He gained some release from anger by the mere act of making noise. He had ridden that morning and had not taken time to change afterward. Nothing quite matched the ominous sound of a pair of solid boot heels applied to wood and to stone by a man’s solid weight.
Maids scurried from his path.
Verbeux pounded up the stairs just behind him. Hell’s teeth, the man seemed entertained!
Jean-Marc threw open the door to Désirée’s wing and shouted, “I wish to speak to you, Désirée. And you, Meg Smiles. Kindly prepare yourselves.” Yes, a good deal of authority loudly applied could really mollify a man’s nerves. He checked his stride to avoid bumping into a gaggle of small women carrying garments in various stages of completion. “Do you hear me, ladies?”
Désirée popped from her bedchamber into the corridor. Garbed in some sort of ugly white night robe, she confronted him with her hands on her hips. “How could we not hear you, Jean-Marc? You are shouting. I have no doubt Papa can hear you, and we both know where he is.”
“Enough, young lady.” This one had been rude and demanding from the day of her birth. “I am expending a great deal of effort on your behalf and I will not tolerate your insufferable impudence.”
Désirée rounded her eyes. “You don’t have to tolerate anything. You are the one who stamped in here. I didn’t invite you. And you are the one who shouted for absolutely no reason. That was rude, was it not? Oh, I have no strength to argue with you. What has made you behave like…Hmm, what has happened, Jean-Marc?”
He’d give a good deal to know what she’d been about to liken him to, but wouldn’t give her the pleasure of admitting as much.
“In fact it is Miss Meg Smiles I wish to see. I only included you because you happen to be here—and so, I assume, is she.”
Fanning herself as if overcome, Désirée said, “Jean-Marc, your flattery overwhelms me. I’m so grateful to be included.” She put a finger to her lips and looked behind her. She whispered, “Meg is unusual. Perhaps mysterious. Spiritlike, even. She is certainly unlike any lady I have known before, but she is also marvelous at helping me not be afraid of all I must do. But she is shy. I know she doesn’t seem so, but she is. Please don’t shout at her again.”
He assessed his half sister’s sincerity. She seemed to mean what she said, but damn it all, why should he cater to those he hired? “Thank you for your insight,” he said, and passed her. “Carry on with your work, please, everyone. There is no time to waste. Miss Smiles! Miss Meg Smiles! Show yourself at once.”
“My Lord,” Verbeux said quietly, “could she be very shy? You would not want to frighten her away.”
Meg appeared and said, “Good morning, My Lord.” And she was pale and…Yes, he did believe she was shaken.
“Good morning,” he said, “Do you agree that every moment counts?”
She looked at the floor. “We are using our time well.”
“By ignoring my instructions?”
“Ignoring you, My Lord?” Meg met his gaze. “What can you mean? We have done so much in two weeks. You have said you would prefer to be spared details whenever possible.”
Yes, Jean-Marc thought, he had, and in good part because he had wanted to put temptation out of reach.
Regardless of the reason, he was attracted to her. Whether or not the danger of it played a part was immaterial—he must be with her again. Tears stood in her eyes. Oh, damn, damn, why did she have to start crying now when he needed to be strong and get his own way? “Kindly allow me to talk to you without such a display of emotion, if you please.”
Meg swallowed, and swallowed again, and cast around for a handkerchief. It was Princess Désirée who gave her one, and Princess Désirée who faced her brother and said, “There. See what you have done? Your unpleasantness has made her cry.”
“No, no,” Meg said, viewing the brother and sister through a watery wash. “I’m not crying.” Princess Désirée was definitely upset.
“Good,” Jean-Marc said. “Answer me this. Were you told you must have a new wardrobe in order to carry out your duties to the Princess?”
“Yes,” she said. “Of course, I declined.”
“You declined? What ever made you think it was your place to decline an instruction?”
She held the handkerchief over her mouth. Meditation was essential. At once. If she was to survive this terrible experience, tranquillity must be attained. She bowed her head and closed her eyes and cleansed her body of breath.
“Answer me!”
This was a nightmare, Meg thought, a nightmare as awful as when she’d seen the coach and the lathering horses coming toward her as if in slow motion. “A terrible expense,” she said softly. “I am an employee here and to consider placing such a burden on you is unthinkable.”
Jean-Marc rubbed his face and tried to be calm. “It isn’t your place to worry about my pockets, Miss. You will have a new wardrobe, and that is the end of the discussion.”
“I will not,” she told him, and wished her voice were steady.
“You are to accompany a princess to the grandest social events of a London Season. Do you imagine I would allow you to go—with the reputation of Mont Nuages at stake—dressed in cheap rags?”
Désirée exclaimed.
Then there was absolute silence. The modiste and her assistants had fled from sight.
Meg’s skin burned, and her legs were weak. She considered him, his angry eyes and tight mouth. He was furious not with her, but with himself. He detested seeing her and being reminded that he had touched her intimately, spoken to her intimately. Yes, that was it. Her father had often told her she was unusually gifted in her assessments of others. The Count was not a cruel man, not cruel enough to speak so meanly of one so much below his stature, not if he were himself.
Jean-Marc loathed what he had said to her. What manner of man spoke so to a woman who had done him no harm—to any woman? What was becoming of him?
“I will not embarrass you,” she said. “I must buy new shoes and boots. But with some ingenuity I shall make certain my clothes will draw no attention—certainly no negative attention. They are not cheap, but inexpensive. They are certainly not rags. And, after all, I am just a companion. No one will look at me.”
Not only had she done him no harm, Jean-Marc thought, she had been the sweetest creature, kind and innocently responsive. “Will you please come with me?” he said.
He didn’t wait for a response, but stalked from Désirée’s rooms to the music room, where Miss Sibyl Smiles usually taught his sister. On the same floor he could hear another piano being played in the small ballroom. No doubt a dancing lesson was planned.
Verbeux knew when to disappear, and the fact that Jean-Marc didn’t hear his footsteps behind him meant he’d slipped away to other parts.
The music room was red and gold, the ceiling elaborately plastered with musical instruments and putti playing their angelic games. His father had spared nothing in making this house ready for his bastard son—and Désirée. But it was Jean-Marc whom Prince Georges now intended to woo into succession.
The windows in the music room overlooked gardens behind the house. Jean-Marc stared down at them and worked to collect himself. Soft feet had entered behind him. “Close the door,” he said, and turned around. “Please.”
Rather than hesitate to be alone with him, she did as he asked immediately. If he were her father, or even her brother, he would warn her of the danger of trusting any man—particularly one who had treated her so shabbily. But he was neither her father nor her brother and had no wish to be.
“I hear your sister playing,” he said. “She is gifted. She is also a charming little bird of a thing.”
“Yes,” Meg said, and actually smiled.
She must love her sister dearly. He asked her, “Do you also play?”
“Badly.”
“I doubt that. What of Désirée? Is she bad? Or is it at all possible that in one area she shows grace?”
“The Princess
shows grace in a great many areas. All that is needed to make her shine is kindness. I shall remember her forever and be grateful to have shared just a little of her life.”
This creature could disarm him with a single stroke. Why didn’t she lash back at him, damn it? Why didn’t she give him some reason to feel less of a cad?
“Sibyl considers Princess Désirée a wonderful young pianist. She has exclaimed to me many times since she’s been coming here that she considers her new pupil brilliant and is so glad for the opportunity to help her. The Princess has a clear, sweet soprano voice. She is stiff when she sings, but that is because she is not accustomed to singing for others. Is she?”
“I…No, I suppose not. I have certainly never heard her either play or sing. But this is good news indeed. I shall throw a musicale for her and make sure our guests insist upon hearing her. Miss Sibyl shall also attend. I rather think Désirée takes great strength from both of you. I have never seen her so warm toward others, in fact.”
“Perhaps she has not had opportunities to become warm to others. She is most intelligent, My Lord. In fact, her knowledge humbles me. She will make a great match and you will be very proud of her. Trust, My Lord, just trust.”
“You are reassuring me?” He extended a hand to her. When she made no move to take it, he captured her fingers and took her to a richly upholstered divan. It stood a short distance from the fireplace, and was designed to be a place for listening comfort where the pianoforte keyboard could also be seen. “Sit down and rest. You have worked far too hard and will exhaust yourself. You are not a robust person.”
She sat on the edge of the beautiful red and gold brocade seat, and he couldn’t fail to note how she traced the gold thread pattern.
“Not good enough,” he said. “Allow me to help you.” Before she could protest, he moved swiftly to swing her around, settle her limbs on the seat and plump pillows behind her back and head. She relaxed not one whit.
“I really should return to Princess Désirée. We are doing very well with her wardrobe, but I feel I must be ever vigilant.”
“I thank you for your vigilance,” he told her. “Now I have other matters to discuss with you. Most of them will not be comfortable—possibly for either of us. I admire the manner in which you stood your ground on the subject of your clothes. Most women would be delighted at the prospect of acquiring an extensive new wardrobe at someone else’s expense.”
“I am uncomfortable with waste. I’m sure you intended the offer kindly, but I shall manage well enough.”
“Tomorrow I’ll have a coach take you out, and you’ll purchase footwear. I have an account at the most suitable establishment.”
“You pay me,” she said, fiddling with her soft green skirts. “I can buy my own shoes.”
He bit back a retort and said, “You would not choose to spend your money on such things. To me they are necessities. Please will you allow me to purchase them for you?” He needed to give her something, damn it. Given the chance, he would heap gifts upon her.
Meg breathed slowly in and out through her mouth and felt her eyelids lower. This calm she summoned more easily every day was a gift. The Count was waiting for an answer, and sometimes one must choose to surrender to the will of another. “If you insist, then yes.”
“Good, then we are agreed. Thank you. I will make the arrangements. You are uncommon, y’know. Standing there with tears in your eyes, yet nevertheless holding your ground. I’ve never met the likes of you, Meg.”
Her heart turned. It turned too often these days.
“You cause me to look at myself, and the exercise can be unpleasant,” he said. “I had no right to speak to you as I did.”
In good conscience, she could not make light of what he had done.
“What courage you have,” he told her.
She didn’t feel at all courageous.
“And you are beautiful, but you know that.” And with every word that passed his lips he managed to dig himself into deeper trouble.
Meg laughed. “Posh, My Lord. I will not argue with you because it is not my place, but I am…I will say no more.”
“We agreed that in private I should call you Meg and you should call me Jean-Marc.”
Propping her elbow on the arm of the chaise, she rested her cheek in her hand.
“So? Can you forgive me and say my name?”
He didn’t miss her little smile. “You are practiced at certain games, My Lord, whereas I know nothing of them. Whatever else I may not be, I am constant. Always the same. I would not give, then take back. I should be afraid of confusing someone—particularly if that person was truly special to me.”
“Is it possible that I am special to you?”
Meg frowned but didn’t look at him. “You should not ask me such things. My reputation is important to me. I doubt I shall ever be courted, or marry, but still I should like to be considered good. For a man such as yourself, idle triflings with females of no consequence mean nothing. They may distract you for an hour or two, and they do you no harm.”
She was right, and he could neither argue nor reassure her that with her, his commitment would be different. “If I find a way to preserve your reputation, should you like to spend time with me?”
How he tempted her. But she had seen the other side of the man now and would not risk being subjected to such demoralizing abuse again. “I think it would be better if we avoided being alone together.”
“We are alone together now and we shall not be interrupted.” The alarm in her face maddened him. “Come, come now, be calm. They all think I am lecturing you.”
“You should not have…no matter.”
“I have already admitted I was wrong. I don’t expect you to forget at once, but can I hope that you will forgive me in time?”
Her eyes, their color ever changing through shades of light brown, fixed on his. “I have forgiven you,” she said, her voice low. “How could I do otherwise?”
“Does that mean you still like me a little?”
“You are shameless, My Lord. You pursue what you want relentlessly.”
“Yes, you’re right. And I want you.” He could not say it plainer than that. “You are also right that I cannot offer you the kind of permanent arrangement you deserve, but perhaps we can find a certain agreeable situation where we may comfort each other.”
Hope, hope actually flared in her eyes now. She knew nothing of the ways of men—the self-serving ways of men of rank and privilege who were accustomed to getting their way. Of course, if he defied his father and went his own way, what or whom he chose to be a permanent part of his life would be his affair.
Meg Smiles wouldn’t fit into any life he chose, not as a wife.
“Should you like that, Meg? To be my confidante, the one to whom I can turn with the certainty that you will never betray me.”
“I would never betray you,” she said suddenly, sitting up and leaning toward him. “Never.”
If he didn’t hold her and kiss her, he might not be able to make his way through this day. “Bless you,” he said. He stood before her and dropped to his knees. Their faces were scant inches apart. “You are a gift to me. You must be. What were the chances that our paths would ever cross?”
“It was inevitable that we should meet,” she told him. He wouldn’t understand, but she would explain anyway. “The very facts of our diverse backgrounds and unlikely meeting assures us that we were supposed to come together. But I should return to the Princess now.”
He closed his eyes and leaned to rest his brow on her shoulder. “Please don’t leave me yet. Comfort me, Meg. Let me feel your gentle hands on me.”
She should respectfully refuse. This was neither the time nor the place for such things.
“Meg, I need you. Please don’t deny me something so small.”
His dark curls touched her cheek, and his lips moved against her neck. She brushed her fingers through his hair and leaned her face against his head. That very dark hair tipped
over the back of his white collar. His hand, curling over her hip, was tanned, and sprinkled with smooth, black hair. Wide from the base of the thumb to the base of the small finger, each muscle and bone stood out. His wrist extended from his shirt cuff and again strong tendons were a sharp reminder of the physical power in the man.
Tentatively, Meg lifted his hand and pressed her lips into his palm. His shudder was potent enough to travel through her body, too. He reacted by planting a dozen hard little kisses against her neck, her jaw and the dip behind her collarbone.
“I should like to provide for you,” he told her, opening his mouth on her cheek. He moved over her, took her lower lip between his teeth, used his tongue to excite her, to bring her back arching from the cushions. She copied each stroke of his until they each strove to take more. His breath quickened. “You should never have to worry about how you will live,” he said. “Nor should Sibyl. I would be glad to provide for her, too.”
His touch stole her concentration on anything but how he made her feel.
“Meg, tell me you will agree to a more permanent arrangement. After Désirée’s debut, of course.”
He framed each of her breasts with a hand, used his thumbs to rub back and forth through the insubstantial stuff of her gown. What he did was not enough. She needed to feel his naked chest on hers, his belly on hers, his thighs pinning hers—the part of him that both frightened and delighted her seeking her most private places.
She grew hotter and seemed helpless to stop herself from writhing to find closeness, to find a bonding with him.
“I will never let you go, Meg,” he said. “Never. I will make sure you come to need me as much as I need you. You are ready to be completely awakened.”
He would never let her go? “What are you telling me, Jean-Marc?”
He kissed her again, soundly, before attempting to answer. “I am very clear, my dear. I find you irresistible and therefore shall not resist. This is evidently the way you feel, too. It’s true we have not known each other long, but I believe these things can be clear almost at once, at the first meeting. It was like that with us.”
All Smiles Page 16