Susan Johnson (55 page)

In recognition of her new intent, Empress had discarded her pretense of mourning and worn vivid magenta silk, embellished with black lace and yards of silver ribbon, an elaborate, extravagant evening gown that matched her glittering, frothy mood and Etienne’s roses. Several of the fragrant blooms were adorning her hair, others were tucked seductively into her low décolletage, and when she walked into the ballroom on Etienne’s arm, a sudden hush indicated that all present were aware the Duc de Vec had taken the prize as winner in the club betting. Out of mourning, the former Comtesse de Jordan was breathtaking, her fair hair and skin set off to perfection by the intense shade of pink, the decorative lace lending a tantalizing wickedness to her image, her intoxicating
gaiety heightening the sinfully romantic contrast with the Duc’s dark, suave sensuality.

“Well, the girl has recouped the family fortune—and in spades, if she has de Vec’s attention. He’s a very generous man.” The speaker was viewing Empress through a finely enameled lorgnette.

“She’s bold like her father in that magnificent gown, and on de Vec’s arm, as conspicuous as you please … but blood holds true,” her companion remarked, her own glass lifted to her eyes. “Who but Maximilian Jordan would have carried off the English ambassador’s son’s betrothed. Even though every man was flirting with the English earl’s daughter and playing the amorous games—she was, after all, the most beautiful girl in Paris that season,” she went on, scrutinizing Empress with the critical eye of a dowager who had watched decades of beautiful young girls pass by, “everyone else had sense enough to know the limits of flirtation. Leave it to Max to want what he shouldn’t,” she finished in the fashion of the elderly discussing the past as though it were the present.

“Heloise spoiled him.”

“He was her only child.” Since both elderly ladies had known Empress’s grandmother, the brief sentence was explanation enough, and they nodded solemnly in agreement.

“Even the Rochefort duel was rash. No one in their right mind would have taken on Rochefort. He was ruthless. No one but Max … and all for his darling wife.”

Both lorgnettes came up simultaneously, assessing Maximilian Jordan’s gorgeous daughter in the arms of the Duc de Vec, waltzing past them so close, the fragrance of the roses drifted into their noses.

“She’s more beautiful than her mother.” Was it waspishness or a compliment? The tone was abrupt, the sentence ending with a sniff. Or was it nostalgia for the past that tainted the ambiguous tone?

“She has Max’s eyes … spectacular with her coloring.”

“Max put those enticing eyes to good use for years.” And for a moment both recalled the splendor of the Third Empire when they were still young enough to partake in the gaiety.

“Until he fell head over heels for La Belle Anglaise,” came the curt reminder of reality.

“How serious is de Vec?” Their attention was focused once
more on the present and the eye-catching couple waltzing across the floor.

“He’s more interested than usual. Isabelle was short with me earlier when I mentioned that her husband seemed to prefer dancing this evening in contrast to his usual interest in the gaming tables.”

“You’re right. He never dances.”

“I love dancing, Etienne.” Empress smiled up at her partner. “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

His own smile was indulgent, his heavy-lidded eyes amused at her obvious pleasure. “And I love dancing with you.” She was champagne bright and so beautiful, he was tempted to kiss her. The roses had been a good choice; the coloring was superb with her hair and skin.

“Will your wife mind?” Empress asked delicately, because this was their tenth consecutive dance and she only just realized that Isabelle was at LeNotre’s as well. When Etienne had offered to escort her, she’d assumed Isabelle was in the country or engaged elsewhere, and while she understood that Etienne’s marriage was a dynastic one, she wasn’t certain what decorum required when he and his wife were both in attendance at the same party.

“Mind what?” the Duc replied absently, his attention concentrated on a tall, dark-haired half-blood walking in from the card room.

“Mind me dancing with you.”

He looked down at her. She wasn’t that naïve, surely, not with her frank personality, which he found so attractive. “Isabelle and I understand the social courtesies. I’m sure she won’t mind.” His answer was neutral in the event that Empress was sincere in her query. He and Isabelle understood the social courtesies to perfection: he paid all her bills; she raised the children; and if she wished to speak with him in person, she sent a note by a servant setting up an appointment. It was all very civilized. The Braddock-Black cub was glaring at them, he noticed over Empress’s blond curls. No … he was distracted now by a woman tapping him on the shoulder with her fan. Ah, Clothilde Chimay. She was without doubt a distraction. Perhaps the Americas would be diverted.

As the evening pleasantly advanced, Empress was convinced she’d made the right decision. She’d enjoyed the ball enormously. Etienne was not only a superb dancer but also so entertaining, she’d not thought of Trey once. How easy this all was going to be, she decided complacently, and chided herself briefly for not seeing the advantage of a fascinating man like Etienne sooner.

Her complacence was seriously shaken a short time later, however, when she caught sight of Trey’s dark head bent attentively toward a glorious woman with pale hair like dandelion down and daringly bare shoulders which he was holding lightly as he smiled down at her. Momentarily sickened at the intimacy of his smile and the suggestive position of his hands, Empress misstepped, clumsily breaking rhythm and treading on Etienne’s toes. Smiling her apology, she forced her eyes away from the devastating sight—it was Clothilde Chimay he was holding, she saw as they danced closer, the most sought-after young heiress in Europe. And her appeal wasn’t exclusively monetary, although rumor had it her family had financed the Franco-Prussian War. She was always described as that Baltic princess’s daughter, as though it not only accounted for her pale white hair but her wildness as well.

A fluttering tremor shuddered through her as she visualized Trey and Clothilde in bed together, and as soon as the dance ended, she asked for champagne. “Two glasses, please,” she said with a tight smile. And when Etienne returned with them, she gulped them down in an unfashionable rush.

“I hope that’s not Dutch courage to face the coming hours with me,” he said facetiously, with a smile calculated to disarm.

Empress flushed at his assumption and lied, unable to reveal that she was hopelessly jealous of Clothilde Chimay over a man who had no feelings for her beyond carnal lust.

“No, of course not. Dancing makes me thirsty, that’s all.”

“Another then?” he asked courteously, intent on making her comfortable, intent on altering, before the night was over, her brittle elan.

“Yes, please.” And that portion went down as quickly.

* * *

Very late, just as they were preparing to leave, Trey came up to Empress and the Duc. He had been aware of Empress all evening, as she had been conscious of him since first seeing his dark head bent low to Clothilde’s flirtatious banter, and despite his best intentions to ignore her, he found himself unable to leave for America without saying good-bye to her one last time. He had not expected it to matter so much, but it did … the thought of never seeing her again.

“Good evening,” Trey said to them both, his eyes on Empress.

The bite showed under his ear, a perfect oval of teeth marks, reddened and darker than his bronzed skin. The Duc saw it and negligently wondered what else the lady had bitten. Empress colored furiously at the sight of her passionate brand.

“I didn’t know you were a friend of LeNotre,” the Duc said.

“I’m not.” Trey didn’t take his eyes from Empress.

“I hear you were at the Jockey Club today,” Etienne said. “LeNotre’s the steward. Perhaps you met him.”

“No,” Trey said.

Empress crushed her ostrich-feather fan to keep her hands from trembling.

The Duc thoughtfully took in both Empress’s and Trey’s stiff, frozen postures and the yearning in their eyes. It was a mistake to show that longing so clearly. Unguarded youth. One learned.

“I’m leaving in the morning,” Trey said, a muscle clenching along his jaw, “so I thought I’d say good-bye. Tell the children I’ll write.” His voice was low and perfectly level.

Empress felt her heart stop at the finality of his statement, but there was no alternative other than to respond politely. as calmly as he’d spoken. “
Bon voyage
, then. The children will be pleased to hear from you.” With sheer willpower she kept her voice from breaking.

So it was the Duc tonight, Trey thought bitterly, feeling the bile of jealously rise into his mouth. He swallowed and, with a small bow in the Duc’s direction, smiled that effortless smile that charmed so many people. “
Au revoir
,” he said.

Empress could not smile back, less experienced in the politesse that passed for feeling. “
Au revoir
,” she whispered, and
watched him walk away. Pale-haired, beautiful Clothilde was waiting for him, Empress noted as Etienne slid her velvet wrap around her shoulders. God, it hurt to love him.

“I think I need a drink,” she said.

With new resolution Empress climbed into Etienne’s carriage, and when he put his arm around her shoulders and drew her near, she leaned into his solid strength. She needed him tonight, desperately needed to erase all the sensual images of Trey demolishing her reason and to free herself from the tenacious hold he had on her sensations. Etienne’s mouth was warm and gentle as it touched hers lightly, but as his embrace tightened and his kiss deepened, a sudden panic assailed her. Shuddering slightly, she unconsciously pulled away.

The Duc instantly recognized her uncertainty. “You’re too beautiful,” he said in a gentle murmur. “Forgive me,
ma petite
, for rushing you.”

Empress apologized, stammering, abashed at her virginal reaction. “No, Etienne … it’s … my fault.”

“Is this the first time since your husband’s death?” His hand was warm on her shoulder, his voice soothing.

Empress nodded mutely. Although Trey was not her husband, it would be her first time with another man.

“Come, sweet, we’ve all night. There’s no urgency.” Unlike Trey, she thought, whose urgency matched her own. He pulled her against his chest and, leaning his head back, said pleasantly, “Tell me now, did you enjoy LeNotre’s ball? If nothing else, his chef is superb.” The Duc wondered if her husband had been boorish in bed, occasioning this tentativeness for lovemaking. Or maybe she was simply shy. Either was easily remedied with patience and skill, both of which the Duc possessed.

Smiling up at him, Empress whispered, “Thank you, Etienne, for being so understanding … and yes, I enjoyed myself immensely.” She may never experience the rash, ungovernable passion she had with Trey, but Etienne offered a tenderness with which she was willing to be content, and looking up into his lazy, heavy-lidded eyes, glinting with a restrained sensuality, she understood that he offered more than tenderness. Which accounted, no doubt, for his vast reputation
as a lover and explained why so many women had been undone by his charm.

As Empress and the Duc walked into the foyer past the massed roses and ascended the marble staircase, they whispered quietly to avoid waking the servants. Entering her boudoir, Empress was laughing softly at Etienne’s droll rendition of a stuffy princess who had asked him about his mother’s health, all the time casting Empress a flintly-eyed look.

“You were very gallant,” she said, reaching up to kiss him lightly on the cheek, “when you said your Mama and I were dear friends.”

“She would adore you. Mama is more pleasure-loving than I and didn’t spend her entire life minding her flower gardens,” Etienne replied with a swift, vivid smile.

“Then I shall have to meet her someday,” Empress declared happily, her mood altered again from her timidity in the carriage. Lighthearted and at ease, she was enjoying Etienne’s casual courtship, confident once more that he was the perfect companion to amuse and divert her. For the first time in her life she felt a wicked sense of sophistication, a new worldliness that she owed in part to Adelaide’s counsel. Her cousin had been urging her for weeks now, since Max’s birth, to take a lover. And thanks to Adelaide, she needn’t fear another pregnancy, for she now had Greek sponges her cousin had assured her were efficient. “Really, darling,” Adelaide had said, “look around you. Do you see anyone with more than two children? Valentin has his heir; I’ve my sweet Stephanie to dress in ruffles, and my duty is done. And Valentin approves. He prefers me slim and attractive, and I quite agree. Also, how would it look if every time a lady took a lover she presented her husband with a bastard? There are women who do, of course, but they’re the ones foolishly enamored of their lovers.” So tonight Empress intended to step into the fashionable world of dalliance and
amour
with her eyes wide open and her heart conveniently on holiday.

Twirling away from the Duc in high good spirits, she untied her evening wrap, tossed it on the bed, and turned back to him with a welcoming smile on her lips. But a moment later, as he gently embraced her and leisurely began kissing her, a ghastly panic engulfed her. She felt nothing. Guy could have been kissing her good night for all the sensation
Etienne’s warm lips were provoking. Dear Lord, she thought desperately, could she really go through with this without desire? Would the heated feeling and turbulent passion she felt stir when Trey touched her or simply looked at her, would those overpowering sensations develop later as Etienne began making love to her?

Her hands trembled as they rested on Etienne’s chest, indecision and unease washing over her with perturbing, distracting intensity. It was utter infantile madness to expect drumrolls and a heavenly chorus, she reasoned, and it was time she grew up. Certainly she should have learned with brutal frankness last night that only a single emotion was enough to initiate lovemaking. The perfect alignment of love, passion, tenderness, sentiment, and caring was a fairy-tale concept. The previous night, lust had been enough. Tonight she’d learn of tenderness, perhaps … and only innocents indulged in fantasy dreams unrestrained by undeniable reality. The man holding her in his arms was the essence of all that was charming and gallant. Who better to obliterate memories of Trey and show her new delights?