Adele Ashworth (37 page)

But he would bask in his joy internally. For now.

He took another sip of his whisky. “It will certainly cause an uproar when the comte d’Arles appears and sees you wearing his necklace.”

She twisted gloved fingers tightly together in front of her. “My thoughts exactly. I-I thought it might draw them out.”

“How clever you are, Natalie.”

“I’ve always thought so,” she agreed, pulling her painted mouth up coyly.

She was just so incredibly sweet. His heart ached, and he longed to touch her, to hold her against him and rub his cheek against hers and breathe in the scent of her hair—

“I thought you’d like some champagne.” Madeleine interrupted his thoughts, standing beside them, exquisite as always in shining rubies and a gown of deep burgundy.

She held a glass out to Natalie who mumbled a quick thank you and took it in one of her hands.

Madeleine sparkled as she raised calculating eyes to his. “I see several acquaintances of mine, Jonathan, so forgive me for leaving the two of you alone. Have a lovely chat.” Without waiting for a reply, she lifted her skirts with dainty fingers and whisked away.

Very tactful, he mused, and he’d have to thank her for that sometime.

He focused again on Natalie. “You stayed with her since yesterday, I presume?”

“Yes,” she returned without prevarication. “I found her in her hotel suite, and we’ve had a delightful time together.”

“It seems she’s had quite an effect on you.”

She paused. “Do you mean the face color?”

“Mmm.”

“You don’t like it, Jonathan?”

He cocked his head and inspected it. It was subtly applied, with only a shimmer of pink to her lips and cheeks, and a brownish tint to outline her eyes. He shrugged negligibly. “I don’t suppose I dislike it.”

She seemed satisfied with that. “Not that your approval matters—”

“Of course not.”

“—but tonight will be the only time in my life I’ll wear it, I’m sure. My mother would disown me if she knew, but I am in France, doing what French ladies do, and Madeleine said it would accent my best features.”

“Did she?” He reached forward and lifted a curl of her hair as it hung over her right breast, rubbing it between his fingers. “She must not realize your best features never see the light of day.”

She narrowed her eyes, shaking her head in disgust. “Jonathan—”

“I was angry that you left me,” he cut in quietly. “And hurt.”

She stiffened as the conversation turned serious, breathing deeply and dropping her lashes so that all she could see was his waistcoat. “I’m so sorry for what I said,” she admitted shakily. “I was . . . overwhelmed by everything that happened. Confused.”

The urge to pull her against him was so powerful now he squeezed his glass until his fingers whitened. “I was overwhelmed, too, Natalie,” he confessed instead. “It was a night of firsts for both of us.”

She looked up, disbelieving. For seconds she didn’t know how to respond, or what exactly he meant by that, but her eyes bore into his, searching, and he refused to move his gaze.

In a voice both husky and tender, he whispered, “Tell me how you feel in your heart, and I’ll forgive you.”

A shrill burst of laughter sliced through the air, followed by a shout or two from one end of the hall to the other. Horrible timing, and it broke the spell between them.

She jerked her head to the sound, skimming the room uncomfortably. “This isn’t a typical party, is it, Jonathan?”

“No,” he answered through a sigh. “You probably shouldn’t be here, either. It’s likely to get . . . lively later.”

That annoyed her a little. Her mouth tightened, and she tapped her fingers rapidly against the rim of her champagne glass. “You cannot spend your life protecting me from likelihoods.”

He didn’t know how to take that. Part of him was startled to hear such an implication from her. But she still looked across the hall, surveying party guests, which he supposed caused the uncertainty in him because he couldn’t see her eyes.

“Maybe that’s something I’d enjoy,” he countered.

For a moment she did nothing. Then, with another deep inhale, she raised her gaze to lock with his again. “Madeleine said you, being a typical man, would forgive my words of yesterday morning if I told you what a magnificent lover you are.”

He sipped his whisky to hide his choked expression. “Really? I’m almost afraid to know what she’s been teaching you.”

“And you probably never will,” she intimated in a tone of triumph. She raised her champagne to her lips, briefly tilted the glass to her mouth, then slowly lowered it again. Resolutely she admitted, “I do, however, think you are a magnificent lover.”

He reeled from that, melting inside. “You’re forgiven.” Grinning devilishly, he added, “But you have nothing to compare it to, my darling Natalie.”

She ignored that, took another long swallow of champagne, licked her painted lips, and pressed on. “I’ve made some decisions about us.”

The muscles in his shoulders flexed from the immediate buildup of anxiety and he shifted from one foot to the other, his skin growing warm under his formal attire. “I’m engrossed, so please enlighten me.”

She closed her lids serenely and whispered, “I’ve decided to become your mistress—”

“What?”

She reached out with one hand and lightly placed her palm on his chest. “I want to wake up every morning in your town house and put on a silk wrap and have coffee with you in your kitchen.”

With her eyes shut and her expression flat, Jonathan had no idea if she was serious about something so outrageous, or teasing him. He was very nearly speechless.

Then she raised her lashes, peeking up through them, and her face beamed with mischief. “But I refuse to wear the one worn by your former mistress. You remember her, don’t you? The tall, perfectly formed creature with the long, dark hair. What was her name?”

He squeezed his lips together to suppress a laugh. Right now, in this crowded, stuffy hall, where conversation was political and growing louder by the second, everything dimmed but her.

“I don’t now recall,” he mumbled thickly.

She dropped her chin fractionally, one corner of her mouth turning up faintly. “How very clever you are, Jonathan.”

“I’ve always thought so.”

She grinned. Someone brushed against her, and he grasped her elbow, drawing her so close to him her taffeta skirt blanketed his legs from his thighs down.

“But do you know what I do recall about that morning in vivid detail?” he carried on contemplatively, feeling the warmth of her body penetrating him.

She arched her brows in innocence. “Probably how nothing has ever fanned your pompous ego so much as to have two women discussing you at your kitchen table over coffee.”

“No, that happens to me weekly,” he corrected with an exaggerated sigh.

“I’ve no doubt.”

He caressed her elbow with his thumb in long, smooth strokes. “What I recall about that particular morning is your peach gown clinging to your marvelous breasts. I recall you stupidly cutting your hand on a sword. I recall your sweetness, your conniving little mind, and your stunning, pleading eyes all working together to persuade me to do something irrational like cart you off to France with me. But most of all, I recall how startled I was to find my dog’s nose between your perfectly formed thighs and how, at that very moment, I would have done anything on earth to switch places with him.”

Her skin flushed, and her lips thinned. “You’re despicable.”

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered huskily.

That twist surprised her, but she caught herself, rubbing a palm along her forehead and shaking her head stiffly in negation. “Madeleine is beautiful. I have a face that freckles from too much sun and thick hair so wavy I cannot, for the life of me, control it.”

Jonathan refrained from a delicious, offhand reply, because it occurred to him suddenly that he’d been given the opening he needed. And he would use it. It was time to make her understand.

He took another drink or two of whisky in an attempt to calm the unexpected anxiety rippling through him. Then almost methodically he set his glass on the buffet table and looked back into her eyes, stalling only for a moment to collect his thoughts.

“Natalie, I think Madeleine DuMais is probably the most physically beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life.”

She blinked, flustered by that admission and noticeably dismayed, which he had to admit thrilled him in an odd way.

He continued before she could comment, concentrating on every word. “And you’re right, she is nothing like you. She is exotic and untouchable. You, on the other hand, are approachable and enjoyable. She’s the kind of woman who will live on through the ages because men will write songs about her. You are the kind of woman men want to cuddle next to and wrap themselves in. She is regal and polished. You are amusing and vibrant. You’re the kind of woman I want in my bed, to hold and make love to and satisfy. She’s the kind of woman I’d like to . . . stuff, and hang over the mantel in my study to admire when I work.”

She giggled from that, and Jonathan smiled contentedly into her eyes.

“You are the kind of woman who sweats—”

She gasped through a laugh, appalled. “I don’t sweat. Horses sweat.”

He ran his hand from her elbow down her arm to clasp her fingers lightly. She didn’t appear to care as she locked them around his.

“What I mean is that you are real,” he explained with a mounting nervousness he refused to let her detect. “Madeleine is a doll. When she looks at me, I see a remarkable beauty—like a priceless painting with fine lines and brilliant color to stare at and appreciate. When you look at me, I see smoldering passion and giving loveliness and a desire to please.”

His tone grew reflective, his gaze intense, and he lowered his voice. “When you look at me with your stunning eyes and expressions of longing, my heartbeat quickens, and all I can think of is taking you in my arms and kissing you breathless, of holding you against me and comforting your hurts and laughing in your joys.”

A wave of uneasiness descended upon her. Her fingers moved, and she tried to pull them from his grasp.

He wouldn’t let them go. The noise grew to a thunder around them, the room smoky and hot, the people unruly as they heavily imbibed fine liquor. A most unusual place to assert himself, but considering how unusual their relationship had always been, it seemed appropriate. No. It was perfect. She sensed what was about to occur. He knew it and marveled in it.

Leaning very close to her, he pulled her champagne glass easily from her grasp and placed it next to his on the table. Then he reached up and lightly cupped her chin, forcing her to remain face-to-face with him, staring starkly into her eyes.

“Madeleine is a lovely woman, Natalie,” he revealed in a whisper. “But you are the strength of my soul, do you understand this?”

She started trembling, and it jarred him with a surge of tender emotion.

“You are everything I need. You are the beauty that belongs to me. I feel nothing special for her, but you nourish every sense I possess. I don’t care anything for Madeleine, or any woman in the world who is as beautiful as she is. But I do, very much, love you.”

She stood entranced by his words, shivering uncontrollably, barely able to breathe, eyes huge and unblinking.

Jonathan calmed inside, knowing at last that she understood. She said nothing in reply but she radiated a mixture of complex feelings that seeped through his skin and warmed his heart. And above them all, through the pleasure of absolute confidence, he knew she believed him.

He smiled gently, caressing her jaw with his thumb. “I knew I loved you two nights ago, when we sat together in the garden. And I also think you knew how I felt then or you wouldn’t have let me love you in bed. I’ve never had anything so wonderful fall into my lap and surprise me so much.”

She blinked finally, with a wavering gaze, but he continued to hold her face a breath away from his.

His mouth widened to a playful grin. “Perhaps it’s more accurate to say I’ve never had anything so wonderful climb into my lap.”

A trace of a smile tugged at her quivering mouth, but her eyes filled with tears, and he realized she was close to breaking down.

He swallowed hard to keep his own feelings contained, so powerful and indescribable. Then he leaned over and touched his forehead to hers. “If you cry now, my sweet Natalie, you’ll smear all the color you painstakingly applied to your face, and it will run down your cheeks.”

She laughed softly at that, holding his fingers tightly and placing her free palm on his chest, shivering despite the heat in the hall and the raucous activity surrounding them.

He wiped a sliding tear away with his thumb, wishing he could embrace her completely, wishing they were far away from here, back at the inn together, that he could have told her these things in the rose garden where he had discovered them.

He softly kissed her brow, then moved his mouth to her cheek, grazing it with his lips, smelling flowers on her skin, aware of her fingers coiled around his, of the sentiment flowing from her to bathe him in contentment.

“I know you love me, too, Natalie,” he said in a breath against her ear. “You started loving me years ago.”

She shook her head vehemently.

“Shh . . .” Her reaction was one of confusion, he knew, not contradiction, and he cupped her cheek, holding her steadily against him, his lips brushing her temple. “I know you do. Trust me with it, Natalie.”

“Jonathan . . .”

Her voice sounded so pained, so small, and he ached inside for her. Then he caught a glimpse of Madeleine walking toward them, followed by the comte d’Arles and four or five others, dressed impeccably and ready for battle if the hard lines of their features were any indication.

“We’re about to be rudely interrupted,” he whispered, sighing with aggravation. He kissed her cheek and pulled himself upright. “The timing in this romance of ours has always been laughable.” He braced her face in his hand and looked into her eyes. “Regardless of what’s about to happen, believe what I’ve just told you, sweetheart. Play the game brilliantly now and don’t, in any way, stay mad at me.”