Lady of Shame (14 page)

It was a game and neither of them knew the rules.

André decided to roll the dice. ‘Is there something
madame
would like to know? Feel free to ask anything at all.’ But not about his parents. That was one story he would never tell.

‘Where were you born?’

‘In a very small place in the south of France.’ He forced himself to remember the village and not the château. ‘Bordeaux.’

‘What made you decide to become a chef?’

Surprised, he couldn’t speak for a moment. It wasn’t that no one had ever asked him that question, they had. On more than one occasion. He just hadn’t expected a woman of quality to be interested in such a mundane thing as his work.

‘It was a good way to make sure I ate well every day.’ His stock answer. It always drew a laugh.

Not this time. She raised a brow, her head tilting as if she thought he might be jesting at her expense. For some reason he wanted her to understand the heart of the joke.

‘I grew up on the streets of Paris. There was never enough to eat. And when I joined the army, there was never enough to eat there either. Then I saw that cooks always ate their fill. It took a while, but I learned to make myself useful, discovering I had a talent. I like to eat, yes, but I like the taste, the texture on the tongue, the scents—warm bread, rosemary, spices from the East. And how they blend together to tease the palate.’

‘You are an artist, in other words.’

She was charming him. Making him feel wonderfully special as if she cared about him, when they both knew this was only about physical satisfaction. That caring touched a deep place inside him that felt raw and ragged. He tried to retreat. ‘Food is hardly art.’

‘It is. You create works of art, just like a painter. You have the same kind of passion.’

It was as if she understood what drove him. He laughed it off. ‘Except that my art lasts less than an hour before it is demolished.’

‘True. But the memory lives on. I can still remember the taste of the pheasant pie you brought me, a perfect blending of flaky pastry, tender meat and delicious sauce and a heavenly aroma that filled the room.’

He gazed at her in awe. ‘You are an epicurean. Never have I listened to such a mouth-watering description of something so ordinary as pheasant pie.’

She laughed, as delighted by his compliment as he was by her memories of his food.

Her face sobered. ‘It must have been difficult for a boy growing up on the streets of Paris.’

The darkness inside him pushed the door open a crack. The horror of the guillotine glinting as it descended on a neck he had once put his arms around. His father’s. He would never know what had drawn him to the Place de la Révolution that day. The cheers of the crowd. The smell of boiled cabbage and garlic. He’d been as sick as a dog. He slammed the door closed on the memory, because it led to thoughts of his mother. ‘They were difficult days. And long gone. The wars are over and a Bourbon king is back on the throne.’

‘Will you go back? To France?’

‘Perhaps one day. To visit. I am not sure. My home is in England now. I like it here. There are troubles, yes. But not like France.’

A little crease formed between her fine eyebrows. ‘You are not tempted to stay here, at Castonbury?’

He was tempted. But only because of her. And that was illogical. He had a future waiting. And it was not here in the depths of the country. It was not the goal he had spent his whole adult life pursuing. ‘I leave at the end of my contract.’

‘Surely my brother would renew your contract?’

She sounded indignant on his behalf and once more her caring brushed a painful nerve. This was dangerous ground. More dangerous than his presence inside her chamber, and that was practically a hanging offense. Or it would be if she cried foul.

There wasn’t another woman in the world who could have tempted him to take the risk they took tonight. He had come here because she had invited him. He trusted her, he realised with a shock. He never trusted women. And worse yet, he cared about her happiness. He swallowed. He had never wanted to feel this way again.

He didn’t want to need anyone ever again. Couldn’t. But he could make love to her properly. If only she would let him. He was becoming tired of all this talking. ‘My plans take me to London.’

An expression of distaste crossed her face. ‘I hope I will never set foot in London again. It is horrid and dirty and full of unpleasant people.’

‘Then we differ in our views. To me, London is the heart of England. It is a place where a man can make his fortune.’

‘Or lose it.’ She shrugged her beautiful shoulders. ‘Still, it is your choice.’ She sounded so accepting it irritated him. Annoyed him that she did not ask him to stay.

Oh, she really had muddled his mind. He had no wish to bury himself here. He had dreams and hopes. And yet, as they sat talking, he had the feeling he could be happy here. With her and her daughter. And perhaps a few children of his own too.

His gut fell away. She could not marry him. Not a chef. Nor did he want to be married.

He kept his face calm, a mask hiding the turmoil of conflicted thoughts. ‘I intend to open a restaurant in London. And then a hotel.’

‘Oh,’ she said, admiration lighting her pretty eyes. ‘How wonderful. An expensive proposition though, surely?’

‘This contract paid very well.’

‘So everything is in place.’

‘Yes.’ He barely had enough to get started, but it was all he had lived for these past few years. A way to walk away from a heritage he despised and become successful. Yet now, with Claire, he almost regretted the decision that put them on such an unequal footing.

What? Would he give up all his ideals, his principles, for the sake of a noblewoman? His prick was starting to rule his head, it seemed. ‘What about you, Claire? Are all your plans in place?’

‘Not quite.’

‘But they will come to fruition. You are sister to a duke, still young enough to bear an heir. Old enough to know your own mind. Have you decided who you will choose?’

‘You make it sound so cold. So passionless.’

‘Is there passion in it?’
Sacrebleu
, why did he ask such a stupid question? Such a jealous question? What she did with her life was nothing to him. Just as he could be nothing to her. This getting to know each other was not such a good idea, after all. He raised a hand. ‘I apologise. Please, do not answer what is an impertinence.’

Talking was doing neither of them any good. It was taking them places they could not go, when they should be losing themselves in mutual bliss. That was why he was here. He rose to his feet and drew her up to face him. He led her around the confounded sofa until they stood with a bare inch of warm air between them. Already he could feel the heat of her response. See the gentle flush of her skin. Inhale the very essence of her longing.

He gazed into her eyes and let her see his desire. ‘Claire,
ma petite
, we both know why you invited me here. Let us not play with each other any longer.’

‘No,’ she breathed. ‘Let us not play games.’

He placed his hands on her fine-boned shoulders, felt the tremors racing beneath her skin—excitement, fear, longing. ‘It is what it is,
chérie
. It can never be more than this. Our stations in life are fixed. We can take this joy for ourselves, but it can never be more.’

‘No.’

But as she stared up at him with parted lips, what he saw in her eyes terrified him. Affection as well as heat.

Would she, too, want more than he could give? ‘I really am not sure this is a good idea.’ He started to turn away.

She caught at his sleeve. ‘No. I understand what you are saying. I understand that this is all it can ever be, but I want this. I want to choose this now. Tonight. For once, I want someone to want me—Claire—as a woman, instead of wanting me for my connections. If only it is just this once.’ Truth and pain were a bright silver blade in her gaze.

‘I don’t give a sous for your family,’ he murmured.

‘I know,’ she breathed. ‘I know.’

She stood up on her tiptoes and brushed velvety soft lips across his mouth. An irresistible force.

A groan left his throat. Capitulation. Lust. All conscience destroyed by her touch.

He drew her close, buried his face where the exquisite slope of her shoulder met the elegant arc of her neck and inhaled the perfume of jasmine and Claire. He nipped at the delicate flesh and soothed it with a lick of his tongue and felt the bone-deep shudder ripple through her body.

She tasted like manna from heaven. Like nectar from the gods. She tasted of Claire. Delicious. Delectable. A feast for the senses. A feast no hungry man could resist. He’d been out in the wilderness, on the brink of starvation for years, and only now recognised his deprivation.

It seemed that tonight he needed her as much as she needed him. What more was there to be said? One inch after the other—as he tasted her neck, her jaw, her chin, and finally indulged himself with her lovely mouth—he backed her towards the bed. This time he would not take her like a mindless animal. This time, he would please her, and indulge her, and seduce her with consummate skill.

He would hear her beg for him to finish it. He had learned from the best in France. The highest courtesans in the land. She deserved no less.

No. She deserved more, because she never asked for anything for herself.

When the bed brought their slow backwards dance to a halt, he kissed her more deeply, explored the delights of her mouth with his tongue, learning its slick heat and discovering what pleased her from the little hitches in her breathing and the soft cries in her throat.

Those tiny little sounds drove him to madness, his body clenching unbearably with the pain of waiting.

His hands explored the breadth of her narrow back, felt the striation of ribs, the swell of hip and buttock. The picture they drew in his mind was incredibly erotic. And now he would see if his imaginings came anywhere close to the truth.

This time he would make sure he brought all his skill to the table. What had happened at the plunge bath had been a travesty. He owed her his best efforts.

No lying to yourself, André. What went before was a mere taste on the tip of the tongue, an
hors d’oeuvre
compared to the main course tonight would be. The
pièce de résistance
.

He hadn’t ceased thinking about what he wanted to do with her since the moment they had parted at the door. And now he would put his wonderfully inventive imagination to the test.

He placed his hands around her waist, surprised by the tiny span of it for a second, enchanted by the urge to feed her up, then lifted her to sit on the edge of the bed. Delighted by the flush of pink high on her cheekbones and the soft parting of her lips, he knelt before her. A supplicant at the altar of a goddess.

The thought made him as hard as granite.

Chapter Twelve

T
here was something deceptively innocent about the way she looked at him.

In all his vast experience in the cities across Europe, where his good looks had allowed him a sensual education
par excellence
, he’d never discovered such an incredibly arousing combination of innocence and knowing.

Slowly, he sank back on his heels and lowered his gaze, paying homage with his eyes to her breasts, the narrow waist cinched tight by her belt, the shy curve of her bent knee, her small elegant feet.

He ran the back of his hand up her pretty shin bone, parting the robe while he admired the delicate turn of each well-shaped ankle and calf. For a slender woman, she was surprisingly curvaceous. Deliciously moulded.

He couldn’t wait to feast his gaze on the rest of her.

First things first though. He removed one slipper, then the other, rubbing each arch with the ball of his thumbs until her toes stretched with pleasure and he felt her relax.

Relaxed was good. He stroked her lovely arch, her ankle, her tender calf, then looked up.

Her eyes were half closed, hazy with sensual pleasure, her mouth sultry. His little mouse had become all purring feline.

His blood fired hot in his veins. The urge to devour her rose like a feral beast. Control slid through his grasp. Shocked, he hauled it back by his fingertips. He would not take her like a common soldier with no thought but to slake his lust and no mind but his throbbing arousal. Not like the last time.

He came up on his knees and pressed his lips to the curve of each knee beneath the satiny robe, the perfume of her desire an aphrodisiac to olfactory senses honed by years of training. But he now had a firm grasp on the reins of his lust. The exquisite torture of waiting would have its own rewards.

As he glanced up at her face, she licked her lips. Again, control slid away.

No. This time he would not allow it. This time was all for her.

‘Undo the belt for me,
chérie
,’ he said, shocked by the abrasive note in his voice and glad she did not flinch.

Her fingers went eagerly to the knot and he saw that they trembled, not with fear, but with excitement.

Yes. He wanted that for her. Excitement caused by danger and anticipation, and ending in bliss. More than anything, bliss.

The narrow strip of fabric glided away. The cool blue robe parted to reveal her chemise and the start of the valley between her small high breasts, their pebbled peaks visibly thrusting against the white linen. The picture was made more erotic by the practical, modest nature of her undergarment.

A harlot in ruffles and lace could never look so alluring. His breath caught in his throat as his eyes devoured the delectable sight.

Eyelids at half mast she leaned back on her hands, offering a dish as enticing to his palate as it was to his gaze. An invitation to sample heavenly delights.

‘Now you,’ she said, her voice low and husky.

Blood roared through his veins, his shaft jolted to attention.

Such a wanton, this little brown mouse.

Not a man to deny a willing woman her due, he sprang to his feet.

‘You honour me, Claire,’ he said softly, ripping free his cravat and shrugging out of his coats. He pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

Her gaze touched him like flame. It drifted down his body and came to rest at the waistband of his pantaloons. A small smile curled her lips and she raised a brow.

For some reason, he kept forgetting she was a widow. An experienced woman with a child. Most of the time she seemed too unworldly compared to the women he had known. Fresh. Naive.

Yet at the same time, he knew she’d seen hardship and deprivation. The contrasts knocked him off balance, making him lose his place in the proceedings, as if he was some green youth. Strange. Oddly exciting. Hell. Deeply arousing.

Or was it simply the forbidden nature of their congress that had him trembling and eager. Close to losing his mind.

It was without doubt one of the most dangerous adventures he had ever embarked on.

In for a penny, in for a pound, the English said, and now he understood. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his stockings and peeled the pantaloons down his legs, sending them flying with a swift kick.

Breathing hard, he remained still, kept his distance, letting her look her fill, waiting for her signal that she was ready for his approach. Last time he had been a hurried fool fumbling in the dark.

This time would be a feast for the senses.

Her gaze flicked up to his face and she licked her lips, sending waves of heat through his body. She held out a hand. ‘Tonight is ours. Let us not waste it.’

‘And to the devil with tomorrow? Is that it, Claire?’

‘Yes.’ She smiled and beckoned. ‘To the devil with tomorrow. Who knows what it will bring?’

But she did know. There was duty and responsibility and he could not fault her for wanting this for herself.

He strode to the bedside, leaning forward to grasp the tops of her arms and bring her to her feet, pulling her against his body, feeling his erection press into the soft swell of her belly with a groan he couldn’t contain. He brought her closer with one hand grasping the soft swell of her bottom, while the other eased the robe off one shoulder and took possession of one of the sweetest, firmest little breasts he had ever had the privilege to hold in his palm.

The tightly furled nipple scraped across his skin through the linen. Warmth infused the plump flesh in his hand as she arched into him, offering her bounty and begging for more. He dipped his head and tasted the nectar of her mouth, before trailing kisses across her cheek, her jaw, the column of her neck to lick at the small hollow at the base of her throat.

The thunder of blood in his ears matched the sweet wild pulse he felt against his tongue.

A dish to be savoured slowly, for there were so many flavours to discover about this woman. Sweetness, sharp arousal, creamy skin, dark honeyed places.

He hardly knew where he wanted to start.

But of course he did. One must always start by uncovering the delights to come. The eyes must guide the feaster to the glory of each exquisite taste.

Drawing on all of his willpower, he released her and stepped back, taking in the wonder of her passion-filled face, the pout of her lush bottom lip. The rise and fall of her pretty breasts still veiled from his gaze by the soft cling of fabric.

A smile dawned on his lips at the thought of his request and the uncertainty he had about her response. He didn’t have a clue what she would do. Everything about her mystified. It was a long time since any woman had kept him guessing.

‘May I remove this?’ he whispered, touching the lace at her neckline.

An answering smile lit her face. Her hand rose to catch his, held it for a moment against the satiny skin, then brought his fingers to her mouth for a swift brush of silken lips.

He drew in a quick breath. Startled and thrilled.

‘Let me do it,’ she murmured.

‘You are bold, tonight,
ma chère
.’

A saucy smile curved her lips. ‘I spent years being good. Tonight I feel free.’

Yet soon she would be back in her cage. They both knew it, though did not speak the words out loud as she tugged at the tiny bow at the centre of the neckline, loosened the fabric and gave a little shimmy of her shoulders. The fabric left her bare in one swift slide.

Her beauty swept all thought from his mind. Her breasts were everything he had imagined and more. The nipples pale rose, high and impertinent. The valley between them a gentle swoop to her breastbone. Her belly beneath the clearly defined ribs showed the roundness of maturity and childbirth he found so womanly. Her hips flared in the way of a woman. And at the apex of her slim thighs encased in white silk stockings held up by wisps of blue lace was a light dusting of brown curls damp with desire.

He raised his gaze to her face and found a shy smile curving her lips and the shadow of worry in her eyes.

‘Beautiful,’ he said huskily. ‘
Ravissante.
Delicious.’

The shadows cleared. The smile became bolder. She reached for the garters.

He cleared his throat. ‘Leave them. Please. I find them…
je ne sais quoi
.’

‘Tantalising? A tease?’

‘All of that and more.’

She bridled a little, pleased no doubt by the hoarseness in his voice and the harshness of his breathing. It seemed control was held by a thread likely to break at any moment.

‘As you please,’ she said, and hopped up onto the bed and lay back among the pillows, her eyes gleaming wickedly as she crossed one knee over the other, her hands hiding her breasts with sudden modesty. The curve of her naked buttock pure temptation.

‘Do you care to join me?’ she asked with a brave little toss of her head.

He swallowed. Yes, he would join her and join with her.

He climbed up beside her and she flung her arms around his neck. ‘I want you, André. Inside me.’ She tongued the swirl of his ear.

He hissed in a quick breath at her honesty and the bone-deep shiver caused by her tongue in that sensitive place.

Then her mouth, open and hot, found his and he dove into a whirlpool of sensations and tastes.

He feasted on the apple-sweet breasts, nibbling and licking at her nipples, until she cried out from the torture. He explored every inch of her delectable skin with his tongue and his lips, learning the place above her hip bone that made her jump, the spot beneath her ear that made her purr. He found the dip at the base of her spine that caused her to wriggle and laugh breathlessly, then beg for more when he stopped. He teased the little nub at her centre while she writhed like a wild thing beneath him and wound her fingers in his hair, returning her pleasure with sharp tugs of pain. Or strokes of his arms, shoulders and buttocks, tasting his skin, digging her nails in his back, urging him to greater efforts and putting him in torment.

Hot and slick with the sweat of bliss denied, he greedily brought her to the brink of her ecstasy over and over, until she moaned her need deep in her throat and he knew whatever happened after this, he was lost.

* * *

Claire wanted the torment to end. Too much unbearable pleasure. Yet she could not resist its allure. Every touch of his hand, every lick of his tongue, took her to new heights, stretched her beyond endurance. Closer and closer by increments, he took her to the edge, but never let her fall, until she was stretched beyond endurance, and ready to shatter. Her mind, her will, were lost in the darkness of sensation, the wilderness of desire. Her ears filled with the sound of pounding hearts and low moans, his and hers, and the rasping unison of their breathing. On her tongue was the taste of his shoulder, his breast, his salty skin and the scent of dark male musk.

He surrounded her with his delicious essence. But she wanted more. She wanted him closer, deeper. She wanted him inside. Now. She brought her legs up around his hips and he stilled on a growl and rose up on his hands.

She grasped the base of his shaft, feeling the pulse of his blood, the heat and the hardness, and guided him to her entrance.

‘Not yet,’ he said on a half-laugh, half-groan. ‘I haven’t finished with you.’

But this was her night, her doing, and she wanted him badly. She had been too lonely for too long to be forced to wait.

‘André, please, now,’ she begged.

She thrust upwards with her hips, guiding him home, seating him deep within her body, offering to bring them spinning into darkness together.

On a shudder, he gave in to her demand and drove deep into her body, slamming into the cradle of her hips with a force that pushed her to the pinnacle of her need and far beyond.

She shattered, light bursting behind her eyes, lava-hot blood racing from the centre of pleasure to melt every bone in her body, followed by bliss so sublime she could hardly bear it.

Vaguely she felt him go rigid in her arms, then shudder. He groaned softly, pulled clear and spilled on her belly.

She drifted languorously on a tide of darkness and heat, aware of the wonderful hot weight of him pressing her into the mattress.

When she came to, she was curled against his body, wrapped within his arms. A most comfortable feeling. His lips grazed her ear, then her throat, then her shoulder.

Farewell kisses. Her heart knew. ‘Must you go?’

‘
Chérie
, you know I must.’

‘Will you come again tomorrow?’ How weak she was to ask. Yet the words were out before she gave them thought, and it was too late to call them back.

He let go a long breath. ‘I want to.’

The unspoken
but
hung between them.

She had asked, but she was a Montague and they did not beg. Or not very often, for it seemed she was not above it this night. ‘I hope you will.’

He slipped from the bed and dressed with as much efficiency as he had undressed. No doubt he was used to such clandestine assignations, slipping in and out of ladies’ beds as the mood took him. For surely there wasn’t a woman alive who could resist his charm.

It meant nothing, this night of pleasure. Not to him or to her. At the very best, it was comfort for two lonely people, and at the worst, the assuaging of carnal cravings.

She turned on her side and watched him button his shirt and shrug into his coats. So strong. So lithe and handsome. But he was much more than that. He had a kind heart and a gentle soul. She had the feeling that while they had talked a great deal, there was much he had not told her of his past.

Glancing at her, seeing her watching, he leaned over and kissed her lips, just a gentle pressure of his wonderful mouth. ‘Claire,’ he said softly, his voice full of regret. ‘You have given me a gift I shall never forget.
Merci, chérie
.’

Then he snuffed the candles, slipped out into the hallway and closed the door with the softest click.

And that was that. She rolled on her back. He was right, of course, though he had not said the words. This must not happen again. She was seeking a husband. Someone of whom her family would approve and who could keep Jane safe.