by Diana Quincy
Mari appeared by his side. “What do you think?”
He had not seen her since supper yesterday, after which she’d retired remarkably early. He had no idea if she’d made an appearance at breakfast this morning. He rarely did himself, preferring to keep to his bed at such an ungodly hour. “At least they haven’t lost their gondola,” he said. “I can only hope their landing is smoother than yours.”
She raised a dark, shapely brow. “Perhaps you could manage not to end up under the balloon this time.”
Appearing to lose all interest in him, she perched her hands on her hips and watched the descent with the practiced eye of a professional. She’d tied her hair again in that haphazard knot with loose dark strands slipping its tenuous bonds. Her obvious indifference to her appearance spoke of a natural confidence he found alluring.
“I shall endeavor to stay out of its way,” he said. “Although I’d have no complaints about ending up under you again.”
“Cochon,” she said, not appearing to pay him much mind. She moved a few steps in front of him, her focus on the balloon. He took advantage of her distraction to look his fill, sending up a silent prayer of thanks that she had nothing else to wear but yesterday’s breeches, which gave him an excellent view of the subtle roundness of her sweet little arse.
His prick twitched with interest. Her trim form certainly had womanly curves in all the right places. Someone had gotten her a new white shirt, Sarah maybe, given the way the tight fit outlined those plump breasts and the fact that the servant girl was considerably less endowed than the parachutist.
His fierce attraction to Mari disconcerted him. He enjoyed plenty of swiving, but there was something about the French angel that made him hunger for her. Perhaps it was because she seemed unconquerable, and he loved a challenge. Whatever the reason, Mari’s natural sensuality drew him like a magnet.
The balloon swooped down. One of its inhabitants—a tall, dark-haired man with spectacles—threw out a cable and anchor as it neared the earth. The wicker gondola hit the ground with a scraping thump before rebounding several feet and coming down again, hopping like a giant rabbit. The moment the car made its final thud, acquiescing to earthly bonds, a second man, with coloring similar to that of his companion, only shorter, with a more wiry frame, leapt out with easy agility.
Mari ran forward, all long legs and liquid movement, and grabbed some of the cable. She and the men worked in tandem; they threw down the anchor and tethered the balloon to the ground with rapid efficiency. Sand-filled ballasts were tossed into the center of the gondola to weigh it down.
The boat-shaped basket was larger than Cosmo would have expected, about six feet by four feet. It appeared to be made of interwoven rattan and willow with leather bindings. The sides were thigh high, and there was a seat at each end of the gondola, leaving space for ballast in the middle.
With the task of grounding the contraption complete, the rangy man in spectacles jumped out of the basket and pulled Mari into his arms with a laughing familiarity that made Cosmo want to snap the man’s knees.
Smiling, she ran her fine-boned hand over the dark stubble on Spectacles’s cheek. “You look like a peasant,” she said in French. “I should not allow you to kiss me with this face.”
Were kisses something she dispensed regularly to this man? The second fellow, with the wiry frame, put his arm around Mari’s waist and bussed her cheek. She favored him with the same easy smile the first cull had received. “The landing was excellent, n’est-ce pas?”
Spectacles rounded back to the wicker car, putting things to rights. “The hydrogen works perfectly,” he said. “But we still must work on the parachute oscillations.”
“I have been thinking of this,” Mari said, and the three of them launched into a discussion in French about parachute vents. Both men were obviously French. Cosmo didn’t bother trying to follow their conversation. He was too busy noticing how comfortable she seemed chatting with Wiry’s arm around her waist. Was she allowing him to bed her? Or maybe she was knocking both of them. They courted risk and danger together. It made sense that they might engage in other activities as well.
Ire shot through him, surprising him with how strongly he disliked the image of Mari Lamarre naked with any man—other than him, of course. As a rule, he didn’t share his women, but it was laughable to feel proprietary about one he’d known for barely a day. Linking his hands behind his back, he cleared his throat. “Won’t you introduce us, Mademoiselle Lamarre?”
“Bien sûr.” Laughter lit the rainbow of color in her eyes. “Monsieur Dunsmore, this rogue is Marcellin,” she said, tilting her head toward Wiry, whose arm remained draped around her waist. “And that other scoundrel is Maxim.”
“Welcome to Langtry, gentlemen,” he said stiffly. “I do hope you will be comfortable here.”
Challenge sparked in Wiry’s—Marcellin’s—eyes. “We won’t be staying long enough for that.”
Mari threw an arm around the man’s shoulders. “Marcel, this is the excellent news I must share.” They were almost the same height, as Mari was rather tall for a female. Their coloring—dark hair and olive skin—was also similar. “The Marquess of Aldridge has been most generous. He is offering us the use of his property.”
Spectacles, who she’d introduced as Maxim, leapt out of the gondola and walked over to them. “We are to prepare for the exhibition here?”
Mari nodded. “There is even a cottage at our disposal.”
Our? Cosmo didn’t care for the direction of this conversation. “We can easily continue to accommodate you at Langtry House, mademoiselle.”
She smiled broadly, baring the slightest gap between her front teeth, which he hadn’t noted before. “That is most generous of you, but there is much work to do,” she said. “I will sleep with the boys. We are sure to be engaged late into the night.”
No doubt. The heat of irritation gathered in his chest, but there was something about her sly grin, and the unusual multitude of colors in Marcel’s eyes, which happened to be the exact same shade as Mari’s…
“Great gods,” he burst out. “Mari. Marcellin. Maxim. Were your parents not aware there are twenty-five other letters in the alphabet?”
The three of them exchanged the type of knowing grins that come from a lifetime of shared experiences, the kind he used to share with Elinor.
“I suppose we should not tell him about Marielle,” Maxim said.
“Or Mariette,” said Mari.
“And Mélisande,” Marcel added.
“By Zeus,” Cosmo said. “How many of you are there?”
“Just the six of us.”
“Lord help your parents if your sisters are anything like you,” he said to Mari, cheered by the confirmation of the sibling bond between her and the men. “Shall we go inside and make you known to my father? He is most anxious to discuss aerostation with you.”
“Aerostation?” Mari lifted a brow. “Not said with disdain?”
“I wouldn’t want to be taken down by an army of Ms,” he said. “A smart man comprehends when he is outnumbered.”
Marcel’s shrewd glance slid between Cosmo and Mari. “Bon. It is good for you to understand there are limits,” he said in a voice edged with warning, “because we Lamarres always look out for our own.”
“How will you stop the oscillations?” Aldridge asked as they waited to go into supper a few evenings later.
Marcel took a drink that Boyle proffered on a silver tray. “Mari thinks to add another hole at the apex of the canopy.”
They stood about in the salon awaiting Mari’s appearance. Cosmo tapped his foot with impatience. Since her brothers’ arrival two days ago, he’d seen far too little of the parachutist. All three Ms spent most of their time working in the barn, which had been converted into a temporary workspace for their use. It was strange, but he’d missed her company. At least she’d kept her bedchamber in the main house, ultimately deciding against joining her brothers in their cottage quarters.
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br /> Of course, keeping her chamber ensured that she retained access to the house, and to his father. He’d noted Mari’s subtle but keen interest in Aldridge. The previous two evenings she’d played chess with the old man after supper, and the marquess seemed to greatly enjoy her company.
He sensed that she didn’t present any immediate physical danger to his father. If he’d had any doubts at all on that score, the parachutist would already be out on her arse. Whatever she was after, he wouldn’t allow her to harm Aldridge. Since Elinor’s death, his father’s health had declined and, of late, something seemed to be weighing heavily on him. Concern for the older man was what had prompted Cosmo to follow him to Dorset for the summer.
It was possible Mari wanted Aldridge for marriage, although Cosmo didn’t perceive that motive in her. He’d detected no coyness or flirtation in the parachutist’s interactions with his father. Her manner was one of polite, respectful interest. Unlike her manner toward him, for which Cosmo was grateful. The last thing he wanted from his fallen angel was polite courtesy. He rather enjoyed being on the receiving end of that whip-like tongue of hers.
It would, however, make sense for Mari to court Aldridge as a benefactor to help finance her perilous enterprise. Few men in England had deeper pockets than the Marquess of Aldridge.
“The boat certainly is elaborate,” Aldridge said, referring to the balloon’s ornate gold and blue wicker basket.
“Unfortunately, it is a necessary frippery,” Maxim said.
Marcel nodded. “Not everyone sees aerial excursion as the science demonstration it is.”
Mari’s throaty voice sounded from the doorway. “They desire a spectacle, so we must provide it.”
Cosmo’s mouth went dry. As far as he was concerned, the best show in the metropolis stood a few paces from him. His fallen angel had thrown off the breeches in favor of a deep-green silk gown that did wonders for her form. With her dark hair pulled up, the deep décolletage revealed a long, slim neck and honey-satin skin draped over curving shoulders. Her breasts were as lush as he’d imagined—pale, plump, and rounded to perfection. Suddenly, he didn’t care what the parachutist was up to, as long as she continued to favor them with her presence. He could only hope her scheme involved seduction.
“Mademoiselle Lamarre.” Aldridge bowed. “You are certainly in good looks this evening.”
She curtseyed, the movement like flowing water. “Merci, my lord.” She shot an edged look at her siblings. “I have Maxim and Marcel to thank for it.”
The M brothers exchanged the sort of rapscallion glance common to young boys involved in mischief. Maxim’s mouth twitched with restrained mirth. “You look decidedly…feminine…sister.”
“Belle. Like a real lady,” Marcel complimented with an admirably serious expression, betrayed by the spark of laughter in vivid eyes so like his sister’s.
Ah, the gown had not been Mari’s choice. The brothers had decided to have a little amusement at her expense. Dismissing them with an elegant turn of her neck, she spoke to his father. “You were speaking of the exhibition, my lord?”
“Indeed. Your brothers were lamenting the need to add ornament to what is essentially a scientific undertaking.”
“It is most regrettable that the public comes for the spectacle,” she said, “and not the science.”
Cosmo shook his head with disgust. “Seeing a fellow creature exposed to danger is not entertainment enough for the masses?” He set his empty glass on a marble-topped end table with a clank. “How is it, gentlemen, that your father allowed Mademoiselle Lamarre to pursue such a perilous vocation?”
Marcel chuckled. “He not only allowed it, he insisted upon it.”
Cosmo bounced a questioning look between the two brothers. “Surely you jest.”
“Not at all,” Maxim said with a shrug. “Once mon père realized that people would pay more to watch a woman fall from the sky, he began training Mari to take over the job.”
“The idea of a damsel in distress is very appealing to the masses,” Marcel explained.
Disbelief burned in his chest. “Your mother allowed this?”
Mari’s lips curved into a saucy little smile. “Only after she herself was allowed to jump.”
“God’s breath!” Cosmo shook his head incredulously. “Does everyone in your family have a death wish? I suppose your sisters are fire-eaters.”
“Not quite,” Maxim said, “but it is true we Lamarres do not care for boring vocations. Perhaps that is why we took up aerostation.”
“How did you come to be involved with ballooning?” Aldridge asked. While his father engaged the brothers in a discussion of their personal histories, Cosmo took the opportunity to go to his fallen angel’s side. “Tell me, Miss Lamarre, do all of the Ms court risk and danger?”
Her mercurial eyes shone an opal-like green this evening, reflecting the vibrant shade of her gown. “Do you not crave a little excitement, Dunsmore?”
“At the moment I crave you.” His eyes slipped to the spectacular view her bodice offered. “Preferably divested of that gown.”
She smiled, baring the charming little gap between her front teeth. “You do not care for my attire?”
“On the contrary, I care for it entirely too well.” He felt warm in his formal dinner clothes. “As enticing as the wrapping is, I’m anxious for a glimpse of what’s inside the package.”
“Sometimes the most beautifully wrapped gift turns out to be a disappointment.” Her husky voice flowed through him like a fine liqueur, dark and smooth, but with a fiery finish. She was divine. What a pleasure it was to match wits with such a formidable woman.
“Somehow, I doubt you could disappoint me in any way,” he said. “Perhaps I should be allowed to formulate my own opinion.” Although her brow moved up into a skeptical upside-down V, he sent up a silent prayer of thanks that she was neither a lady nor likely a virgin, which made the likelihood of enjoying her company more thoroughly—more intimately—more eminently possible.
She tilted her head, her jewel-toned eyes luminous. “Why should I countenance a liaison with you?”
“Because you like to take risks.”
“Some risks are not worth taking.” Her voice was cool, light. But he noted that her breaths grew shorter, and that those delicious breasts moved in and out a little more quickly.
“This one would be well worth it.”
Her challenging gaze held his. “I cannot be assured of that.”
“But you can. You like to fly, and I would make you soar in my bed.”
She laughed, a throaty genuine sound of amusement that did strange things to his insides. “What a braggart you are. Surely there are many girls in the village who would be happy to accommodate a man with such remarkable…uh…skills.”
None that compared to her. “For some inexplicable reason, you beguile me.”
She turned, gliding toward the open terrace doors. “It is warm in here, n’est-ce pas?”
Definitely. He followed, enticed beyond reason by the idea of stealing a moment alone with her. She carried herself like a prize, and he very much wanted to win her. Once outside, she dropped back into the terrace shadows, out of sight of the occupants inside. A loose ringlet of hair fell against the smooth length of her neck. He curled the silken strand around his finger. “Now that I have made my feelings clear, do you not worry I will take advantage of you?”
A slight smile played on her knowing lips. “Do you not worry, Monsieur Dunsmore, that I will be the one to take advantage of you?”
Lust lit through him, firing down to his toes. That was an invitation if he’d ever heard one, and damned if he wasn’t going to take her up on it. When he moved his head closer, she didn’t shy away, and her glimmering eyes remained locked on his. He had not misjudged her intent then.
His lips covered hers, finding them warm, soft and surprisingly giving for such an obstinate female. The scent of lemon and cloves, intermingled with her unique essence, curled around him, drawing
him deeper in thrall. He touched the tip of his tongue to her lower lip. It was a question. To his extreme delight, she answered by parting her lips. He delved inside, exploring the wet silk cavern in wondering, gentle movements, indulging in the taste of her—not quite sweet, but definitely ambrosial.
He deepened the kiss, widening her mouth with his, taking more. He touched her nowhere else, but the rest of his body was engaged; his heart battered against his chest wall, blood rushed to his head, his body grew hot, his groin swelled. It was, quite simply, an astoundingly exceptional kiss, and he was afloat in the pleasure of it.
Distant voices, bothersome male ones, came closer, intruding upon the sublime moment. She broke the kiss, showing a remarkable presence of mind when he had surely lost his. He, who would have tossed up her skirts and made long, slow, sweet love to her right there, despite knowing full well that her brothers stood steps away.
“Mari?” Marcel’s sharp voice rang out behind Cosmo.
She stepped out of the shadows with a calm steadiness. “Oui, Marcellin?”
“C’est l’heure du dîner.”
“Time for supper?” Schooling a bland expression, Cosmo turned around, grateful the evening shadows hid the pronounced contours pressing against the front of his breeches. “Excellent. I, for one, am famished.”
Marcel’s suspicious gaze darted between the two of them. “What are you doing out here?”
“It is a beautiful evening,” she said, her demeanor as cool as a spring rain.
Cosmo nodded, barely hearing the conversation over the pounding in his chest. “We were taking some air,” he said idiotically.
Marcel glowered at him. “If I were you, monsieur, I would be careful about taking what is not yours.”