L’Opéra was one of the glories of Paris, often acclaimed as the foremost opera house of the world. Its architect Charles Garnier had wanted it to be “a monument to art, to luxury, to pleasure,” and it had grandly fulfilled that function for the Parisian upper classes since its opening in 1875. Mason had never been there, nor had anyone she knew in Paris—it was a world apart from the milieu of struggling artists. But from what she knew about it, it would be the perfect setting for the next stage of her plan.
It was directly kitty-corner to the Grand Hotel, so Richard, looking dapper in his tuxedo and top hat, called for her at the Jockey Club and they walked the short distance. He was there under protest but was gentleman enough to disguise the fact beneath a veneer of cordial host. They went around the side to the “Millionaire’s Entrance,” joining the flow of fashionable guests—with their pastel silk and satin evening gowns, their jewels, their top hats and canes—through the extravagant décor, a playful mingling of Baroque and Neo-Classical. The exuberant excess, the rich paintings and statuary, the immaculately uniformed attendants, all made her feel like Cinderella at the ball. As they ascended the grand staircase to the second level, Mason spotted a crescent of open wooden doors—the private boxes that looked down on the auditorium and stage. “This is our box here,” Richard said, pointing straight ahead.
They entered a vestibule with walls and a ceiling that were covered with red jacquard silk. Two padded velvet benches graced the sides, and there were curved gilt hooks to hang their coats. Crimson velvet curtains led to the box beyond. As she took her seat beside him, Mason couldn’t have been more pleased. Their loge sat in the exact center of the auditorium, directly across from the stage. Unlike the others on both sides, which merely had high dividers separating them, this deluxe box was situated between two ornate columns that hid them completely from view.
As the audience found their seats and the orchestra tuned up, Richard told her about Aida, the opera they’d be seeing. “It’s by the Italian Giuseppe Verdi, and it’s my favorite of his compositions. It’s set in Egypt in the time of the pharaohs. Aida is a beautiful Ethiopian slave, a conquest of war, who’s loved by Radamès, a great Egyptian general. Radamès returns Aida’s love, but the problem is, he’s also loved by pharaoh’s daughter, Amneris. So there’s a great deal of conflict. It shows how complicated things can become when people give way to their passions.”
She smiled inwardly at the not-so-subtle barb. Let him resist all he wanted. Tonight she intended to melt that resistance, come what may.
“I never dreamed we’d be so…alone in this huge box,” she commented idly. “It’s so private, so…intimate. You could do anything in here and no one would know it. No wonder the upper classes love this opera house so much. What a perfect setting for mischief.”
His gaze flicked sardonically to her. He knew very well what she was trying to do, but he pointedly changed the subject. “I hope you weren’t put off by Hank’s manner. He hides behind a rustic exterior, but he’s actually the most clever man I’ve ever known—also, in his own way, the most noble. I hope you’ll give serious consideration to his offer. It’s the best thing you could do for Mason.”
“I don’t know,” she said with a sly smile. “I may just need some inducement.”
At that moment, the conductor raised his baton, the overture began, and the lights dimmed. The sudden darkness, coupled with his nearness, was intoxicating. As the sweet, lush music filled the hall, she leaned toward him and whispered, “It’s hot in here, don’t you think?”
He just looked back at her guardedly, his eyes gleaming in the reflection from the stage.
She reached into her evening bag and produced the small vial of perfume, dabbing a drop or two behind each ear, on her wrists, and between her cleavage as Madame Toulon had instructed. Then she pulled out her fan, opened it, and gently began to wave it in his direction.
She watched from the corner of her eye. As the curtain rose on the Egyptian desert and Radamès stepped center stage to sing of his immense love for Aida, Richard caught a whiff of her scent and straightened rigidly in his seat. But as the tantalizing aroma enveloped him, he defensively stood up, moved his chair a few inches away from hers, and murmured, “It is rather sticky in here.”
She let him stay there, continuing to fan the perfume his way, while Amneris came onstage, singing to Radamès, and was joined a few moments later by Aida. As the three of them sang soulfully of their respective longings, Mason scooted her chair over so she was right beside Richard once again, wedging him between her and the column, with nowhere else to escape.
She gave him time to adjust as Radamès was made leader of the Egyptian armies in a new war with Ethiopia, and Aida, torn between love of her enemy and her country, beseeched the gods, praying first for one, then the other, her anguished cry soaring through the hall. Caught up in the emotion, Mason put her hand on Richard’s leg and leaned into him, whispering behind her fan, “It’s magnificent. Thank you so much for bringing me.”
She left her hand on his leg. It felt like petrified wood, braced as it was against her gentle touch. Softly, she began to massage it, moving in tandem with the music, feeling chills dash up her spine.
Angrily, he seized her hand, crushing it in his grip. She feared for an instant that he’d broken her bones. He thrust it from him, into her own lap, and she flexed her fingers, loosening the effect of his rejection. But the touch of his hand, so forceful, stirred her deeply. Her breath quickening, she felt her blood boiling in her veins.
She leaned into him again, her head on his shoulders, her far hand going to his chest. “I’m sorry,” she lied softly, entreatingly. “Forgive me?”
She felt everything in him withdraw into himself, attempting to create distance without making a scene. She could sense the battle raging inside. A battle for control. Struggling valiantly to tramp down his rising rage—at her, at this enforced subjugation, at her less-than-subtle assault. But mostly, she sensed, he fought to stem the tide of his mounting lust.
“Can I help it that you make me weak with desire?” she breathed at his ear. Then she licked his inner ear with her tongue.
She felt the jolt of something raw and primal flare between them. It shocked her, as if she’d just been struck by lightning. She could feel it flow through him and into her, so intense, so nakedly carnal that her whole body coiled with longing in its wake.
He turned his head. She was so close, her face was but a fraction from his, their lips nearly touching, their eyes starkly locked. She felt suspended in the searing heat of those eyes.
“You’re playing with fire,” he warned.
“Am I?”
She trailed the hand that had flattened on his chest down the buttons of his shirt and felt him tense all the more. His eyes blazed, commanding her to cease. But she’d gone too far. She was simmering in her own juices, feeling reckless and daring. The danger added spice to the chase.
“Don’t do it,” he advised.
She met his glower defiantly and smiled. A smile as ageless as the universe itself. The smile of all the temptresses who’d known their power to rattle the most concerted obstinacy of man since the dawn of time.
She cast a glance at him to see that his eyes were tightly closed, his jaw clenched. The sweeping romance of the music, the tempting invitation of her perfume, and her nearness in the closely confined quarters were wreaking havoc with his resolve. She inched her hand downward slowly, closer, closer…running her fingernails along his abdomen, feeling him shudder. Ever closer, as her perfume enfolded them both in its seductive veil.
And then she touched him.
He was so hard, so stiff, that he felt like steel beneath her hand. Proof of his losing struggle. Concrete. Irrefutable.
His hand clasped hers. She thought he might snatch it away. But he held it there, pinned against his erection, his eyes closed as if in pain.
He swelled beneath her fingers, straining for release. She could feel his rough-hewn breath and realized she was breathing just as hard.
Then, all at once, his eyes flew open. He gave her a hard, impenetrable glare. His hand convulsed on hers. He lifted it, holding it between them, contracting his grip until she gave a little cry. Detaining it, imprisoned in his, he put his mouth to her ear and snarled, “All right. I’ve had enough.”
“What?” she asked, startled.
“You win. I’m going to give you just what you want.”
He stood abruptly and yanked her up out of her chair. It toppled to the floor, but the crashing of the music covered the noise. He jerked her back into the vestibule and shoved her so she went flying against the silk-lined wall. Then he gave the curtains a single yank that closed them, and they were immersed in nearly total darkness. Only a tiny crack at the edge of the drapes provided a glimmer of light with which to see.
He charged at her and took her bare shoulders in punishing fists. Jerking her up against him so she collided with his chest, he demanded, “Is this what you want?” He kissed her roughly, the force of it pushing her back into the wall, pressing into her, all but crushing her with his weight. His tongue ransacked her mouth, sending her heart leaping, making her wet between her thighs. Unleashing his pent-up fury and frustration in this blistering assault.
Then he lifted his head. She felt dizzy, clinging to the wall behind her to seek purchase. His hands moved to the low neckline of her gown and wrenched it down, baring her breasts. He lunged down, taking one of her nipples in his mouth, kneading the other in a conquering palm while he sucked on her, electrifying her. She threw her head back and moaned uncontrollably, surrendering completely to the devastating sensations. Her female triumph mingling with her rousing passion.
His hands moved up to clutch her head on either side, squeezing tight. He raised his head to hers, kissing her again so masterfully that she felt she couldn’t stay on her feet.
“Is that what you want?” he insisted. “To know what you do to me? To know you drive me wild?”
“Yes,” she gasped, reeling with happiness.
“It’s entertaining for you, is it? Tormenting me? Watching me squirm? Taunting me with that…scent that scrambles my brain. Knowing that just the sight of you makes me hard? Knowing that I lie awake nights, wanting you—not wanting you—that you’re like a fever in my blood? Until I think I’ll go mad? Is that what you want to hear?”
“Oh, yes,” she sighed.
“Then take what you asked for and the devil be damned.”
He shoved her to her knees. Then he jerked his trousers open, took himself in hand, and thrust against her lips, demanding entrance, then immersing himself inside. He was so large she choked on him. But he didn’t stop. Taking her head in his hands, he fucked her mouth, standing over her like a god.
He tasted divine. Sliding in and out, moving her head where he wanted it, his authority absolute. Growing harder and larger still, bulging in her mouth, filling her throat. On her knees before him, she felt helpless and empowered all at once, a supplicant whose worship only elevates herself. She gloried in the unyielding feel of him on her tongue. The music soared, dancing at the corners of her awareness.
And then he came in her mouth. Tasting sublime. Holding himself inside, making her take all of him. She felt his energy pour into her, feeding her, nourishing her. She swallowed his manly essence greedily, feeling utterly consumed by him.
When he was done, he took her shoulders, heaving her to her feet. She swayed precariously and he had to hold her to keep her upright.
“Is that what you want?” he repeated.
She opened her eyes and saw his anguish in the dim half-light.
“I only wanted you to love me,” she told him, the honesty surging from her freely, hurled from her with the force of her yearning.
He looked absolutely stricken. He stared at her for a long moment, conflicting emotions warring in his eyes. Then, unexpectedly, he pulled her to him, wrapping her in his arms. “Forgive me,” he pleaded.
She eased herself back. “Oh, Richard, there’s nothing to forgive.”
His eyes softened. He kissed her, gently now, so sweetly that she felt her heart overflow with love. Then, as a chorus of 400 voices resounded through the hall in a rousing hymn to ancient gods, he said, “Let’s see if I can’t make amends.”
He laid her tenderly upon the velvet bench, kissing her attentively all the while, stroking her now with the intention of pleasuring her. His kisses melting her in his arms. Moving slowly, leisurely, he called on the considerable skills at his command to carry her away in a wave of bliss. Pushing aside her skirts, he found her sticky warmth. Igniting her with practiced fingers, he knew just where to touch her to cause her body to arch into his hand. And then, only when she was ready, when she knew she couldn’t wait another second, he entered her—already hard again—slowly…so slowly, so lovingly that she wanted to weep. The chorus flowing through her, she welcomed him into her, his mouth on hers. Moving with him to the sumptuous swell of the music, unbearably beautiful. Triumph forgotten now, games forsaken, in the majesty of his body giving everything to her.
They came together as the voices rose to a shattering crescendo. Soaring with emotion. Basking in the fulfillment of a yearning too long denied. As they lay still in each others’ arms, the voices hushed, then the music ended. And on its heels, a thundering applause. It seemed in the enchantment of the moment that the audience applauded them.
Richard pushed himself up, remembering, as she was, where they were. She caught the glint of humor in his eyes and, all at once, they began to laugh.
But he sobered quickly. “Are you all right?” he asked.
“I’m so much more than all right.”
“I didn’t hurt you?”
“Hurt me?” She stroked his cheek. “You absolutely thrilled me.”
His eyes registered something akin to gratitude before he softly kissed her lips.
They heard the audience rising for the first break. Sheepishly, they eased themselves up, righting their clothing, then noting the other’s shyness, laughed again.
“I can’t think why,” she told him playfully, “but I seem to have developed an overpowering thirst.”
He grinned and put his finger to her mouth. “I can’t imagine why. Come, we’ll go get something to drink.”
They left the box and followed the crowd up the corridor and into the Grand Foyer. It was a spectacular rectangular chamber perhaps 200 feet long, with glass windows that looked out on Avenue de l’Opéra as it stretched all the way to the Louvre. It was modeled after the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, but the ceiling had been painted in the style of the Sistine Chapel in Rome.
“I shall park you here for a moment while I fetch you that drink,” he told her.
Suddenly alone, she felt a bit awkward. All around her, the cream of Parisian society was milling about, chatting amiably, greeting one another. Still in the afterglow of love, she smiled to herself, thinking, If they only knew what we’ve just done!
But gradually she noticed their tone change into more of a hushed buzz. Nearby she heard a woman say to her companion, “My dear, isn’t that the Duchess of Wimsley?”
Before long, the name was sweeping through the crowd.
“They say she’s the most beautiful woman in England.”
“Her husband is as rich as Croesus.”
“I hear the Prince of Wales is mad about her.”
“Mon Dieu, that complexion!”
Curious, Mason snaked her way through the assemblage to see this fabled beauty for herself.
In the center of the hall, she spotted a small party isolated from the rest of the crowd. It took her only a moment to pick out the duchess in question. She was the most tastefully striking woman Mason had ever seen. Her features were delicate, yet sophisticated. Everything about her, from the styling of her auburn hair, to the creaminess of her complexion, to the exquisite white satin gown embroidered with real pearls, spoke of the sort of wealth and pampering most people only dreamed of. She presented a picture of effortless grace and impeccable breeding, but she smiled at her companions with a warmth that put everyone around her at their ease.
Mason watched for several minutes, then returned to her previous spot just as Richard came back with two glasses of champagne. Before long, the house lights flashed on and off to signal the end of the interval. She gave him a sly grin. “I can’t wait to see what the second act has in store for us.”
His eyes were warm on her face.
But just as they were exiting the foyer, fate put them in the path of the party Mason had earlier been watching. The breathtaking duchess glanced at them, then gave a small gasp. “Richard!”
Mason felt him tense beside her. When she looked up at him, she saw that his sated serenity had vanished, replaced by some flinty emotion she couldn’t read. “Emma,” he said matter-of-factly.
They knew each other? Richard and this paragon of regal grace? Mason was stabbed by a sudden senseless insecurity.
“How lovely to see you again, darling,” the woman he’d called Emma said, recovering her composure. “What brings you to Paris?”
“I think you know,” he said with concentrated effort. Mason knew this manner well. He was, once again, attempting to keep his emotions leashed. He almost looked as if he could hit the woman without a qualm.
What had happened between them to cause such a strained response?
“Don’t tell me this is the sister?” Emma was saying.
They were blocking the exit, but no one was about to push their way past them.
Mason waited for Richard to make the introductions. When he didn’t, the duchess did it for him. “I’m Emma. The last name is Fortescue-Wynthrop-Smythe. It’s a mouthful, I know. But I should so like it if you’d call me Emma.”
Mason took the hand she was offered; it was tiny and impossibly smooth. “I’m Amy Caldwell.”
“You amaze me,” Richard quipped to Emma. “I should think you’d want everyone to call you ‘your grace.’”
Emma’s smile deepened. “Not my old friends!”
“We seem to be blocking traffic. We’d best move on.”
But before he could, Emma reached over and put her hand on his. “You’re looking well, Richard.”
The look in his eyes was hard as stone. “And you,” he countered in a low tone, “look as if you have everything you deserve.”
Her eyes glazed over and Mason caught a flicker of pain. She covered it with a courteous smile. “I’m staying at my dear friend the Duchess of Galliera’s villa while she’s away at Capri. You might stop by some time. We could…talk over old times.”
“I think you know better than that.”
She raised her chin a notch. “Well, if you change your mind, the invitation stands. Do enjoy the show. And, Amy, I’m certain we shall see each other again. Perhaps soon.”
As they walked back toward their box, Mason asked, “What was that all about?”
“That London Times story must have drawn her out.”
“What do you mean?”
He shot her a warning look. “She’s come for Mason’s paintings. And she’ll do anything to get them. Do me one favor, would you? Avoid her at all costs.”
“Why?”
“Because she’ll just stash them away in her husband’s collection and no one will ever see them again. Tomorrow or the day after, she’ll come to you, oozing sweetness, and make an offer. But you can’t trust anything she says. So don’t see her. Don’t talk to her. Just keep as wide a berth from her as you can.”
He veered them toward the descending staircase.
“Where are you going?” she asked. “The box is the other way.”
He looked at her apologetically, but she could see an unexpressed anger lurking at the back of his eyes. “I had an enjoyable evening, Amy, but I think we’ve had enough opera for one night.”
Mason followed him out. She didn’t understand what had happened in the foyer. But she knew two things: Richard and this Emma Fortescue-Wynthrop-Smythe had a tumultuous history, and the breathtaking duchess was still very much in love with him.