She tried to take a step sideways, across the threshold, but he continued to block the doorway, staring at her with an arrogant insolence that set her pride on edge.
Pride prompted her to smile at him, a friendly smile that held a promise she had no intention of fulfilling. She had used that smile before, in her old life, and she knew its power.
He smiled back at her, mockingly.
"Do come in," he said, and opened the door wide.
Gabrielle walked into the room and looked around her. For the second time in the space of a minute she gasped in surprise.
It was a laboratory. Bottles, alembics, and beakers—some empty and some filled with mysterious liquids—stood on every flat surface. A microscope sat on a table among a pile of books; a huge telescope pointed out the window toward the sky. Although it was the middle of the day, dozens of candles blazed, reflecting brightly in the many glass containers and in the mirrors that lined the walls.
But the most astonishing thing stood in the middle of the room. It looked to be a miniature montgolfier—a balloon. It was two feet in diameter, made of thin linen or silk, and it floated above a metal canister that hissed a blue flame. As she watched it, the balloon seemed to swell in size.
"Why?" he said.
Gabrielle started, whipping around. He was standing very close to her, too close for her comfortably to meet his eyes, and so she looked down. His white linen shirt was unfastened at the neck, and sweat sheened on the smooth, brown skin of his broad chest. Her eyes traveled downward over a trim waist and hips to tight knee breeches that revealed every muscle and sinew. She thought he was probably very beautiful naked.
Startling herself this time, Gabrielle flung her head up to meet a pair of gray eyes that glinted with a knowing mockery. Blushing, she looked away. She couldn't imagine what had possessed her to think such a thing. Dieu, she was getting to be as bad as Agnes, Who couldn't look at a man without cataloging his attributes for the bedroom.
"Why?" he said again, patiently.
"Why what? Oh, you mean why am I here."
Amusement flickered across his face, softening its harshness. "Yes, that's what I mean. You are going to tell me, I hope. Eventually?"
Her eyes flitted back and forth uneasily between the vicomte and the swelling balloon. It was definitely getting larger. In the few seconds she'd been here it seemed to have doubled in size. "I've, uh, I've come for Fornication," she said unthinkingly, her mind distracted by the man's imposing presence as much as by the growing balloon.
"Forni—" He laughed suddenly, warm and husky. "God bless Monsieur Prion, whoever he is. I must admit I've never been propositioned quite so boldly before," he said, slow and soft. "I find I rather like it." He slipped an arm around her waist and started to pull her against him.
Caught off balance, Gabrielle stumbled and had to clutch his sleeves to keep from falling. The muscles of his arms clenched beneath her hands as he pulled her closer. He molded her against the length of him, tight enough for her to feel the corded ridges of his chest, his flat stomach; tight enough to feel . . . everything—even through the bulky padding of her skirt and petticoat.
Her face was pressed close to his throat, so close she could have kissed that smooth brown skin. Her lips parted—
"Oh, don't be such a stupid fool!" Gabrielle snapped breathlessly, pushing away from his chest with more force than was necessary. "I've no desire to indulge you in your silly games."
The heavy lids lowered over his eyes again. It gave him a dangerous look. "And I don't think I want to play at yours. Who sent you?"
"I told you. Monsieur Prion. Do you always do this—ask the same questions over and over again? It's very rude."
He laughed. "And do you always answer questions with statements that make no sense? It's very rude."
Disconcerted by the strange way the vicomte was acting, Gabrielle didn't know what to say. Conscious of his eyes on her, she lifted the heavy fall of her hair off her neck. It's much too warm in here, she thought. And was it necessary for him to stand so close to her? He was making it difficult to breathe. She wondered if the man was mad. It would be a pity, for he was very handsome. Dieu, but it was hot. All these candles. And the balloon . . . The balloon was getting quite large, the skin now stretched so tautly it was almost transparent. So tautly it looked about ready to—
"Monsieur," she said suddenly, "I believe your montgolfier is about to burst."
Without bothering to look at it, he kept his eyes fastened on her flushed face. "It isn't a montgolfier. Montgolfiers are inflated with hot air. This one is inflating with hydrogen. Inflammable air. I call it an aerostat."
Inflammable air? The man was most definitely mad.
A draft of air made the candles flicker, and the balloon swayed gently as it grew, still steadily swelling, getting bigger and bigger . . .
Gabrielle started to back toward the door. "Whatever you call it, monsieur, it is about to burst."
He finally glanced at it. Then his eyes met hers and his lips twisted into a tough, damn-the-world smile. "You know, mademoiselle, I believe you are right."
He threw himself at her, knocking her to the floor just as a tremendous explosion shook the building.
The glass that was everywhere in the room shattered into a thousand shards. The walls rattled and the floor shivered. There was an echoing rumble, a final tinkle of a falling mirror, then silence.
Gabrielle opened her eyes. The ceiling floated high above her. Clouds of plaster drifted lazily in the air. She felt a muffled pressure against her ears, as if she were swimming under water.
He lay on her, the full length of him covering the full length of her. His chest flattened her breasts; his stomach pressed against hers. One of his thighs was braced between her legs. His face was very close. She could see the fans of tiny wrinkles around his eyes, the incredibly long lashes that brushed against his cheekbones when he blinked, the lines at the corners of his mouth which no longer looked so hard and cruel. She marked the pulse beats in his lean throat, saw them quicken.
"Monsieur, you are lying on me," she said, then wished she hadn't. It would give him ideas. It was giving her ideas.
He said nothing. His dark gray eyes regarded her seriously. He shifted his weight a little, easing it. The movement caused his thigh to press briefly into the cleft between her legs, and Gabrielle felt the muscles low in her stomach flutter.
He lightly brushed her cheek with his fingertips. "You're bleeding a little. It's only a scratch."
Gabrielle had to smile. He had said it so matter-of-factly. Only a scratch. As if they both hadn't almost been killed. She decided he probably was a little mad. Perhaps that was what made him so exciting.
His fingers had drifted over her cheekbones, across her forehead, then down along her chin, tracing the contours of her face. The skin of his hand was rough and callused; it sent odd chills rippling down her spine.
"Your experiment seems to have been something of a disaster, monsieur," she said, mainly to stop the fluttering in her stomach. But her words sounded shaky and breathless to her ears.
"On the contrary . . ." He lowered his face until it was only inches from hers. She thought he was going to kiss her. She wanted him to kiss her. "It was"—his voice drifted into a low, silky purr—"a shattering success."
Gabrielle closed her eyes, and her mouth parted open with a soft sigh. His lips touched hers—
"The devil take you, Max you scoundrel! Are you trying to kill us all?"
Gabrielle's eyes flew open. The face above hers turned slightly and, from beneath lazy, slitted lids, regarded the woman who had just barged into the room.
"Go away, Sophie. Can't you see I'm busy?"
The woman stood above them with her hands on her hips. "Really, Max, you are incorrigible. Now is no time to be doing that. " She looked at the shambles around her. "Merde, you've broken all my windows and frightened my cust— guests half out of their wits!"
Gabrielle struggled against his
hard chest. "Get off me, you oaf!"
Laughing, he rose to his feet, pulling her up with him in one smooth movement. She felt the rugged strength of him in the tingly pressure of his fingers clasping her wrist, long after he had let it go.
The woman looked Gabrielle up and down, while Gabrielle struggled to gather herself together. Her fichu had pulled half out of her bodice. Plaster dust coated her clothes and hair. Somehow one of her heels had broken off her shoe; it made her feel decidedly lopsided.
Although they had never been introduced, Gabrielle had seen the woman before, for Sophie Restonne was a well-known figure in the Palais Royal. She was at the tail end of her youth and beauty, but hiding it well, with an expertly made-up face and an elaborate, heavily powdered coiffure. Her dresses were always panniered, beribboned, flounced, and expensive. She resided in one of the apartments above the Cafe de Foy with several "sisters," running an establishment where one could play at any hour of the day or night— at rouge-et-noire or blond and brunette.
"I haven't seen this one before, Max," Sophie said, falsely sweet. "Who is she?"
He shrugged and looked at Gabrielle with cool gray eyes. "I really haven't the vaguest idea."
"Oh, this is too much!" Gabrielle exclaimed, angrily slapping the dust from her skirts. "I swear you must be mad. You sell Monsieur Prion an engraving and then pretend not to know him. You allow that aero— that thing—"
"Aerostat."
"—to blow up in my face—"
"What engraving?" Sophie said.
"Yes, what—" he began, but Gabrielle had merely paused for breath.
"Then you hurl me to the floor and proceed to . . . to assault me—"
"I didn't notice you resisting—"
"I was going to ... I would have if you had . . . oooh! As far as I'm concerned, Monsieur le Vicomte, you can go to hell. And you can take your nasty engraving with you, where it will no doubt go very well with the decor!"
"Vicomte!" Sophie shrieked. "For shame, Max. Since when did you have to stoop to telling lies to get a girl into your bed—"
Gabrielle had started to stalk past him, limping on her heel-less shoe, but he put out a hand, stopping her. "Wait," he said softly, but there was a hard edge to his voice, and the hand that grasped her arm tightened.
Gabrielle began to feel a horrible premonition. "You . . . you are not the vicomte?"
He studied her for a long moment, then his mouth thinned into a tight smile. "My brother is a vicomte. I am a mere monsieur."
"Monsieur de Saint-Romain?"
He shook his head. "Maximilien de Saint-Just."
"Max, you rogue," Sophie said, laughing, "you really should exchange names before you—"
"Go away, Sophie," he said abruptly, and her musical laughter cut off in mid-chord.
Her rouged cheeks flushed, then whitened. "And what about the damage to my windows? The police will be here soon, you mark my words, and ..."
He didn't answer her. She hesitated a moment longer. "Well, really!" she said, then stormed from the room with an angry swish of her skirts.
They didn't notice. Max's hooded gray eyes were fixed on Gabrielle's face. She felt the compelling force of them, piercing her with an intensity that was as intimate as a kiss. The weight of his fingers on her arm seemed to press heavily, burning through the material of her sleeve. She heard her own breathing, then his. Then they seemed to be breathing togather. She pulled away from him and began backing slowly out of the room. "I—I seem to have made a silly mistake."
"Did you?" He took a step after her.
She bumped into the door. Her fingers gripped the edge, pulling it open. "I was looking for someone else."
"And you found me."
"No ..." She whirled and ran down the hall for the stairs.
A crowd of people had gathered in front of the Cafe de Foy. One man tugged at Gabrielle's arm as she came out.
"What was it, mademoiselle? What's happened?"
Gabrielle pressed through them, ignoring their questions. Let him try to explain what he had been doing, blowing up aero-things—aerostats—with inflammable air. It ought to be outlawed. Maybe the king would find out about it and have him arrested and thrown into a cell in the Bastille. It would serve him right for trying to kiss her. I didn't notice you resisting, she quoted him to herself, exaggerating the sarcasm in his voice. Hunh! Just let him try to kiss her again. She would show him resistance . . .
"Did you hear the explosion?" Agnes asked breathlessly as soon as Gabrielle set foot in the shop. "They say it was caused by some crazy aristocrat experimenting with gunpowder. He killed himself and some whore he was— Jesu! You're bleeding."
Gabrielle pressed the back of her hand against her cheek. "It's only a scratch. Where's Dominique?"
"He went with Monsieur Simon to take that bag of old clothes we couldn't sell to the ragpickers. They just left. I'm surprised you didn't see them. What happened to you? You look as if you've been rolling in the dirt."
"I, uh, tripped on a loose stone."
Gabrielle glanced uneasily out the window, trying to quell an impulse to rush after her son. She knew it wasn't good for the boy to have her hovering over him constantly. Besides, Dominique looked no different than any other little boy. Nobody could possibly guess . . . Certainly he was safer in Simon's company thin hers. He could be Simon's grandson.
She realized that Agnes had spoken. "I'm sorry?"
"I said let's have a look at Monsieur Simon's dirty picture while he's gone." She stared expectantly at Gabrielle, as if she was suddenly going to produce the engraving out of her pocket. "Well, where is it?"
Gabrielle started guiltily. "What? Oh. I never got it. Simon must have sent me to the wrong apartment."
Before long, Simon and Dominique returned, minus the bundle of old clothes, but Dominique now sported a strange felt hat with a dirty, broken plume stuck through the band. The hat's floppy brim fell to the bridge of the boy's nose, and the drooping plume curled over one eye. Agnes and Gabrielle both burst out laughing at the sight of him.
Simon met Gabrielle's brimming eyes and shrugged. "Once he saw the thing, he had to have it."
"A donkey was wearing it, Maman," Dominique proclaimed. "But the nice man said we could have it for a livre—"
Gabrielle snatched the hat off her son's head, ignoring his yowl of protest. "Jesu and all his saints! It's probably full of ticks and lice!" Holding it with the tips of her fingers, she handed it to Agnes. "Go take it into the kitchen, Agnes, and roast it over the fire. Perhaps you can smoke the pests out."
"Where did you put the, er, uh . . . you know?" Simon asked, once Agnes and the boy had left the front of the shop.
Gabrielle pushed the damp hair off her flushed forehead. "Simon, you wretch, you are so absentminded. You sent me to the wrong apartment. It was very embarrassing. Thanks to you, I made an utter fool—"
"The apartment above the Cafe de Foy?"
Gabrielle nodded.
"The vicomte de Sainte-Romain, he wasn't there?"
"No. Instead I found this arrogant scientist who blows up things and throws people about and then tries to kiss—"
But Simon had rushed out of the shop.
He came back half an hour later, mumbling to himself, his face red. The vicomte de Saint-Romain had been gone for two weeks, leaving behind only a pile of gambling debts.
"Five hundred livres!" Simon moaned, pulling at his hair. "I should have taken that engraving with me the day I bought it, but I had my arms full with an escritoire and a heavy marble chess set. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu, five hundred livres . . . 'I'm off to Versailles immediately to see the king,' he says, 'but come back in two weeks and I'll give you the engraving then.' Bah! What a fool I was to trust him simply because of his noble manners and connections. Those cursed aristocrats. I tell you, Gabrielle, they think nothing of stealing from the rest of us. It's as if we aren't human so it doesn't count. He must have left the day after I bought the engraving. Cleared the apartment out down t
o the bare walls. Someone else is already renting there. Mon Dieu, five hundred livres." Simon sighed.
"Did you speak to him?" Gabrielle asked, trying to sound casual. "The man who lives there now? Perhaps he knows where this thieving vicomte has gone."
"Speak to whom? Oh, you mean the man who blows up things. No, no, he wasn't there. I spoke with Sophie Restonne. She confirmed what I'd already feared. That scoundrel Saint-Romain. I'll never see that engraving, or my five hundred livres, again."
Later that night, after she had tucked Dominique into his trundle bed in their tiny room above the shop and then crawled between the sheets next to Agnes, Gabrielle allowed herself to think about Aim—Monsieur Maximilien de Saint-Just.
He was an aristocrat, for he had said his brother was a vicomte. She'd heard of a comte de Saint-Just, who was probably his father—a marechal in the French army and renowned for his bravery and battle lust. It would explain where Maximilien de Saint-Just had acquired that arrogant, aristocratic nose. Yet he didn't have the pale complexion or the languid, effeminate manners so many courtiers affected. His brown skin and muscular physique belonged more to the rough men who worked the river docks than to a haughty nobleman.
Once Gabrielle had lived among the gilded, pampered courtiers who graced the salons, men who lisped and rouged their cheeks. Later she had survived among the dregs in the streets, the violent, rough men who would kill for a handful of sous and slaked their hunger with cheap wine and cheaper whores. But this man, this Maximilien de Saint-Just, with his callused, scarred hands and handsome, patrician face, he was from neither world, yet he was of both.
He was obviously educated, for he was a scientist. She smiled—a rather reckless scientist. An aristocrat with rough manners and a reckless scientist who happened to be very handsome and who probably had scores of women parading in and out of his apartment, so he could hardly be interested in her, and why was she thinking about such things all of a sudden anyway?
Hearts Beguiled Page 3