Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary Rogers

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      Fortunately she had no more time to think just then. Napoleon himself was expected to arrive that evening, and there would be a crowd of notables for dinner. She had to bathe and dress extra carefully, and she did not dare be late for it was well known he could not bear unpunctuality.

      Trying to distract herself while her maid fussed around her, clucking impatiently, Marisa went over the guest list in her mind: The other two consuls—Sieyès and Ducos, who of course were now merely figureheads since Bonaparte had just been appointed consul for life; his foreign minister Talleyrand, prince of Benevento; Joseph Fouché, minister of police; and generals, admirals—and a sprinkling of foreign diplomats as well. It had even been whispered that the new tsar of Russia, Alexander I, might be present.

      It was to be a glittering, grand assembly, and in spite of herself Marisa began to feel a nervous fluttering in her stomach as she fervently hoped she would not disgrace herself.

      Thank goodness for the current simplicity in fashion! Her sheer white muslin gown was embroidered with tiny gold flowers and ended in a train. A crisscrossed gold velvet sash was belted under her breasts and matched her velvet slippers, and her hair was caught up in a mass of curls, artful tendrils falling over her forehead and temples.

      “Ravissante!” her maid sighed, quickly twisting a gold chain several times around Marisa’s neck then standing back to admire the effect before handing Marisa a fine silk fan, spangled with gold, that matched her shawl. A touch of rouge next on her lips and high on her cheekbones.

      ‘Is that really me?’ she wondered, staring at her reflection in the long mirror.

      Her aunt came quickly into the room, smiling with satisfaction.

      “You look quite charming, my love! But come along now, we must hurry. They are starting to receive already.”

      “I feel half-naked!” Marisa whispered, feeling sure that everyone could see right through her thin taffeta petticoat.

      Edmée, resplendently dressed in silver-spangled gauze, gave a gurgle of laughter.

      “Wait till you see Pauline! She is naked under her silk gown, I’d swear! She doesn’t look at all like a mourning widow, and he will be furious with her, but then, Pauline doesn’t care for anything but her own pleasure.”

      ‘Neither do I!’ Marisa thought recklessly as she went downstairs with her aunt.

      Usually, she never touched champagne, for its taste reminded her unpleasantly of the first time she had tried it. But tonight she consumed several glasses of it, and that and the knowledge that she looked as beautiful and sophisticated as any of the women present gave her the courage that she needed to go through the evening.

      The rooms were overheated for Napoleon, who felt the cold, always ordered fires lit, even on the hottest summer days. A film of perspiration beaded her face, giving it a glow, and her thin gown clung to her figure, outlining her small breasts and slim thighs.

      The château gleamed brilliantly; even the gardens were lit up, to accommodate the overflow of guests who wished to stroll outside in the cool air and engage in whispered flirtations in dark corners.

      Only the most important guests had been asked to come earlier, for dinner; the others would arrive later for the dancing and a late supper served buffet-style. Princes, dukes, and the highest ranking diplomats. Even the blond, handsome Tsar Alexander himself, who was given the place of honor beside Josephine.

      Following the example of the other women present, Marisa found that flirting was not too hard after all, if one used one’s fan and one’s eyelashes to advantage. She was seated next to a Russian prince, one of the tsar’s entourage, and in spite of his outrageous compliments in a heavy accent that made them difficult to understand, she managed to keep him at bay. On her other side, Joseph Fouché, the minister of police, who had recently been appointed the duke of Otranto, smiled his thin-lipped smile and toyed with the stem of his wineglass, drinking only sparingly and seeming to observe everything through his dark, heavy-lidded eyes. Marisa decided that she did not like him very much. And how was it that he had not brought his wife?

      The Russian begged her to show him the gardens when dinner was over, and Marisa lowered her lashes demurely, neither refusing nor agreeing. Under the tablecloth, he put his hand on her thigh, and she tapped it with her fan, as she had seen her aunt do.

      “You are far too bold, monsieur!”

      “And you—can you possibly be as innocent as you seem, my golden beauty? I would like to find out.”

      “And if I let you, I would no longer be innocent, would I?”

      She wanted to giggle then, delighted with herself for being so quick to answer him. Flirting was easy, after all, and especially in the midst of a crowd like this where she felt quite safe. All the same, she must try to avoid this persistent Russian after dinner, she thought, picking at her food as course after course was served and then whisked away. If only she didn’t have the uncomfortable feeling that Fouché was listening to every single word that was said! But then, why should she care?

      All the same, Marisa was relieved when Josephine gave the signal that the ladies should retire. “I will see you later,” the prince whispered when she rose with a polite, murmured excuse. Fouché said nothing, but she thought she could feel his eyes following her, and the thought made her strangely uneasy.

      Listening to the high-pitched babbling that went on all around her, she managed to put him out of her mind.

      “You are quite a success tonight, my love!” Aunt Edmée whispered to her. “And when we all return to Paris tomorrow, you are to go with us. You cannot imagine how exciting it is—but then, you will quite soon grow as blasé as the rest of us!”

      Would she? Glancing around her, Marisa did not think it possible. But then look at Hortense—so recently married to Louis Bonaparte and looking pale and withdrawn instead of radiant as a new bride should be. And Pauline le Clerc, so recently widowed and excitedly talking of her latest lovers. Even Aunt Edmée had a dreamy look in her eyes when one of the other women teased her about a certain dark-haired man who had paid her so much attention at the last ball they had attended. Marisa thought perhaps what she, too, needed was a lover, to make her one of them, and wipe away all the unpleasant memories. Even the memory of Philip…. And then she thought boldly, her mind overexcited and floating with the effects of too much champagne, ‘Why not him? If I can’t have him as a husband, then perhaps I should give him something to regret! Yes—and I’d like her, that Lady Arabella, to know, too, that she was only his second choice!’

      Gleaming with mischief and defiance, her golden eyes seemed larger than ever. And when the ladies emerged from the drawing room, the first person she set eyes on was Philip!

      In formal evening dress, he looked more handsome than ever. His high-collared blue velvet coat, worn with a white silk cravat, matched his eyes; the frilled ruffles of his shirt showed at the wrists, and he wore black satin knee breeches and a sword with a ribbon rosette at its hilt. Even the powdered tie wig that went with full dress could not detract from his good looks, and the smile he gave her, lighting up his whole face, made her heart begin to pound.

      He came forward to meet her, and she offered him both her hands without thinking to control her emotions. Nothing could spoil her happiness at this moment, not even the fact that out of the corner of her eye she had noticed the duke of Otranto, in his dark coat, leaning up against a wall and watching them with a guarded, sardonic expression.

      “Philip!”

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