All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “Slippers.” Too much was at stake for her to surrender to her desires, to the flesh. She was too warm and undid the satin frog at the collar of the green cloak. “I requested that M. Verbeux cancel the perfectly ridiculous order for more slippers and boots than any twenty women could need—in years.”

  “Did you, indeed?”

  “Indeed, I did. And he refused because he will not go against your orders.”

  Halibut leaped onto Jean-Marc’s lap, placed his two large front paws on the man’s chest and licked his cheek. Replacing the cat firmly on his lap, Jean-Marc said, “That is the reason Verbeux is in my employ. He puts my wishes before all. He never, in fact, questions my wishes. The items I ordered will be delivered as requested. And you will wear them—as I instruct you to do.”

  “If you insist upon buying this foolish excess, then I must pay for it. So you will please keep my salary until the debt is discharged. And then there is the matter of silver slippers. Verbeux said they were for the musicale. I will not require them.”

  “Of course you will. Your costume is already under construction.”

  “It is not.”

  “It most certainly…Do not argue with me, Meg. You are not accustomed to argument and it does not become you.”

  Meg looked at her hands. She patted a warm cheek and lifted damp tendrils of hair away from her skin.

  “Down with you for a moment, sir,” Jean-Marc told Halibut and set him, with great care, before the fire once more. He came to Meg, took hold of her elbows and pulled her to her feet. “You are overheated, my dear. Allow me.” And he slipped the cloak from her shoulders, then placed it over the back of his chair.

  “I came for Halibut,” she said. “I wish to take him and leave.”

  “Darling girl, we both know you don’t want to leave any more than I want you to leave. It’s time you gave me a response to my proposition. I must know that I shall always be able to come to you.”

  Meg blinked rapidly and squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

  “Come now.” She felt him approach her, felt him close. “Can it be so hard? Do you not want to be with me?”

  “You know I do.”

  “Then what is there to discuss, other than dispatching immediate necessities and setting about our own arrangements?”

  She bowed her head. “There is a great deal to discuss. A dangerous event has occurred, and I am so terrified for you. I may never sleep until I know you are safe.”

  Jean-Marc’s next breath was not the easiest he had taken. “Be assured that I am accustomed to conducting my own affairs. And need I point out that it was you who were in that coach and in grave danger.”

  He saw her small smile and admired her courage. “I am in no danger, My Lord. I—”

  “Jean-Marc. I cannot bear formality between us.”

  “Jean-Marc. There is no reason to think I am in any danger.”

  “You suffered an unfortunate incident before we met. It has been reported to me in detail by a servant who spoke with Reverend Baggs. You believe you were pushed with the intention that you would be killed.”

  She looked warm, yet he saw her shiver. “I did, but I was wrong,” she said. “I must have tripped.”

  “Then there was the knife.”

  “But you know how that happened.” Her eyes sought his. He had caused the conflicted emotions that hovered there.

  “I know what Pierre said. What I don’t know is why he chose to confess when there was no sign of his being discovered as the culprit. I would not be able to identify Verbeux’s shaving blade.”

  She crossed her arms, and the voluminous gauzy stuff of her gown and robe pressed against her full bosom. He looked instantly to her bare feet, small, slender feet. He concentrated on those feet rather than on parts of her body he found all but irresistible.

  “Pierre was honest,” she said. “He was afraid for his position but still he told the truth and should be commended for it. All an accident.”

  “You cannot say this afternoon’s debacle was an accident.”

  She pressed two fingers of each hand to her temples and said, “No.”

  “Meg?” Jean-Marc bent to look into her face. “You don’t feel well?”

  “I have a tightness here—” she tapped her brow “—and I should like to be alone to think.”

  “You must stay with me, at least…. Will you please stay with me?”

  Tears filled her eyes, and her mouth trembled.

  “Meg, Meg, have I displeased you so much?”

  He didn’t expect what came next. Meg held his arms and stood close enough to force her to look up at him. She chafed his arms, slipped her hands beneath his coat and smoothed his chest. He knew he must not speak, must not move.

  “You owe me no explanation,” she said, “but am I right in thinking you have enemies?”

  Lies should only be employed out of necessity. “What I tell you is a trust, but I have no fear that you will betray me. I confess I believe it very likely that there are those who would see me dead. However, I was not in the coach today. It makes no sense that someone expected me to be.”

  “Sometimes people act on impulse. Seeing the coach, it could well have been assumed that you were using it—and what followed was a rash, unplanned move. Or perhaps not so rash. You could have been seen.”

  He inclined his head but didn’t take his gaze from hers.

  “How was it that you were there to avert disaster?”

  His mouth dried, and words seemed unlikely to come easily. “I saw the horses madden.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was so soft. “I know. But you were there, on Bond Street. Why?”

  Closing his eyes, he settled his hands on her shoulders. “To watch over you, of course. But you already know that—you only wanted to hear me say the words.”

  “Perhaps. It’s true that hearing them is the sweetest thing to my ears. You know that I cannot deny my feelings for you. You cause me to feel invincible, to want to be all things for you. But I should be the liar if I didn’t tell you that the thought of what would be ahead if I accepted your offer of a liaison is too terrible to bear.”

  “I don’t want to speak further of troublesome matters. You are with me now. We are safe and the night is ours—if you will let it be so.”

  “What do you expect me to say?”

  “Yes.” He held her face in his big hands. “I expect you to say yes, and then I expect you to put yourself into my care.”

  “Care?” She gave him a long glance from beneath her lashes. “What does that mean, Jean-Marc?”

  “That I will make decisions for both of us, and that I am promising you now, with my head and with my heart—” he placed a fist on his chest “—I am promising you I will never cause you harm. I will always keep you safe.”

  She wanted so much to believe him, to trust him, to accept him. “I have something—one other thing I must ask you to consider. The Princess. Is there any possibility that someone might want to hurt her?”

  Désirée? He wrapped an arm around Meg’s neck and pulled her to him, her grazed skin held firmly but carefully by the crook of his elbow. “I can’t believe that would be so. There is no reason, Meg. She is a girl. A princess, it is true, but not considered important by anyone, including our parents.”

  Meg held him tight. She nuzzled her face against his chest. “I cannot bear to hear you say that. Don’t you know how wonderful she is?”

  “I’m beginning to know very well.”

  “And you cannot encourage your parents to notice, too?”

  “Her mother is not my mother. Verbeux makes excuses for Princess Marie, says she is a kind woman but afraid of her husband. I do intend to have a serious conversation with my father about Désirée. But first, I want her to attract a man who will capture even my father’s attention.”

  “Oh, I’m so grateful you will help her. Do you know your own mother?”

  He considered before saying, “That is a to
pic for another time, perhaps. I have learned to forget her, and that brings me comfort. This night will not last forever.” With his free hand, he unbuttoned her robe and slipped his hand inside and over her breast. It would be easy to tuck his way under the neck of her gown, but he had time to be subtle, to discover how much more she was ready to experience with him.

  “If anyone discovers we are together like this, my reputation and my authority will be ruined in this house,” Meg said. “I must protect my ability to be what the Princess needs.”

  “That is all that matters?” He smoothed the thin fabric until he could hold one heavy breast. Beneath his stroking thumb, her nipple became hard, and she drew in breaths through her teeth. “Meg, is your only concern for my sister?”

  “No,” she gasped. “No, my concern is that I want this. I want to be with you and please you as much as you please me. I want you to teach me all the wonderful things I think you know, but I don’t wish to be shamed.”

  “You shall not be,” he told her, and prayed he could make it so. He went to the door and turned the key in the lock.

  His clothes bound him. He shrugged out of his coat, took off his waistcoat and loosened his neck cloth. But he forced himself to remain slow and to smile at her. “I find I am also too warm.” With that, he discarded the neck cloth and unbuttoned his shirt. This removed, he stood before her in the buff riding britches that were his preferred dress.

  She stared at his chest, and her lips parted. Meg Smiles was passionate, and he almost felt the aching he thought she felt in her body’s most secret—most irresistible places. His warmth turned to a burning. His belly tightened until the muscles ached. He gave her no warning before capturing her and bringing his mouth down on hers. Her bottom fitted his hands nicely, and he lifted her to her toes. Their mouths sought and begged, demanded and took. In moments she fought to reach her tongue deeply into his mouth. She jutted her pelvis, but it was Jean-Marc who clamped her so close she must know every intimate inch of his swollen manhood. He rocked into her, gently but definitely, and she cried out, a faint, demanding cry.

  Abruptly he released her, took her by the hand and raced her into his bedchamber. He blew out all the lights and through open curtains at the high windows, a white moon flooded the room. Again he locked the door before facing her. “Will you be whatever I guide you to be?”

  She frowned at him. Meg, he thought, had no idea what he might mean. Very gently, he took her hands between his and kissed her knuckles. “What I’m telling you is that love between a man and a woman takes many forms. The most intimate expression takes many forms. Oh, Meg, will you let me make sure you wear my brand within you just as I will forever wear your brand upon me?”

  Meg didn’t understand anything but that he offered her passion and that now she could deny him nothing. She didn’t answer him, but she held her arms toward him as a supplicant and did what felt natural. Meg Smiles went to her knees before the man she loved. She bowed her head and waited.

  “My love,” he said. “I cannot resist you any longer.”

  The next sound she heard was the removal of his belt. He hopped to remove his fine boots and throw them aside. His breeches followed, and while her mouth parted of its own accord, she watched him strip naked before her. The room was all bronzed silks, and Jean-Marc was bronzed also. Straight and tall, he stood before her, his shoulders broad, his arms and legs powerfully made, the hair on his chest silken dark and extending past his navel like an arrow guiding the way to that part of him that made no pretence of its response to her.

  All but choking on each word, she said, “That happens often?” and pointed to his rod.

  “It happens when the object of my arousal fills my mind, my body, my desire. Then I cannot, do not want to feel anything but what I feel now.” He cupped himself. “I could not quell this if I chose to try. With you before me, it throbs out its desire for you.”

  This was not to be exactly like the last meeting, Meg thought, the infamous meeting when they had barely met. “I could look at you like that forever. And I have my feelings, too. Here.” She covered her breasts, rubbed her nipples and hissed at the scalding sensation that followed. “And here.” The hand she placed between her legs encountered moistness, and there was a place there in which extraordinary sensation mounted. She began to pant.

  “Oh, no, no,” Jean-Marc said, laughing. He pulled her hand away. “Time enough for that with me. Come, it is time.”

  He raised her hands high above her head. “To be powerless in the hands of a lover can be most arousing, Meg. Let us see if it arouses you.”

  She was helpless to resist when he backed her to a high casement, where her body was pressed to the wall and her shoulders bent to rest on the sloping stone window ledge.

  “Hold the handles that open the windows,” he told her. “Unless it hurts you.”

  “It doesn’t hurt me, but I’m cold.”

  “Not for long,” he said. He lifted her gown, smoothed it upward, taking liberties with each inch of skin he touched. “Growing warmer?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “I can’t stand it.”

  “Good. I want you to remember this night forever and to live trying to equal the beauty of first discovery.” Her belly was slightly rounded and firm. Her waist dipped in, accentuating the flare of her hips. Upward over her ribs he persisted, taking pleasure in his ability to all but span her body there.

  “Touch me,” she said on a husky breath. “Oh, please touch me.”

  “Soon enough.” She would have no idea what this restraint cost him. “It will be easier this way.” And he skimmed the gown over her head and let it fall. Immediately she covered her breasts.

  Clenching the muscles in his jaws, Jean-Marc dropped to his knees. He kissed her belly, rested his cheek there, stroked her buttocks and thighs again and again. He darted his tongue between her legs only once—and almost brought her tumbling on top of him.

  He cast around, blessing the brilliant moon that lighted his way. Without ceremony, he swept her from her feet and stretched her out on the plush bench at the bottom of his bed. Removing a heavy silken rope from a bed drapery took only a second. He was so quick to use the rope to tie her arms and her ankles beneath the bench that she didn’t cry out until he swung a leg over her and positioned himself at the entrance to her body.

  Her breath rasped rapidly, and she arched her back. He put his mouth close to her ear and said, “Perfect, wild one. Just perfect. Let me see how badly you want me. Your breasts gleam in the moonlight, and your hair shines. You are mine. Whatever I want to do to you, I can do. The decision is mine to make.”

  He made the lightest of circles around her breasts, trailing the backs of his fingers, watching her moist lips remain parted and her face toss from side to side.

  She tried to arch her breasts toward him and begged, “Please, Jean-Marc. Please put your mouth on them, please. Please.”

  The more she begged, the more slowly he made soft circles over her large, perfectly round breasts. When she writhed from side to side, they swayed voluptuously and Jean-Marc was all but undone. At last he could restrain himself no longer and he did what she begged for—and almost disgraced himself at once. He pulled on her breasts until his mouth seemed filled and the blood pumping into his rod grew unbearably tight.

  Her skin was slick with sweat, but not as slick as his. He lowered himself to rub his body over hers. Now and again he kissed her lips, but each time she bit down on his lips and rolled more furiously to touch more and more of him.

  He sat on the bench between her spread thighs. He trained his pulsing tip on the engorged flesh that was no longer hidden by hair grown wet. Each time he touched himself to her, she wailed and raised her hips.

  Jean-Marc loosened another silk cord. He parted the smooth flesh intended to hide her womanly place and employed the soft threads of a tassel to drive her higher and higher. And when she cried out for mercy, he gave her mercy with his tongue. Very few tiny tugs with his lips, and
she raised her hips with almost inhuman strength before shudders racked her, and she keened a high cry.

  He could make her with child.

  Sweat turned cold on his body. A child. His child and Meg’s. A child like himself with parents who would go to any length to deny him until they wanted to use him.

  “Jean-Marc,” Meg said quietly. “May I do what will make you happy, please?”

  “Have I ever said you are overly polite?”

  “No.”

  “I should have.” Moonlight caressed every dip and rise in her body. He bent over her and kissed the shadows. Between her breasts he lavished much attention, and he held her sweet flesh while he did so.

  The sudden rhythmic rise and fall of her strong hips smote any resolve he might be trying to gather. And between each upward thrust of the hip, she rubbed from side to side, sending a deep throbbing into his ballocks.

  “Very well,” he said, putting his face close to hers and kissing her hard. “I think this is what you want, my dear. It’s certainly what I want.”

  He pushed inside her. Meg gasped and tried to close her legs. He pushed some more, and pushed, and pushed, until he filled her to bursting. She burned and felt as if he would break her apart.

  “Jean-Marc!”

  “Hush, sweet.”

  “I am torn. I felt it.”

  For an instant he held still and rested his head beside hers. “You are torn,” he murmured. “And you are mine. I will never let you go.”

  What he did then was amazing. He rose to brace his weight on his hands, and locked his elbows, and drove back and forth inside her, rocked back at forth, his body glistening in pale moonlight. When he brought his chest down upon hers, she watched his hard buttocks move him in and out of her.

  Sensation mounted. “It cannot happen again, can it?” she said.

  “Yes,” he told her tersely. “And again and again for some people.”

  And he thrust once more, hard and long, and Meg tossed from side to side, and felt something pour from him into her at the precise moment the marvelous ripples of sensation captured and flowed over her.

  “Don’t ever try to leave me, Meg,” Jean-Marc said. “I will not allow it.”