Awakened by a Kiss

by Lila DiPasqua

  The night when you unwittingly took a virgin.

  The sexual fog dissipating little by little, he became aware of his harsh breathing, the light scent of jasmine that hung in the air, and her soft breasts crushed against his chest.

  Adrien eased his hold on her. She slumped against the door. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly swollen and parted. She had the prettiest blush to her cheeks. He brushed back a lock of her hair from her delicate brow. She looked like a woman who’d been well fucked and thoroughly sated.

  A smile lifted the corner of his mouth. He took a small step back and glanced on the floor. His come was on her fallen drawers. Adrien kicked them out of the way, and wiping his glistening cock with his shirttails, he readjusted his clothing. Unlike his father, he took care not to make bastards.

  Catherine opened her eyes. At first she looked away, seemingly embarrassed, but then she straightened her spine and met his gaze.

  Lightly, he caressed her cheek with his knuckles. How he loved the feel of her skin.

  Adrien felt mellow. He felt oddly content. He felt good.

  No, he felt great.

  “I’ve made a mess of your caleçons,” he said. Not to mention he’d mussed her lovely hair and horribly wrinkled her gown.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Her voice was soft.

  His smile grew, pleased that she wasn’t put off.

  She cleared her throat. “Thank you for the . . . tumble.” She slid out from between him and the door and stepped away, her gown falling into place. “Please see yourself out.”

  Adrien felt as though cold water just splashed him in the face. Jésus-Christ, she’d dismissed him. As though he were a stud for hire.

  She didn’t get more than two steps away from him when he caught her arm. Her head snapped around. “We’re not through.” His ire mounted.

  Her fury flashed in her eyes. “You got what you wanted. Let go.”

  Stepping closer, he captured her chin and her undivided attention. She’d erected a wall between them again, and donned a false mask to conceal herself from him. He wanted it torn down. Stripped away. Wanted her naked both literally and figuratively. He wanted the truth.

  Moreover, and most irritating, he wanted to know everything about her. And he had no idea why he should be interested.

  “Catherine de Villecourt, you haven’t come close to giving me what I want. But you will. We have only just begun.”

  Thunder rumbled in the sky.

  5

  Hundreds of candles shone tiny stars of light in the Salle de Buffet . Wall sconces and the silver candelabras on the long table illuminated the room with a warm orange glow.

  Ladies’ gowns and gentlemen’s justacorps of rich blues and greens, of deep gold and reds, lent to the opulence of the surroundings.

  Catherine tried to concentrate on her conversation with the Comte de Champagnier. Seated to her right, the man had the most unfortunate monotone voice. It didn’t help that his take on the Latin classics was uninspiring. Though reasonably attractive and only a few years older than she, he was incredibly dull. An avid reader, Catherine would have enjoyed a lively debate. Welcomed the much-needed distraction. Instead, the Comte’s comments often blended into the din of the room. Catherine smiled politely and made the occasional brief remark—brief because it was clear Champagnier was more interested in voicing his opinions than in hearing hers.

  She didn’t have anyone more interesting to talk to on her left. The ancient Madame de Jauloux was already chin-down, softly snoring before the meal was even served.

  Catherine was stuck with Champagnier.

  Her heart pounded away the time, knowing Adrien would arrive for supper at any moment. The room was full. Every seat was taken except the chair at the head of the table, which naturally Suzanne would occupy, and the one to its right. Suzanne had likely arranged for Adrien to sit there, a spot that was across from Catherine and over two.

  In short, uncomfortably close.

  Shaken by their torrid encounter, she’d stopped trembling only minutes before entering the room. After what his kisses and touch had done to her, after her heated surrender in his arms, how would she get through the meal with him sitting so near? Her actions still had her reeling.

  A few squeaks of delight and a rush of whispers rippled in the room, grabbing Catherine’s attention.

  Her heart lurched at the sight of Adrien standing in the doorway, Suzanne on his arm. He, too, had changed his attire. Now, he was dressed in a silver-green justacorps with matching breeches. He looked regal, princely, the knee-length fitted coat accentuating his broad shoulders and muscled physique perfectly.

  He scanned the room. Those light green eyes—the downfall of many women—were a devastating contrast to his dark hair, wisps of which teased his lashes.

  No man should be that beautiful.

  She felt mortifying moisture pool between her legs. The very sight of him quickened her heart and ignited her senses—inspiring ardent thoughts and shameless urges no other man ever had.

  Adrien escorted Suzanne to the table. Her dark hair was adorned with tiny ribbons that matched the row of green satin bows down the front of her bodice. Her gown, the height of fashion, was embellished with gold embroidery over alternate green and gold bands of satin. When her husband was alive, Suzanne didn’t own such finery. Nor did the château look as it did now. Over the years since Comte de Lamotte’s death, her wise selection of lovers had filled the once modest coffers. Hopelessly riveted, Catherine watched as Adrien whispered in Suzanne’s ear. She glanced at Catherine as he spoke, her smile slightly slipping.

  Catherine pulled her gaze away from the elegant couple. “Monsieur de Champagnier,” she said, returning her attention to the Comte. He, too, watched Adrien and Suzanne—as did much of the room. “Tell me, what do you think of Spanish literature? Have you any favorites?” That should have the man talking again, and give her something else—albeit ever so arduous—to focus on.

  Champagnier began his prattle immediately, his flow of words arrested when a strong masculine hand gripped his shoulder.

  Catherine glanced up. Her breath lodged in her throat. The hand belonged to Adrien.

  “Good evening, Monsieur de Champagnier.” Adrien’s tone was genial, his manner polished.

  Champagnier twisted around. “Good evening to you, Monsieur de Beaulain.”

  “There’s a small problem, monsieur. It seems you’re in my seat.”

  Catherine’s stomach flip-flopped.

  Champagnier’s brow furrowed slightly. “Monsieur, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. The seats were assigned and—”

  “Yours is over there.” Adrien gave a nod to the empty chair near the head of the table, his tone firmer, though still pleasant. He lowered his head and his voice. “Do be a good man and take your place across the table without further ado. Unless, of course, you wish to make an issue of the matter?” A threat.

  A few shades paler, Champagnier excused himself, murmured his apologies, and vacated his chair. Being outranked hadn’t motivated Champagnier to move, but the possibility of facing Adrien in a duel clearly had.

  Catherine’s gaze darted down the table. Her heart plummeted. Every eye in the room was on them.

  “Cher,” Suzanne said, placing a hand on Adrien’s arm. Dear God, she hadn’t even noticed Suzanne standing there. “Allow me to introduce my darling friend, Catherine de Sanvais, Comtesse de Villecourt. Catherine, this is Adrien d’Aspe de Bourbon, Marquis de Beaulain.”

  Adrien took her hand and pressed a kiss to her knuckle. “Enchanté.”

  The ludicrousness of the moment struck her. She was being introduced to the man who’d deflowered her and, not an hour ago, debauched her. Catherine might have laughed if she wasn’t so horrified.

  “Madame de Villecourt was married to my late brother,” Suzanne offered. “He passed away three years ago.”

  “Really?” Adrien’s green eyes turned to Catherine, his expression unreadable, his vexation with her
outwardly concealed. “My condolences, madame.” He bowed at the waist.

  Her heart pounding, she mustered a murmur of thanks.

  “Enjoy,” Suzanne said, looking at Catherine, before she swept to her seat.

  Adrien sat down next to her.

  Catherine cast another glance down the table. It wasn’t difficult to note the looks. The whispers. They were talking about Adrien. About her. About them. Adrien was the closest thing to royalty in the room. Not to mention a source of interest to the nobility at large. Everything he did was noted and analyzed. Curiosity had gripped Suzanne’s guests as they likely speculated at Catherine’s involvement with the King’s roué son.

  Outwardly, she gave nothing away. Beneath the table, she clenched her hands together. During her excruciating eighteen-month marriage, she’d been the subject of gossip. The object of scandal.

  The last thing she wanted was more of the same.

  Platters with steaming meats were brought out by a parade of servants. Adrien’s thigh brushed hers as he exchanged pleasantries with the Baron de Neveux on his right. She flinched and tried her best to ignore him and the tingling in her leg where their bodies had touched. Catherine turned to Madame de Jauloux, who was now awake and watching the arrival of the food eagerly.

  “Why, madame, that’s a lovely necklace,” Catherine said.

  “Don’t bother.” Adrien picked up his goblet. “The woman is stone-deaf. Aren’t you, Madame de Jauloux?” he added a little louder.

  She didn’t appear to hear Adrien at all.

  “You see?” he said. His eyes briefly dipped to Catherine’s décolletage as he brought the goblet to his lips. Her nipples hardened. “You look lovely, Catherine.”

  Catherine squeezed her fingers a little tighter. “Please don’t speak to me.” Or look at me like that.

  Adrien took a drink and placed his goblet back down. “Why not? We’ve been properly introduced.” Despite the desire in his eyes, she sensed his underlying ire.

  “You know exactly why not. Thanks to your spectacle, you have everyone wondering whether or not—”

  “I’m fucking you?”

  Nervous, she glanced about, her cheeks feeling hot. Immersed in conversation, thankfully no one seemed to have heard him. Madame de Jauloux was happily engrossed in her poached egg soup.

  Catherine clenched her teeth. Oh, she was definitely paying for her misdeeds this night. All of them. Including what she’d done with the devilishly handsome le Beau a short time ago. How much worse was this evening going to get?

  Before she could offer a retort, a bowl of soup was set before her, her stomach instantly balking at the thought of food.

  Adrien leaned in to her slightly. Too close for her sanity. In fact, being in the same room with him was proving to be too much. “Why do you care what they think? Why should any of these people matter enough to you to waste a moment’s thought on them?”

  Catherine noticed Madame de Bussy and Madame de Noisette—the ladies she’d met in the gardens—openly observing her. Cordially, she nodded at them. “You are a man,” she said with a frozen smile for the sake of outward appearances. “You are judged differently than a woman.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t allow anyone’s judgment—of any kind—to affect how I live my life and neither should you.”

  “Not everyone can afford to be as blasé.”

  Warm fingers closed over her cold hands beneath the table linen. She jerked.

  “Easy.” He lightly squeezed, his thumb grazing the back of her hand. A quick look told her no one noticed that his hand was on her lap. She couldn’t pull away. He had her trapped, for any sudden movements would likely garner unwanted attention. His hand was so close to her sex, she could feel herself getting wetter.

  Clearly, he was going to torment her on many levels. Her ire spiked.

  “You are playing with me. All of this is a game to you,” she shot back, sotto voce, furious with herself over the situation she found herself in. Frustrated with his effect on her.

  “On the contrary, it is a game you play. You could be honest and tell me the truth. In truth, your desire is the only thing that’s honest about you. It’s the only thing that’s honest between us.” He brought her hand to the bulge in his breeches. She gasped. He ran her hand down his length then back up. “It’s what you do to me . . . just sitting near you.”

  The bud between her legs began to throb. She fought back the urge to tighten her grip on his glorious cock.

  Adrien held up his goblet with his free hand. A server was there in an instant to fill it up with wine.

  Did the servant not see? Catherine scanned the guests again. Didn’t anyone notice what was happening under the table linen?

  “I’ll not denounce you,” he said when the servant stepped away. “Whatever your reasons were for doing what you did five years ago, I’ll not report it.”

  “Let go,” she demanded quietly. Their eyes locked and held. For a moment she thought he was going to refuse, but then he loosened his hold, still keeping his palm lightly pressed against her hand.

  She slipped her hand out of its tantalizing spot, sliding it away from his erection.

  Taking in a fortifying breath, she let it out slowly, and chose her next words carefully. “Why, if a woman is faced with trial and possible execution, should she believe you? There would be a lot at stake for her in bestowing that trust.”

  He gave a nod. “True. But it’s a matter that would be brought to the attention of the King, and I prefer to limit my dealings with His Majesty,” he said. “Ask anyone. I have a strained relationship with my sire.”

  The “curse” Madame de Bussy had mentioned earlier flitted through Catherine’s mind. Had the silly thing actually come true? It certainly sounded as though father and son were at odds.

  Adrien leaned in again, his incredible green eyes disarming. “No one knows about that night except me and the host of the masquerade. He’s a good friend. Most discreet. If you were I, would you not have the same questions I have? Would you not feel you deserved answers to them?”

  That hit its mark. She lowered her head, feeling contrite. How could she argue with that? He did deserve answers. He had every right to them. He had every right to be angry with her, too, and yet he never once hurled vicious words as her husband used to whenever he was irked, which was more often than not. And then there was Adrien’s touch. Whenever he touched her, it was always with genuine passion. It was beguiling. It made her feel feminine. Desirable.

  An idea came to her. There was a way out of this after all—a way where everyone would benefit and no one would suffer. She decided she’d take a different approach to the matter. Hope welled inside her.

  Catherine spied three men at the end of the table watching her. Two were smiling, almost grinning, while the third frowned.

  “Do you know those men at the end of the table?” she asked.

  Adrien’s gaze moved down the row of seated guests. Then he frowned. “Ignore them.”

  “Who are they?”

  Reaching for his goblet, he drained it. “My uncles. They are harmless.”

  “I don’t want any scandal, Adrien. I’ve had more than my share.”

  He studied her silently. “Oh?”

  She arched her brows. “Surely, you’ve asked about me? Didn’t someone tell you about my late husband?”

  “No. I made no inquiries. I don’t care for gossip. Nor do I want to learn about you from someone else. I want to learn about you, from you.”

  Catherine was speechless. She didn’t know anyone who didn’t partake in gossip—men or women. Some more viciously than others. It was refreshing to find someone else who shared her disdain for it.

  Music started up in the Grand Salon, the harpsichord and violins playing a menuet. Catherine tore her gaze from Adrien’s handsome face and noticed that already guests were moving to the next room. Adrien’s uncles were also leaving, a pretty dark-haired woman exiting with them. Briefly, the woman met Catherin
e’s gaze. A venomous look flashed in her hazel eyes so quickly, she wasn’t certain if she’d imagined it.

  A banquet of roasted duck, partridge, and quails, fruits, salads, and pastries was spread out before her. Though most everyone had had their fill, none held any appeal for Catherine. Least of all her cold soup that she’d neglected to wave away.

  She returned her attention to Adrien. He was watching her. All that masculine beauty focused solely on her. Her insides danced.

  “I don’t wish to speak here,” she said. “I’ll come to your room tonight.”

  “No. Wait out a few dances then retire to your rooms. I’ll come to you.”

  “Very well. As long as you promise not to do anything to cause tongues to wag here.”

  “Agreed. And you’ll agree to provide answers.”

  She nodded. “I’ll have answers for you.” And a bargain to sweeten the deal and ensure his silence.

  “Adrien,” Paul said as he approached with a smile. “You’ll soon bore holes in the Marquis de Verdier’s back with the look you’re giving him. Could it be it’s because he’s dancing with your lady?”

  Adrien tightened his jaw. The moment Catherine entered the Grand Salon, she was besieged with offers to dance. This was her third dance already. Her radiant smile was telling. She was clearly enjoying the allemande, bewitching every one of her dance partners as they left looking smitten.

  “She’s not my lady,” Adrien said, surprised by the twinge of regret.

  “Why are you not dancing with her yourself?”

  Why indeed? Why on earth had he agreed to keep his distance and not make their involvement more evident? You know why. It was something he’d seen in her eyes. A sorrow that stirred his compassion.

  Instinct cautioned him against such sentiment, warning him not to be drawn in. Something told him that perhaps he should back off—that it might be best if he didn’t learn the reasons behind her actions five years ago after all.

  But as he watched her turn and curtsy, the final notes fading away to end the dance, he silenced the niggling doubts.