by Louise Clark
"Stephanie—"
Her eyes began to sparkle with an emotion somewhere between fury and laughter. "No!" She held out her hand defensively and stepped back. "I know you, milord Wroxton! You can cozen me with a mere glance! No, I want to be clean!" Shrugging out of the threadbare blue coat, she wrinkled her nose distastefully. "First, I must dispose of the trappings of my disguise." She flung the garment into the fire. There was a sizzle, then the flames caught the cloth and swiftly reduced it to ashes. The coarse cotton neckcloth and shirt she wore beneath met a similar fate and were swiftly followed by the band of linen she had used to cover her breasts. Once more the blaze caught the cheap cloth and flared. Stephanie watched the clothes blacken and shrivel with great satisfaction.
Nicholas retreated to the door, prudently turning the key in the lock. Then he leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and enjoyed the spectacle of his now bare-breasted lover stripping breeches, stockings, even shoes from her body with ruthless intensity. All were consigned to the fire, including the footwear.
A sound Nicholas had been waiting for broke the silence in the room. "The servants are here with the bath. My dressing gown is in the chest at the end of the bed. Why don't you slip it on and..."
Stephanie turned on him, her eyes flashing. "No! St. Luc kept me in a noxious little attic, full of vermin. Before all else, I want to wash the filth of that place from my body!" Her angry passion softened into a warmer one. "Besides," she said, her voice husky, "I seem to remember that your dressing gown is a beautiful dark blue damask that makes you look very handsome, milord. I should hate to have to burn it like the rest."
Nicholas began, to laugh. "Then, my dear, we have a problem. You no longer have on a stitch of clothing and, unlike my chambers at Silverbrooke Manor, here I do not have the luxury of several rooms at my disposal. There is only this one. Where do you propose to hide your nakedness while the servants pour our baths?"
There was a timid tap on the door. "My lord?"
"Well?"
Laughter trembled on Stephanie's lips as she looked around the room. "Eh bien, there is always the bed. I could hide underneath it."
Nicholas snorted. "I'm sure you would like that no better than your recent prison. Consider again, sweet Stephanie."
Again the tap on the door, louder now. "My lord? Did you not want hot water for a bath?"
"Yes!" Nicholas called through the door. "In a moment."
Stephanie began to giggle. "This is absurd! There must be somewhere—" Her gaze lit on a small screen tidily tucked away in one corner of the room. "Eh voilà! I knew that there must be some way to dress out of view of one's servants. The English are so prudish," she added grandly. Then her eyes gleamed mischievously. "All Frenchwomen know that to be true. And now I have proof of it!"
"Go!" Nicholas ordered, even as he unlocked the door. Stephanie's happy laughter coming from behind the screen made the servants glance questioningly at each other and served to speed their work.
When they were gone Stephanie emerged from her hiding place. Steam rose gently from the hot water, but she passed the baths by as she came to the door where Nicholas was once more turning the key in the lock. "You too," she said softly.
He looked down at her, a smile on his lips and in his eyes. He did not have to ask what she wanted. By now he understood her need to destroy all evidence of her treatment at the Vicomte's hands. Slowly, he stripped off the clothes of the Paris commoner and consigned them to the fire, one piece at a time. Stephanie watched silently, but the satisfaction in her expression spoke eloquently of her thoughts. He wondered if, in burning the garments, she was doing more than just erasing the last three days from her heart. He hoped so. He hoped she had accepted that England was her home now, not France, and that her future lay with him.
Gently catching her shoulders, Nicholas drew her against his bare skin. "First," he said, brushing his lips against hers, "we wash until we feel clean, and then, dear heart, I am going to take you to bed and prove to you that not all Englishmen are prudes."
Stephanie laughed, then murmured with pleasure as he deepened the kiss. His skin was warm and smooth beneath her hands, and the firm pressure of his lips made her melt against him, showing her that his desire for her was already hard and strong. He picked her up, his mouth still locked on hers, and crossed to the tub. Gently he lowered her into the water. Picking up a bar of scented soap, he began to wash her.
He touched her everywhere. The slippery soap allowed his hands to slide sensuously over her skin, teasing and tantalizing her with the promise of deeper caresses to come. Her breasts ached for the feel of his hands and when he obliged with caresses that hardened her nipples, she closed her eyes and groaned with exquisite pleasure. Her senses heightened, she thought she would dissolve from the voluptuous quivers his hands created as he lathered her slender feet, then worked his way up her legs, to the vulnerable apex where she was open and ready for him. Approval gleamed in his eyes and Stephanie trembled. But he refused to rush. First, he washed her hair, then drew her from the tub to rub her dry with a huge linen towel.
"My turn," he said. First he shaved away the rough bristles of his three-day growth of beard and washed off the artist's paint he had used to disguise his features. Then he stepped into the second bath. Stephanie dropped her towel and moved to the edge of the tub. "It seems to me, milord," she said, brushing her lips against his, "that you went backward. First, I will wash your hair, then your body." She laughed huskily. "I think the results will be most satisfying."
Like Nicholas, her hands lingered where they soaped his body. But unlike Stephanie, he was too impatient to endure the sweet torment for long. He wrested the soap from her hands, scrubbed himself clean, and vaulted from the tub. Stephanie stepped back, admiring his gleaming torso bronzed by the mellow candlelight.
He dried himself in a perfunctory way, then dropped the towel. Crooking his finger, he said quietly, "Come here."
Stephanie smiled and walked into his arms. He held her tightly. "Have you washed away the memories, my love?"
She smiled up at him. "In my mind there is only here and now, Nicholas." She reached up to trace the arch of one black brow. "I love you. I want to be with you, now and forever."
"That is a request I am happy to oblige, sweet Stephanie," he muttered. His mouth met hers and the time for talk was over as their bodies heated.
He led her to the bed and laid her on it. He then took her with a fierce hunger that Stephanie met and equaled. Too many emotions had been in play during the long night for gentleness. They rose to a fiery crescendo and reached the top with a sweet agony that drained them both. Spent, Nicholas gathered her up into his arms, still needing to hold her close.
Stephanie snuggled happily against him, knowing that she had come home after a long and dangerous journey.
After a few minutes, Nicholas drew a ragged breath. "Stephanie, I must know. Did he touch you... like this?"
"No," she said evenly. She pulled out of his arms and sat up. Wrapping her arms around her knees in a protective way, she stared across the room at the leaping fire. "He didn't rape me, Nicholas. But I feared he would." She turned to look at him. Her eyes reflected the terror she had felt during the endless days and nights in the attic. "I was so afraid I would never see you again! When I saw you in the tavern, it was like a fantasy come true. I could hardly believe you were there." She shuddered. "And then when you fought! I thought I would go mad with fear. Not for myself, but for your precious life. I put you in that danger and if the unspeakable had happened. If you had..."
"Hush," Nicholas said, gathering her against him once more. "Stephanie, I came to Paris to see your father and persuade him that he should come to England until this madness is over. But I've been in France since I left England over a month ago."
Her eyes widened and he smiled ruefully. "No, I did not go to the Low Countries and the German principalities to observe revolutionary preparedness from the other side of the border. I came to France
." He stroked a stray lock of dark hair away from her forehead. "So you see, I have been in danger since I last saw you. You did not put me there."
Stephanie sighed and touched his cheek. "Will you continue to put yourself in jeopardy when we are married, my love?"
He kissed her forehead. "I promised you once before that I would not. I agreed to do this last commission for Gideon because I wanted to visit your father." He hesitated. "Stephanie, he... he will not come."
She snuggled closer to Nicholas, burying her head against his shoulder. "I know. Before St. Luc broke in on us I begged him—pleaded with him!—to agree to leave France, but he refused." She swallowed, for a lump had formed in her throat. "I can but respect his wishes no matter what happens here."
Nicholas held her tightly, his lips grazing the tender skin of her nape. Stephanie felt her blood quicken with the affirmation of life and held him closer.
"Nicholas, how did you know where St. Luc would take me tonight?"
She heard and felt his chuckle. "The Vicomte thought himself a terribly important person. He could not understand when others were less than admiring. He went to the Cordeliers Club where the Girondin faction meets and demanded to see Brissot. Of course, he got no more than a casual rebuff. I knew he would attempt to contact Brissot sooner or later and I was in the club, waiting for him to appear. When he could not reach their leader, he was most disconcerted. For a price, I was able to arrange to have a message passed to St. Luc, purporting to come from the good Citizen Condorcet, a power in the Girondin party. I told St. Luc he must speak to Citizen Lejeune at the Blue Angel in order to find his avenue to Brissot open. He fell into my trap quite neatly."
Stephanie sat up, her eyes flashing. "You allowed me to stay in that filthy hovel just to see a plot come to fruition?"
Nicholas laughed. Catching her, he wrestled her back down onto the mattress. "I did not, spitfire! To my shame, I managed to lose the blackguard when he was on his way home from the club." His voice softened. "Believe me, love, if I had been able to spare you even a moment of the hell you endured these last few days, I would have."
Stephanie curled her fingers through his thick black hair and pulled his head down. She kissed him tenderly, body aroused as he lowered himself atop her.
"I believe you, dear milord. I know you would never do anything to harm me. No matter what the future brings. I will always have your strength and power by my side. I know that now. If I had accepted it before, I would not have had to submit to the Vicomte's vile imprisonment. I will not be such a fool again."
"You did what you believed you must," Nicholas murmured, stroking her ribs with an open palm.
Stephanie stretched languidly. "Why did you send St. Luc to the Blue Angel?"
For a moment Nicholas was silent, his expression guarded, then he shrugged. "I had St. Luc go to see Lejeune because the man has some power in his area and is known to support the Girondins. But, in fact, he could no more gain immediate access to Brissot than St. Luc could." He paused a moment, then added, "Also, I have had occasion to frequent that particular tavern from time to time. My presence would not cause comment there."
Gently stroking his smooth cheek, Stephanie sighed softly. "So much danger for us all. When you spoke to my father, what did you discuss?"
"Apart from the pressing problem of how to draw St. Luc into the open?"
"Yes." She shifted voluptuously under the caress of his hands.
"You. What else would the two men who love you most in the world talk about when first they meet?"
She chuckled. "I hope Papa didn't tell you any stories of my dreadful adventures as a child."
Nicholas raised himself above her, arching one black brow. "Unfortunately there was no time for such interesting discussions. I promise you, though, I would be happy to hear those fascinating tales from your own lips."
Pouting, she teased, "Aren't my current adventures enough for us both?"
"I can never get enough of you, sweet Stephanie." He kissed her deeply, his tongue mating with hers.
For a time Stephanie was lost in the pleasure of the moment. When he released her, she made a last grab for control. "Nicholas—my father. He will be in agony wondering what has happened! Should we not send him word—"
"Hush. Tony had orders to dispatch a runner to the Marquis as soon as we were sure you were safe. Your father will know by now that you are here, with me, in the Embassy."
Stephanie's eyes widened. "He'll know we are together, like this?"
Nicholas laughed. "He gave me his blessing when we spoke, Stephanie, and tonight I claimed you and won you by right of conquest. You are mine forever."
She smiled up into his eyes. "I love you, Nicholas. Beyond all things."
"And I you, sweet Stephanie." He took her mouth with his and branded her in the most potent way lovers know.
* * *
Three days later, the Marquis de Mont Royale, carefully dressed for an evening party, left the Chateau des Tuileries. Though the King was a virtual prisoner, his courtiers were allowed more freedom. Mont Royale, ever faithful to his royal master, rarely availed himself of the invitations that were issued to him, but this evening he made an exception.
As he left the palace, he paused for a moment on the landing of the imposing portico. From where he stood he could see across the green of the public gardens the imposing bulk of the theater which now housed the National Assembly. As often before, he wondered if the revolutionary legislators had chosen the site of the new assembly hall to remind the King of his loss of power, or simply because the building was large and available. Probably a bit of both, he mused, descending to the carriageway. As he was about to enter the coach awaiting him, he glanced over at one of the National Guardsmen whose unit was now assigned to protect the monarch. The soldier stared sullenly at him and made no effort to straighten from his slouching position. Mont Royale resisted the urge to shiver and stepped into the coach.
At the British Embassy the Marquis was shown into a handsome chamber in Lord Gower's private wing. Five gentlemen stood in the spacious room, glasses in hand. Three were formally dressed, with coats and breeches of silk, lace at their wrists and throats, and hair powdered creamy white, while the other two wore clerical garb. As he was announced, the young ambassador bustled forward. Setting his glass down, he bowed elegantly. "A pleasure, Monsieur de Mont Royale."
"Monsieur l'Ambassadeur," Mont Royale acknowledged, bowing.
"Come," Gower said, guiding him into the room. "Let me introduce you. Mr. Anthony Baxter, cousin of the Earl of Wroxton; the Right Reverend Huntington from London. You know Father de Mondial and the Earl of Wroxton, of course."
The Marquis bowed to each in turn, then remarked blandly, "But I do not see Madame Gower." He shot a look at Nicholas. "Or a certain other lady of my acquaintance."
Gower shook his head in a resigned way. "My dear wife is late, as usual."
"I think tonight she has help," Nicholas observed. He was half perched on the arm of a wing chair, swirling the snifter of brandy he held lightly in one hand. An indigo silk coat darkened the blue of his eyes, or perhaps it was the devil-may-care glint simmering in their depths. On his full lips was the reckless smile of a man who knew he was entering into danger, knew it and did not care. The Marquis had to resist the urge to laugh. He had felt the same way on his wedding day.
As the gentlemen chuckled at the Ambassador and Nicholas's sallies, Mont Royale wandered over to where Nicholas rested negligently on the arm of the chair. "I am pleased to see that you have made use of Father de Mondial's services. He has been a friend of our family for years. He baptized Stephanie and my other children." Mont Royale smiled rather sadly. "In these troubled times, one is not always able to keep up the traditions of the past. One tends to cling to what is possible, in order not to repine over what is not."
"Stephanie was delighted when I told her you had persuaded the good Father to preside at our rather unorthodox ceremony. On her behalf, I thank you, Monsieur
." He bowed slightly from the waist. Mont Royale nodded in response.
"I suppose I should not be surprised, but I must admit I am curious to know how you arranged to have your English minister here in just a few days."
A pleased grin lit Nicholas's features, then was tamed into a more sober expression. "As soon as I returned to the Embassy after leaving you that day, I sent a courier to England for a Special License and a preacher to say the wedding vows. Between my contacts at home and the persuasions of Lord Gower, we had little trouble in making the arrangements. All there was to do was to wait until today to allow the Reverend Huntington to arrive."
"What happened to St. Luc?"
"He is dead."
The Marquis eyed his future son-in-law consideringly. "By your hand?"
Nicholas tossed down his brandy. "Yes."
"Good. He was an evil man. The revolution has allowed too many men of his sort to surface. Their black deeds cloud the beneficial reforms that have been brought about. In the end, they will destroy all of the good along with themselves. But"—Mont Royale smiled, shaking off the gloomy mood—"tonight is not a time to discuss politics. It is enough for me to know that you will take my daughter and hold her safe through the troubled times to come."
Nicholas bowed. "It will be my pleasure, Monsieur. I—" The words caught in his throat as the door to an adjoining room opened.
The Marquis turned and saw Lady Gower dressed in an elegant polonaise gown of silver and blue. She swept through the door, then paused and turned to guide Stephanie, dazzlingly beautiful in a gown of silver tissue over a petticoat of white satin, into the group of waiting gentlemen. Thoughtfully he took the brandy glass from Nicholas's suddenly limp grasp and placed it on a nearby table. From the abstracted expression on the Englishman's face, he was lost to everything but the presence of his bride.
Stephanie paused shyly in the doorway, her dark hair powdered to a soft white and arranged so that the curling locks swept one shoulder. She looked about; then her gaze met Nicholas's and she walked unhesitatingly toward him. He strode across the room and when they met he caught her hands in his, tenderly raising first one and then the other to be kissed. Stephanie smiled up at him bewitchingly, her gaze never leaving his eyes.