Next time she might not be so lucky. And the last thing she needed was to give her virtue to a man who would end up destroying her.

  It didn’t help that once they entered the house she found the count waiting for her, obviously annoyed about something.

  He took her aside as soon as he could get her alone. “Now, see here, girl, Danworth is of no importance. Don’t waste your smiles on him.”

  She bristled. “Did you not see that I was
also with Lord Fulkham?”

  “Yes. But I gather that you avoided the duke in order to spend time with Fulkham. That isn’t a good strategy either. Pontalba was quite put out. Meanwhile, Fulkham is clearly already in your clutches. Do not slight one fellow for the other. You must charm them both if we are to succeed. And unlike Fulkham, who fancies you, the duke is already predisposed toward his candidate.”

  She tightened her hands into fists at her sides. Oh, the things she wanted to tell him—that she was done with the masquerade, that Lord Fulkham knew she was Monique Servais . . . that if the duke breathed his garlic breath on her one more time, she would shove her scented handkerchief down his throat.

  Instead, she flashed the count a brittle smile. “I shall do my best to please you, Uncle.”

  That seemed to bring him up short. “Well . . . then . . . see that you do.” He paused. “You do realize I say these things only for your own good. This is too important for all of us.”

  How well she knew.

  Fifteen

  That night at dinner, Gregory had trouble concentrating on his guest’s chatter. After his encounter with Monique, he’d gone into nearby Canterbury to speak with the constable, figuring it wouldn’t hurt to find out if anyone suspicious had been lurking about.

  Thank God he had, for the constable had informed him that a stranger from London had been in town a few days before. But it hadn’t had anything to do with the princess, because the fellow had been asking about Gregory. About his father’s death. About why no one had found it suspicious that the previous Lord Fulkham had broken his neck falling down a staircase.

  The constable, of course, had told the man the truth—no one had found it suspicious because the baron had been well known for his drunkenness. Indeed, it had not been the first time the man had taken a tumble while drunk.

  Still, though Gregory knew no one could ever find out the truth, it unnerved him to have someone asking about it. Unfortunately, the constable only had a name for the mysterious London investigator: Tom Smith, obviously an alias. The constable knew nothing more that could tell Gregory what this was about.

  Bloody hell.

  Well, there was naught he could do about it at present. He had to focus on getting through the next few days with Monique. On making sure she stayed alive . . . and that he didn’t do something unwise.

  Like bed the woman.

  God, even now he wanted to do so. Tonight she was at her most effervescent—flirting with Pontalba and Danworth, charming Mother, and teasing Lady Ursula and even the count in a way that seemed to startle the old Frenchman.

  But she persistently ignored Gregory. Not that he could blame her. First, he’d nearly ravished her. Then they’d had a close call with Danworth. If she hadn’t acted swiftly to allay the fellow’s suspicions, Danworth would now be wondering why they’d been up there alone, seemingly hiding from the world.

  But she’d made everything seem perfectly natural, despite her lips swollen with Gregory’s kisses and her coiffeur tilted off-center. He couldn’t help admiring her aplomb. For a woman who’d spent her life as a commoner, she could play the princess to the hilt.

  Indeed, she was presently enchanting every person at the table, including him, with her self-deprecating remarks about her encounters with the English.

  “So when I asked His Majesty about the ancient queen, he was quite insulted,” she told the other guests. “Thank heaven Lady Ursula explained to him that I meant the ‘previous’ queen and not his wife. Only then did I realize that ‘ancient’ in English may look like ancien in French, but it is decidedly not the same in meaning.” She covered her cheeks fetchingly. “How very embarrassant!”

  Mother laughed. “I can only imagine. Especially since Queen Adelaide is nearly thirty years younger than the king.”

  “But my explanation must have satisfied him,” Lady Ursula put in, “since he then went on to ask the princess to waltz with him.”

  “Did he really?” his mother said. “I confess I’m surprised. I thought he never waltzed with anyone but the queen.” Her tone turned dry. “Or Mrs. Jordan, back when she was alive.”

  “Mother,” Gregory chided. “Must you gossip about His Majesty?”

  “Who was Mrs. Jordan?” Monique asked.

  His mother ignored him, intent on sharing a juicy tidbit with the few at the table who’d likely never heard it. “She served as the king’s mistress for twenty years before she died and before he married. He lived with her in his own house. Why, they had ten children together! You may actually have met some of them. All the FitzClarences are his by-blows by that actress.”

  As Monique’s smile turned brittle, Gregory stifled a groan. A quick glance at the count showed the man blandly nodding as Lady Ursula colored and turned a sudden, inordinate attention to her fish.

  God, when those two had chosen an actress to impersonate Aurore, they should have told her about the king’s former mistress, given that the FitzClarences were in and out of the palace and royal functions with regularity.

  “His Majesty has always been unorthodox,” Gregory explained. “He never expected to be called upon to rule, so since he couldn’t marry Mrs. Jordan—”

  “Why couldn’t he marry her if he wished?” Lady Ursula asked. “He’s a prince.” Inexplicably she cast a furtive glance at the count. “He ought to be able to do as he pleases.”

  “That’s a lovely idea,” Gregory said, not even trying to hide his sarcasm. “Unfortunately, no matter how enticing the concept, English law forbids it.”

  Monique stared at him, her expression so vulnerable it cut him to the heart. “Because he was a prince? Or because she was an actress?”

  “Both, I’m afraid. Royals cannot marry anyone unsanctioned by the king, and William’s father, George III, would never have sanctioned such a marriage.”

  “But lords can marry actresses, can’t they?” Lady Ursula put in. “I have heard of it. Wasn’t Lord Derby’s late wife a former actress?”

  Gregory tore his gaze from Monique. “His second wife, yes. Which was why they weren’t much accepted in society. It’s considered beyond the pale.”

  “I don’t know,” his mother mused aloud. “The Duke of Bolton married an actress, and the Earl of Peterborough married an opera singer, which is practically the same.”

  “Both were second wives,” Gregory pointed out.

  “What about Louisa Brunton? She was the Earl of Craven’s first wife.”

  Damn it, why must his mother press this? “Certainly it’s been done, but when you can count the number of such marriages on one hand, it clearly isn’t common. Most lords are too conscious of their position to risk such a union.”

  “Which is precisely why British lords are so very dull, sir,” Monique said with forced lightness. “They follow rules rather than their passions.” When he shot her a black look, she added, “Present company excepted, of course.”

  “No, no, you’re right,” his mother had the audacity to say, “at least about my son, anyway. While I would not call Gregory dull, he can sometimes be overly a slave to rules. Although he wasn’t always like that.”

  Mischief leapt into Monique’s eyes. “Do tell,” she crooned.

  “Well . . .” his mother began.

  “Mother,” he said in a warning tone, “our guests have no desire to hear about my youthful peccadilloes.”

  “On the contrary,” Danworth said, a certain glee in his face, “I would thoroughly enjoy such tales.”

  The thought of Danworth spreading Mother’s stories at St. George’s made Gregory scowl at him. Besides, he was still annoyed with the man for preventing him and Monique from continuing their delightful, though unwise, encounter.

  “I, too, would find it entertaining,” the count said, with a bit of a smirk. “Wouldn’t you, Pontalba?”

  “Most assuredly,” the damned Frenchman drawled.

  “You see, Gregory?” his mother said. “They all think you too rigid and serious, and I mean to show th
em that you can break the rules sometimes. That even you have a reckless side.”

  Oh, God.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “even as a small boy my son was quite a pistol. Seven months after his brother was born, he got jealous of the baby getting so much of my attention, so he hid poor John under his bed. When I came to the nursery, Gregory met me at the door and announced very loftily that the fairies had flown off with John, and there was naught we could do about it.”

  Everyone chuckled.

  “Then, even as Gregory was spinning his sad tale, John crawled out giggling from beneath the bed. Apparently, he found the whole thing a fine game. Seeing that his plan had gone awry, Gregory burst out with, ‘Ooh, look, they must have flown him back! They’re quick, those fairies.’ ”

  As the room erupted in laughter, Gregory grumbled, “For God’s sake, I was four years old.”

  “Almost five,” she corrected him. “And as willful a lad as I ever saw, even when your father—”

  She caught herself before she could say “disciplined you.” Which had been Father’s euphemism for knocking him about.

  Gregory took a long swig of his wine, wishing it were something stronger. He rarely drank spirits, but tonight he might have to make an exception.

  “Then there was Gregory’s first year at Eton, when he was ten,” Mother went on. “He attended at a younger age than some gentlemen’s sons, because his father felt it would be good for him. As did I.”

  Actually, Mother had talked Father into sending him away, trying to protect her son from the man’s worst abuses. And Gregory had always been grateful to her for that. No punishment for minor offenses at Eton had ever been as terrifying—or painful—as Father in a drunken rage.

  “Slowly I began hearing reports of him,” Mother went on. “A polite letter from the headmaster, a not-so-polite letter from another boy’s mother . . . even a note from a local rector. And they all said the same thing. Apparently, my son had become quite the prankster.”

  “You?” Monique said to him, half-incredulous. “A prankster?”

  Gregory shrugged. “School was too easy. I had to entertain myself somehow.”