Almost a Lady (27 page)

She felt justly rebuked. “I’ll do my best,” she said.

He smiled and took her face between his hands, kissing her eyelids, the tip of her nose, the corner of her mouth. Teasing, tantalizing little darts of his tongue. He turned her head and kissed her ear, using his tongue with knowing skill, until she squirmed and wriggled, demanding to be released even as the sensations drove her to a frenzy of tormented delight.

“Bastard,” she gasped when at last he raised his head. “You know what that does to me.”

“Why else would I do it?” he inquired with a wicked chuckle. He scooped her off her feet and carried her into his bedchamber, tossing her unceremoniously onto the bed.

Meg gave a suppressed shriek of feigned panic and tried to scoot off the side, but he caught her and dragged her back. She laughed up at him as he leaned over her, holding her hands above her head.

“Now what?” he asked.

“What you will, sir,” she murmured, moving her slippered foot along the inside of his leg. “I seem to be at your mercy,”

“That’ll be the day,” he scoffed, then caught his breath as her foot moved higher. “The shoe, my love, is most definitely on the other foot.”

An hour later Meg, once more composed, sat before the dresser mirror in her bedchamber watching the maid Amelie thread a black velvet ribbon through her red curls. Her last fashionable haircut had grown out and she thought ruefully of how Monsieur Christophe, the London coiffeur, would throw up his hands in horror at this messy mishmash of different lengths and unruly curls. Not that it bothered the privateer, she thought with a private smile. He seemed to enjoy threading his fingers through handfuls of it, twisting the curls into wild corkscrews.

“There, madame, that is pretty, I think.” Amelie smiled at her handiwork. “The black is so perfect with such a vivid red.”

And perfect for a widow just out of mourning.
“Vivid is one word for it,” Meg said, fastening a pin in the neck of the cream lace fichu. “Thank you, Amelie. You’ve been a great help, and I know you’re needed downstairs.”

“My pleasure, madame.” The girl curtsied and left.

The door to the parlor opened and Cosimo came in. Meg still found it difficult to get used to the sight of him in formal dress. But he’d only worn it once or twice on this journey, when the status of their nightly stops had warranted it, so it was perhaps not surprising.

“How smart you are,” she said, admiring the subdued elegance of his black coat and waistcoat, black britches, ruffled shirt, and starched cravat.

His responding smile was distracted as he looked her over. “You’ll achieve a better effect without the fichu,” he pronounced. “It’s too demure.”

“As you wish.” She unfastened the pin and flicked away the fichu with a disdainful twitch of her fingers. “Not that there’s much of a décolletage to hide.”

He came up behind her, sliding his hands down into the neck of her dark green gown, feeling for her breasts. “There’s more than enough for those who know.” His breath rustled through her hair. “Are you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” She grasped his strong wrists for an instant, then moved his hands aside and stood up. “No shawl?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think it might prove a useful prop,” she said, taking up a filmy strip of black chiffon. “I have no fan, but I can see how this could be used to good effect.” She draped it over her elbows. “Shall we raise the curtain?”

“Let me go first, give me five minutes, and then follow. Try for a touch of agitation on your entrance, anger, not tears. You’re no subdued young woman with a strict guardian. Rather you need an unimpeachable male escort to make a certain journey in safety and the escort is proving unsatisfactory. Pointedly ignore me and make a beeline for our friend.”

Meg nodded. “Simple enough,” she said. “But he might think it a little strange at first. I was very cool this afternoon.”

“If you give him half a chance, he’ll put it down to the difficulties of your situation.” Cosimo was walking to the door. “Five minutes.”

Meg went to the open window and drew a deep breath of the scented air. Roses and honeysuckle. It felt as if there’d been some subtle shift in her relationship with Cosimo. It was as if the adventure had taken a different turn; they were no longer simply lovers. But if not that, what? Unconsciously she pressed her fingertip into the cleft of her chin. Partners in a bigger drama? One in which Cosimo was the director, she an actor. But she thought she’d been prepared to expect that on this journey. Cosimo, the privateer, the courier, would encounter situations that required a spy’s skills. She just hadn’t seen herself as taking any important part in those situations. They were beyond her purview. Very different from joining him on courier expeditions from the
Mary Rose
. That had been play. For her, not for Cosimo, she admitted now.

Five minutes must have passed. Meg checked her image in the mirror and then went downstairs to the parlor that doubled as the inn’s dining room. She heard the subdued murmur of voices as she crossed the hallway, and thought that there must be other guests than Monsieur Devereux and themselves. How that would affect tonight’s little play remained to be seen.

She pushed open the door. The room was still filled with the late evening sunlight that competed with the candles on the table and the mantelpiece. Apart from Cosimo and Daniel Devereux, there were two other men, whose somewhat elaborately old-fashioned dress of velvet and lace, Meg guessed, was that of wealthy, provincial landowners or merchants. They all looked towards the door as she entered.

Cosimo took a deep draught of the wine in his glass and said, almost as an afterthought, “Gentlemen, my cousin, Madame Giverny.”

“Good evening, gentlemen,” she said with a nod that passed for a bow. Her lips were set in an angry line and she made no attempt to accompany the nod with a smile.

They bowed and for a moment no one moved, then Daniel Devereux came forward, extending his hand. “Madame, may I pour you a glass of port?”

“Thank you, Monsieur Devereux.” She took the hand, this time managing a smile before casting a look of disdain towards her cousin, who had so deliberately failed to offer her refreshment. He turned away from the glance with a flare of his nostrils.

Meg placed her hand on Devereux’s arm and moved towards the big bow window that stood open to the garden. “Such a lovely evening. Such entrancing fragrances, don’t you find, Monsieur Devereux?”

“Indeed, madame. Late spring is lovely in these parts. More like summer.” He was regarding her curiously even as they engaged in this inoffensive small talk, and Meg guessed that the coldness between the cousins had interested him. Well, as the evening progressed he would find much more to intrigue him.

She smiled up at him, allowing the shawl to slip down her arms to reveal what cleavage she possessed. “Are you from Vaucluse, m’sieur?”

“No, alas, madame. I am en route to Marseilles. But I spent many happy months of my childhood in Vaucluse. You’ve seen the grotto of Petrach?”

“I had hoped to visit it tomorrow,” Meg said with a glancing smile that could have been interpreted as shy, but most definitely was not. “I’m not sure whether my cousin will be willing to take me.” She allowed her lip to curl just a fraction.

“Then you must allow me to be your escort,” he said. “I know it well. The steps are a little steep, a little treacherous . . .”

“I’m sure I could manage them with your help, Monsieur Devereux,” she said, looking up at him from beneath her eyelashes. “I am most eager to visit the site.”

“Then we should agree to do so in the morning, before the heat of the day.” His hand lightly brushed hers as he indicated her empty glass. “May I get you another glass of port?”

“Cousin, it’s time to dine. Our hostess grows impatient.” Cosimo almost snatched her glass from her. “Allow me to seat you.” He took her elbow and steered her to the table. Meg made her back rigid, a signal of unwilling acceptance to anyone who would read it as such, and took the chair Cosimo held out for her. He took the chair on her left.

Daniel Devereux glanced at the seat on her right and Meg gave him a tiny smile of invitation, narrowing her eyes just a little, playing coquettishly with the edge of her shawl. He put a hand on the back of the chair in question. “May I, madame?”

“Please, do, Monsieur Devereux,” she murmured, fluttering her eyelashes a little as she made a little patting motion towards the seat. She glanced once to her left where Cosimo sat in stony silence, glaring at Devereux, then she turned a brilliant smile back to Devereux.

Devereux took the seat and shook out his napkin. He lowered his voice a little. “Your cousin seems less than pleased with me.” The statement was lightly spoken, as if it mattered little to him.

Meg took a sip of wine and dabbed at her lips with her napkin, murmuring under cover of the movement, “My cousin is less than pleased with most men in my company, I fear.”

Devereux’s eyebrows lifted, but he made no response. Amelie passed out bowls of vichyssoise and for a moment the only sounds around the table were the clink of spoon on china and an occasional rumble of conversation from the two men who seemed to be acquaintances.

“You said you passed some part of your childhood in Vaucluse, Monsieur Devereux,” Meg said. “Where do you live now?”

“In Marseilles, madame,” he responded. “I own a small export business.”

Cosimo gave a snort of derision. “Export business, in the middle of a war. I doubt you’ll stay in business for long, m’sieur.” He drained his glass and refilled it, not offering the decanter to his table companions.

A smile flicked across Daniel Devereux’s rather thin mouth. “I would say, m’sieur, that perhaps you don’t know much about such business,” he declared. “Madame, may I offer you more wine . . . excuse me . . . ?” He reached across her for the decanter.

“Thank you.” She cast another scornful glance at her “cousin.” “Indeed, cousin, you know little enough about any kind of business, I believe.”

“A
gentleman,
my dear, has no need to sully his hands with trade,” Cosimo snarled, draining his glass. He snapped his fingers rudely at Amelie and demanded, “More wine, girl.”

Meg was torn between amusement and wonder at this extraordinary transformation of the courteous, even-tempered, exquisitely mannered privateer. How much could he drink without being genuinely affected? she wondered. Not that he would ever lose control; he would know exactly when to stop.

Their two companions across the table were also looking at him in disapproving surprise, and then pointedly ignored him and resumed their own conversation.

Meg returned her attention to Devereux, turning up her eyes in exasperation. “You must forgive my cousin,” she said softly, but just loud enough for Cosimo to overhear. “He has had some disappointments just recently.”

“Hold your tattling tongue, ma’am,” Cosimo hissed. “I’ll not have family business broadcast at a public table.”

Meg lowered her eyes as if embarrassed at this offensive rebuke, and busied herself adjusting the shawl on her arms.

“Allow me, madame.” Devereux helped her with the shawl. “I fear your cousin is deep into his wine. Nothing else would excuse such discourtesy.”

She touched a hand to her breast in a fleeting gesture that indicated discomfort and gave him an up-from-under smile. “You are too kind, m’sieur.”

“Impossible,” he said. “With such a charming lady.”

“And now, m’sieur, you flatter me,” she said, her smile taking on a coquettish edge, her eyelashes fluttering a little, as she lightly tapped his hand with her own.

“Impossible,” he repeated, his free hand brushing hers for an instant.

Cosimo sat in fulminating silence, but beneath the façade he was filled with both admiration and amusement as he listened to the banter. Meg was good. Just the right blend of coquette and innocence, although no one, and certainly not the suave Devereux, would believe in the innocence for one minute. But that was part of the game. She was making it clear that if seduction was in the cards, then she would not be a novice. For every three steps she took forward, there was one delicate step back, drawing him further into the play. Indeed, what man could resist? For some reason, that reflection had the effect of diminishing both his admiration and his amusement.

He dropped his fork with a clatter onto his plate and then swore under his breath as if the implement had taken on a life of its own. He took up his glass and drank again, then drawled somewhat thickly, “You grow mighty familiar, Cousin Giverny. You’d do well to have a care for your reputation.
I
know your little ways but what passes among family won’t do among strangers. Mark my words.” He leered at her, managing to look both contemptuous and lustful.

Meg couldn’t believe how his face had changed. It had lost all definition, gone soft as if his features were collapsing in on themselves. His mouth was a little slack, his eyes slitted as if he could barely keep them open. She gave him a look of supreme contempt and said, “You are over-drunk, cousin.” Then she turned back to Devereux, giving her “cousin” her shoulder.

Cosimo muttered an oath and Devereux flung his napkin on the table, jumping to his feet. “M’sieur, I must protest such language in the presence of a lady.”

Meg spoke hastily, her hand reaching for his arm. “N-no, please, m’sieur. I take no notice of my cousin when he’s in drink, I beg you to do the same.” She pulled at his sleeve with an assumption of urgency and pleaded, “Do please sit down again, m’sieur. I would not have you quarrel with my cousin in this fashion.”

Devereux looked down at her, his expression still livid with indignation, then he bowed. “As you wish, madame. Forgive me if I was discourteous.”

“No, no, I am grateful for your concern,” she said warmly as he resumed his seat. “But my cousin . . .” She let the sentence die with an ill-concealed shudder.

Cosimo judged it time to leave Meg to play the rest of the game alone. He pushed back his chair and stood up, staggering a little. He muttered something about fresh air and weaved his way to the door, pausing to issue a vague threat over his shoulder. “You had best be in your bed by ten o’clock, cousin. I’ll not answer for it if you’re not.” The door banged on his departure.