Bride for a Night

CHAPTER NINE



IT SEEMED AN ETERNITY had passed before Talia heard the sound of approaching footsteps, although she knew it had been less than an hour since André had returned her to her luxurious chambers and firmly locked the door.

Anxiously pacing from one end of the room to the other, Talia came to an abrupt halt as the key was turned in the lock, and the door was pressed open.

“Jacques,” she breathed, pressing a hand to her quivering stomach as the Frenchman strolled to the center of the carpet with his usual grace. “What have you done to my…” As always she stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “Gabriel?” she instead muttered.

A hint of satisfaction touched Jacques’s handsome features.

“You cannot even bear to claim him as your husband, can you, ma petite?”

Her chin tilted. She was tired, frustrated and terrified that Gabriel might be seriously harmed or worse, all because of his impetuous urge to rescue her.

“Do not presume that you comprehend my feelings for Gabriel,” she warned. “The truth is that I do not understand them myself.”

“He does not deserve your loyalty.”

Talia’s lips twisted. Jacques did have a point.

Gabriel had hardly been a doting husband. Not even when he had arrived to heroically sweep her back to England.

But the mere thought of the irksome fiend being hurt was enough to make her stomach heave and her heart ache.

“That is for me to decide.”

Jacques shook his head ruefully. “So forgiving.”

She planted her hands on her hips. “You are avoiding my question.”

“His lordship is comfortably settled in the cellars.” Jacques looked as if he had just bitten into a lemon. “For now at least.”

“What do you intend to do with him?”

With a restless motion Jacques moved toward the mantel to arrange the delicate porcelain figurines.


“I will admit I am greatly tempted to tie him to the nearest tree and use him as target practice for my soldiers.”

“Dear God…no.”

He turned back to meet her horrified gaze. “Fortunately for your husband, I am not a self-indulgent aristocrat who thinks of nothing beyond his own pleasure.”

“What do you mean?”

Jacques shrugged. “The Earl of Ashcombe is an arrogant cretin, but I do not doubt his mother will be willing to offer a tidy sum of money for his return. I intend to send a demand for his ransom tonight.”

Talia bit her lower lip, torn between relief that Gabriel was to be spared and dismay at the thought of his mother being subjected to the terrifying ordeal of knowing her son was being held captive by French spies.

“You cannot be so cruel.”

“It is what must be done.” Jacques did not even bother to appear apologetic. “I have hungry mouths to feed and dangerously empty coffers.”

“Tell me how much you will request for Gabriel’s release and I will ensure that it is delivered to you,” she countered. “There is no need to bully an old woman.”

His brows snapped together. “Have you forgotten that old woman has publicly shunned you since your marriage?”

Talia flinched. Of course she had not forgotten. Nor was she na?ve enough to imagine that the dowager countess would ever consider her as anything other than an embarrassment that should be hidden from society.

But, while the Ashcombes might not consider her worthy, Talia was now a member of the family, and she would do whatever was necessary to protect them.

“What does it matter so long as you have the money to feed your children?”

“You…” Jacques gave a shake of his head, regarding her with an odd expression. “What?”

“I have forgotten there are still truly good people in this world.” He stepped forward, gently brushing her heavy curls from her cheek. “You terrify me.”

She shifted with unease beneath the intensity of his stare.

“Now you are taunting me.”

“Non.” His fingers brushed down the line of her jaw. “You are one of those women who tempt a man to reform his sinful ways. Dangerous.”

Talia frowned at the absurdity of his claim.

She had been at the mercy of men since the day she’d been born. Her father. Harry. Gabriel. And now even Jacques. All of them had forced their will upon her.

“Very charming, but if I have discovered nothing else it is that no man is willing to reform his sinful ways for a mere woman. Or at least, not for me.” She scowled as Jacques’s laughter rang through the room. “What is so amusing?”

His eyes shimmered with a rueful humor. “I have devoted my entire life to gaining freedom for the French people, even when it meant returning to England and deceiving those neighbors who trusted me. And yet I have risked everything to bring you with me rather than disposing of you as I should have.”

“You could never kill an innocent,” she protested.

“I have done far worse, ma petite.” A wistful smile curved his lips. “But when you look at me with those beautifully trusting eyes, I long to be the man that you see.”

“Jacques.”

“And what you have done to me pales in comparison to the destruction that you have wrought in your poor husband,” he continued.

“That is not amusing.”

Jacques clicked his tongue. “Surely you must be aware that before your marriage the Earl of Ashcombe was notorious for being an arrogant, overly proud gentleman who remained aloof from all but a few privileged friends?”

“I suppose he was considered aloof,” she grudgingly conceded.

“He was a coldhearted bastard,” Jacques corrected in dry tones, “but within a few weeks you have reduced him to a possessive barbarian who recklessly charged into danger the moment he realized that you were missing.”

“That is…” She sucked in a deep breath. “You are being absurd.”

“The poor man is currently roaring like a demented madman in my cellars.” His smile held an edge of satisfaction. He was evidently pleased by the thought of Gabriel suffering. “What further proof do you desire?”

For a moment of utter madness, Talia allowed herself to believe Gabriel had come to consider her as more than a burden that must be suffered for the sake of his family pride. But she hastily squashed the ridiculous notion.

This was not the time or place for absurdities.

“All I desire is to be allowed to return to England with my husband.” She pulled from his lingering touch. “How much money do you require?”

He folded his arms over his chest, regarding her with a brooding gaze.

“I said that I would be willing to trade the Earl of Ashcombe for a sizeable donation to my orphans. I did not include you in the bargain.”

A chill settled in the pit of Talia’s stomach. “You promised to release me once the battle with Wellesley had begun.”

“Perhaps I find that I cannot.”

“Jacques.”

“You are weary, ma petite,” he muttered, moving to brush a light kiss over her lips before crossing firmly toward the door. “Go to bed and we will discuss this in the morning.”

Talia watched him leave the room, closing and locking the door behind his slender form.

Surely he must be teasing her?

For all of his charming flirtations, he could not truly desire to keep her in France. Could he?

Chewing her bottom lip, Talia paced the floor, shifting through her limited options.

For once she did not intend to sit idly by and wait to discover what new disaster fate had concocted for her.

On this occasion she intended to take command of her own destiny.



SOPHIA REYNARD moved through the sleepy palace with a proud grace that had once made her the toast of the Parisian stage and had captured the adoration of her vast audience.

Although some would claim it was the beauty of her pale ivory features contrasted with her auburn curls that had earned her fame. Or her expressive eyes that were closer to black than brown. Or even her tall, willowy form that appeared elegant whether in rags or, as it was now, draped in a sapphire silk dressing gown with black velvet bows begging to be undone.

Sophia, however, had always known it was her acting skills that had catapulted her from her mother’s fetid rooms in Halles, near the old Cemetery of the Innocents to the finest mansions in Chaussée d’Antin and the Faubourg Saint-Germain.

Onstage she could capture the humor of Molière or the tragedy of Racine. And offstage…well, that was where her genuine talent was revealed.

With the skill that only the finest courtesans were able to acquire, she was capable of becoming any gentleman’s deepest desire.

She could be shy or naughty. Timid or daring. Sweet or vulgar. She could converse with the most celebrated intellectuals or tell jokes that would make a sailor blush. And most important of all, she could make a man feel as if he were without equal when he pulled her into his arms.

It was those talents that had allowed her to survive the revolution even when her aristocratic lovers were being slaughtered. And eventually to capture the interest of Napoleon for several months after his rise to power.

She was a born survivor.

Unfortunately, she was not always wise.

She had met Jacques Gerard in Paris five years before and for the first time in her thirty years she had been immediately bewitched.

It went beyond a predictable attraction to his handsome face and fine form, although she was not yet so jaded she could not appreciate the flutters of excitement that raced through her when he glanced in her direction. Indeed, she had suddenly been transported back to the long-ago days when she’d still been young and na?ve enough to believe in love.


But it was more his restless intelligence and the ardent intensity that simmered about him.

He was radiant, incandescent.

Whether he was plotting war strategies with Napoleon or seducing her into his bed, he was driven by passions that set her body and her heart—her very soul—on fire.

Within a few days she had fallen deeply in love with the elusive man, remaining faithful to him despite their long times apart, as Jacques spent months and sometimes years in England.

Not that she was foolish enough to assume he was equally celibate. He was a man, after all. Who of them was not swift enough to expect loyalty from a woman while they happily bedded every maiden willing to lift her skirts?

Still, Jacques had never displayed any affection or lingering interest for any other female.

Until now…

Pausing to smooth her expression into one of pleasant anticipation, Sophia stepped into Jacques’s private chambers, her heart missing a painful beat at the sight of him leaning against the windowsill, a half-empty glass of brandy in his slender hands.

He appeared remarkably suited to the lavish gold-and-ivory room with his elegant beauty and his slender body attired in a brocade robe. In truth, she had always wondered if he had more noble blood running through him than he wished to admit. He looked far more like an aristocrat than a peasant.

It was a suspicion she was careful to keep to herself. He would find nothing amusing in the notion there was blue blood running through his veins.

Especially tonight, she ruefully acknowledged, noting the tense set of his shoulders and his grim expression.

She faltered momentarily. She had sought out Jacques to demand explanations.

But did she truly desire to hear what he might say?

The cowardly part of her was not at all certain she was prepared to discover the truth. Not if it were destined to crush her stupid heart.

But she had not survived for thirty years by being a coward. Sucking in a deep breath, she forced herself to cross past the gilt beechwood chairs and the oval parquetry table inset with Sevres porcelain that was placed near the white marble fireplace. She had nearly reached the scrolled rosewood desk that groaned beneath the maps, stacks of waiting messages, journals and scribbled notes when Jacques sensed her presence and whirled to regard her with a scowl.

Sophia kept her smile intact as she came to a smooth halt. “Am I intruding?”

Just for a heartbeat an emotion perilously close to regret touched his handsome face, as if she had reminded him of something he preferred to forget. Then, with his usual charm, he stepped forward to lift her fingers to his lips.

“Sophia, you are a vision of loveliness as always,” he murmured, speaking in French with a hint of an English accent that always sent a tingle of pleasure down her spine. “Is that a new dressing gown?”

“Oui. I discovered a very talented modiste in Paris while I counted the days until your return to France.” She deliberately lowered her voice to a sensuous invitation. “I have been anxiously awaiting an opportunity to reveal my treasures.”

“The treasure is not to be found in silks or satins. It is you, ma belle.” His dark gaze ran an appreciative survey down her body. “You would be breathtaking in a sackcloth.”

“A treasure that is easily forgotten, it would seem.”

She instantly regretted her impetuous words as he released her hand and took a step backward, his expression guarded.

Sacré bleu. What was the matter with her? She had once been a master of such games.

“Ah, you have come to chastise me for having neglected you,” he accused.

“I would hope I am not so foolish as to chastise my lover. There is no more certain means to tarnish a man’s affection.” She sought to keep her tone teasing. “I will admit, however, that I am curious as to what has kept you so occupied that you cannot spare so much as an hour to spend in my company.”

“Forgive me, ma belle.” He waved a hand toward the nearby desk. “I fear that I had no notion that organizing a handful of spies could be so time-consuming.”

“So your distraction has nothing to do with your English guests?”

A surge of anger hardened his features. “Of course it does. The black plague—”

“Black plague?” she interrupted in confusion.

“More properly known as the Earl of Ashcombe,” he grimly clarified, “has not only had the audacity to trespass into my home, but he has ruined a perfect opportunity for our soldiers to strike a mortal blow against our enemies.” He clenched his hands. “To make matters worse, he has exposed my associate in the Home Office who was providing a vital source of information. It will take me months to undo the damage he has wrought.”

“Ah, I see. A black plague, indeed,” she readily agreed, her gaze lingering on the tight line of his jaw. Was his resentment caused by the Earl’s destruction of his secret arrangements or Ashcombe’s attempt to rescue his young bride? “What will you do with him?”

Jacques shrugged. “I am in the process of composing a letter to the dowager countess demanding a ransom for the return of her son. I do not doubt that she will be eager to share a large portion of her vast fortune to ensure the earl’s safety.”

She stroked a dark curl that she had deliberately left to lay against the swell of her ivory bosom.

“What of his wife?”

Jacques visibly stiffened. “Talia?”

“Oui.”

“I fear the dowager has no love for the current countess,” he said dryly, his thoughts unreadable. “She would be more likely to pay for me to keep Talia as to have her returned.”

“And will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Keep her.”

A keen pain sliced through Sophia’s heart as Jacques abruptly turned to pace toward the fireplace. So her suspicions were not mere fancies.

Not entirely surprising.

According to the rumors, the Countess of Ashcombe had managed to bewitch every male from the most seasoned soldier to the youngest orphan with her ready friendliness and kind heart.

And, of course, what man could possibly resist the thought of a young and beautiful woman who was alone and so terribly vulnerable?

“It is a decision to which I will have to give some thought,” he muttered.

Sophia was too intelligent to press for an answer. Instead she carefully eased her way past his instinctive need to play hero to the more prosaic side of his nature.

“Her father is very wealthy, is he not?” she asked softly.

He shrugged. “As rich as Croesus, if the gossips are to be believed.”

“Then surely he would be willing to pay a ransom for his only child?”

His scowl returned. “It is difficult to know with men such as Silas Dobson. He was willing to sell Talia to the highest title, so it is obvious he has little affection for her.” His voice was edged with disgust. Jacques found social climbers as repugnant as nobles. “He might very well decide his daughter is no longer his responsibility.”

“There is only one means to discover if he is willing to pay,” she gently urged. “I shall be happy to assist you in writing the ransom note…”

“Non.”

“Jacques?”

His eyes blazed with a warning that could not be ignored. “The Countess of Ashcombe is my responsibility and I will decide her future without interference. Is that understood?”

Sophia bit back her words of protest. Mon Dieu. Had she not caused enough harm for one night?

She had intended to be subtle. She was, after all, a woman who had been beguiling men since the tender age of thirteen. It should have been a simple matter to discover the depth of Jacques’s feelings for Talia and from there to covertly begin the process of eroding his regard for the unwelcome bitch.


She had done it a dozen times before.

Perhaps a hundred.

But never for a man she loved, her battered heart whispered.

And now her blundering had only made Jacques more stubbornly determined to protect the poor, sadly abused Lady Ashcombe.

“Of course,” she managed to murmur.

With jerky motions, Jacques pulled out the chair near the desk. “I should return to my correspondence.”

“As you wish.” Forcing herself to cross the room, Sophia paused at the door. “Do not work too hard, chéri. You must remain strong for all of us.”

He did not bother to glance in her direction. “Bonsoir, ma belle.”

“Bonsoir.”

Sophia walked down the vast hallway, the rustle of her silk gown the only sound to break the heavy silence. She paid no heed, however, to the empty grandeur of her surroundings as she traveled grimly back toward her chambers.

Her disturbing encounter with Jacques had convinced her that she had no choice. The Countess of Ashcombe had to leave France.

The sooner the better.

And there was only one certain means of accomplishing her goal.

With her decision made, Sophia entered her rooms to collect a blanket. Then dismissing the voice that whispered she was taking the greatest risk of her life, she silently made her way to Jacques’s private office. Her heart was thundering in her chest as she snuck into the darkened room. But she refused to give in to fear as she searched until she at last discovered what she was seeking in a locked desk drawer.

Slipping the small piece of jewelry in one pocket of her dressing gown and a sealed letter in the other pocket, she headed back into the hallway and toward the nearest staircase with an air of purpose.

She continued her swift pace ever downward, sweeping past the curious guards until she reached the cellars and the soldier who stood directly before the locked door.

Summoning her most charming smile, Sophia gestured toward the blanket in her hand and assured the wary guard that Jacques had sent her to make certain their guest was made comfortable. The man hesitated, then with a faint shrug he turned the key in the lock and pulled open the heavy oak door.

Sophia stepped past him, waiting for the door to be shut behind her before moving into the shadowed room, her breath squeezed from her lungs as the tall gentleman lifted his graceful form off the narrow cot and prowled toward her.

Even for a woman jaded by a lifetime of men, Sophia had to admit this one was a magnificent specimen.

In the torchlight his hair shimmered like the finest gold, and his perfectly chiseled features looked more fitted for an angel than a mere man. But for all his astonishing beauty, Sophia felt a chill of premonition inching down her spine.

Unlike most of the nobles she had entertained over the years, the Earl of Ashcombe was no primping dandy, nor was he a debauched lecher. Non. This gentleman was a sleek, dangerous predator who regarded her with a cold, silver gaze that seemed to pierce through her hard-earned defenses.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Jacques might be a ghastly host, but he does possess an exquisite taste in guards.” He ran a blatant gaze down the length of her body. “Or are you here in the guise of a maid?”

She tossed aside the blanket, offering him the famed smile that had seduced men, from chimney sweeps to royalty.

“How can you be so certain I am not a genuine maid?” she said huskily.

His eyes narrowed, but thankfully he seemed as susceptible as every other gentleman to her allure, and stepping forward, he captured her hands in a light grip.

“Few servants can afford a gown made of pure silk. And these hands…” His thumb brushed her inner wrist with a touch that spoke of his vast experience in pleasing women. “Soft and smooth. They have never known hard labor.”

“While your hands are finely crafted like those of an artist and yet, strong enough for a warrior. An enticing combination.” Her throaty words were cut off as she found herself being roughly shoved against the brick wall of the cellar, her captor using his large body to restrain her instinctive attempt to escape. Sophia froze, her lips twisting with the rueful acceptance that it was Ashcombe who had lured her into a false sense of security rather than the other way around. She did not know whether to be insulted or impressed. “My lord. Should we not at least be introduced before you attempt such intimacies?” she quipped.

His expression was set in cruel lines. “Does Jacques think me a fool?”

“Actually he refers to you as the black plague.”

“Tell me why he sent you.”

Sophia shivered beneath the impact of his icy gaze. Up close the Earl of Ashcombe was even more intimidating than at a distance.

She felt very much as if she had poked a sleeping lion, and now she was about to suffer the consequences.

“He does not know I am here,” she responded.

His jaw tightened. “I have no patience for such tedious games.”

With an effort, Sophia stiffened her spine and forced a teasing smile to her lips. This was too important to lose her courage now.

“I assure you, my lord, my games are never tedious.”

His gaze flicked with chilling indifference down her slender body, seemingly disinterested in the perfection of her curves.

“You are either here in the hopes of seducing information from me or in an effort to lure me from my wife.” His gaze snapped back to her face. “Both of which are doomed to failure.”

She couldn’t curb the stab of bitterness. “Non, I could never hope to lure a gentleman from the bewitching allure of the Countess of Ashcombe.”

“What do you know of my wife?” he growled.

“I know that she cannot be allowed to remain here.”

He frowned, caught off guard by her simple words. “Who the devil are you?”

“Sophia Reynard.”

“Sophia.” He slowly tested her name on his lips. “Why is that so familiar?”

Her chin tilted with pride. “Before my retirement I was considered one of the finest actresses in Paris.”

“Ah, yes.” Frigid recognition flared through his eyes. “You were a companion to Napoleon.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. No matter what her success upon the stage had been she would always be renowned for her powerful lovers, never for her considerable skill as an actress.

Such a pity men were allowed to rule the world.

“That is all in the past,” she informed him.

“Then why are you at this palace?”

“I should think that would be rather obvious to such a worldly gentleman,” she said dryly.

“Good God.” He grimaced. “Jacques Gerard?”

“Oui. He is handsome and charming and a magnifique lover. More important, he is a skillful leader who is destined for greatness.”

Lord Ashcombe shrugged. “Only if Napoleon succeeds.”

“Which he must do,” she said, her voice thick with sincerity. “And to accomplish his victory he has need of Jacques.”

He studied her for a long, unnerving moment. Then slowly he stepped back, although Sophia was not foolish enough to believe he would allow her to escape, even if she desired to.

“Why did you seek me out?”

She smoothed a nervous hand down the silk of her gown. “Since Jacques’s return to France I find myself growing concerned.”

“So you should,” he taunted. “He is a treacherous bastard who should be delivered to the guillotine with all possible haste.”

“My concern is that he is being distracted from his responsibility.”

“If you have no desire for him to be distracted then perhaps you should consider leaving the palace.”


Her lips twisted in a smile of self-derision. “Much to my dismay I find that I am not the distraction, my lord.” She met his gaze squarely. “It is your wife.”