"Yes, I want you," he said gruffly, his lips a hair's breadth away from hers. "But I can wait. I will wait. Until you are ready, however long that might be."
Lysette stood frozen, her heart racing in a panicked rhythm.
His mouth touched hers, gently but without hesitation. His tongue touched the seam of her lips, glided along it, caressed the curve. The scent of sandalwood and verbena filled her nostrils, warming her blood and causing her skin to tingle.
Low in her belly, heat spread.
Between her legs, dampness grew. She whimpered and clung to his coat, achingly aware of the cool air at her back and the heated length of hard male to her front.
"Let me in, Corinne."
Trembling, she obliged, gasping when his tongue thrust deep and sure. The similarity to the sexual act could not be ignored and her trembles turned to violent shaking.
Breathing harshly, he pulled back. "See?" he rasped. "I can stop. At any time. You lead, I follow."
"Lysette."
He frowned. "Beg your pardon?"
"My name is Lysette." She wrapped her hands around his wrists. "I lied to you."
Something suspiciously like a laugh escaped him. It was rough and abbreviated, almost a bark. "Lysette suits you better."
"I work for Desjardins," she blurted out. "He needs information about Mr. Franklin, and he was using me to pry it from you."
"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 1 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 todiscover 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.