She barely glanced at the book. “Surely that could wait 'til tomorrow.”
The corners of his lips lifted, reminding her of the way he used to smile at her, in those antediluvian days. She had ribbed him for smiling too much, for not being thin-lipped and icy-miened enough for all his aristocratic lineage. “I suppose it could have waited,” he said. “But as I was coming this way anyway . . .”
Given all his avowals of aversion and antipathy, she could scarcely believe what she was hearing. “I thought you couldn't stand bedding me.”
“I asked myself, who am I to stand in the way of your effulgent future happiness?”
She should be relieved. She should be leaping and cartwheeling, she who had been pushing him from day one. Yet a mixture of chagrin and panic suddenly assaulted her. She could not take it. She could not bear for him to touch her tonight. She had to fight not to step back and put greater distance between them.
“I'm surprised you haven't broken out in boils at the mere prospect of it.”
“I have a slop bucket ready in my room,” he said. “You will excuse me if I rush back afterward. Now, shall we?”
Belatedly, she remembered her “très spécial” chemise. She didn't want him to see it. “The light switch is behind you.”
He shook his head. “I don't want to accidentally step on Croesus. Or grope for the door on my way out, in”— he looked at the clock—“three minutes.”
Three minutes. Had they come to this? Unbidden, the memories of her wedding night returned. He had stoked the fires of her desire with such exquisite patience, such finely attuned caresses, that she had literally trembled with the force of her need.
He was suddenly before her, separated from her by nothing but a sliver of air. His hand went to the belt of her robe.
“No!” She gripped his wrist. “There is no need.”
His gaze made her feel about as desirable as a barnyard sow. “It's nothing personal. A view of breasts and buttocks moves the process along.”
“Let me go to my dressing room for a minute, and then—”
He tugged at the belt. It came loose, and the front of her robe fell open, exposing the injudicious chemise.
If she were truly the woman of infinite cheekiness he believed her to be, she'd thrust out her chest and stare him straight in the eye. But all she could think of were the chilly spring nights in Paris, during those months when she had repeatedly thrown herself at him, wearing equally salacious bits of lace and satin. What had he said the last time he dragged her out of his garret and threw her coat at her? You look like a tenpenny whore.
And still she had gone back, only to see him admit a woman beautiful enough to shame the stars. She had stood on the stair landing below his door, stunned, as if he had grabbed her head and slammed it into a wall.
Slowly, almost gently, he drew her robe closed. But his eyes were ungentle. “Did you really expect it to change my mind?”
She shrugged, a bit of her defiance returning. “No. But I would do anything to marry Freddie.”
Abruptly, he reached forward and lifted her. She gasped, but he had already set her down again, with her back against a bedpost. He leaned into her, every inch of his body pressed into hers. With a blaze of heat like rivulets of molten ore, she realized that he was full hard against her.
He lowered his head toward hers, as if he were inhaling her. Her heart pounded painfully. When his breath caressed the helix of her ear, she nearly jumped. But he only said, “Poor Lord Frederick. What did he do to deserve you?”
She felt his fingers work the fastening of his trousers. Without once touching her skin, he separated her robe below the belt and lifted the hem of her chemise. Which made it all the more shocking as his erection came into contact with her bare abdomen. He was burning hot.
She closed her eyes and turned her face away from him. But she could not block the sensations he provoked. He entered her with an ease that shamed her, long, slow thrusts that had her clenching at her robe, the wretchedness in her heart cutting deeper with each flare of pleasure.
The slight catch in his breath, the sudden pressure of his hands on her hips, and the abrupt stillness of his lower body signaled his release. He withdrew. Fifteen seconds later he was already walking away from her. She opened her eyes to see him stooping over Croesus's sleeping form. He touched one of the old dog's ears, then moved on, opening and closing the door behind him with barely a sound.
She looked at the clock. Exactly three minutes had passed.
This was what they had come to.
Chapter Sixteen
January 1883
Gigi awoke to a room awash in pallid light. The clock read half past nine. She bolted straight up—and had to hurriedly gather an armful of bedspread to cover her nakedness. Good heavens! They were supposed to depart for Bedford at nine o'clock, to begin their journey to Paris.