Susan Johnson (46 page)

Deferring to the intimate resonance of promise in Empress’s voice, the Duc slowly lowered his hand and, stepping back, gracefully settled back down beside her. He’d deal with the upstart pup later, he thought, deliberately stretching his arm along the top of the setee so that it rested possessively near Empress’s bare shoulders. “Perhaps we can discuss our friendship with the Countess at a more convenient time,” he said, his smile pleasant, his eyes chill. “Privately. Will you be in Paris long?”

“As long as it takes,” Trey replied, his smile urbane, his voice too soft, deadly provocation in his glance.

“For heaven’s sake,” Empress exclaimed, suddenly impatient with the quarrelsome men treating her as though she were a trophy to acquire, “would you two stop acting like rutting bulls? If and when I’m available,” she said in that startling, frank way everyone agreed she’d developed in America, “the decision will be mine”—the furious look she leveled at Trey was resolute—“not either of yours.”

“Hear, hear,” the Prince de Morne cheerfully responded, always entertained by Empress’s candid style of speech. She was an enchanting change from the other aristocratic ladies who always agreed with absolutely everything he said. “And please include me, dear madame, in your final decision.”

Casting Hippolyte a grateful glance for his flippant lightening of the oppressive mood, Empress said, appreciation in her voice and gaze, “Dear Hippolyte, you are by far the most
amusing of my friends, and I thank you, for I despise boredom.”

“I would deem it an honor,” the young prince replied with a practiced bow to Empress, ensconced on the rococo settee, “to devote my life to relieving your boredom.”

The Duc looked afflicted. “Don’t encourage him, Empress, in his lothario tendencies, or we shall
all
be excruciatingly bored,” he said dryly, his heavy-lidded glance weighted with reproach.

“
I
need a drink,” Trey said deprecatingly, apropos Hippolyte’s fulsome compliments, his gaze sweeping the room in search of the liquor table. Perceiving it, he strolled away, thinking querulously, Lord, they’re all panting after her like a pack of wolves. And in typical fashion, he decided, filling a glass with brandy, Empress was holding her own without difficulty. It was what most fascinated him—her ability to equalize the pleasant game of love.
Used
to fascinate him, he contradicted himself cynically. In this current hothouse atmosphere of numerous males after a bitch in heat, his feelings had altered to moody outrage as he contemplated the only possible assessment of this miscellanea, consisting of one woman, many men, an absent or complaisant husband, and flirtation. As in Montana, apparently, Empress was available to the highest bidder. Fortunately, he decided, ill-humored with jealousy, he had sufficient money to buy another installment of her time.

Lounging in a dainty chair sizes too small for him, his long legs casually crossed at the ankle, his heeled boots an incongruous note in the Boucher and Fragonard interior of shepherdesses and pastel hues, Trey stayed through the ritual of teatime because, much as she’d like to, Empress wouldn’t allow Etienne to throw him out. Trey was much too unpredictable; she had visions of a Western-style shoot-out in her drawing room, but more importantly, she refused to be intimidated by his challenging masculinity.

Drinking his brandy, he occasionally added a lightly abrasive comment to the conversation, primarily concerned with the schedule of social events past, present, and future. With an uncustomary streak of puritanical virtue, the talk of idle, aristocratic leisure activities annoyed him today. Yet Empress clearly fit in perfectly, as if she’d never stood in range garb
at Lily’s looking like a misplaced gamin in worn flannel and tangled hair. Unlike the silky disarray he remembered, her hair was arranged now in an upswept mass of coquettish curls held in place with pearl-and-diamond clips. Her gown, of midnight-black velvet opening over faille with a fall of cream lace down the bodice, was costly. Having paid for a dress or so in the past, Trey was aware in a general way of prices for couturier gowns. Apparently Empress had overcome any financial difficulties, he sullenly mused, for she wasn’t living in this style on his $37,500.

He watched her in the midst of the flattering males, cherry bright, smiling and gay, her lush lashes dipping in a suggestive, equivocal way when she spoke, her trilling laughter made to seem special somehow—personal. Even the way she sat—no, elegantly lounged—was intentional, her weight negligently resting on one settee arm so her breasts swelled provocatively above the neckline of her dress, so every man in the room wanted her lounging in his bedroom.

Empress Jordan doing what she did best.

Something to behold.

If the anger didn’t get in the way.

Once, midway between varying opinions on the hunting available near Paris, the Duc de Vec mildly ventured, “Do you find this tedious? Are we boring you, Mr. Braddock-Black?”

Trey briefly adjusted his emerald cuff link, thinking as he always did that it was unsporting for thirty men on horses and two dozen dogs to pursue a single small fox, and then his silver eyes came up. “I have never been so totally engrossed in my life,” he replied amiably, his smile brilliant. “Mademoiselle Jordan’s company,” he went on pointedly, his manner irritatingly charming, “is, as always, paradise. Hunting, however, is not my forte, so forgive me if my attention wanders.” This outrageous statement, from a man who spent weeks each year hunting game for his clan. Reaching for the brandy bottle he’d conveniently carried over with him, he filled his glass, saluted mockingly with the full glass, and proceeded to drink it down.

As the afternoon progressed, Trey’s brandy bottle emptied, but his urbane sophistication remained intact if one discounted
the occasional caustic comments bordering on misogyny.

Which generally Empress choose not to do.

And she would tartly respond.

To which Trey would mockingly defer, his eyes first on Empress, then on the Duc.

De Vec was the model of restraint but unnaturally quiet in his relaxed pose near Empress. He was drinking the aqua vitae he affected from the area near his hunting box in Logiealmond, Scotland.

Whose sangfroid would break first? many wondered, and the undercurrent of expectancy heightened.

Since no one intended to miss any possible excitement, Empress’s guests gave every impression of staying indefinitely. She, however, was nursing, and her body chemistry had no way of relating to the intentions of the assembled males, only to regular time intervals. As the afternoon wore on, Empress became increasingly uncomfortable knowing that Max would soon begin fussing. With her eye on the Sèvres porcelain mantel clock, she finally pleaded an early-evening engagement, at which point the more courteous of her guests excused themselves. Trey, with his mildly ruffled air of displeasure, gave no indication of leaving, and when the Duc appeared intent on outlasting Trey, she gently promised to see him at the opera that evening.

“Are you sure you’ll be all right?” he asked, loath to leave her with the rude savage from America who had consumed most of the bottle of brandy.

“I’m sure, Etienne, thank you. And thank you again for Tunis.”

His attention to detail and fond consideration were only a portion of his engaging charm, and when the Duc had heard Empress needed a better mount for riding, one from his stables had been delivered the same day. “The pleasure was mine, mon chère.” He bowed in casual gallantry, his extravagant gift dismissed. “Until tonight, then. You’re sure now?” he asked cryptically, with a short, studied look at Trey.

Empress nodded and smiled.

He flashed a swift, answering smile and left.

“What,” Trey said brusquely when the door closed on the Duc, “is Tunis?”

His question annoyed her. It was none of his business. The fact that he had intentionally outstayed his welcome
annoyed
her. The other men had had enough courtesy to leave. And she said as much.

“Tunis is none of your business, and you’ve long outstayed your welcome. Don’t you have any manners?”

“Just curious about the odd name,” he replied casually, immune to her censure, “and I don’t have any manners. I thought you knew. Did your cicisbeo give you a black slave? You don’t seem the type.” Every word was provocation, every drawling inquiry thinly veiled mockery.

“Oh, good God,” she exclaimed, “if you must know, Tunis is not a slave, Tunis is a small mare Etienne gave me. She was trained in North Africa, hence the name. And to fully assuage your curiosity, she was also trained at the Spanish Riding School. Her gait is remarkably smooth, she’s a champion in dressage, and can count to twenty.” Empress finished in a huff because he hadn’t moved a muscle in his lounging pose, except the cynical adjustment of one eyebrow upward.

“That’s an improvement over the mountain mustang Clover, I’d say. You’ve done well for yourself,” Trey murmured dryly, his gaze drifting around the luxurious room, alcohol tempering his words, “but then you’ve always been resourceful. Are the prices higher over here?”

Empress flinched, and the anger that had been building in her all afternoon, while Trey nonchalantly drank in her drawing room as though he not only belonged but somehow outranked his rivals, finally exploded. “I don’t
need
money now,” she retorted acidly. “Would you please leave?”

“If,” Trey said pleasantly, disregarding her plainspoken ejection, his eyes straying to the baroque pearls around her neck, “you continue living in this splendor, you soon may.”

“I don’t know why I feel compelled to explain to you, but this is all Guy’s. His inheritance was restored along with his title. There
is money.
” Her words were chill and plain and dismissive.

“And for you as well?” Trey inquired gently. His smile, which was not natural, owed its tightness to a restrained fury. After the long afternoon watching Empress being charming to other men, he wasn’t in the mood to be dismissed.

“A sufficient amount,” she said with brevity.

“I hope it’s a large enough fortune to counter the reputation you’re no doubt acquiring with this male harem you’re entertaining.” Although Trey lived his life ignoring society’s strictures, he was fully aware that a woman was not allowed such freedom without censure.

“It’s sufficient,” Empress repeated, her voice brittle with control, determined to let Trey think what he wished. She had no intention of enlightening him on her celibate life. It would only increase his arrogance.

An arrogance, she had to admit, was justifiable, seeing him lounging in her pastel rococo chair. His looks were the kind women followed with their eyes; even men did with surreptitious dismay, so purely was his face wrought in line and plane and form. And when his pale silvery gaze held hers, as was now the case, it was impossible to disregard the potent energy. Trey was not like other men; he had a hard resilience lightly restrained in his powerful body that lured and dazzled. The catalog of faultless attributes lavishly bestowed on him was unfair.

But while Trey was delight and beauty and excitement, his air was too rarefied for her breathing. He’d only offered what he did to all women, and she’d been artless enough to expect more. Like the others, she should have been less addled by his charms. He gave pleasure and wished nothing more in return. So while he might be the ultimate enchantment, as a lover she’d become sensible away from him, she reminded herself, sensible and capable of dealing with his facile charm.

“I want you,” he said casually, startling her with both his words and his insolence. It was a rich man’s son speaking, brazenly overlooking all that had transpired in the intervening months. It was Trey Braddock-Black, with a millionaire father and mother, mines and horse-breeding ranches, and extraordinary beauty of face speaking. She shouldn’t have been so startled; she should have remembered.

“I’m sorry,” Empress replied crisply, fighting the acute emotional response his word provoked. “It’s out of the question.” But his heated glance and lazy words touched her as only he could, and a small flutter of longing trembled through her senses. Her milk-full breasts reacted to the quivering pleasure, and she rose abruptly, resolved to resist Trey’s sensual lure. She didn’t flatter herself that he wanted more. His words
were quite plain. Drawing a quick breath to steady the trembling sensations that persisted despite her better judgment, she said in as neutral a voice as possible, “If you’ll leave now, I must dress. It’s opera night.
Thaïs.
”

There was a silence.

“
Thaïs
, my favorite, and I’m not invited?” Trey’s smile was enchanting.

“No,” she said resolutely, trying to control her breathing, difficult with Trey in her drawing room, close enough to touch. Her fingers crushed the velvet of her skirt.

“A pity.”

“I’m sure you’ll manage to entertain yourself somehow. Have you,” she asked in what she hoped was an impersonal tone, “brought your wife along?”

“Fortunately,” he replied pleasantly, “I don’t have a wife.”

A flare of anger reacted to his insouciance. “Are congratulations in order?”

“Very definitely.” His smile was a lush invitation.

“Consider them given, then,” she said curtly, moving to the door and opening it. How typical of Trey to neatly dispose of an unwanted woman. His tone was bland, his smile tranquil, as though dealing with an unwanted wife were a transitory inconvenience.

“Where is Mr. Miles?” he asked nonchalantly, taking her hint and rising. His question was casual, his unconcern that a Mr. Miles existed blatantly apparent.

“Fortunately there is no Mr. Miles,” Empress replied in parody of his flippant disposal of his wife.

His dark brows winged in mild inquiry. “Why the pretense?” he said. As a man of the world, the reason was obvious, but he was ill-tempered enough after her flirtatious availability that afternoon to insist ungraciously on being told.

Empress hesitated, not from embarrassment over her position but intent rather on keeping Max a secret from Trey. “I prefer being viewed as a widow, you see—”