Three Reckless Wishes

by Lila DiPasqua

  Adoring him.

  Careful…her heart warned. She’d built this very man into a fairy-tale prince over the years. Male perfection. Above all others. He was even one of the main characters—one of the princes—in her novels, The Princesses’ Adventures. She had to hold on to her heart. She couldn’t afford to make any missteps. Once revealed, something couldn’t be unrevealed.

  “Rest assured, you still hold that title, sir.”

  He slumped back into the pillows. “Thank God,” he stated dramatically, then propped himself back on his elbow, her laughter blending with his.

  He leaned in and pressed a kiss near the corner of her mouth, so enticingly near. Once again, she was struck by an overpowering urge to turn her face and meld her lips with his. Dying for a taste.

  When he pulled back, he said ever so softly, “You want to know my secrets. But you have some of your own, don’t you?” Oh, she wasn’t ready to respond to that. She held her tongue. “Tell me something else about you. Something I don’t know.”

  “You know everything you need to know.” At least for now.

  “What about the man who sired your son? Was he a good man?”

  “I am not comfortable talking about Gabriel.”

  “All right, then, what about your rules about bedding married men? Why avoid them?”

  “It’s less complicated that way. No angry wives.”

  “Did your husband have an angry wife when he led you to believe you were lawfully married?”

  Isabelle looked away, contemplating whether to answer, then offered, “Yes. She threw Gabriel and me out of our home in the middle of the night before his body was even cold. I’d only learned she existed a week prior to his death.” Roch’s deceit and what he’d put her through, thinking she was his wife, still caused a knot of cold anger to form in her belly and the last thing she wanted was for Roch to destroy this moment of quiet bliss. “That is all I’m prepared to say,” she added, “until I learn more about you.”

  He studied her quietly for a moment but said nothing.

  And she knew that he was contemplating how many more of his secrets he was willing to divulge. Her heart began to pound, willing him to talk, and afraid of what he might say.

  “It’s been years since the King reinstated your fortune, title, and lands. Where have you been during your absence?” she prompted.

  “Renovating my châteaus that had fallen into disrepair while in the hands of the Crown. I’ve done extensive changes, wanting each one to be very much my own—both the interior and exterior.”

  She didn’t need him to say that he wanted to wipe away all traces of his father. She could easily discern that without any words. “Are they done? I’d like to see them sometime.”

  He smiled. “I’d love to show you.” He became quiet again, then he brushed a lock of her hair from her brow. Again she waited, giving him time to speak. Sensing his desire to say more.

  He looked away and trailed a hand down her arm with a soft caress. “You asked me a question earlier. About my back…and Charles.”

  Her stomach clenched.

  “I told you I’d never lie to you, Juliette. But I did. It isn’t something I do, except when it comes to…this subject.” He still didn’t make eye contact. He simply trailed his fingers back up her arm, delighting her skin with his touch—all while holding her in suspended anticipation.

  Anxiously, fearfully, awaiting his next words.

  He swallowed as though there was an obstruction in his throat keeping him from speaking. “In truth… Charles was a monster. And so was my cousin Bellac. My back is their handiwork…dating back to a time when I was too young to fight back.”

  She’d worked for Charles de Moutier, knew him to be vile, but didn’t know anyone was capable of this kind of depravity against their own little boy.

  With invited assistance.

  The terror Luc must have felt at their hands was unfathomable.

  Hearing it felt like a fresh blow to her chest. She was winded as horrifying images of Luc as a young boy being abused assailed her thoughts. She blinked back the tears, wanting to be strong for him. Wanting to hold him.

  She took in a quiet breath to settle her emotions before she asked, “Was that the cousin who died from injuries in the duel with you?”

  Still no eye contact. But he gave her a nod.

  “That’s why you challenged him to a duel, then? Because he…he…” She couldn’t get the words out. They were soaked in such malevolence. And she feared voicing them would only hurt him more.

  He met her gaze. He’d schooled his features, hiding the anguish she knew was behind his beautiful eyes. He shook his head.

  Surprising her.

  No? What on earth did that mean?

  Luc sat up and scrubbed his palms up his face, stopping over his eyes. Almost as though he was trying to blot out scenes from the nightmare he’d endured. “That’s enough, Juliette. I’ve already told you more than anyone else.”

  She was overcome and undone by him. A tear slipped out of her eye, and she quickly swiped it away before he saw. She wanted to weep, but that would serve only her.

  Not him.

  She sat up too, just as he rose from the bed. He began to dress. Her heart dropped. She didn’t want him to leave upset.

  Or to leave at all.

  She leaped off the bed, threw on her chemise, and approached him. He already had on his breeches and boots and had just donned his shirt when she touched his arm.

  “I’m sorry, Luc. I didn’t mean to hurt you with this discussion… I’m sorry…” she simply repeated, hating the notion she might have added to any of his inner pain.

  He took a step toward her and cupped her cheeks. “You are not the one who hurt me. You have nothing to apologize about. I am not leaving because of you. I simply must leave.”

  That scared her. “What…what will you do?”

  A rueful smile canted the corner of his mouth. “I am not going to duel or engage in fisticuffs, if that’s your concern. That is exactly what I would have done in this situation long ago.” He leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. “I’m going home. You can find me at my hôtel in Paris awaiting you. But know this: if you come to me, it’s because you are willing to trust me. To be as candid. If you are not ready to trust me with your secrets, then come to me and trust me with your body. That will be a start.”

  With her cheeks captured in his palms, she couldn’t look away. Her heart was pounding, the words, all of them that revealed her hidden truths were swirling in her throat. She was too emotional. Her thoughts too disordered to think. Speak. To make decisions that could impact more than just her life.

  “Dieu, you are so beautiful, and I don’t damn well understand this connection I have with you,” he murmured. “You are more heaven than I ever expected.”

  “So are you…” slipped past her lips, unguarded.

  Her heart ached for him with the same intensity it used to years ago. She wanted to throw her arms around him, bury her face in his chest, and never let go.

  Be careful! Remember Roch. Remember Leon. Don’t trust. Don’t trust. Don’t trust.

  The small smile on his face grew slightly. “I am vastly pleased you think so. I have been honest with you, chère. We both know there is still much you have yet to divulge. And though carnal encounters with you are incredible, we both know you aren’t a Venetian courtesan. It’s very likely that your real name isn’t even Juliette Carre.”

  Her heart lost a beat. She stiffened. Before she could respond, he placed a finger against her lips. “You’re going to have to trust me. The next time we are together, you’re going to have to come to me and place your faith in me on some level—any level—you haven’t been willing to before. And don’t ask me why. Because I don’t understand any of this. But for some reason, it matters a great deal to me. In many ways, you remind me of someone whose journals I’ve read.”

  “Journals?” was all she was capable of, barely
a whisper, the knot in her throat was so big.

  “My sister-in-law gave me her sister’s journals. Sabine’s sister, Isabelle, is buried on one of my properties, and you are similar to her.”

  He’d read her journals? All her intimate thoughts of him?

  He released her cheeks, ducked his head, and pressed a warm kiss against the sensitive spot below her ear. The sensation was divine. She closed her eyes briefly and swallowed.

  Scooping up his doublet from the floor, he walked out of her bedchamber and across the antechamber.

  Say something! her heart screamed. But the words were stuck in her throat. Emotions barraging her. She followed him into the antechamber.

  He stopped. He stared at the ebony side table, then walked to it and picked up the book there. Opening the novel, he read the title page. “This is the first volume of The Princesses’ Adventures you were going to lend me. Thank you. I’m looking forward to reading it.” With that, he left, closing the door behind him.

  Wait… If he’s read your journals, any entries on your desire to write a book about princesses and the Moutier brothers… Her heart lurched.

  She darted to the door and threw it open, despite being in just her chemise.

  Luc had disappeared into the servants’ stairwell.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Damn it, Marc. I tell you she’s alive!”

  Calmly, Marc folded his arms, not looking the least bit convinced. Luc let out a sharp breath and walked over to the desk in his study at his hôtel. He opened Isabelle’s journal, flipped several pages, until he found the entry he was looking for.

  “Here.” He spun the journal around to face Marc and pointed to the lines in the writings. “In this very sentence, Isabelle discusses how she and her sister want to write stories about two princesses, Sabine and Isabelle, who meet and capture the hearts of two princes, Jules and me.”

  Marc peered at the journal.

  Luc grabbed another of Isabelle’s journals on his desk, slid the first one aside, and placed the second down. Flipping several pages, he located the relevant entry. “And see here.” Again he spun the journal around to face Marc and pointed to a paragraph on the page. “Right here, she speaks of having begun to write the very tales about the princesses and the princes. And here is a novel.” Luc grabbed the book Juliette had lent him that had been resting on the corner of his desk and held it up. “This is the first volume in The Princesses’ Adventures series—published after Isabelle’s death—about two princesses—twin sisters—who fall in love with two princes who happen to be brothers.”

  Marc’s brow furrowed. “How very odd…”

  “Precisely!”

  “Yes, it is most peculiar that Isabelle would ever consider you princely material.” Marc snickered.

  Luc rested his hands on his hips. “You are not taking this seriously.”

  Marc openly chuckled now. “Because it is preposterous. Isabelle wrote about an idea that another author published years later. So what? There are many who have written stories about princesses and princes. The Princesses’ Adventures is written anonymously. It could be anyone.”

  “It’s her.” He wasn’t wrong here.

  “It’s likely an old man or an old woman with naught else to do with their time. Or perhaps someone who knew Isabelle from the theater and used her idea after her death.”

  “It isn’t simply the same idea. It is the same writing style and the same voice in both The Princesses’ Adventures novel and Isabelle’s journals. Everything is the same.”

  Marc sighed. “I think this is wishful thinking.”

  “It isn’t wishful thinking. Isabelle Laurent wrote The Princesses’ Adventures.” He’d read the entire volume in a day, riveted by every word. Stunned by the similarities. By the fact that Isabelle’s voice was coming off the pages.

  Making his heart soar.

  Since finishing the novel, his mind had been awhirl over the probability that Isabelle might actually be alive.

  Jésus-Christ. Alive!

  He’d already sent his personal secretary, Pascal, out to purchase the other volume published in the series.

  “How on earth do you suppose she could have escaped the fire in your servants’ outbuildings? And whose body is then buried on your property if not hers?” Marc countered.

  “I don’t know.” Both were valid questions he had no bloody answers to.

  Marc pulled The Princesses’ Adventures novel from Luc’s grip and flipped it open to the first page. “This book was published by a foreign publisher. It doesn’t have the seal from the Royal Censor as all domestic books do.”

  “Yes, I know. And it means nothing.”

  “It means, if this were Isabelle, which I’m certain it’s not, she isn’t even in France.”

  “Many who wish to avoid having to obtain royal consent in order to publish their books will falsely name a foreign publisher.” He’d heard of several writers doing just that. And it made it more damned difficult for him to uncover the truth.

  “The only way to prove who really wrote this is to determine the author’s identity,” Marc said.

  “And you’re going to help me.”

  “How?”

  “You and I are going to frequent all the popular salons in the city. We are going to approach everyone in attendance from aristo to literati. Someone has got to know something about who truly wrote these Princesses’ Adventures volumes. Or where they were actually published.” Lord knows there were publishers throughout the city willing to publish anything, even falsifying the name of a foreign publisher, for the right price.

  “I’ll approach anyone you want, but I’m only fucking women I’m attracted to for you.” Marc smiled good-naturedly. “And if you happen to be tired of the gorgeous Juliette Carre—”

  “No!” Luc mentally cringed.

  He hadn’t meant for the word to come out quite so sharply. The last thing he wanted to do was to endure Marc’s ribbing over just how enthralled he was with the dark-haired beauty.

  And she too occupied his thoughts. It had been eight days since his return from his sojourn at the Vicomtesse d’Appel’s château. He thought, rather, he was hoping—all right, perhaps more than mere hoping—Juliette would have come to him by now.

  She hadn’t. And he damn well missed her.

  Hating it that she was still leery of him.

  He’d never tell Marc that he’d stopped himself from going to see her multiple times over the last few days—because Gabriel was there. And because he’d promised her he wouldn’t intrude upon their home again.

  When he wasn’t fending off tormenting thoughts that she might have turned her attention to Vannod, or the others panting after her, he’d begun to entertain the notion that perhaps Juliette Carre was Isabelle.

  Now that was wishful thinking.

  “Well, well, well…” His friend was back to snickering. “I don’t believe I’ve ever known you to be possessive.”

  He hadn’t been. Ever. What exactly this was that made him long to see her, spend time with her, and, God help him, want her all to himself, was something he didn’t want to name. Wasn’t even certain he could name, having never felt like this before.

  The emotions he felt for Juliette were so similar to the way he felt about Isabelle.

  Merde, he’d melded the two women into one.

  Luc glanced down at Isabelle’s open journal. His eye caught an entry he’d all but forgotten about until he’d reread Isabelle’s journal the other day. Now it niggled at the back of his mind.

  …I should never have climbed that tree. Sabine warned me that the branches were unsafe. Why didn’t I heed her warning? Father often chastises me for being too impulsive and ungovernable. I cut my side and above my right knee. And it hurt!

  Had the fall left scars? Though ludicrous, he’d mentally retraced every inch of Juliette’s body but couldn’t recall ever seeing any scars. Then again, he’d never had her completely naked until their last encounter. Now he curse
d himself for not remembering the journal entry then.

  And not paying more attention to any markings on her sweet form.

  But he hadn’t stopped there. He’d tormented himself further by replaying every moment they’d spent together, analyzing everything that had happened, everything she’d said to him—in a way he hadn’t had cause to before. The man who’d tried to kill her, whom she’d “known for a long time,” he was now seeing that in a different light. Dieu, was that just some horrible coincidence? Or was this actually Isabelle talking about Leon de Vittry?

  What about the bizarre way she’d reacted that first night she’d seen him at the masque. Was that any kind of indication that the two women were one and the same? Was she startled because she had, in fact, recognized him?

  Fuck. If Juliette was indeed Isabelle, wouldn’t she trust in him more? And why not let him kiss her? She’d wanted his kiss so desperately. Had her amorous feelings—all her feelings for him—faded over time?

  And how the hell could that thought hurt as strongly as it did?

  This battery of speculations only underscored just how far gone he was with the maddening fixation he had for both women.

  Between the mystery behind the author of The Princesses’ Adventures and the complexities of Juliette, he was losing his mind.

  And a good deal of sleep.

  “Focus, Marc. Duchesse d’Allain’s salon is in a few days. We’re going to attend.” He hoped Juliette would be there. Hell, what you really want is for Juliette to come to your home and trust you—with her body. Her secrets.

  And that part inside every human’s chest that poets write about…

  He squelched that last notion. It came to him with more and more persistence. What on earth did he even know about the heart? Or love?

  Or how to manage it?

  Marc shook his head, smiling. “I cannot believe you want to attend all these salons and chat among your peers for a mere ghost of a woman. I would have thought that the fair Juliette would have made you forget all about Isabelle Laurent.”

  She had for a while. Now they were both haunting him.

  “I need to see this through,” was all he was prepared to say. Admit it. You want to meet the only woman, other than Juliette, who could see into your soul.