Chapter Ten
Malcolm wished he knewwhat had gone wrong. Serena had grown distant and stiff as they walked. And silent. There wasn’t much worse than a silent woman, except a crying one. Or a screeching one, for that matter.
In fact, his mind boggled at all the ways a woman could be annoying, but then there were also so many times they were fascinating, wonderful, exciting as he’d just experienced.
Still, she was plainly annoyed. It wasn’t as if he’d pulled down his breeches and nudged her thighs apart. And he was certain she would have let him, too. She kissed like a female who had experience, and she’d willingly come to his room, stripped off her gloves, and let him kiss her. She’d fallen onto his bed as if she’d been tumbled before.
Regardless, he had treated her with respect, going so far as to pleasure her without taking his own satisfaction. And if anything proved she wasn’t an innocent, it was how quickly she relaxed at his touch and even more swiftly climaxed.
Beautiful to watch,he might add.
Even while he was worshipping her — which was assuredly what he’d done — he’d decided he wouldn’t penetrate her. For one thing, he had no sheath at hand, never expecting to bring a woman to his unsightly garret. If or when he got around to visiting a Parisian courtesan, he would have the necessary protection in his pocket.
And for another thing, something deep inside had demanded he take it a little slowly with her. Maybe in deference to her concerned grandparents, who ought to know better than to let a young female roam the streets alone. They’d invited him into their home, given him wine, and let him escort their granddaughter.
Maybe his slow pace was simply a reaction to how kindly Serena had treated him. He wanted to see her again. If he’d tupped her on their first tumble, that might have been the end of their association, for who knew what this particular female was thinking.
At that moment, though, Malcolm had a fairly good idea she was thinking she wanted to be rid of him as quickly as possible. Her steps sped up when they neared her home, and sure enough, with a few yards of the door, she turned to him.
“Thank you for escorting me home.Bonsoir, monsieur.”
Just like that, she walked away.
“Mademoiselle, wait.”
She didn’t hesitate. In a moment, she’d gone inside.
He stared at the closed door.What would he have said anyway?After all, given the company she kept, and her appearance at the Tuileries Palace offering wine to Boney, it was possible she was, in fact, Malcolm’s enemy. Such a soft, pretty foe, who smelled like some floral concoction he couldn’t begin to guess at but which made his body ache for her.
Trying to dismiss her mesmerizing allure, he walked the short distance home. With ten perfume shops on every street, or so it seemed, she couldn’t help smelling so delightful. And it was probably too much Parisian wine making him think her lovelier than any other woman he’d ever kissed.
In any case, he could have given her an apology for offending her in some way, although he knew better than to confess to being confused as to the offense. A man was supposed to know exactly how he’d offended, or it infuriated the temperamental female even more. He had learned that the hard way.
Besides, Mademoiselle Renault certainly hadn’t seemed offended when he’d latched onto her sweet, pert nipple and teased it with his teeth.
Grinning to himself, he decided she was simply skittish. After she got her erratic emotions under control and recalled how much pleasure she’d felt when his fingers were stroking her, she would want to see him again.
***
SERENA HOPEDneverto see Monsieur Branley again. He hadn’t forced her to do anything, nor had he been brutish or unkind. However, by the end of their encounter, he’d made it clear he thought her someone who would return for another tryst when she hadn’t meant to have even one. And it seemed he would expect, as he’d said,a little more.
But he smelled so good and his kisses were splendid, and his touch had been thrilling. It was easy to get carried away, to forget everything except the wonderful sensations he’d conjured in her body.
Then he’d ruined it by being far too casual about something that had been, to her, quite monumental. Plainly, he thought her loose.
She could at least admit to herself she’d given him plenty of cause, thinking of the garden at the ball. All that must stop now. When she’d walked in the door the night before, her grand-mère gave her the long-awaited good news.
“You’re going home,” Adèle said.
Her grandparents had received a letter from her father. She was to be sent to England as soon as the current situation “stabilized,” as Lord Elmstead put it. Currently, passenger travel on the ferries between France and Britain had been halted.
