To Ruin a Gentleman (The Scarlet Chronicles)

by Galen, Shana

  He crouched down beside her. “The English viscount will return soon. You need not worry.”

  “I just want him to return with his head still attached to his shoulders.”

  He put a reassuring hand on her shoulder. “I should go to Marie. All the noise will have frightened her.”

  Angelette gave him a weak smile. “Yes, go to her. I will have another glass of wine and wait here for Daventry to return.”

  “Shall I have the chef send you a meal?”

  Angelette knew she would not eat it, but she agreed. The vicomte de Merville did not need to worry about her on top of his other concerns. When he was gone, she poured another glass of wine and then another. When she went back to the window, her head spun slightly from the drink, but it was better than reeling from fear.

  The street was darker now. No one had lit the streetlamps and the shadows were long and growing. A few people had emerged from their homes, but they scurried quickly in and out of the patches of light. None walked quickly and confidently, head held high, like Hugh. She gripped the windowsill until her hands were white. She knew this feeling, the wave of helplessness crashing over her. She’d felt it just a couple years before when Georges had become ill. She’d been able to do nothing to save him, and she could do nothing to save Hugh. She must wait and pray and hope for the best.

  But all the praying and waiting and hoping had not saved Georges, and she did not think it would save Hugh either. Passivity had not gained her anything. Perhaps it was time to take a more active part in her life and the future of this, her adopted country. If Hugh had not yet returned, then she would go out and look for him. Angelette crossed to the fireplace and took the poker in her hand, brandishing it with a flourish. She’d watched men fencing for many hours and knew some of the methods and techniques. She’d seen women in the crowds of Parisian citizens. If they could fight, so could she.

  Poker in hand, Angelette left the drawing room and started down the steps. Her fear did not dissipate, but it felt less all-encompassing. She felt far more powerful and more in control of her destiny. In the foyer, she paused to take a deep breath. She could still change her mind, still return to the drawing room or go to her bedchamber. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and went to the door.

  Then she jumped when someone pounded on it. Angelette managed not to scream, but it was a near thing. What if she had opened the door a moment before? Would she have come face-to-face with a mob demanding her head?

  “Open the door,” a man said softly. “It’s Daventry.”

  Angelette dropped her poker, unlocked the door, and threw it open. She propelled herself into Hugh’s arms, almost sending him toppling over backward. She didn’t notice. She didn’t care about anything except that he was alive and safe and here. “Where have you been? Are you hurt? What took so long?” she demanded. And then before he could answer, she kissed him with all the passion and relief she felt in that moment.

  She was vaguely aware that he carried her inside and closed and locked the door behind them. He kissed her back, finally separating from her when she was forced to breathe.

  “I hope I can expect this sort of welcome every time we’re apart.”

  She scowled. “Do not jest, Hugh. I thought you had been taken.”

  He gestured to the poker on the floor. “And you were coming to rescue me with that?”

  “I was frightened. The Bastille has fallen and a crowd marched by with the dead governor.”

  His expression grew more serious. “I know. I saw them, and I learned they murdered some of the soldiers at the Bastille, though the vainqueurs suffered heavier casualties. Nonetheless, they have gone to the Palais-Royal to celebrate their victory.”

  “Perhaps they will stay there and leave us in peace.”

  “We are safe tonight.” He pulled her back into his arms. “Apparently, you’ve been celebrating on your own.” He kissed her. “You taste of wine.”

  “I needed courage and something to calm my nerves.”

  “I admire your courage. I should have used more caution and stayed here. The streets are dangerous.”

  “You’re safe now.” She buried her face in his chest, inhaling deeply of his scent. “Will you stay with me?”

  He kissed her. “As long as you want me.”

  “I want you tonight.”

  Hugh lifted her and carried her up the stairs. “I’m yours.”

  Eleven

  He brought her to his bedchamber, kicking the door closed behind him, then laying her gently on the bed. She smiled up at him as he removed his hat and gloves, then came down on top of her, covering her warm, supple body with his.

  Her arms went around his neck, pulling him closer, and her lips parted, enticing him to enter. Their tongues met—exploring, tasting, teasing. She kissed him more deeply and passionately, taking his breath away and forcing him to exercise willpower so as not to push up her skirts and thrust into her like an untried youth. “Slow down,” he murmured, pushing her hair off her shoulder and kissing her neck. “We have all the time in the world.”

  “I wish that were true.” She took his face in her hands. “But tomorrow may be our last sunrise. Certainly the governor of the Bastille had no idea today would be his last.”

  He turned his face and kissed her palm. “I’ll protect you.”

  “And I will protect you. But tonight is for pleasure.” She loosened his neckcloth and tossed it aside, then pushed him up until they faced each other on their knees. He hadn’t lit any candles and most of the servants had fled, so no fire burned in the hearth. Only the light from the moon illuminated the pale skin of her face and shoulders.

  She first removed his coat, then his waistcoat, then teased him by slowly tugging his shirt over his head. Her hands caressed his bare chest, exploring him as though attempting to learn the contours of his shoulders, arms, and abdomen. Her mouth followed where her hands trailed, leaving a hot, wet path over his skin. He shivered and grasped her shoulders, taking her mouth with his and kissing her hard, showing her with his tongue what he wanted to do with his body.

  Her hand moved between them, finding his hard length and molding around him. He groaned as she stroked him, then freed him from his breeches. He broke the kiss as her warm hand slid up and down his erection, and he had to gulp in breaths and clench his teeth to keep from coming in her hand.

  And then she bent and her wet mouth closed on his tip. Hugh jerked, seeing stars. “Mon ange,” he managed, his voice strangled as she took more of him inside her mouth.

  Hugh could not take any more. He pulled her up and shoved the shoulders of her dress down. “How do you take this off? You’re wearing too many clothes.”

  She frowned at him. “I wasn’t finished.”

  He lifted then turned her around and began to unfasten the buttons up her back. “Your efforts, while appreciated—very appreciated—will end this all too soon and without any pleasure for you.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. “I’m sure you could find a way to make it up to me.”

  “Another time I’ll show you exactly how creative I can be. Stand up.” He rose and removed the remainder of his clothing, then slid hers off as well. She bent to remove her shoes and stockings, giving him a lovely view of her bare bottom. He cupped it with one hand, then took hold of her hip and pressed himself against her. “I want you on your knees.”

  “You shall have your wish,” she said, turning. “But not like that. Tonight I take you.” She moved, forcing him to turn as well. When his back was to the bed, she gave him a small shove. Hugh could have easily have had his own way, but he allowed himself to fall back, allowed himself to enjoy the sight of her, lovely and naked as she stood looking down at him.

  She climbed on the bed, straddling him and resting her hands on either side of his head. Then she bent to kiss him, her breasts rubbing against his chest. Her mouth slanted over his, claiming him as his hands roamed over the curves of her body. His hand moved between them, cupping
her sex. She was warm and wet, ready for him. His fingers tangled in her damp curls, sliding inside her, his thumb teasing the nub at the apex of her entrance.

  She gasped and lifted her head, her gaze meeting his. “I am supposed to take you.”

  “You will have your chance.” He thrust in and out of her, her hips moving in time to his rhythm. When she arched up, he took one breast in his mouth, sucking her nipple until it hardened to a point against his tongue.

  “Enough.” She grasped his hands and pinned them to the bed with her own. Hugh gave in, only too glad he had surrendered when she lowered herself onto him, drawing his cock slowly inside her tight sheath.

  It was the most exquisite form of torture, and he all but shook with the effort it took not to thrust hard and fast into her. She moved so much more slowly than he would have liked, rocking her hips and taking him inch by inch by inch. When he was finally buried to the hilt she clenched around him, then rose and repeated it all again.

  “You’re killing me,” Hugh said, his voice like gravel.

  “You like it,” she countered. He couldn’t argue. Watching her take him, make love to him, was the most intoxicating experience he’d ever had. And when her face flushed with her own pleasure, and her hips moved faster, he locked his gaze on hers. She rode him hard and fast at the end, her eyes dark and her lips open as she clenched around him. He would have fallen in love with her in that moment if he hadn’t already been in love with her.

  She collapsed on his chest, breathing hard, and he held her for a long moment, then slid out from under her. On her belly now, she turned her head and gave him a sultry look, lifting her hips in invitation. He grasped those hips and yanked them higher, sliding into her with a cry of intense pleasure. She was so tight and he was so deep within her that his senses reeled. He moved inside her, careful not to hurt her, so wrapped up in the sensation that it took him a moment before he realized she moved with him. She moaned, her hands clenched in the bedclothes, her body thrusting back to connect with his. Hugh tried to slow his climax, but he was too close. Instead, he reached between them and found her small nub, massaging it until she stiffened and thrust back hard.

  He came as she squeezed him tightly, her own cry echoing his. And when, after several moments, it was over, he turned her, took her in his arms, and held her close. “You have utterly slain me.”

  “I think the whole house knows that,” she murmured.

  He kissed her forehead. “That was not me crying out earlier.”

  She closed her eyes. “I shall never be able to face the de Mervilles again.”

  “That will make the morning somewhat awkward.”

  She pushed at him. “Do not remind me.”

  “Will they resent me?” he asked. “Were they close friends of your late husband?”

  She stilled, then lifted a hand and tenderly pushed the hair out of his eyes. “They were always more my friends than his, but regardless, they will want me to be happy.”

  “And are you happy?” he asked.

  “Immeasurably.” He pulled the sheets over them and held her, breathing in her scent as sleep tugged at him. He sensed there was something she was not telling him. He had thought it to do with her late husband, but whatever it was, it was not about the late comte. Perhaps she had decided to leave with him for England. Perhaps they had a future together there. He fell asleep dreaming of that future.

  He was awakened what felt like a few minutes later, but must have been hours. A servant pounded on the door. “Monsieur, there is a man here to see you.”

  “One moment.” He disentangled himself from Angelette.

  “Who is it?” she called as Hugh pulled on his breeches.

  “He says his name is Blakeney, madame.”

  She jumped up. “Sir Percy?”

  “Stay here,” Hugh ordered as she dropped her chemise over her head.

  “You stay here.” She gathered up the sheet and used it like a robe. Hugh was forced to don his shirt as he walked out of the room or be left in her wake.

  “Where is he?” Angelette demanded.

  “The kitchen, madame.”

  “The kitchen?” Her tone was full of disapproval. She marched on.

  “I thought it best to fetch you, monsieur,” the servant said. “This man is not alone, and I do not want to alarm the Vicomtesse de Merville.”

  “Who is with him?” Hugh asked.

  “I...would rather not say, monsieur. Blakeney asked for the comtesse. She did not answer her door and...”

  “I see.” So Blakeney had arrived with a friend and wanted Angelette. Hugh couldn’t begin to make sense of it all until he stepped into the kitchen. Then everything became clear.

  A man in a French army uniform, bloodied and torn, sat at a table where the chef tended his wounds. His face was badly bruised and blood had dried and caked in his light hair. He was perhaps forty, and his hair was a mixture of blond and gray. Angelette stopped short when she saw him, and Hugh had to bank hard to the right to avoid running into her. Sir Percy stood off to one side, his gaze on Angelette and then Hugh. Hugh shook his head, anger welling inside him. The man’s uniform gave all away, and yet Hugh hoped he was mistaken.

  “You take an enormous risk bringing him here,” Hugh said.

  Angelette turned to Hugh. “I don’t understand. Who is he?”

  The man raised his head. “I am Victor Eugène, Baron de Luberon.”

  Hugh kept his gaze on Blakeney. “Tell us the rest, Sir Percy.”

  Blakeney inclined his head. “The baron is the second-in-command at the Bastille.”

  Angelette raised her hands to her face. “Are you seriously injured, monsieur?” She moved closer to the baron, kneeling before him.

  “No, madame. The people wanted my superior, the marquis. I was beaten and kicked aside.”

  “But now the leaders of the uprising have realized the baron is not among those they took prisoner,” Sir Percy said. “They are searching for him and, make no mistake, if he is found, he will be killed.”

  “Then he must not go home,” Angelette said.

  “He can’t stay here,” Hugh interjected. Angelette had not yet realized that was Sir Percy’s plan.

  She spun around. “But he has nowhere else to go. We can’t send him away.”

  “That is not your decision to make. This is not our house.”

  “Then I suppose it is my decision.”

  They all turned to find the Vicomte de Merville standing in the doorway. He was dressed as he had been earlier and had obviously not yet gone to bed.

  “I heard the commotion and came down.” He addressed himself to the baron. “Monsieur, you are welcome here as long as you like. I only wish I could do more to help you, but my wife is with child and we must leave as soon as possible.” He glanced at Sir Percy.

  “Have no fear, monsieur. I will return in a few hours with the coaches I promised. Only I will not be traveling with you.”

  “But Sir Percy, it is too dangerous to stay,” Hugh argued. If Sir Percy stayed, what hope did he have of convincing Angelette to go?

  “It is far more dangerous for the baron,” Sir Percy argued, “and he will not be able to escape the city without papers. I will give him mine and stay behind until I am able to acquire replacements.”

  The baron stood, his hand on the table to steady himself. “I cannot ask such a thing of you, monsieur.”

  Sir Percy waved a hand, and Hugh noted that under his military-style coat, he wore a shirt with lace cuffs. “It is already decided. I will hear no argument. Furthermore, if I stay there may be others I can help as well.”

  “Then you must use this residence as a place of safety. The vicomtesse and I will be gone. I would like to think of this home as a place of refuge for those in need.”

  Sir Percy bowed deeply. “I am very much obliged to you, monsieur.”

  “Apparently, no one considers the danger Sir Percy puts the four of us in when he adds the baron to our traveling party. What i
f the guards at the gate or the customs officials discover the baron’s true identity? We could all be imprisoned. Or worse.”

  “This gentleman is correct,” the baron said. “I cannot allow you to risk your lives for mine.”

  “I can think of no greater honor,” the vicomte replied. “You are welcome to travel in my coach.”

  All eyes turned to Hugh. With a sigh he looked at Angelette. “Will you reconsider if we take the baron with us? Will you come to England?”

  Angelette looked at the baron and then at Hugh. “I’m afraid I’ve answered this question already. I will not be traveling to England in the morning.”

  Twelve

  Hugh grasped her shoulders. “What the devil do you mean? You were at the Bastille. You saw the mobs with the severed heads. Of course, you are coming to London.”

  She had known this would be the most difficult aspect of her decision. She did not want to leave Hugh, but she knew what she must do. “I am not. I will stay in France.”

  “Angelette.” His face was a storm of anger and worry. “We have been through this. It is too dangerous. Your life could be—no, will be in danger. These people who attacked the Bastille today want all tyranny eradicated. The king is weak and indecisive. The longer he dithers, the stronger they will grow. Today they came for the Bastille. Next they may come for the nobility or the priests. They have already burnt down your home. What more proof do you need that if you stay you risk your life?”

  “It is a risk I am willing to take.” She reached up and placed her hands over his on her shoulders. Her own hands were cold against his, but hers were steady. She had made up her mind. She took his hand and pulled him aside, desperate to speak to him in private. The others turned away, giving them a semblance of privacy. “Please believe I want to go with you.” She looked up into his eyes, and she saw the hurt. “I love you. I don’t know how it happened or when. I know we met only days ago, but I feel as though I have known you my whole life. I love you, Hugh, but I cannot go with you to England. My work is here. I’ve felt that all along, and I wish I could pretend it was not so and run away with you. But I cannot. People here need my help. Sir Percy and I can work together and help far more than either of us ever could alone.”