She was fumbling for the pins that held her wig in place. “But I don’t want to learn. It would get in my way.”
His lips curved in a sensual smile. “Yes, it most certainly would.”
“You needn’t feel so satisfied with yourself. I didn’t really feel anything. Oh, perhaps a little, but it was all a part of the pretense.” His knowing glance lingered on her breasts, and she wished desperately they’d cease betraying her. “Like the gown and the handkerchiefs.” She jerked off the blond wig. “And this thing. None of it is me.”
“I believe it’s very much—” He stopped as his gaze rose from her breasts to her hair. “My God, what have you done to yourself?”
“I had Marie cut it all off.” She ran her hand through the short dark curls that clung to her fingers and formed riotous wisps at her brow and cheekbones. “The wig was hot and since I’m going to be wearing it all the time I shall be much more comfortable without my own hair beneath it.”
“You look no more than eight years old.”
“I was right to cut it.” She glanced in the mirror on the wall across the foyer. She did look surprisingly young. The shortness of her hair made her eyes appear enormous and her retroussé nose and bare throat enhanced the air of youthful vulnerability. “It got in my way.”
Jean Marc started to laugh, and she glanced at him warily.
“Don’t worry, our passage of arms is over.” He shrugged. “You’ve disarmed me. How can I seduce a child? I’m no Duc de Gramont. I told you that you had an instinct for the game.”
She smiled uncertainly. “We’ll both be much more content if this evening is forgotten.”
“Can you forget it?”
“Of course.” Juliette turned and started up the stairs.
“Juliette.”
She glanced over her shoulder.
Jean Marc was smiling faintly. “I have no intention of forgetting. You knew very well what you were starting when you came down those stairs this evening. You’re not the child you look and, as soon as I can force myself to get beyond that barrier, the game resumes.”
She should be angry with him. He clearly had no honor where women were concerned and would think little of taking her virtue.
She wasn’t angry. Whatever she was feeling was more complicated than mere anger; elements of fear, anticipation, and finally a heady exhilaration at the prospect of the challenge to come.
She veiled her eyes with her lashes so that he wouldn’t see her reaction to the challenge he’d flung down and turned and ran up the steps.
“She’s impatient.” Nana Sarpelier began to unfasten her woolen gown. “If we don’t get her the information she needs, she’ll try herself. She’s not going to wait long.”
“What’s her name?” William Darrell’s brow knotted in a thoughtful frown as he lazily raised himself on his elbow on the bed to watch her undress. It always excited her to have him look at her as she readied herself for him, and she felt a tiny tingle of heat begin between her thighs.
“Juliette de Clement.” She turned around in front of him. “I can’t get this last hook. Will you help me, William?”
William’s deft fingers accomplished the task quickly and efficiently, and the gown slipped from her shoulders. She looked down at his hand that had fallen to the coverlet. It was square and powerful, the hand of a soldier or a man who worked with the soil. A little shiver of anticipation surged through her at the thought ofwhat those fingers were going to do to her in a few minutes. She had never known as skilled a lover as William, or one who could read a woman’s responses with such accuracy. She had been married to a man twice her age for five long years and when widowed swore she would never marry again. Yet sometimes with William she wondered what she would do if he demanded sole ownership of her body.
Not that he would demand it. William wanted only what she wanted. To come occasionally to this small, shabby inn where no one asked questions, to exchange information, and then take from her body the same intense pleasure he gave her. If there were times when they shared an instant of warm companionship or a fleeting moment of laughter, it was only a bagatelle. “The man was Jean Marc Andreas. I think she’s his mistress.”
William kissed her shoulder blade. “Really?”
She nodded. “There’s something between them.” She stepped away from him and took off the gown. “Do you think the risk is worth the money?”
“Perhaps. She didn’t tell you what the object was?”
“No. Should I have pursued it?”
“No, you did well. We can find out anything we need to know once we have the information to bargain with.”
“You’re going to send a message to the queen?”
“For two million livres? Of course. We always need money. Monsieur is not as generous as he should be—and with so much at stake.”
