Page 36 of The Truth Serum
“Yes, of course you are,” she said. How else could she respond?
In truth, the whole display was rather cute. He kept moving, flexing his muscles, arching in a way that emphasized his size. His legs were planted wide, and his head was thrown back which exposed his chest to the moonlight. It was clear he adored his own body, and she found herself smiling.
He was like a little boy who had leapt upon the tallest rock and was declaring to one and all that he was king.
He looked at her. “You will worship me!”
She chuckled. “Wouldn’t that be fun?” she quipped. “But about my question,” she began. She had little hope that he would answer, but she had to try.
“No questions!” he cried. “Kneel!” Then, to her shock, he ran his hand down his cock before dropping his hands onto his hips and thrusting his groin forward. “Worship!”
She gaped at him. He could not have just done that. But then, she knew enough little boys to know how proud they were of their cocks. But rather than argue with him, she did what she did with all little boys who were being inappropriate.
She folded her arms, arched her brow, and smiled at him, even though her tone was stern. “That’s wonderful, Baron. You are a good boy. Now let’s put on your shirt and we’ll find you a cherry tart, hmm?” At least she thought there were tarts planned for the supper buffet.
She picked up his shirt and held it out for him. She was smiling the whole time, cajoling him into obeying as she would any child. But he wasn’t a child. And the moment she stepped close, the entire situation changed.
His face contorted as he knocked her hand aside. She gasped, but that was all the reaction she managed as he grabbed her hair and hauled her forward.
“I own you!” he declared.
Chapter Eleven
Nate kept theFrench doors in his peripheral vision as he climbed the dais. He needed to pay attention to his chat with his hostess Madame Joguet. She hated boring conversations and valued him because he was entertaining. But he couldn’t stop himself from watching for Becca’s return from her stroll. He knew it wasn’t his business, but damn it, he couldn’t concentrate on Madame until he was sure Becca was safe. And it was too hard to split his attention between Madame, her maid Heidi Frid, and both open exits to the back garden.
Fortunately, he was skilled in juggling social situations. He kept his expression warm as he greeted his hostess. His gaze flicked to Frid who was once again adjusting the wrap for her mistress’s cold shoulders.
The fabric was twitched this way and that by the woman’s right hand. That was the signal that the stern-faced woman had information she wanted to discuss. And that, of course, was the reason Nate was here when he’d much rather be reading in bed with his feet raised. Or outside making sure Becca was safe.
“Lord Nathaniel!” Madame Joguet cried. “I have heard such a tale of your attack. Are you recovered?”
He shrugged. “Not enough to dance, I’m afraid. Otherwise, I would whisk you onto the floor.”
“I think even you could not manage that,” she said as she squeezed her swollen knee. More than a year ago, the lady had fallen badly on winter ice, and her knee had never recovered.Indeed, that was how Nate and her maid had first met: at an apothecary shop that made healing salves for joints.
He leaned forward and kissed her cheek in the French way of greeting. “Perhaps an adjustment to your salve is in order. Shall I take Frid back to the apothecary shop to discuss it?”
Madame trilled a coquettish laugh. “Don’t be silly. Frid has other things to occupy her time, and there are some things that one must accept.”
He shook his head. “You are too young to live in pain. Come!” he said. “I insist. Besides, I need to visit them anyway for my ribs.” He pressed a hand to his side and winced in pain. It was an exaggerated movement, but not by much. It hadn’t been nearly long enough to heal his bones.
“Oh, you poor boy,” she said as she patted a stool next to her. “Sit. Tell me the tale in detail. Everyone is talking about it.”
“Everyone is saying nonsense,” he countered, refusing to move to the stool. It would set his back to the French doors and he’d lose his ability to see Becca, if she returned. “My tale is simple. I was winning at the tables. And drinking heavily.” He gave her a guilty shrug. “Of course, I would be robbed on the way home.”
“So you were not skulking around the docks? Peering into places that you should not be?”
He rocked back on his heels—a painful move that served to sharpen his wits. “Minx!” he said. “Whatever have you heard?”
“Darling, do you think that I don’t know about French champagne? And I know you enjoy the brandy.” Both of which were smuggled goods. Goods he knew she brought in to England. But did she sell English guns out to the French?
“I do,” he said. But he did not value the drink above the war effort. “And I have a very big appetite. Can you help me gain…satisfaction?” He glanced to where her husband was enjoying alively discussion with an infamous widow. “Or shall I apply to Monsieur—”
“You shall speak to me!” she snapped. There was little love between Madame and her husband, but they had a common mutual interest: that of finding income in England and not being beheaded in France. That resulted in a kind of gamesmanship between the two of them, each seeking to find security in England in the crassest way possible. Resale of smuggled goods was Madame’s favorite pastime. Monsieur relied on bedding wealthy women for the jewels they gave him. He was known to be an exceptional lover.
But had Madame resorted to selling rifles to France? And would she, since she hated Napoleon almost as much as she hated poverty?
“Who told you I was at the docks?” he pressed. “The brutes who attacked me smelled of fish, to be sure, but I was outside a gaming hell that I shall never frequent again.”
