‘Sit down, please, here on the sofa in front of the fire. I shall bring you champagne. Yes?’
‘That’s a good idea,’ he said as he sat down, and leaned forward, reached his hands towards the fire. ‘It’s turned into a cool evening.’ He sat back and watched her intently as she floated over to a console table and poured champagne into two crystal flutes. A moment later she was handing one to him.
‘Ah, my favourite. Pink champagne.’
She laughed as she seated herself next to him. ‘It matches the room.’ She clinked her glass next to his. ‘Santé.’
‘Your health, my dear. And how is Henry?’
‘The same…always the same. Resting at this moment.’
‘Will he not join us then?’
‘Ah, non, non, c’est pas possible ce soir.’
‘I am sorry he can’t come down. So—it’s just the two of us then?’
She gave him a careful, guarded look. ‘Oui, les deux.’
He sat back, remained silent, keeping his thoughts to himself.
John Summers was nobody’s fool, and he had suspected earlier that she had invited him here to seduce him, that she was about to use all of her wiles on him. But suddenly, unexpectedly, it didn’t seem to matter one iota. He was tired and lonely, and frustrated in a variety of different ways; he carried the endless and heavy burdens of Deravenels on his shoulders and never had a moment’s joy. Not these days. So let her try, he thought. Let her try to inveigle me into her bed. And let us see what happens.
Mistaking his sudden total silence for lingering anger, after their recent quarrel at the offices, she said softly, ‘I am sorry I annoyed you, made you so angry. Please say you forgive me. I want so much to have your forgiveness, and your respect.’
‘You have both,’ he responded swiftly in a neutral voice.
‘Oh, thank you! You have made me so happy. Merci, Jean,’ she cried, pronouncing his name the French way.
Impulsively, she took hold of his hand. ‘I have been so worried you would no longer be my friend. And I am alone, and lonely.’
His mouth twitched with sudden, hidden laughter. He bit it back, and finally remarked, ‘But I’ve been so friendly towards you this past week, we even had lunch together. Didn’t you realize I was…back in the fold.’
‘Are you?’
‘Yes.’
She leaned closer, revealing a portion of her beautiful breasts as she did so, and kissed him on the cheek. Then she looked at him pointedly, raising a brow.
He stared at her. Mesmerized. God, she was beautiful. A genuine true beauty. The most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He took in the perfect white skin, the flawless complexion, the arched black brows, the dark eyes full of hidden depths, the cloud of black hair, unbound tonight and worn hanging loose around her heart-shaped face. Her mouth was red, a brilliant red from the lip rouge, and it was luscious. She was luscious. Ripe for the picking. And such a temptress, tempting him. He felt a stirring between his legs as they held each other’s eyes.
He said, after a few seconds, ‘You have a questioning look on your face.’ His voice sounded hoarse to him. ‘What is it? Ask me, whatever it is.’
Margot put down the champagne glass, drew closer to him. He could smell the perfume of roses on her neck and breasts, intoxicating him, and he felt himself growing hot. At last, she whispered, ‘Will you be mine?’
Before he could stop himself he asked bluntly, ‘In the way my father was? Is that what you mean? All of me? Not just my loyalty to your cause? Is that what you want?’
He had startled her. ‘Yes,’ she answered finally.
‘I have a question,’ John announced after a moment’s consideration.
‘Ask me.’
‘What of Jack Beaufield?…what is there between the two of you?’
‘There is nothing between us. There was only a mild flirtation, of no consequence. There has never been anything between me and anyone else. That is, other than your father.’ She focused on him intently. ‘Truly. I promise. I am not a liar, whatever else I am.’
‘I believe you, don’t protest so.’
She smiled and then she began to giggle like a young girl.
‘What is it?’ He frowned, staring at her in bafflement.
‘Jack Beaufield said this room was like a honeypot.’
‘Did he now?’
There was a long moment of total silence between them, and then quite unexpectedly, all of a sudden, John took hold of her and pulled her almost roughly into his arms. He kissed her on the mouth; it was a deep and passionate kiss, and she returned it fully, sliding her tongue into his mouth, wanting to devour him.
John still held her tightly and kept on kissing her, then abruptly he moved his face and said against her ear, ‘But he was wrong. You are the honeypot.’
‘Your honeypot?’ she whispered.
‘Ah yes. Mine.’ After a moment, he said, ‘What of Henry? Is he sleeping?’
‘I gave him a sedative,’ she admitted.
‘The staff?’
‘It’s Sunday. They have the night off.’
‘So, we are alone. Nevertheless, I must lock the door, and draw the curtains.’
‘Yes, do,’ she murmured, leaning back against the cushions, fiddling with the buttons of the peignoir, opening it.
He was gone only a moment. When he came back to the fireplace he switched off two of the lamps, saying as he did, ‘It’s just a little too bright.’
When he turned around to face her he saw that she had opened the top buttons of the pink gown, then realized it was a robe not a gown at all. Even more of her beautiful breasts were revealed, most provocatively, and she was gazing up at him, a yearning expression on her face, her eyes locked on him.
He took her in his arms and held her close, whispering her name over and over, then began to kiss the voluptuous mouth. Within seconds they were both aflame.
Reaching for his hand, she placed it on her leg. He glanced down, saw that her legs were bare…soft, smooth and firm beneath his hand. Instantly he knew it was an invitation to explore. And he did so, running his hand along her inner thigh and across her stomach.
He heard her catch her breath and he looked down at her intently.
‘I am yours. Do what you want with me.’ As she spoke she tugged at the front of the peignoir and it came open fully.
Now she truly was revealed to him, and as he gazed at her slender white body he caught his breath. ‘Oh God, you’re beautiful, Margot!’ And he leaned over her, buried his face against her breasts.
‘Take me, take me,’ she moaned against his hair.
It took him a moment to get undressed, but when he was finally free of his jacket and trousers, he flung off his shirt and cravat, lay down with her on the huge sofa which enveloped them like a bed.
Their kissing and touching became more frantic than ever; her arms and legs went around him and he was poised over her, looking down into eyes the colour of jet.
‘Please, please,’ she begged, ‘take me to you.’
And very slowly and very carefully he did so, making himself part of her. They began a long ritual of rhythmic