The Corrupt Comte: The Bourbon Boys, Book 1

by Edie Harris

  Gaspard’s thumb stroked over the gleaming top of the double-edged blade, confident, dangerous. “You just enjoy seducing other men’s wives, then? Is that it?”

  “No!”

  But it was as if Gaspard hadn’t heard his friend’s hoarse protest. “Claudia makes an ideal mark, doesn’t she? Married to me, of all men, and you thought she’d be easy prey.” His grip on the weapon shifted with deadly intent. “You’ll never have her, you bastard.”

  She refused to let her husband do something he would undoubtedly regret. “Gaspard.”

  His head whipped toward her, and the last remnants of numbness disappeared at the wildness in his blue-green eyes—wildness tempered by pain. His chest heaved as he stared at her, protective gaze running over her from head to toe, but he said not a word.

  The hurt in his eyes forced her to walk to where he knelt. Slowly, so as not to cause his hold on the dagger to fatally shift, she ran her fingers through damp strands. He was unshaven and unkempt, obviously having just bathed and wearing only black trousers, a white shirt open at the neck, and a plain black waistcoat he hadn’t bothered to button. Where he’d found such simple clothes, she didn’t know. His feet were bare against the rug.

  He was perfect. Fierce and angry, classless and peerless. And he was looking at her with everything in his eyes—everything she’d worried she would never see, reflected back at her. “Let him up, G-Gaspard.” She gently combed her fingertips through the strands at his temple.

  Without sparing Sabien another glance, Gaspard rose gracefully, knife gripped loosely in his hand. As she tilted her head to look up at him, he slid a firm hand around her nape and took her mouth in a fiery kiss. She parted her lips for him instantly, met his seeking tongue with her own, and relaxed into the curve of his strong body, giving herself over to the possessive passion of the kiss. Equals, they were equals in this, both battling, both claiming.

  A cough interrupted them, and Gaspard tore his mouth from hers, breathing hard, and leaned his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes briefly, his swallow audible in the tense silence, and she sensed him bracing himself for the coming exchange.

  She stroked a hand over his bristled jaw. “Tell him,” she whispered. “You c-can trust him. We can t-trust him.”

  With an unintelligible noise of apparent aggravation, he lifted his head to glare at Sabien. “Do not touch my wife again,” he snapped in precisely enunciated English.

  Sabien’s expression was thunderous as he tugged at the cravat knotted just below his abused Adam’s apple. “Explain.”

  “Explain what?”

  “Explain this.” Sabien gestured at the pair of them, teeth clenched, movements jerky. He positively glowered. “I did not need the show, Gaspard. You don’t have to pretend for me.”

  Gaspard’s hand still rested on Claudia’s nape, heavy and comforting, and she shifted closer to her husband to slide an equally soothing palm beneath the loose waistcoat, at the base of his spine. He leaned into her touch, and she flushed happily.

  Here was something she could offer him, other than her dowry or her body—her support when he was unsure, and her comfort when he was upset.

  “It is not pretend, Sabien.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re a molly. Your marriage…you married her for the money.” His gaze darted to Claudia. “Ten thousand pounds, remember?”

  “I remember.”

  “You can’t want her.”

  She flinched at the lieutenant’s patent disbelief, and Gaspard growled warningly. “Sabien…”

  Sabien’s scowl was alive with frustration. “I intend no offense—Claudia is lovely. I mean her, as a woman. You don’t like women, Gaspard.” He grew more impassioned with each breath. “More than five years we’ve been friends, and I’ve never seen… I’ve never heard…”

  “I lied to you. I am sorry.” Gaspard sounded genuinely regretful.

  “You lied to me?”

  “I lied to everyone.”

  “But what about the men?” Sabien’s tone darkened. “What about Courreaux?”

  Gaspard’s palm was warm on the back of her neck, not clammy in the least. She glanced up at him, watched as he opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it again. He gazed down at her beseechingly, and she began to stroke his lower back, the thin linen of his shirt the singular barrier between her bare palm and his scarred skin.

  She wanted to help him—God, she wished she had the words to help him—but this was his story, and his life, and only his words would make things right.

  He recognized the truth of that when she did, and sighed. “Courreaux abused his power. Then I stole that power from him.” The admission to his friend, his closest friend, cost him, color flagging his cheeks.

  Sabien’s face blanched. “I didn’t know. Gaspard, I did not know.” He shook his head, as if trying to clear it of smoke. “But how—? No. No, there is so much here that doesn’t make sense. How could you—?”

  “Sexuality…c’est un concepte souple.” A fluid concept. “Love is not.” His hand tightened at her nape. “I love this woman. I…I love her.” He stopped speaking, and she stared wonderingly up at him, warm and flushed and dizzy with the same smoke that had likely fogged Sabien’s mind moments earlier.

  Gaspard’s voice was hoarse as he doggedly continued. “Claudia is the best of me, of my life, and I…” He broke off, shaking his head as he switched to French once more. “Even knowing I’ll spend the rest of my days with her, it isn’t enough. There are never enough days with the person you love most.”

  Sabien stayed silent, looking at them as though complete strangers stood before him.

  Gaspard wasn’t done, evidently. “You doubt that I desire her?” He guided her until she stood in front of him, her back to his front. One forearm settled across her chest, holding her to him, and he bent his head to breathe in her ear, “Trust me, kitten. Trust me.”

  She did. She trusted him, even as pain flayed her. She felt as though a dull knife had sawed open her sternum, leaving her red like a poker from the smithy’s fire, but the hurt of it all was sublime. She hurt because he loved her—not in secret, but openly, proudly, vehemently—and she hurt because she was so incandescently happy that no clear or rational thought could take hold. She was simply a tangled mass of emotion, and if he told her to trust him, she would.

  He had trusted her with the very essence of himself since their first moments together. Whatever he wanted from her—no, whatever he needed from her—she would grant him, and happily so.

  His fingertips slowly traced around the low, squared neckline of her day gown, starting at the curve of one clavicle. “Have you ever really looked at my wife before, Sabien?” He purred each word in French, tempting their audience and turning him into a stranger at her back—a stranger she desired more than anything in the world. His finger dipped down, down, over the sensitive tops of her breasts, lingering teasingly in the cleft between and causing her lungs to seize. “Ever truly seen all she has to offer?”

  The lieutenant’s dark eyes tracked Gaspard’s touch. His cravat lay half undone in his grasp, forgotten as he stared, rapt. “No,” he admitted quietly.

  “Watch how she trembles when I do this.” Bending, Gaspard pressed his lips to the side of her neck, and her lashes fluttered down as her skin prickled with excitement. His thumb hooked into the front of her dress, tugging down to reveal more of her plumped breasts. “See?”

  “I see.”

  Claudia felt him seeing, felt them both seeing, and arousal spiraled through her. It obviously aroused Gaspard too—the insistent length of his erection pressed into the small of her back. When his teeth sank into the taut tendon between her neck and shoulder, she shuddered, her head falling back against his chest.

  One big hand cupped her breast, squeezed. “You don’t see, not yet. But you will.” Cold, sharp metal suddenly kissed the valley between her breasts, and, in a vicious yank of rending wool, his knife sliced through the layers of her gown, che
mise and the front lacings of her short corset.

  She gasped but kept her eyes closed, unable to look at Sabien looking at her, if he was looking at her.

  She heard the knife thump to the rug and felt her husband’s hands on the destroyed fabric revealing her upper body to his friend, and then she knew for a fact Sabien was looking at her, because gentleman or no, her breasts were unavoidable. She shivered as cool air swirled around her quickly hardening nipples. “G-Gaspard…”

  “Shh, kitten,” he whispered in English once more, nuzzling her temple, mouth open and hot against her ear. “Trust me.” His palms curved beneath her breasts, lifting them as his blunt fingertips tweaked her nipples expertly enough to have slickness gathering between her clenched thighs. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever touched. Une ange, bébé.” He groaned quietly as he caught her earlobe between his teeth. “Je t’adore,” he muttered, thrusting against her backside.

  She covered his hands with her own, encouraging him, sighing as his declaration of love melted any hesitation she had at being watched.

  Sabien’s hesitation wasn’t as soothed, apparently. “I should go—”

  “No.” Gaspard lifted his head from where it hovered next to hers. “Not until you see all I have, and all you will never possess.”

  “Gaspard—” Claudia blinked open her eyes, hearing the harshness of his tone as he moved to nip along her jaw and down her throat. Little nibbling kisses that inflamed her as he struggled with the mangled buttons and strings and seams that nearly refused to give way, but then she stood there in nothing but heavy cream-colored stockings and low-heeled black shoes, the ravaged gown and garments pooled at her feet.

  Finally, she took a deep breath and looked at Sabien. He was no longer pale, fair skin now flushed, lips parted and gaze glazed as it roamed over her naked body. She was a showpiece, on display exactly as Gaspard had said: to show Sabien everything he would never touch as her husband touched, would never possess as her husband possessed.

  It was obvious that Sabien wanted to touch. The bulge straining the front of his trousers stated that he might also want to possess a bit too. The evidence of his desire flattered her, and that flattery excited her, odd and intense and confusing.

  Gaspard pressed against her as his arms wrapped around her from behind, one looping across her upper chest, the other banding around her waist. His hold exacerbated the rude bareness of her most intimate anatomy, highlighting her heavy breasts and her curl-covered mound. “Your heart races,” he whispered in her ear, and her lashes fluttered low in response. “For him?”

  “For you.”

  His hands began to move, and she knew he looked at Sabien as he spoke. “Do you think I will ever let your heart beat so for him?”

  She shook her head as her eyes slid shut. He was so fierce and angry, and she found she had no desire to soothe him, submitting with ease to the possessive hands roaming her body. She liked his teeth-gnashing, chest-beating behavior too much to want to civilize him in this instance.

  Sabien tried to speak. “Gaspard—”

  “Every time I hear his name, I want to go deaf,” Gaspard said, as if to her but she knew his words were equally directed at Sabien. “Every time I see his face, I want to go blind. He was my friend until you, and now I want to kill him.”

  But that was too much. She turned abruptly in his grasp, opening her eyes. “You don’t m-mean that.” She glanced over her naked shoulder at Sabien, all thoughts of reveling in his discomfort having vanished. “He doesn’t m-mean that, S-Sabien.”

  Sabien’s brows drew together, as if in pain. “Of course, my lady.”

  Gaspard had stopped listening, it seemed, or caring about their audience. His arms about her waist, he began to work his way down her body, starting at her shoulder and placing heated, open-mouthed kisses as he went. When she tried to halt his progress, he growled, nipping at her, and fell to his knees at her feet.

  Sabien had apparently had enough, and cleared his throat, straightening his bearing until he was nothing less than a perfect shoulder. “I believe you, Gaspard. And…I’m sorry.” His eyes closed briefly. “I’m so very sorry.”

  Gaspard said nothing, his face against her sternum, but Claudia felt the increased dig of his fingertips into her hips. So she murmured her thanks to the lieutenant, speaking for them both.

  Gathering his hat and gloves, Sabien made it to the door before Gaspard stopped him with the soft-voiced question, breath warm against her bare skin, “Where will you go?”

  Which was when Claudia remembered that Sabien had been a spy, just like Gaspard, and that he likely couldn’t return home. “Do you have a p-place to st-stay?”

  His hand on the doorknob, Sabien didn’t face them. “I have to get out of London. I can’t be here.”

  Not an answer. “Do you have a d-destination, Sabien?”

  “No.” The single syllable was more sigh than sound.

  For a moment, no one in the room spoke. She buried her hands in Gaspard’s hair, petting and stroking, comforting him—and herself—as her mind raced. Here she stood, clinging to her lover, her husband, when yesterday she’d been ready to leave, absolutely decided— “Out of London?” she asked for confirmation.

  “Oui.”

  “Then I have a p-place for you.”

  Sabien turned abruptly, though he kept his eyes averted from the bared bottom she was flashing him. “Where?”

  “Hampshire.” Her grandfather’s cottage, where she had planned to make her escape and live a quiet life, miserably separated from the man she loved. “In the village of S-S-Sallisbend, west of P-Petersfield, there’s an empty c-cottage. Vermillion House. No one will b-bother you there, nor will anyone c-come looking for you. You have m-my word.”

  “Vermillion House,” he repeated. “It’s yours?” When she nodded, he nodded in return. “Thank you, my lady.”

  “Claudia,” she corrected, and he exited the room.

  She and Gaspard exhaled as a goodly portion of the tension left with the lieutenant. “You did not have to do that,” Gaspard muttered, arms banding around her waist as he stood. He bent to rest his forehead against hers. “That was… You were generous.”

  Her fingers, bereft of that damp hair she delighted in exploring, curled around the lapels of his open waistcoat. “Grandpére gave it to m-me. S-Sabien needs it. I don’t.” Not anymore.

  “Because you are staying?” His breath feathered over her parted lips.

  She closed her eyes. “I t-told you that last night.”

  His mouth lowered to hers, light and loving, and she reveled in it until she mourned it, when he pulled away. He knelt once more, further crushing what had once been a very lovely day dress at her feet.

  She stepped out of her shoes as he grabbed her hips. “You k-keep ruining m-my c-c-clothing with that knife of yours.”

  “I shall purchase you another gown.”

  “With whose m-money?” she teased, which earned her the scrape of teeth over one aching nipple. She gripped his head, hair tangling between her fingers. “I only ask b-because you m-married me for s-six thousand, three hundred and s-s-sixty-one p-pounds. Not ten thousand.”

  He suckled harder, tongue swirling, wet and firm.

  “Which I feel means the remaining s-s-sum sh-should be m-mine.” She clutched him closer. “Oh, God. Oh, God, don’t s-stop.”

  “I need to undress,” he mumbled against her breast, and yes, that was far more important then what he was doing now, because when he was naked, they could…they could…

  She yanked at his hair, forcing him to stand, and he didn’t chastise her. She stripped off his waistcoat and pulled at his shirt until her fingers were sifting through the gold-tipped hair dusting his broad chest. Without his shirttails blocking her view, she saw his trousers draped low on his waist, proving that he hadn’t bothered with smallclothes when dressing this morning.

  Those muscled divots along his hips called to her fingertips, to her lips.

&n
bsp; Before she could trace the curve of his hip with her tongue, he unbuttoned, and the trousers fell to his ankles, where his bare feet kicked them aside. He reached for her again, and she fell against him, boneless and needy as she threw her arms around his neck, snaring him in a deep, desperate kiss.

  “Kitten,” he murmured, and for a bleak moment, his desperation matched her own. Their agreement last night—to breathe when they came together, to not lose their heads, to shed this anxiety that made their coupling feel imperative, as though their very survival depended upon it—faded into nothingness, to be remembered at another time, in another place. “Claudia.”

  “I love you,” she gasped into his mouth. “I love you.”

  He slowed them, holding her face between his palms and forcing her meet his intent, stormy gaze. “Last night, you said you belonged to me. But you did not ask who I belonged to.”

  “G-Gaspard—”

  “You, chaton. I belong to you.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, lightheaded once more. “Oh.”

  He smiled—small, lopsided and tentative, but a genuine smile nonetheless, and she was so very glad the numbness within her had shattered.

  “I am yours, Claudia. I will always be yours.” His kiss was sweeter this time, his tone almost amused when he spoke. “Though I should put you over my knee again for allowing Sabien to touch you.”

  Flirtation, she recognized—flirtation unhindered by dark, desperate secrets. “Later.”

  “Indeed,” he said, sounding more lasciviously rakish than she had ever before heard.

  She nodded, a fresh blush creeping over her exposed skin. “He was d-doing it f-for you, you know. He wanted you to b-be happy.”

  “I am happy.” He scowled, running his hands down her naked body, primitive possession vibrating in each sweep of his calloused fingers. “Claudia…we cannot tell everyone as we told him. About me.”

  Enfolding him in a hug, one she needed to give as much as he needed to receive, she dropped a kiss to the center of his chest. “I know.” She breathed in the clean scent of him. He still smelled of sparks and iron, she noted, but there was a little of her on him now too—he’d used her honey soap in this morning’s bath.