Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  The shift at last untangled, Genevieve tossed it on the floor with her dress. She still could not get accustomed to living without Tabitha who had picked up after her ever since she could remember. Silas would grumble in the morning when he found the pile, but she was too tired tonight. And she was certainly too tired to deal with Dominic who seemed unaccountably vexed. Going over to the dresser, she sat down and began to release her hair from its pins. “As it happens, I discovered quite a lot.” She told him of her conversation with the Englishman. “He says that Campbell suspects Napoleon of plotting to escape to Naples.” Her hairbrush swished through the shining silver-gold mass.

  “Rumors,” Dominic said with a dismissive gesture, resisting the urge to bury his hands and lips in that fragrant, swirling river. “That is all that reach the ears in Vienna. They have no solid information. I have some, however. It appears that Fouché has advised him to escape to America.”

  “He told you?” She put down her brush and turned to look at him, surprised. “I had some speech with him, and he made it clear that he knew there was an ulterior motive behind my questions, but I did not feel confident enough for honesty.”

  “I did,” Dominic said flatly, tossing off the contents of his glass. “He approached me … in a very roundabout way, of course. I replied in an equally roundabout fashion, but we now understand that we have the same goal. Whether he will trust me enough to share his plans, only time will tell.”

  “Yes. I see.” Wearily, Genevieve stood up, slipping her last undergarment off her body. Dominic’s tone had been somehow indifferent, seemed to discard her own information as having little importance. Depression settled in a clammy fog, exacerbating her fatigue. Did he not care at all what she had gone through this evening—the tension, the suspense, the dread of losing? But no, of course he did not even think about it. He assumed she played her part with her body and kept her mind and spirit untrammeled. It was simply a necessary task she performed, distasteful, perhaps, but necessary.

  Picking up her nightgown from the bed where Silas had laid it earlier, she dropped it over her head, pushing her arms in the sleeves. Then she clambered up onto the high feather mattress of the poster bed.

  “Just stay exactly as you are.” The husky command froze her as she knelt, her back to him, on the edge of the bed. A little quiver of anticipation ran down her back, but with it came the most curious hint of apprehension. Something was badly wrong. She knew, as did Silas, that Dominic had overindulged in the brandy. It happened so rarely, and had so little effect on his behavior that it had never before concerned her. But tonight, something was amiss.

  He looked at the soft, enticing curve of her body as she kept obediently motionless, the inviting thrust of her backside against the fine lawn of her nightgown as she knelt, and that need to possess, to take, to brand became invincible. He trod softly to the bed. “Raise your nightgown.”

  “I am so tired,” she whispered, but the protest was faint. It never mattered how tired she was, Dominic’s lovemaking always renewed and relaxed her. If it had not been for that persistent sense of unease, she would never have articulated even that faint demur.

  “Content you, ma chère, this time you will not need to work,” he said. “Raise it for me.”

  Genevieve shivered. This time? What did that mean? And why was there that unmistakably cynical note in his voice? Sweet heaven! Was he referring to what he thought had happened with Cholmondeley? But she did as he asked because she could not think of one good reason why she should not, and drew the garment up her body.

  “Stop there,” he said when the gown reached her waist. His breathing was ragged, and she could hear the reassuring throb of desire in his voice. Reaching across the bed for the thick, fluffy pillows, he piled them in front of her. Then, placing a flat palm on her back, he pushed her over, gently but firmly. “Comfortable?”

  She was perfectly comfortable, except for an overpowering sense of vulnerability, which puzzled her. Her position was far from unfamiliar; indeed, it was one that had on many occasions afforded exquisite delight for them both. His hands began to stroke over her buttocks, and she felt the insidious relaxation begin, preparing her for the slow spiral of desire as his lips followed his roving fingers, taking full advantage of her body’s exposure, of her enforced passivity, to play upon the moist, throbbing centers of her pleasure.

  Dominic lost himself in the contemplation of Genevieve’s softness, in the essence of her femininity, in her willing submission to the sensuous power of the pleasure-giver. In these moments, she belonged only and absolutely to him, in thrall to his touch, to his knowledge of what would bring her the greatest joy, her body responding with such sweet obedience to his orchestration. No one else could do this for her or to her, or receive from her the fearlessly candid acknowledgement of his supremacy in this matter of satisfying her desire. She would not whimper like this for Sebastiania or the Grand Duke of Legrand or Cholmondeley—or would she? Had she? The serpents twisted in his gut again, hissing venom.

  Genevieve felt the change in his touch, and her skin rippled in alarm as apprehension pierced her glorious, self-absorbed trance. But his fingers probed in deep insistent possession, and she could not cling to her apprehension as the tidal wave took her, receding eventually to leave her beached upon the mound of pillows, her breath coming in little sobbing gasps.

  Dominic kicked off his shoes, pushed off his pantaloons, held her hips, looking down at her for a second, the pale skin of her back glistening with a light sheen of sweat, the nape of her neck bared and vulnerable as her bright hair tumbled forward, spilling over the coverlet. Dear God, he thought with a dull recognition of the truth. Mon coeur. Very, very slowly, he sheathed himself within the opened, welcoming body, feeling the silken muscles tighten around him, enclosing him in her center. His hands moved up her back, pushing up the gown, his nails scribbling down her spine making her skin dance, her muscles contract. He moved himself inside her, watching her buttocks lift to meet him, heard her soft, sibilant whisper of mounting pleasure. His hands globed her bottom, slid over her thighs, drawing them further apart, before he planted his hands on his own hips and drove deeply, increasing his speed as she moved urgently against him, imparting her excitement even as she controlled the angle of her body.

  The maelstrom hovered on the horizon, and they both fought to keep it at bay for a few more minutes of this inexpressible delight. But the swirling waters crept ever closer, and Genevieve yielded first to the magnetic force that sucked her into a moment of oblivion. Dominic heard his name ring through the room, the instant before the climactic release left her inert across the pillows, her face buried in the coverlet, her breathing rapid and shallow. In the certainty that he had taken her to her own limit, that by his ability to do so he had made her his own, his climax rushed upon him and he fell forward against her back, pressing her against his heart.

  “D’ye care to make a four at whist, Cholmondeley?” Grand Duke Sergei ambled over to the Englishman who was leaning against a silk-hung wall in the salon of the Victomesse de Graçay, listening moodily to an indifferent performance on the harp by a sallow young lady in puce satin.

  Cholmondeley seemed to shake himself back to awareness. “Beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Whist,” Sergei repeated gently, taking a pinch of snuff from an onyx box, his eyes following those of his companion. They came to rest on the diminutive figure of Madame Delacroix who appeared to be using her far from inconsiderable charms in the entertainment of Monsieur Fouché. “I wonder if she will suggest a game of pique to Fouché?” the Russian murmured.

  Cholmondeley came awake abruptly, turning to stare at his companion. “Why would she?”

  “I do not know, exactly, my friend,” the other said thoughtfully, “but not for the pleasure of the game, of that I am sure.”

  There was a short silence, then the Englishman muttered, “And not for any pleasure in the prospect of paying her debt should she lose, either.”

  �
��Ahh,” said the Russian. “So you have discovered that, also. The lady is adept at making promises, is she not?”

  “And has the devil’s own way with the cards.”

  “You lost, then?”

  Cholmondeley flushed in angry discomfiture. “Aye, I lost.”

  “And perhaps hoped that the loss would not prevent the lady from fulfilling those promises?” probed Sergei. “They had been made, after all, with such ardor.”

  Cholmondeley remembered that kiss. Dammit! There had been no hesitancy then, nothing to lead him to suspect that she was not really interested.

  “Take comfort, my friend, in the knowledge that you are not alone in your experience,” the Russian continued with a sympathetic smile.

  His companion looked at him, startled. “I had the impression …”

  “That I and Legrand and Sebastiani had won?” Sergei laughed, but with little humor. “Wounded pride, my dear Cholmondeley, tends to permit of a little embroidering of the truth.”

  The Englishman began to feel a great deal better. “Why does she do it?”

  The grand duke frowned pensively. “Perhaps Madame Delacroix is the type of gamester who only enjoys playing when the stakes are of the kind she cannot afford to pay. There are such people.”

  “Mmm.” Charles nodded, pursing his lips. “But I cannot help feeling that there is something else.”

  “Indubitably, my friend. It is a conclusion reached by myself, Legrand, and Sebastiani, also. We find ourselves rather curious to discover what the ‘something’ may be. Does it not strike you as a little peculiar that Delacroix should appear happily complaisant when his wife amuses herself? He does not seem to me to be the type—not one to share his possessions. Look at him watching her.”

  Monsieur Delacroix was, indeed, watching his so-called wife, oblivious of the fact that he, in turn, was being observed. A frown buckled his forehead. He had not told her to flirt with Fouché, but had simply suggested that she seek out the devious, elderly statesman and engage him in a conversation where it was clearly understood by both parties that they were working on the same side. But Genevieve was quite definitely exceeding her brief, treating Fouché to the full gamut of her wiles. She was a natural born courtesan, Dominic reflected sourly; no wonder she had suggested it so lightly as a means of supporting herself if he took her away from New Orleans. And it had been her suggestion that she use her body to gain the information they needed. Why the hell had he ever agreed to it? Because it had never occurred to him that he would be tormented in this way—that images of her body moving with that wonderful lasciviousness beneath some other man would clog his brain, would heat his blood, would obscure all the rationality of the pragmatist he prided himself upon being.

  And to add insult to injury, he felt a complete fool, hung by his own petard. Genevieve Latour was what he had made her, was doing what she thought he wanted and expected of her, was adamant in her insistence on her independence; on the fact that she understood there was no commitment between them; they were partners in lust and love and adventure until the arrangement drew to a natural close. Then she would be off, presumably doing what she did best, as she put it so insouciantly! He ground his teeth, watching her divert her attention from Fouché to the young son of the Vicomtesse de Graçay. The lad was about twenty and made no secret of his admiration for Genevieve—an admiration that that ravishing smile could not help but foster. Damnation! Did she have to play the coquette with such obvious relish? The young de Graçay had nothing to offer her in exchange for those smiles and that light, intimate touch of her hand. She was doing it because she enjoyed it, and Dominic Delacroix had only himself to blame. If it were any other woman, any other partner in adventure, he would have shared her enjoyment in the game, deriving his own from observing her play. As far as Genevieve was concerned, that was exactly what he was doing. And how the hell was he to tell her that he wasn’t, without appearing like a jealous and naive, love-struck puppy? She would laugh at the transformation from pragmatic mentor to prating, soft-headed fool, and he could hardly blame her. She was most certainly not in love with him—in love with the excitement of the life he had made available to her, in love with the heady sense of a future that she could mold for herself, in love with loving, but not in love with Dominic Delacroix.

  “Madame your wife is much in looks, tonight, Delacroix.” The smooth voice of Jean Luc Legrand spoke at his back.

  “I will accept the compliment for her, Legrand,” the privateer responded with a bland smile. “Unless, of course, you would prefer to repeat it to her yourself.”

  Legrand inclined his head. “She is a little occupied at the moment. A most popular lady, Madame Delacroix.”

  The privateer became very still as his nerves stretched to hear and understand the danger that he suddenly realized lurked in the offing. A man who had seduced another man’s wife would not taunt the cuckolded husband unless he had good reason. And especially not in this case, when said husband had gone to considerable lengths to let it be understood that his wife’s little affairs were a matter of complete indifference to him. But he had to make some reply to a statement that could be taken as insulting the lady’s honor and, by extension, that of her husband.

  “How kind of you to say so, Legrand.” The turquoise eyes glinted in the lamplight; the carved lips flickered in the travesty of a smile that contained more than a hint of menace.

  Legrand offered a thin smile in return. “You must find it most gratifying, Delacroix.”

  Now why was he to be baited? questioned Dominic. Legrand could not be intending to provoke a duel, could he? Why on earth would he? He could have nothing against Dominic—the man who had looked the other way, for heaven’s sake, when Legrand had taken his wife. Or was that the problem? An idea flickered in the recess of his mind, flickered and fanned that indefinable sense of danger that Legrand had brought with him.

  Dominic bestowed on his interlocutor a smile of the broadest amiability and bowed. “Most gratifying, Legrand. Would you excuse me?” He strolled off across the room, leaving the Frenchman with a deeply puzzled frown. Perhaps they were wrong, and Delacroix was truly indifferent to his wife’s peccadillos; although there had been a moment when Legrand had felt a stab of alarm, had almost taken an involuntary step backward, away from the suddenly flat, glittering surface of those azure eyes. But the moment had passed as quickly as it had come, and perhaps be had imagined it.

  With a thoroughly gallic shrug, Legrand went off to the card room to impart the inconclusive results of the last few minutes to the other parties interested in this matter of Delacroix and the elusively promising Genevieve.

  “Ah, Dominic, you startled me, creeping up like that!” Laughing, Genevieve turned to greet her husband who had appeared without warning at her elbow. “One should be very careful about doing that, you know. You might hear something not to your advantage. Might he not, gentlemen?” Her eyes danced roguishly; her dimples peeped in the small face as she included Fouché and the young Graçay in the mischievously suggestive remark.

  Fouché merely smiled indulgently and cast an appraising look at Monsieur Delacroix. The lady had better have a care, he decided. Her husband did not look to be in a sufficiently equable temper to accept that type of risqué teasing. The young de Graçay flushed crimson at the implication that he might have been indulging in something improper that the lady’s husband should not hear about, and hastily stammered a disclaimer.

  Genevieve chuckled and patted his arm. “Do not be embarrassed, my dear sir. My husband is well able to take a joke, are you not?” She glanced up at him for confirmation, and the smile froze on her lips. No wonder de Graçay was looking so uncomfortable.

  “No one, to my knowledge, has yet had cause to complain of my sense of humor, madame,” Dominic drawled. “But there is always a first time.”

  Genevieve swallowed. What on earth was wrong? Or rather, what had she done wrong? The privateer was furious and, as always, his anger manifested itself in
his body’s stillness, in the unwavering blue eyes that held her own until her gaze dropped. She had been feeling marvelously sophisticated, exuberant with the knowledge of her demonstrable power to attract and amuse such diverse individuals as Monsieur Fouché and the son of her hosts, smugly enjoying the entertaining little game of lighthearted flirtation played by everyone at which she had discovered such an unexpected skill. Now, Dominic had made her feel crestfallen and subdued, like a little girl whose fantasy had been punctured by adult exasperation with the game of make-believe.

  “It is time we went home,” Dominic said with painful lack of the conventional courtesies.

  Genevieve flushed, but with annoyance rather than discomfiture this time. The curt statement had sounded exactly like the order it was, and he could not possibly have just cause for such public humiliation. “It is a little early, yet,” she demurred, a hint of steel beneath the soft tone. “But do you leave, by all means, if you are fatigued. I will follow anon.”

  Fouché coughed and took the wide-eyed de Graçay by the elbow. The young man started, then, realizing what was expected of him, muttered some vague excuse and bowed himself away from the trouble spot.

  “Come,” said the privateer, offering her his arm.

  “I am not ready to leave,” Genevieve hissed furiously. “You had no right to embarrass me in that way.”

  “You were embarrassing me,” he declared flatly. “And unless you wish for further embarrassment, you will take my arm with no more argument.”

  “What was I doing?” she demanded, making no move to take the still proffered arm.

  “You know perfectly well.” He took her hand and tucked it beneath his arm. “I have spent quite long enough this evening watching you simper and flirt in that idiotic, coquettish fashion, so we are going to make our farewells.”