Almost a Lady (32 page)

But then, nothing had happened in Bonaparte’s meteoric career to dent that confidence, only to boost it. Perhaps it wasn’t surprising that his English enemies saw assassination as the cleanest, swiftest way to eliminate the threat he posed.

She could never be truly reconciled to this mission, Meg reflected, it went too far against her nature, but here, facing the reality of Bonaparte’s preparations for such a grandiose scheme as conquering the Orient, she could acknowledge its point. Goose bumps appeared on her arms and she shivered, this time openly.

“Ah, but you are cold,” he said swiftly. “You must be careful of your health, madame. The salon is overheated and the breeze outside is cool.” He was urging her back towards the French doors, a hand on her elbow.

Meg allowed him to escort her back to the buzzing noise of the salon, made stuffy with heated bodies and the blaze of candles. “I have a little headache, General,” she said, lightly touching her temples. “But I am so honored to have had the opportunity to talk with you.”

“Honored, nonsense,” he declared. “But you must go straight home, one should not trifle with the headache. I shall visit you tomorrow. At what hour will you be home?”

“I shall be home at whatever hour in the morning you choose to call, General Bonaparte,” she said, giving him an up-from-under smile.

“Then I shall call upon you at ten o’clock,” he announced. “Now, my equerry will escort you to your carriage.” He beckoned to the ever watchful colonel. “Montaine, Madame Giverny is not feeling quite well. See her safely to her carriage.”

The colonel offered the lady his arm. “My pleasure, Madame Giverny.”

“Thank you, Colonel.” She walked beside him as he expertly threaded a way through the crowd, both of them aware of the interested glances they drew and the rustle of whispers that followed them.

“Madame Giverny, are you leaving so soon? I am heartbroken.” Major Guillaume stepped into their path.

“Forgive me, Major, but I have a headache,” she said, trying for a wan smile. “The colonel is kind enough to escort me to my carriage.”

Guillaume had no choice but to bow his acceptance and step aside.

“Where did you reside in Paris, Madame Giverny?” Montaine inquired casually as he sent a footman for her evening cloak.

“Not strictly in the city, Colonel,” she said carefully. “In the Bois de Boulogne.” The Bois was large enough to make it difficult to make specific inquiries, even if Colonel Montaine had the time to put them in train. But it would take a week either side to send to Paris for information. And by that time this would all be over, one way or another. Her spine prickled again.

“A charming spot,” he said, helping her with her cloak. “And your late husband? Did he have an estate there?”

Meg turned to look at him, a carefully calculated sharpness in her gaze. Her earlier turmoil had ceased almost as soon as she’d left Bonaparte’s side and she was aware now of only a cold, detached composure. “Such very pointed questions, Colonel. As it happens I moved to Paris after my husband’s death six months ago.” She gave a little nod as if to say,
Does that satisfy you?

“Forgive the intrusion,” he said, meeting the challenge of her gaze without flinching. “But when General Bonaparte expresses an interest in someone, it is in
my
interests to ask some questions.”

“A few minutes’ conversation at a crowded soiree hardly qualifies as interest, Colonel,” she said, turning up the collar of her cloak as they stepped into the street.

“You will permit me to say, madame, that you do not know the general as I do.”

She inclined her head. “I’m sure that is true, sir. And I’m equally sure I never shall.” Her smile was frigid as her carriage drew up and her coachman/majordomo jumped down to hand her in.

“Bonsoir, madame.”
He bowed as he opened the door of the barouche.

“Bonsoir, Charles,”
she said, offering her coachman a distant smile as she took her seat. “Good night, Colonel.”

“Good night, Madame Giverny.” He bowed, then straightened and watched the barouche go off at a brisk trot, a frown in his eye. Was the lady after something more than the satisfaction of a grand conquest? There were many women who would be happy, indeed who had been happy, to add Napoleon Bonaparte to their trophy cupboard. The glory was brief but the triumph resounding. But there was something about Madame Giverny that gave him pause. He just couldn’t put his finger on it.

Meg drew her cloak warmly around her as a rather brisk breeze blew off the water. And now she was aware of only one sensation, a pure heady excitement that banished all fatigue, all apprehension. She had played her part to perfection. Worthy of any spy. A bubble of triumphant laughter grew in her chest and she had to fight to suppress it. She’d learned in her time with the privateer what danger did to her, how it filled her with a passionate energy, a wonderful jubilation. And this time was no different. She gazed at Cosimo’s back, willing him to say something that would allow her to express some measure of her exhilaration. But she knew he would not, not on the public street, even if there was no one around to hear.

They had had little personal contact since her arrival in Toulon. On that first evening, he had handed her a stack of engraved visiting cards for her to sign, explaining that he was going to deliver them to the prominent households in the town. She could expect to receive visitors the next morning, since, thanks to his undercover preparations while she waited with Lucille, everyone was eager to make the acquaintance of the mysterious countess.

He had known what he was talking about. The door knocker had been banging ever since under a stream of naval and army officers, their wives and daughters, and the wives of the most important members of Toulon society. Meg, to her surprise, had reveled in the game, flirting with the men, pleasantly courteous if a little distant to their womenfolk, and generally bolstering any rumors of a shady reputation that had preceded her arrival.

The invitation from Major Guillaume to accompany him to his brigade major’s soiree had been her first real social engagement and her first opportunity to make contact with Bonaparte. The meeting had been a success, but she couldn’t decide whether the rather intrusive questioning of the general’s equerry was a good sign or not. It was possible it was routine when Bonaparte evinced any interest in a woman, or it could mean that something about her had aroused the colonel’s suspicions. But Meg couldn’t see how that could be. She hadn’t put a foot wrong.

They drew up outside the house behind the Church of Ste. Marie and Cosimo jumped down from the box to open the door with a flourish for his mistress. She murmured her thanks and for an instant looked up at him, her eyes brilliant with excitement and triumph. And for an instant the majordomo’s normally gravely sober countenance cracked.

“Later,” he mouthed and stood aside so that he could open the door to the house for her.

She swept past him to the staircase, stifling a grin. She still had difficulty reconciling the gray-haired discreet gentleman who kept her household running on oiled wheels with the captain of a sloop-of-war, the privateer, the sometime courier, sometime spy . . . the assassin.

Estelle was waiting for her in her bedchamber, her nightgown laid out, hot water steaming on the dresser. “How was your evening, madame?”

“Pleasant enough, thank you,” she said, yawning behind her hand. “But I have a headache. I would like to get to bed quickly.” She could think of nothing but that Cosimo would come to her tonight. She sat at the dresser to take off her jewelry, her fingers clumsy in her haste.

“Yes, of course, madame.” Estelle hurriedly assisted her mistress to unfasten the emerald collar and remove the comb from her hair. She helped her out of the gown and petticoat and handed her a warm, wet washcloth.

Meg washed off the light dusting of white powder she wore on her face and held the cloth to her neck, feeling herself relax under its soothing warmth. Then she stood up to allow Estelle to drop the nightgown over her head. The maid proffered lavender water for aching temples, tooth powder, and a pot of an aromatic unguent made with glycerin, lemon juice, and rosewater that Meg massaged into her cheeks and bosom. It was supposed to reduce the appearance of freckles and whiten the skin.

“Can I fetch you anything else, madame?” Estelle turned down the bed.

Cosimo would appreciate a nightcap. “Bring me the decanter of cognac, Estelle. A tincture might help me sleep.”

She sat back against the pillows, the soft light of the bedside candle throwing a golden pool onto the crisp, white lawn sheet, and waited. Estelle set the decanter and glass on the table beside her, bade her good night, and with a curtsy disappeared to her own bed.

Meg poured a measure of cognac and sipped it, allowing her eyes to close as she replayed the events of the evening, let the jubilation have full sway, remembered how she’d felt that time hiding in the ditch, when the danger raging around them had filled them both with a passionate arousal that they could barely contain. She felt the same now, her loins heavy with desire, her thighs and belly taut with anticipation. She didn’t hear the door open until he spoke.

“So, I’m guessing it went well.”

Her eyes shot open. He stood in the bedroom doorway, now no longer the perfect servant. Now, despite the clothes and the gray hair, all Cosimo.

“Oh, there you are at last.” Meg cast aside the coverlet and sprang from the bed.

Cosimo closed the door softly behind him. He saw and recognized for what it was the glitter in her eyes, the flush on her cheeks. He knew the feeling well. The pure pulsating excitement of the chase in a dangerous hunt.

Swiftly he stepped towards her, hands outstretched. She let him take hers, pulling her into his embrace, and it was as if the estrangement had never been.

“Oh, but you do love adventure, don’t you, my love?” he said with a chuckle, running his hands down her back to cup her bottom, pressing her tightly against him.

She laughed giddily and tipped her head back for his kiss, opening her mouth for his tongue, even as she pressed her loins against him. It seemed an eternity since they had had this, a yawning lonely gap of wretchedness that she now realized had made her feel as if she was missing a limb.

Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, the waistband of his britches, her hands desperate to feel his skin once again. She ran her flat palms over his ribs, round to his back, pushed them down inside his loosened britches to his buttocks as she kissed his nipples, her teeth nibbling, grazing over his chest.

Cosimo held her tightly against him even as he struggled out of his clothes, shrugging his shirt off one arm at a time, pushing off his britches in the same way, finally falling onto the bed with her as he fought to free himself of his shoes so that he could kick off his britches. Meg seemed oblivious of these gyrations, her mouth, her fingers, all over him. The thin cambric of her nightgown tore as she twisted herself over him, catching the folds beneath her body. She ignored it, her tongue stroking down his belly, following the trail of dark hair farther to take him in her mouth, her hands cupping his balls, rubbing and squeezing gently, reveling in the taste of him, flicking her tongue over the salty tip of his penis, before taking the hot, hard length into her mouth again.

Cosimo moaned softly, pushing his hands up beneath the maltreated nightgown, palming her bottom, kneading the soft rounds as his hips moved beneath the knowing strokes of her tongue. “Stop a minute, for the love of God, Meg,” he implored, reaching up to twine fingers into her hair, tugging gently to bring her head up. “I need to feel you...lift up so that I can get this gown off you.”

Meg shifted obligingly onto her knees as he yanked the garment up and over her head, then with a tiny sigh of satisfaction returned to her previous position. She obeyed the gentle tap that encouraged her to lift her hips a little for the intimate invasion of his lapping tongue, the delicate exploration of his fingers. Finally he took her waist and manipulated her body so that they lay face-to-face, her length along his. She kissed him, the taste of herself blending with his on her tongue before pushing back, drawing up her knees so that she straddled his hips. Slowly she lowered herself onto him, taking him deep inside her, her lips parted as she felt him slide within her. She sat back on his thighs, circling her hips around his penis, owning him, owning her own pleasure.

He held her hips and watched her face, watching for the obliterating instant of passion before he let his own body follow hers to climax.

He stayed with her until just before dawn when they both awoke, the sweat drying on their now chilled bodies.

Meg sat up, shivering, reaching for the covers that had fallen to the floor. The sheet was still damp beneath her, the candle they’d forgotten to snuff guttered. “Cold,” she said, her teeth chattering.

Cosimo got out of bed, rearranging the covers over her, taking a moment to kiss her as he did so. “The sweat of lusty exertion,” he observed, brushing her now limp hair off her forehead. “You need a hot bath and a cup of chocolate. But in their absence, I prescribe a small tot of cognac and a warm robe.”

Naked, he moved around the chamber, bringing her a thick chamber robe of deep gold velvet, then pouring a small measure of cognac into the glass.

“Aren’t you cold?” She inhaled the powerful fumes before taking a sip.

“I’m used to being cold. I’m a sailor,” he reminded her with a smile. But he dressed swiftly nevertheless, taking sips from the cognac glass as he did so. He refilled the glass, offered it to her again, and when she shook her head, sat on the end of the bed, drained its contents, then spoke in the tone that meant the lover had been banished for the time being. “Explain to me exactly what happened.”

Meg complied, surprised at how clear her head was. Her audience didn’t interrupt, although she could see by the occasional flash in his eye that something she had said had caught his particular attention.

“So Colonel Montaine seemed unusually inquisitive?” he mused when she had fallen silent.