The Princess in His Bed (17 page)

“Wait!” Marthe’s protest came from inside the library. Her rapid footsteps quickly approaching were met with the slam of the library door as Pauline swung her foot back and kicked it shut behind her. Closing Marthe inside the room.

“Of course she’d like to join you,” Pauline said and gave Emilie a slight shove in the man’s direction.

The next thing she knew, Emilie’s hand was tucked into his arm, and he was leading her down the hallway. She was swallowed into the crowd. Emilie’s mind raced. She had no idea where they were going. But one thing was certain—this was one of the Duc de Vernant’s twin sons.

But which one? They were identical.

She’d told Vincent in her letter she’d have on a yellow silk cloak. In all likelihood this was him, but she couldn’t blurt out his name. Worse, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t her dear friend. Every fiber of her being screamed,
“It’s Joseph!”
She began to quiver and quake, her ire mountaining by the moment as the very memory she’d fought for years to forget materialized in her mind. Joseph’s vibrant blue eyes mocking her. His cruel laughter as he joined in with the others that horrid night echoed in her ears. The lash of their malicious tongues had cut deep.

And still stung after all this time no matter how hard she’d tried to forget it.

She loathed everything about the older twin.

A self-indulgent roué. Coldhearted. Arrogant and callous to the core. There was nothing appealing about Joseph d’Alumbert. He bore none of the fine qualities Vincent had. The mere thought of Joseph touching her filled her with rage. With outrage. With stomach-churning revulsion.

They’d reached the grand staircase, and he was beginning to lead her up the stairs. She’d gone no farther than the second step when she yanked her hand away as if it burned, surprising him with her action.

“I know it is against the rules, but I’ll need your name before we proceed,” she said, amazed her voice didn’t quiver, alerting him to her discomposure. If this was Joseph, she’d feign a malady and remove herself from his distasteful presence. Posthaste.

He glanced past her and scanned the crowded vestibule, then returned his gaze to hers. A slow grin formed on his mouth and he leaned in. She tensed. “It is against the rules,” he said softly in her ear. “And it is me, Vincent.”

Joseph pulled back and was immediately bedazzled by the sheer radiance of Emilie’s smile. Beguiling green eyes—a combination of innocent sensuality—stared back at him through her mask, mirroring her content.

“I was wrong . . .”
she said, more to herself than him. Then a sound of jubilation squeaked out her throat. She threw her arms around him, her soft body colliding against his, taking him off guard. With a grunt, he grabbed her waist and caught his balance just in time to keep them from tumbling down the stairs; his experienced hands instantly noted a delectable female shape.

“I’m so delighted it’s you, Vincent,” she said in his ear, seemingly unconcerned by their near fall. The soft scent of lavender emanated from her skin and tantalized his senses. She pulled away. “Come. I have something to show you.” Grabbing hold of his hand, she raced up the stairs.

Accustomed to others ceding authority to him, Joseph found himself the one being led up the grand staircase.
Dieu, not your usual greeting
. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, amused by her antics despite himself. She was as delightfully unconventional in person as she was in her letters. This was, after all, “Vincent” and Emilie’s first real meeting.

This was also Joseph and Emilie’s first real meeting.

There hadn’t been a real meeting ten years ago. Just a horrible fiasco.

Her warm hand securely holding his own, she briskly walked ahead of him down the upstairs corridor, the shapeless cloak enveloping her form ruffling with each rapid step she took.

He shouldn’t be here with her. He shouldn’t have attended the Comtesse’s masquerade because of her. Most assuredly, he should have ceased his letters long ago. And he was bent on believing it was nothing more than guilt that motivated the heightened attention he gave her.

Looking back every so often, she flashed him a smile. His groin tightened. This was the closest he’d been to her in a decade, and her mouth grabbed his focus every time she glanced his way.
Dieu
. There was no denying it. She had a pretty mouth. So lush. So perfect.

The kind of mouth that could give a man hours of carnal pleasure.

Emilie reached her door and pulled him inside her private rooms.

It was late afternoon and the sun shone from the tall windows in the antechamber, giving the motifs adorning the walls of white and gold a warm glow.

“I’m so pleased you found me.” She stopped in the middle of the antechamber, and released his hand. Oddly, he had the urge to grab hold of it again. “I’ve only just arrived and I was hoping I’d see you sooner rather than later. I’m glad I mentioned I’d be wearing a yellow cloak in my letter. Clearly it made it easy for you to find me.”

Yellow cloak? He’d forgotten. He’d been too stunned by her plan to remember the details of her intended wardrobe.

With her usual smile on her distracting mouth, she pulled off her mask, tossing it onto a nearby settee, then her wig.

A mass of flaxen-colored curls tumbled out, looking so soft he wanted to reach out and play with a silky lock. Joseph drank in her visage. It was less girlish, more womanly now. Big fathomless green eyes. Hair as pale as moonlight. She was ravishing.

She had the face of an angel.

Taking hold of both his hands, she gave them an affectionate squeeze.

“Your turn,” she said. “Remove your mask, Vincent.”

His brows shot up in surprise. That sounded a lot like a command, not something he would have responded to favorably had someone else dared. But no one else would dare to make demands of any of Richard d’Alumbert, Duc de Vernant’s sons. One of the most powerful men in the realm.

For the life of him, Joseph had no idea why he found her non-conforming ways charming.

But he did.

Was this forwardness simply the way she was? Or had she been secluded for so long that she wasn’t accustomed to the usual rules of etiquette?

Joseph pulled off his mask, tossed it carelessly at the settee, and returned her smile.

Instantly, Emilie’s smile dissolved. She took a step back.

Her reaction astonished him. “Emilie?”

Her smile returned. Not as bright. Nor as natural. “I’m sorry . . . it’s just that . . .” She shook her head and waved off the rest of her sentence.

He frowned. “It’s just
what
?” he pressed.

“It’s nothing really. It’s just . . . well, when you removed your mask, it felt as though I was staring at Joseph.”

“I know that’s silly. You’re identical . . .”

Not identical. Not in her eyes. In her eyes, Joseph was loathsome. He didn’t know which bothered him more, that she despised him—when he shouldn’t care a whit what she thought. Or that deep down inside, he couldn’t fault her for the way she felt.

At some point during the last year he’d connected with her, when he’d normally maintained a comfortable level of detachment in all his dealings with women. This was yet another example of how far he’d let matters veer off course with this particular female.

Something he needed to rectify where she was concerned.

He was too uncomfortably aware of her. Too in tune with her emotions for his liking.

He wanted to snap the disconcerting connection.

“Actually, I’m far better looking than my brother,” he jested, trying to leaven the moment and take the stricken look from her face.

She burst into a laugh. A delicate sound he found appealing. “Well, now that we’ve established that, I have something I want you to see.” She walked over to the writing desk.

He followed her, and tried to ignore her arousing scent.

“I asked my maid to unpack my books first,” she said. “I wanted to show you a very special volume.” Emilie leaned forward, searching through the books that were piled on the desk. Her cloak gaped open. Joseph got an instant view. Just above the décolletage of her gown he saw the top curves of her breasts. The sweetest, most tempting tits. And even more surprising, the expanse of lovely—unmarred—skin.

Lavender-scented skin.

His cock stiffened. Joseph yanked his gaze to the stacks of books on the desk, in need of a distraction. He’d be damned if he was going to think about what else he’d find appealing under all those clothes. He’d thought about her body too many times, her scars be damned, especially on those nights when her innocent—yet so stirringly sensual—letters had him on fire. Asking him unabashed questions about sex. Confiding in him how and where she wanted to be touched. Taken.

There was no way he would allow her to torment him any more than she already was.

“Really. And what volume might that be?” he asked. A discussion about books was good. A neutral subject. One that wouldn’t drive him to distraction.

“Ah, here it is.” Picking up a book, she opened it and held up an illustration for him to see.

Before him was a graphic depiction of a naked woman bent over the edge of a bed while a man took her from behind.

Jésus-Christ
.

“It’s an erotic text,” she announced.

No argument there. His eager prick gave a hungry throb in full agreement, as it strained harder against his breeches.

She placed the book down on the desk, open to the inciting illustration. “I didn’t realize there were so many positions to do this in.” Her delicate brow furrowed. “I don’t care for this one.” She flipped a few pages forward. “I like pages five to twelve.” Slowly she turned the pages, showing him her “favorites.”

Heated illustration.

After heated illustration.

No doubt about it. Emilie would surely derive a measure of satisfaction if she knew the amount of torture she was presently inflicting on Joseph.

“Oh, and I like this one,” she said, tapping the page. “This one” was a woman being taken while standing. Her back was against the wall as her lover drove his cock into her core. “Have you done this one, Vincent?”

All right. Enough was enough. Joseph closed the book, shutting out the stimulating images. The ones racing through his brain were another matter. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“I’m not going to answer that.” Thanks to Emilie, he hadn’t had sex in nearly two weeks—if you added the travel time it took to arrive at the Comtesse’s country estate and last night’s baffling eve of abstinence. He was ready to climb out of his skin. The last thing he was going to do was engage in a sexual conversation with her. Not when images of Emilie’s breasts and the damned depiction of the couple fucking against the wall were running rampant in his head. Only he was picturing taking this highly inquisitive virgin just the way she wanted. By God, he had the most powerful urge to sink his length into her, wondering just how tight her untried passage would be.

Her moss green eyes widened. “Oh? Why not? You’ve always answered my sexual questions before.”

True. But that was through their correspondence. And not when she was standing in front of him looking like a sweet temptress, smelling better than any woman had a right to. His fingers itched to fist that silky blond hair, tilt her head back, and feast on that luscious mouth.

He resented her ability to so effortlessly inflame him the way she did.

He was changing the subject.

“Why are you showing me this volume, Emilie?” There had to be a reason, other than to drive him mad.

Her smile returned to her comely face. “Because I know you have misgivings about my plans here. And as much as I appreciate your concern, I have the matter well in hand. As you can see, I’ve studied everything thoroughly. I am well prepared.”

“Well prepared? You’re contemplating having sex. Not going into battle,
ma belle
.”

Emilie froze, his words unbalancing her.

Surely she hadn’t heard correctly. Had he just called her . . . my
beauty
? No one had ever called her
that.
In fact, they’d called her just the opposite.

What could he possibly see that was beautiful?

There hadn’t been a day in her life she’d felt pretty, much less beautiful . . . well, maybe just one time. One night. But it had turned from a dream to a nightmare.

You fool, he’s simply being kind
.
Because that’s what Vincent is
.
Kind
.
And he is—gracious God—pure male perfection
. . .

Though she was trying, it was impossible to ignore his tall sculpted form. His dark hair and knee-weakening blue eyes. Or the heat he inspired low in her belly. Vincent d’Alumbert was as disarming in person as he was in his letters.

His appeal wasn’t tainted—like his brother Joseph’s—by poor character.

And she was drawn to him. Intensely so.

He’s waiting for a response, Emilie
.
Answer him
. . . She cleared her throat and collected her wits. “I’m quite aware I’m not going into battle. I’m simply trying to assure you that I am fully knowledgeable about the subject of sex and seduction. Thanks to your answers as to what a man likes in bed, and my books, I am prepared to proceed.”

He sighed. “Emilie—”

She silenced him by pressing a finger against his sensuous mouth. So warm and firm. Emilie tamped down the regret that surged inside her heart, knowing full well she’d never experience a kiss from this man. No man would knowingly indulge in an amorous encounter with
Charred and Scarred Emilie de Sarron
. The only way for her to have some pleasure of her own was to be with a man who didn’t know her. Didn’t know she’d been in a fire. “I know what you’re going to say. One needs to experience sex to be truly knowledgeable.” Reluctantly, she removed her finger. She liked touching him. A little too much for her own good. “I agree wholeheartedly. That is why I’m going to have my first experience tonight.”