Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary RogersЧитать онлайн книгу.
rest of the night passed in a kind of haze as Marisa danced and smiled and even managed to respond intelligently to the brilliant conversation that swirled about her. She knew now why she had suddenly become so popular and sought after, and she was all too aware of how often the first consul’s eyes rested on her, although he did not ask her to dance. Now that she understood, there was surely something she could do. But there was no point in worrying about it tonight.
Marisa was fortunately too tired to think by the time she had stumbled upstairs to her room, allowing her maid to undress her as if she had been a doll. She slept heavily and woke late to find that breakfast was to be served to her in bed since she had a busy afternoon ahead of her.
Through all of the fittings for the new gowns she must have, she tried to keep her mind a careful blank. There was to be a reception at the prince of Benevento’s palace that very evening, and everyone would be there. She must look her best.
Consoling her, flowers were delivered to her with a card from Philip, telling her how much he looked forward to seeing her again. She felt consoled by the flowers. But she felt frightened when she opened a flat box containing an exquisite shawl, all shimmering colors, accompanied only by the boldly scrawled signature, “Napoleon.”
“You see?” her aunt said triumphantly as she draped the shawl about Marisa’s stiff shoulders. “It wasn’t all a dream, my little Cinderella! And now you must hurry, for Monsieur Leroy is here already, and we must persuade him that your new ball gown positively has to be delivered this very evening!”
Marisa felt herself pushed this way and that, hardly realizing what was happening. Under any other circumstances she would have been beside herself with excitement, but now she was unusually quiet and docile, and the designer, who had already heard the latest gossip, wondered rather contemptuously what Bonaparte had found so intriguing about this silent slip of a girl who had only her great golden eyes and her hair to commend her. Tiens! She was so thin! And one wondered whether she had any conversation to offer. He decided that she must be dressed in white—a simple muslin with, perhaps, some artful Grecian drapery to hide the lack of curves, and a small ruff, which he had made so fashionable, around her neck, to hide her collarbones and heighten the illusion of a child playing at being a woman. Or was it really an illusion?
The high, tightly cut bodice of her gown was embroidered with tiny seed pearls, and a rope of pearls bound her hair, its dark gold ringlets escaping to lie riotously against her forehead and temples.
“I shall call this creation ‘Andromeda,”’ Leroy had said proudly, and Marisa wondered if she were meant to recreate the ancient Greek legend of the maiden sacrifice, for that was exactly how she felt tonight.
Josephine’s dark eyes rested on her sadly, but her manner was just as affectionate as it had always been. Was it really true that she didn’t mind? To make his gift to Marisa less obvious, Napoleon had also presented gifts to his wife and stepdaughter: a ruby necklace for Josephine and a pretty ivory fan to Hortense. He was nowhere in evidence when they left for the reception; affairs of state kept him busy, but he would arrive later as was his usual custom.
Marisa’s hands were cold in spite of her silk gloves. She almost dreaded the thought of appearing in public again, knowing how people would be speculating about her.
Almost unconsciously, she squared her shoulders. There had to be a way out of her present dilemma, and she would find it. Philip would help her—she felt it. And in the meantime, she must pretend to her aunt that she accepted everything she had been told and that she was quite resigned.
Had Marisa but known it, Edmée was not even thinking about her niece just then. She had other things to think about. In the darkness of the carriage, Edmée bit her full lower lip, feeling the blood start to course faster in her veins. Tonight—after the reception—but how was she going to manage it? Dominic had told her that he would somehow contrive everything; he was so masterful and so—so arrogantly sure of himself! She ought to have refused him, but there was something about him…. Even the lightest brush of his fingers on her bare arm made her weak when he touched her. He was an American savage—the kind of man who had no time for whispered flattery and flirtation, preferring to seize what he wanted by force if he had to. It had been a long time since any man had excited her so, and she felt like a fluttering moth drawn to the flame of a candle, knowing the danger but unable to resist it. If he got her alone, there would be no opportunity allowed her for coyness or holding back—she was sure of it. He was capable of raping her without a qualm, of tearing the clothes off her body if she resisted him.
Edmée’s tongue moistened her lips as she tried to suppress a shudder of pleasure mixed with fear. But could she resist? Did she want to? He was a primitive jungle animal among the civilized men she was accustomed to, and like any woman she wondered if perhaps she could be the one to tame him. Her heart was still beating quickly as their carriage stopped at last before the imposing marble steps that led up to Talleyrand’s palace.
Thousands of candles illuminated the crystal and silver and gold surroundings and enhanced the equally brilliant gathering that thronged the many rooms of the palace. Jeweled decorations glittered on almost every male jacket, while the women sought to outshine each other with their magnificent ball gowns and sparkling gems.
Marisa was dazzled. To think that she was here and actually a part of such a grand assembly! There were diplomats and noblemen from all over the world; she had never heard so many foreign languages spoken under one roof. The walls were hung with silk in the colors of the Republic and interspersed with garlands of freshly cut flowers whose cloying scent mingled with the odors of food and the perfume worn by the women. It was a warm night and an enormous pavilion had been set up in the magnificent walled garden for dancing. The musicians were playing already. The crush was so great that Marisa began to wonder despairingly if she would ever catch sight of Philip. In the meantime Edmée kept her close to her side even though her eyes too seemed to wander sharply from one face to another.
They had passed through the reception line at last. As honored guests they were escorted by Talleyrand himself, dressed in his usual somber black, to a group of gilt chairs placed a little apart from the others on the terrace.
Immediately Josephine and Edmée were surrounded by friends and admirers, leaving Marisa a little space to look around. She saw a few faces that were familiar to her, and she bowed and smiled politely. But heavens, how conspicuous she felt! ‘It’s almost as if we were royalty,’ she thought wryly. At least Philip surely could not fail to notice her.
She was so occupied studying the crowd that she could not help the start she gave when a soft voice addressed her.
“Ah, mademoiselle, what good fortune to see you here. You look charming, as usual, and I’m your servant.”
Joseph Fouché, duke of Otranto, bowed over her unwillingly extended hand, his cold lips brushing it lightly.
Fouché. She did not, could not like him, Marisa had already decided. He reminded her of an ugly black bird of prey, hovering lazily before it struck. Always present—watching—his cold eyes hooded and unreadable. And she remembered that he was one of the original revolutionaries, a friend of Robespierre and one of those who had voted to guillotine all the “aristos” who could be rounded up. Why did she have the impression that he was always watching her? Even when he paid her meaningless compliments his cold eyes remained remote, almost assessing.
‘The Terror is over—and in any case there’s no reason why I should fear him,’ Marisa reminded herself.
Marisa wished he would leave, but he surprised and angered her by lingering, his urbane voice murmuring polite civilities all the while. She must try to remember that he was here tonight as the duke of Otranto and not in his capacity as chief of police. What a ridiculous thought; what did she have to feel guilty about? Funny—now she almost found herself wishing that Napoleon would arrive and “rescue” her!
“I wonder, mademoiselle, if I might have the honor of taking you in to supper? If you have not already promised it to someone else, that is.”
Taken aback, she could not find anything to say. Looking at her aunt