Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  “What stakes do you choose, sir?” inquired Genevieve in dulcet tones.

  Her partner’s voice became suddenly thick. “The same you give to others, madame. Those who are lucky enough to earn your favor.”

  So, he knew about Legrand, Grand Duke Sergei, and Signor Sebastiani. What gossips these men were, she thought with a flash of scorn, wondering if they had told the truth or had boasted of a conquest that had not been theirs. The latter, most probably, she decided. None of them would save willingly admitted losing at piquet and thus being denied the soft, sensuous body so undeniably offered in the event of victory. In fact, she would have laid considerable odds that their individual defeats were known only to themselves and Genevieve. Dominic certainly did not know of them; did not know the perilous edge she walked as she gathered her information; would not consider it a perilous edge, presumably, since he seemed to think her body well spent in the exchange. He would probably be amazed that she had found it impossible to do what she had so lightly suggested and he had so easily agreed to; would probably laugh at her for being naively romantic instead of pragmatic, for losing sight of the fact that the end justified the means. For the privateer, that maxim informed all his decisions, as well she knew.

  “And if I should emerge the victor, sir?” She made no attempt to challenge his statement but let it lie, accepted by default.

  Cholmondeley licked his lips, an inadvertent gesture of mingled hunger and anxiety. “You will name your winnings, madame,” he mumbled through a dry throat. Surely, even in the unlikely event of her victory, she would not withhold what she clearly wanted as much as he did. Genevieve Delacroix was rapidly becoming a legend in Vienna, her name whispered almost reverently in the bastions of male privacy where the envious warred with the successful; where the dividing line was drawn between those who had won the lady’s favors and those who lacked the courage to enter the lists. And she played the devil’s own game of piquet—on that, everyone was in agreement.

  “Then, tonight. I will come to you when I have made my own arrangements.” Her eyes skimmed toward Delacroix and her partner nodded hastily, in instant comprehension. Even a complacent husband must be disposed of discreetly.

  But the apparently complacent husband was finding to his chagrin that complacency eluded him. Just observing Genevieve playing her fish with such natural art and skill set his teeth on edge, and in the images that niggled, ragged on the edges of his mind, lay madness if he allowed himself to dwell upon them. He dared not allow himself to think of what she would be doing with Cholmondeley later, any more than he had allowed himself to think of those times with the others. They were partners in a desperate venture, and she was simply playing her part. Just why did she have to play it with such damnable expertise and blatant pleasure? But he knew the answer to that only too well. Had he not himself unleashed that exuberant, wonderfully passionate nature, educated her in the ways of loving, taught her to give and to receive without inhibition? And now, behold, he looked upon his former pupil and wished he had been an inept tutor or she a less able student.

  But he could not let her see that, so he simply smiled and nodded agreement when she whispered to him that she would be back late, that the Englishman would have told all by the time the evening was done, that Silas should wait for her outside Cholmondeley’s lodgings on Grashofgasse, that everything was going very well and, so far, she had managed to avoid an introduction to the Duchess of Angoulême.

  Her luck in that area, unfortunately, was short-lived. The Duke of Wellington, himself, came for her in the supper room. “Her Royal Highness wishes to meet you, m’dear,” he said with a benign smile, “if these gentlemen can spare you for a few moments.” Thus extricating her from the large circle of admirers, he led her into a small parlor where the royal couple held informal court.

  To her relief, Genevieve saw Dominic engaged in apparently easy conversation with Marie Antoinette’s daughter. Although her own manufactured background was engraved upon her memory, she found the thought of his support ineffably comforting and encouraging. As if he realized this, he turned as she came into the room and discreetly extended his hand, palm up, toward her. She placed her own in his, felt the strong, reassuring pressure of his fingers, and with renewed courage gave her attention to the Duchess of Angoulême.

  She realized rapidly that she need have had no fears. The lady was not interested in details of another’s history. She was high-spirited and vivacious, unlike her husband, who was as rigidly formal as the majority of the Bourbon clan; as majestically expectant of the reverential deference due to a descendant of the Sun King as had been his ill-fated cousin, Louis XVI. Genevieve found it was possible to flatter one with reverence and laugh with the other, and avoid all close reference to her own experiences during the years of exile. Her explanation that she had spent the years since her third birthday in a remote corner of Prussia, where her family had escaped the Terror with relatives of her father, was accepted without question.

  Dominic moved to one side once he was sure that Genevieve was comfortable, her stage fright vanquished. He had to leave her to play her part now, and, as soon as he decently could, took his leave of his hosts, who found nothing extraordinary in the idea that Monsieur Delacroix was going on to a supper engagement with friends, leaving his wife to amuse herself as she saw fit. Wives, after all, required no chaperones and no one could accuse Madame Delacroix of indiscretion.

  Silas heard his instructions in silence. He was to follow mademoiselle when she went to the lodgings of the Englishman and wait with the carriage to bring her home afterward. If he felt a moment’s unease, he was not to hesitate, but should do whatever he had to to bring her home safely. They were his usual instructions. Discretion was urged, but if it had to be sacrificed to expediency, then so be it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Silence reigned in the comfortable room where heavy velvet drapes kept out the night, and a cheerful log fire kept the chill at bay. Genevieve watched her host mixing punch with great concentration, sitting on a low ottoman before the fire, adding to and stirring the contents of the deep silver punch bowl. She had no intention of drinking herself, but was not about to tell Cholmondeley that. She had become adept at appearing to sip the refreshment offered her, while the level in her glass remained the same. When she played for stakes as high as those she wagered, she could not afford the slightest diminution in one’s powers of concentration.

  “Do you find Vienna a little dull after the excitements of Leghorn, Mr. Cholmondeley?” She broke the silence with the seemingly casual question, fluttering her fan, her eyes smiling at him over the frosted crepe.

  “Must we be so formal, my dear ma’am?” he asked, reaching across to take the fan from her hands. “I would dearly love to hear my name upon those sweet lips.”

  Genevieve controlled her grimace quite admirably, she thought. She could never imagine Dominic saying anything so ridiculous! But it was just the sort of remark that Elise would have been accustomed to hearing. No! She must not allow her attention to wander in that way. “Why, Charles, of course there is no need for formality,” she simpered. “I greatly desire to visit Leghorn, myself.” She gave a little artistic shudder. “Just imagine being so close to the monster Bonaparte that one could almost see him across the channel. Supposing he should decide to escape?”

  “Have no fear, my dear. Such a plan could never be formed without the French hearing of it.” Her host smiled indulgently. Women did find the thought of Napoleon most alarming.

  “But how?” she inquired, all wide-eyed, flattering attention.

  Cholmondeley laughed. “Mariotti is more than a match for Bartolucci.” He dipped the ladle into the punch bowl and filled two silver goblets with the steaming, aromatic concoction.

  Genevieve smiled her thanks. “Bartolucci?” she inquired, burying her nose in the goblet. “I have not heard that name.”

  “Oh, he organizes Bonaparte’s counterespionage at Leghorn,” her host tossed off blithely,
taking a long sip of his punch. “Fesch in Rome does the same thing, but it is of little concern to us, my dear Genevieve, and should certainly not alarm you.”

  “No, I am certain it should not,” she said, offering him a brave smile. “And one of your countrymen remains with him on the island, does he not? Was he not one of the Allied commissioners who agreed to stay and keep watch over the exiled emperor?”

  “Ah, Sir Neil Campbell,” Cholmondeley agreed with a grave nod. “A good man who is more than capable of circumventing Napoleon’s own spy system from Elba. He suspects that if Bonaparte did attempt an escape he would make for Murat at Naples. But the idea is ridiculous, of course. The channel is patrolled constantly by French and British ships, not even a fishing boat could slip through.”

  “I am sure that you are all more than equal to the challenge,” she said, bestowing one of her ravishing smiles upon him. “The monster is safely captive.”

  Cholmondeley stood up, his eyes suddenly intense. “It is to be hoped that I am equal to the challenge you present, ma’am.” Bending, he took her hands, drawing her to her feet. Genevieve steeled herself for the kiss that she knew was coming. One had to offer sufficient inducement to add credence to the pretense. If she showed her indifference to the salute, it would certainly puzzle the gentleman. The devil of it was that she now had all the information she required, but she still had to go through with the games of piquet if she were not to arouse his suspicion—and she had no idea how skilled the Englishman was. She allowed her lips to soften just a little beneath his, allowed her body to lean into his just enough, then drew back with a slight laugh.

  “Do not anticipate your victory, monsieur.” Somehow, she managed to make the direction sound like an invitation, and Cholmondeley flushed, transparently eager. He moved to the card table, pulling out a chair for her, then seated himself opposite.

  “Shall we cut?”

  “By all means,” Genevieve said, feeling her body still, her mind clear. There were some things for which she could be grateful to Victor Latour, although she had never before imagined that those agonizing hours of forced play could ever have proved useful. Her father, despairing of finding a worthy partner, had created his own, recognizing in his younger daughter the innate skills and intelligence necessary to match him both on the chess board and with the cards. Genevieve had learned rapidly that he was quite prepared to lose a well-played game, but errors of inattention or stupidity were mercilessly revisited. As a result, she very rarely made either.

  Now, having won the cut, Genevieve elected to deal. The pack of thirty-two cards lay on the table, and they each gathered up their hands. Her opponent glanced at his cards, a slight frown drawing thin, arched eyebrows together, then he seemed to make up his mind what to discard with no hesitation. It was the first indication she had of the quality of his play, and it was not reassuring. Charles Cholmondeley looked to be a fine player. Although she had decided on her discard as quickly as he, she deliberately seemed to take her time, knowing that he would see the hesitation as a sign of potential weakness and hoping that it might lead him to play with less caution.

  She managed to spoil his attempt at repique with the retention of a knave, which she had seriously considered discarding, and the retention won her the first game. She smiled at him and cut again for deal. “I think I had the balance of the cards, Charles.”

  “Perhaps,” he said shortly, and she pursed her lips in recognition of the intensity of his concentration. Winning this match mattered greatly to Charles Cholmondeley. Unfortunately, or rather fortunately, he was not aware how passionately it mattered to Genevieve Latour that she win, thus avoiding losing something much greater and more dearly valued.

  A careless discard when she threw a guard that she should have kept lost her the second game, and the tension in the warm, glowing room became a force to be reckoned with. Each player knew it must be controlled if clarity of thought was to be achieved. The cards ran evenly throughout the third game, and precision of play and judgment were all important. Genevieve closed her mind to everything but the green baize of the card table and the thirty-two cards. Success depended on her ability to calculate the odds against finding a desired card in the pickup, and it seemed that her opponent did not lack that ability either. Whichever of them won, it would be a close-run game; no question of either being rubiconed.

  And then the ten of spades fell onto the table. Genevieve let it lie for a few seconds. Was it an error in discard, or did he have some ulterior motive? If she picked it up, would she be playing to his hand? She forced herself to review the hands that had been played, hearing Victor Latour’s voice going inexorably over every hand in every game played over a long evening, and her own voice, faint with weariness, following the reprise. But she knew, because of the experience of those wretched evenings, that her memory tonight was faultless. Charles had erred. Silently, she picked up her cards in the last hand.

  “Your reputation is not exaggerated, ma’am,” Cholmondeley said, his voice stiff with the disappointment that he tried gallantly to conceal as he counted his score.

  “It was touch and go, sir,” she replied, quietly formal, gathering the cards and tidying the pack. “It is late, and I must return home.”

  His mouth opened on the words of protest, of appeal, cajoling, then the gentleman remembered that he was a gentleman and that breed never questioned in matters of honor. He had lost a wager, and if the lady insisted on holding him to the consequences of the loss, he could do nothing but bow and accept with a good grace. “What prize do you claim, ma’am? As I recall, we agreed you should name what you pleased in the event of your victory.”

  Genevieve shook her head and smiled gently. “The game itself is prize enough, Mr. Cholmondeley.” She held out her hand. “It was a most enjoyable evening.”

  “I could wish it had ended differently,” he said, bowing over her hand. “You will allow me to escort you home.”

  “That will not be necessary. My servant will be waiting outside with my carriage.”

  Charles Cholmondeley remembered that Madame Delacroix made something of a habit of clandestine card games, although, from what he had gathered from others, the evenings did not always end so early, or so abruptly. But it was only to be expected that she made her own arrangements for transport on such occasions. With no further demur, he escorted her to the door, where she turned and bade him good night. Remembering the earlier kiss, he ventured to take her hands, to bring his mouth to hers, but she stepped back, not hastily or with any embarrassment so that he was spared any awkwardness himself, but the message was clear. He had played and lost and there would be no second chance.

  A burly figure appeared from the shadow of the Heiligenkreuzerhof convent that dominated the narrow street. “Carriage is at the corner, madame.”

  With an overpowering relief, Genevieve followed the stolid, comforting presence of Silas. She sank onto the leather seat in the nestling darkness, but when she closed her eyes knaves, queens, and aces danced behind her eyelids and, in spite of her exhaustion, she knew sleep would not come easily tonight.

  Dominic came out of the salon as he heard the front door open. Silas, coming into the hall behind Genevieve, shot his master a shrewd look and compressed his lips. Monsieur had been dipping deep in the brandy again—it was a habit he seemed to have developed on those nights when mademoiselle was out doing whatever it was she did. Not that his condition would be obvious to anyone who did not know how to recognize the signs; just a slight narrowing of the eyes and a set to his shoulders, as if he were concentrating on his posture.

  “How did it go?” he asked Genevieve, holding open the door to the salon for her.

  “I am tired,” she said, walking past him to the foot of the stairs. “I will tell you what I have discovered upstairs.”

  “As you wish.” He bowed with just the faintest hint of mockery. “Lock up, Silas.”

  “Yes, monsieur.” Silas made his customary response and watched the two
go upstairs. Mademoiselle had a tendency to become snappish when she was tired or under strain, and Silas strongly suspected that both conditions operated tonight. Monsieur, when foxed or preoccupied with some personal trouble, tended to run out of patience rather rapidly, and Silas strongly suspected that both conditions operated tonight. Well, he’d pick up the pieces in the morning. With a resigned shrug, the sailor went to check the bolts on the great front door.

  “Will you unhook me, please?” Genevieve tossed her cloak over a chair and gave Dominic her back. He obliged, but instead of continuing to the next stage as he would normally have done, he turned away as soon as the back of her gown was opened.

  Raging serpents of jealousy and suspicion roiled in his belly, filling his mind with a bitter, venomous bile at the thought of that idiot Englishman putting his hands on her, his lips, sliding between those long, creamy thighs. It was worse tonight than it had ever been! With an inaudible oath, he filled a glass from the brandy decanter on the table. “Well, are you intending to keep me in the dark, ma chère? Or was your evening wasted?”

  Genevieve, in the act of pulling her shift over her head, spun round at his tone. “What is the matter?” The question was muffled by the folds of silk that had caught on a hairpin. Dominic made no move to help, but stood watching her gyrations as she struggled to release her head from its smothering captivity. Her raised arms lifted her breasts, stretched the skin taut over her ribs. Her hips, clad in silky white pantalettes, twisted with her efforts. Desire rose, powerful, to mingle with the unfocused rage. He wanted her, dammit! But he wanted to take, to possess, to brand. Had she enjoyed it with Cholmondeley? The very thought corroded like acid.