Wicked (8 page)

"Good Lord, don't tell him that." Beau shifted into an upright position. "He's impossible enough already. It's not a problem to cook for us,
is
it, Remy?" he quietly inquired, a hint of steel beneath his mannered drawl.

"Not at all," the young Frenchman readily agreed, as if he'd not been churlish, as if such contretemps between himself and his employer were commonplace. "I'd be honored, milord. Perhaps I could suggest some succulent coquilles St. Jacques a la Parisienne now that morning has come," he added with a meaningful glance in his employer's direction, "or some tender veal and mushrooms. Or perhaps a sweet genoise with chocolate buttercream icing."

Even as the saliva rose in her mouth at the thought of such delectable food, Serena hesitated. The che
fs
sudden volte-face was as unnerving as his i
ll
humor.

"We'll have the coquilles St. Jacques and the genoise," Beau interposed. "I don't like veal."

"Maybe the mademoiselle likes veal," Re
m
y delicately remarked.

"Oh, no," Serena blurted. "I mean, I do . . . but, well . . . scallops and cake would be . . . more than enough. I'm afraid even that will put you out enormously."

"Not your usual sort," Remy murmured, his comment for Beau's ears alone. "So enticingly polite."
.

"Thank you for your favorable endorsement," Beau sardonically replied, his voice equally subdued. "Would you like Champagne, darling?" he inquired, addressing Serena in a normal tone. "Remy tells me we have a bountiful supply."

"If you don't mind."

Remy smiled, moving a step closer to Beau before softly asking, "Does she say thank you after you fuck her too?"

"Very sweetly." Then in a voice that carried to the bed, he said, "Send the cake first while we wait for the scallops. And three bottles of Champagne."

"Yes, milord," Remy answered, his gaze sportive. "How much time will I have to rest between"—
h
is brows rose in lecherous ascen
t
—"meals?"

"I'd sleep when you can," Beau quietly replied. "Do we understand each other?"

"Perfectly, milord."

******************

The cake when it arrived was magnificent. Decorated with candied violets intertwined in a latticework piping of pale yellow almond-flavored buttercream, the chocolate-iced layers stacked atop creamy praline filling that trailed down in enticing rivulets onto a luscious base of macaroons, the presentation was enough to dazzle the most jaded palate.

Lying beneath the covers, Serena held her breath, awestruck as the young serving lad carefully placed the dramatic cake on the table. Once the boy left with the remains of their previous meal, she sat up, inquiring breathlessly, "How does Re
m
y manage such spectacular food in a galley kitchen so far from the markets? Candied violets ..." The delicacy had been unknown to her the last few years.

"Re
m
y
'
s resourceful," Beau casually replied. Beyond that blanket avowal the concept of food preparation was foreign to him. "Ask him if you like," he went on, cutting a slice of cake and easing it onto a plate. "Although I know he has a walk-in cold chest because we loaded several wagons of ice on board." Handing the plate to Serena, he took pleasure in seeing the delight on her face.

"Ice?" She looked up, her first forkful already halfway to her mouth.

"For the Champagne, I expect," he said, deftly twisting off the cork on a bottle, "and maybe these." He touched a spun sugar violet. "You don't mind having dessert first, I hope."

She shook her head, her mouth too full to speak, glimpses of paradise within touching distance as the luscious blend of flavors melted on her tongue.

Touching was very much in Beau's mind too as he poured two glasses of Champagne, although his sensations were less visionary and more graphic. She was a delicious sight lushly nude, seated in the middle of his bed, her golden hair in tumbled disarray on her shoulders, her breasts ripe and full, her slender waist and graceful hips incarnate female allure, like the pale silken hair between her legs. How exotica
ll
y beautiful she was, a delicate, golden siren all scented womanhood and desir
e
—
a
nd disarming appetites. With what pleasure she ate; what curious pleasure it gave
him
to offer her that enjoyment.

"You're not eating," she said, licking her finger after scooping up the last morsel of frosting on her plate.

"I'll wait for the scallops." Although he wasn't sure he cared to eat at all.

A tiny silence fell.

"Would you like more Champagne?" Leaning forward, he began to reach for the bottle on the floor beside his chair.

"Not just yet."

Another small hush descended.

And then he noticed her gaze on the cake.

"Would you like another piece?"

"If you don't think me piggish," she said, her tone reminding him of a young child told to mind her manners.

"Lord, no," he quickly assured her, realizing she'd been afraid to ask for more. Placing the entire cake on the bed within her reach, he said, "Eat it all."

"I feel so greedy."

"Darling, you're apologizing to the wrong person. Greed of every kind is a byword in the haut monde and that cake in contrast is the merest small indulgence. Just remember to save some room for the scallops."

She smiled. "You're very lovable."

"I was thinking the same of you, lollipop," he softly said, the husky undertone in his voice irrepressibly sensual.

"How nice," she whispered, dipping her finger in the chocolate icing and slowly bringing it to her mouth. "But Re
m
y might come in. . . ." And sliding her fingertip into her mouth, she slowly withdrew it frostingless.

Stirred by such lascivious intent, he restlessly shifted in his lounging pose, his erection an instant response. "Why don't I lock the door," he murmured, already half rising.

"Your chef will be furious if his scallops are ruined."

"I pay Remy well enough to overlook a ruined plate of scallops," he said, moving toward the door, "or a month's ruined menus for that matter."

"Won't he pout?"

Beau half turned and smiled. "Better him than me."

"And you don't care to be deterred."

"Not in terms of sex with you."

"How flattering you are, Rochefort."

It stopped him for a moment, her utter candor when so many women preferred sugary euphemisms for lust. Turnin
g
around completely, he quizzically gazed at her. Have you always been like this?"

"Naked in bed with a virtual stranger, you mean? Just this once, my dear Glory, as you well know. Or do you mean something else?"

"I mean so willing to speak your mind."

"At this stage I don't have much to lose, do I? My other option is starvation on the streets of London. I prefer this," she declared, smiling. "Short of throwing me overboard, you can't chastise me overmuch for my plain speaking. And
somehow
I've gotten the impression you prefer my company to solitude on this voyage."

"Perceptive woman," he said, half to himself, surprised to f
i
nd her insight true when he'd always railed against female company on lengthy cruises.

"And who knows ... if you continue playing cards so chivalrously, by journey's end, I may be a wealthy woman as well."

"You're damned good." He grinned. "At cards too . . ." His tone abruptly altered from the overtly seductive. "And chivalry had little to do with your winning."

"I know." She fluttered her lashes at him in flirtatious parody. "I was being polite."

"A game, then, later." He felt a surge of excitement beyond the sexual, gambling one of his passions. "No holds barred."

"You could lose, Rochefort."

His grin was boyish. "I can afford it."

"While I can't."

"You've a stake at least. How much have you won from me?"

"Enough to give me independence from governess duty in Florence," she declared. "I'll never be able to thank you properly," she added, her voice suddenly hushed, a small tremor in her words. "You've saved my life."

"Lord, no," he quickly protested, unfamiliar with such warmhearted female gratitude separate from lavish gifts of jewelry. "Please . . . you'll make me feel guilty for taking advantage of you."

She shook her head, her hair shimmering tinsel bright in the morning sunshine. "I took advantage of
you,.
Of your kindness and generosity, taking your money at cards, forcing Re
m
y from his sleep twic
e
—
k
eeping you up all night," she finished in a playful hushed breath.

His sudden grin matched the teasing light in his eyes. "So you actually owe
me."

"Very much, milord." Her voice was sweet, respectful, her expression that of a young maiden well schooled in politesse. Until she smiled in a slow, seductive, languorous way that had nothing to do with maidenly innocence. "Tell me what- you'd like me to do," she provocatively murmured, "to repay you."

He reached behind him, and his fingers closed on the door key. The sound of the lock moving into place sent a shiver of excitement down Serena's spine.

"Why don't I show you?" he softly said.

......******************

But after rejoining her on the bed, he adjusted the pillows under his head, settled back, and mildly said, "Finish eating first if you like."

A tyro in the game of love and deeply appreciative as she'd already indicated, she thought it might seem rude to ignore him and cut herself another piece of cake. "I don't have to," she said, a degree of uncertainty in her voice, "if you'd rather do something else . . ."

"Fuck, you mean." His voice was very soft.

"Yes. I'm profoundly in your debt."

One dark brow lifted. "You're doing this out of obligation?"

"Of course not. You know better than that with amour your conspicuous speciality."

He slowly smiled. "You did seem rather more involved than mere duty would warrant."

"Odious man," she reproached, a twinkle in her gaze. "As if a woman alive could resist you."

He'd learned long ago to refrain from discussing his love life. "Are you going to eat?" he asked instead.

"I don't
have
to."

"So accommodating," he lazily drawled. "But if you're hungry, eat. I can make love to you anytime."

"Can you really?" A faint pettish note shaded her voice.

His mouth quirked faintly. "What do you want me to say?"

She made a small
m
oue; his certainty based on the legions of women in his life could not be doubted. "Say something charming, Rochefort," she wryly said, deciding she didn't care to hear the truth. "Something sweet and romantical from your repertoire."

"I only meant we're unconstrained by time. And I don't have a repertoire . . . although," he added with a lush smile, "if I had one I'd liken you to Ovid's Corinn
a
—
y
our beauty's without flaw." Reaching up, he delicately touched her cheek. "Is that better?"

She ruefully wished she could be as dégagée as he. "Forgive my pettiness."

Beau shrugged. "There's nothing to forgive, lollipop."

"I don't know why I should take exception to your reputation with women anyway," Serena mused, gazing at him sprawled in nonchalant splendor beside her. "I hardly know you."

"Have I been remiss?" he gently inquired.

"Well, besides that," she replied. "And thank you very much, dear Glory, for your exceptional talent. But I mean
really
know you."

He never liked the sound of that phrase, particularly from women in bed. It always presaged their wish to insinuate themselves into his life and by definition change his comfortable existence. Restive at the familiar consequences of a woman in pursuit, he rolled up into a seated position, the flux of
r
ippling muscle impressive. "Why don't I feed you?" he suggested.

"Why?" Perplexed, she stared at him.

"Because I want to." Beyond the need to derail her train of thought, he couldn't dismiss the tempting allure of her sumptuous body, nude, available, only inches away. And with her hot-blooded libido, he didn't doubt his ability to distract her.

"And you always do what you want."

"Almost always." His dark eyes were direct.

"Then maybe I'm not hungry right now," she retorted, taking issue with his careless authority, her servitude at the Tothams' too recent.

"Why don't we see whether you are or not?"

He spoke so softly she barely heard the words, but his langui
d
intonation was offering not food but sex
and
the faintest of challenges.