The Princess in His Bed (15 page)

“You’ll stay inside me this time?” she murmured against his mouth.

“You won’t be able to stop me,” he promised, slipping his hand behind her head, gently securing her soft lips more firmly to his.

Abruptly, she pulled away. “Wait, Adam. There is one more truth I want to share.”

He frowned slightly. “What is it?”

“It’s about your justacorps. They are indeed splendid, but to be quite honest . . .”

“Yes?”

“You look your best when you are wearing nothing at all.”

He laughed and pulled her close. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Then he kissed his golden-eyed beauty with heated intensity and all the love he had in his heart for her.

Epilogue

In the city of Paris, there have been many weddings throughout time. But none, they say, was more beautiful or more enchanting than that of Adam de Vey, Marquis de Nattes, to his beloved Aimee.

What made this union so noteworthy was not the opulence and splendor of the nuptials, for there was definitely that. No, what brought spectators out in droves, lining the streets all the way to Notre Dame, was to see—love.

“True love” were the two words that rippled through the throng. A noble union not for political gain or advancement of power.

Just plain love.

A power unto itself.

It was said that the bride arrived wearing a magnificent golden-colored gown in a white and gold open carriage pulled by white horses. But it was her smile that people craned their necks to see. The smile of a woman in love. And she didn’t disappoint the masses. Hers was as radiant as the sun.

In the spring a babe was born. A tiny boy with his father’s dark hair and eyes, their little son added to the joy in the hearts of the Marquis and Marquise de Nattes.

Some say there was magic involved in the tale of Adam and Aimee; whispers of a magical ring abounded. Others believed a miracle brought them together at the palace. While many insist it was simply written in the stars.

Destiny may have caused their paths to cross that summer.

But it was their love that made their tale romantic, repeated throughout the realm.

And ensured their happily ever after . . .

1

—Eric Donald Hirsch et al.,
The New Dictionary of Cultural Literacy
, 2002

 

 

 

 

“
Details
, Vincent. You cannot simply state you had two women last night without offering
details
,” Gilbert complained, sporting his usual lazy smile.

Joseph d’Alumbert rose from his plush chair and strode across the floral carpet over to the window in the antechamber—away from his twin brother Vincent and younger brother Gilbert. He knew full well Vincent wasn’t about to withhold a single salacious detail of his evening of excess.

He simply wanted their younger brother to beg a little.

“Ah, the details . . .” Without turning around, Joseph knew his twin was grinning. He heard it in his tone. Though he and his brothers ordinarily shared the particulars of their carnal encounters, at the moment, Joseph didn’t care a whit how Vincent’s evening had unfolded.

He was on edge. Worse, since his arrival yesterday at the Comtesse de Saint-Arnaud’s country estate, he found himself looking out the window at the courtyard one too many times.

And here he was. Doing it
again
.

Joseph braced his hands on the window frame as he gazed down at the empty cobblestone courtyard. It was late afternoon. The Comtesse’s week-long masqueraded affair was into its second day. Well under way.
She’s not coming
, he mentally willed.

“Well?”
Gilbert prompted Vincent, impatience in his tone.

“He had the d’Esseur sisters, Gilbert,” Joseph responded for his twin. “There’s nothing new there. Everyone has fucked them.”

“I haven’t!” Gilbert said. “How were they, Vincent? How can you be certain it was them? Everyone’s identity is disguised.”

Vincent chuckled. “Dear brother, you have been away in the campaign too long. Marie and Jeanne d’Esseur are known for two things. Their talented mouths. And their unfortunate, distinctive laugh . . .”

The Comtesse’s parties were never short on decadent diversions—to suit just about any taste. Yet last eve, instead of indulging in some debauchery of his own, Joseph had spent it in the company of the Comtesse’s fine brandy. Unable to focus on the amusements at hand, he’d actually turned down women who were eager to engage in just the sort of impersonal copulation he preferred.

His thoughts were being pulled toward a female who wasn’t even in attendance.

“Fine. Wonderful. They had a distinctive laugh,” Gilbert said. “What else, Vincent? Out with it. Tell me before I stop asking altogether.”

At that, Vincent laughed. “We both know you won’t,” he needled Gilbert. “But since you
insist
, I shall tell you . . . I had them in the gardens, behind the statue of Zeus . . .”

A black carriage pulled into the courtyard, capturing Joseph’s attention. His brothers’ voices immediately faded into the distance as he watched it halt before the main doors of the Comtesse’s château. Sunshine glinted off its top.

He tensed.

Moments later, a figure alighted with the aid of the footman. She wore a mask. And a wig. But it didn’t matter. It was
her
. He’d know her anywhere. The way she was dressed—the multiple layers of fabrics—made him certain.

Merde
.

He’d hoped he’d convinced her to stay away. He knew exactly what she was after. Her letter had stated it plainly. She was here for the same reason everyone attended the Comtesse’s gatherings.

For the carnal entertainment.

For anonymous sex.

Joseph tightened his jaw and held back the expletives thundering in his head. He wasn’t about to let his brothers know how discomposed this woman had him. He’d never live it down. Women didn’t normally stir him beyond the physical. Yet lately Emilie de Sarron had been affecting him on a number of disquieting levels.

Jésus-Christ
, she didn’t belong here. Not with this group. At hand were the very people who had driven her into seclusion ten years ago.

He was among the guilty.

He’d been a party to her humiliation the night Emilie had been introduced into society. As son of the Duc de Vernant, Joseph didn’t make it a habit to take stock of his behavior. He did as he pleased. Behaved as he willed, without thought or concern. Without excuses or apologies. But the hurt he’d seen in her soft green eyes before she turned and left was still vivid in his mind. Still ate at his conscience. Even after a decade.

She’d withdrawn from society after that night.

She was never betrothed. Never married. He’d never seen her again until last year when he spotted her at the theater. And she looked beautiful; her pale-colored hair and light-colored eyes had always been a stunning combination. Yet the many layers of clothing she wore were a sobering reminder of what made Emilie different from everyone else.

Driven by a need to know how she’d fared all these years, Joseph had sent her a letter the day after the theater. He never imagined she’d be so delightfully witty. Refreshingly frank. Surprisingly bold.

A year later he was still corresponding with her.

The more he got to know the real Emilie, the more he liked her. And the worse he felt for the impact he’d had on her life. A life that might have turned out very different had the incident ten years ago not occurred.

But he couldn’t change the past no matter how much he wished it.

Emilie was the only one to affect his conscience when his conscience had never bothered him before. She was the only one to inspire a troubling sense of possessiveness. Or a level of interest he didn’t normally offer women.

Limiting the women in his life to bed sport, the rapport he had with this particular female was novel. He’d never touched her, never tasted her, yet he knew her more intimately than any woman he’d ever bedded. Emilie was restless, looking for a reprieve from her staid existence. She longed for a bit of gaiety. She was starved for a taste of passion.

And she was intent on using the anonymity the masquerade offered to disguise her identity, in order to sample some.

Just imagine the stir it would cause if the Comtesse’s guests were to learn Emilie de Sarron was back. After ten years of self-imposed exile.

“Are you listening to anything I’m saying?” Vincent’s voice cut through his thoughts. Joseph reluctantly pulled his attention away from the window.

His twin approached, stopped beside him, and looked down at the courtyard. “Well, well. A new lady has arrived. Do you know who she is?”

“No,” Joseph lied.

Gilbert moved to the window and studied Emilie as she spoke to the footman. “What difference does it make who she is?” He grinned. “Someone new to play with.”

An objection shot up Joseph’s throat. He swallowed it back down.

He’d no right to object. Emilie was free to have sex with whom-ever she chose. This was something she wanted, and he wasn’t going to interfere in any way. He’d offered his concerns about her intentions. Clearly, she’d chosen to proceed nonetheless. He had no idea how badly she’d been burned as an infant, but that fire had changed her life forever, scarring her body permanently. Scars she kept hidden beneath her clothing.

Just how easily a man would detect them during sex, he’d no clue. Her injuries were one of the few topics they had never touched upon in their letters.

The one thing he knew for certain was that
he
wasn’t going to be the one deflowering her. No matter how stirring her latest letters—filled with sexual curiosity and sensual yearnings—had been.

He’d done enough to her already.

If she felt confident she could indulge in an amorous encounter without anyone identifying her or discovering her scars, then that should put an end to his disquiet.

But it didn’t.

The idea of her giving herself to one or more of the men in attendance actually plagued him, and he had no idea why it should.

If that weren’t bad enough, he had another problem. A sizable one.

Emilie had given him her trust, something he knew she didn’t offer just anyone.

And he was lying to her.

Knowing she wouldn’t correspond with him if he’d used his name, he’d misled her in his first letter. And in every letter since. Emilie de Sarron believed that the man she’d opened herself to, confided her most intimate thoughts and longings to—was his brother Vincent.

Joseph was too far into this now. To reveal his deception would only hurt her terribly and that was something he couldn’t bring himself to do to her. Not again.

Somehow, some way he had to get through the rest of the masquerade without Emilie—or Vincent—discovering his lie.