“With your talk of wanting to be with someone, why settle for a mistress? Why not marry?”
He shifted, sensing she was probably probing for what chances she had. Like women always did. “Marriage is not for me, dearest. It would complicate my life.”
She snorted. “How does marriage complicate a man’s life? It really only complicates a woman’s life. She becomes his property, bears his children and is his life-long servant to all his needs.”
“Not true.” Tapping at his chest, he humbly confessed, “If I were to marry, I would become the servant. Which is why I will never do it.”
She squinted. “What do you mean?”
He lifted a brow. “What is this? Are you hoping to be my wife? What happened to all that talk of men being disgusting, wanting nothing but food, wine and poom-poom?”
She eyed him, her pale cheeks flushing. “I hardly find you disgusting.”
Uh-oh. This one had just elevated him above the male population. Which meant she would expect him to leap higher than his boots would allow. He swiped at his mouth. “I ask that you not place such lofty expectations on me. I disappoint enough people in my life.” Or what was left of them.
She searched his face.
He reveled in those sultry eyes that didn’t look real. As fiery and stubborn as she was, he was surprised he had been able to seduce her. Either he was that damn good or she was that damn naughty. “You are the most beautiful woman I have ever met. Ever.”
She pinched her lips in an attempt to hide a smile. “Do you always flatter women after you seduce them?”
“Only if they are worthy of it.” He tilted his head. “You never answered my question. Why did you want to be an actress? Hm? When did that start?”
She set her chin on her hand. “When I visited my cousin in Paris at the age of twelve. He let me sing for a crowd opening night. My parents about boxed his ears bloody when they heard of it, but it was the most glorious moment of my life. When my boots touched the apron of that stage, I knew it was what I was destined for. I, with but a song, was in command of more than their eyes. I was in command of their minds and their hearts. I was able to make them believe I was more than the mere daughter of a butcher. That I was, in fact, born a queen.”
He knew she was perfect for what he planned.
She was the stronghold he had been looking for who defined everything bourgeoisie.
With her on the stage of Théâtre Française, the epicenter of all life and gossip in Paris, she would have access to all sorts of people. Bourgeoisie and Legislative Assembly members alike. And if he was having trouble breathing around her, he could only imagine what this siren could do if they formed an alliance. Men always put their cocks first.
He was proof of it.
Grabbing up his flask, he uncorked it. He took another swig of brandy and draped an arm over his bent knee. “Allow me to get to the point of what I really want from you.”
“You mean sex was merely you getting started?” She smirked. “Do go on. Make me an offer.”
He held her gaze, taking another swig of his brandy. “I will give you everything you want, from dirt to sky, and in return, you will do what I tell you.”
“Which is what?”
“I need someone who will not betray me. And I am asking you to be that person. I am about to entrust my very breath to you and am asking that you entrust your breath to me.”
She eyed him. “Mighty words given we are not married.”
“Mighty, indeed. Everyone in my circle still seems to think that what is happening across France is temporary. That once the king has been completely removed from power, the country will settle back into a state of peace and calm. I, on the other hand, have proof that something far bigger is happening. Something that will change France as we know it. Given who I am, the people who usually confide in me, tell me nothing. Whilst certain people of the bourgeoisie and lower classes revere me, they fear the new Republic too much. I therefore need someone they can relate to. Someone who will be able to inform me of what is happening on and off the stage, so to speak. Someone like you.”
She stared. “Are you asking me to spy for you?”
He met her gaze. “Yes. Judging by your wit alone, I am utterly convinced you are more than a pretty face. Prove it. I am asking you to help me put an end to some of the bloodshed. My brothers were actually the two aristocrats you spoke of who were butchered on the side of a road. Marceau and Julien are not even being given a burial because the Legislative Assembly commanded the gendarmerie nationale to hold their remains as evidence. Which means their bones will remain locked in a back room until they decide to throw those bones into an underground pell-mell bone repository better known as Tombelssoire.”
Her eyes widened. Clasping a pale hand to her mouth, she held it in place before choking out through her fingers, “Gérard, how can they do that?”
He shrugged. “The people of France gave this new government permission to do whatever it needs to. By eliminating our existence, there will be no opposition.”
She chewed on her lip.
“And things are about to get worse. The Legislative Assembly is about to become a single-chamber assembly of power held by a select group of men. Whilst titles have already been done away with, I have heard rumblings that these particular deputies plan to altogether abolish royalty from France. Which means I and every aristocrat in the land will cease to exist by the mere stroke of a quill.”
Gérard rubbed at his chin in a riled effort to remain calm. “There are over a thousand royalists being held in Parisian prisons that have yet to stand trial. And based on the closing of the borders, I firmly believe a mass genocide of the aristocracy is planned. Which means they will find a way to kill us all, including the king whom I mean to save. Sa Majesté is like a father to me and has been for many, many years.”
Her features stilled. “And you think a mere actress is going to stop all of this from happening?”
He rolled his eyes. “No. All I need is information. I have a group of young aristocrats I am working with. We started assisting each other in trying to unearth information about what is happening to this country and to us.”
“I see.” She leaned toward him. “So if I help you, our earlier agreement stands? You will put me on stage and pay for everything, yes?”
So much for thinking she cared about anything else but the offer. He thought maybe there was more to this woman after she had enchantingly insisted on feeding him the apple he had been too proud to ask for. It was obvious, however, she fed all of the men apples in return for what she wanted: money. He was astounded she had actually been a virgin. But then again, she was bourgeoisie. Her priorities were typical of her kind. Money and fame.
Gérard tried to keep his tone polite. “Yes. If you help me, our earlier agreement stands.”
She fiddled with her fingers, glancing up at the branches above them, then held out a hand. “I will spy for you.”
A breath escaped him. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard, willing her to accept that there was no going back. “Are you certain?”
“How difficult can it be to prod men for information I want?”
He released her hand, leveling her with a stare. “Whilst I admire your never-ending confidence, try not to be overly presumptuous. This can and will get dangerous.”
“Women know a bit more about danger than men ever will. Have you ever thought you were going to get raped merely because you walked past a man at the wrong hour?”
Very good point. Swiveling toward the edge of the blanket they sat on, he withdrew the rosewood pistol he had set beside his leather satchel. Holding it by the barrel, he held out the handle toward her. “I want you to keep this with you at all times. Take it.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Absolutely not. Pistols make my skin crawl.”
He wagged it at her. “If you plan on living in Paris, I suggest you get comfortable with the idea of holding a weapon. Take it. I will show you to load it and prime it tomorro
w morning. Practicing with it every day is important.”
She leaned back. “If you insist on giving me a weapon, give me a cleaver. Cleavers can be as equally effective and require no other skill other than swinging. The less I have to think about, the better off I will be.” She paused. “I can also use it to make dinner.”
There was no doubt she was the epitome of the sort of woman he needed to get this job done. “I will ensure you get that cleaver.” He casually flipped the pistol and set it aside. “A weapon is only a precaution. In truth, our association will not require much. All I want is information pertaining to any plans that involve the aristocracy, and in particular, anything related to the king. Which means once we get you into Théâtre Française all you have to do is flutter those pretty eyes and get the men to talk politics.”
“Will I have to do it in private?” she echoed. “As in my boudoir?”
Sensing her discomfort, he skimmed his hand across her thigh. “No. There will be no compromising of yourself. They are not allowed to touch you or be alone with you. Always ensure you are with others in the name of your safety. Because I am not one to tolerate anyone coming in on what is mine. Which you now are given this association.”
She eyed his hand and her thigh and adjusted her braid, smoothing it against her shoulder. “Staking your claim, are you?”
He captured her gaze. “I only make love to a woman I am interested in keeping.”
She continued to smooth her braid against her shoulder. “Are you suggesting you are capable of offering more than sex to a woman?”
“Of course I am.” He tapped her thigh. “I am not like other men, Thérèse. I never play games. What you see is exactly what you get. While the sex was incredible, there is more to me than that and I wish to assure you, I will be devoted to you for however long we can make this last.”
She squinted. “Does this mean I now own your soul?”
“Prove yourself, and I will ensure you get it right along with anything else you want.”
She sat up. “I was teasing.”
“I was not.”
She was quiet for a moment. “So what happens next?”
Gérard spaced his words out so she damn well understood what needed to happen. “The moment we get to Paris, what we share here in the forest ends. Private meetings will be rare. There are far too many eyes watching. Which means, whenever we are in public, I become nothing more than a besotted admirer you will have no choice but to scorn. And I am quite serious about that.”
He stared her down. “If you hint, even for a breath, to anyone that we mean anything to each other, not only will no one trust you, but it will be used against you and me. Try to remember your task throughout all of this is only to prod for political gossip. Which actresses are well-known for doing anyway, so it will hardly raise any brows. Anything you think might be of worth to me, you will pass along using hair ribbons as a method of communication. My mother, who was heavily involved in assisting others, used the same method to keep battered women away from their husbands.”
She sat up, her brows going up. “Hair ribbons?”
“Yes. You will purchase and only ever wear three colors in your hair: blue, white and red. Like the cockade. It will make you incredibly popular. Little will anyone know that those same ribbons are going to be used to communicate with me. Every Friday at noon, you will step outside the theatre for three minutes, wearing whatever ribbon is required to pass on information. A red ribbon will indicate you have a lead. I will send a man I trust so you and he can go over all the details. A white ribbon will indicate you merely wish to see me.” He lifted a brow. “It could be for sex or anything else you may need. I expect to see a lot of those in your hair.”
She tsked.
“And then there is the blue ribbon.” He grew serious again. “Never use it unless your life depends on it.”
She lowered her chin. “This sounds ominous.”
“It is. You will only ever use it in response to any danger you may be in. It is the only ribbon you will actually send, not wear. The moment I receive that blue ribbon, no matter the hour, I will be at your door looking to slit throats. So do not ever send me a blue ribbon. For it will only expose our association.”
Observing him for a long moment, she asked softly, “Where would I send it?”
“Five Luxembourg. It will go directly to a very close friend of mine. That way, there will be no visible connections between you and me.”
She glanced upward toward the overhang of the dark forest barely outlined and illuminated by the fire. “Red for leads, white for everything else, and blue only if I need a few throats slit in my honor. Number five at Luxembourg.” She tapped her temple. “This is my ink and parchment.” She leveled her eyes back to him and hesitated.
He lifted a brow. “What is it? I can see you thinking.”
“What is your association with Sa Majesté? You mentioned he was like a father to you.”
This was where the creek that separated them became the size of a cavern.
It was inevitable. She was going to find out the moment they got into Paris anyway.
Rolling his tongue on the inside of his mouth, he eventually offered, “Sa Majesté is my godfather. If he were to die without heirs, and the duc d’Orléans were to die, as well, my father would be the next in line as king. And I, by right, directly after him.”
Her eyes widened. She searched his face, her pale face flushing to bright red. “You are that closely related to the king?” she echoed.
And there it was. She was no longer impressed by him or his looks but the title. Much like women had always been, even when his brothers had been alive and he was a damn spare. He hated sharing who he was. He hated tainting people’s perception of him.
After all, he was no God. Nor had he ever tried to be, much to his father’s dismay. He rather liked being human. It allowed him to be what he was: anything but perfect. His love for sex and brandy was too great to pretend otherwise.
He gallantly inclined his head. “The name is Gérard Antoine Tolbert, and I am the last remaining heir to the great duché of Andelot.” Knowing she deserved the honor, he gestured toward her resting hand. “Might I have the pleasure of a full introduction, mademoiselle? You only ever gave me your first name.”
She hesitated and slowly held out her hand, her slim wrist almost floppy. “I am…” She gaped. “I am Thérèse Angelique Clavette.”
At least she was capable of saying her name.
Taking her hand, which seemed so charmingly small against his own, he leaned over it and kissed it. He lingered, brushing his lips against her soft skin and held her gaze. “Despite who I am, from this moment on, you and I are equals. I am not above you, and you are not above me. I am devoted to you and you are devoted to me.”
She dragged back her hand and smoothed her skirts, eyeing him. “I take it you are incredibly wealthy? Yes?”
He shifted his jaw, trying not to get annoyed knowing he had offered her equality and devotion and the first thing out of her mouth was money. This is exactly why he kept himself from ever loving any of these women, especially after Madame Poulin. Because it kept his standards low enough for him to walk right over them when he was done. “Oh, yes. Incredibly. My father is worth ten million livres, and we own fourteen estates across France.”
She choked. “Fourteen estates? And you still have ten million livres left over? That should be illegal.”
Women. “Each estate produces almost half a million a year. It is pure mathematics. No laws broken, and we pay our tenants eight times more than most. Our generosity to our tenants has proven effective as they work twice as hard and have remained devoted to us and our name even during the turmoil that has overtaken France.”
Her eyes skimmed him. Twice. “Forgive me, but I find it very difficult to believe you are worth ten million. Your appearance is— I do not mean to insult you, Gérard dear, for you are beyond gorgeous, but…why under heaven’s name are you wearing such h
orrid, outdated clothing? Is this because you are incognito? Or is this what you usually wear?”
“Does it matter?”
“Of course it does. You are the son of a duc.” She tugged at the sleeve of her frayed blue gown. “Do you think I want to wear this? I have better fashion sense than this. The trouble is my taste is beyond what I can afford. You should be so lucky.”
Who knew taking one bite from this siren’s apple would make him regret every minute of it?
“When we get to Paris,” she added, “might I go shopping for clothes? You know…the expensive sort?”
Of course she would ask for clothes. Women always asked for clothes. “I will ensure whatever you want, you get.”
Her heavy-lidded azure eyes brightened as her stunning and overly perfect pale features softened. “I like you. I like you well beyond what I should.”
“I am glad to hear it.” He lowered his gaze to that exposed, pale throat and imagined her softness all over him again. “Would you like diamonds for that throat?” He might as well show off. “I can arrange for that, too.”
Her mouth opened. “A diamond necklace? As in a real one? Made out of diamonds?”
He smirked. “Yes. Last I knew diamond necklaces were made out diamonds.”
Pertly scooting closer, she tapped his knee. “Can I have pearls, too? A long set that will drape itself to my waist? I rather like the idea of having over a thousand pearls on one string.”
If he wasn’t careful, she was going to run off with his father’s ten million.
Taking another long swig from his flask, Gérard swallowed hard and tried not to look at those sizable breasts he had thoroughly enjoyed masturbating into earlier. “Why settle for one that falls to the waist? We can have your pearls trail the floor.”
An excited giggle escaped her in between claps. “Who knew giving up my virginity would turn into this!”
Unbelievable. She was like a fairy-demon.
It was actually nice having a lover again.
Though it never did last.
They always disappointed him.
Eyeing Thérèse, he took another long swig, letting it sit in his mouth long enough for his tongue to bathe in it before swallowing. He could feel the haze of the brandy already overtaking him like an old friend. The one friend he knew would always be there.
The Duke of Andelot Page 7