Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  To her furious chagrin, Genevieve felt tears of dismayed hurt at this cruel injustice sting her eyes. “I was not simpering,” she muttered, swallowing hard and blinking. “And why should I not flirt a little? Everyone else does so.”

  “You have obviously forgotten that your greatest appeal has hitherto lain in the fact that you are unlike everyone else,” he snapped. “I have told you countless times that affecting Elise’s mannerisms make you simply ridiculous. You do not have the presence for it.”

  Genevieve was crushed, decimated by this harshness that seemed to have come out of the blue, to have no basis in fact. She had not been affecting Elise’s mannerisms; nothing had been further from thought or intention, and she had enough self-confidence to know that she had not inadvertently behaved in any way like her stepsister. She realized that an attempt to defend herself against the unfairness of the charge at this point would probably reduce her to tears, since, in the crowded salons of the de Graçay mansion, she could not admit anger to her aid, and only in anger could she respond as she wished. There seemed nothing for it but to leave her hand on her “husband’s” arm, a fixed smile on her lips, to mouth platitudes as they progressed through the succession of rooms, one opening out of the other, until they found their hosts.

  “Ah, ma chère madame, you cannot mean to leave us so soon,” protested the vicomte, with a flourishing bow reminiscent of the heyday of the court of Versailles. “Delacroix, you cannot be so unkind as to remove the brightest illumination yet to grace us. It will be like snuffing the candles, I swear it.”

  “Then I fear you are condemned to utter darkness, vicomte,” returned Dominic, gently sardonic. “Madame has the headache.” He bent a credibly concerned look on the upturned face of the figure beside him. “Is it not so, ma chère?”

  “Too much excitement, vicomte,” Genevieve murmured. “I am desolated to be leaving so soon.”

  Then it was over, and they were outside in the cold night air. Silas and the carriage appeared as if by telepathy and, indeed, Genevieve frequently thought that the old sailor and the privateer communicated independently of the usual channels of sensible converse.

  She sat huddled in the welcome darkness of the carriage, vibrantly aware of Dominic opposite but stubbornly retreating into her hurt. She had no idea why he should have attacked her in that manner, but, if she stopped to think, things had really not been right between them since they had established themselves in Vienna. It was nothing definable; just a word, a look, a feeling. And last night, when they had made love after her return from Cholmondeley’s lodgings, there had been something amiss. He had loved her with his customary tenderness and skill, had drawn her out of her self and into the sensate realm of glory, but those flashes of apprehension had been real, although incomprehensible. And afterward, he had tucked her into bed, gently and lovingly; but then he had left her, and it was near dawn before she had felt him slide between the sheets beside her. He had fallen instantly asleep, and she had curled against him, her arm flung across his chest, her head pillowed in the crook of his shoulder until Silas had come in with coffee and had grumbled at her for her scattered clothing. Usually Dominic laughed at their nursery spats, but this morning he had barely noticed, had been locked in a reverie, indifferent to the goings-on around him.

  Genevieve went up to bed as soon as they arrived home. She wanted to fight back, to shout her outrage at the injustice, to demand explanation, but Dominic’s reserve was intimidating and she was tired, suddenly depressed by a sense of futility, and she knew that she could not bear further hurt tonight. It was easier to retreat into herself, warm in bed with a hot posset and the soft candlelight and the deep welcome of the feather mattress. Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would grapple with whatever it was.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  It was very late when Dominic finally dragged himself away from his moody contemplation of the dying fire in the salon and made his way up the darkened stairway to bed. The bedchamber was lit by a single candle on the mantel and the last glowing embers in the fireplace. He trod over to the bed where the curtains were drawn tight, enclosing the sleeping figure in a peaceful dark. Usually, if she came to bed before he did, Genevieve left the bed curtains open. But he could hardly blame her for this defensive withdrawal tonight.

  Pulling back the brocaded silk, he looked down at the still figure. She lay on her back, her hands flung above her head, fingers twined in the ash-blond curtain veiling the pillow. The straight golden eyelashes formed half moons on the high cheekbones delicately flushed with sleep, and the straight, determined mouth was relaxed, lips slightly parted.

  Why had he lashed out at her like that? Dominic sighed and shrugged out of his coat. His anger and dismay was really directed at himself, succumbing so ridiculously, so ineptly, to such a pathetic emotion as jealousy. It had no relevance to the game they played, no relevance to their relationship. And it had been grossly unjust to transfer the self-directed anger to Genevieve. Except that the exchange with Legrand had unsettled him.

  Shaking back the fall of lace at the wrists of his shirt, he unfastened the tiny buttons and turned his attention to this other puzzle. The man had been testing him, without the shadow of a doubt, testing his reactions to Genevieve’s behavior. Why would one attempt to stir up a complaisant husband? It was hardly in the lover’s interest. Unless, Legrand suspected that the Delacroix affairs were not quite what they seemed. But what possible evidence could he have for doing so? Genevieve played her part well enough—too well for his own peace of mind, Dominic reflected dourly, tossing his shirt into a corner and sitting on the chaise longue to pull off his shoes. She was the giddy socialite, flirting indiscriminately, and her husband, when he bothered to notice at all, looked on with a vague, indulgent smile. Fortunately, he had managed just in time to step back from the brink of exposure this evening and respond to Legrand according to role, offering the bland smile, the easily accepting remark, ignoring the underlying taunt that a man bothered by his wife’s behavior would have found impossible to ignore. But it still did not answer the two questions: Why had Legrand been testing him? And what had happened to arouse his suspicions?

  Naked, he blew out the candle and padded, soft-footed, to the bed. Maybe Genevieve could throw some light on the question in the morning. Whether she could or not, he had the distinct impression that it was time to take what information they had and leave Vienna while the going was good. Thanks to Genevieve’s spying, he knew now how to make contact with Bartolucci at Leghorn. If Fouché could be persuaded to honesty, then it would smooth their path even further. The first gray strokes of dawn were painting the sky when he slipped beneath the covers, pushing an arm beneath the sleeping figure beside him to roll her into his embrace. Without waking, she muttered his name, snuggling against him, and he stroked the silken silver mass that shimmered across his chest.

  “Forgive me, sprite,” he whispered, tracing the line of her jaw with a delicate fingertip. As if she heard him, she burrowed closer with a tiny sigh. She did have the most generous spirit, he thought, a rueful little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He did not think he had ever apologized to anyone as often as he had to this sprite. Even when she had provoked his temper with unimpeachable reason, he still ended by deeply regretting the harshness of his reactions. In the future, he must endeavor to be more gentle with her even when she deserved his anger. She certainly had not deserved it tonight.

  But the road to heaven is paved with good intentions—a platitude that Dominic was destined to remember before another dawn came to Vienna.

  “Do you attend the Polanski’s masked ball this evening, Madame Delacroix?” Signor Sebastiani massaged his knuckles attentively, his meagre mouth dragged into the semblance of a smile. He was thin and dark and pointed, like a gnome, Genevieve had often thought, and he missed nothing of what went on around him.

  “It is certainly my intention, signor,” she responded politely. “May I offer you more coffee?” She picked up the silver pot
, her head tilted in invitation.

  “Thank you, but no.” He declined with a sharp gesture of one elongated hand. “You will, I trust, stand up with me for the quadrille.”

  A minute frown twitched between Genevieve’s brows. The Italian was incredibly arrogant, utterly presumptuous in his assumptions. It would not occur to him that she might have accepted another partner, any more than it had occurred to him that the morning of the ball was a little late in the day to be seeking her hand for the most popular dance.

  “I am desolated, signor, but I am already promised to the Duke of Wellington.”

  “Then what can I say?” Sebastiani’s hands drifted through the air, and he shrugged. “The duke is an appalling dancer, but no lady could ever refuse him.”

  “Indeed not,” she agreed softly. “And you, signor, are a superlative dancer. I am mortified to find that I have only country dances to offer you.”

  “My error.” Another, careless shrug. “I always forget that it is necessary to solicit one’s partners so far in advance of the event. It requires so much tedious forethought.”

  “But when you wish to stand up with the most sought-after partner in Vienna, Sebastiani, forethought is essential,” Legrand put in, sipping his coffee. “I, I am happy to say, have secured the cotillion and the boulanger.”

  “Shame on you for your selfishness, Legrand,” chided Charles Cholmondeley. “You would deprive the rest of us.”

  “Gentlemen, gentlemen,” laughed Genevieve in protest. “You put me to the blush with your flattery. Vienna blooms with eligible damsels, as well you know.”

  “But none who are also unequalled at the card table,” Grand Duke Sergei interpolated.

  Genevieve kept the smile on her face but could do nothing about its disappearance from her eyes. Her four morning callers were not generally known as cronies, and it was unusual to see them together, but they had arrived in a party, and it had become very clear to their hostess that they shared something—be it knowledge, curiosity, or a goal, she did not know. But whatever it was had been causing her some considerable unease. It now rather looked as if they had exchanged the truth about their evenings of pique with the seductive Madame Delacroix. And when discomfiture found companions it could become menacing. One man would lick his wounds and keep his humiliation to himself; four of them would see no need for shame and might look for a way of evening the score. If only she could ask Dominic for his opinion. But she could not do that without revealing her silly scruples, and if those scruples were about to cause trouble, then the privateer would not be inclined to an empathetic understanding of her difficulty.

  “Where is madame, Silas?” Dominic, at this point in Genevieve’s uncomfortable reflections, strolled down the staircase. Having risen late after his dawn retiring, and having spent a leisurely hour at his ablutions, he was feeling relaxed and in the mood to soothe and pamper his partner-in-crime, making amends for the previous evening.

  “In the salon, monsieur,” Silas informed him with his customary stolidity, adding in offhand manner, “with her gentlemen.”

  Dominic paused on the bottom step. “What the devil does that mean, Silas?”

  “Those she visits late at night,” Silas said. “When I bring her home.” He looked over Dominic’s shoulder, his eyes a blank, as if, of course, he knew nothing of what the mademoiselle did on those nights.

  Dominic’s lips tightened, his good resolutions flown as he remembered his conversation with Legrand. Surely Genevieve had sufficient sense to keep her informant/lovers apart from each other? They were all clever men, skilled in the often inseparable arts of treachery and diplomacy. It would not take much for them to put two and two together if they compared notes on their conversations with madame. He walked into the salon.

  “Good morning, gentlemen. What a pleasant surprise.” His smile embraced the company, touched Genevieve with unmistakable warning so that she stiffened. They had not spoken since the previous evening, but she had woken, held fast in his arms, feeling warmly secure, no longer angry and hurt, as if, while she had slept, he had smoothed the rough stone of antagonism rendering it harmless. But now, the clear blue gaze sparked a message of admonitory warning and, forgetting her own unease at this sudden visitation of the club of suitors, she put up her chin, and the tawny eyes returned their own message.

  “Do you care for coffee, Dominic?”

  “No, thank you, ma chère,” he replied, raising the sherry decanter. “I prefer something a little stronger. Will you join me, gentlemen?”

  It seemed that they would, and the veneer of cordiality, so well known to the accomplished diplomat, settled over the salon where logs crackled in the hearth, the fire glow dimmed by the winter sun pouring through the long windows facing the Domgasse.

  “We are in competition for your wife’s partnership, Delacroix,” the Grand Duke said, with a little bow in Genevieve’s direction.

  “Indeed?” The privateer’s eyebrows lifted in faint question mark. “In what, may I ask?”

  The silence before Sergei responded was tiny, but it held a wealth of innuendo, and a chill ran down Genevieve’s spine. “Why, on the dance floor, monsieur. Where else?”

  Dominic laughed easily. “Where else, indeed. You have, I trust, saved a waltz for your husband, my dear Genevieve?”

  “But of course,” she responded smoothly. “The unmasking waltz at midnight. What other partner should I have?”

  A frown darkened the privateer’s turquoise gaze. That remark, if what he suspected was true, skated dangerously close to thin ice. Was she genuinely unaware of the distinct but indefinable aura of menace in the room? Or was the defiant crackle in the tiger’s eyes an indication that she was deliberately playing with fire to annoy him. The latter, he decided. Clearly, he had not been forgiven for yesterday.

  Their four guests took their leave soon after with amiable smiles and soft-spoken pleasantries that deceived no one.

  “Now, what the devil are they up to?” Dominic mused, pacing the salon.

  “They happen to enjoy dancing with me,” Genevieve said with a sweet smile and a little, dismissive shrug. “Why should you find that peculiar? Or is dancing now forbidden, as well as flirting?”

  “Don’t play the naive baby with me,” Dominic snapped, responding to this blatant provocation as if he had never formed good resolutions in the dawn. “This business, my dear girl, is far too dangerous for you to play silly games.”

  “Silly games!” Her jaw dropped and she stood up abruptly, the impatient movement setting the delicate pale-green flowing muslin of her morning gown swirling. Was that how he thought of the tormenting tension, the agonizing struggles over the card table, the desperate search for words to form the seemingly casual questions that would draw out the informative replies? Silly games! Her fingers curled into fists and she glared at him, hating him at this moment for putting her into the impossible position that she could not admit to because, if he knew the truth, he really would consider that she was playing silly games.

  “Yes,” he said deliberately, refilling his glass with the rich amber liquid. “It was unpardonably foolish to make such a pointed remark. Has it not occurred to you that their presence here, all together, might have some covert purpose? I cannot imagine what could have aroused their suspicions, but I’ll lay considerable odds that something has.”

  Genevieve, who was now convinced of what that something was, decided that she did not wish to pursue the conversation. “I am having luncheon with Lady Marjoribanks and I must change my dress.”

  Dominic sighed and attempted to moderate his tone. “Genevieve?”

  She paused, her hand on the door. “Yes?”

  “I am sorry if I seemed unjust yesterday. Can we not put it behind us?” He smiled, hopefully placating.

  But Genevieve found that she was not to be placated. She shrugged. “I had put yesterday behind me, but it seems you are determined to continue with injustice and unkindness. I do not wish to talk about it anymore.
” She swished out of the room.

  Dominic took a half step toward the sharply closed door and then shook his head irritably and returned to his sherry. Once he had extricated them both from the web of deception, unavoidable during their stay in Vienna, and had removed Genevieve from her duped informants, then they would be able to return to their old footing. He would no longer be tormented by jealousy, and the excitement of direct action would take away the sour taste of this conspiracy that was depressing them both.

  He did not see Genevieve again until that evening when he returned from a session of the Congress, convinced that this world meeting was on the verge of breaking up. There had also been much talk of the reaction in France to the restored reign of the Bourbons. The latter were behaving in a manner deliberately calculated, it seemed, to alienate the army and to fan the flames of national republicanism that in 1789 had begun the world-wide turmoil that it had taken twenty-six years to quell. If, indeed, it was quelled now. It seemed likely that Napoleon would receive a favorable reception should he decide to return to France and fight for the restoration of his empire.

  Dominic was anxious to impart this information and his thoughts to Genevieve, but he found her unresponsive, and her monosyllabic replies did not encourage expansion as they dressed for the Polanski’s ball. Silas’s presence precluded his bringing a halt to her fit of the sullens in the only way that occurred to him, and their presence at a glittering dinner party at the Hoffburg Palace as guests of the imperial family precluded conversation between them, intimate or otherwise.

  Genevieve appeared, if it were possible, to sparkle even more than usual. Her eyes were brilliant, glowing like the great golden topaz that hung from her ears and from the delicate gold chain circling her slender throat, and the contrast between them and the shimmering, glinting silver-gold hair falling in artless ringlets to her shoulders had never seemed more striking. She wore a ballgown of ivory crepe with golden velvet ribbons and managed to create an impression both ethereal and vibrant. Dominic, who was entirely responsible for her elaborate wardrobe and the contents of the overflowing jewel casket on her dresser, was disposed to consider the investment well worth while. The modestly dressed jeune fille of New Orleans who had taken little interest in prevailing fashion had been transformed into a strikingly elegant young woman with a naturally impeccable taste and faultless instinct about what suited her best.