Don't Tempt Me

Chapter 12

Marguerite paced the length of Solange's upstairs parlor and wrung her hands. She was nervous as she had never been, her palms damp and pulse erratic.

She had returned from Quinn's and fought with herself for hours, wanting to apologize and right things with her daughter, but knowing it was her responsibility as a mother to take extreme steps when necessary. She hated these machinations, hated threatening Lynette with marriage when she knew well how it felt since her own mother had done the same to her. They were too alike, she and Lynette, and now their lives were even more paralleled than ever before. Considering the end she had come to, Marguerite did not consider that to be an acceptable state of affairs.

Solange was out at the theater with a paramour. Lynette was sleeping, as were most of the servants. The house was quiet, the night still. The serenity of her surroundings only emphasized her roiling disquiet.

How did one face her missing heart, knowing she would have to lose it again?

But as time passed, she feared he might not come at all. Did he believe she had betrayed him? Did he not understand that she had left him to protect him?

A soft scratching came to the door, the sound so obtrusive in the silence that it felt as if they had scratched directly across her high-strung nerves. She jumped, cried to call out, and found her throat too dry. She caught up the glass of sherry on the table, drank it down, then tried again.

"Come in."

Her voice was low and throaty from the alcohol, but she was heard and the portal opened. The maid dipped a quick curtsy and stepped out of the way. A moment later, Philippe filled the doorway.

Marguerite's hand rose to cover her heart, her senses wracked by the barrage of emotions that assailed her at once.

Mon Dieu, he was still impossibly perfect, his body still lean, his countenance made more distinguished by the lines of time. Even the silver hair at his temples blended beautifully with the gold-an enhancement, not a detriment.

He glanced at the maid and sent her away with a flick of his wrist. She withdrew, closing the door behind her.

He stood unmoving for several moments, studying Marguerite with the same ravenous hunger, the same need to catalog every outward change. His enduring love struck her like a blow to the chest, stealing her breath and making her heart throb in her chest.

"Mon coeur," he said, bowing. "Forgive my delay. I took great pains to ensure that I was not seen or followed."

Philippe was exquisitely dressed for riding in tan-colored breeches that hugged powerful thighs and a dark blue coat with tails. He held his hat in both hands, carried low on his middle, like a shield.

"You look well," she managed, gesturing toward a slipper chair with a shaking hand.

"A facade, I'm afraid." He sat only when she did, choosing a position directly opposite her. "You, on the other hand, are beyond ravishing. More beautiful now than when you were mine."

"I am still yours," she whispered.

"Are you happy?"

"I am not unhappy."

He nodded, understanding.

"And you?" she queried.

"I survive."

He did not live. That broke her heart and a tear fell unbidden. "Do you wish we had never met?"

"Never would I wish such a thing," he said vehemently. "You have been the one light in my life."

She felt the same and told him so with her eyes.

"How ironic," he said softly, "that I joined the secret du roi in order to give my life meaning and instead it is the thing that took away my lone joy. If only I had waited for you. How different our lives would be now."

"Your wife…"

"She died." A tinge of regret weighted his tone.

"I heard." A fall from a horse while riding. Too much tragedy in their lives. A punishment, perhaps, for their indiscretion. "You have my sincere condolences."

"You have always been sincere," he said with a fond smile curving his mouth. "She was away with a lover at the time. I like to think she was happy in the end."

"I hope she was." I wish you were. But she did not say the words. There was no help for it, and wishing for things that could not be only added to the misery.

"You have two daughters."

"Now only one. One was lost to me two years ago." Marguerite breathed deeply. "They are the reason I asked you here tonight."

Sadness shadowed his features and she knew he'd hoped she might have sent for him for a different reason. He was a wise man, he would know that such a liaison would be agonizing for both of them, and yet he could not help but want it. She understood. Part of her wished he would seduce her, as they both knew he could. Make her mindless with lust so that her conscience could not intercede.

"Whatever you need, if it is in my power to give it to you, I shall."

"My eldest daughter met a man here in Paris. Simon Quinn. Have you heard of him?"

Philippe frowned. "Not that I can recall."

"He has somehow convinced her that there is a woman here in Paris who is identical to her, as her sister was, and that she goes by the same name. Lysette."

"To what aim?"

"Money, I believe." Her fingers smoothed nervously over the muslin of her gown. "I went to him earlier and offered him whatever he required to leave and not return. He did not decline."

"I sometimes think I should be grateful to have only sons. I am not certain I would tolerate fortune hunters well."

Marguerite's stomach clenched into a knot. "This has been my only experience in regard to my daughters. I am at a loss for how to manage the business. I must protect Lynette without alienating her."

"I admire your courage in facing this man. What can I do?"

"Can you tell me more about him? What would goad him to approach my daughter? He is a wealthy man by all appearances. He also confessed to Lynette that he was once an English spy. De Grenier assists the king only on the periphery and not in any covert capacity. We reside in Poland. What would he gain by an association with my daughter?"

"Is there any possibility that he truly cares for her? If she is even half as beautiful as her mother, any man would find her irresistible."

Marguerite gifted him with a sad smile. "Thank you. But if that were the case, why concoct the tale of this woman?"

"I do not know." Philippe bent forward. "Do you know who she is? Do you have a surname?"

She hesitated a moment, her fingers twisting in her lap. "Rousseau."

He drew back as if struck. "Mon Dieu… You believe this woman is a relation of mine?"

Edward lay for a moment in the darkness, attempting to discern what had woken him. When a sob rent the still night, he leaped to his feet, abandoning the chaise he slept upon to cross the short distance to Corinne's bed.

He lit the single taper on the nightstand and sat upon the edge of the mattress, his hand reaching out to touch her burning forehead. Tears coursed from the corners of her eyes and wet the hair at her temples, and her chest heaved with gasping cries.

Another nightmare. In the past two nights, she'd had several, all resulting in quiet sobbing and pleas for mercy.

Was every night of her life like this? Were these fever dreams, or the torment of the damned?

His chest tight with sympathy for her plight, Edward dipped a clean cloth in the bowl of water by the taper and wringed out the excess liquid. With soothing strokes, he wiped at her forehead and cheeks, unable to stop the river of tears or ease her distress.

Standing, he caught up the end of the counterpane and tossed it back, baring her night rail-covered body to the chill of the evening air. She whimpered and curled into a ball.

He cursed, hating the sight of her cowering, filled with fury by the violent quivering of her lips and the fist she pressed against them in a vain attempt to stem the sounds of pain spilling from her.

His hands fisted, the water from the cloth showering to the rug by his bare feet.

Why was he not running far, far away? Corinne was so damaged he wondered if she would ever be right again. He had not slept a single hour's length of time in four days, which diminished his capability to do his job, the one thing in his life that held any meaning to him.

"No cunt, however tempting, is worth this trouble," he growled.

Her shoulders jerked in time to each of his harshly stated words and remorse filled him. Sighing, Edward returned to her. He set the cloth in the bowl, then climbed into the bed beside her. He sat up, his back to the gilded headboard, his long legs stretched out before him.

Settled comfortably, he reached for her, warding off her blows and vicious curses, confining her wrists in one of his hands and hauling her against his side.

Corinne struggled with stunning force for so slender a woman, her fear giving her unnatural strength. But Edward held fast, his jaw clenched against the occasional painful strike of kicking feet, his limbs kept carefully away from snapping teeth.

Weakened by fever, lack of breath, and sufficient sustenance, she tired quickly and soon collapsed against him, coughing and shivering.

He began to sing then, a simple song remembered from his childhood. The sound of his voice seemed to calm her. He pondered that even as he continued.

Eventually, she clung to him. Her small hands fisting in his shirt, her cheek atop his chest. She still smelled like a drunkard, but he did not care. She was a slight, sweet weight against him, her curves molding perfectly to his hardness.

This was why he was here, why he had lied to Corinne's staff and intimated that they were lovers so they would cease trying to turn him away.

It was the way she felt in his arms, the rightness of it. He owned a favored knife that had a similar appeal to him. The hilt fit into his palm as if it were made for him alone. Yes, the edges were sharp and he had injured himself occasionally in the caring of it, but it was worth the effort to own such a unique and valuable piece.

And then there was the way Corinne responded to him, even in slumber. The way his touch and voice penetrated through the shell around her. As if some part of her knew that he would fit her just as well.

Edward felt her heartbeat slow against his chest and his own followed suit. Soon, they were breathing in unison, their hearts beating as one.

His eyes closed and he slept.

Simon smiled as Lynette's fingers drifted through the pelt on his chest. She was tucked against his side, her leg tossed over his thigh, dangerously near his cock. The feel of her silken limbs tangled so intimately with his kept his prick hard and aching. If tonight had not been her first for sex, he would have been at her again by now. As it was, he was biding his time. His end goal was too important to ruin for mere impatience.

He had been staring into the grate, one arm tucked behind his head, the other draped around her bare shoulders. Now, he looked down at her and felt a familiar knotting of his gut. Her hair was in glorious disarray, part of it restrained by pins, other parts sticking out wildly owing to the fervency of her desire.

How devastating she was in the heights of passion, unabashed and shameless, begging for his cock as if she would die without it. Not as a separate and interchangeable device of pleasure, but because of him alone. Out of all the women whose beds he had shared, he was positive only Lynette wanted Simon Quinn and not merely any available lover of sufficient skill and attractiveness.

Having met the vicomtess, he knew some of the censure Lynette would face, he understood the future she could have and the value of her maidenhead to her future husband. She had forsaken a lifetime of breeding and training for one night with him. It humbled him that she thought he was worth such a price.

"Why were your accounts seized?" she asked, glancing up at him.

"Extortion," he said dryly, his hand caressing the downy softness of her shoulder. "I resigned and they did not want to take 'no' for an answer."

"So you are a slave then," she said, anger lacing her tone.

"In a fashion, but only temporarily."

"What do they want you to do?" Lynette sat up and tucked the sheet modestly beneath her arms. Her lithe legs were curled beneath her and visible, creating a seductive montage for his eyes.

"Our friend, Lysette Rousseau, is up to mischief again. She is consorting with a Revolutionist and there is a need to know why."

"They could find no one else?"

"Apparently not." He thought a moment, then asked, "Does that surname sound familiar to you?"

"Rousseau? Not in an extraordinary fashion. Why?"

"Nothing. Just exploring a suspicion."

Her fingers rubbed along the ribbon-edged hem of the linen. "Are you expected to seduce her?"

"It was suggested," he murmured, watching her carefully.

Her pretty mouth thinned. "You won't, of course."

Simon grinned. "Of course."

"Are you being serious?" she asked crossly, eyeing his humor with an adorable scowl.

"Are you being jealous?"

She looked piqued for a moment, then chagrined. "Will you tell me how you know her?"

He patted his chest with his hand. "If you come lie against me again, I might be persuaded."

Lynette did as he asked. He tugged the sheet away so that nothing came between his skin and hers. Her breasts were a soft pillow against his chest, the curls between her legs a teasing tickle against his thigh. He had never truly absorbed such delights before, not to this degree. Every cell in his body was acutely attuned to every facet of her.

"Recently," he began, wrapping his arms around her, "Mademoiselle Rousseau accompanied me on a journey to England. She claimed to be searching for the perpetrator of a crime and the main suspect was an associate of mine whom I knew to be innocent."

"Did you find him?"

"Yes, and all ended well, but it was revealed that Lysette's purpose was not the hunt for my friend at all. It was another search entirely. She failed, but it was a lesson learned for me. I watched the woman stab a man to death and callously betray a comrade in an effort to save her own skin."

"Oh…" Her head rested more heavily against him.

"What is it, a thiasce?" he murmured, feeling her mood alter.

"She does not sound anything at all like my sister. She sounds like a monster."

Simon clutched her closer to him, giving her what little comfort he could. "In her defense, at times she seems to loathe herself and the man she killed was not a good one. The venom with which she attacked him also suggested that he had harmed her in some way in the past. There was no glee in her when she acted, only fury such as I have rarely seen in a woman."

Lynette shuddered. "I cannot imagine killing anyone."

"I hope you never have to. Regardless of the reasons for doing so, the taking of a life is not something one forgets."

Her head tilted back, revealing wide China-blue eyes. "Have you ever taken a life?"

"Regrettably, yes." He flinched when she did, fearing that her adoration of him would change and doubting he could bear it.

"A large number?"

"More than a few."

She was silent for so long, he wondered if she was thinking of a way to extricate herself and depart. Instead she said, "Thank you for your honesty."

"Thank you for not running away."

An ivory shoulder rose in an elegant shrug. "I can see they haunt you."

"Can you?" he asked hoarsely, riveted by a sense of vulnerability, of being naked in far more than body.

"Yes, it is in your eyes." She touched his brow with a cool hand. "I know you would not have done what you did if not forced to by necessity."

Catching her hand, he pressed his lips to her palm. "I am laid low by your faith."

He treasured her generosity, treasured her. Her steadfast belief in the goodness of his character-based only upon his treatment of her-altered everything. She knew his hands had blood on them, yet she trusted that he would act so decisively only by necessity. She did not judge or disparage, his already negligible assets were not further diminished. She did not color his future with the sins of his past.

"I am not the only open book in this bed," she said, smiling. "I can read you as well."

"Oh?" His brows rose. "What are you reading now?"

"You are mad for me," she pronounced, without a drop of humility.

Simon laughed. "You are incorrigible."

"You should have known that when I allowed you to kiss me."

"Allowed?" His grin widened. "Darling, you hadn't the wherewithal to stop me. You were clay in my hands."

"I suppose you are just irresistible?" She snorted.

He rolled and pinned her beneath him, enjoying the view of her pale hair and skin against the burgundy and dark woods of his bed. "Resist me, then," he challenged.

"That would be a bit difficult with you mashing me into the mattress."

"Mashing?" He lifted hastily.

"Well, you are a big man."

"The better to please you with," he purred, punctuating his claim with a nudging of his bone-hard prick into her thigh. He nuzzled his nose against hers. "You would not want a smaller man, a thiasce."

"Are you talking about your cock?"

He laughed at her obvious astonishment.

Lynette pushed on his shoulder. "I am serious, Simon! Does size vary greatly in that area?"

"Yes, of course. As varied as height and weight."

Her eyes were wide as saucers. "So a smaller man might have had less work to push inside me?"

He growled at the thought. "The size of a man's frame is not an accurate indicator of the size of his prick."

"Oh. Interesting."

"Not too interesting, I pray."

"Are you being jealous?" she tossed back at him, smiling coyly.

With a wiggle of his hips, Simon settled more firmly between Lynette's spread legs. He stroked the length of his cock through the petal-soft lips of her sex, groaning at the feel of her quickening response.

Her hands gripped his shoulders, her curved nails digging into his flesh in a way he found highly arousing instead of annoying, as he had in the past. He usually eschewed marks on his skin that would pique another woman's pride, but here, now, forever, he wanted Lynette's mark on him. He wanted it to be visible by one and all that she had given herself to him and taken him in return.

He reached between them and positioned the broad head of his cock at the tiny slit that led to heaven. She began to pant, her eyelids growing heavy as the spark between them kindled to burning.

"See?" she whispered. "I think you might be a size too large for me."

Lowered his head, Simon kissed her, slanting his lips across hers in needy hunger. Everything about her mouth set him on fire, from the words it spoke to the pleasure it bestowed. Her lips were soft and moist, delicious. And the way they trembled beneath his and parted so willingly ripped his heart right out of his chest.

"God, the feel of you," he groaned, sinking his cock slowly into the snug depths of her burning hot cunt.

"See?" he mimicked gently, sliding his arms beneath her shoulders to hold her in perfect position. "I can touch you at your deepest point"-he plunged-"and stretch you to your widest…" He circled his hips in an oft-practiced motion to make her insensate with delight. "I am perfectly proportioned to service you in every possible way."

She sighed. "I see…"

He lingered at certain depths, stroking over discovered pleasure points, reveling in the feel of her slick, succulent tissues. He had never been as enraptured with the sexual act before, never known it was possible to feel a woman's pleasure as if it were his own. Not in a proprietary way, but in truth.

As before, he took his time, pumping deep and slow. The sun would rise, she would leave, her family would intercede, and their time together would be over. He felt the ticking of the clock keenly, even in the midst of mind-numbing delight. But his goal was not to fuck her as many times as possible. He did not strive to curb his craving for her or make her remember him by sheer number of orgasms bestowed. Any man worth his salt could make a woman climax.

Not every man could make love to her.

It was quality he wanted, orgasms that shattered her soul, burrowed deep inside her, became a part of her.

Simon buried his face in the mass of her fragrant hair and held her tightly, absorbing the feel of the tight tips of her nipples against his chest and the pillowy cushion of her lovely breasts. Lynette was soft, sweetly curved perfection, so damn beautiful it made him ache to look at her.

She writhed beneath him, her head tossing, her lips whispering his name in a breathless litany. She was so generous in her passion, restraining nothing, giving him everything she was. No other woman in his life had ever come to his bed without reservation. His common breeding, his Irish heritage, his lack of social stature, his lack of property and family… He had nothing to recommend him beyond a few hours of pleasurable bedsport.

Lynette's innocence and purity destroyed him. Not simply her virginity, which he prized, but her pristine heart and mind. Even a whore was pure of heart the first rime she fell in love. No wariness to hold her back, no past hurts to fear, no shattered dreams to mend.

Lynette had never loved a man before, in any fashion. He was the first.

He would sell his soul to be her last.

In all of his life he had never had a home, never had a place he belonged or had anything that belonged solely to him. He had never owned anything irreplaceable and precious.

Except for Lynette.

Tonight, she belonged solely to him. The enormity of her gift made him tremble.

"Mon coeur," she breathed, encircling him with slender arms, anchoring him to her.

Simon continued to ride her slow and deep, determined to make the joining last as long as possible. His cock throbbed and ached, his ballocks were hard and drawn tight to his body. If he were less than completely mad for her, he would not have endured. She was so greedy, rippling along his length, tightening deliciously.

"Christ," he gasped, arching as white-hot sensation wrapped around the base of his spine and fisted tight. "It's so good," he groaned. "So damn good…"

"Please," she begged, her voice throaty and seductive.

"Tell me what you need," he purred, licking the shell of her ear. "Tell me, and I will give it to you."

"Do it again," she breathed. "Again…"

Hitting the end of her, he rolled his hips, grinding into her, giving her clitoris the final stimulation she required.

She stiffened, then keened, climaxing hard. Scratching his back and sobbing his name, she fell apart in his arms, her cunt clinging to his tormented cock with a viselike grip that clenched and released in a powerful massage.

He growled, grinding his teeth and fisting the pillows as she quivered around and beneath him, luring his seed into the spasming depths of her. He resisted by dint of will alone, waiting until her explosive tremors had faded to yank free and spill on the linens. Spurt after furious spurt shook his frame, the orgasm violent in its release, decimating everything he thought he knew about sex.

As liquid warmth bathed his straining cock, he railed at the injustice of it. His seed would never find purchase in her womb, his future would never have her in it.

He was finally home, but he would not be allowed to stay.