by DeVa Gantt
“Nothing,” she said, oblivious to anything save his embrace.
She didn’t know what force had drawn her to his chamber; she didn’t have a purpose in mind, other than her need to see him. And, unlike his cavalier brother, John was in his room, alone. When she beheld him half-naked in the doorway, all rationality fled and animal instinct took over. Now, here she was, in his arms.
John was aroused, her soft breasts pressing into his chest, sweet agony. Did she know the trouble she was courting with her hands stroking his back? When she turned her head the other way, laying a cool cheek against his skin, he silently groaned, his resistance rapidly dwindling. Throwing caution to the wind, he clasped her shoulders, stepped back into the room, and pulled the door shut, turning the key in the lock. He no longer hesitated, his hands coursing the length of her, firmly grasping her buttocks and pulling her hard against his manhood.
She was surprised, but not displeased. Looking into his eyes for the first time, she wrapped her arms around his neck and met his mouth halfway. Like before, his lips brushed over hers ever so lightly, barely touching, playing. His kiss deepened, and he pulled her closer yet, his tongue finding hers in an erotic, catapulting caress.
He pulled away and stepped over to the bed. Hastily, he began to gather the papers, depositing them unceremoniously into the armchair. She looked on in expectation, so when he gestured toward the bed, she walked to it straightaway and climbed in, ignoring the rational voice that screamed: Return to your room! It was of no use to her now. The sensible Charmaine had been left there to contemplate right and wrong. This Charmaine wanted to know, touch, become part of the flesh and blood John. She lay back against the pillow, trembling, yet alert to his every movement.
Aware of her inexperience, John used the task of clearing the bed to cool his ardor. Yes, she was here with him, but was she ready for intimacy? Unless he had sorely misjudged her, this was her first time. Better to approach the encounter delicately, slowly. He wouldn’t undress yet.
Her rapt eyes followed him as he moved about the room, lowering the lamp, drawing the curtains, and securing the dressing room door. A strange exhilaration was building inside as she freely perused the inviting expanse of his back, the muscles in his shoulders where they met sinewy arms.
He settled into the bed next to her, and their eyes met. Surprisingly, she found voice to speak, something to break the awkward silence of anticipation. “Do you always wear your swimming breeches to bed?” she asked.
“When it’s hot,” he smiled, noting she had pulled the coverlet up to her neck, clutching it with white-knuckled fists. Not that she needed such fortifications; she was wearing a robe over her nightgown. “Do you mind?” he queried softly with a gesture he’d prefer to leave the blanket down.
“No,” she replied unsteadily, releasing it.
She caught his grin as he pulled the coverlet aside and sized up her amply clad body. “Aren’t you hot?” he asked. In fact, the chamber was suffocating. Realizing how silly she appeared, she doffed her robe.
They lay there, not touching, he with his back resting against the pillows and headboard. His eyes took on a pensive gleam, and he regarded her quizzically. “Why are you here, Charmaine?”
“I don’t know,” she answered honestly.
“Are you sure you want this? You won’t be crying in the morning?”
“Should I be? Crying, I mean?”
“No, my Charm. I’d never intentionally make you cry. I can make you very happy. I want to make you happy.”
“I couldn’t stand being apart from you for another second,” she murmured, lost to her love for him. “When you were away, I missed you terribly.”
He pondered her response and smiled. “I’ve fantasized about this moment many times. Now it’s arrived, I feel like a little boy let loose in Cookie’s kitchen after she’s spent the entire day baking nothing but treats.”
He raised his arm and invited her closer.
She snuggled in, laying her head against his hard shoulder, slipping her arm over his bare chest. The feel of his flesh, his solid body next to hers, sent a pleasing thrill into her soul. Ever so lightly, he pulled her hair to the side, his fingers brushing her neck and playing with the thick, unbound locks.
They remained that way for minutes on end, quiet, yet communicating all the same. She closed her eyes to the ecstasy of his hand sliding over her back and shoulders, caressing her arm. She knew he was enjoying it, too, for she could feel his heart racing under her palm. Suddenly, he seemed agitated, as if this closeness were not enough. He tugged at her nightdress. She looked up at him.
“Charmaine,” he murmured, “why don’t you take this off ?”
Had she been anywhere else at this moment, she would have shrunk back at the bold request or scurried away like a frightened rabbit. But here she was, pulling the garment away, watching bashfully as he did the same.
It was close to dawn when they consummated their love. Charmaine was anxious, but John calmed her with tender words and kisses, his rough cheek brushing hers as his lips moved to her ear and the hollow of her neck. His hands moved freely over her now, stroking her breasts, her bottom and thighs. His touch evoked erotic sensations she had never experienced before. A sweet ache throbbed in her belly, leaving her quivering with lust and wondering why she had avoided this for so long. He explored the most intimate of places, places she should have been embarrassed to permit, and yet, she was certain if he stopped, she would beg him for more.
He held his passion at bay as he covered her body with his and penetrated her slowly. She whimpered, and he perceived her pain across his own elated revelation that she was innocent to a man and had chosen him to be her lover. She was his alone; he wouldn’t have to share her with anyone. As he pressed deeper, she went rigid beneath him, and he reined in his heightening urge to climax, holding still for her, allowing her time to adjust to these new sensations, time for the pain to ebb. “It’s all right, Charmaine,” he whispered, his hands cradling her face, his thumbs caressing her tears away. “I love you. Let me show you how much I love you … ” He kissed her again. She responded with parted lips, her tension yielding to passion. Unable to hold himself in check any longer, John began to move above her.
Charmaine was hostage to pleasure—the indescribable oneness she felt with him. The chaffing discomfort was gone, and she pulled him closer with unbridled abandon, as even in their intimacy, she couldn’t have him close enough. For the first time, she understood her desperate yearnings and felt complete. As she breathed deeply, tiny tentacles tantalized her from within, intensifying her desire, until she was writhing beneath him. John accelerated slightly, the persistent rhythm so sensate it evoked a deeper need within her: a mystical unity, a divine splendor, an unfathomable crescendo that crested without warning. Her body contracted with one tremendous jolt, then relaxed in the bliss of the sweet tremors that followed. John groaned and hugged her tightly, breathless and satiated.
They lay entwined, quiet for many minutes, basking in ebbing ecstasy. Charmaine’s sigh drew John’s attention, and he propped up on an elbow, his eyes sparkling. She was ready for any number of comments, but to her amazement, he held silent. He relieved her of his weight, then lifted a strand of her hair and played with it between thumb and index finger, before letting it fall on her breast. She resisted the urge to pull up the coverlet and allowed him to behold her naked body, glowing in the soft lamplight. His hand caressed her shoulder, moving over the curve of her hip and coming to rest on her thigh. She shivered in anticipation, incredulous she wanted him all over again.
He plumped the pillows and drew her to him, so her head rested upon his chest and his arms encircled her. As they lay with eyes closed, a potent contentment settled over her. He stroked her hair and her shoulder again. “I have my life back … ” she heard him murmur as he drifted off to sleep.
Tears of joy trickled down her cheeks. “I love you, too, John,” she whispered into his chest. She reached up and, at
long last, ran her fingers through his tousled locks. Almost immediately, she succumbed to slumber.
Closing her sitting room door, Agatha sighed in deep satisfaction. The evening had been magnificent. She couldn’t be happier. Paul had been brilliant, a star that outshined her sister’s son in every respect. And Frederic—he had been the perfect host, as handsome as the day they had first met. Tonight, she had claimed the coveted place by his side.
There was only one flaw in the entire week. She’d been unable to tell everyone Paul was her son, too. But at least he knew the truth, and was not, as Frederic had predicted, offended by it. They should have ended the deception years ago. She longed to speak to him, to proclaim her love for his father and explain the unfair twists of fate that had deprived him, until now, of his birthright and everything he deserved. She shook her head of the troublesome thoughts. She’d give it a bit more time. Tonight was too glorious to waste on sad memories, not when it was she who had danced in Frederic’s arms. Tonight, she would seek his bed.
She undressed slowly, donned a sheer nightgown, brushed out her hair, and dabbed perfume behind her ears. Frederic hadn’t made love to her since the day she had spanked Pierre, and though she’d attempted to seduce him since then, he’d set her aside. But not tonight. Tonight, she’d break down the fortress he’d once again erected around his heart. She had done so before and could do it again.
She was surprised to find him standing beside the French doors, staring down into the gardens. He turned as she closed the door behind her.
“It was a wonderful week, an exquisite evening,” she praised. “You’ve made our son very happy. You’ve made him proud to be called a Duvoisin.”
“Yes,” Frederic murmured, turning back to the glass doors.
“I’m proud to be your wife,” she whispered in a husky voice. Coming up behind him, she looped her arms around his waist and leaned her cheek against his back. “I love you.”
Frederic pulled away, placing distance between them before facing her again. The ball was over, the week behind him. He could stop pretending.
“Agatha,” he began, “I don’t love you. I thought perhaps something akin to love could grow between us—companionship, perhaps—but we’ve grown apart these past nine months.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Don’t you? You despise my children even though they are a part of me.”
She bristled at the statement. “I love Paul.”
Frederic was saddened by her lame defense. “Exactly. You love your son. As for John— your own nephew—time and again you’ve set out to alienate him from me. This last time, the worst of all.”
When she started to speak, he held up a hand, and she wisely let him finish.
“I know you have always wished to legitimize Paul’s birth. God knows I’ve wished the same. But to usurp John’s rights because of what happened between us—that, I cannot understand, refuse to accept. I thought our marriage would heal your pain, but sadly, it hasn’t. You’re filled with bitterness and hate.”
“I can change, Frederic, I promise I can!” she pleaded.
“Then there are my daughters,” he pressed on. “We both know how you feel about them. And when Pierre was alive—”
“Is this still about that spanking?”
“No, Agatha. The spanking was a manifestation of your true feelings for my children. It is something I should have taken the time to notice, to realize would never change.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you,” she whimpered softly. “I never meant to hurt your children, especially Pierre. As for the girls, I thought a school for young women would be best for them.”
She hung her head, and he realized she was crying. He hadn’t intended to inflict pain, not tonight when she’d been so happy. But he was through pretending. “Agatha, I’m tired,” he said softly, compassionately. “It has been a grueling week. Let us await our guests’ departure. Then we can talk again—with Paul.”
She looked at him lovingly. “Yes, Frederic,” she eagerly agreed. “We should speak with Paul and explain everything to him.” She crossed to him, stood on her toes, and kissed his cheek. “I do love you,” she whispered, “more than you will ever know.” She quietly left his room.
He closed his eyes to agony, the agony he read on her face. He turned back to the French doors. Perhaps Colette would come to haunt him tonight.
Agatha leaned against the door, breathing deeply, allowing the stabbing sorrow to subside. She’d pushed Frederic too far, too fast. But she loved him and, in the end, that love would vanquish his disillusioned heart. She’d gained too much to think otherwise. Wasn’t the prosperous week and triumphant evening testimony to that fact? Frederic might be upset, but she’d weathered setbacks before. Now that John was removed from the will, she would back off. In time, he would be banned from Charmantes. She must concentrate on getting back into Frederic’s bed. He would come around.
Frederic lay abed, listening to the silence. One year … it had been one year since he had held Colette in his arms, one year ago tonight he had prayed for a miracle that never came. She had breathed her last while he slept, his arms wrapped protectively around her. Now, a year later, he closed his eyes to the piercing pain he’d experienced when he’d awoken to find her cold in his embrace, when he had cuddled her for hours and wept for the love he had chastised, the happiness he had thrown away. Colette, I’m sorry, and I promise, if it’s the last thing I do, I will make amends. I love you, ma fuyarde … I will always love you.
He did not remember sleeping.
Chapter 4
Sunday, April 8, 1838
PAUL awoke at the crack of dawn with a splitting headache. He lay in bed considering the week’s accomplishments, yet he felt disenchanted and depressed. His tryst with Anne London had satiated his manly need, but in every other way, it had left him empty. She’d wanted to accompany him back to his bedchamber, but he turned her down flat, relieved when she rushed to her rooms in an insulted huff. If he had made love to Charmaine in the early hours before dawn, he would now be sound asleep, content with her in his arms.
Charmaine—therein lay the rub, the root of his depression and the headache that awoke him. He should never have allowed himself to be manipulated into escorting Anne to the grand gala, not when he had already invited Charmaine. What had he been thinking? He had proposed marriage to her! He should have used the event to present her as his future wife, but that opportunity had slipped through his fingers. Now, when he announced his betrothal, he would really appear the fool. He could hear the gossip already: You know, the governess. No, Paul didn’t escort her to his ball; he was with Anne London all evening. Remember? Yes, the young woman who tended to his two sisters. The woman who returned on John’s arm! Isn’t that curious?
Damn! Last night had been a debacle. And John had certainly made the most of it. Paul couldn’t understand why Charmaine was smitten with him, but he should have read the signs. They’d been obvious all week long. Still, nothing rankled him more than seeing her rejoin the festivities with John. It was his own fault. If he had proposed sooner, Agatha would not have dared meddle.
Paul left the rumpled bed, dressed quickly, and headed to the dining room, grateful no one was there. He needed peace and quiet.
Unfortunately, his sisters came out of the kitchen, bright and bubbly.
“Good morning, Paul,” Jeannette greeted. “Wasn’t the ball magnificent?”
“Magnificent,” he answered gruffly.
“Have you seen Mademoiselle Charmaine?” Yvette asked.
“No,” he said. “Isn’t she with you?”
“We haven’t seen her since last night,” Yvette replied in exasperation.
“She’s not in her room,” Jeannette added, “and her bed is made, so we thought she’d already come downstairs, but Cookie hasn’t seen her either.”
Paul was intrigued. It had been well past midnight when Charmaine left the banquet hall with John. Why would she have risen, ma
de her bed, and left her chambers so early? And if she had, why hadn’t she let the twins know of her whereabouts? Suddenly, he was uneasy and suspicious.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Let’s find John and see if he knows where she is. Yvette, I’ll pay you five dollars if you can get him to open his bedchamber door and come out.”
Yvette eyed him dubiously, but she wasn’t about to turn down a sum like that, no matter how odd the request. She’d worked harder for a lot less.
Once they were at John’s door, Paul nodded for her to go ahead and knock.
Charmaine awoke slowly, the room bathed in the early light of dawn. She was lying on her side, with her knees curled up, and John cuddled behind her, his chest pressed against her back, his warm legs tucked under hers, an arm draped possessively across her shoulder. She could feel his even breathing close to her nape and sighed contentedly. She had slept for only a short time, but it had been a deep and satisfying slumber. She belonged to John now. Please, Dear Lord, let him belong to me as well.
As if she’d spoken, he stirred, and his arm tightened around her. He kissed her neck, and she could tell he was smiling. They reveled in the warm cocoon until he broke away and rolled onto his back. When Charmaine turned to face him, he plumped up her pillow, tucked it under his arm, and beckoned to her. She had just snuggled in when someone knocked on the door.
Startled, she bolted up in the bed, clasping the sheet to her breasts. The knock came again, but John put a finger to his lips. “Who is it?” he called.
“It’s me, Johnny,” Yvette answered in a loud whisper. “Can I come in?”
“What do you want?” he asked, rising from the bed and pulling on his swimming breeches, suppressing a chuckle when Charmaine turned away in embarrassment.