Chapter Fifteen

The gold and emerald gown was ready by the night of the Emperor’s ball. It was to be a grand affair, though Napoleon himself would not attend, ensconced as he was at the palace of Schönbrunn outside Vienna.

Four thousand people from all classes of Parisian society had been invited, with an emphasis on the military, commerce, and banking. The square and quays leading up to the Hotel de Ville were brightly lit with lanterns, and the magnificent interior had been richly decorated in the Emperor’s gold and green.

For the first time it occurred to Alexa that Damien had chosen those same colors for her.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” she said through clenched teeth as they made their way through the crowd.

Damien only smiled. “I did it because it matches the green of your eyes … and because I knew it would please them. Moreau might not be here, but there are a number of other important people who will be.”

“I should have refused to wear it.”

A black flaring brow arched up. “You might have found it a bit unnerving to arrive in just your chemise.”

She glared at him but said nothing more. He was the epitome of the handsome French soldier this eve, in his tight white breeches and tall black hussar boots. Gleaming gold buttons marched up the front of his scarlet-trimmed, white and navy tunic, and his broad shoulders glittered with epaulettes and braid.

As the orchestra played in the background, he led her through the richly garbed assembly, past walls dominated by Imperial eagles and decorated with the Emperor’s dark green colors dotted with tiny gold bees. At the foot of the huge marble staircase in the grand salon, he paused.

“There are some people I would like you to meet.” He said a few words of hello to the group who stood gathered there, then began to make introductions.

“Enchanté,” a gentleman named Brumaire addressed her.

“Bonsoir, m’sieur,” she replied somewhat stiffly. It was an odd assortment: a man named Fouchet who was Minister of Police; a colonel of dragoons; a captain of hussars; the architect, Cellerier; a commander of the carabinier brigade; an actress of the Comédie Francaise; and an abbot of the clergy who had no abbey. He wore ecclesiastical dress but did not belong to a church—taking his degree instead “in Society.”

The actress, an attractive blonde with oversized breasts, eyed Damien far too boldly. Alexa found her hold on his arm growing tighter, a line of tension forming around her lips.

“You must not worry, miette,” came a once-familiar voice beside her ear, “Gabriella is no longer his cher amie. I believe your husband’s eyes are only for you.”

“M’sieur Gaudin!”

“It is good to see you, Madame Falon.” He bent over her hand then squeezed it with some affection.

Damien smiled at him warmly. “Good evening, André. I had hoped I might see you here.”

“Oh? Why is that?”

“To thank you, of course, for caring for my wife in my absence.”

“It was my pleasure, though I am sad to see that she is still here.”

“Frankly, my friend, so am I. But if General Moreau wishes it, who am I to disagree?”

André frowned, his thick white brows coming together. “Alas, that is so.” He turned back to Alexa. “In the meantime, one can only make the best of things, n’est ce pas?”

“I am trying, m’sieur.”

M’sieur Gaudin introduced them both to the group of people he had come in with. Colonel Lafon was among them, the Duchess d’Abrantes, and a handsome blond man by the name of Julian St. Owen, whom everyone called Jules. He was just in from the country, someone said, a keen-eyed man in his early thirties, with a pleasant manner and obvious intelligence. When he bowed over her hand, holding it a little longer than he should have, Damien broke the contact by asking her to dance.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t rather be dancing with the actress?” Alexa couldn’t help asking.

“They’re playing a waltz. There is no one here I would rather dance it with than you.”

His serious tone surprised her, but not the heated look in his eyes. It had been there all evening, since he had first walked into the drawing room and seen her in the low-cut gold and emerald gown. The expression on his face made her heart speed up and her palms grow damp. It made her yearn for those few brief moments of the waltz when he would hold her in arms, though in truth she knew she should refuse him.

Instead she let him guide her onto the dance floor, turn her to face him, and gently take her hand. Around them couples swayed in rhythm to the music, dipped and twirled in the candlelight beneath the crystal chandeliers. The music swelled until it filled the massive mirrored ballroom.

“Do you realize this is the first waltz we have ever danced?” he said, his eyes moving over her face. They came to rest on her lips, and her legs felt suddenly shaky.

“I know.” Yet it did not seem so. Every muscle in their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, every turn, every step, every sway of their hips. His leg brushed intimately between hers and unconsciously he tightened his hold.

“You’re the loveliest woman here,” he said, and his hot gaze told her he meant it.

“Merci, m’sieur,” But there was a catch in her voice.

“I want you. I have since the moment I saw you in that dress.”

Alexa glanced away. “Wanting isn’t everything. Sometimes we can’t have exactly what we want.”

“Sometimes we can.”

She turned her gaze to his. “You want me and yet I am your enemy.”

“You are my wife. That is all that matters. Can you not put our differences aside—at least while you are here?”

Alexa stiffened in his arms. “How can you ask me that? Do you believe I should accept what you have done? Pretend that I approve? That I should welcome you into my bed then return home to England and simply go on with my life as if you had never existed?”

“Perhaps there is an alternative,” he said softly.

“And exactly what is that?”

“That you entrust yourself into my care and believe that somehow I will make things work out for us both.”

Alexa swallowed past the ache that suddenly rose in her throat. She wanted to—dear God, she had never wanted anything more. But in truth she did not dare. Damien had lied to her a dozen times, deceived her in more ways than she cared to remember. It would be madness of the wildest sort, and yet…”

“I wish I could. You will never know how much I wish it, but…”

“But?”

“But the fact is I cannot.”

Damien’s hold grew tighter, indecently so, pressing his long hard body the length of her, making her aware of his growing arousal in his immodestly tight white breeches.

“Dammit, you’re my wife!” he bit out beneath his breath. She tried to pull away but he held her fast. “Sorry, sweeting, but you aren’t leaving.” His grip remained tight on her waist. “That would surely prove embarrassing for both of us.” And yet he eased his hold, letting her draw away from him, giving them time to regain control.

When the dance had ended, he returned her to the place beside André Gaudin. “If I might impose upon our friendship, André, I would like to leave Alexa for a moment in your care. I need a word with Colonel Lafon.”

“Of course,” André said.

“If the two of you will excuse me…?” He bowed curtly and walked away.

“He is a difficult man to figure, n’est ce pas?” Gaudin said.

“Practically impossible.”

“And yet you have feelings for him.”

“Yes.”

“Why is that?”

She tore her gaze from her husband’s tall retreating figure. “Perhaps I see something in him.” She sighed. “Then again … perhaps it isn’t really there.”

Whatever he might have replied went unsaid as Jules St. Owen returned.

“Madame Falon.” The blond man smiled, and she noticed his eyes were a light sky-blue. With his aquiline nose and the cleft in his chin, she realized once more how handsome he was. “With your husband occupied elsewhere, perhaps you will grace me with a dance.”

Why not? she thought. Damien might not like it, but she didn’t really care. “It would be my pleasure, m’sieur.”

Again a waltz was playing. So much the better, she thought, hoping her husband would see them. Perhaps he would be angry. If he treated her badly, it would help put some distance between them.

At the edge of the dance floor St. Owen put a hand at her waist and led her into the steps of the dance. He was shorter than Damien, but well-built and attractively male, and nearly as proficient a dancer. Still, she felt a little more reserved in his company, and St. Owen must have sensed it for he leaned a little bit closer.

“Relax, Lady Falon,” he whispered in her ear, and to her amazement, the words were spoken in English. “I have come to help you get home.”

“Who—Who are you?” she asked, drawing away to look at him.

“Speak French,” he warned, for she had slipped into her native tongue. He eased her back into the dance and continued as if nothing had happened. “I am a friend. For now that is all that is important.”

“Who sent you? Why should I trust you?”

“General Wilcox sent word. He is Colonel Bewicke’s superior.”

“Bewicke is the last man I would trust.”

“It is Wilcox I am here for.”

“Then you are a spy?”

“No. I am a loyal Frenchman.”

“Then why are you—”

“This isn’t the time. I’ll tell you more when next we meet. Just be assured there are those here who will help you.”

They finished the dance, and Jules St. Owen returned her to André Gaudin. She felt shaken and ill at ease, unable to grasp what had just occurred. When she turned once more to St. Owen, he had melded into the crowd. She watched his blond head disappear through the doorway.

“Did you enjoy your dance with Jules?” André asked, and she wondered if he knew what had transpired between them.

“He seems like a nice enough man.”

“Jules is a wealthy export merchant—a captain retired from the sea. I have not seen him in a while. In the past he has often been at odds with the policies of the Emperor. Apparently, he has put such notions to rest.”

So André had no knowledge of what St. Owen had planned. But then neither did she.

“You have caught the eye of at least a dozen other young men here. If it is your wish to continue to dance—”

“In truth, I should prefer being home.” She had too much on her mind, too much she needed to consider. And now with this latest turn of events …

“Perhaps your husband will agree.”

She saw him striding toward her, his darkly elegant features setting him apparent from the rest of the men in the room. Several pairs of female eyes fastened on his narrow hips and long, muscular legs as he moved, and Alexa felt an unwelcome twinge of jealousy.

“I’ve a meeting with Lafon early tomorrow,” Damien said when he reached her side. “Would you mind very much if we went home early?”

“As a matter of fact, I should be greatly relieved.”

He eyed her a moment. “Then I’ll see to your cloak and summon the carriage.”

They left just a few moments later, shouldering their way through the crowd then waiting out front while the carriage was brought round. Though Damien said little along the route home and they entered the house in silence, his eyes followed every move she made. His desire for her had not lessened. It was there in the way he touched her, in the smoky blue of his gaze. She knew what he was thinking, that he was her husband, that he had rights to her body she could not deny him.

Yet he said nothing as she climbed the stairs, nothing as she walked away from him down the hall and into her bedchamber. With a wave of relief she closed the door and leaned against it, then turned to see Marie Claire.

“I will help you undress,” the dark-haired woman said, and Alexa nodded. Though her mind remained on the man she had left in the hallway, she stripped off her clothes with quiet efficiency and pulled the pins from her hair. Marie Claire handed her a long white night rail, but a voice from the door stopped her before she could draw it on.

“You may go, Marie Claire,” Damien said softly.

Alexa clutched the nightgown protectively in front of her, waiting in silence as the woman left the room. If only she could ask her to remain, but she knew all too clearly where the Frenchwoman’s loyalties lay.

“What—What do you want?” The words cut into the silence left when Marie Claire closed the door.

Damien’s stormy eyes raked her. “You know very well what I want.” He came away from the door, his black silk dressing gown exposing his long sinewy legs as he moved. A few feet in front of her he pulled the sash, and the robe fell open. When he stopped, it slid from his shoulders and she saw that he was naked.

Sweet God in heaven. Was there ever a more beautiful man put on this earth? Her vision seemed filled with his long lean limbs and a torso banded with muscle.

“I’m your husband, Alexa,” he said softly as he approached, but she only turned away.

“Don’t. Please don’t.” She took a step toward the big four-poster bed, her back and hips exposed to him, her hands catching one of the bedposts to steady her. She felt his hard body pressed full-length behind her. He bent and kissed the side of her neck.

“I need you, Alexa.” Warm kisses trailed over her shoulders, his groin cradled her buttocks and the long muscles of his thighs pressed into the backs of her legs.

“I can’t,” she whispered, but already fire raced through her body. His hands splayed over her stomach, her ribs, then came up to cup each of her breasts.

“You can,” he said, his thumb and forefinger working her nipple, making it peak and distend. The flat plane of his stomach went taut against her buttocks, then he bent his head and the warmth of his tongue ran over the ridges of her spine. A hand slid up the inside of her thigh and into the dampness between her legs. He stroked her there, making her tremble, making the blood roar in her ears. Her mouth felt dry, her limbs weak and disjointed. Her stomach fluttered and her body went hot with anticipation.

“Part your legs, ma chére.” His finger slid inside her as she mindlessly obeyed, her hands biting into the tall wooden bedpost, her head falling back, her hair hanging down below her hips.

His shaft rode high and hard against his belly; she felt it against her hips, and fiery need tore through her. Her blood was pumping, surging, flowing like molten lava and setting her aflame. Then he was parting the petals of her sex, guiding himself inside, driving into her with one long powerful thrust.

“I need you,” he whispered, and there was something in the way he said it that made her believe it was the truth.

He turned her a little and took her mouth in a savage kiss, his hands on her breasts, kneading them, molding them, making them grow heavy with desire for him. Then his grip settled firmly at her hips and he held her immobile as he drove himself inside her, the powerful thrust and drag of his shaft urging her to the edge of her control.

“Say it,” he whispered, “tell me you want me.”

She tried to fight it, bit down on her trembling lips and tightened her hold on the bedpost. Damien withdrew nearly full-length, then filled her hotly again.

“Say it,” he commanded. He held her hips and ruthlessly thrust himself inside her.

“I want you, Damien. I want you so badly it hurts.”

“Sweet Christ,” he groaned. He was taking her hard and fast now, his lean hips pumping, his hands hot, his mouth devouring.

“Damien!” she cried out as she reached her release, then she was swept away, rocked by one powerful explosion of heat followed by another and another.

She didn’t notice when he spilled his seed, that her knees had given way beneath her, that it was he who held her up. She was shaking all over with the power of her emotions, and suddenly she was afraid. Then she felt his gentle kisses on her face, felt his arms wrapped protectively around her, heard the reassuring whisper of his words.

“It’s all right, chérie. There’s no need for you to be frightened.”

But there was every reason to be afraid. Alexa knew it, yet the knowledge hit home with the force of a blow. She straightened and pulled away, turning to face him as if she faced her greatest foe. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“Alexa—”

“Don’t. Don’t say anything more.” At the agonized look on her face, he picked up her high-necked, long white night gown and silently held it out to her. She took it with trembling hands and quickly pulled it on, all the while backing away.

“I want you to go,” she said, her voice a little too high and strangely uneven.

Damien shook his head. “I don’t want to leave you. Not like this.”

“Please, Damien—” But his expression was determined as his long strides moved him toward her. Sweeping her into his arms, he carried her over to the wide feather bed.

“I’ll just stay here for a while.” Drawing back the covers, he settled her carefully on one side and adjusted her pillow, then stretched his tall frame out on the other. “Just until you fall asleep.”

It seemed an odd thing for him to do, and yet she felt comforted by it. Damien joined her under the blanket, drew her close against him and cradled her in the circle of his arms. Surely he would try to make love to her again, she thought, keeping her body rigid and her guard up. Instead he stroked his long dark fingers through her hair, leaned over and kissed her temple.

Finally she began to relax. Her emotions still in turmoil, eventually she fell asleep.

*   *   *

Damien awoke to the sound of the clock ticking loudly. For a moment he strained to get his bearings. Where was the ice-blue canopy that should have been above him? Then he remembered he slept in his own bed this eve … beside the woman who was his wife. His body tightened to recall the way they’d made love, the heat and the fury, the incredible way she had responded. He reached for her, wanting her again, needing her … only to find she had gone.

He sat upright in bed. Alexa wasn’t in the room and no sounds came from the room next door. The fire had burned low, casting the walls with ominous shadows, and small scurrying noises betrayed a mouse in the walls. He climbed from the bed and pulled on his black silk dressing gown, opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Perhaps she was hungry and had gone down to the pantry to find something to eat.

He assured himself that was so, smiling to think what had caused such a craving for food, yet already his unease had begun to build. She’d been more than a little disturbed by what had happened between them. Was she upset enough to have done something foolish? What if she ran away? What if she tried to return to England on her own?

His insides twisted even as he formed the thought. He shouldn’t have gone to her, shouldn’t have taken her, he knew, yet he’d wanted her as he had never wanted a woman, and he had sensed that she’d wanted him too.

He had known her conscience would rebel. At the time, it did not matter. Her conscience be damned, he’d thought then.

Now …

His worry grew as he descended the stairs and made his way to the rear of the house, for no light came from the kitchen. He should have left her alone, he silently repeated, knowing it was the truth, but his need for her had been strong, and deep inside he’d been angry.

Or perhaps it was only disappointment. Regret that what she felt for him wasn’t enough for her to set aside her loyalties and accept him as he was.

Disappointment that she could not trust him.

Who was he kidding? He had no right to that trust—he had done everything in his power to destroy it. Not on purpose, at least not after they were married, but it had happened just the same. He had known it might, yet prayed he could avoid it. Now he wished for that trust with a need that ate at his soul.

Intensifying his search, Damien changed direction and walked purposefully back toward the main salon. At the door to his study he paused. Yellow light leaked from beneath the heavy wood, and the soft sound of weeping seeped out from within.

He wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or upset. He knew without doubt it was Alexa. That it was she who wept, and that he was the cause. Taking a steadying breath, he opened the door and quietly stepped in. Alexa didn’t hear his approach, curled up on the sofa as she was, her slender feet tucked up beneath her nightgown. She sat slumped over the end of the couch, her head resting in the cradle of her arms, her long auburn hair a dark crimson fall shielding most of her tear-streaked face.

Damien sat down beside her and gently eased her into his arms. “Don’t cry, ma chére, there is no need for tears.”

She didn’t pull away, as he more than half expected, but accepted his embrace and continued to cry against his shoulder. “Please, Damien,” she said, “please let me go home.”

He drew back to look at her. Tilting her chin with his finger, he pressed a soft kiss on her lips. “If there was any way it could be done, chérie, you may be certain that I would arrange it.” That was the truth and then some. She would be safe in England as she never would be here. “Unfortunately, General Moreau wants you to stay.”

“I’m English. I don’t belong here.”

“You’re my wife. You belong with me.”

“If—If things were different, then maybe I would agree. Unfortunately, they aren’t.” She shifted, raised tear-glazed eyes to his face. “You know the way I feel … you know I cannot accept things as they are. You know, and yet when I am with you, you make me forget what I believe in. You force me to … to…”

“To what, Alexa? Give in to your needs? Accept that at least in some ways you still have feelings for me?”

“Yes!” she admitted, and it tore him apart to see her anguished expression.

“You must hate me very much,” he said softly.

She made a small sound in her throat. “I hate what you stand for.”

Damien stared over the top of her dark auburn head, at the walls that surrounded them, the walls in a house full of enemies, the walls that might have ears. He wanted to ask how she felt about the man he was inside, but when had she ever had the chance to really know him? Sometimes he didn’t even know himself.

“You feel something for me; you’ve admitted that much already. How would you feel if I were a loyal Englishman? If I had never betrayed my country?”

Her eyes searched his face. There was pain in them and uncertainty, a well of turbulent emotions. “If that were the case … perhaps, one day … I would love you.”

His whole body tightened, the words slicing through him, making him feel things, want things, he knew he could not have. Bloody Christ, he knew better than to say it. He knew that it was too dangerous, that in uttering the words, he was putting both of their lives at risk, and yet …

“I’m a spy, Alexa. I have been since my fifteenth year. But it isn’t France I spy for—it’s England.”

A strangled cry tore from her throat. Her green eyes looked huge as she pulled away to look at him. “I don’t believe you. You—You’re making this up. It’s just another of your tricks.”

“It isn’t a trick.”

“Bewicke would have known. Someone would have known.” She leaned forward, her fingers biting into his shoulders. “Dear God, you can’t expect me to believe this.”

“Almost no one knows. It’s dangerous for you to know. We’re both being watched. It’s insane for me to tell you, but when I see you like this…” He wiped away a tear that clung to her thick dark lashes.

“Do you know how much I want to believe you? Can you possibly imagine?”

“I know you have every reason not to, but—”

“Say it’s the truth, Damien. Say this isn’t just another of your lies.”

“It’s the truth, Alexa.”

“Swear it. Swear it’s the truth upon your father’s grave.”

He glanced at the walls. It was late—he prayed the servants were sleeping. “I swear it.”

She reached out to him then, and he crushed her against him. He could feel her trembling, feel the dampness of her tears against his cheek. She clung to his neck and her long, silky hair seemed tinged with fire across his shoulder.

He held her like that as the clock ticked long minutes past, stroking her back, running his hands through her hair, happy just to hold her. Finally she pulled away.

“If what you say is the truth,” she said with a look of despair, “then it is I who have betrayed you. Dear God, you’ve lost your home. You were beaten and thrown into gaol. You are here and in danger. You—”

“Hush,” he soothed. “I didn’t tell you this to upset you. I did it because I…” He glanced off in the distance, uncertain of what he had been about to say. “Because I can’t stand to see you hurting.”

“Damien…”

“I shouldn’t have told you, but I did. Now it’s your turn to swear.” She stared at him blankly. “You must swear that from this moment on, you’ll say nothing more about this. You’ll act as if these words were never spoken. I’ll see you returned just as soon as I can, but in the meantime we’ve got to be careful. If anyone discovers the truth, neither of us will leave this country alive.”

Worry lines formed across her forehead. “Can’t you tell me a little bit more? Explain how—”

“No. I’ve said too much already. I want your promise, Alexa. Swear this subject is closed.”

Uncertainty clouded her eyes, and endless unanswered questions. “I—I swear it.”

He hoped he could believe her. He could almost see her mind working, ideas forming, being discarded, some of them making their way to the surface.

“Damien?”

“Yes, love?”

“Since now we are both on the same side, perhaps there is a way I can help.”

“For God’s sakes, Alexa, your involvement in this is the last thing I want.”

She reached toward him, cupped his cheek in her hand, and the warmth in her eyes made his chest grow tight. “All right. I’ll do whatever it is that you say.”

He smiled at her softly. “There’s just one last thing.”

“Yes?”

“It’s important our roles remain the same. Gradually, we can adjust them, but we can’t afford to make anyone suspicious.”

“I can be a very good actress when I want to.”

“I’m counting on it.” He bent forward and kissed her, a slow, lingering kiss that made his blood pound hotly and desire burn once more through his veins. “In the meantime, why don’t we go back upstairs?”

Alexa nodded, and he took her hand, anticipating the balance of the night they would share. He smiled, but already he was regretting his actions. It wasn’t like him to take such chances, especially with a life besides his own. Damn, but the lady had a way of getting to him.

He hoped to hell it wouldn’t wind up getting them killed.