All Smiles
Page 43
It caught at her wrists.
“This feels so strange,” she told him. “Let me undress myself. I will be quicker.”
“Exactly. I don’t want you to be quicker.”
He released the sleeves from her wrists and freed her arms. The gown fell in a frothy cloud, and he held her hands while she stepped through it.
She stood in a heavily embroidered chemise and layers of petticoats. Tape after tape fought with his fingers until all the stiffened skirts were removed. What remained were her chemise, drawers, white silken hose and slippers, and on her head the gold, camellia-shaped pins that held the chignon at her crown. Diamonds filled the heart of each precious flower, and more diamonds and pearls hung like rows of tiny buds from her ears. About her neck was the rope of diamonds he had given her as a wedding gift.
He reached for the chemise, but Meg pushed him away. “Take off your own clothes,” she told him, her voice shaky with emotion. “At once, you understand?”
“Oh, I understand, My Lady,” he told her, and followed instructions.
She removed the earrings and the pins from her hair, unlaced the chemise until it hung loose and her breasts were outlined by firelight through fine lawn. Off came the chemise. She stepped out of the drawers. The slippers she kicked away.
Jean-Marc was already naked, and there could be no question of hiding his feelings.
Meg’s hair tumbled about her shoulders. He pushed his fingers into its heaviness and brought a handful to his lips. “You are a minx, do you know that? A companion and seamstress with dyed hair.”
She didn’t appear contrite now.
He studied every inch of her, from her wide eyes and wanting lips to her enticing breasts and lower, to her small belly and rounded thighs and the darkness between. She had forgotten her stockings, and the sight of them—and the diamonds that reached into the deep valley between her breasts—excited him more than ever.
“I love you,” she said.
Jean-Marc couldn’t smile. He couldn’t speak. His throat felt frozen. Dropping his hands from her, he bent forward and nuzzled a nipple with his closed mouth, then with the tip of his tongue. Meg gasped and made fists. He moved to the other breast and drew the nipple gently between his teeth. Whenever he touched her, she jumped, as if her flesh was too sensitive to bear.
He stroked that dark place where her thighs met, and knew they would soon seal their marriage.
He didn’t expect that she would throw her arms around his neck and kiss him with her mouth open wide, or nibble his lips again and again until she stole his breath and left him panting.
His body strained to join hers, and she stroked him until his legs threatened to fold beneath him.
“Closer to the fire,” she whispered. “Let me look at your face. You are the most handsome man in the world.”
“You, wife, are the most beautifully infuriating woman in the world. I would like to be a considerate, careful husband who takes his time to fully initiate you to his ways, but my restraint is failing.”
Meg passed her tongue over her lips, raised her chin and kissed him again.
Almost before he could brace himself, she jumped to clutch his neck and hung there. She folded her limbs around his waist and kept on kissing him, and moving against him, until he gave up being strong and sank with her to stretch out on the gown.
“Considerate,” she said, “and careful.” She took a short breath. “A careful husband who—takes—his—time. And so we are initiated. Again.”
“I love you, Meg.”
She didn’t try to stop the tears. “Thank you. And I haven’t.”
Jean-Marc rose on his elbows. “What haven’t you?”
“What you so indelicately asked about in the church. I haven’t for a number of weeks.”
Epilogue
7 Mayfair Square
London
August, 1821
Greetings, readers.
I have been betrayed—by all of you. My mistake has been to treat you with kindness, you and my relatives and others.
Some might say I should rejoice at the departure of even one lodger from Number Seven. Why? That’s what I want to know. Why would I celebrate when I have yet to empty even one flat? Sibyl was supposed to go with Meg, you all know that, but I failed. No, no, I didn’t fail. Fate conspired against me.
No doubt you are smug at your supposed victory. You wanted this foolish marriage between a nobleman and a completely unsuitable nobody. And you wanted to see me thwarted. Enjoy your triumph. It will be short-lived. This time I shall not wait so long to mount another attack on the interlopers at Number Seven—and my next plan will be successfully accomplished. Had you treated me with deference, well then, I might have told you who will be the next to benefit from my extraordinary attention. But…
Did you note the outrageous extravagance at the Etranger wedding? I intend to find out exactly what was served, and how much blunt Count Etranger dropped in the pockets of the merchants who provided such excess. One might think the affair involved a blushing bride and her ardent groom, the latter anticipating the discovery that waited ahead. Blushing? Pah! Discovery? Ha!
I do believe I know who is responsible for sabotaging my efforts, and they have been sabotaged on more than one occasion. That damnable scribbler. She tells you things behind my back, doesn’t she? And she goads you to rebel against the wisdom of my principles. If not for her, you would have followed my wishes and alerted me when certain events were about to take place, events I could have averted.
Very well. I shall no longer treat her with polite if distant respect. We shall soon see how she enjoys the next merry chase I have planned.
And another thing. I have already told you this once, but since your attention seems to wander so easily, I’ll share the confidence again. If I don’t, I have little doubt my “friend” will find a way to make this personal fact appear ridiculous. My carved newel posts are peerless in their beauty, and the family members depicted are a handsome lot—including myself. There is nothing puzzling about my choosing to rest there, where I have a perfect location to keep my fingers on the pulse of the household, so to speak.
Until we meet again—soon. Don’t become complacent.
Spivey.
Frog Crossing
Watersville
Out West
Dearest friends.
Don’t allow the man to disconcert you. He is a pompous blunderer. Fear not, we’ll outwit him, but not, I fear, without further intrigues. Let him creep away into his beloved newel post. While he’s there, you and I will sharpen our wits and prepare for whatever he intends next.
I am, as ever, your fond and faithful scribbler,
Stella Cameron
ISBN: 978-1-4603-6450-5
ALL SMILES
Copyright © 2000 by Stella Cameron.
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All characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to anyone bearing the same name or names. They are not even distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention.
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