Napoleon's Woman (7 page)

"When is the admiral leaving?" the dark man asked.

"Tuesday," the woman walked toward him, wrapping her arms around his waist. "But I could not wait to see you, darling."

The man looked down at the homely chit in his arms as if she were Aphrodite incarnate. Her upturned nose and droopy eyes reminded him of a pig, and her mousy brown hair lacked even a luster that might cause one to overlook the drab color.

Fortunately, the girl had an exceptional body, which is most likely why the admiral had married her. That and an enormous dowry.

"Where is he now?"

"Do not concern yourself, dearest, Alfred is attending a meeting at Whitehall and informed me that he would be away for the majority of the day." The girl traced the scar on his jaw with her finger and smiled. "We have all morning to enjoy one another."

The man looked into her dark blue eyes as if he adored her. He placed his palm on her cheeks, wrapping his fingers around the nape of her neck as he drew her to him. If he wanted to search the admiral’s study, he needed to get her out of the way, and the fastest way of doing that was to tire the girl out.

"I need you, Sophie," he whispered just before slanting his mouth over hers. He kissed her hungrily in an attempt to hurry the process along. "I love you, Sophie. You are all I think about, all I want."

He placed his hand over her breast, causing the girl to gasp out loud. He caressed her and then pushed the bodice of her gown down, feigning impatience. His nimble fingers unlaced her corset, and he reminded himself to leave her addicted to his touch. She stepped out of her skirts, tossing her gown to the floor, and returned, nude, to his arms.

He rolled her hardened nipple between his fingers as he nipped at her neck. She moaned, as he knew she would, and pressed her hips toward him, offering herself as she always did. The stupid cow thought she was in love with him, and, more foolishly, thought he was in love with her.

She pushed off his jacket and unbuttoned his cerulean satin waistcoat. Her hands tore at his white linen shirt until he stood before her bare-chested. She lowered her mouth to one dark disk, raking her teeth across his nipple. He smiled to himself. He had taught her many things, and what the girl lacked in looks she made up for in enthusiasm.

"Turn around," he ordered.

The woman complied doing anything he asked, just as he had trained her to do. His eyes roved over her elegant back and rounded backside, causing his shaft to harden. He walked up behind her and reached around to grasp her breast with one hand while caressing her derriere with his other.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered as he rubbed the evidence of his desire against her. She shuddered in his arms and he bent his head to her neck. He continued to fondle her and was not surprised when her hand reached back to grab at his cock now straining against his breeches.

"You know exactly how to touch me," he said to the girl as she began rubbing his shaft with unconcealed longing. "Is this what you want?" He asked, pressing his hand to hers as she continued to explore his length.

"Yes," she whispered. "I need you, my love."

He removed his boots and breeches while she turned to watch, her eyes reflecting her lust of his powerful body. He looked at the pink nipples of her generous breasts and then his eyes drifted to her face. A mistake. His cock began to wither.

"Get on the bed, darling, the way I like to have you."

The chit scrambled onto the mattress and rested on her knees. He joined her on the vermilion counterpane and grabbed both her breasts before gently pushing her forward. Her dark curls glistened with her desire, making it easy to slide a finger into her.

"Have you been waiting for me, darling? Do you think of me when your husband is inside of you?"

"Yes," she breathed.

"Are you ready for me?" He continued arousing her with languid strokes.

"Yes," she said on a gasp and then pushed herself backward, begging him to fill her.

He placed his cock at the entrance of her sex. The girl shuddered with anticipation, and he waited a moment before he impaled her, sheathing himself to the hilt. She shouted with pleasure, and he began banging away at her from behind, stimulating her body with his hands until she found his rhythm.

The girl screamed with each thrust and he was sure the servants would hear, but he continued to drive into her until, mercifully, he felt his own body responding. He grasped her about the hips and buried himself, spilling his seed in an uninspired climax.

He pulled the girl into his arms still panting from his exertion. Her back was to him, but he could see that she would not sleep and was content just being held. He gritted his teeth and groaned to himself, knowing she would require more.

"I love you," he whispered, kissing her on the neck. He closed his eyes and imagined the pretty blonde whore he had rogered on Saturday.

He rolled the admiral’s wife over and took her breast in his mouth. She moaned. He stretched himself out on top of her and was thankful for the difference in height so that he would not have to look at her unappealing face.

He spread her thighs and drove into her. Intentionally keeping his movements slow so they would be occupied for an extended period. He did not find it difficult to delay his pleasure.

Sweat began gathering at the small of his back, and he was becoming bored. He nibbled the girl’s nipple and began to drive forcefully. She screamed, and he felt her body clutching at his cock.

He closed his eyes and imagined the blonde harlot and all that they had done together. The places she put her mouth, the way she had used her tongue. He would visit her again, he decided, as he came into the ugly woman beneath him.

This time she slept.

The man rose and donned his shirt and breeches, quietly slipping out of the bedchamber. He walked cautiously toward the ground floor study, making sure to avoid the household servants.

"What meeting have you gone to today, admiral?" the man wondered aloud, knowing no rumors of invasion had been bandied about Whitehall.

His powerful legs strode toward a large oak desk on the far side of the room. The desktop was immaculate. No letters or calendars to reveal the subject of the admiral’s meeting.

The man shuffled the items on top of the desk when a beautifully carved sterling silver letter opener caught his eye. He grabbed it, shoving it in his pocket as payment for teaching the homely chit how to please a man.

His attention turned to the desk drawers, but he only found references to supply ships’ schedules and ship cargo capacity.

"Damn," he said through clenched teeth, knowing he would be paid, but not well, for such information.

He needed to provide troop movements and locations if he wanted to become a rich man. The admiral had proved most disappointing as a source of information.

He poured himself an expensive scotch and contemplated how to end his association with the Admiral’s wife without having the cow blubbering about their relationship to all of her foppish friends.

Thus far, he had simply threatened not to meet with her if she whispered a word about him to anyone. The girl had been so eager to have him in her bed that she dare not even look at him if they were attending the same functions. However, if he were to end their dalliance she would undoubtedly seek him out, perhaps in public.

That he could not allow.

He really had but two options. Invent an excuse for the end of the affair that the girl would except or…kill the stupid bitch.

"You’re not having another one?" the Duchess of Glenbroke asked, appalled.

"I bloody well am," Lady Juliet Pervill nodded, raising her hand to order her second lemon icy at Gunter’s.

"Juliet, I wish you would stop using such language," Lady Felicity Appleton admonished. "And if you don’t stopping eating like this, you will become as big as a house and never secure an offer."

"Another lemon icy please," Juliet asked the waiter, completely ignoring her cousin. When the man had left, she turned to Felicity, saying, "You know I can eat anything and not gain an ounce, and as for a husband. . ." Juliet snorted. "No man has ever looked at me so perhaps becoming as large as a house will gain me some attention?"

"Juliet, you are quite attractive, as well you know," the duchess said.

Lady Pervill rolled her eyes. "I am, at best, average, Sarah, and when I stand next to Felicity I become absolutely drab. You need not sugar coat the situation. So, unless small busted, freckled faced, mathematicians have become all the rage with the ton…I shall count myself lucky that I am rich."

"Oh, Juliet," Lady Appleton said, defeated.

"Some men adore freckles."

"Yes, Sarah, but more men prefer beautiful blondes with spectacular figures and soulful brown eyes." They turned in unison to look at Felicity. "Any offers this week, cousin? Or was that Greek God the last."

Lady Appleton blushed, embarrassed. "You know Lord Summers was the last man to honor me, Juliet. Might we forego the browbeating and discuss something else."

"Delighted." Juliet injected more sarcasm in the one word than most men used in a lifetime. She turned toward Sarah. "I heard that the Earl of Wessex is back in town. I can only assume that Aidan is recovered? You must be relieved."

Sarah’s eyes narrowed and the ever-sensitive Felicity saw it. "You’re still worried about him." It was a statement. "Why? I thought the physician said he would recover."

"He has, physically. It’s just…"

"What?" Juliet prodded.

Sarah sighed. "My brother is not the same man that left England. You know Aidan--elegant, meticulous, generous, controlled." She shook her head, knowing she was not making any sense. "But now, he is temperamental, agitated…I don’t know—unhappy." Felicity stroked her arm and tears welled in Sarah’s eyes. "He has lost a stone of weight, if not more." She covered her mouth with her napkin and swallowed a sob.

"Have you spoken with him," Juliet asked, always the pragmatist.

"Yes, but all he says is that he is well, and he won’t speak with Gilbert because he knows Gilbert will relay the information to me."

"What about Christian?" Felicity asked. "I’m sure that Lord St. John would be more than happy to help."

Juliet clicked her tongue. "Christian is not capable of handling a serious situation such as this." She turned to Sarah. "No, better to talk to Daniel. I spoke with his brother Monday last and he said that Viscount DunDonell is due back from Scotland any day."

"Yes," Sarah smiled as she thought thinking of her childhood companion. "Daniel would deal with Aidan’s melancholy. The viscount is quite determined when he wishes to be."

"Determined!" Juliet blurted. "The man is the most stubborn Scot to wander the highlands in the last century!"

"Juliet, don’t be unkind. Persistence can be a virtue." Felicity pointed out.

"Well, when next I see DunDonell I shall have to tell him that he is the most virtuous man that I have met."

"Oh, that reminds me," Sarah said, looking at Juliet as she dabbed at her red nose. "I’m having a dinner party Saturday evening, and you are both invited."

"That sounds lovely," Juliet turned to her cousin. "Doesn’t it, Felicity?"

"Yes, it does. However, I am afraid I have accepted an invitation to a Soiree that---"

"Oh, Felicity, no one will notice if you are not there." Juliet turned to Sarah for assistance.

"Please, Felicity. Aidan will be coming to dinner and I want to surround my brother with friends that will support him during this difficult time."

Felicity’s eyes softened to the color of chocolate mixed with a generous amount of cream. She leaned forward. "Of course I shall come, Sarah. It is my honor to dine with such a distinguished hero of the Peninsular campaign."

"Eight?" Juliet asked, smiling in satisfaction but trying to conceal it behind her lemon icy.

"Yes, eight." Sarah glanced at the cousins, thankful for such loyal friends.

***

Viscount DunDonell, Daniel McCurren, had been in town for no more than two hours when he received a visit from his lifelong friend, the Duchess of Glenbroke. The beautiful duchess conveyed her concern for her brother’s well-being and begged Daniel to speak with him to discover the cause of Aidan’s distress.

Alarmed, Daniel dashed off a note to his closest friend, informing Aidan of his return from Scotland and requesting his company at their club later that evening.

So, here he sat with a brandy in one hand as he stared with apprehension at the black lacquered doors, mulling over the disturbing information Sarah had confided in him.

"Another," he said a passing footman, holding up his now-empty glass.

Aidan Duhearst was by far the strongest of them all; he had always been a voice of reason for both Christian and himself. But Sarah had said the war had affected his friend, hardened the once-sanguine Earl of Wessex.

Even the loss of their father, and Sarah’s tumultuous relationship with the Duke of Glenbroke had not affected him like this, had not changed him as war had. Lord DunDonell sighed, hoping that the blithe Aidan he had once known was not lost to them.

Daniel was absorbed with his own thoughts when the door opened on a small gust of wind. He saw the familiar dimpled grin of Aidan Duhearst, and for a moment everything was as it had been. They clasped hands and pounded each other on the back in a masculine embrace.

"Where ya been, ya bastard. I’m the one that’s always late," Daniel’s thick brogue was deliberately light as he took in the dark circle under Aidan’s green eyes.

"Well, ‘bout time you know what it feels like," Aidan teased, flopping on the leather chair opposite him. "How are your parents?"

"Grand, although my mother is determined to have me suitably arranged with an heir suckling the breast of my undetermined wife precisely nine months later." Daniel chuckled, adding, "I think I’ll have to do a bit of research whilst I’m in town. Would na want the lad to go hungry."

"Perish the thought!" Aidan said, smiling.

Daniel chuckled and settled back in his chair, placing his right ankle on his left knee. "So, what about you, Aidan? You’ve been home, what? Six weeks?"

"Seven." Wessex requested a scotch and when it was delivered said, "Thank you," to the young servant.

"Ya been to Blackmore Hall?" Daniel asked when they were alone once again.

Aidan gave a curt nod. "I recuperated there."

They held each other’s eyes and Daniel was not sure what to said, but never being one to let that stop him, he asked, "What happened on the peninsula, Aidan?"

His gaunt companion stiffened in his chair. "It was war, Daniel. What do you think happened?" He paused. "Men died." Aidan swallowed half his scotch. "
My
men died."

Daniel’s brows furrowed and he ached for his oldest friend, but knowing Aidan would never speak unless pushed, he pushed. "What happened, Aidan?"

"Leave it DunDonell," Aidan warned, but Daniel saw the pain beneath the hard emptiness of his gaze.

"No." He shook his head. "I dinna think I will leave it, Aidan. Your sister is worried sick about ya, and you’ve lost a stone since last we met." Daniel took a deep breath and started again. Gently. "Tell me what happened on the Peninsula?"

His friend looked at the wall, the fireplace, the ceiling, anywhere but Daniel while he made his decision. Finally Aidan leaned forward, his black hair shielding his eyes from view as he stared at the carpet.

"Beresford…Beresford called the charge on Albuera," he began and then closed his eyes. He took a deep breath and opened them again. "My regiment was ordered to hold the road to the village. It should have been a simple task as the French troops were on the far side. But…" Aidan paused. "They flanked us, cutting my regiment in half. I turned my mount and headed for the men trapped by the river, but the fighting was fierce, and I didn’t get there in time." Daniel felt his friend’s guilt, it was that thick. "I watched those men get cut down, surrounded by twice their number of French troops, heard their cries. . ." He stared at the carpet.

Daniel gave his friend a moment. "It was war, Aidan. You said yourself: men die in battle."

"Not my men!" Aidan snapped, pushing himself upright. "Not without me."

Daniel sat back, suddenly comprehending. He had never realized how much the death of Aidan’s father had affected his friend, never realized the burden of following such a heroic man. But he saw it now. "Is that how you were injured?"

His friend held his tongue and Daniel knew that Aidan had tried to defend his men, tried to die with them as his father had done.

"The next thing I remember, I was sitting in a room being interrogated by Napoleon’s mistress."

"A woman?"

"Yes, she English, Daniel, and she’s here."

"In London?" Aidan must have heard the skepticism in his voice.

"Yes, in London! And stop looking at me as though I belong in a madhouse. I saw her at Lord Reynolds’ ball."

"Perhaps you were mistaken?"

"Really, old man, the woman intended to hang me. I hardly think I would forget what she looked like," he said with a tone of exasperated tolerance that Daniel remembered all too well.

The viscount chuckled, "No, I suppose not." Amusement lightened Aidan continence. "So, what are ya plannin’ to do about it?"

"I don’t know, but I do know this." He sat forward again, determined this time. "She’s the reason I survived Albuera."

"I thought she tried to kill you?" Daniel asked, decidedly confounded.

"Yes, yes, yes, she did." Aidan waved off his confusion. "What I meant to convey was, God allowed me to survive Albuera, allowed me to be taken captive, allowed me to escape for the sole purpose of stopping this woman." He waited for Daniel to understand, but when he didn’t Aidan added, "Don’t you see, I’m the only one that knows what she looks like, what she is."

"Is that why ya look like hell? You been lookin’ for the woman?"

Aidan nodded, "She’s in London, Daniel. I know it. Glenbroke is making inquiries, while I continue to search for her."

Daniel looked at his exhausted friend and said the only thing that would help. "You won’t capture her if you’re tired and weak. You’ve got to eat, Aidan."

"I suppose you’re right." Aidan wrinkled his nose at the distasteful fit of his impeccable midnight blue jacket. "If I don’t regain my weight, I shall be forced to purchase an entirely new wardrobe. It’ll cost a fortune."

Viscount DunDonell grinned at Wessex’s unwavering practicality. The man’s was able to go about his day without creasing his breeches; whereas Daniel’s garments were as wrinkled as a whore’s bed sheets.

"Surely, it will not come to that," Daniel gasped with feigned horror.

Aidan did not miss his sarcasm and gave him a once over and with a smile said, "Really, old man, you are not in a position to criticize."

Daniel glanced down at his rumbled buckskins and favorite black Hessians, "And what the bloody hell does that mean?"

"It means, Lord DunDonell," Aidan said with a nefarious grin. "That you are slovenly."

The viscount’s jaw dropped, and his brows furrowed with indignation. "Slovenly! You bloody bastard, I should throttle ya fer that, but bein’ the dandy that ya are, I would na want to disturb cravat."

"Dandy!"

Daniel chuckled, truly enjoying himself. "Hit too close to the mark, did I?"

"Your verbal aim is about as accurate as your marksmanship." Aidan raised a superior brow, knowing exactly what Daniel’s response to the jest would be.

"Care to wager?"

Wessex’s eyes positively sparkled as he said, "A thousand pound?"

Damn!

Daniel bit his lower lip, knowing Aidan was the better marksman, always had been able to back up that bloody arrogance. They stared at one another and he opened his mouth to decline the challenge, but heard himself say, "Manton’s, best of ten."

"Done," Aidan agreed, rising to his feet with a grin that made him look for a moment like the boy who had joined Daniel in a fight against four older boys on the first day at Eton.

***

The old man leaned heavily on his cane for support as he lowered himself into the crushed velvet chair. He dropped the last few inches onto the cushion with a small grunt and readjusted himself to an acceptable comfort. His gray-black hair had disappeared with the years, leaving brown spots on the shiny scalp where hair had once been.

The Duke of Glenbroke smiled politely at the gentleman, noting that he was the type of man who would never be noticed, much less remarked upon. His dreary clothing and lack of ornamentation led one to believe him nothing more than on befuddled old man of meager income.