Page 2

Polly flushed at the guttural moan Gerry let out.

“I shouldn’t,” he panted. Almost pleaded. “This is... this is the last time... I can’t... Oh God, Monique... Don’t ask me again...”

“If I did,” purred Madame, “you would do it. For me, you would do anything, wouldn’t you?”

Polly’s brow wrinkled in bemusement. but Tom diverted her by kissing the side of her neck. Not wanting to picture whatever Madame was doing anyway, Polly bent her head to let him. Might as well enjoy her own amour, while Madame was too busy to catch her at it.

An exclamation from the next room made them both jump. Gerald was half crying, half laughing. “Good God,” he said over and over, breathing hard. “Good God, Monique.”

She said something too quietly to overhear.

“All right,” Gerald said weakly. “Next week, if I can.”

Madame laughed. Polly knew that tone; she’d got her way, whatever it was. “Of course! I know you will not disappoint me, cheri.”

“No,” said Gerald quietly. “No.”

“Come back to the party!” Madame sounded thoroughly pleased. “Everyone will wonder where I’ve gone!”

A few moments later the tinkle of the pianoforte grew louder, then ended as the door closed behind them.

“Bloody hell,” whispered Polly in relief. “Thought I was done for. If she knew I was here⁠—”

“She’d be one to talk,” said Tom, fingering her undone buttons. “Playing dear Gerry’s bagpipe with a whole party of guests downstairs.”

Polly choked on a laugh. “Madame would flay me alive if she found out we heard.”

“Would she, now?” He wrapped one hand around her bottom and pulled her close. “Maybe I’d kiss it and make it better.”

Polly gulped back a sigh and tried not to melt; he had such lovely hands. But if Madame was back with the party, Polly’s absence would be noticed—probably already had been. “I can’t stay away any longer.”

“No?” To her regret, he let her go at once. “And I’m back out in the cold.”

She pulled a face even as she slid from his lap and began tugging her dress back into place. “Not because I want to.”

Tom leaned back and put his hands behind his head as he watched her with hot, dark eyes. “Does dear Gerry come often?”

“Every time he visits, I expect,” said Polly, and Tom laughed.

“Who is he? Some rich toff, sounds like.”

“Not the master, just the money. Sir Gerald somebody.” Polly squinted in thought as she put her dress to rights. “Walton? No, Wollaston. Some fancy gent in the government.” She propped a foot on the end of the chaise and pulled up her skirt so she could retie her garter. “The Treasury, maybe? The type who thinks he’s been knighted by God himself to lord it over others. Madame’s pleased, for all that’s he’s nothing much to look at. He’s plump in the pocket, brings her jewels every time she gets peevish with him. “

“All gents feel that way.” Tom cast a smoldering look at her bared leg.

Polly felt a burst of longing and frustration. He’d undone her whole bodice, but only taken off his gloves and footman’s wig. She’d barely started unbuttoning his long waistcoat, and not even had a chance to put her hands under it. Curse Madame and panting Gerry.

“We’ve got to go,” she said again, pushing down her skirt. “I’ll be missed.”

Tom’s dark and lustful gaze shifted to her bosom. If only Madame had been a quarter hour later... As if to punctuate that thought, the clock in the bedroom chimed softly. Polly jumped. How long had it been since she left the kitchen? Mrs. Brown would cover for her, but Betsy would tattle as quick as anything.

“Tom,” she said sharply. He finally looked up to meet her eyes. “Come on. I’ve got to get back to my post.”

“All right.” He rose with a sigh and plopped his powdered queue wig back on his head. He pulled on his frock coat and felt in the pockets, then looked around. “Where’s my other glove?”

“I don’t know,” she said, checking her appearance in the mirror. How long had she been up here with him—a quarter hour? Half?

“These are new gloves. I can’t lose it,” he said, going down on one knee to look under the chaise. Polly hadn’t yet tidied the room, and female clothing was everywhere.