Page 68 of The Defiant One
And then, reaching down, he impulsively scooped up the big, sleepy old dog in his arms and carried him from the church, his wife gazing up at him in sudden adoration, the rest of the family following in their wake.
Four drinks, thought Williams, shaking his head and shutting the Book of Common Prayer as he waited for Lord Charles and the bride's angry brother to come up and sign the register. Four drinks. And I've earned every one.
~~~~
The woman had slipped into the church toward the end of the ceremony and silently taken the seat beside Earl Somerfield.
She wore the latest fashions from Paris. Her dragon-green gown was made of the most expensive silk that China could produce. A fabulous choker of emeralds encircled the long, slim column of her neck, emphasizing its graceful white beauty, the flawless allure of the shoulders and bosom into which it flowed. The emeralds were a gift from the king of France in gratitude for services its wearer had performed for his country, though she was no courtesan, no royal mistress, but something far more dangerous and cunning indeed. Beneath fashionably powdered hair topped by a saucy-angled hat that threw the upper half of her face into shadow, slanting green eyes — as watchful, as predatory, as a cat's — studied the inventor of the aphrodisiac as he pledged himself to Lady Celsiana Blake.
"Took you long enough to get here, cousin," muttered Somerfield from out of the corner of his mouth, reminding her, much to her enduring disgust, of the distant connection she shared with this odious cretin. "The newlyweds are off to Rosebriar Park this evening, taking the contents of his laboratory — and most likely, the aphrodisiac — with them. If you'd arrived any later, we wouldn't have had a prayer of getting our hands on it!"
The newcomer never took her smiling, watchful gaze off the scene being played out near the altar. "You really shouldn't underestimate my abilities, Gerald."
Somerfield merely shot her an irate look, irritated all the more by her soft American accent, which had long since picked up the cadences of the English, not to mention French, upper classes amongst which she dwelled.
She smiled her dazzling, malevolent little smile. "You may or may not be aware of it, Gerald, but we have France within a hair'sbreadth of helping us win this tedious war with Britain." Her voice was a low, husky purr that was right in keeping with her wicked green eyes and silky feline smile. She flipped open her fan and, from above it, proceeded to study each of the people surrounding the altar. "I was most necessarily detained."
"Let me guess. You're up to your eyeballs in political intrigue, acting as Marie Antoinette's unofficial advisor and dining with that wizened old Franklin fellow. You won't rest until you get France involved in this stupid war, will you?"
"No." She smiled. "I won't. I can't. It's the only way to win it."
Somerfield, pulling at his stock, leaned closer and, through the side of his mouth, bit out, "I want that potion, Eva!"
She rolled her eyes with long-suffering patience. "Now Gerald, we both know that you shall have your potion — or at least, enough of it to procure yourself a worthy heiress. The rest of it, of course, I will retain as payment for the trouble I shall put myself through in obtaining it."
"What do you need it for? You've been married, widowed, and have condemned all men to hell as it is."
"So I have. But in the deadly games of politics, intrigue, and war, a woman would be a fool not to make use of any available persuasion that might come to hand. The potion is not for me, of course. I've had my fill of men and their base lusts, cruelties, and weaknesses. Oh, no. I want that potion for America. You see, I am on a very special mission from the queen, and the fate of nations depends on my getting that potion and delivering it into her hands."
"The fate of America, you mean."
She smiled. "But of course."
"And how are you going to obtain it?"
Her mouth, hard one moment, fatally beautiful the next, curved in an amused smile. She rapped him lightly with her fan. "Really, Gerald. If you think I'm about to tell you, you're as stupid as the rest of your gender."
Gerald pursed his lips and went back to sulking. His pride smarted. So he was stupid now, was he? It was no consolation to know that Eva disliked and distrusted men in general. And it annoyed him that she wouldn't take him into her confidence. Why, he'd been the one to write to her about the aphrodisiac! It was his discovery, not hers!
And yet he was just going to have to swallow his pride and let her do what she'd come here to do. She could pick a lock in less time than it might take to open it using a proper key. She could charm the celibacy out of a priest. She had more charisma than the most decorated general, more courage than the fiercest lion — and more wiles than the cleverest fox. As the beautiful young widow of an elderly French diplomat, she consorted with princes, dined with kings and queens, and had connections in the very highest of places.
Gerald could never hope to steal the aphrodisiac on his own.
But Eva . . .
Wicked, wily, wonderful Eva . . . A small vial of potent liquid and a crazy young inventor would be child's play to her.
Eva, of course, didn't give two figs about Gerald and his silly heroine worship. The ceremony was ending, the family now gathering around the newlyweds to embrace and congratulate them. As Celsie turned around, Eva got her first good look at her face and was struck by how much her stepcousin — once a gangly, pimply-faced young girl who had cried her way through her first Season, now a stunning young woman who would surely be the toast of one — had grown. And she looked happy, bless her, beaming as her handsome husband bent down to gather up a large, doddering old dog in his arms. That pleased Eva somehow. If any woman could find happiness with a man, Eva didn't begrudge them, though experience had taught her not to try and do the same. She watched as Celsie's young lord turned and, the dog in his arms, led the procession back up the aisle, frowning as he spotted Gerald — and his uninvited companion — in the shadows.
Eva quelled any softness she'd been feeling and countered with her silky smile. Time to get back to the business at hand. Beneath the wide, jaunty brim of her hat, her eyes narrowed to thoughtful green slits as she sized up each of her would-be adversaries.
The bridegroom was obviously obsessed with his bride, though he was trying his best to hide it. He was likely obsessed even more, Eva suspected, with thoughts of his impending wedding night.
Her smile remained as she inclined her head in greeting. He would be no trouble.
And there, walking just behind him with an exotic beauty on his arm, the tall, charismatic army major, fair-haired and resplendent in his regimentals, his white swordbelt glowing in the dimly lit church, his pale blue eyes coolly competent . . . a possible problem, but Eva knew a dyed-in-the-wool gentleman when she saw one. His morals would be too high, his naiveté too great, to recognize the danger that she would soon present.
She gave a bored little sigh. No, he would be no trouble, either.
