The doors swung open, ensnaring Nicolas’s attention.
Tiersonnier stood at the threshold. “Follow me.” He turned and left.
The Captain of the Guard led them through more State Rooms, down the stairwell, and eventually to the doors leading out to the gardens.
“Are the King and Mademoiselle de Vignon outside?” Nicolas asked.
“No,” was all Tiersonnier offered.
Nicolas wasn’t about to relent. “Will the mademoiselle be escorted to the gardens to where her family is waiting?” He needed answers. He was about ready to jump out of his skin.
“If that is what His Majesty chooses.” Tiersonnier was a large, imposing man, only a few years older than Nicolas and beyond irritating.
“Do you have any idea how long her family will have to wait out in the gardens before His Majesty ‘chooses’?”
Eyes narrowed, Tiersonnier stepped in close, a gesture meant to intimidate, knowing he had a deterring effect on the men in the Guard. But Nicolas was neither deterred nor intimidated. He glared back, wanting nothing more than to deliver his fist against the man’s arrogant jaw.
“Savignac, you’d do well to remember not to question your superiors. You’ll wait in the gardens as ordered by the King until you are told otherwise.”
“Of course, Captain,” Thomas said, yanking Nicolas away and shoving him out the door.
Outside in the gardens, the noise from the throng abraded Nicolas’s jangled nerves. He tried to maintain his composure, but he couldn’t stop thinking, as his eyes scanned the windows on the upper floor—where the King’s private apartments were located. Anne was alone up there, with their lascivious monarch.
Was the King striking a bargain with her? Her freedom for a fuck? Worse still, what if Louis asked her to be his next mistress? Versailles would become her gilded prison. And until the King lost interest, she’d be lost to Nicolas.
“Forget about it, Nicolas,” Thomas murmured in his ear. “You can’t go back in there.”
“Anne,” Camille gasped.
Nicolas snapped his head around, searching the crowd, his heart suddenly pounding in his throat. He caught sight of her brilliant red hair as she maneuvered through the throng.
She was alone. Her expression was unreadable.
Forcing his legs to eat up the distance between them, he grabbed her by the shoulders the moment he reached her. “What happened?”
Her sisters, Thomas, and the Comtesse grouped around her, insulating her from the scores of people around them.
“It seems that the King is about as fond of the male aristocracy as Leduc is,” Anne said, sotto voce.
“What do you mean?” Henriette asked.
“He told me that he enjoyed the stories.”
Camille placed her hand on Anne’s arm. “Enjoyed? He really said that?”
Anne nodded. “He has a great dislike for many of the men I depicted in the pen portraits and found the volumes amusing. He confided that since the Fronde, he hasn’t had much regard for the men in the upper class.”
The Comtesse let out a laugh. “Ah, the Fronde, of course! Louis was still a boy, not yet old enough to rule, when his cousin and many noblemen rose up against him, almost dethroning him. It happened before any of you were born. It was a horrible uprising against the Crown. In fact, he and his mother had to flee Paris in the middle of the night and live in exile until the country could be brought back to order.”
“Well, he’s not forgotten the ordeal, I can assure you,” Anne said. “It has colored the way he looks at men of power.”
“What does this mean?” Nicolas asked. “Are you free to go?”
A beautiful, radiant smile formed on her lips. “Yes. But I am forbidden to write any more stories by Leduc. He gave me praise and a warning.”
Nicolas let out a whoop of joy and pulled her into his arms. He didn’t care who was watching. He just wanted to hold her, the tension and fear draining from his body.
Then a thought struck him.
He pulled her away. “Excuse us,” he told the others, clasped her hand, and strode off, stopping several feet away from their group and the crowd. Holding her by the shoulders, he asked, “Did the King try to . . . Did he . . . proposition you?”
She lifted a brow. “Oh. Yes. He did.” Her tone was flippant.
“And?”
A smile twitched on her lips. “I’m not going to be the next royal mistress, Nicolas—if I get a better offer, that is.” Mischief twinkled in her eyes. She was clearly enjoying herself at his expense.
He pulled her to him and dipped his head, her smile contagious. “You’re being very naughty, Anne,” he murmured in her ear, his cock swelling between them. “Perhaps I’ll take you home and tie you to my bed and keep you bound for my pleasure. That way there can be no other man.”
“Perhaps the only offer I’ll accept is having you tied to my bed, bound for my pleasure.”
He laughed. “I like it when you’re saucy.” He kissed her, enjoying the wet, silky warmth of her mouth. “Anne de Vignon, you are mine. I love you.”
Her cheeks were a pretty pink, a small sign that she was already heated from their short exchange. “I love you, too. With all my heart. And I’m going to help those women somehow, Nicolas.”
He brushed an errant red curl off her cheek. “I know you are, and I fully support it, as long as you stay away from the King.”
She placed her hands on his chest. “I’m also going to write a lot more poetry.”
He grinned. “The world will be enriched by them.”
Anne’s smile grew and she slipped her arms around his waist. “And what are your plans for the future, sir?”
He lowered his head and brushed his lips lightly over the sensitive spot under her ear, enjoying her gasp. “I intend to marry one very beautiful redheaded poetess and spend the rest of my days cherishing her.”
Bewitching in Boots
Moral of the Story of Puss in Boots
If a man has quick success
In winning such a fair princess,
By turning on the charm,
Then regard his manners, looks, and dress,
That inspired her deepest tenderness,
For they can’t do one any harm.
CHARLES PERRAULT
(1628-1703)
1
“Do you really think your plan will work?” Claire swiped a curl from her damp forehead. The summer breeze stealing its way into their moving carriage was a mixed blessing. It offered some relief from the heat, but brought with it wafts of dust.
This wasn’t the most comfortable trip Elisabeth de Roussel had ever taken, but it was the most important—to her. “For the third time, yes.” Her voice was calm, belying the disquiet she felt. Her nerves jangled; she didn’t need her sister to keep repeating the same question.
“You’re going to seduce Tristan de Tiersonnier, a man who makes other men quake with fear and women tremble with desire. And you’re going to do it, dressed like that?”
“That is the plan.” Elisabeth glanced over at her maid, Agathe, and caught her rolling her eyes. Elisabeth fully expected the older woman to voice her dissent over the plan, but instead Agathe was uncharacteristically quiet, and stared out the window, lips pursed.
Claire leaned in. “Elisabeth, you are dressed like a man. A shirt, breeches, black boots—those are men’s clothes. Well, perhaps not those black boots. No man would wear something so snug around his calves.”
“I’m quite aware of how I’m dressed, dear sister.” Her younger sibling didn’t need to know what an utter mess Elisabeth was inside, nor was she going to admit that having her prized sword at her hip gave her confidence and helped bolster courage. And courage was what she’d need to execute her plan.
Especially when the plan centered on the only man who intimidated her. The imposing, sinfully beautiful former commander of the King’s private Guard—the Musketeers—Tristan de Tiersonnier, Comte de Saint-Marcel.
One
look from his intense blue eyes and she was undone—when no man shook her, not even her father, the King. By doing nothing more than walking into a room, Tristan commanded her attention and ignited her senses—reducing her into some gawking, unsophisticated ingénue. With his confident manner, his tall and powerful body, he exuded authority. And—God help her—such potent sensuality. He made her ache. Heart and body.
He burned in her blood.
Sadly, nothing had lessened her fever for Tristan. Not marriage to another man. Not the lovers she’d taken since the Duc’s death. Not time nor distance.
“I’m all for being a part of one of your schemes, Elisabeth,” Claire said. “In fact, I’d never refuse. They’re far too much fun. But this one is rather involved.”
That was an understatement. Claire had no idea just how involved her plan was or what Elisabeth truly hoped to accomplish during this sojourn, but she couldn’t explain any of it to her sister. Claire always looked up to her. As much as she adored Claire, Elisabeth couldn’t reveal to her, or anyone, just how vulnerable she was to Tristan.
It was a weakness. She never showed her weaknesses. One didn’t survive at court by being transparent—ever.
And Elisabeth had survived plenty of attempts to diminish her, both at court and in the eyes of the King. Her late mother had taught her well. She’d been a fine example of how strength and a cunning mind benefited a woman. She hadn’t kept the King’s interest longer than any of his other mistresses without knowing a thing or two about how to be clever in a man’s world. Elisabeth had adopted her mother’s finesse and fortitude and had risen among the brood sired by His Majesty to become the favorite royal daughter. And she used her favored position to protect Claire—who went mostly unnoticed and unprotected by their father—from the constant courtly intrigue.
“Hrrmph. Seems like a lot of trouble to go to just to bed a man,” Agathe mumbled. “We could have stayed home. There are plenty of men at Versailles to choose from.”
“There are indeed,” Elisabeth said. Her period of mourning over, during the last year she’d had her choice of lovers. Had the freedom to pick and choose whom she wanted. She’d enjoyed the freedom that came with widowhood.
But her freedom was running out.
If she was going to do something about Tristan, it had to be now.
“The men at court bore me,” Elisabeth added, affecting her usual tone. One that was purposely blasé. One that gave the world the impression she was indifferent. “The timing is perfect. Veronique is no longer Tristan’s mistress. This is the most opportune time.”
Claire crinkled her nose. “Veronique . . .” she muttered with disdain. A disdain shared by Elisabeth for their unscrupulous half-sister, the court filled with too many just like her.
“Opportune?” Agathe snorted. “Perhaps Madame has forgotten that the man was dismissed from his position as Captain of the Guard—and the reason why?”
“I haven’t forgotten, Agathe,” Elisabeth said, “and it is not a permanent situation. Tristan is strong and skilled. Sooner or later His Majesty will reinstate him.” She’d see to it. It was part of her plan, important for many reasons, including thwarting Veronique’s ambitions. Three months ago, Tristan had been injured in the line of duty. For two and a half months he’d convalesced at the palace until the King, acting on the advice of the royal physicians who felt he’d never completely heal, had replaced him as commander of the Guard.
“So how do you plan on seducing him?” Claire asked, her eyes twinkling with mischief.
Elisabeth smiled. “Now where would be the fun in telling you that? You’ll just have to wait and see.” She had no idea how she was going to go about seducing Tristan. Her mother had taught her how to entice men, what they liked in and out of the boudoir. But Tristan was not like any man she’d ever known. He wasn’t the sort of man who could be led around by the nose. He wouldn’t be easily lured.
Claire frowned. “I will still get to help, yes?”
“Of course. That’s why I brought you along.” Elisabeth glanced at Agathe. “I’m going to need both of you to help.”
Her old and faithful servant looked about as thrilled over the prospect as she’d be at developing a body rash.
“Excellent.” Claire beamed. “I do so admire your bravery, Elisabeth. Normally women wait to be approached by Tristan de Tiersonnier. You’re the only woman I know who is willing to approach him. He’s a little too serious, a little too intense for me. I’ve always found him to be rather unnerving.”
So did she. For entirely different reasons: the unbreakable pull he had on her and the need she had for him that was far too keen. If all goes well, you might have him tonight . . . Her nerve endings quivered with life, the notion as thrilling as it was terrifying. It took all she possessed not to abort her plan and race back to Versailles. But she couldn’t. Wouldn’t. It was time to take control and sate the tormenting desire she had for this man—who’d barely noticed her and had only spoken to her out of duty.
Well, today he’d notice her.
Acting on the signs she’d read in her father, on the subtle comments he’d made, Elisabeth knew he’d select a new husband for her soon. She’d be trapped in another marriage filled with lonely nights fantasizing about Tristan. More lonely years spent starved for his touch, his taste.
She wouldn’t go through that again.
If she was going to be forced to marry once more, then her husband may as well be Tristan. A husband of her choosing. If she failed to seduce him into the idea of marriage, then at the very least she wouldn’t fail to seduce him into her bed for a week of unbridled sex. It was unwise, utterly foolhardy, for a woman to crave a man as intensely as she craved Tristan. To be as spell-bound as she was by him. Her mother had taught her better than that. One way or another, husband or lover, he’d bed her and she’d at last satisfy this hunger, snap this fascination, and purge him from her heart, body, and soul.
She’d never find any contentment in her life—know any peace—if she didn’t break the power Tristan had over her.
“I find Tiersonnier appealing,” Elisabeth remarked. “And as for his ‘intensity,’ I think that could be put to good use in the boudoir.”
Claire giggled. “Too true, sister.”
Agathe pursed her lips firmer together.
Elisabeth’s plan was simple. Before she could marry Tristan, she had to convince both the King and Tristan that the irresistible ex-Musketeer was her perfect match.
There were only two problems with her plan. One, the King saw Tristan as infirm and not fit to marry her. And two, Tristan wasn’t going be easy to seduce into her bed, much less into marriage.
He hated her.
The carriage stopped. Her entourage of Musketeers and a second carriage filled with their trunks and necessities halted as well.
Elisabeth alighted from the carriage with the help of one of the King’s Guardsmen. Her stomach dropped at the sight before her.
“Good Lord, Elisabeth, is that Tiersonnier’s château?” her sister asked, stopping by her side.
Agathe simply shook her head in dismay.
Standing in the courtyard, overgrown with weeds, was an old two-story country mansion, its stone masonry crumbling in many spots. The once proud mythical statues adorning its roof-tops were blackened with dirt and age.
Elisabeth took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s in some need of repair.”
Agathe snorted. “That is putting it mildly.”
This isn’t a setback. She wasn’t going to be discouraged by the state of the abode or, more important, what it suggested about the finances of the lord of this château and how that diminished her already slim chances of being with Tristan beyond the week. She’d come this far. She’d forge ahead.
She’d simply add to the plan. What was one more obstacle in her path? After all, she was already attempting the impossible. In addition to convincing the King that Tristan was capable of commanding His Majesty’s Guard once more, an
d making Tristan want her, clearly she’d have to convince her father that Tristan was richer than he was.
She was wearing her lucky boots. Good thing.
She was going to need all the luck she could get.
“Is this what you do all day? Sit in the library?” Gabriel de Tiersonnier asked with a smile as he strolled into the room.
Seated on the settee, his leg propped up, Tristan stared out at the gardens. Without glancing at his brother, he responded dryly, “No. Sometimes I sit in the salon.” His tone was caustic. Embittered.
He wanted to be left alone and tried to ignore his brother and his good mood. It was as infuriating as the unrelenting dull ache in Tristan’s leg. An incessant reminder of his debilitated state. All these weeks and no bloody sign of improvement. He still walked with a cane. He still couldn’t make peace with his crippled limb. He hadn’t wanted to believe the royal physicians’ prognosis. Now he was beginning to lose hope of a complete recovery. And his frustration and fury over it mounted daily.
Still smiling, Gabriel shook his head and sat down in a nearby chair, making himself comfortable.
Merde. His brother meant to stay.
“Really, Tristan, this sedate existence of yours is as exciting as living among celibate monks.”
“You should know. You were one of them, until they tossed you out last week.” Gabriel had returned two days ago, shattering Tristan’s solitude, and he resented it.
He resented just about everything nowadays. He resented how far he’d fallen. He’d had it all: command of the most prestigious, most elite corps in the realm, the ear of the King and his esteem, magnificent apartments at Versailles, and a number of women to bed whenever he chose, including his favorite, Veronique. But his favorite turned out to be a conniving little opportunist, who was quick to leave. The moment he was replaced as Captain of the Musketeers, she was bedding his successor.
What did he have left when all the dust had settled? A lame leg. A broken-down château he cared nothing about. And worse, staid, empty years stretched out before him—a life so contrary to his active existence. He’d fought in countless campaigns for his country during his distinguished military career. He’d risen through the ranks to eventually head the King’s private Guard, and had conducted covert operations and quashed conspiracies while in charge of the safety and protection of the royal family.
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