“I said that I would be willing to trade the Earl of Ashcombe for a sizeable donation to my orphans. I did not include you in the bargain.”

A chill settled in the pit of Talia’s stomach. “You promised to release me once the battle with Wellesley had begun.”

“Perhaps I find that I cannot.”

“Jacques.”

“You are weary, ma petite,” he muttered, moving to brush a light kiss over h

er lips before crossing firmly toward the door. “Go to bed and we will discuss this in the morning.”

Talia watched him leave the room, closing and locking the door behind his slender form.

Surely he must be teasing her?

For all of his charming flirtations, he could not truly desire to keep her in France. Could he?

Chewing her bottom lip, Talia paced the floor, shifting through her limited options.

For once she did not intend to sit idly by and wait to discover what new disaster fate had concocted for her.

On this occasion she intended to take command of her own destiny.

SOPHIA REYNARD moved through the sleepy palace with a proud grace that had once made her the toast of the Parisian stage and had captured the adoration of her vast audience.

Although some would claim it was the beauty of her pale ivory features contrasted with her auburn curls that had earned her fame. Or her expressive eyes that were closer to black than brown. Or even her tall, willowy form that appeared elegant whether in rags or, as it was now, draped in a sapphire silk dressing gown with black velvet bows begging to be undone.

Sophia, however, had always known it was her acting skills that had catapulted her from her mother’s fetid rooms in Halles, near the old Cemetery of the Innocents to the finest mansions in Chaussée d’Antin and the Faubourg Saint-Germain.

Onstage she could capture the humor of Molière or the tragedy of Racine. And offstage…well, that was where her genuine talent was revealed.

With the skill that only the finest courtesans were able to acquire, she was capable of becoming any gentleman’s deepest desire.

She could be shy or naughty. Timid or daring. Sweet or vulgar. She could converse with the most celebrated intellectuals or tell jokes that would make a sailor blush. And most important of all, she could make a man feel as if he were without equal when he pulled her into his arms.

It was those talents that had allowed her to survive the revolution even when her aristocratic lovers were being slaughtered. And eventually to capture the interest of Napoleon for several months after his rise to power.

She was a born survivor.

Unfortunately, she was not always wise.

She had met Jacques Gerard in Paris five years before and for the first time in her thirty years she had been immediately bewitched.

It went beyond a predictable attraction to his handsome face and fine form, although she was not yet so jaded she could not appreciate the flutters of excitement that raced through her when he glanced in her direction. Indeed, she had suddenly been transported back to the long-ago days when she’d still been young and naïve enough to believe in love.

But it was more his restless intelligence and the ardent intensity that simmered about him.

He was radiant, incandescent.

Whether he was plotting war strategies with Napoleon or seducing her into his bed, he was driven by passions that set her body and her heart—her very soul—on fire.

Within a few days she had fallen deeply in love with the elusive man, remaining faithful to him despite their long times apart, as Jacques spent months and sometimes years in England.

Not that she was foolish enough to assume he was equally celibate. He was a man, after all. Who of them was not swift enough to expect loyalty from a woman while they happily bedded every maiden willing to lift her skirts?

Still, Jacques had never displayed any affection or lingering interest for any other female.

Until now…

Tags: Rosemary Rogers Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net