Don't Tempt Me (Georgian 4)

“Was?” His hands moved—one cupping her nape, the other banding her waist.

Lysette stared up at him, afraid to breathe. “I am not a good person. I have done things—”

“I do not care.” Edward studied her, his gaze burning. “What concerns me is how you are with me from this moment onward. You must decide, Lysette: Will you trust me to care for you, as I have since I met you, or will you send me away?”

Lysette swallowed hard. “I want to trust you.”

“That is a beginning, I suppose.”

His fingers kneaded into the tense muscles of her neck, driving her mad. Her brain fought to stay frightened, urging her to flee. But her body, fickle thing, was melting into his touch. The feel of his hard, sinewy frame against her was not unpleasant.

“I have never trusted anyone,” she confessed.

“Ever?”

Her smile was wry. “As long as I can remember. Would you like to hear the tale of my life? It is lamentably short but true.”

Edward kissed the tip of her nose. “I should relish the opportunity to listen to whatever truths you have to tell me. I would, however, be grateful if you would return to bed and drink some beef tea.”

“As you wish.” Her smile wavered, shaken by gratitude at the care he displayed for her well-being.

With his hand at her lower back, he walked her to the bed.

To her surprise, she gave him the lead without reticence or fear for hidden intentions. The half-smile that curved the stern lines of his mouth made the concession worth it.

Marguerite was abed and nearly asleep when a raised masculine voice in the adjoining boudoir of her bedroom alerted her. She sat up, tossed back the covers, and fetched her robe from where it was draped over the foot of the bed. Rushing to the door, she pulled it open and found herself faced with her husband.

De Grenier was travel dusty and obviously weary, yet his handsome face lit when he saw her. Celie, her maid, stood behind him, holding his cane and hat.

“I reached Paris tonight,” he said, “and found your note waiting for me. I came straightaway.”

“You may go,” Marguerite said to the maid, linking her arm with de Grenier’s and leading him into the bedroom.

She shut the door behind them, briefly noting the disgruntled frown on the servant’s face. Celie always looked displeased when de Grenier was with Marguerite. Since the maid had been with her since her affair with Saint-Martin, she suspected it was simply a case of liking one master more so than the other.

“Why are you here in Paris?” he asked, moving to the grate and holding his hands out to the banked fire.

“There is so much that I have to tell you,” she said urgently. “So much has transpired since you and I last spoke.”

Their marriage was a distant one, with de Grenier gone from their house more often than he was there. Even when he was home, he was often occupied in his study, working on diplomatic matters between France and Poland. But it was her fault, as well. With her heart engaged elsewhere, she had never given herself to him as she should have.

“Perhaps we should retire to our own home,” he suggested.

“That would take hours and I cannot wait that long. As it is, I thought I might go mad before you arrived.”

Nodding, de Grenier shrugged out of his coat, baring broad shoulders encased in shirtsleeves and waistcoat. He was younger than Saint-Martin by a decade, his body in its prime and beautifully maintained, his dark hair unmarred by gray. Women admired and coveted him, fawned over him, yet he was most often too distracted to take note of their interest.

He sank into a slipper chair and removed his heels. “You have my undivided attention, madame.”

Nodding, Marguerite linked her hands behind her back and began to relate the events of the past sennight. She paced with agitation, but her words were spoken clearly. The entire affair was too important to say anything incorrectly.

“And you believe this man? This Quinn?” he asked when she finished. “You saw Lysette’s body with your own eyes, Marguerite. How can this woman be our daughter?”

“I do not know. I confess, I am completely confused.”

“What do you want me to do?” He stood and approached her, taking her hands in his. His gaze was clear and direct, capped by a slight frown.

“What do you think of Quinn’s tale of L’Esprit?” she asked. “Do you think it has merit?”

He exhaled, then shook his head. “Are you asking me if I think Saint-Martin is responsible? I’ve no notion. There are too many unanswered questions. What happened to the original L’Esprit? How involved is Desjardins?”

“I detest that man,” she hissed. “It frightens me how deeply I wish him ill.”

Pressing his lips to her forehead, he said, “I will visit Quinn tomorrow and judge his sincerity for myself.”

“Thank you.” Marguerite looked up at him and felt deep gratitude. Through every tragedy of her life, he had been available to her, offering support and commiseration.

One of his hands slipped from her shoulders and cupped her unfettered breast. She inhaled sharply, startled by the abruptness of his advance. His thumb brushed across her nipple, then circled it, expertly bringing it to a hard and aching point.

“It is late,” he murmured, watching her reactions with heavy-lidded eyes. “Let us retire here. On the morrow, I will take you and Lynette home, and resolve this dilemma.”

She nodded. As always, Philippe came to mind unbidden and her stomach knotted. Marguerite pushed the inevitable feelings of guilt and betrayal aside with effort and took her husband to her bed.

Lysette kicked snow off her boots before rushing through the front door of her home and racing up the stairs.

Once again, Lynette had grabbed her lighter muff, only to discover that it was cold enough to warrant using the fur-lined one. As often as she complained about how cold the Polish winter was, one would think she would never leave the house without being properly attired.

But that was Lynette, and Lysette loved her. Lynette was so vibrant and carefree, so daring. Men flocked around her and admired her beauty. Although they were twins, men did not do the same to her. And her sister was not one to complain about her lack of forethought. Lynette had acted as if nothing was wrong, but Lysette had noted her shivering and commented on it.

Today, they had gone on an outing with their mother to admire the beauty of the Countess Fedosz’s winter garden. It was a small party, made up of local families bored by entrapment caused by the lengthy snowfall. Presently everyone was strolling through the various paths, admiring how the ice and snow clung to bare branches shaped especially to look better in winter than they did with leaves.

Running down the gallery, she entered Lynette’s boudoir and retrieved her sister’s muff, then she hurried back down the hall.

She was passing her mother’s room when she tripped, and a quick glance down confirmed that the laces on one of her boots had come undone, despite being wet.

Lysette kneeled on the runner, setting the muff down on the floor while she retied her boot. In the silence created by her lack of movement, voices were heard—masculine and feminine—coming from her mother’s room, the door of which stood slightly ajar.

Who was talking? And why were they talking in the vicomtess’s bedchamber?

Pushing to her feet with the muff in hand, Lysette stepped closer. She peeked through the slender crack between the doorjamb and the door, stilling with shock when her eyes found the couple inside.

His hand was at her throat, his mouth speaking harshly in her ear, his buttocks visibly clenching and releasing through his breeches as he thrust himself into her against the wall.

Celie’s eyes were wide beneath her servant’s cap, her nostrils flared with fear, her gasps punctuated with pleas for forgiveness.

“I need to see every missive that leaves this house,” he growled. “You know this.”

“I am sorry,” she whimpered. “I have not failed you before no

w.”

“One failure is too much.”

The slick sounds of sexual congress blended with panting breaths and Celie’s sobbing. The scene so horrified Lysette she thought she might faint. Instead she covered her mouth and backed up slowly, fighting a feeling of nausea so intense she thought she might cast up her accounts in the hallway.

Her back hit something solid. She jumped and cried out behind her hand.

“You should not have seen that,” growled a masculine voice in her ear.

Pain—sharp and biting—split her skull. The hallway spun, then tumbled into darkness.

Lysette woke with a cry, her body shuddering with remembered fear and horror.

“Lysette.” Edward rose from his seat before the fire, his jacket gone, his reddened eyes telling her he had fallen asleep as well. “Another nightmare?”

“Mon Dieu . . .” she breathed, lifting a hand to her racing heart. She had never been gladder to see anyone than she was to see Edward. “Bless you for being here.”

“I will always be here,” he said, sitting beside her on the bed and pouring her a glass of water. “I stayed tonight because I thought you might sleep restlessly after telling me your story.”

“It seems I have more to tell,” she whispered, accepting the glass with gratitude.

He nodded grimly. “I am listening.”

Simon was awake before dawn. Although he had slept only a handful of hours, he did not suffer from fatigue. He was alert and primed, so much so that he went to his study and began to plan in depth, knowing he needed a lure and a worthy trap. He was so occupied by the task that the hours passed swiftly, a circumstance he noted only when his butler announced a caller and presented the visitor’s card to Simon.

His brows rose and he glanced at the clock. It was nearly eleven. “Show him in.”

Setting his quill aside, Simon waited. When a tall, dark form filled his doorway, he stood and extended his hand. “Good morning, Mr. James.”

“Mr. Quinn.” Edward James’s returning grip was strong and steady, as Simon supposed the man himself was.

“An unexpected visit, although not unwelcome.” Simon gestured to the seat across from him, eyeing Edward James carefully. “To what or whom do I owe this honor?”

His visitor was dressed somberly in dark brown, his garments well kept, his cravat neat, his heels polished. Unremarkable, really, aside from the obvious fastidiousness.