She stepped back. “No, please."
"Are you afraid?"
"No.” The softly spoken word had an uncertain sound.
He reached to place the diamonds around her neck, fastening the clasp. “Even if you were,” he said, his warm breath stirring the silken hair at her temple, “to dare is to deny fear and to live."
"How could I fail to dare then?"
The necklace lay cold and heavy on her breastbone. Was it a bribe? If so, she could not afford to be insulted. He was close, so close. If she turned, she would be in his arms. It was imperative that she should do just that. And yet how could she? He was the prince, and there was about him all the power and burnished perfection of that title. With these things, as well as his stringent control of his men and himself, he did not seem quite mortal. It was unlikely then that he felt normal male desire, normal responses. For all her brave words, she was afraid. It was not simply a fear of the physical intimacy that must come, though that was daunting enough, but of how being so near to him would affect her in mind as well as in body. She could be changed; this she did not doubt. It was even possible that, like some maiden consorting with an unknown ancient god, she would be destroyed.
There was only one way to put that unreasoned fear to the test. Turning with the stiffness of a clockwork figure, she lifted her hands, placing her fingertips on the crisp white cloth of his uniform jacket and sliding them upward. His chest swelled with the sudden depth of his breathing. He cupped her elbows, drawing her nearer. She looked up and was snared in the blue fire of his gaze. Seeing the brightness that burned there, she discovered that, prince though he might be, his desire was intensely human.
He bent his golden head, and his lips, firm and smooth, gently enticing, touched hers. Blindly, she moved closer. His hands slid from her elbows along her upper arms to her back, drawing her nearer still as the kiss deepened. Her heart throbbed against her ribs while the blood ran swift and vibrant in her veins. Her breath was suspended in her throat. Her lips molded to his, infinitesimally clinging, and beneath her bodice and the warming weight of the diamond necklace her breasts swelled tight and full. The taste of his mouth was achingly sweet, endlessly entrancing. She eased her hands higher, clasping them behind his head, sliding her fingers through the short crisp curls that grew low on his neck. In her mind there was no thought except for the rich and unexpected pleasure of the moment.
His fingers at her back found the hooks of her gown. They made soft popping sounds as, one by one, he released them. A small quake of alarm touched her, but she subdued it, concentrating instead on the play of the muscles of his shoulders under his jacket as he worked. She wanted to touch his bare skin. The need was shocking but undeniable. Easing one hand between them, she began with experimental care to unhook the braided and frogged fastenings of his jacket.
Challis and cambric, broadcloth and linen, their clothing fell away, landing on the rug with soft, sighing whispers. Fluttering sleeves and firm folds, gently ruffled, stiffly starched, it piled one piece upon another, intermingling. Finally, they stood naked, bathed in the fire's glow and candlelight, their bodies gleaming, their senses reeling with the fragrance of violets and their own clean scents, with unappeased lust and strained sensibilities.
"Ah, Chère, you are an unconscious man's dream of loveliness. Pray God I don't wake,” he said, and reached to pinch out the candle flames.
Who was seducing whom? And did it matter? It did, of course, but not as much as the pulsating current of desire that held them. Mara turned toward the bed first, placing her knee upon that flower-strewn surface, sinking down among the violets upon the silken sheets that covered the feathered softness of the mattress. He joined her there, supporting himself on one elbow as he placed his hand on her abdomen. He spanned its narrow width easily with his long musician's fingers, which were calloused from swordplay. He studied her face with its suspended composure there in the firelit dimness, then, holding her gaze as long as possible, he leaned to taste the nipple of her breast, circling it with the grainy warmth of his tongue, taking it into the gentle adhesion of his mouth. He trailed kisses around that vibrant, contracted peak, journeying to the other to perform the same ritual. He brushed the valley between them with his lips and pushed aside the tumble of gems at her throat to trace its hollow with his tongue. He tested the pulse that beat hectically in the side of her neck, as if fascinated by its strength, before searing the turn of her jaw with his lips. He captured her mouth once more, exploring its moist inner surfaces, while at the same time, with consummate care, he allowed his hand to settle upon the small mound at the apex of her thighs.
She caught her breath as she felt that first touch there. There was no cause for alarm, however; he remained still except for the most tentative pressure and movement of one finger. A peculiar magic invaded her, spiraling downward to the center of her being. Involuntarily, she moved her hips so that she pressed against his hand, and slowly, gently, he began to caress her.
She was amazed and even a little frightened at the sensations that swept through her. In an instant she was glowing with internal heat and an odd, singing tension, snared in a voluptuous splendor. It did not seem possible that her body was her own, that she could feel so intensely while doing something that must be wrong. With tightly closed eyes and a small, inarticulate sound in her throat, she turned toward him. Still he held her, his fingers tirelessly, gently moving until her stomach muscles contracted in spasms, his mouth teasing her nipples into tight buds of anticipation.
Pleasure rippled through her in waves. She thought that she could bear no more; still it came. His motions grew firmer, eased deeper between her thighs. She felt an exquisite probing, a slight though burning entry.
He went still. In some far corner of her mind, she realized that he had discovered the barrier of her virginity, or the remnants of it that were left after the rough exploration of Dennis Mulholland. It must not be allowed to make a difference since at this moment it made none to her. Sliding her hand in haste along his arm, she pressed his hand back upon her, at the same time twisting closer to him in an ecstasy of resolve and longing.
"Don't stop,” she whispered. “Oh, don't, please."
Her flesh was moist and heated where he touched. He eased deeper, soothing, stretching, applying exquisite pressure until she moaned and turned her head from side to side on the pillow. She was melting, her body and spirit as liquid as hot candle wax. The need to take him inside her was beginning to feel like desperation. She longed to press the hollows and curves of her body upon him, closer and closer still, as if she could make him a part of her in that way.
She felt a tremor pass through the muscles of his arms and recognized the price he was paying in order to extend to her the care, the regard for her responses, the sensitivity to them that he had shown. These things were a part of him, not something he summoned for her alone; still, she was grateful.
Sliding lower in the bed, she reached to place her hand on his lean flank, drawing him toward her in unmistakable invitation.
He entered her by degrees, filling her tightness with the rigid length of himself, holding her close as she drew in her breath at the breaching of that narrow entrance. The instant of fiery pain eased almost before it had begun. As she relaxed, releasing the air pent-up in her lungs, he began to move within her in a rhythm as measureless as it was ancient. She rose against him, clinging, surrendering to the rapture. Boundless, gilded with firelight, it caught them and sent them striving together into the darkness.
The fire had sunk to a bed of black and red coals. The room was growing cool; still, Roderic made no move to reach for the covers. He lay propped against the headboard of the bed watching the woman who slept in exhaustion beside him. He had thought that once he had her in his bed he would be able to understand her. He was wrong. The smell and taste of her was in his nostrils and mouth like some exotic drug, her touch was on his skin like a brand. He had enjoyed her embraces, her astonishing responsiveness aga
in and yet again through the past few hours. Still she eluded him. Still he was not satisfied. He did not like it.
An innocent seductress. Who would have thought it? He still could not quite believe the evidence he had himself discovered. It gave him a peculiar feeling inside to know that he had been the first, to think that she had given him such a gift of her own accord. He was honored, humbled, and exalted at the same time, but also wary. There had to be a reason. There had to be. It made no sense otherwise.
He could see the diamonds of the necklace he had given her shining, catching the faint light in their facets. It was intriguing there upon her nakedness, though it also seemed crude, too hard and glittering. It had been the wrong gift for her. He had been wrong also to seek to sway her with such a display, but he had thought to learn something by it. Instead he was left more disturbed. Why had she taken it? Why hadn't she thrown it back in his face as he had half expected?
He breathed a soft imprecation. He was allowing her to affect him far too much. He must take care.
Mara stirred, opened her eyes. She sat up straight, staring at his dark shape there beside her in the dimness.
"Virginity is a commodity prized more by some than others; still, I am curious. Why didn't you tell me?"
"I ... didn't see that it made any difference except to me."
"You thought I would have no interest?"
"Why should you? Unless to keep score?"
"That,” he said softly, “was unworthy."
"It seems to me that the question is moot.” She swung away from him to reach for the coverlet and draw it up over her.
"It might be less so if there is to be an enraged fiancé or father descending upon me at some time in the future."
"It hardly seems likely.” The words were muffled. She thought briefly of her papa, far away in Louisiana. He could not help her, not now.
That elusive answer sent rage tumbling through his veins. He reached for her, catching her upper arms, dragging her warm nakedness against him."Why?” he demanded through clenched teeth. “Why?"
"I don't know,” she cried. “How can I? You're mad to ask!"
His anger faded as quickly as it had come. He eased her down so that she lay across his lap. There was a violet caught in her hair, and he reached to untangle its petals, twirling it in his fingers, brushing it across the tender surfaces of her lips. His voice pensive, he said, “Maybe I am mad, maybe I am, indeed."
Lowering his head, he crushed the violet against her mouth with his own.
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10
The pale winter sunshine falling through the panes of pastel-colored glass spilled circles of soft rose and aqua color over Mara as she paced up and down the main gallery. She was alone. Roderic had been called to a meeting at court. The others had dispersed on odd errands. There were no guests expected. She should have been relieved, happy to have a few moments to herself; instead she felt deserted.
She had need of the time in which to think, however. The plan could go forward now. She had achieved the goal set for her and must take advantage of it. The trouble was that she could not bring herself to concentrate on what must be done.
She had not thought a great deal about how she was going to persuade Roderic to attend the ball of the Vicomtesse Beausire. The problem of how she was to seduce him had loomed so large that she had not been able to see beyond it. Now the difficulties were all too obvious. Despite the glib assurances of de Landes that Roderic would be supremely cooperative once she had gained his bed, she could not believe her influence was any greater than it had been before. The prince found her desirable—there could be little doubt of that after the night before—but it was ridiculous to think that he would permit her to dictate his movements.
The knowledge that she must in some way persuade Roderic to do her will, using what had passed between them, was distressing. It made her feel like a prostitute. It seemed, in fact, as if the betrayal was not of him, but of her own inner self.
The night she had shared with Roderic had been a revelation. She had not dreamed that she was capable of such abandon, such intense pleasure. The discovery was a gift, one that would be soiled if she used these newly awakened responses to ensure that she had her own way.
And yet she must. She could not escape that fact. Grandmère Helene's continued safety and health depended upon it. She must.
But how was she to bring up the subject of the ball, a ball of which she should be ignorant? What reason could she give the prince to persuade him that he should attend? How could she ensure that he would take her with him when she had no official status, was not included in the invitation? It was all very well for de Landes to speak of social occasions to which a man of position might bring his mistress, but her own impression of French society was that more discretion than that would be expected at any event attended by Louis Philippe, even of an unpredictable prince like Roderic of Ruthenia.
It made her head ache to think of it. What was she supposed to do? Would it be better to wait until some crucial moment, perhaps after making love, and speak wistfully of the brilliant social affairs she had heard of but could not remember having seen? Should she attempt to beg prettily for the honor of being escorted by a prince of the blood?
She could not do it.
Perhaps she might indicate in an oblique fashion that an outing could result in recognition, a solution to the problem of who she was? Yes, that was a possibility since it was all too true. But could she do it without blushing for the hateful necessity? Without arousing Roderic's suspicions? She doubted it.
The bell pealed at the entrance below. Mara retreated hastily along the gallery to the private rooms at the end as a housemaid hurried past and down the stone stairs to open the door to the visitor. There was a murmur of voices and the tread of feet. A few minutes later the maid came to Mara.
"It is Monsieur Balzac, Mademoiselle Chère. I told him the prince is not at home, but he insists on speaking to you. I put him in the salon."
Mara thanked the girl and, running a hand over her hair, made her way back along the gallery to the public rooms where the writer waited. A footman opened the double doors for her, and she gave him a smile before passing through. Balzac stood at the far end of the room with his back to the small fire that blazed in the fireplace. He had taken an African orange from a bowl that sat on a table nearby and stood eating it out of his hand as one might an apple, rind and all.
"Ah, mademoiselle, forgive me that I do not kiss your hand,” he said with a broad gesture and a genial smile, “but I am somewhat sticky with juice."
"Was there no fruit knife? I am sorry. I'll ring for one at once."
"No, no, I beg! There is no need. The good things in life are better for a touch of bitterness with them, a little difficulty in the consuming."
"Oh, but surely—"
"It isn't my theory alone. My friend Hugo sometimes eats the shell of the lobster as well as the meat; I myself have seen him. What jaws the man has, what teeth! Formidable.” He took another ferocious bite of his orange, crushing the seeds with gusto.
"As you like,” Mara said, moving to sit on the settee. “I am sure the prince will be sorry to miss your visit."
"A fascinating man, the prince, and a stimulating conversationalist, but you are much more attractive to look upon, mademoiselle."
It was mere politeness, and Mara did not make the mistake of thinking it anything else. She inquired after the work in progress of the author and listened with sympathy to his tales of uncooperative characters, broken nights, and leechlike publishers. Beneath the crude, rough-hewn exterior, he was, she thought, a most sensitive man. She had been reading some of his tales and had been struck by his understanding of women. She told him so.
"How kind of you. How kind. They come to me, these women that I write about, like a vision of passion in the night. Women are ruled by this passion, by love. They are not encompassed by their egos as men are, and so can transform themselves,
their lives, their very bodies, with passion. It is not the things man makes that have meaning in this world, but the family that a woman creates out of this enormous love."
"How odd to hear a man say such a thing."
"All men know it, those who can see,” he said simply. “What else is marriage, but an attempt by men to harness that love for their own use, their own great need?"
"Yes,” she agreed. Then, as an idea struck her, she continued, “Monsieur Balzac, you are a man who knows Paris and its people well. Would you say that it would be permissible for the prince to take his mistress with him, say, to the ball of the Vicomtesse Beausire?"
"Why should you wish to attend such a gathering? It will be altogether boring."
"I am serious."
"Ah.” He gave a slow nod and, finishing his orange, wiped his hands on his handkerchief and moved to sit down beside her. “I regret to tell you that this is not my milieu. I have friends among the aristocracy, of course, but I do not move in those circles. You are disappointed?"
She ignored the question. “But you write about them as you have written about the poorest of Paris. You must know what is expected, what is allowed?"
"It is always true that the aristocrats extend to themselves greater freedom of action than do the bourgeoisie, the staid middle class so afraid of what people will think of them."
"That is not an answer,” she said, her gaze steady and her voice stern.
He sighed. “You are a difficult woman. Yes, I suppose the prince could take you if he wished to do so. It isn't as if you are a celebrated courtesan. He could always pass you off as a distant relative if the need arose, if it was necessary to present you to the king, for example."
"Heaven forbid,” Mara said fervently.
"That is the risk.” Balzac shrugged his massive shoulders. “But why come to me with this problem? Why should you not ask the prince?"
"I wished to know if it was possible before I troubled him."
Royal 02 - Royal Passion Page 19