He was silent for a moment as he fastened his breeches.
"I think we should call this a draw," he observed impassively, his voice husky yet without inflection of any kind.
Julienne stiffened, suddenly realizing what she had just allowed to happen. Her mind spinning, she glanced down at her wanton dishevelment and drew a sharp breath, aghast. Sweet heaven.
Flushing with shame, she pushed down her skirts and fumbled to straighten her chemise and bodice. She could feel Dare's gaze on her, yet she looked anywhere but at him. She felt stripped bare of all defenses, her emotions naked and exposed.
Dear God, what had she done? She hadn't expected their lovemaking to go all the way, hadn't meant for their passion to flare out of control. She had only intended to tease Dare, to torment him as he was set on doing to her. She hadn't wanted him to win so effortlessly.
Her stomach wrenched. Dare had called this battle a draw, but he had gotten precisely what he wanted-her panting and moaning with desire for him. Damn him.
And damn her.
Despising herself, Julienne stole a glance at him. Was he feeling the same profound regret that she was?
He didn't seem happy about their carnal lapse. His face was expressionless, with no indication of the dismay that was swamping her, but at least there was no sign of triumph, either.
Then he spoke.
"Come, darling, I will take you home," he drawled, a cynical glint in his eye that mocked them both.
Julienne flinched, unable to protect herself against the pain that sliced through her at his casual dismissal. All she could do was curse herself for acting the fool.
The same witless, love-hungry fool she had been seven years ago.
Chapter Four
Julienne felt a measure of relief four days later when she was admitted to the salon of Madame Solange Brogard. She had feared she might be the chief topic of conversation at the afternoon gathering of French emigres. All London knew of Lord Wolverton's vow to win her and was watching for further developments with avid interest.
But the excited chatter that filled the elegant room now was punctuated with words like "Chaumont" and "Castlereagh" and predictions that "the Monster will soon fall." Thankfully, world events had overshadowed her own predicament and provided greater fodder for gossip than the scandal Dare seemed set on causing her.
Lord Castlereagh, Britain's foreign secretary, had persuaded her reluctant allies, Russia, Prussia, and Austria, to commit irrevocably to the defeat of Napoleon. After decades of war, Europe finally stood united to crush revolutionary France. The Treaty of Chaumont that had just been signed was a triumph of policy for Castlereagh, but no one was more pleased than the French nobles in exile, many of whom were in this room.
"It is only a matter of weeks now," an elderly chevalier prophesied. "And then we will see our beloved King Louis reclaim his birthright."
Several heads nodded sagely, but another gentleman contradicted him, suggesting that the Corsican's overthrow would take years longer-which began a fierce argument.
Across the crowded salon, Julienne caught the eye of the hostess, Madame Brogard. The Frenchwoman was one of her few London acquaintances whom she knew well enough to call friend, but Solange was closer to her late mother's age than her own.
Adele and Solange had been neighbors in their youth and had escaped the Terror at nearly the same time, but Solange had come to London fortified by the Brogard jewels and had soon established a salon where emigres and bluestockings and poets gathered for clever conversation and exquisite food, both more satisfying to French palates than the stodgy prattle and bland fare most of the English thrived upon. Often the conversation was literary in nature, but today it was all political talk of the war and the new treaty and the chances for Napoleon's defeat.
Julienne accepted a glass of sherry from a footman and slowly moved through the crowd, smiling and conversing and flirting effortlessly. She was expected to be gay and dazzling and witty, even if her spirits had plunged so low they were more suited to a walking corpse.
At least forcing herself into company served to keep her emotional tumult and heartache at bay. She had been a fool to let Dare make love to her again, for it brought back such painful memories of what she had lost. Worse, she had taken no precautions against pregnancy. Seven years ago, she hadn't known how, but she couldn't claim that excuse now. It had been criminal to risk conceiving Dare's child. What a disaster that would be!
Over the past four days, she'd had abundant time to reflect on his motives for pursuing her. She could draw only one conclusion: Dare North hated her and was bent on exacting his pound of flesh.
The knowledge set a hollow pain churning inside her. It wasn't hate that Dare woke in her but hunger. Being with him again had left her shaken with the realization of her own need and stir
red to life the fervent yearnings she had thought long-buried.
She had meant merely to defend herself that night, and perhaps give him a taste of his own medicine-to torment him a little as he was set on doing to her. But her plan had gone drastically awry the moment he touched her. Her reserve had melted under the heat of his passion, along with any notions of resisting him.
What an utter fool you are, Julienne swore at herself for the thousandth time. She should have been so much stronger.
Since that evening, she had made certain all their encounters were public. She had to concede, however, that Dare had won the first points in the game he had initiated.
He had appeared at the theater nightly to watch her, and once he'd distracted her so badly that she forgot a crucial line. When Dare called down to her on-stage, prompting her, much to the titillation of the audience and the ire of Edmund Kean, Julienne inwardly gritted her teeth while giving him a deep curtsy to acknowledge the hit. Later, upon taking her bows, she had commended Dare on his thespian talents.