What would she have done if she’d never set eyes on him? How would she have endured Roch’s sexual encounters? Or her limited sexual encounters since becoming Juliette if she hadn’t had Luc to envision in her mind?
He was the subject of every romantic thought and wildest fantasy she’d ever had. Hadn’t she wondered numerous times what it would be like to completely surrender to him? Holding nothing back. A raw passion she once imagined but now knew was real.
She gave him a smile and a nod.
He returned the gesture in kind.
She’d made a decision about her Lord Seductive. One that she’d come to after many long hours, both days and nights. One that hadn’t come easily to her.
One she’d decided she was going to act upon—with some precautions in place.
She excused herself from the aristo before her, possibly cutting him off midsentence. She wasn’t sure. Wasn’t paying attention. Then she stepped around him and boldly moved through the crowd toward Luc.
His smile grew, and he turned fully to face her, taking a step away from the group he’d been standing with.
Her excitement mounted with each step she took.
It felt as though they had the attention of everyone in the room. And she didn’t care. Everyone already knew they were lovers.
By the time she reached him, a raw hunger surged through her system.
She stopped inches from him, standing a tad too close, and looked up into those inebriating eyes. “My lord, it is good to see you.”
He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. “It is good to see you too.”
“I have an important question.”
“What might your question be, madame?”
“I wish to know if you happen to have any silk scarves in your bedchamber that I may use?”
Surprise crossed his features. His eyes then darkened with a feral need that spiked her fever. A slow, sinfully seductive smile formed on his lips. “In fact, I do. They are waiting there—just for you.”
Lust licked up her spine.
If she could entrust her body to him this way and walk away feeling safe, then maybe she could trust him with her secrets. She would regain her sister back in her life. And Gabriel would gain an extended family, one who’d love and adore him as she did, that he didn’t have now. And yes, there was the factor of the anger Luc could feel at being deceived all this time, but she’d only tell him the truth when she felt he’d truly understand why she’d withheld it in the first place—for her son’s sake.
“I have some stipulations,” she said.
His devastating smile never wavered. “Whatever you need to feel safe.”
Dear God, she had such an untamable need for this man. “I’m going to bring Serge and Yves with me. Men in Nicole’s employ.” They were two of Nicole’s largest men who, when necessary, would accompany her to her amorous encounters. They were precautions she’d brought with her today in case she’d be returning to Luc’s hôtel after the salon.
“As long as they’re not in the room with us, I have no objections. I’m not interested in voyeurism with your staff. Or sharing the view.”
“No voyeurism,” she assured. “And I’m not interested in sharing the view either. I’ll meet you at your hôtel in an hour.” She winked at him, turned on her heel, and walked away, feeling ridiculously happy. And oddly light—now that her decision had been made.
And it felt so right.
Moreover, she felt less fear, more in control than ever.
Her entire body was humming with anticipation.
“Madame Carre.” A male voice broke through her thoughts and halted her steps. She glanced to her side and saw that the duchesse’s majordomo had approached. He extended a hand toward her with a note. “Forgive the intrusion, madame, but I was asked to give you this note.”
She frowned at the oddity of someone sending her a note at the duchesse’s salon. “Thank you.” Taking the missive, she opened it and read the one and only line.
Meet me in the library.
Her stomach plummeted. This wasn’t a note from a lover, an admirer, or even a friend.
The handwriting was identical to that of the vile missives she’d been receiving at her home.
Its author was here.
And wished a private audience.
Chapter Thirteen
“What is it?” Nicole asked the moment Isabelle had managed to excuse her from the gathering of men around her friend.
Standing in the vast foyer now, Isabelle handed her the note. “I’ve just received this.”
Nicole glanced down at the missive, then back up at her. “An admirer?”
“No. The opposite, in fact. Do you recall the nasty letters I’ve been receiving?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“This is the same handwriting.”
Nicole’s brows shot up. “What are you going to do?”
“Take Yves and Serge to the library with me and put an end to these hateful missives for good.”
Nicole nodded. “I have on occasion received similar horrid letters before, but no one was so bold as to send me one at a salon. Or any gathering of any kind. Do you wish me to come with you?”
“No, but thank you for the offer. I don’t want to upset this individual more than they already are. Clearly, they don’t care for courtesans, and I fear that having both of us in their presence might make matters worse. I wish to disarm their wrath. I’ll have Yves and Serge stand outside the library doors.”
*****
Isabelle placed her hand on one of the door handles of the library’s tall white-and-gold double doors. Having no idea who was behind the notes or the door, she paused to take in a quick fortifying breath.
She wanted to be with Luc.
Not with this repugnant individual.
Get this over with…
Squaring her shoulders, she opened the door, walked in, and closed it behind her. The sound caused the woman at the window to turn around.
Isabelle went stock-still.
She’d seen this woman just one other time. Yet, she’d never forget her.
Roch’s wife…
Pierrette, Vicomtesse de Roch, smiled. It was mirthless. Void of any pleasantness. Just as it had been the night she’d visited Isabelle and thrown her and Gabriel out onto the street. Though she was petite, with chestnut hair, hazel eyes, and only about ten years Isabelle’s senior, Pierrette somehow managed to fill the room with a certain heaviness that made her presence loom larger.
Dread seeped down into Isabelle’s marrow. Her mind and pulse raced.
“Madame de Roch, how unexpected.” Her voice was calm and cool. She’d be damned before showing Pierrette just how distressed her appearance made her.
Of all the people who could have written those notes, this was the one person malicious enough to upend her world.
Pierrette gave a nod. “I suppose it is a surprise to see me here. I don’t travel.”
Yes, she’d learned of this fact from Roch. When he’d finally revealed his duplicity, he’d complained of his wife’s reclusive ways. She didn’t attend social gatherings. She detested Paris. Pierrette remained at her château, preferring it to their hôtel in the city and ventured only as far as the edges of the vast lands upon which the château was situated.
Pierrette approached.
The rustling of her yellow taffeta gown as she walked was the only sound in the room.
Stopping before her, she said, “I should say it’s a surprise to see you here in Paris too, Augustine.”
Isabelle fought back the shudder that name evoked now. It was the name she’d adopted when she went into hiding to protect her and her then infant son from Leon de Vittry and his goons. It was the name that had passed through Roch’s lips, both in rage and in lust.
Even when he’d learned her real name.
And she hated it that she’d had to take on so many aliases. Now more than ever. Just when she thought she’d distanced herself from a hor
rible period of her life, someone from her past—a past she’d wanted buried and gone—walked into her present.
Just how much havoc was this woman about to wreak?
“What are you doing here?” Isabelle asked. There was nothing about Pierrette that made her feel at ease.
“Well, you recognize me. That’s something.” Pierrette smoothed her skirts.
“How can I forget? Our last meeting was rather memorable.” Isabelle kept her tone even. The less she riled this woman, the better. “What is it you want? There are others who await me…”
Her smile was more a smirk. “Of course, there are, August—I mean, Juliette. Still captivating men—just as you did my dear husband, Aubert. You have quite a gift.”
She didn’t so much as flinch, even though her heart now pounded with hard thuds. Her mind raced, trying to anticipate what was about to happen. And what to do about it. “Madame, get to the point of this meeting and why you’re sending me notes.”
With a soft laugh, Pierrette waved her hand. “Ah yes, the notes. Just a bit of fun. You didn’t enjoy them, I take it?”
“No.”
“All right, then. I’ll stop.” Her response was flippant, more than a bit surprising, and did nothing to counter the sense of foreboding crushing down on Isabelle. Not when that smile affixed to Pierrette’s face didn’t reflect in her icy eyes. Inarguably, she was an attractive woman, and would undoubtedly be far more appealing if she didn’t possess such an off-putting nature. “I’ve often wondered what happened to you after that night you left,” she added.
They both knew that Isabelle didn’t simply leave.
She’d been forced to wake her sleeping son before they were cast out in the dark of night. But she held her tongue. Kept her features schooled, knowing it was best to pick and choose carefully when to oppose the things Pierrette said.
“You know, I heard all about you long before I arrived in the city,” Pierrette continued. “My cousin wrote me, as she often does, and happened to mention the newest courtesan in Paris. A woman who has enraptured most of the male aristocracy. Her description of the woman was so very similar to you.”
Pierrette was toying with her, perversely enjoying the tension in the room that at the moment was palpable. Isabelle did not for a moment believe that Pierrette had ventured all the way to Paris from the comfort of her home just because of gossip from her cousin.
“Do get to the point, madame,” Isabelle pressed. “Or, I’m afraid, I’ll have to take my leave.”
“No, you won’t, Augustine…rather, Juliette… Oh, and what was the other one? Ah, yes…Isabelle.”
At the sound of her real name from Pierrette’s lips, her ears began to ring.
Cold fear slid down her spine.
“Good Lord, but you do have many names, don’t you? And I hold your whole fabricated world in my hands,” Pierrette stated, a smugness to her tone that made Isabelle feel sick.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Isabelle pushed back. It was a pathetic attempt, really. And the only thing she could do when her whole life, and her child’s future, was about to implode.
“Let’s not play these games, Isabelle Laurent. My husband left behind poetry he wrote to you and love letters he’d begun but never finished. What irony, wouldn’t you say, that while I pined for him, and he pined for you, you cared nothing about Aubert. I know your father employed actors, and you must have honed your ability to perform back then, but your acting doesn’t fool me as it did Aubert and all these men who vie for you. I will say, however, that you’re far better suited for the role you play now—a true whore.”
Isabelle managed to maintain her neutral expression and her composure, even though her limbs felt numb.
It wasn’t shocking to hear Pierrette call her a whore. She’d hurled that name and others at Isabelle the night she’d evicted her and Gabriel from a home that belonged to Roch. The home Pierrette wasted no time claiming for herself as his rightful widow.
The eviction had occurred less than a day after Roch’s passing from his accident—a fate that had befallen many a drunkard in Paris. He’d fallen into the Seine and drowned, with an ample amount of his favorite burgundy in him.
And Pierrette had refused to listen to explanation or reason about how they’d both been duped by Roch. It had only angered Pierrette more to suggest Roch was in any way to blame for his double life.
It wasn’t likely she’d be more receptive now.
She’d given Isabelle mere minutes to gather a few things. It was fortunate she’d already been prepared in the event of a quick departure, but not from Pierrette.
From Roch.
His imbibing had grown worse over time. His rages lasted longer. Became more volatile. The final straw was the day he’d vaulted into a rage far worse than any other and began slamming his fist repeatedly against the wall, terrifying her to the marrow.
That was the night she’d had enough. She’d decided she’d take Gabriel and leave before that wall became her body. Or worse—Gabriel’s. Everything of value she had, she’d painstakingly sewn into the lining of her underthings or packed in a bag she’d hidden, meant for her escape.
She’d planned to leave Roch on the day she’d learned he’d died.
“Madame de Roch, once again I’m going to ask you to get to the point of this meeting.”
“I want you to help me obtain a husband for my daughter, Adeline.”
Isabelle laughed, stunned by the sheer absurdity of Pierrette’s response. “You have just called me a whore. How on earth do you think I can obtain a husband for your daughter? You have family with influence. Surely you wield more prestige that I do.”
“I do. But you have the ability to sway men in a way others don’t, and I have a very specific lord in mind. He’s wealthy. A perfect match for my dear Adeline. And I hear he’s looking for a wife.”
“That’s wonderful for you and Adeline,” she stated blandly.
“Isn’t it, though? Aren’t you curious who the aristo is?”
“No.”
“I’ll tell you anyway, since you will be helping to see to Adeline’s betrothal and ultimate marriage. I’ve selected—the Marquis de Fontenay, Luc de Moutier.”
Isabelle’s heart dropped. Hoping she’d heard incorrectly, she asked, “The…Marquis de Fontenay?”
“Correct.”
She had to swallow against the knot that formed in her throat before she could speak. “I haven’t any influence on him. Or anyone else. If you want him, have members of your family approach him with terms for the marriage contract.” God, she wanted to run from the room, away from this horrible woman.
Into Luc’s arms.
“I will do just that. But in the meantime, you’ll convince him to select Adeline.”
“How?”
Pierrette picked up a book that rested on the desk in the duchesse’s library. “Use your wantonly ways, of course.” Absently, she thumbed through the book. “I know firsthand that men do anything you want in exchange for a tumble with you. And everyone knows you’re lovers already. Use your time with him wisely. For Adeline’s sake. And yours.”
Those last two words sharpened her fear. “What does that mean?”
“It means I know the truth about you. Imagine what would happen if these men were to realize that all this time, they’ve been grossly deceived. They believed they’ve spent their time and considerable wealth, from what I’ve heard, on a woman who is an erotic Venetian courtesan. When, in fact, she’s nothing but the daughter of a dead common dramatist, using her acting skills to dupe them in her self-enriching scheme. Whatever would become of poor Isabelle Laurent and her son then? Would she become the lowest of harlots, reduced to lifting her skirts for men of common birth in darkened alleys for a meager sum? Or would she run and hide and create yet another alias? I think the latter. But then, either way, her darling friend Nicole de Grammont would be left to bear the scandal of her duplicity alone.”
The knot in Is
abelle’s throat grew a little bigger. Her son’s future was burning down before her eyes. And her beloved friend’s reputation possibly along with it. Pierrette was every bit as horrifying as her husband had been. “I’ll tell them all that I lied to Nicole. That I deceived her.” She couldn’t bear the thought that Nicole would be harmed in any way because of her.
Pierrette set the book back down on the desk. “It won’t work. She’s already told everyone that she knew you and your ‘courtesan’ mother. She’s vouched for you—repeatedly. No one will believe she didn’t know who you really are. They’ll believe that she helped perpetuate a ruse against those who consider her a friend. It seems a high price to pay to end up friendless and old—just for a no-account like you.”
Nicole had risked everything just to help her. “Nicole has done you no harm!” she shot back, outrage getting the better of her.
“True. She’s an unfortunate casualty in this scenario. But she needn’t be. All you have to do is get Luc de Moutier to marry Adeline.”
“Why him? Of all the aristos, why Luc de Moutier?”
Pierrette’s smile fell. She picked up the book she’d set on the desk and slammed it back down, giving Isabelle a start. “Because I want to take away the man you love just as you took away the man I LOVED! she bellowed, her voice ricocheting off the walls.
Snatching the air from Isabelle’s lungs.
Before she could respond, Pierrette added, “If you are about to tell me you are not in love with the Marquis de Fontenay, don’t! I’ll not tolerate any more of your lies.” She hissed out the last word between clenched teeth. “I was there at the Vicomtesse d’Appel’s sojourn, and even with my brief attendance, I could see that you looked at him in a way you looked at no other man. He matters to you. You’re highly fond of the handsome, highborn, rich Luc de Moutier. And it will give me great pleasure to see him taken away from you.”
Isabelle wanted to scream sense into her and shake her, tell her all this fury and bitterness she harbored toward her was ill-placed. “How are you ‘taking him away’ when you are asking me to persuade him to marry your daughter by bedding him?” She’d never met Roch’s daughter, never heard a thing about her from him. This whole plan was madness.
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