Page 36 of Lord Ashley's Beautiful Alibi
He came down, his nose nuzzling hers, his lips ever so near, his voice breathy with hot promise. “But if you wish to convince Vaillancourt of our affection for each other, then you must allow yourself to enjoy this experience.”
She gave him her best bit of gumption. “I am a good actress.”
“Darling,” he ground out, and cupped her cheek. “You are the worst.”
“You don’t know. You have not seen me in action.”
One of his hands came up, and with the tips of his fingers, he grazed across the hard, aching points of her nipples.
She shivered to life but shut her eyes and clenched her jaw, suppressing the groan that rose in her throat.
“You fail your audition, Mademoiselle Bolton.”
Her eyes flew open as he grabbed her hands and pulled her to her feet. “Go home. Forget the act. Just show what you feel when I touch you, and we will succeed.”
Chapter Nine
That night heappeared at Madame Tallien’s salon, filled to the brim with this bowing and scraping. He needed to be off with Augustine.
He searched the crowds and found her with her aunt. The countess appeared strained, unlike her usual self. So too did Augustine appear stiff. He hoped to God she had not changed her mind. If she had been frightened enough to come to him for aid, then she would not back down now. Would she?
Cursing the need to work the room like a friendly hound, he took his time. Such was always beneficial. Tonight he learned that Bonaparte debated his appearance. How any of it mattered, he had no idea at the moment. But everything was worth the hearing. Paris might have put away most of its guillotines, but similar “beheadings” occurred each day by word and simple deed.
At last, he came upon Augustine. He took her hand to his mouth. The feel of her skin on his lips was a delight that his body appreciated all too well. “Bon soir, mademoiselle.I trust you are well.”
“I am. I am,” she repeated in an uncharacteristic manner.
“You are nervous. Don’t be.”
“I have never begun a charade like this. I know not what to do.”
That surprised him. He expected that her aunt, with all her experience navigating the shoals of the prince regent’s world, and then that of the late Bourbon Duke of Orleans, would have educated her niece in the art of the affair. But he had detected her reluctance. Was there some incident in Augustine’s past that made her shy away from intimacy with a man? He could change that, if he were to revert to the rogue of his former self. But he would not. This man wished to be a finer one for her. “There is not much to it.”
“No?” She gave a sharp little laugh. “How is that?”
“First, you relax.” He offered his arm so that they might stroll about the room together. Patting her hand on his forearm, he noted how she suppressed a quiver. “As I said earlier, it is important to appear to have fun.”
“Make it fun, Ashley.” Her plea went right to his head—and his groin.
He maneuvered her so that she faced outward to the throng. He had to conceal his physical admiration for her request. “That’s easy. I will tell you about my day.”
“Oh, do.” She squeezed her eyes shut a moment and swayed a bit toward him. “All I’ve been treated to this evening is who sleeps with whom—and why.”
“Ah. Drivel.” He winked at her. “I will tell you tales of four thousand gold louis that have gone into the bank as payment for Sèvres. Another two go in a few days for the sale of Gobelin rugs.”
“The English have money to burn,” she said with a look of pleasure at the news. “French do not. We must write promissory notes to purchase such goods. Some simply steal goods from their former owners and call it theirs.”
“Theft inspires revenge in those left without their goods.”
“Of course it does. Others counterfeit coin. Did you hear that some in the assembly run a ring of fraudsters? Bonaparte swearshe will catch them. Some say they will go to the guillotine.” She shuddered.
“Darling, look at me. Really,” he said, and lifted her face to see his dashing smile. “Look at me.”
“Did you know that the home of the new Bank of France is ahôtel particulierthat once belonged to members of the royal family?” She looked lost, betrayed. “The Molyneaux of Normandy fled, all sixteen of them.”
His heart turned over for her compassion. “Friends of yours?”
“Yes. A special family with many girls. Friends of mine. The Molyneaux of counts of Normandy. They live in poverty in England.”
