The crowd was clapping, some enthusiastically like the prince. Others politely, as if they had not watched the performance. All of it was a dim pounding that could not match the beat of his heart.
“She danced exceptionally well this evening, didn’t she?” Beside him, Highchester tsked quietly. “You should be more discreet.”
He was correct. Maximilian should be more discreet. Yet their gazes were still locked. He could not look away from her.
Tonight, Vivienne. Will you steal into my bedroom?
His mind asked the question. His body screamed it. Could she read it in his gaze?
Her smile curved up a little bit more. Her eyes swept down, the fan fluttering near her breasts. She didn’t say the words, but he knew her answer.
…
It was late. The performance had ended, there had been many people—men—backstage to fawn and to flirt and to compliment her dancing. She had left the theater much later than intended.
They did not know it was Maximilian she had danced for, sitting in the prince’s box, eyes focused only on her.
Now, here she was. Slipping past the pitiful locks of his window and into his room. She could not see him at first, so she closed the window, set the latch.
“You came.” Very soft words. They slid around her senses to play at the base of her spine.
She turned and found him sprawled in his bed, one arm behind his head to prop it up. Watching her. Waiting for her. He was not naked—he would likely think that presumptuous. Still, he wore nothing but trousers. The single candle on the bedside table gilded him. Muscle, bone. Breadth in the shoulders, trim in the waist. His jaw with its late-night shadow.
And the question in his eyes.
“I came for many reasons.” She began to unbutton her jacket. He did not look away from her. He saw each movement. Each flick of her fingers on the buttons.
This was one of those reasons.
But there were more reasons, not all that she could share. Maximilian would stop her if he knew what she planned later—with good reason. She was edging the line between treason and espionage. A misstep one way or the other and her plan would fall apart, yet she could not do what must be done that night alone.
“I have a need for you tonight, Maximilian.” She pulled off her boots.
He kept those hazel eyes on her. What did he see? Spy? Dancer? Thief? She did not know, but his lids were half closed in that thinking way he had.
It was most arousing.
Perhaps it should not be, but in this quiet moment, when his brain was busy but his body was still, she could do nothing but want him. Pine for him.
What a foolish notion, she thought. One couldn’t pine for someone who was right there in front of one.
“I have a need for you, too.” He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. But he did not stand. He only looked at her with hot eyes, his elbows balanced on his knees.
“I have a need that is not only here in your bedroom. In this way.” She began to work on her shirt buttons, but her fingers moved irritatingly slowly. “I have need of you much later. After.”
“That will be full morning, if I have my way.” A smile lurked around his eyes as he stood and began unfastening his fall-front trousers.
“You will have to be quick, for we have somewhere to be.” He was handsome with those smiling eyes. She grinned at him and pulled the shirt from her head in one easy motion.
His sharp inhale made her muscles quiver. “Whatever you ask, Vivienne, if it means I can have you.”
“Very good. It is important, this night.”
He stepped forward and reached for the waistband of her pants. A moment later, they had fallen away. He ran his thumb from the tip of her breast down the curve of her waist and hip.
“Tell me what you need,” he said as he took her hand. His was warm, strong. And purposeful. She liked this purpose in him. It was different from before. She wondered if it would be different every time they made love, but she would not know this answer. They would not be together always. Jones had said it. She was not meant for permanency. Love and family did not accompany her line of work.
This did not stop her from wanting Maximilian.
He sat down on the bed, and she knelt beside him. His fingers skimmed over her shoulder, her waist. Gently. There were no groping hands. No men with greedy smiles here. No men with secrets she must steal.
Only Maximilian.
A strange, uncomfortable feeling spread through her. Part pain. Part joy. And part uneasiness. This line between spy and lover, she would not be able to walk it forever. But she did need to walk it this night. And so she would not tell Maximilian of Henri’s assignment or of Lessard’s associates.
…
Vivienne was in his bed. That, in itself, seemed a wonder. This gorgeous woman was his. He couldn’t understand the why and how of it, but for this fleeting moment in time, she belonged to no one but him.
“I must speak with someone,” she said, setting her palms on her thighs. “A courier. Perhaps not courier—that implies he travels. He does not. He sits in the brothel he owns, sells his wares”—the Flower shrugged a shoulder, as though accepting this selling of flesh—“and he lords over the little kingdom he has built selling secrets.”
He was having trouble concentrating on the words. She was too naked. Vivienne slid down to lie on her stomach, pillowing her head on her arms so she could see him. Now all he could see was the curving line of her body, uncovered, unconcealed.
“I cannot steal into the establishment, as it is too well guarded. But I also cannot walk through the front door alone.” She watched him carefully, face resting on the crook of her arm. “But I need to speak with the courier.”
“Hmm.” Walking into a brothel owned by a man who sold secrets to the French seemed like a dangerous proposition. “What do you expect me to do?”
“I need your protection, Maximilian, so that no patrons will consider me available. It would make me vulnerable.”
That sent a spear of possession through him. The other men couldn’t have her. She was his. For now, at any rate, she was his.
“And when we are inside?” He ran his finger along the curve of her cheek. The candlelight danced along her skin there, and he could not keep from touching her. “What then?”
“If I ask you to leave me alone with the courier, I need you to do so. Alone, Maximilian. Alone.”
He reared back, staring down at her delicate, gilded features. “No.” He wouldn’t be able to. “I’m not leaving you alone with—”
“Please, Maximilian. I must speak with him alone. About Anne. If you are there, it may be more dangerous for all of us.” She reached for him, lightly touching his arm. “I will be safe enough. I am well trained.”
He gripped the edge of the bed, the coverlet bunching beneath his hands. He supposed he could tell her no, but she would likely go at any rate—alone, confound it.
“Very well.” He would have to trust her training and skills.
“Do you give me your word?” Her eyes were serious. Even vulnerable, as though she didn’t expect he would make and stand by a promise. “You will do as I say? You will leave if I ask?”
He breathed deep, then let the coverlet slip from his fingers. “My word.”
“Thank you, Maximilian.” She sounded vulnerable. The tone, the set of her face, crept into his chest and lodged itself there. She smiled lightly, sweetly, and everything inside him twisted and tightened, then loosened as some part of her became part of him.
It was damn near painful to feel so much inside.
She moved, reaching for him to draw him down beside her.
“Wait. Vivienne, wait.” He could not let the moment pass. “Stay there.”
She stilled with her face pillowed on her arms and her torso pressed against the bed. Waiting. Watch
ing.
Her body was a magnificent thing. She was a dancer, with all the wonders of a dancer’s body. The delicate spine, the lean strength. There was the dip at her low back just before the rounded curves of her bottom. And then her legs—dear God, her legs. Dancer’s legs. Each contour, each hollow and valley and shift was like watching the entire ballet corps move across her skin.
“No more espionage for now.” He didn’t care about the courier, or the brothel, or her plans. Just now, there was only her body displayed before him. No shame. No embarrassment. This was the Flower. Vivienne. The woman he wanted in his bed and in his study, with the frown between her brows that meant she was concentrating. The woman he wanted to surprise him, to interrupt him.
“I will always want you, Vivienne. Always.”
She pushed herself up so she was propped on her elbows, and his mouth went dry as he took in the line of her back. Graceful as a swan’s neck, the curve, the arch, the indentations just above her buttocks. Her breasts swung full and free.
“Do not wait any longer, Maximilian.” Her eyes raked over his body, held him in place.
He leaned down and their mouths met, hers as forceful, as demanding, as his. When he moved his lips to her cheekbones, her jaw, she angled her head so he could access the soft skin there. He shifted closer, his hand running along her spine, feeling each vertebra and the smooth skin. As his mouth moved to her shoulder, his hand slid over her buttocks. They flexed beneath his touch and his body reacted, growing harder, hotter, and needing to be inside her.
“Stay on your belly,” he whispered into her ear as he rose over her.
Candlelight played over her shoulder blades as she did as he commanded. He kissed her shoulders, her long neck, the most wonderful dimples just above her buttocks. She turned her face to the side and his gaze traced the contour of her forehead, nose, lips against the white pillow. So graceful. The line of brow, furrowed now in concentration, the bow of lips, curved up delight. Each bit of her, each movement, seemed the most extraordinary discovery.
He slid between her legs, moved them farther apart to accommodate his body. Then he moved his hands beneath her torso. She didn’t speak, but he felt her belly contract against the palms of his hands. As badly as he wanted to plunge into her, he set one hand to the curls hiding the most secret center of her. With only the tiniest touch, he set her body quivering, and she opened wider for him.
He could no longer wait. He slid inside her. Her soft sigh of pleasure nearly undid him. But he waited, held, then moved in and out. Her hand fisted in the pillow as she angled her body to better accommodate him.
He was lost in her pleasure, in her response. In the way the light played over her back, in the feel of her bottom against him. He leaned over her, pressed his lips to the space between her shoulder blades as he thrust. Buried his face in her hair as he thrust again. Then again.
A small sound escaped her throat, something excited and anticipatory. He couldn’t move hard enough or fast enough to meet that sound. He wanted to hear it again. More.
“Maximilian.” His name was barely a sound on her lips, but he heard it.
Somehow, it moved him. He slid his hand up to cover hers where she gripped the bed linen. Their fingers tangled as he continued to take her. Her hair, that curling, clean-scented hair, seemed to be his whole world just now. He buried his face in it, kissed whatever skin of her he could reach. Neck, shoulder, that sweet, sweet curve between.
When he felt her inner muscles clench around him, he thrust one final time. This was what he had waited for. This moment, when she came undone and cried out in release.
This was all that mattered.
Chapter Thirty-Three
The brothel smelled like a perfumery. It was also loud. Female giggling, male laughter. Off-key violin music. Voices ebbing and flowing, punctuated by a stray shout or two.
Made his damnable head hurt.
He pretended to enjoy the scenery. He didn’t have much choice. Everywhere he looked a half-bared woman was romping around while men leered and fondled. The women didn’t seem to mind, either, he decided as he glimpsed a voluptuous blonde giggling as a man did something or other under her skirt. Well, this was their occupation, so he supposed they were used to it.
Still, he was getting dizzy from averting his eyes and trying to find some innocuous place to look. He wasn’t having much luck. Even the artwork on the walls was titillating.
Thank all the fates it was the Flower on his lap and not some other woman. Vivienne’s hair was loose and curling. She shook it back, laughing at some words uttered by a passing rake, and the dark mass tumbled and flirted with her shoulders. She wore a little black mask decorated with feathers and paste jewels, as did a few other women—likely well-bred ladies of the ton out playing for the night. The mask was a silly little disguise, he would know the shape of Vivienne’s face, her mouth, even the color of the eyes peeking from behind the mask.
He couldn’t understand how these other men didn’t recognize her.
Perhaps it was her newly revealed aristocratic tones and vocabulary. Gone was the lilting French accent of her birth he so enjoyed. With the mask covering her face, it was like watching another woman instead of the Flower.
“Oh, my lord, don’t be so silly!” She laughed at a passing lord’s lewd suggestion then leaned back against Maximilian’s chest. He gritted his teeth. Her false laugh grated on him.
Her buttocks shifted on his lap so she was practically lying on him. One of her legs swung easily between his. Her thigh kept sliding against his body. Her gown was some confection of silk and lace and sheer fabric meant for the bedroom, though there seemed to be a considerable amount of it. He tried to keep himself in check, but he felt his body growing hard with each movement.
Damn perfidious body.
“How long do we have to stay in this hellhole?”
“Until I locate the owner, sir.” She pressed a kiss against the underside of his jaw. Didn’t help his body at all.
“Well, let’s get started.” He didn’t want these men looking at the Flower with such avarice a moment longer. “It’s unfortunate you couldn’t sneak in through a window.”
“Yes, but this is not such a place. Also, I would not get a feel for what type of man he is. I need to see. To evaluate. But you are not playing your role, sir. I believe we talked about that earlier this evening.” She whispered the words in his ear, then nibbled on his earlobe.
“God’s elbows—” He gasped. Heat bolted through his body in a single lightning strike.
Now her laughter was real. Full throated and like the Vivienne he knew instead of some disguised English tart. Her eyes sparkled behind the mask, so amused, so delighted. Every one of his muscles tightened, and he fought the urge to just take her mouth with his and bring that laughter into him.
Then he did have to kiss her. He couldn’t help it.
Uncaring about who was watching, or where they were, he set a finger beneath her chin and angled her face toward his. Ravenous for her, he covered her mouth. She was warm and responsive, and the fingers clutching his lapel tightened, tugging him closer. He angled the kiss, deepened it.
She pulled away, her breathing ragged. “Mon Dieu,” she whispered, once again in her native tongue.
He struggled to regain his focus but was drugged by her kisses, by the fresh scent of her soap that created an oasis in the sickeningly sweet confines of the brothel. He was fighting a losing battle.
Until her eyes narrowed, fixating on something beyond his shoulder.
“There he is.”
“Who?” His brain was moving at half speed.
“The courier, Lessard. The owner of the brothel. Don’t look,” she whispered as he started to turn in the chair. “He’s coming this way.”
“How can you tell he is Lessard?”
“The king is always recognizable,” sh
e said softly.
He did not turn to look, but every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for the man to appear. The pistol tucked beneath his coat pressed against his ribs, and he fought the urge to retrieve it. He wanted to pull her away from this, to protect her from this brothel owner.
But he wasn’t there to stop her, he was there to assist her.
He’d given his word.
…
Her brain was fuddled. She could not remember who she was: herself, the pretend English aristocrat in a brothel, a spy, or Maximilian’s lover.
She had better decide, because in a few minutes she would step temporarily over the line. But she could not see another way to find Anne. She only wished she were not in the vulnerable position of negotiation. At least she had three knives on her person.
Watching Lessard cross the room toward her, she wished she had three more.
She did not show it. She toyed with Maximilian’s cravat. The elaborate waterfall she’d crafted for him after they made love was crushed and crooked from her hands.
“I cannot tell if he knows who I am,” she whispered to Maximilian. She did not have time to study the scarred face of Lessard to be sure. “Remember that I must speak to him alone.”
“Vivienne, I cannot leave you with him.” The words were short and sharp. “I cannot.”
“I will not be able to save Anne if I do not talk to Lessard in private. Please, be only my lover and let me go. Nothing more.”
She leaned forward and kissed Maximilian. Desperation fueled her passion, and his participation seemed to be driven by protection. He was alert, his muscles poised for action. She hoped he held himself in check.
“You kiss him as though you mean it, mademoiselle. I was nearly deceived.” Lessard’s voice was low, carrying easily beneath the raucous tones of the crowd.
Digging her fingers into Maximilian’s arms as a warning, she broke away from his mouth and peered up. Lessard was tall. Very tall. And wide as a mountain base. This did not concern her. Men the size of mountains could be felled as easily as any other if one knew how to do it properly.
A Dance with Seduction Page 21