“My brother, his friends, and others who were my enemies.”
He had no right to ask if she had had lovers.
“And others…others believe I have had men to my bed. I know it. I have seen some here in London whisper and look at me, wondering about my past.”
“The gossip means nothing.” He believed she told him as much truth as she could.
“In France, others believed it.”
He did not breathe. Nor did he want to know why they believed it.
She searched his gaze. “Whatever illusion of that I gave was”—she rolled her shoulders—“was necessary to my mission. Can you bear it if others believe I am…une prostituée?” She pulled away, put her hands to her ears. “Non! Ne me dis pas! Do not tell me. If you think it, I must leave you. For I am not that. Was not that.”
“I have known from the very first moment I looked at you that I wanted you as you are. I saw then, knew then as I do now, that whatever you have done, you did it for good reason. Not for power, status, or wealth. No. But for your beliefs.”
“Oui. Certainment! But one day”—perhaps not soon, but eventually—“you will be told by a host of others that I”—seduced a very important Frenchman—“befriended an important man and that he was so taken with me that he believed a thousand lies that I fed to him. How could anyone believe I did such a thingwithout giving my body and soul and love to that man?” She broke then, ragged sobs against his chest.
He caught her up. “Sweet wife of mine, I have taken countless women to my bed. I did not love them. Certainly, I liked them. I wanted to claim that I had had them. Only that. Never was that claiming compelled by more than lust. Never was that a hope for a lifetime of pleasure with someone I admired.”
She looked miserable. “Oh, mon cher, you simply cannot admire me.J’en ai ruiné tellement. I have ruined so many—”
“Look at me. No tears. Now tell me, was there any other way for you to succeed without ruining others?”
She sank in his arms. “No.”
He slid her close to him. “I love you, my darling. Let me love you as you are, for all you are.”
She shook her head to and fro. “You cannot say this. I am like that painting.”
“Never.”
“I am!”
“I do not want you for my reputation. For my self-importance. For my gratification. I want you. I love you because I see beneath the varnish. I see you are sweet and loving. Kind and considerate. You have ethics and, most of all, you are bold. Courageous as I have never known any other woman to be.”
“You do not know that!”
“Oh, but I do. You would not be so torn to have me if you did not have some secret you dare not tell me.”
She went still.
“Inès, I want you. I need you beside me. And I married you because I love that woman, the one most do not see because they look at the mere veneer, not beneath, to the vibrant colors of her character.”
Her anguish died and in its place he saw a reverence for him. “How do I merit you?”
“’Tis I, my darling wife, who asks that.”
She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and sank her fingers against the rich, thick curls of his scalp. She sniffed back her tears. “How proficient, mon cher, are you with lacings and froufrou?”
He spun her around. “Mon amour.” He traced kisses down the back of her neck. “All these years, I did little but practice for this night.”
He went to work, his fingers tugging and threading, spreading wide the back of her gown, his big hands splaying over her back, pushing down the gown, the petticoat, and the delicate muslin of her chemise. She stood naked in her stockings, then stepped from her shoes only to whirl into his embrace.
“You smell divine,” she whispered as she again wrapped her arms around his shoulders. Her body was cool, and he enfolded her to cover her with his own warmth. She kissed his jaw. “I like the way you taste, too. I want more of you. Your fragrance, your essence. Mon Dieu, Je te veux. I want you.”
He cupped her face and held her steadily as he said, “You are my jewel. My wife. Never was there another, nor will there ever be.”
Chapter Sixteen
