Josephine smiled. ‘I’m so pleased you like it. I think we shall discover that we have a great deal more in common in the future . . .’

As autumn gave way to winter Napoleon found as much time as he could to see the woman who had such a hold over his emotions and his desire. A few days after he had delivered the sword he was invited to dinner and arrived to discover that he was the only guest. The meal was a fascinating example of a cuisine she called Creole, far more spicy and exotic than the fare Napoleon normally allowed himself. They dined by the light of a handful of candles and a small fire in the grate and the conversation flowed as freely as the hands of the clock standing in the corner, which seemed to Napoleon to fly round the hours until it was past midnight. Napoleon called for his carriage, and as they stood on the short flight of steps outside her house Josephine suddenly raised her hands to his shoulders and gently drew his face towards hers for a kiss.

As their lips touched Napoleon felt a warm quiver of delight ripple through his breast. At first he dared not move his lips too insistently, but as she pressed hers against his mouth his lungs filled with her scent and the aroma of her hair and body. He felt her soft body against his and gave in to his passion for this bewitching woman, reaching his hands round to the small of her back and pulling her into his embrace. Then he felt her tongue, softy searching between his lips, and he closed his eyes, knowing that nothing had ever been more perfect than this moment, nor ever would be.

As their lips parted, he nuzzled her cheek, then her neck, and whispered into her ear, ‘Josephine . . . my love.’

‘No more Madame Beauharnais?’ she teased him with a whisper.

‘You are Josephine now. My Josephine.’

‘I like that.’ She kissed him again, and murmured, ‘Don’t leave now. Stay until morning . . .’