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Rhys shifted against her, leaning in closer. “Not all wolves are vicious.”
“What do you care for the wolves?”
“I mark no man my enemy, no matter his breed. As Rousseau says, ‘All men are created equally.’”
Henri had once quoted the same. She’d thought him a revolutionary. And she had admired him for his bold, independent thinking.
Her anger subsided as she looked over her rescuer’s face. Square jaw and bold nose. Not outwardly handsome, yet indicative of a warrior, and strong, powerful men always attracted her. Desire again scurried to the surface, reducing her need to put up the offensive. Rhys was attractive, more so for his teasing gentleness.
“Thank you for the rescue.” And then she leaned in to kiss him.
A connection, two mouths meeting in the night. Testing. Taking measure. Wondering. She kept it chaste; his lips were soft and yet firm, willing to give her her way. This kiss was hers to direct, and while she fought with the insanity of it, she was proud of her independent heart. It never led her too far astray.
Tonight her heart took what she craved. Flesh to flesh. Sharing of body heat. A sample of pleasure she could either pursue or flee.
How she wanted to pull him to her, crush her breasts against his chest, and dive into the deepest of intimacies. But no, this simple moment must be savored. This first kiss, not at all awkward for their mouths met as if destined, she would remember always.
Breaking the kiss, she leaned back, but Rhys followed her, forehead to forehead.
“You surprise me, LaMourette. I thought my presence offended you.”
Indeed, she surprised herself.
“Regarde moi,” he said.
No, she would not look at him. Could not. Her bold heart grew trepid.
“It was nothing more than a thank-you kiss, Monsieur Hawkes. Lost in a moment of relief.” She exhaled resolutely. “I assure you, now I’ve gained my senses, I will ask you to leave.”
“I am honored to have earned your kiss, even if in a moment of nonsensical folly. Good eve, LaMourette. Until we next meet.” He glanced upward. “Full moon in less than a week. What is it Shakespeare wrote? Well met by moonlight?”
“I believe it was ill met by moonlight.”
“Ah? Well then, forget I said that. Meeting you has been beyond a pleasure. Au revoir.”
She lifted her chin and did not look until he’d broached the cross street and his silhouette filled the alley. Broad-shouldered and solid. He was built like a peasant who worked the fields. Not refined. Brusque. And such a swaggering walk. Nowhere near the aristocratic elegance she was accustomed to.
Viviane swiped her tongue across her bottom lip. The taste of him did not offend. And the smell of him, so much a part of this mortal realm, crept into her pores and fixed itself there. Complex, yet simple. Dark. Sure of himself.
Yet she could not abandon the ill ease something about the man was very wrong.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU SAY SHE WAS WAITING for William Montfalcon to return to her?”
Orlando nodded fervently. “He’d told her he was bringing money, so they could be together.”
Having returned from his nightly visit to the brothel, Orlando’s ginger hair was mussed and his shirt untucked from his breeches. But he wore a smile like a badge of triumph.
“Her name is Annabelle,” Orlando said.
“Just Annabelle?”
“Yes, just.” A wider, more pleased grin had never graced the boy’s face.
Ah, the afterglow of a night well spent.
Settling in for the morning, Rhys sat on a stool at the end of the bed, stripping his stockings off before the porcelain ewer filled with boiling water. “How did this topic come up while you two were …?”
“I asked her if she ever thought to stop and leave the world behind.”
“Interesting conversation.”
“We did more than shake the bed.” The boy plopped onto a chair, one arm draping the back, a leg dangling over an arm.
Rhys recalled the drunken high of after sex, and felt a nudge of jealousy. Kissing—or rather, receiving—LaMourette’s kiss tonight had only increased his frustration.
“I am a gentleman, Rhys. You taught me to treat a woman with dignity.”
“Is that so? I don’t recall directing you to comment on their assets as if they were confections on display at the market.”
“Oh come, man! I am young. I am enjoying myself.”
“Indeed.” He plunged his feet into the copper bowl, huffing out a satisfied moan at the heat. “And she said nothing else?”
“Only it has been almost a month since William promised to return to her. She’s all put out about that. I wish I had a bit of coin to give her. More than she usually asks, that is.”
“I think I can help you with that, Orlando. I want to speak with her. See if she’ll give me further information regarding Montfalcon’s whereabouts. When do you see her next?”
He shrugged. “Few days.”
“Excellent.”
IN THE SHOE ROOM, Viviane sat with her back to a padded damask column. A loose linen chemise spilled from one shoulder. Lace about her neckline and wrists tickled her skin like a lover’s breath. Rhys’s breath. A red satin shoe with black frogs and an ebony heel she clutched to her heart.
Earlier, Portia had dusted the room with lavender powder, which lulled her. Sleep had eluded all through the morning hours. And now, well past two in the afternoon, she could not begin to start the day. For he haunted her thoughts. Her every step. Every time she ran her tongue across her lips she thought to taste him.
Him—the vampire with the warrior’s name and the curious scent—Rhys Hawkes.
She touched her mouth and allowed a wicked smile at the thought of Rhys’s mouth tasting her. She pressed her thighs together and almost, almost, reached a pinnacle. Surely, it would take more than a kiss to bring her to climax. Yet for as agitated as she’d been lately, Viviane was surprised she’d not come from a mere kiss.
What power did the man wield to affix himself in her thoughts—into her very body—like this?
Constantine she never thought about, unless it ended in revulsion.
Rhys, it seemed, could not be near her without touching her, if even through the slightest glide of his knuckles along her skirts, he sought connection.
And he had achieved it. To her detriment. Now she could think of nothing more than seeing him again. Tempting him to touch her, to unleash her from her self-imposed freedoms. To take their kiss beyond.
Did he mark it off as folly? Or did she haunt his thoughts, as well? Did he crave her? Did he wish to feel her teeth against his neck, his mouth, his veins?
“I want more of him,” she said on a wistful sigh. “A taste of him.”
A taste would not bond her to him as kin to patron. A deeper drink was required for that.
Rolling forward onto her stomach, she teased a red tassel decorating the toe of a cerulean slipper. Each pair of shoes had been lovingly placed on a tilted shelf, the sides of each foldable box down to reveal the contents. It was as if a confectionary shop displayed its wares of satin, lace and ribbon.
Noticing the corner of paper tucked beneath one box, Viviane drew it out. The card was about the size of her hand, and featured a marvelous ink drawing with exquisitely lascivious detail.
“Blanche, you do surprise me.”
The drawing depicted a man on a chair, leaning over a woman who sat on the floor. Her dress spilled from shoulders and hips to reveal he teased her nipple with one hand and her quim with the other.
But more interesting in the picture was the chair decorated with arabesques of large male members, and on the woman’s shoes were tiny female figures, legs splayed to reveal all.
The erotic art increased Viviane’s ache for a sensual touch. She traced a fingernail along the curve of the woman’s breast, and tapped the man’s delving fingers.
Rhys could touch her like that and she would not stop him.
Even though he disturbs you?
She imagined herself in such a position—with Rhys leaning over her. Sucking in her lip, she slid her hand down her skirts to press between her thighs. Giddy desire stirred. She needed so much more than a kiss.
Portia tiptoed in and leaned a shoulder against the damask wall below an angel-bedecked candelabrum. “Dear, you look so melancholy. It is Monsieur Hawkes.”
Viviane hid a sly grin behind the erotic card. “You think to know so much?”
The maid nodded, sure of her assessment. Wilted ruffles frilled about her bosom and mobcap; she’d been steaming Viviane’s gown.
Viviane sat up against the padded post and drew her legs into a curl. She displayed the card to Portia. “Were you aware of your former mistress’s secret stash?”
“What is that?” Portia bent to examine the card. “Oh my. He’s touching her so … And oh.” She clutched the card, but Viviane snatched it and possessively pressed it to her chest. “I had no idea. Shall I dispose of it for you?”
“No. It appeals to me. As does Monsieur Hawkes.”
Portia’s eyelashes fluttered in delight. “He was appealing.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, that gray streak in his hair is charming. Makes me wonder if he got it because of some devastating trauma that wounded his heart. And now he bears the scar of it as a reminder.”
“You have quite the imagination, Portia.”
“Is he a vampire?”
“Apparently.” At Portia’s wondering gaze she explained. “He seemed out of the ordinary. Not like vampires I’ve met. Rough-mannered. Dressed poorly.”
“Oh, dear, yes, no lace.”
“That, and did you see his walk? A bowlegged strut like something right off a pirate’s ship. The man was overall …” She searched for the correct summation.
“Wild,” Portia murmured with wicked delight.
Viviane hid a smile behind the card. Passion had flared in Rhys’s brown eyes as he’d stepped defiantly before her to divert her pace in the salon. When he’d stepped around behind her, she had felt his eyes roving down her back, lingering at the base of her spine. It was as if he had touched her there.
What a divine place to experience touch. And she preferred if it were by a man’s tongue while she lay naked before a blazing hearth fire. The tickle of a wet tongue down her spine, tracing into the dimples of Venus that crowned her derriere …
“You’re thinking about him,” Portia chided teasingly.
“He fascinates me, nothing more.” She studied the card again and wondered if there were more to the collection tucked away.
“Does he desire to give you what Salignac can?”
“What, exactly, is it Constantine can give me?”
“Safety. Life.”
She liked those things. But freedom was missing from the list.
“You do adore fine things, ma chérie. And your coffers are not growing larger. Hell, what coffers?”
She hated that Portia spoke the truth with little reserve. But she did not fault her for it.
All the servants had mutinied following Henri’s death. They were owed wages, and Viviane had discovered Henri’s caches empty. Upon Portia’s suggestion, she’d handed each employee a silver candelabra or two and bid them adieu. But the stable boy, Gabriel, and Portia remained.
Every day new creditors knocked at the door seeking to collect Henri’s debts. The furniture in the music room had been carried out yesterday. She had no idea how she would pay Rose Bertin, the dressmaker, yet supposed she could return all of Blanche’s gowns.
Viviane studied the shoe and wondered if she could pay off a few leeches with a damask mule or ermine slipper?
“I’ve pressed the gown with the hummingbirds on the sleeves.”
Viviane adored that one.
“Master Rosemont just arrived,” the maid added. “He’s copying out lessons.”
“Excellent. Help me prepare.”
IT WAS SATURDAY AFTERNOON and Master Rosemont stood over Viviane, gently guiding and observing as she copied out the word carriage on the paper. Henri had seen to arranging for her studies but days after her arrival.
“It’s a complicated word,” Viviane said as she finished the e. “But pretty. Did I make it right?”
“Your penmanship is coming along well, Mademoiselle LaMourette.”
Much as she insisted he use her first name, he never did. He was young, and more than a few times Viviane had caught him observing the rise and fall of her bosom as she concentrated over her work. Once she had met his roaming gaze and he blushed so deeply, she decided never to do that again. The man was nervous, but a kind teacher.
“Are there some words you’d like to write today? List a few and I’ll write them for you to copy.”
Pressing the quill’s feathered end to her lips, Viviane perused the many objects in the room, wondering which of them she’d most often need to write about.
