Tonight or Never

by Dara Joy

  "Only for now, John," she whispered back, purposely goading him.

  The jade eyes narrowed.

  Zu-Zu fluttered her fan in the air. "You should have seen that beautiful red hair of his in the moonlight; it was—"

  "You just said his hair was brown, Zu-Zu," Grandmere smugly reminded her.

  Zu-Zu faltered for a moment. "Did I? Well, I meant red-brown, of course."

  "Of course." It was obvious that Zu-Zu had never actually seen the true man. Whether she had consorted with him was another story. The Countess Zambeau was a stunning woman, and despite the fact that she was overbearing in the extreme, her exploits in the boudoir were a well-known fact.

  "How did he get you away from the soldiers, Zu-Zu? Surely there were plenty of guards?" Maurice, who had been silent up to this point, chimed in.

  "A whole battalion! You should have witnessed his bravery, Maurice; he was incredible! Rarely have I seen such swordsmanship! I could have watched him all afternoon."

  "If it weren't for the guillotine looming over your head, so to speak," John put in dryly.

  "John!" Chloe admonished him.

  Zu-Zu wagged a finger at him. "He is being naughty and this I like." She smiled at him in an altogether coy way.

  Out of habit, John winked lazily at her.

  Chloe looked back and forth between the two of them.

  The Countess Zambeau had been eyeing her husband since she met him an hour ago. At first Chloe hadn't put any assignation to the glances; after all, most women ogled John—besides his uncanny good looks, he had a certain steamy aura that seemed to call forth to females on a subconscious level.

  On second inspection, however, she realized that the Zambeau was highly interested and planning a conquest.

  Not with my husband! Irritated that John had winked at the woman, Chloe turned her back on him.

  The action did not go unnoticed by John, who was at a loss to understand why Chloe was suddenly upset with him. The wink he had given the countess was not even a glimmer in his thoughts. What was in his thoughts was getting his wife back to their bedchamber as soon as possible.

  He couldn't recall ever wanting a woman so much. Since that first taste of her, she had been driving him mad! He had been in a state of semiarousal since they had come down to the sitting room.

  Uncomfortable, he shifted his position on the settee.

  His emerald eyes fixed their sights on her pouting lower lip. The exact feel of that luscious, soft lip on certain parts of his body came to mind, hitting three of his five senses at once.

  He shifted his position again.

  "An amazing story, Zu-Zu. Everyone in London town is talking about him, you know." Percy paused to take a sip of his tea.

  "Speaking of which, where is every one?" John gazed around the room, noting for the first time the absence of the upper ten thousand from his house.

  Percy gaped at him. "Did you not hear the racket yesterday when they cleared out, John?"

  An embarrassing silence filled the void.

  "No; don't suppose you would have." That the viscount was summarily engaged with his new bride to the point that he had not even perceived the sound of scores of conveyances being loaded and the mass exit of a great many people said much for the alluring charm of Lady Sexton.

  Percy covered his faux pas smoothly by returning to the subject of the Black Rose. "They say he is completely daring, laughing in the face of the proletariat as he sweeps the aristocracy from under their noses. Naturally, we must take these stories cum grano salts, with a grain of salt."

  "I say he was utterly charming, darling." Zu-Zu was certainly biased about the man who had saved her life. "I owe him everything. Everything!"

  And probably gave it to him, John thought, weary of the woman's habit of overdramatizing every sentence she spoke.

  "I have written a poem about him; would you like to hear it, Zu-Zu?" Percy practically chortled.

  "Yes, I would love to!" Zu-Zu reached for a bonbon on the table next to her.

  "Oh, please do, Sir Percy!" Chloe clapped her hands.

  Damn and blast! John gritted his teeth. Not the poem.

  With a flourish, Percy stood up, positioning himself in the center of the room so not an eye could wander away from his performance without his knowledge.

  He cleared his throat noisily. Three times.

  "They seek him high, they seek him low;

  The proletariat wonder where he could go;

  Near or far, where can anyone suppose…

  Is that blasted, evasive Rose!"

  Everyone applauded vigorously at the delightful ditty.

  Everyone, that was, except John, who sat stone faced.

  "Thank you, thank you!" Percy beamed, blowing kisses to the room at large.

  John groaned. Spare me.

  He leaned over to speak quietly to Chloe. "Let's go back upstairs, sweet. This is boring me and I can think of better things for us to do."

  Chloe swerved her head, almost bumping his nose. "Everyone else is enjoying it, John; perhaps you should continue winking at the Countess Zambeau—then you shan't be so bored." She faced away from him.

  "What are you talking about?" He spoke low so the others wouldn't hear.

  Chloe focused forward, speaking from out of the side of her mouth. "If you wish her attentions, then that is your choice, Lord Sexton; I will consider the agreement between us over."

  Chloe held her breath, waiting to see what he would do. She didn't have to wait long.

  "You will do nothing of the kind, madam!" he all but roared.

  Everyone turned to stare at him.

  He instantly lowered his voice. "The agreement is definitely in effect—remember that, Lady Sexton."

  Chloe exhaled. "If you insist." She toyed with him, not able to stop herself. It was so pleasant after all these years to see John squirm.

  "I do, indeed."

  Chloe shrugged as if the matter were of no concern to her one way or the other.

  Those patrician nostrils of his flared.

  It was more than she could have hoped for at this juncture. John was coming along very nicely. He was nowhere near the finish line, but he was making excellent progress.

  And for that he deserved a little reward.

  She took hold of his chin with her thumb and forefinger and brought him closer to her, placing a soft kiss on his mouth.

  He viewed her suspiciously. "What was that for?"

  "To seal the continuation of the agreement."

  "Oh, I see." His eyes twinkled. "You'll have to do it again, Chloe-cat… I don't think that one took."

  Smiling at his ploy, she brushed his mouth again. He surprised her by quickly wiggling his tongue on her lips as they swept his mouth. She giggled.

  "What are you two wicked people doing over there?" Zu-Zu interrupted their pleasant play.

  "We're waiting to hear more of your story, Zu-Zu." John smiled at the galling woman, showing her his teeth.

  "There is more, but, my darlings, I am afraid it is not pleasant."

  John said in an aside to Chloe, "Some of this was pleasant? What have I missed?"

  "Shh! I think she has some important news."

  "It is a black day for France." Zu-Zu lowered her fan; a single tear fell from her eye.

  "What is it?" Maurice was alarmed.

  "The Cyndreacs. They were taken." Her voice was for once without its bouncy inflection.

  Grandmere and Chloe both shouted at this bit of news.

  The exclamations were followed by a large snore from Deiter.

  "Not the Cyndreacs!" Chloe was appalled.

  "Mon Dieu, it cannot be—all of France will weep this day!" Grandmere sniffed.

  "Not all of France," Maurice said pointedly.

  John's brow furrowed. The Cyndreacs were notorious throughout France. There were seven brothers, all of them counts and all of them unwed. Each and every one of the young men had reputations for chasing muslin. Their wild reputations had ga
rnered them the sobriquet of the Seven Deadly Cyns. He had met them himself briefly on several occasions at soirees he had attended.

  "All of them?" the countess asked sadly.

  "Not all—I believe one escaped, but of this, I am not sure."

  "Which one?" Chloe had known the Cyndreacs her whole life—this news was sorely distressing to her.

  "Who could tell?" Zu-Zu waved her hand in the air. "They all look alike with that black hair and those Cyndreac eyes." The brothers were stunningly handsome; each had inherited the famous golden Cyndreac eyes.

  "Do you know these men well, Countess?" Percy asked Grandmere while dabbing at his eyes with his hanky. Percy did not know the Cyndreacs, but, presumably, he did not want to feel left out of the emotion of the moment.

  "Yes, quite well," she replied softly. "Their chateau was adjoining my own in France. This is very disheartening. Were they alive when you left, Zu-Zu?"

  "Oui, but not for long. I heard a guard say they were scheduled for execution." She shook her head. "Half the women of France will be prostrate with grief, myself included. Already they were lining up outside the prison, tossing roses through the gates, wailing their hearts out."

  Grandmere's shoulders sagged. "Their beauty of spirit and zest for life will be missed."

  "O tempora! o mores!" Percy intoned solemnly. "Oh the times! oh the customs!"

  "At least one escaped," Chloe said quietly, wondering which one had been so lucky.

  "Dum spiro spero," Deiter spoke, surprising everyone, since he had been sleeping the whole time and had never spoken in Latin before.

  Percy viewed him through his lorgnette. "Very true, my good man. Where there is life, there is hope."

  Well said, but Deiter was snoring again.

  John muttered under his breath as he made his way back to the house. Just as he had found the perfect time to make his excuses and drag his wife back to their rooms, Percy had cornered him with the request that he join him for a walk about the grounds so he might discuss with him a matter of "an intensely personal and urgent nature."

  Put in such a way, the request was impossible for John to refuse. No matter how much he wanted to be alone with Chloe, he was obligated to accompany Percy.

  They walked to the far pond. It was an extremely long, tedious journey for John, who ached to be with his new bride.

  Percy prattled on about this and that until John was forced to ask, "So what is this urgent matter you wish to discuss with me?"

  Sir Cecil-Basil removed his handkerchief from his pocket to dab at the perspiration dotting his brow. Clearing his throat, he focused on the water lapping across the surface of the pond, seemingly too embarrassed to look John in the eye.

  It was a few moments before he could gather his composure to speak. When he finally did, he voiced in a near-croaking whisper, "What do you think of Spanish fly?"

  John blinked, stunned at the question. "I beg your pardon?"

  Percy cleared his throat again. "I say, what do you think of Spanish fly?"

  Of all the inquiries, John never expected this! "Well, I…" What was he supposed to say? "Some prefer absinthe, I hear."

  "Absinthe? What has absinthe to do with it?" Percy made a face. "Hideous-looking stuff—made with wormwood, I hear. Now what about the Spanish fly, John?"

  "Are you thinking of trying it?"

  "You won't say anything?"

  "Of course not, but—"

  Percy exhaled a sigh of relief. "I knew I could trust you, John. So what do you think?"

  "It's your choice, of course, but I prefer the natural approach."

  "Yes, but it is so boring of late." He waved the handkerchief; a whiff of cologne irritated John's nose, causing it to twitch.

  "It doesn't have to be; there are many things one can do to liven up the—"

  "I've tried them all; I need something fresh, something stimulating."

  "It's a risk, Percy; there's no telling what its permanent effects might be."

  Percy sighed. "I know. In addition, my reputation in such matters is sterling; I hate to jeopardize it."

  Sterling reputation? With women? John gave the fop an incredulous look. Percy was definitely a legend in his own mind. "There's no accounting for ladies' tastes." His dry response was lost somewhere among the multitudinous layers of lace the man wore.

  "The thing is, Sexton, do you think it too bold?"

  "What does the lady in question say?"

  "Lady in question?" Percy seemed perplexed. "What lady in question?"

  "The one you plan to use this with." John stopped, viewing Percy in shock. "It is a lady, isn't it?"

  "I should say not!"

  John's eyes widened. He stepped back. Two steps.

  "I plan to experiment with it on myself. Why would I ask a lady to try it?"

  John didn't know what to say to that. Percy was odder than he thought.

  "I think it goes quite naturally with my complexion. Furthermore, I believe it will be the coming rage. Always like to be on the forefront, you know."

  Goes with his complexion? Lord Sexton shook his head to clear it. "What exactly are you talking about, Percy?"

  "I told you, Spanish fly—the dark green color; seen it on a few fashions; I believe it's the coming thing."

  John saw red. Carmine red. "You called me out here to discuss a—a shade of—of color! That was the intensely personal and urgent matter?" Not waiting for a response, he thundered, "Do you realize that I left my new bride to come out here with you?"

  "Calm down, John; when you think it over, you'll realize that fashion is always a matter of extreme urgency."

  Several choice expletives followed that remark.

  John turned on his booted heel and stomped back to the house.

  Sir Percy watched his exit with extreme interest.

  Although his mouth was shaped in a moue at Lord Sexton's abrupt departure, an enigmatic smile hinted at the corners of his lips.

  Still in a lather, John went in search of Chloe as soon as he stepped inside the house.

  She was nowhere to be found.

  He came across the countess in the conservatory. She was repotting some herbal plants, elbow-deep in dirt and apparently loving it. Normally the aristocracy did not put their hands in dirt, but the Countess de Fonbeaulard was an exception. In every way.

  Like her granddaughter.

  "Have you seen Chloe, Countess?"

  "Yes, John, she went back to her room to rest." The countess smiled as she patted the dirt around the base of a plant. "You've worn the poor dear out."

  Another man might have appeared slightly embarrassed by such an observation. Not John.

  He flashed her a look of pure satisfaction.

  The countess grinned, shaking a finger at him. "Now be gentle with her; she is not used to your ways."

  "I am always gentle with her," he said as he was leaving. "It is my one weakness in life."

  Not so, my young Lord Sexton; it is your best strength.

  The countess acknowledged the superior quality to herself, placing her flowerpot on a shelf.

  A movement from behind the ferns startled her. The marquis revealed himself, coming toward her.

  "Maurice! I did not see you there!"

  "Non, you did not," he said enigmatically.

  "How long have you been there?"

  Maurice could tell she was thinking about something else. Something that had occurred several days ago in the same place—a rather revealing conversation.

  "Oh, not too long," he replied noncommittally.

  She seemed to relax.

  He took her around, placing a kiss on her shoulder. "He is like his uncle, no?"

  The countess laughed, leaning into him. "Exactly."

  "I was never as wild as him, though." He nuzzled her throat.

  "Oh! You have selective memory, Maurice."

  "True." He took her face between his hands. "I can only seem to remember the part of my life that includes you, mon amour."

>   He could still take her breath away. "Maurice…"

  His lips claimed her.

  No one could be more romantic than a Frenchman.

  Especially if he had an agenda.

  Chloe lay on top of the covers, sound asleep. A gentle breeze from an open window ruffled both the strands of her free-flowing hair and the white muslin undershift she had left on. She looked like some fairy-tale princess awaiting the kiss of her prince.

  Well, he was no prince, but he was definitely willing to kiss.

  Removing his clothes, John got into bed with her.

  Leaning over her, he examined her features as she slept. The enormous violet eyes, closed now, covered in a gentle sweep of lashes; the small, pert nose; the determined chin with its feminine cleft; and those full, soft lips.

  Since that day she had asked him to marry her, he hadn't been able to stop thinking of those lips. They were slowly driving him insane.

  Now that he knew how they actually felt against him, on him, and under him, he really couldn't get them out of his mind.

  There was something about the way Chloe's lips felt that was different from all of the others. The instant her lips touched him, he became racked with desire tremors. His whole body seemed to heat all at once with a… a pleasure chill.

  It was almost as if he was beginning to actually crave her!

  So far, he couldn't seem to get enough.

  Maybe he never would. Maybe he was addicted to a Carrot.

  He cast aside the fanciful thought, noticing how innocent and vulnerable she appeared lying across the bed in her white shift. He bent closer toward her, his hair brushing across her chest.

  "Cold," she murmured in her sleep.

  "Chloe." He spoke softly so as not to startle her. She was like a gentle lamb, lying there…

  Her hand suddenly came up and fastened onto his hair in a death clench.

  As if it were a personal coverlet for her, she yanked the silken mass toward her in her sleep while turning on her side. Pulling him right along with her.

  Pain was the word that came to John's mind.

  "Good God! Chloe, let go!"

  She didn't seem to hear him.

  John reached over, trying to pry her tenacious grip from his hair. It took a while, but he finally freed himself. Minus several golden strands, which trailed from her fingers like a battle trophy.