“There are ways to prevent that.”
She snorted. “Foolproof ways? Because I’ve seen actresses find themselves with child despite using French letters. Besides, I want children eventually. But not ones who will never see their father. I grew up without a father. I don’t want that for my own children.”
“Instead you want to go to Chanay and marry some . . . cursed fellow your great-uncle picks for you? Or return to Dieppe after your grandmother dies in hopes of marrying some French noble like the duke?”
A sad smile crossed her lips. “Would that bother you so much?”
“Yes,” he admitted. “Because part of what you said last night is true. I want no other man to have you.”
The moment he spoke the words, he knew they were true. He couldn’t bear the idea of her with another man, in marriage or otherwise. He wanted her for his own. And as she’d pointed out numerous times, that would never work.
“You only want me because you haven’t had your thirst quenched, my lord.” She slipped her hand inside his coat. “But we can easily remedy that.”
She was trying to distract him from his insistence that she go back to Dieppe before the vote. Before someone made a successful attempt on her life, which would destroy him.
Yet his cock rose at the thought of having her, even so. The bloody woman was shattering all his control. “Monique—”
“Shh,” she whispered as she rose to kiss him. “I want you, too, my lord. Here. Now, while everyone is still in Canterbury and the duke is at his toilette. While I can still have you. Give me this, at least.”
He let himself indulge in a long, hot kiss, in the delicious sweetness of her mouth and the tempting softness of her body in his arms. Then he drew back to rasp, “What about your determination not to have any of my . . . by-blows?”
“You said there were ways to prevent it—”
“No foolproof ways,” he reminded her.
She untied his cravat and drew it off inch by tantalizing inch. “I will risk it just this once, if only to gain the memory of being with you. That will have to last me a lifetime.”
“And afterward, you will agree to return to the Continent with Hart?”
Her answer was to pull his head down to her for another inflaming kiss. It wasn’t an answer, but he didn’t care anymore. Her remark about his not seeing her again was stuck in his head, and the thought of never having the chance to be with her blotted out the fact that he was a gentleman, that he should not do this, that they could be caught together . . .
Nothing mattered but taking her to bed.
Nineteen
Monique watched Gregory stride to the door and lock it, shedding his coat and waistcoat as he returned to her. She knew this was madness—why this man? Why now, when her life was in upheaval?
But she also knew she wouldn’t regret it. For once she would take her pleasure where she could, and to hell with those who would keep her from it.
She watched with avid interest as he took off his shirt, revealing a chest that seemed sculpted of marble, all carved lines and beautiful symmetry. Even the smattering of raven curls over it turned her knees to jelly.
When he caught her staring at him, he gave a low chuckle. “Like what you see, Princess?”
“Perhaps,” she said coyly. “Though I want to see more.”
Heat flamed in his face like lightning on the sea, drying the very breath in her throat. “As would I.” Gesturing to her riding habit, which fastened in the front, he ordered, “Unbutton it.”
His tone of command sent excitement roaring through her, as did the idea of having him watch her remove her clothes. Though she fumbled a little in her haste, she had her riding habit off in a matter of moments, followed by her chemisette.
His gaze seared her as he surveyed her in her corset, chemise, stockings, and riding boots. “God save me,” he rasped.
That break in his usual control—and the noticeable thickness in his trousers—freed her to tease him. “Not even God can save you from me, monsieur.” With a coquettish smile, she lifted one foot and set it on the chair so she could unlace her half-boot and slide it off. Then she deliberately hitched up her chemise to expose her lacy drawers and garters.
She was rewarded by his harsh intake of breath. Just as she removed her garter and started to take off her stocking, he said hoarsely, “Let me,” and walked over to peel it slowly down her leg.
At the same time, he slid his other hand between her thighs and inside the slit in her drawers to find the place where she was already wet and eager for him.
It was her turn to strive for breath as he fondled her so deftly that it made her gasp and moan for more. With a smile that was half smirk, half pleasure, he pulled her foot off the chair, then hooked his hand behind her knee to lift the other leg so she could set that foot on the chair.
This time he was the one to remove her boot, garter, and stocking with a series of bold, hot caresses that ignited her senses. By the time her stockings were pooled on the floor at her feet, she thought she might melt into a puddle on top of them.
“Turn around,” he commanded her.
“Yes, sir,” she said impudently. “Whatever his lordship demands.”
His low laugh resonated deep inside her belly. “Whatever I demand? I’ll have to see that to believe it.”
She put her back to him. “Do you always order your paramours about like this?”
“I don’t have a string of paramours, as you seem to think,” he said, a trace of irritation in his voice. “They’re . . . inconvenient.”
Yet he had asked her to be his mistress. She told herself that it meant nothing. All the same, it felt like it meant something.
“Wives can be inconvenient, too,” she said, trying not to tremble like a silly schoolgirl as he loosened the laces of her corset, the brush of his hands over her chemise-clad back making her yearn for more than this one encounter.
“So I’m told.” He pulled her corset off over her head, then pressed a kiss to her bare shoulder. “I would give much to see you with your hair down, Princess.”
“You can’t,” she said with true regret, then added tartly, “unless you’re prepared to put it back up again.”
“Don’t tempt me to try it.” He ran his tongue along the nape of her neck. “Though I confess that having all of this exposed is enjoyable, too. It makes me want to mark you again.”
“Don’t you dare!” She swiveled to face him, only to find him laughing. “It’s probably a good thing we can’t marry,” she said petulantly. “You would be a most trying husband, I’m sure.”
“Probably,” he said, obviously not the least insulted. With eyes darkening, he reached for the hem of her chemise. “But there are advantages to marriage, too.” His guttural tone gave her pause. “Like being able to have the wife of one’s dreams in one’s bed.”
Her breath caught in her throat. “Would I be . . . the wife of your dreams?”
His only answer was to kiss her, hard and deep and so fiercely that her heart felt as if it might fly out of her chest. She told herself to not even hope for it. What good would it do to dream, when nothing could come of it? He would not give up his ambition for her.
But that didn’t mean she couldn’t enjoy their one time together. And she intended to do so, to revel in it and fix it in her memory for all her days.
He drew back to drag her chemise over her head, then gaze on her naked as if it were his right. And it was. She’d given it to him.
His eyes smoldered a hot blue as they scoured her naked body. “You may never be queen of Belgium, ma chérie, but you are a queen nonetheless.”
“In appearance, you mean,” she said, faintly disappointed.
“In everything. Diplomacy. Intelligence.” He lifted an eyebrow. “Talent in the theater.” As that made her smile, he filled his hands with her breasts, thumbing her nipples to fine points. “And in bounty of bosom. Most assuredly.”
She laughed in spite of herself. “For a f
ellow who strategizes his every move, you are still such a man.”
Eyes gleaming, he pulled his hands from her breasts so he could work loose his trouser buttons. “Shall I show you how much of a man I am?”
“Oh yes.” She’d never actually seen a man naked, except on statues, and that could hardly be the same.
He shoved off his trousers, then swiftly divested himself of his drawers. And that’s when she thought better of her plan to lose her virtue to him. Because that massive engine thrusting out from between his thighs like a cannon headed for war was far more daunting than she’d expected. It was as arrogant as he, with ballocks the size of plums.
“Sacrebleu,” she couldn’t help whispering.
That made him falter. “You have done this before, haven’t you?”
She considered revealing the truth. But then he would put a swift end to this. He was a gentleman, and he had some insane notion that she might end up a princess one day.
“What do you think?” she said, perversely not wanting to lie to him.
Thankfully, he came to the obvious conclusion and drew her into his arms. She ought to be insulted, but she was merely glad that he would do as she wanted and take her to his bed.
Or at least figuratively, since instead of leading her to his bedchamber, he hoisted her onto his desk and murmured, “Good. Because I can’t wait any longer to have you, my sweet.”
Then he was parting her legs and finding that soft, silky place that yearned for him and sliding up inside her as if heading home.
She choked down a gasp. My, my, but that was . . . not what she’d expected. Did every woman have to endure that large verge pressing up into her? More importantly, did every woman find it pleasurable?
Perhaps she was merely the exception. He seemed so thick, so intrusive.
“You’re as tight as a virgin,” he whispered, before taking her mouth in a leisurely kiss that roused her blood and made her less tense down below.
She tore her mouth free of his. “And how many virgins have you deflowered, monsieur?” she asked with forced nonchalance.
“None.” He kneaded her breast so silkily she gasped, which brought a self-satisfied gleam to his eyes. “I don’t believe in taking a woman’s innocence outside of marriage.”
Then he began moving inside her, and all thought of having lost her virtue to a man who didn’t actually believe in taking a woman’s virtue faded. Because this wasn’t what she’d expected at all.
Yes, his hard verge inside her was still uncomfortable. But the more he drove inside her and the more his clever fingers caressed her breast and her minou at the point of their joining, the more she found herself moaning and shimmying against him, trying to gain more of the delicious sensations he provoked.
“Monique,” he whispered in a ragged voice. “My dear, sweet princess. I could die happy inside you.”
She could die happy with him inside her, too. Because a hunger unlike any she’d experienced was building within her. She wanted to eat him up, to absorb him into her, to have him be part of her as no man ever had. And the more he lunged into her, the more she ached to have him deeper, further, more thoroughly hers.
Her cravings grabbed her by the throat, making her arch up into him, strain against him in search of more pleasure as he thrust inside of her.
“Ah, yes.” He spread kisses over her cheeks and throat and shoulder. “Show me what you want, my dearest. And I will give it to you, I swear.”
“I want you,” she murmured, hating herself for the admission. “Please, Gregory . . .”
With a growl, he increased his rhythm. His fingers thrummed against her where they were joined and the craving intensified until she was clutching him close and moaning and aching for something she couldn’t fathom . . . until it rose inside her like a phoenix lofting toward heaven.
“Gregory . . .” she moaned against his mouth. “My God, Gregory!”
And she catapulted into the sky, her body shaking and her heart feeling as if it might shatter into a million stars.
Then he drove hard and cried out something as he spilled his seed inside her. She could have sworn he’d said, “My love,” but that was impossible. He didn’t seem to believe in love.
Unfortunately, she was beginning to. Because she realized, as she held him close and tried not to cry over the glory of it, that she felt something for him she’d never felt for any man.
Could it be love? She hoped not. Because love was dangerous and wretched and made one hurt the way Maman had been hurt by Papa. Love cut one off from one’s family the way Grand-maman had lost hers.
She simply couldn’t go through such pain.
Gregory couldn’t seem to let go of Monique. He should have pulled out before spilling himself inside her. At the very least, he should have hunted up the French letters he kept somewhere in his bedchamber.
But he’d been afraid to ruin the moment, to lose his chance. And some part of him was sure that if he’d lost his chance, he would have regretted it all his days.
He drew back to stare at her. “That was . . . miraculous. I shall not forget it for years to come.”
A tentative smile curved her lips. Her luscious, tempting lips. “Nor will I.”
His softening cock slipped from her as he pulled out of her embrace, reminded that the duke and Lady Ursula were still in the house somewhere. As he bent to pick up his drawers, he noticed the blood staining not only her thighs but his cock. He stared at it, hardly able to believe his eyes. “Did I hurt you?”
She glanced away with a veiled expression. “No, of course not.”
Suddenly he remembered what she’d said that first night in London—I must be chaste when I marry. He’d assumed it was part of her role, but what if . . .
Oh, God. The evidence was hard to ignore—the tightness of her quim, the way she’d embraced every pleasure as if it were entirely new . . . the blood smearing her thighs.
Half in a trance, he took out his handkerchief and wiped the blood from his cock before pulling on his drawers. Surely he hadn’t . . . Surely she wasn’t . . . “Were you chaste before I took you?”
Avoiding his gaze, she murmured, “Why does it matter?”
He caught her head between his hands. “Because it does.” He stared her down. “Answer me. Were you a virgin?”
She shrugged. “I suppose you could put it that way.”
He’d deflowered her. He’d taken the innocence of the future Princess de Chanay without a thought for the political consequences, all because he couldn’t stand the idea of not having her.
Damn it all to hell. How could he have done that? “Why didn’t you tell me beforehand?”
“Would you have bedded me if I had?”
“Of course not!”
A rueful smile crossed her lips. “That’s why I didn’t tell you.”
He couldn’t comprehend it. If she’d told him, he would never have dishonored her. But he’d assumed . . . “I don’t understand. You’re an actress.”
Her temper flared as she slipped off the desk to move away from him. “That doesn’t mean I’m a whore.”
“I wasn’t implying—”
“Of course you were,” she said irritably. “Everyone assumes that actresses are whores.” Her voice lowered to a murmur. “But it isn’t necessarily true.”
The enormity of what he’d done hit him. He’d taken the innocence of a princess, who might one day rule in Chanay, even if she didn’t end up doing so in Belgium. It was unconscionable.
“We must marry,” he said baldly.
That seemed to catch her by surprise. Ever practical, she picked up her petticoat, though her expression remained shuttered as she returned to where he stood by the desk. “Why must we? Nothing has changed from before.”
“Everything has changed. I took your innocence.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I gave it to you of my own volition.”
“In hopes of keeping me silent about the masquerade, or convincing me to let
you stay, or—”
“Merde,” she spat, his first clue that he’d stepped far awry with that remark. “I desired you. That is all.” She used her petticoat to wipe the blood from her thighs and his desk with furious motions. “Though I don’t know why, given that you are the most arrogant, infuriating . . .”
A string of French slurs followed, none of which he blamed her for. The words I desired you sounded in his head, as tempting as her nudity. “Monique, forgive me. I did not mean—”
“To insult me? To imply that I am some sort of seductress trying to trap you into marriage?” Still fully nude, she faced him and planted her hands on her hips. Her lush, very distracting hips. “And why on earth would I marry you when you clearly think me a blackmailer and manipulative putain?”
“I do not think of you as a whore,” he snapped. “And pardonne-moi, chérie, but you did offer me your body for my silence only yesterday.”
“Yes! Offered! From the beginning! I did not give it to you in hopes I could make you pay for it later, and then try to be so wicked as to demand that you—”
“Enough,” he said, suitably shamed. “You’re right. I should not have said that.”
That seemed to mollify her a little. Sullenly, she dragged on her chemise, then pulled her loosened corset on over her head. “I do not understand why you would offer marriage when you think such awful things of me.”
“And I don’t understand why you would give me your virtue. Especially now that you have possibilities.”
When she merely put her back to him and said, “Will you tighten my laces, my lord?” he muttered a curse under his breath and went to do so.
He regarded the back of her head and the stretch of skin he’d only half-jokingly spoken of marking. Even now, he wanted to suck her skin, taste her quim, be with her again and again.
His damned cock roused at the thought. “Please, chérie, tell me why you would behave so recklessly.”
She was quiet another long moment as he tied off her corset. Then she sighed. “Perhaps I just wanted to make sure that my first time was special. I knew I could trust you to make it so.” Turning in his arms, she faced him with a wistful smile. “And you did.”
The Secret of Flirting Page 22