The change in Joséphine’s mood was, of course, simply nerves. She’d never been to court, and she’d never met royalty. She would be utterly charmed by Philipe, and he would be charmed by her in return, but she would have no way of anticipating that now.
“What is Prince Philipe like?” she asked quietly, fully affirming Julien’s suspicions.
He finished chewing the food that he barely tasted and took a sip of wine to aid his swallowing. Something was terribly wrong with his throat tonight. “He is handsome. Very loyal to his friends. He likes women.”
“So, I should be prepared for him to stray?” she interrupted. “I don’t think I like that.”
“Will you like one day being queen?” He raised an eyebrow, daring her to refuse such a coveted position.
She looked down. “I suppose I will.”
“Philipe is much younger than I am,” he continued, hoping to build his friend’s allure.
“I have never cared about your age. Or mine.” Her voice held a note of sadness. Could it be that she didn’t want to leave him?
No, he could not allow such thoughts to even enter his mind. He was a confirmed bachelor, and would be until the day he died. And he’d made a promise to Henrí.
Joséphine looked up, her eyes slightly watery. “There must be many women at court eagerly anticipating your return.”
“That’s true.” Julien never slept alone while at the palace. The idea held considerably less appeal for him tonight.
They continued their meal in silence for a while, until Julien could no longer bear it.
“We leave early in the morning,” he said, tossing aside his napkin to rise from his chair. “We will have no lesson tonight. If you will excuse me, I think I should retire.”
She did not answer but for a slight nod. Her tightly clamped lips and downcast eyes were the clouds that preceded a storm of tears. Julien did not stay to see them fall.
* * * *
It was late. Late enough that sleep should have come to him, but still Julien stayed in his chair beside the fire, drinking too much wine and staring into the flames. He was drunk. He would pay for it in the morning. Perhaps it would help him sleep during the first leg of their journey, so he would not have to speak to her. So that he would not have to hurt her further.
He loved her. The admission did not clarify anything in his mind. Love her all he like, he had made a promise to Henrí.
You promised you would return her married. You did not promise to deliver a princess.
He silenced that voice sharply. He could not marry her. He could not be a good husband. His years of philandering, his notorious reputation, they would not harm him. They would harm her. At court, the ladies would titter behind their fans at what a pretty fool she was, to believe her husband would be faithful. Those rumors would destroy her happiness. Julien would rather live without her than cause her that pain.
He also doubted that he could be the husband she needed. Right now, every part of him cried out that he wanted her and no other, forever, but how long could that possibly last? A few months? A year? And what would he do? He would return to his instinct, sleeping with as many women as possible, and his affairs were never discreet.
Philipe will do the same to her.
Shushing that stubborn, drunken voice, he could not help but agree. But if Philipe made Joséphine unhappy—and there was no doubt he would—it would not be Julien taking that honor. Her sadness would not be his making, and he could live with that. It was selfish of him, but Julien had never fooled himself into believing he could act otherwise. His interest in Joséphine would wane, no matter how much he loved her.
Besides, Henrí would never be comfortable with him as a son-in-law, and why should he be? He was the girl’s godfather, after all, and Henrí had seen firsthand exactly what kind of a man Julien was.
Let Philipe have her, then. Julien slugged back the rest of his wine.
The door creaked open, and he did not look up as he refilled his glass with the last remaining dregs of the carafe. “Brujon, more wine. And none of your scolding, you old harpy.”
“Julien.”
At the sound of Joséphine’s voice, he looked up. She stood in the half-opened doorway, her fingers clutching the door. She looked like an angel, with her golden hair curling about her head and her gossamer nightgown flowing around her.
“You should be asleep.” He took a drink, grimacing at the bitterness of the last cup.
“I could not sleep. I see that you can’t, either.” She stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind her. “There is much left unsaid between us.”
“It might be best to leave it unsaid,” he warned.
She took a deep breath. “Even so, you have not entirely prepared me for my life at court.”
“Brujon taught you manners, I taught you seduction. You are as well equipped to deal with court life as any other woman there.”
“Not that.” She walked slowly toward him. “You haven’t taught me what it’s like to be fucked.”
“You asked me not to.” He suddenly wished he had not drunk so much wine.
“I’ve changed my mind.” She reached for the tie of her nightgown at her throat.
He shook his head. “So have I.”
This halted her progress somewhat. “You don’t desire me at all?”
“I don’t,” he lied quickly. “I desire a good night’s rest before we leave on a long journey tomorrow.”
“I don’t believe you.” She took another step toward him, pulling the tie.
“You don’t have to believe me.”
She cocked her head to the side. “Are you drunk?”
“I’m…comfortable.” Growing far less comfortable by the minute. The firelight clearly defined her every curve through her nightgown, tantalizing him despite the fact he had already committed all of them to memory. He shouldn’t have been able to feel his cock, let alone get it hard after all the wine he’d drunk.
“Julien,” she said, pulling the tie loose. And the next. And the next. “Please fuck me.”
His mouth went dry. She let the nightgown fall.
He was on his feet before she could say another word.
Chapter Fourteen
Julien caught her up in his arms so quickly that the air fled from Joséphine’s lungs in a loud whoosh. He lifted her up, pulling one leg to hook around his waist, and she wound both her legs tightly around him. His momentum carried them to the door, and she found herself trapped between him and the ornate wood. The curlicues and whorls of the design bit into her back, but she didn’t care. Julien kissed her, really kissed her, for the first time, and no other sensation could compete with it at the moment.
She’d been uncertain all the way down the hall. Afraid he would turn her away, afraid that he wouldn’t. Afraid she would make a fool of herself. But when she’d seen him, his hair down and mussed about his shoulders, the firelight picking out the silver threads against the brown, his dressing gown open and a glass of wine in his hand, she had known then that if she did not have him, she would regret it her entire life.
His tongue, spiced with wine, slipped between her lips as his mouth pried hers open. She had never been kissed by a man before, not properly. It seemed more intimate than anything else she had done with him. She wrapped her arms around his neck, threaded her fingers through his hair. The evening growth of whiskers on his face scratched her, and it wasn’t unpleasant at all. His tongue slid against hers, and she pressed back, wanting to feel all of him.
If this was the only night she would have with him, she wanted to memorize every second of it.
He broke their mouths apart and kissed her jaw, her ear, her neck, all the places on her body that he had discovered with her, places that made her core flood with heat and wetness. Her nipples hardened, pressed against his chest and the crisp hair that dusted his skin, and beneath her bottom she felt his cock, hard and ready for her. She’d delayed this for too long, she realized. Every night that she’d spent with him, she could have had this, had him. Instead, she’d tried to preserve her precious virtue for a man she no longer cared to meet.
She had not realized that Julien had carried her to the bed until he laid her down upon it. He tossed his robe aside, so that all of his magnificent body was bare to her. He knelt between her thighs and leaned down to lave his tongue over one taut nipple. She arched her back and moaned, clutching his head to her breast. He captured her nipple between his teeth and flicked his tongue over it until she cried out at the sensation, then he repeated it on the other.
Her whispered urging, an endless litany of, “Oh please, oh yes, oh please,” as he trailed his kisses lower did not slow his progress as it once might. He didn’t tease her tonight. He acted as though he were a man dying of thirst and her every moan and whimper slaked his torment. Still, he did not rush. He covered every inch of her skin with kisses, stopping to trace the rim of her navel with his tongue, to tickle his fingers down her side. By the time he reached the apex of her thighs, she already dripped with moisture, and he devoured it in one long, slow lick that curled her toes.
“You’re like ambrosia,” he murmured against her thigh, kissing and nipping at her flesh with his teeth.
“You’ve said that before,” she giggled, and he responded with another, harder bite to her thigh that made her gasp.
Perhaps it was the wine he’d drunk, perhaps it was his passion for her, but there was nothing of the refined, careful lover in Julien tonight. He was like a beast devouring her, delving his tongue between her folds, lapping at her tender bud until she thought she would scream from the pleasure. His tongue slipped inside of her, curling and stroking her inner walls. She gripped his hair, her fingers clenching and unclenching as her body drew up in a tight arch. So close, so close, all he needed was to push her and she would tumble over. He moved his mouth over her pearl and sucked, flicking his tongue over and over, and she dug her heels into the mattress and howled as she came.
He was on top of her in a moment, spreading her legs to wrap around his hips. The head of his cock brushed her curls, and she bucked her hips desperately.
“No, we have to go slow,” he whispered against her ear, reaching down to rub the wide tip of his erection over her dripping core. “Just for now, we have to go slowly.”
He had told her all about what would happen when she finally took a man into her body. It would hurt, and it would take time to get used to the feeling of a man’s cock stretching her tight cunt. What had seemed like a trifling detail before seemed much more important now that she faced the reality of it. She knew Julien was a careful and considerate lover, but even he could not make such an initiation painless.
“Do you still want me?” he asked, looking into her eyes, searching for any sign of reluctance.
She swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”
Slowly, he pressed forward. The pressure against her untried entrance grew greater and greater, and then, when she felt she might change her mind, the pressure gave way to stinging pain and a gush of wetness, and he slipped inside of her. Though she had wanted to remain stoic, to prove that she had not been afraid, she could not stop her startled cry, nor the sudden tears that filled her eyes.
Julien leaned down and kissed the tears from her cheeks, not moving within her but for the wild throb of his pulse there. It seemed too much, too overwhelming to think of how intimately they were joined, how momentous a step she had just taken.
“Thank you,” he whispered against her hair. Then, very slowly, he sank further into her, filling her slowly until their bodies pressed flush together and she had taken him all the way inside.