Sylvia Day - [Georgian 04] (16 page)

“Could it be,” she wondered, tapping her chin with her fingertip, “that Simon Quinn, lauded lover, has been rendered speechless by a virgin?”

Rich, masculine laughter filled the air and stilled the beating of her heart. He leaned over and kissed the end of her nose. “Witch.”

She smiled, and lured him back to bed.

Chapter 12

M
arguerite paced the length of Solange’s upstairs parlor and wrung her hands. She was nervous as she had never been, her palms damp and pulse erratic.

She had returned from Quinn’s and fought with herself for hours, wanting to apologize and right things with her daughter, but knowing it was her responsibility as a mother to take extreme steps when necessary. She hated these machinations, hated threatening Lynette with marriage when she knew well how it felt since her own mother had done the same to her. They were too alike, she and Lynette, and now their lives were even more paralleled than ever before. Considering the end she had come to, Marguerite did not consider that to be an acceptable state of affairs.

Solange was out at the theater with a paramour. Lynette was sleeping, as were most of the servants. The house was quiet, the night still. The serenity of her surroundings only emphasized her roiling disquiet.

How did one face her missing heart, knowing she would have to lose it again?

But as time passed, she feared he might not come at all. Did he believe she had betrayed him? Did he not understand that she had left him to protect him?

A soft scratching came to the door, the sound so obtrusive in the silence that it felt as if they had scratched directly across her high-strung nerves. She jumped, tried to call out, and found her throat too dry. She caught up the glass of sherry on the table, drank it down, then tried again.

“Come in.”

Her voice was low and throaty from the alcohol, but she was heard and the portal opened. The maid dipped a quick curtsy and stepped out of the way. A moment later, Philippe filled the doorway.

Marguerite’s hand rose to cover her heart, her senses wracked by the barrage of emotions that assailed her at once.

Mon Dieu,
he was still impossibly perfect, his body still lean, his countenance made more distinguished by the lines of time. Even the silver hair at his temples blended beautifully with the gold—an enhancement, not a detriment.

He glanced at the maid and sent her away with a flick of his wrist. She withdrew, closing the door behind her.

He stood unmoving for several moments, studying Marguerite with the same ravenous hunger, the same need to catalog every outward change. His enduring love struck her like a blow to the chest, stealing her breath and making her heart throb in her chest.

“Mon coeur,”
he said, bowing. “Forgive my delay. I took great pains to ensure that I was not seen or followed.”

Philippe was exquisitely dressed for riding in tan-colored breeches that hugged powerful thighs and a dark blue coat with tails. He held his hat in both hands, carried low on his middle, like a shield.

“You look well,” she managed, gesturing toward a slipper chair with a shaking hand.

“A façade, I’m afraid.” He sat only when she did, choosing a position directly opposite her. “You, on the other hand, are beyond ravishing. More beautiful now than when you were mine.”

“I am still yours,” she whispered.

“Are you happy?”

“I am not unhappy.”

He nodded, understanding.

“And you?” she queried.

“I survive.”

He did not live. That broke her heart and a tear fell unbidden. “Do you wish we had never met?”

“Never would I wish such a thing,” he said vehemently. “You have been the one light in my life.”

She felt the same and told him so with her eyes.

“How ironic,” he said softly, “that I joined the
secret du roi
in order to give my life meaning and instead it is the thing that took away my lone joy. If only I had waited for you. How different our lives would be now.”

“Your wife . . .”

“She died.” A tinge of regret weighted his tone.

“I heard.” A fall from a horse while riding. Too much tragedy in their lives. A punishment, perhaps, for their indiscretion. “You have my sincere condolences.”

“You have always been sincere,” he said with a fond smile curving his mouth. “She was away with a lover at the time. I like to think she was happy in the end.”

“I hope she was.”
I wish you were.
But she did not say the words. There was no help for it, and wishing for things that could not be only added to the misery.

“You have two daughters.”

“Now only one. One was lost to me two years ago.” Marguerite breathed deeply. “They are the reason I asked you here tonight.”

Sadness shadowed his features and she knew he’d hoped she might have sent for him for a different reason. He was a wise man, he would know that such a liaison would be agonizing for both of them, and yet he could not help but want it. She understood. Part of her wished he would seduce her, as they both knew he could. Make her mindless with lust so that her conscience could not intercede.

“Whatever you need, if it is in my power to give it to you, I shall.”

“My eldest daughter met a man here in Paris. Simon Quinn. Have you heard of him?”

Philippe frowned. “Not that I can recall.”

“He has somehow convinced her that there is a woman here in Paris who is identical to her, as her sister was, and that she goes by the same name. Lysette.”

“To what aim?”

“Money, I believe.” Her fingers smoothed nervously over the muslin of her gown. “I went to him earlier and offered him whatever he required to leave and not return. He did not decline.”

“I sometimes think I should be grateful to have only sons. I am not certain I would tolerate fortune hunters well.”

Marguerite’s stomach clenched into a knot. “This has been my only experience in regard to my daughters. I am at a loss for how to manage the business. I must protect Lynette without alienating her.”

“I admire your courage in facing this man. What can I do?”

“Can you tell me more about him? What would goad him to approach my daughter? He is a wealthy man by all appearances. He also confessed to Lynette that he was once an English spy. De Grenier assists the king only on the periphery and not in any covert capacity. We reside in Poland. What would he gain by an association with my daughter?”

“Is there any possibility that he truly cares for her? If she is even half as beautiful as her mother, any man would find her irresistible.”

Marguerite gifted him with a sad smile. “Thank you. But if that were the case, why concoct the tale of this woman?”

“I do not know.” Philippe bent forward. “Do you know who she is? Do you have a surname?”

She hesitated a moment, her fingers twisting in her lap. “Rousseau.”

He drew back as if struck. “
Mon Dieu
. . . You believe this woman is a relation of mine?”

Edward lay for a moment in the darkness, attempting to discern what had woken him. When a sob rent the still night, he leaped to his feet, abandoning the chaise he slept upon to cross the short distance to Corinne’s bed.

He lit the single taper on the nightstand and sat upon the edge of the mattress, his hand reaching out to touch her burning forehead. Tears coursed from the corners of her eyes and wet the hair at her temples, and her chest heaved with gasping cries.

Another nightmare. In the past two nights, she’d had several, all resulting in quiet sobbing and pleas for mercy.

Was every night of her life like this? Were these fever dreams, or the torment of the damned?

His chest tight with sympathy for her plight, Edward dipped a clean cloth in the bowl of water by the taper and ringed out the excess liquid. With soothing strokes, he wiped at her forehead and cheeks, unable to stop the river of tears or ease her distress.

Standing, he caught up the end of the counterpane and tossed it back, baring her night rail–covered body to the chill of the evening air. She whimpered and curled into a ball.

He cursed, hating the sight of her cowering, filled with fury by the violent quivering of her lips and the fist she pressed against them in a vain attempt to stem the sounds of pain spilling from her.

His hands fisted, the water from the cloth showering to the rug by his bare feet.

Why was he not running far, far away? Corinne was so damaged he wondered if she would ever be right again. He had not slept a single hour’s length of time in four days, which diminished his capability to do his job, the one thing in his life that held any meaning to him.

“No cunt, however tempting, is worth this trouble,” he growled.

Her shoulders jerked in time to each of his harshly stated words and remorse filled him. Sighing, Edward returned to her. He set the cloth in the bowl, then climbed into the bed beside her. He sat up, his back to the gilded headboard, his long legs stretched out before him.

Settled comfortably, he reached for her, warding off her blows and vicious curses, confining her wrists in one of his hands and hauling her against his side.

Corinne struggled with stunning force for so slender a woman, her fear giving her unnatural strength. But Edward held fast, his jaw clenched against the occasional painful strike of kicking feet, his limbs kept carefully away from snapping teeth.

Weakened by fever, lack of breath, and sufficient sustenance, she tired quickly and soon collapsed against him, coughing and shivering.

He began to sing then, a simple song remembered from his childhood. The sound of his voice seemed to calm her. He pondered that even as he continued.

Eventually, she clung to him. Her small hands fisting in his shirt, her cheek atop his chest. She still smelled like a drunkard, but he did not care. She was a slight, sweet weight against him, her curves molding perfectly to his hardness.

This was why he was here, why he had lied to Corinne’s staff and intimated that they were lovers so they would cease trying to turn him away.

It was the way she felt in his arms, the rightness of it. He owned a favored knife that had a similar appeal to him. The hilt fit into his palm as if it were made for him alone. Yes, the edges were sharp and he had injured himself occasionally in the caring of it, but it was worth the effort to own such a unique and valuable piece.

And then there was the way Corinne responded to him, even in slumber. The way his touch and voice penetrated through the shell around her. As if some part of her knew that he would fit her just as well.

Edward felt her heartbeat slow against his chest and his own followed suit. Soon, they were breathing in unison, their hearts beating as one.

His eyes closed and he slept.

 

Simon smiled as Lynette’s fingers drifted through the pelt on his chest. She was tucked against his side, her leg tossed over his thigh, dangerously near his cock. The feel of her silken limbs tangled so intimately with his kept his prick hard and aching. If tonight had not been her first for sex, he would have been at her again by now. As it was, he was biding his time. His end goal was too important to ruin for mere impatience.

He had been staring into the grate, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped around her bare shoulders. Now, he looked down at her and felt a familiar knotting of his gut. Her hair was in glorious disarray, part of it restrained by pins, other parts sticking out wildly owing to the fervency of her desire.

How devastating she was in the heights of passion, unabashed and shameless, begging for his cock as if she would die without it. Not as a separate and interchangeable device of pleasure, but because of him alone. Out of all the women whose beds he had shared, he was positive only Lynette wanted Simon Quinn and not merely any available lover of sufficient skill and attractiveness.

Having met the vicomtess, he knew some of the censure Lynette would face, he understood the future she could have and the value of her maidenhead to her future husband. She had forsaken a lifetime of breeding and training for one night with him. It humbled him that she thought he was worth such a price.

“Why were your accounts seized?” she asked, glancing up at him.

“Extortion,” he said dryly, his hand caressing the downy softness of her shoulder. “I resigned and they did not want to take ‘no’ for an answer.”

“So you are a slave then,” she said, anger lacing her tone.

“In a fashion, but only temporarily.”

“What do they want you to do?” Lynette sat up and tucked the sheet modestly beneath her arms. Her lithe legs were curled beneath her and visible, creating a seductive montage for his eyes.

“Our friend, Lysette Rousseau, is up to mischief again. She is consorting with a Revolutionist and there is a need to know why.”

“They could find no one else?”

“Apparently not.” He thought a moment, then asked, “Does that surname sound familiar to you?”

“Rousseau? Not in an extraordinary fashion. Why?”

“Nothing. Just exploring a suspicion.”

Her fingers rubbed along the ribbon-edged hem of the linen. “Are you expected to seduce her?”