Defiant Angel (36 page)

Clinton loved the sound of the "we" she had used. He loved her abandoned joy and he loved her more than life itself. "You shall see, love, and there'll be no prying it from me."

Tiffany pouted at his words, but Clinton refused to be daunted, adding, "Our horse has better than fifty percent odds at winning but is virtually unknown. Rory and Brent will meet us there, for they are much interested in wagering some pounds."

Seeing the unasked question in her eyes and knowing her love of gambling, he answered her, "And, of course, Princess, you may wager all my worldly treasures, except, of course, yourself. That I would not allow." Tiffany stiffened in his arms, but Clinton held her tightly.

"You presume too much, my lord. You do not own me nor do you control me."

"Really, Princess? I beg to differ, for you own and control me as well." She pushed against him, wrenching free. Clinton smiled and she glared at him, knowing she was free because he allowed it.

"Princess, I control and own you body and soul, every morning, night, and often in between."

"Aye, but only then, my lord, never any other time." She stalked to the door, yanking it open, and before leaving, she turned and said, "Body and soul maybe, but never my heart."

As she walked out, she heard the underlying promise in the words that followed. "That, too, will pass."

Paris, Spring 1819

T
iffany stood on the bottom rung leaning against the fence; her sweet rounded derriere, clad in black breeches, rubbed against Clinton's groin as she turned to watch the horses approaching the finish line. The tail of her French braid caught Clinton's chin as she turned her head sharply. Her high black boots struck his shin when she jumped in excitement as Kubla Khan crossed the finish line first.

"Oh, did you see, Clinton!" Tiffany exclaimed. She turned in his arms to face him. He stood behind her, hands braced upon the fence.

Clinton gazed at her. She was refreshingly charming; her cheeks heightened with color, her eyes sparkled with excitement, and errant wisps of hair escaped her braid.

Impulsively Tiffany threw her arms around his neck, and he instinctively moved closer, pinning her between the fence and his long, hard form. "Wasn't he wonderful? I knew he would win. I told Brent he would, odds or not."

Clinton was inordinately pleased with her obvious happiness. "Yes, Princess, he is indeed wonderful, odds or not."

"Oh, Clinton, this is the very best birthday. How can I ever thank you?"

He grinned at her innocent question, thinking of a number of ways, none which were appropriate at the moment. "A kiss, Princess, would do it."

Without a pause, she leaned fully against Clinton's body, placing a sweet kiss on his lips.

"Ah, Princess, I know you can do much better."

As her fingers twirled in the hair at his nape, she considered his request. A teasing sparkle lit her eyes when she replied, "Clinton, 'tis not proper," and she gazed about, continuing, "What will all these people think?"

"I don't give a damn what they think. Now, give a proper tribute to your husband."

Still uncertain but more than willing to do his bidding, she leaned into him, parting her lips slightly and placing them upon his. When she would have lifted her mouth, she found his hand held her head. His tongue teasingly traced her lips, then plunged into her mouth, coaxing her tongue to play. Tiffany, stirred by him, kissed him back, her tongue boldly fencing with his.

Clinton felt the fire light in his loins, the blood rush to his manhood, which rose, pressing against Tiffany's belly. It had been almost ten days since he last lay with her, and three days remained in his self-enforced abstinence. With this in mind, he checked his desire and lifted his mouth reluctantly from hers. He saw the aroused passion in her dazed eyes and knew she felt the stirrings as strongly as he. Rubbing his thumb over her lip, he whispered, "Princess, if we continue, I shall embarrass myself. As it is, I pray you do not leave me at this moment, for my breeches are straining at the bit."

Feeling herself as if her knees would give out, Tiffany rested her head against his throat, willing her own desire to burn down.

"Merde!"
Marcel Rousseau spat as he threw down his cigar, grinding it viciously with his foot.

Brent turned to him, a smile etched on his mouth.

Tauntingly he inquired, "Lose, did you now? Well, if it makes you feel better, I lost a tidy sum to my sister-in- law." Shaking his head, he muttered, "Should have never taught her about odds and all."

Marcel, his gaze resting on the figures embracing at the fence, replied,
"Mon Ami,
your brother has the devil's own luck when it comes to horses and women,
non?"

Brent, looking in the same direction, nodded in agreement.

Tiffany, after'having gained some measure of control, lifted her head and saw the many faces turned toward them. She whispered desperately to Clinton, "Everyone is looking."

Holding her close, he replied easily, "Let them. I told you, Princess, I care not what people think nor say." She smiled timidly at him, leaning against his tall frame, casually fingering the hair at his collar.

Seeing the horses lining up, Clinton asked her, "Which horse have you wagered on, Princess?"

Tiffany turned to lean against the fence, securing her feet in the rung. "I wagered with Rory over the gray," she replied, and turning to face him, added, "I did wager a large sum, though I think Rory goaded me into doing so. I fear he and I will always be at odds."

Smiling, Clinton remarked, "Don't worry, love, about the amount, nor Rory for that matter. He's always one to hold a grudge, you know."

"Well, had Touche not stumbled, I would have beat him, and well he knows it," she replied defensively.

"I guess you'll have to show him, won't you?" Clinton pulled a cheroot from his vest pocket and lit it.

"Would you really let me challenge him to a race?" she asked incredulously.

A curl of smoke drifted upward as Clinton puffed on the cigar. "Have you any doubt?" A smile lit her face at his words. The start of the race caused Tiffany to turn.

Once again her exuberance over the race caused her buttocks to brush against Clinton's groin. He groaned as she unconsciously rubbed against him. He thought, Only three more days, which at the moment seemed a lifetime.

"Pardon,
Estell
ma petite,
I must collect my winnings," Rory said, looking appreciatively down at the redhead he had recently made his mistress.

"You will not be too long,
m'amour?"
she pouted prettily, batting her eyelashes at him.

Taking in her lush, curvy form, he remembered the delightful night past and replied easily, "No, ma
cherie,
just long enough to collect what's owed me."

While making his way to Tiffany and Clinton, he was stopped by a group of acquaintances.

"Say, Rory, ole chap," called Clive Thornton, "you could make me a very wealthy man today if you'd solve this puzzle for us." Clive swept his hand over the four men standing nearby.

"Alan here insists the lovely bit of fluff with your brother is his new duchess." Holding his head arrogantly, Clive snorted and continued, "I told Alan the nice piece of fluff is his new lovebird."

Now, while Tiffany, to Rory's way of thinking, was a troublesome bit of baggage, she was nevertheless family, a Barencourte, and
no one
gossiped about a Barencourte. In a voice edged in steel he replied, "That bit of fluff you refer to, Clive, is Clinton's bride." Leveling his gaze, holding Clive's, he added, "My family has an aversion to gossip ... a deadly one." Rory turned, leaving the group.

"Tiffany, pay special attention to the horses parading by." Tiffany watched mounts passing, noting a solid black filly, fine-boned with four gleaming white hooves and a blaze. She watched the filly prance before her and sidestep daintily.

"Which would you choose? Which one would you bet on?"

Without pause, Tiffany pointed a slender finger at the filly, "That filly over there, Clinton, the feisty one."

He smiled and pulled on his cigar.

"I'll wager two hundred pounds on her, Clinton."

"Not until I've collected, little sister," inteijected a just-arrived Rory. Tiffany pulled a face at him and withdrew one hundred pounds. Clinton stilled her hand. Both looked to Clinton, who explained.

"Perhaps, Rory, you'd wish to wager double or nothing on this race?" Clinton smiled down at Tiffany.

"Two hundred pounds?" Rory asked. Clinton nodded. Rory looked to Tiffany, who smiled and agreed.

Rory raised an inquiring brow and taunted, "But can you afford it?" He smiled at her, letting his gaze travel over the breech-clad figure, and taunted further, "I wouldn't want to deplete your allowance and deprive you of the means to purchase a proper wardrobe."

Tiffany glared at him, her temper, beginning to flare, reflected in her narrowed eyes. Clinton inteijected, "Not to worry, brother, I'll cover her."

Rory had witnessed the public display between Clinton and Tiffany. He had noticed how Clinton had remained very close to her, even now as she was pressed against the fence by his body. He replied, sarcastically, "Cover her, yes, you've done that quite nicely today."

Not willing to be drawn, Clinton smiled easily, asking, "Which mount do you chose, brother?"

"Let the lady make her choice first; it's the least I can do before I take her money."

The lively twinkle in Rory's eyes incensed her. She permitted herself a withering stare before she turned abruptly, causing her head to bump Clinton's chin, and pointed. "The black filly with the white blaze and hooves."

"I prefer the strawberry roan myself."

Clinton grinned at Rory. "Yes, it appears you are partial to redheads today." His eyes pointedly came to rest on Estell standing a discreet distance away.

"It would appear so," Rory agreed, following Clinton's gaze.

The report of the gun signaled the race had begun. Tiffany rose to stand on the rung; her body rested against the fence, and her derriere rode high, brushing against Clinton's groin, which burned with the contact. Clinton, not the least bit interested in the race at hand, leered wickedly down at Tilfany's raised bottom, taking in its soft, rounded shape, while illicit thoughts and images ran rampant through his mind.

Tiffany turned quickly about, crying, "She won, Clinton! She beat them all!"

Clinton quickly masked his face against his carnal thoughts and led Tiffany over to the filly. Tiffany stood admiring the horse and rubbed the soft black muzzle.

"Do you like her, Princess?"

"Oh, she is splendid, Clinton. What is her name?"

"Duchess." Clinton paused to relight his cigar. With cigar clamped between his teeth, he added, "And she is yours."

Intense astonishment touched Tiffany's face. She breathed one word, "Mine."

He pushed a stray tendril of hair from her face. "Happy birthday, love."

Impulsively she threw her arms around his neck. Standing on her toes, she drew his face to hers and pressed her open lips against his mouth. She moved closer, molding her body against his, pressing her breasts to his chest, her hips to his, and slowly curled her fingers in his hair.

The kiss she had begun deepened, loosening the restraints of her passion, bound by their abstinence. Her tongue stroked his mouth thoroughly, as the flames of desire began to lick at her.

Clinton could no longer suppress his desire and kissed her, his tongue boldly meeting hers, stroking her mouth.

His hands moved over her back, caressing, kneading her, pressing her closer to his rising desire.

A discreet cough brought Clinton to his senses and reluctantly he lifted his mouth from a weak-kneed Tiffany, who leaned heavily against him, her face turned against his throat feeling his rapid pulse pound.

"Sorry to interrupt, brother," replied Brent, who looked anything but sorry, "but my intentions, while untimely, are honorable. I've come to pay Tiffany her winnings."

"As have I," added an even less remorseful Rory.

Tiffany at the moment could have cared less; she was still reeling from the effects of the kiss and merely smiled weakly at the intruders. While she had unwrapped her arms from Clinton's neck, she remained leaning against him until she was sure her trembling legs would hold her upright.

Clinton, for a brief moment, entertained the thought of fratricide and its consequences. His face reflected his thoughts as he stared at his brothers.

The moment was interrupted by Keegan, who strolled up to the group, a length of rope coiled in hand. " 'Ow'd you like 'er, my lady? Told the guv'nor she's a credit to her sire and you'd love 'er."

Thankful for Keegan's timely intervention and sure her legs would hold her, Tiffany moved closer to the horse. "Xanadu's the sire. I should have recognized the markings."

Keegan led the horse away as a group of men, who had remained on the sidelines, unwilling to interrupt, now joined them. Tiffany stood quietly at Clinton's side as the men conversed. Not paying much attention to the conversation or exchange of markers and pounds, Tiffany stood, scanning the crowd. Her eyes drifted over a group of well-dressed men who stood laughing and chortling. Her eyes stopped and moved back over the group, coming to rest on the slender figure of a man whose back was to her.

A nagging sense of familiarity oozed through her as she took in the light sandy hair, the lean, athletic physique.

As if feeling her eyes upon him, the man turned. His amber eyes arched slowly back and forth in the crowd, stopping to hold sapphire eyes. He turned fully to face her, and across the distance that separated them, Tiffany saw the face that haunted her dreams, and held her heart.