Susan Johnson (47 page)

“Ah, yes, the merry widow,” he interrupted deprecatingly, graphically recalling her avid sexuality. “I see how it would appeal to your—er—friendly nature.” His tone was amused; his eyes were not.

“Why do you insist on sexual connotations to every utterance
I make?” she retorted, closing the door again so the servants weren’t party to their conversation.

“I should entertain other connotations,” he retorted mildly, “after seeing such patent, unmistakable lust at teatime this afternoon.” His fringed lashes half lowered fastidiously. “I admire your capacity for cordiality,” he went on dryly. “No one left with dashed hopes.” Her manner, damn her, was perfect. Gracious, hospitable, with glimpses of spirit both vivacious and, when she looked up through her heavy lashes, encouraging.

“Don’t take that deprecatory tone with me,” Empress snapped, almost stamping her foot in indignation at his sanctimoniousness. “Not after reigning as the uncontested stud west of the Mississippi!”

“It’s different for a man.”

No polite denial, only that impossibly bland rejoiner. How typical. “In what way,” Empress replied icily, “is it different?” Trey’s cliché phrase, in addition to his damnable arrogant hypocrisy, was guaranteed to bring her temper to the boiling point. Whether she was virginal or sexually active didn’t matter; it didn’t matter that she had, in fact, been celibate since Montana. What mattered, she defiantly thought in answer to his damn masculine bias, was that the decision was hers.
Not
society’s,
not
his,
not
some stranger’s on the street.

“We have more freedom.” His tone was lazy, only the words were overbearing.

“How nice for you. I’ve discovered, however,” she said, her voice dry and astringent, lifting her chin slightly in response to his bold eyes, “that my freedom is quite adequate.”

He had been standing some distance from her near the chair he’d risen from, and he moved toward her now with that soft, gliding walk she’d often thought would be silent in dry, fallen leaves. He stopped too close for politeness and, towering over her, his temper curbed with effort when he thought of Empress making love to any of those men, said with quelling gentleness, “To be brutally mundane, darling, as a woman there are sometimes physical consequences to that freedom.”

Empress’s stomach lurched. Did he know about Max? Was all this mocking repartee an exaggerated cat-and-mouse game? Why did he seem so much larger than she remembered?
“When did you arrive in Paris?” she asked too quickly, too bluntly, overwrought suddenly at the prospect of challenging Trey over their son.

He inclined his body briefly in an understated bow, and the sapphire buttons on his waistcoat winked and glistened as if reminding her of the wealth at his command. “This afternoon,” he said. “May I call you later tonight after the opera and sample some of your
freedom?
” His tone was exactly correct, as though a chaperone were seated near, the deferential dip of his head unerringly proper; only the soft emphasis of his words and his mocking eyes were disrespectful.

He didn’t know about Max, she decided, looking into those derisive, languorous eyes. They were too dissolutely sensual under the idle mockery. He was simply interested in gratifying his carnal urges. “I’m afraid tonight is busy.” The implication in her voice and expression insinuated that she would be busy—permanently.

“Tomorrow, then?” he suggested smoothly, unimpeded by either the substance or spirit of her refusal.

“No,” she said flatly, rankled by his careless presumption that she would succumb to his blunt declaration that he wanted her, singularly irritated that she was inexplicably drawn to the heated, impatient invitation in his pale eyes—as though she stood suddenly restless and fevered, waiting for him to put out his hand and say, “Come.”

“Are you too heavily scheduled?” he asked with that charming effrontery she’d watched all afternoon. “I’m prepared to buy a substantial time slot. What are the rates here in Paris,” he drawled languidly, “now that you are not barefoot in the market?” And he stood there, the familiar blandness returning to his face as he watched her.

Her skin flushed to the roots of her hair, and she drew a breath of unprecedented, murderous rage. “Naturally, I find your invitation irresistible,” she replied with smooth venom. “Unfortunately,” she said tartly, “you can’t afford them.”

He looked surprised and then smiled. “I can buy every whore on the Continent, sweetheart,” he said, his voice cordial, “and you know it.”

“A pleasant holiday, then, Mr. Braddock-Black,” she said. If she had been a man, she would have killed him. Twirling, she wrenched open the door and escaped from the smiling
rudeness and the overpowering urge to rake her fingers across his face until the insulting smile was marred with blood. Fleeing into the first room, she reached and, slamming the door behind her, leaned back against the polished fruitwood, trembling in fury. If she had a weapon, she would have used it on him and eradicated his calculated rudeness and bigotry. How dare he inflict the double standard on her conduct! How dare he call her whore for the same activities he saw as male prerogatives! “Fuck you, Trey,” she swore under her breath, “fuck you to hell and beyond!”

The tall case clock in the corner chimed, reminding her that Max would be frantic soon, his feeding long overdue. Consciously she forced her thoughts away from Trey to still her fury and agitation. Placing her palms on her cheeks, she drew in slow, calming breaths, exorcising her flush of anger, exorcising the provocative image, smiling, as dark as the devil, single-minded, and dammit, seductive and as fascinating as a lodestar. With a peremptory toss of her head she dispelled the image and pushed away from the door. At least, she thought with satisfaction, her refusal was overwhelmingly clear.

She had seen the last of the magnetic Mr. Braddock-Black.

H
e was there the next morning.

He was
rolling
on the floor of the breakfast room with Eduard while Guy, Genevieve, and Emilie tugged and shouted at him, wanting their turns at his attention. Colorful paper and ribbons, torn and crumpled, were strewn on the golden Tabriz carpet, along with lavish gifts, jewelry and dresses, stuffed toys and dolls, paintboxes and books, a saddle from Hermès that must be for Guy, Trey’s usual largesse with the children. Emilie’s blond curls were peaking out from under an expensive new bonnet, and Genevieve’s slender neck was circled with three splendid ropes of pale pink pearls, the tiniest, most perfectly matched pearls she’d ever seen. Guy had a good hold on Trey’s sleeve and was demanding he come to the stables with him. “You must, Trey. Leave
off
now, Eduard, it’s
my
turn!”

“He can see your old horse later,” Emilie declared grudgingly, the violets on her lavender silk bonnet quivering with her denial. “He has to see my new ball gown first. It’s my very
first
, Trey,” she said, pulling on his hand,
“with sparkling gauze over white silk, and it makes me look …”

“Like a fairy princess,” Trey responded smilingly, sitting upright suddenly in the melee, Eduard snuggled happily in his lap.

“It does! It really does,” she agreed happily, her answering smile reminding him wrenchingly of Empress. So she must have looked at twelve, fair-haired and rosy-cheeked with dancing lights in her eyes. “And Pressy says I can wear my hair up because it’s a family party and—”

The door shut with a quiet vehemence, and everyone turned to see Empress standing stiffly at the entrance to the room.

Her morning dress was a severely cut jonquil silk, and Trey thought again how noticeably fuller her breasts were. Perhaps a tailoring device, he speculated, to add allure to a courtesan’s image. And effective, he decided with a touch of asperity as desire flared through his senses.

“See who’s here, Pressy!” Guy exclaimed.

“Isn’t it
grand!
Trey’s on holiday and came to
see
us!” Genevieve was wide-eyed with pleasure.

“Look, look at my new bonnet. Trey says it’s
very chic
!” Emilie said with a grown-up modulation that ended in a fit of fourteen-year-old giggles.

Exultant smiles wreathed every young face, and each voice was filled with jubilation as they stood surrounding Trey, but what moved Empress most was Eduard’s small arms hugging Trey tightly. All the children had missed Trey, talking of him incessantly, until several months ago, when Empress, in a fit of temper, had hotly forbade them to discuss him. “I do not want that man mentioned in my hearing. Is that clear?” she had said, her voice grating, and the children’s eyes had dropped before her cold gaze. But Eduard, too young to comprehend the order or the complex confusion that prompted it, had persisted in asking for Trey. He was clinging to him now with fierce determination, his large baby eyes viewing Empress warily. She felt tears starting.

“Good morning. You sleep late in Paris,” Trey said blandly, his long-fingered hands resting lightly on Eduard’s waist.

“Oh, Pressy never gets up early, do you, Pressy?” Guy interjected, trying his best to soothe away the severity from his sister’s expression, his voice earnestly helpful.

“I expect it’s your busy nights,” Trey remarked softly, curtailing the tears.

Empress refused to account for her schedule to a man who lived consistently outside convention. She slept late many mornings because she was often up during the night nursing Max and had in fact just tucked him back into his crib. “You’re up early yourself,” she replied, thin-skinned and waspish. “Did Paris offer no entertainment last night?”

“Actually,” he said, his voice peaceful, “I haven’t been to bed yet—that is, to sleep yet,” he corrected with a faint smile.

Hot resentment flooded through Empress as she noted the slight, marring traces of a sleepless night on his fine-boned face, and of course his evening clothes, she observed tardily. Damn his libertine soul, she thought indignantly, and schooling her voice to a calmness she didn’t feel, said, “I hope you were suitably entertained.”

“Very well, thank you.” He exuded an air of insolent decadence. “And you?”

“I find my nights quite eventful,” she replied, maliciously tinging the last word with sly suggestion.

The silver depths of his eyes glowed with ungovernable fury as territorial prerogatives overwhelmed him. “And may be more so in the future.” His chin was resting on Eduard’s dark ruffled head, his pose tame and tranquil, but his words were murmured with a deep, husky resonance, and the smoldering menace in his eyes sent a shiver down Empress’s spine, a shiver that capriciously altered into a strange quivering warmth, and she pressed her open palms against the solid door at her back as if the smooth, cool mahogany could steady her body’s response to his implied threat.

“Trey
must
see my party dress,” Emilie broke in, unconscious of the silent, heated exchange, and both adults forcibly turned their attention to the young girl.

With an aplomb that arose to the occasion with practiced ease, Trey answered before Empress found her voice. “Very well, Princess, bring it down and show it to me, and if you tell me what your favorite jewels are, I’ll buy you a necklace
for your grand party. Every young lady needs jewelry for her first grown-up soiree.” When he smiled, Empress saw his potent charm in full effect, and for a quicksilver moment she recalled a stormy winter night when he’d asked her what her favorite flowers were.

“Oh, Trey! Will you? Will you buy me diamonds?” Emilie inquired ecstatically, and leaning forward so that her eyes were level with Trey’s, she breathed with delirious relish, “Will you
really
?”

“Emilie, mind your manners!” Empress snapped, seeing Trey nod his smiling approval. “Of course he won’t buy you diamonds!” she repudiated irritably, on the edge of a ferocious mood with Trey’s impulsive generosity so obvious, with the children’s adoration so plain. Damn him. Everyone loved him.

“Trey says he will,” Emilie said defiantly of her champion, “and I want diamonds.”

“Run along, Princess, and fetch your dress,” Trey proposed quietly, his tone conciliatory. “Your sister and I will discuss the necklace.” But he shot a glance full of conspiratorial delight at Emilie.

“We certainly will
not
,” Empress declared defensively, as Emilie, after a glowing smile at Trey and in a flurry of twirling skirts, raced for the door. For a moment Empress considered standing her ground and concluding this argument once and for all.

“Not in front of the children,” Trey said smoothly, his smile easy, his eyes sliding obliquely toward Guy and Genevieve, his fingers moving up to stroke Eduard’s silky hair. It was as if he’d read her thoughts and warned her off. “Now, if you two want to get Eduard ready for a ride,” he suggested to Guy and Genevieve, “my carriage is outside and ready to take us to the zoo.”

Before Empress could protest, Eduard had scrambled up from Trey’s lap, yelping, “Elephants, elephants, elephants!” in a voice that ricocheted around the room.

“You know who loves carriage rides, Pressy,” Guy said excitedly, joy vivid in his voice. “Should we get—”