Page 31 of The Secret of Flirting
“You like her,” Hart said accusingly.
Gregory forced a smile. “I think she’s talented at pretending to be someone else.”
“If that’s what she’s doing. And it’s more than that. Youwanther.”
He certainly did. But he would never admit that to Hart, of all people. Gregory drew himself up. “Unlike you, I do not fall for the blandishments of actresses.”
Hart uttered a mirthless laugh. “If you say so.” He rose. “I’ll let you know what I find out.”
“Be quick about it, do you hear? The delegates plan to make a decision soon.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Barely aware of Hart slipping from the gallery, Gregory kept his gaze trained on Monique Servais. She did have the practiced grace of a princess. But Hart was right—something lay underneath it, a sensual quality that roused his blood. It called to him as no other woman ever had, made him want to unwind the barely restrained masses of her hair and luxuriate in it.
The effect she had on him made no sense. He was a practical man, well aware of the restrictions of his position. And she tempted him to toss them all to the wind just for another taste of that warm mouth.
He dropped his gaze to her wrist and the glove that covered the mark he’d made. An intense satisfaction coursed through him. At leastthereshe was his.
Yet not his, either. She wasn’t the sort of woman to be owned. Which fascinated him. Most women wanted to adopt the high status of a husband so they could be sure of their place in society. She clearly did not. Or else she was sure enough of her own place to be content.
That gave him pause. Could he have been right the first time? Could she be the count’s mistress, who just happened to look enough like the princess to be her twin? It seemed an odd coincidence. But it would explain why the count had asked her to take Princess Aurore’s place.
Gregory also had to wonder about Princess Aurore. What would make the woman give up her duties to an impostor? Was she merely extremely shy? That would be in keeping with the reclusiveness she was famous for.
Perhaps this whole thing had come about because her people were afraid Aurore couldn’t present herself well enough to secure the position of queen. So they called in a woman who could, knowing that once Aurore was chosen, she could surround herself with sycophants who could keep people at bay.
Though that made sense, it didn’t seem likely. It was too much of a risk. Which left another more disturbing reason—that there was a sinister purpose behind it. Or worse yet, that she reallywasPrincess Aurore and he was utterly wrong about the masquerade.
Damn it, he was tired of thinking about it. Until he had real information, he couldn’t puzzle it out. So he would just have to hope that Hart learned the reason for it in Dieppe. Because otherwise, Gregory would seriously have to improve his game at eliciting secrets from whoever that devilishly fetching creature was.
Seven
Monique trod the carpet in the drawing room of the strange English town house so enthusiastically that she feared she might damage the flimsy soles of her delicate shoes. She’d wanted to wear sturdy half boots, but those wouldn’t do for a fine princess, oh no. The slippers must be kid, the stockings silk, and the gown of the finest green gros de Naples with a line of fussy pink bows and gigot sleeves.
Apparently her cousin had a fondness for pink, which was evidenced by her hat—an enormous creation in blossom silk with birds and fake apples that hurt Monique’s head. She hated all of it. It made her wonder at her cousin’s taste. Not to mention the common sense of the person who’d packed Aurore’s attire for autumn in England. Monique had been freezing ever since her arrival!
Still, the ladies here seemed no better off, wearing flimsy satins and silks in the evening. They did have lush velvet cloaks, as did Aurore, but Monique was used to dressing more warmly in Dieppe, to the heavy brocade gowns and the hot lamps of the stage. She envied the English ladies in the streets wearing sensible wool. She preferredwarmclothes. Grand-maman had always laughingly told her that she’d inherited the thin blood of some ancient Italian ancestor, and Monique had never believed it more than now.
She swallowed hard. She missed her grandmother. That servant of Count de Beaumonde’s had better be treating Solange well, or Monique would roast him on a spit!
“Are you ready?” said a crisp male voice from the doorway.
She started. The count was hovering about as usual. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
Her great-uncle entered. “You needn’t be nervous. You already have Lord Fulkham wrapped about your finger. The man is entranced.”
The trace of bitterness in the man’s voice gave her pause. Granted, Aurore wasn’t known for her male conquests, but she’d seemed pretty enough. Surely she would make a good match eventually.
“He’s not entranced,” she said. “He is... careful. He asks probing questions and demands answers.”
The count poured himself some coffee from the pot always kept at the ready for his use, even now, in late afternoon. The man drank more coffee than anyone Monique had ever met, always flavored with a finger of brandy. It did make her wonder if the brandy was the real reason for the coffee, though he never seemed intoxicated.
“Are you having trouble giving Fulkham answers?” the count asked. “Shall we go over the information I gave you before?”
“No need. He’s not interested in the exports of Chanay or in how the ministers advise me. He wants to know my opinions on governing.”
And why I am masquerading as Princess Aurore.Though she could hardly tell the count that.
