by Jane Feather
“A delicate theme,” she informed Talleyrand as he paused in the dining room on his way to dress. “Pink and cream and very light. They will have dined heavily beforehand, so this should tempt the taste buds nicely. And since excellent champagne is one wine that seems in plentiful supply, we have the perfect match.”
“Your mother had the same flair,” Talleyrand observed, kissing her cheek. “In her wardrobe and in her decor, and she was a superb hostess. Society fought over her invitations.”
Gabrielle’s smile was sad. “I don’t remember.”
“By the time you were old enough to remember, ma chère, there were no parties. Marie Antoinette had told the people to eat cake if they couldn’t afford bread, and the Revolution was in full swing.”
“I suppose so. I must go and dress. What time will the emperor make his appearance?”
“He and Alexander intend arriving together, a further show of amity,” he said dryly. “When all the other guests are assembled, a messenger will run to alert their imperial majesties.”
At eleven o’clock the two salons were buzzing with officers in the uniforms of the most distinguished regiments of Russia and France. Their ladies glittered, plied fans vigorously in the overheated rooms, and cast sharp, assessing eyes at their counterparts’ coiffures, gowns, and jewels.
Gabrielle moved easily through the throng. The Russians all spoke fluent French, so communication was natural enough. Talleyrand was an impeccable host, but Gabrielle noticed that, as always, he stood aside during conversations, rarely participating beyond making the original introductions or subtly suggesting a topic of conversation.
Wily old rogue, she thought with a surge of affection. He was a firm proponent of the principle that the more a man talked, the less he understood, and the less he was worth listening to.
The sound of running feet came from the hallway, and a messenger hurried into the room, making his way to the Minister for Foreign Affairs.
Talleyrand nodded, excused himself, and gestured to Gabrielle. The whisper ran around the room: “Les empereurs arrivent.” And the guests moved to either side of the double doors.
Gabrielle was known to Napoleon and had had many conversations with him, so she felt no excitement at making her curtsy to the great man. She was, however, very interested in meeting Czar Alexander.
Their imperial majesties strolled into the salon side by side and their various subjects made ritual obeisance.
Napoleon raised Gabrielle from her curtsy with a smile, and still holding her hand introduced her to Alexander. “Mon cher ami, permit me to introduce the Comtesse de Beaucaire, our charming hostess.”
Gabrielle curtsied again, murmuring the correct platitudes. As she raised her head, her eyes met those of a man standing some way behind the emperor in a small knot of courtiers in evening dress, who had accompanied Alexander and Napoleon.
The room spun; her stomach turned to water, her knees to jelly, her blood seemed to stop flowing. Nathaniel’s cool brown gaze held hers with absolute command. If he was as numbed by seeing her as she was by seeing him, he wasn’t showing it. And it would be death to show it.
The crisp dark hair with the silver swatches at his temples was now all silver, and he wore a small, neat beard that accentuated the leanness of his face, the angularity of his features. But no superficial changes could alter the magnetism that flowed from him, or disguise the lithe agility of the slender frame, or the power in the long, white hands—those long, slow, arousing hands ….
Gabrielle was aware that she was breathing rather fast and her palms were moist within her silk gloves. She was also aware that Czar Alexander was talking to her.
The need to respond to the emperor was her salvation. She murmured about honor and pleasure and made polite inquiries as to his health and contentment. Alexander held her hand for rather longer than strictly necessary and complimented her on her gown and the elegance of her salon. Then their imperial majesties moved down the twin lines of guests, Talleyrand limping beside them, presenting his guests.
Gabrielle turned to greet the knot of civilian courtiers who had accompanied the emperors. Alexander’s aide-de-camp performed introductions, bowing deeply with each presentation.
Gabrielle held out her hand to one Benedict Lubienski, introduced as a Polish acquaintance of the aide-de-camp’s.
For a moment she was mute, her mind as frozen as her tongue. He bowed over her hand. His fingers tightened on hers in powerful warning, and she found her voice.
“Are you here in an official capacity, sir?” she inquired, managing a flickering smile of courteous welcome.
“Not really, madame. The fate of Poland is dear to my heart, but I can’t expect it to be under consideration during these negotiations.”
“No, I imagine not.” She withdrew her hand and turned to greet the next man, vaguely aware that she was smiling inanely and nodding her head as if she were a marionette with a slack string.
Nathaniel moved away, greeting acquaintances, smiling agreeably, saying little, and drawing even less attention to himself. He took a glass of champagne from a footman and joined the outskirts of a group standing beside the long windows that stood open to a terrace overlooking the river.
The broad sweep of water glittered under the myriad lamps of the town, and the raft with its white canvas pavilions was ablaze, strains of music coming from an orchestra playing in the smaller pavilion for the pleasure of Monsieur Talleyrand’s guests.
He watched Gabrielle unobtrusively as she moved around the room. For one terrifying minute he’d thought she was going to give them away. Her hand in his had been shaking like a leaf in a gale, and her face had gone so white, he’d thought she was about to faint. If he could have warned her, he would have, but he’d discovered she was there only when he was on the way to the reception. It had been casually mentioned that Talleyrand’s goddaughter was acting as the minister’s hostess.
Forewarned had been forearmed, and yet he hadn’t been totally prepared for her, for the moment when his eyes had locked with hers. It had taken all the years of living on the edge of danger to withstand the annihilation of reason and control, to keep from putting his hands on her body, from covering that wide, crookedly smiling mouth with his own.
The bodily memory of her, the thick, rich silk of her hair, the cool smoothness of her skin, the sweet fragrances of her honeyed core had haunted his lonely nights since he’d left her. But greater than passion’s loss had been the absence of the essence of Gabrielle—of her laughter, and her temper, and her warmth, and her generous impulses, and her challenges.
And here she was, in the same room with him, as striking as ever, in a gown of deepest blue taffeta, sapphires at her throat, the dark red hair drawn up through a sapphire-studded comb, then tumbling in artful ringlets on either side of her face.
And he wanted her with the overpowering bodily hunger she had always aroused in him. He wanted to put her down on the parquet floor, raise those elegant rustling skirts, part the creamy, impossibly long thighs, lay his hand on their moist, heated apex …
He turned abruptly aside, stepping through the window onto the terrace, desperately hoping the cool air would dampen his now-embarrassing ardor. Of all the insane self-indulgences!
“How long have you been at the Russian court, Monsieur Lubienski?”
Gabrielle spoke at his shoulder, and he turned very slowly, a social smile on his lips.
“Several weeks, comtesse. I have many friends there, since I spent some months in Russia three years ago.”
“I see.” Presumably, before he became spymaster, he’d been an English agent in St. Petersburg. A Polish cover would be perfect. The Polish nobility mingled freely with the Russian, and it would explain both any lack of facility in the Russian language and his ease with French, since it was the lingua franca of both Russia and Poland.
“How are we to manage?” she demanded in a sudden urgent whisper, her hand brushing his black silk sleeve, her eyes molten lava.
The past was forgotten in the desperation of their longing, the agony of their separation, the wonder of this meeting.
Nathaniel glanced around the terrace. Groups of people were drifting away from the overheated salons to enjoy the cool river breeze. Without answering, he clicked his heels and inclined his head in a formal bow, offering her his arm.
She laid her gloved hand on his arm, and they strolled the length of the terrace, Nathaniel making innocuous comments on the loveliness of the night, Gabrielle responding as best she could, but she was on fire, as if in the grip of a devastating fever, at the feel of his body so close to hers, the music of his voice, the special scent of his skin.
When they’d twice made public promenade of the length of the terrace and everyone was perfectly accustomed to the sight of them arm in arm, Nathaniel directed their steps toward a shadowy corner screened by a group of bay trees in wooden tubs.
Gabrielle forced herself to keep her pace to Nathaniel’s slow, idling stride as she saw where he was heading. She wanted to leap forward into the dim privacy of the trees and lose herself in his body, but the spymaster, in the grip of the same compulsion, knew what he was doing. No one took any notice of them as they slid unobtrusively into the shadows.
“Dear God,” Gabrielle whispered. “I can’t bear it another minute.” She flung her arms around his neck.
He wrapped her in his arms, lifting her off the ground as their mouths met, crushing her against him. Bearing her backward, he pressed her against the stone parapet of the terrace, his tongue driving into her mouth as they drank of each other’s sweetness. Her body bent backward as he leaned over her as if all the better to devour her, and his hands pushed her skirt up to her waist, holding it there with his body. A fingernail snagged the delicate silk of her stocking, and his flat palm pushed up inside the leg of her drawers. This was no slow and easy exploration, but a rough and hungry revisiting of her body, damp and aching with its own passionate arousal.
She groaned against his mouth and bit his lip as his fingers delved deep within her. She pressed her loins against the hard mound of his erect flesh as if she could somehow achieve the fusion that was now such a desperate need.
“Come into me,” she whispered. “You have to, now, Nathaniel.”
“No … no … sweetheart. No.” He withdrew his hand, pulled away from her, gazed at her in the dimness from his own passion-filled eyes. “Not here—it’s not possible.”
She sagged against the wall, her breathing ragged, her heart racing, her eyes closed as she fought to control the conflagration of her senses.
Nathaniel straightened her skirt, barely touching her as he did so, as if she were a burning brand that would set him alight.
“Where?” she breathed finally.
“Outside the town, along the river,” he said with soft-voiced urgency. “Walk north, and I’ll wait for you.”
She nodded slowly as if the physical effort was almost too much for her.
“Go back now, ahead of me,” he instructed, adjusting his cravat, smoothing his hair.
“But what must I look like?” She touched her lips that still sang with the memory of hat consuming kiss.
“A little disheveled, that’s all,” he reassured. “Nothing that a couple of minutes in the retiring room won’t put right. Now, off you go, before you’re missed.”
She left him, gliding out from the screen of trees but keeping in the shadows of the house as she made her way inside, hurrying through the brilliantly lit salons, keeping her head down so that she wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye.
Nathaniel took his time about emerging. He leaned on the parapet and breathed deeply until his aroused loins were once again comfortable and his head was clear. Madness … utter madness. But he hadn’t been able to help himself, and for two pins he’d have yielded to Gabrieile’s desperation and joined with her there and then, standing against the parapet of a terrace in the midst of the two most illustrious courts in the world.
Madness! But he wanted to laugh aloud. And that was not the prudent reaction of a man who walked in the lion’s den and whose life presently depended upon a mixture of good fortune, experience, cool nerves, and utter discretion.
He’d half hoped, when he left her in Paris, that distance would lend detachment, but it had done the opposite, merely intensified his addictive passion. She continued to obsess his dreams, both sleeping and waking.
And here, on the banks of the River Nieman, in surroundings that would be more suited to a theatrical drama, she was with him again and it was the stuff of fantasy.
Gabrielle somehow managed to get through the rest of the evening without any obvious signs of insanity. The two emperors left together as they’d arrived, in perfect unity. Benedict Lubienski made his farewells with a group of others, his lips brushing her gloved hand, his eyes opaque.
“Well, that went off very well,” Talleyrand declared as the last guest left. “Congratulations, ma chère.”
“On what?” she asked swiftly.
Her godfather’s eyebrows rose. “On what do you think?”
Flustered, Gabrielle waved a vaguely dismissive hand. “I didn’t mean to be obtuse. I’m rather tired.”
“I imagine you might be.” He examined her thoughtfully for a second. “You seemed to enjoy the company of Monsieur Lubienski.”
The crafty old fox never missed anything! “Did I, mon parrain?” She met his shrewd gaze and sighed; there was no point in prevaricating with Talleyrand.
“You forget that I know how you are with your lovers, mon enfant.”
“Just two,” she reminded him.
“More than enough for a woman who loves as hard as you, Gabrielle.”
“Yes,” she agreed with a subdued smile.
“You were not expecting him?” His glance was suddenly sharp.
“No.” She shook her head helplessly. “I feel as if I’m in some dream world. I never expected to see him again.”
“D’accord.” He kissed her cheek, and then stood back, holding her shoulders lightly.
“I won’t insult either of you by recommending caution.”
“No,” she agreed.
The door closed on the Minister for Foreign Affairs, and Gabrielle gave a little involuntary skip of excitement. Nothing now lay between her and the rendezvous on the riverbank.
22
Nathaniel strode north along the riverbank away from the town. The air was fragrant with wild thyme, and a field of sunflowers hung their heavy golden heads, turned to the east, ready to greet the rising sun. The moon was a perfect circle in a black velvet sky, its reflection sailing over the dark waters of the river.
The silvery fronds of an ancient weeping willow on the bank hung to the water’s edge. Nathaniel pushed through the veil of leaves and found what he sought—a perfect secluded bower where the grass was cool and fragrant, protected from the burning summer sun that during the day dried the ground to a crisp and shriveled the grass to brown spikes.
He spread his cloak on the grass at the base of the gnarled trunk and sat down to await Gabrielle, ears pricked for the rustle of hasty footsteps outside his bower.
Gabrielle let herself out of the house and ran straight into a soldier from the garrison patrolling the street outside. She’d somehow not taken into account the fact that the town would be crawling with guards, with two such precious personages asleep within its walls.
She identified herself and said she was going for a walk along the river. The soldier seemed nonplussed. Unescorted ladies didn’t ordinarily take walks at three o’clock in the morning. Gabrielle subjected him to a haughty stare and demanded to know whether he wished to awaken the Minister for Foreign Affairs to verify her credentials? Or the emperor, perhaps?
The soldier coughed apologetically and bowed her on her way.
She sped along the riverbank, barely aware in her eagerness of the beauty of the night, the balmy air, the harvest moon.
She was in such a hurry, her eyes straining into the d
istance for some sign of Nathaniel, his shadow in the moonlight perhaps, that she didn’t see a flat stone in her path and tripped, falling headlong with a vigorous expletive.
“Don’t make such a noise!” Nathaniel sprang out of his willow cave a little way ahead as the shocked curses filled the quiet night. “Oh, dear, what are you doing down there?”
Gabrielle pushed herself onto her knees. “Don’t laugh,” she demanded crossly. “There’s a great big boulder sticking up in the path. It has no right to be there.”
“No, of course it doesn’t,” he said soothingly. “And you’ve just told it so in no uncertain terms. I’m sure it won’t do it again.”
Gabrielle grinned reluctantly and held up her hands. “Kick it for me, will you?”
He pulled her up, laughing. “I might stub my toe if it’s as vicious as you say.”
“Such chivalry!” She held him at arm’s length, examining him with her crooked smile. “I suppose I’ll become accustomed to the beard, and the silver hair is tres distingué.”
“It’s only temporary.” He subjected her to his own assessing scrutiny. “You look well. But thinner.”
“Pining will do that,” she said, still smiling.
“Have you been?”
“Pining? Oh, yes.”
“So have I.”
They stood for a minute in silence, still holding themselves away from each other, almost as if they were afraid to move closer, as if the other would prove to be only the dream phantom of the long, lonely nights of the past two months.
Then Nathaniel said softly, “Come here.” He pulled her in toward him and she came with playful reluctance. He pushed off the hood of her cloak and ran his hands through the silky dark red mane, drawing it forward over her shoulders.
“Whenever I’ve tried to remember the color of your hair, I haven’t been able to,” he mused, frowning as he stroked it. “It changes color according to the light. Here, for instance, under the moonlight, it’s like a charcoal brazier, all glowing embers. But when we go under the trees, it’ll be almost as dark as the night. And in the sunlight it flames so that sometimes it looks too hot to touch.”