Now he was bending his head, to say something clever, no doubt. Jemma was laughing. Elijah saw her throat ripple and was seized by a blind wave of lust. He wanted to lick her there, to lick her whole body, feel the vibration of every muscle when she—
Belatedly he remembered the marquise and took her back on his arm. She was growing slightly more sober the longer they danced. “You know, Beaumont,” she pronounced, “I expect my husband Henri adores this place.”
“You do?” Elijah had met the Marquis de Perthuis only once, but he remembered a man with a longing face, the face of someone who wanted more than dissolute dancing. He looked like a frustrated painter, or an inventor of some kind.
“He hates being a marquis. He has all sorts of revolutionary notions about the noblesse and the canaille being alike. Can you imagine?”
Elijah could imagine quite easily. The marquis was a man who hated himself, and apparently he extended that dislike to his entire class. The marquise went on, telling him about her husband’s strange proclivities, while he steered her through the crowd and back over next to Jemma. That fellow she was dancing with was entirely too familiar for Elijah’s comfort. He was looking at Jemma as if she was a tart ripe for devouring.
Elijah could sympathize. Jemma looked succulent and sweet, like a peach. But she was his peach. Finally he managed to get the marquise jostled into the correct position so that he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Jemma again. The marquise was still talking, though Elijah had lost track of the subject.
Elijah Tobier, Duke of Beaumont, was never vulgar. Even when in the company of men who indulged in coarse jokes at women’s expense—or at their own—he invariably smiled, but always remained silent. But now all nature of coarse words surged to his lips, though he didn’t want to share them with a roomful of men, but with only one woman.
He leaned over and brushed her hair with his mouth, and whispered something extremely vulgar that only she could hear. He turned away, but heard her choke and laugh.
The marquise was pouting, so he bent his head down to her again.
“As I said,” she repeated, “he met this woman at a meeting with le Marquis de Lafayette. She helped Henri translate an American document, a declaration of some sort, into French. Can you imagine?”
It was surprising. “It would have been easier had he fallen in love with someone of my stature,” the marquise said dismally. “Because she would understand—” She waved her hands. “All of it, she would understand all of it. As it was, this woman demanded that he leave with her. Leave!”
“And did he?” Elijah enquired.
“He did.” She nodded vehemently and tripped on her cloak again. Elijah neatly caught her and put her back on her feet. “He left with her, and he left me. Moi!” She widened her eyes.
“An absurd decision,” Elijah put in.
“I am a leader in Queen Marie Antoinette’s court,” the marquise announced. “My clothes are talked of by everyone. I have never marred my reputation, even with the slightest slur. I have never contemplated an excess.”
“An excess?”
“You know.”
He didn’t, but it hardly mattered. “You are my first excess,” she stated.
He blinked down at her. “I am an excess?”
“Of course. Shall we go have some more Champagne?” she asked, seemingly forgetting that he hadn’t been with her from the beginning. “There are several bottles on our table.”
“Are you here with a party?” he asked, more than willing to return her and pluck Jemma away from that sailor she was dancing with.
“Of course,” the marquise said with a frown. “I’m here with you. And you and I are…” She struggled for the word. “…seducing each other.”
Elijah’s mouth fell open. “We are?”
“I have not decided exactly how far I shall allow the seduction to continue,” the marquise said loftily.
“It likely depends on the Champagne.” She looked around with a little puckered frown. “This wooing was quite easy once I had a glass or two. I should like some more. I believe I shall fetch it myself.” And with no further ado, she left.
Elijah looked after her for a moment, but a gentleman was hailing her to join him at a table to the side, and she wasn’t swaying quite so much anymore. He wondered briefly how the marquise found herself at Vauxhall, and then swiveled to find Jemma.
She was still dancing. Her partner had either had too much to drink or was simply too lusty for his own good. He was trying to pull Jemma against his body. She stepped precisely on his foot with her sharp heel, and the sailor stumbled back.