The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  They…forgave each other.

  She paused. He wanted her to love him and forgive him anything. And he wanted to do it in a most unconventional way: without any guarantees of her ever seeing matrimony.

  He hesitated. “Honor me by giving me another chance, Thérèse. Please. The very thought of not ever being able to kiss you again is…”

  She closed her eyes, determined not to be swayed. “I am not interested in ending up with a child after raising ten of them for my parents.” She opened her eyes. “This is my time to finally embrace everything I want out of life and I will not expose my body to your drunken advances that are clearly unreliable.”

  He gripped her waist hard. “I will never engage you whilst drunk again. I swear it.”

  “Even if you could uphold such a promise, we are both overly passionate and such things are not bound to end well.” Her throat tightened. “What if we become too attached to each other? What happens then? There is danger in us wanting each other too much. Especially given who you are. You are third cousin to the king!”

  His voice darkened. “I hardly need to be reminded who I am.”

  A shaky breath escaped her. This was getting too complicated for them to even try to make it work. “I am giving you permission to engage other women.”

  He said nothing.

  His silence poked her into asking the one thing that had bothered her all of last night. “How many others were there before me?”

  He shifted in the saddle, adjusting her against himself. “Four.”

  “Were you in love with any of these women?”

  “One.” He was quiet for a long moment. “She was married. Her name was…Madame Poulin.”

  She blinked. “Did you know she was married?”

  He dug his chin into her head. “No. I have a stupid tendency to let passion blur common sense.”

  A vivid flash of seeing his nude body and bunched muscles savagely pounding his hips into another woman made her want to smack him off the horse for making her jealous. She hated being made to feel as if she was fourteen.

  Tightening her hold on her basket, she coolly offered, “Was she pretty?”

  “Not as pretty as you,” he breathed out against her ear.

  She unwittingly tilted her ear into those lips that clearly sought to lure her. “I assume it ended badly.”

  “More than you will ever know.” He heaved out a breath. “The whole thing was staged by her husband. She was coerced into making me believe our relationship was real. The whole moon and the stars sort of nonsense. After she and I fell into bed a few times, her husband made himself known and demanded half a million livres from my father.”

  Thérèse felt her throat tighten in disbelief.

  His tone became ragged. “This mudsill of a tailor had the audacity to tell me if I did not pay it in full, he would publicly demand satisfaction. My father was anything but understanding. When I told Poulin to piss off, the man demanded satisfaction, and in an effort not to kill the fils de salope, I aimed at his leg. Only I shot off his hand. A hand he can no longer use to support his family. So he and the wife I thought I knew and loved, along with their three children, ended up in an almshouse because of me. So what did I do? I gave them ten thousand to ensure they lived well. And they do. Believe me, they still do. They have carriages and a house and go shopping for things they do not need and merrily live off my guilt going on a few years now. Just like they planned. And the best part? This tailor now stands on the street with a sign that says, ‘The Duc de Andelot’s son raped my wife and took my trade and my hand.’”

  Her heart skidded. She jerked her head toward him, her lips parting in disbelief.

  He didn’t meet her gaze. “He parades my shame, after he and his wife orchestrated it, openly spits on my name thinking I deserve nothing less. And that is the direction this country is going in. That is why this city is burning. Because some people would rather see everything burn than admit we are all equal in our sins. Long live your kind and the revolution.”

  Tears stung her eyes. “He is not my kind.”

  He shifted his jaw, still refusing to look at her.

  She swallowed. Holding up a trembling hand, she gently touched the side of his masked face, wishing he was not wearing it. “I am sorry that was done to you.”

  He shrugged. “I earned it.”

  “How can you say that?”

  He said nothing.

  Maybe this was why she came into his life. Brandy aside, he clearly lacked the faith in trying to save himself because he was too busy saving the world. “I appreciate you sharing that with me. I cannot imagine it was easy to say aloud.”

  He tugged her closer against himself, tightening his hold on her to the point of digging his fingers into her gown and the skin beneath. “Paris is ahead. Listen well as I will not have a chance to repeat myself lest we risk someone overhearing it.”

  He gripped her braid and wagged its end. “I will take you straight to your cousin’s theatre, after which we will no longer see very much of each other. My mask will come off and I will resume my regular way of life. In the next few days, a dark-eyed gentleman by the name of Serge Naudet will call on you. Only he will know of our association. So trust no one but him. Aside from delivering you money, Naudet will supply a weekly list of people you ought to talk to and will funnel whatever messages you and I have for each other. Do you remember the address where the blue ribbon is supposed to go to if you need me?”

  This all became too real. “Yes. Five Luxembourg.”

  “Good.” He released her braid. “As for us, the next time we see each other, we will no longer be allowed to be anything to each other but strangers in public, so I suppose you and I are lovers no more, much like you want. In truth, I hardly earned it and ask that you not forgive me. I have to learn to be more responsible.”

  Her throat tightened. Now she felt bad.

  Dragging in a breath, Thérèse nestled herself against his broad, muscled frame trying not to revel in his warmth too much. It was so odd to think that she, a mere daughter of a third generation butcher, was riding into Paris on a steed in the arms of an aristocrat worth ten million.

  This revolution was creating a form of equality even she had not been prepared to embrace.

  The dense, angled cobbled streets were so overcrowded with people, the horse had to be guided off the actual road and through narrow pathways in between torched buildings and small courtyards strewn with shattered glass, bricks and charred pieces of furniture.

  Men and women in bundled rags gathered before the small window of a dilapidated print shop where an unshaven man in a red cap bearing a tricolor cockade, stood on a wooden crate with a newly printed pamphlet. He shook it at those around him.

  “Despite countless pleas from our own voices at the esteemed Assembly, our basic needs are still not being addressed!” he yelled. “It says here due to the continued shortage of food, all bread prices will remain the same. At fifteen sous a loaf. Fifteen! What, I ask you, are these loaves made of? Sa Majesté’s breeches?! Or the queen’s two tits?”

  Laughter and disgruntled shouts echoed within the narrow space of the street.

  Gérard shifted his jaw, chanting to himself that beating the blood out of a man for insulting his godparents was pointless. Because then these strutting turkeys would only cluck to each other about how violent aristocrats were toward them.

  Which was why he trained his pride to ride by the jargon and never engage. He was not his father who always got into the faces of these people on the street.

  He also wasn’t alone.

  In truth, he barely noticed the rumbling chaos the way he usually did. How could he? His hands were sweating beneath his gloves and his body felt as if it was being assaulted by fire. Even after everything that had been said between them, the woman still nestled against him as if they were back to being on good terms.

  She was exhausting the hell out of him.

  With her blonde head tucked agai
nst his chest and the warm softness of her voluptuous body folded into his arms, all he could think of was how the hell he was going to survive not making love to her body again.

  Thérèse sat up against him, bumping his chin and pointed at the young man yelling about the bread prices. “Whatever is that idiot wearing?” she echoed. “He has no sense of fashion. Absolutely none. That red hat makes him look like a troll.”

  Gérard choked, grabbed her hand and lowered it against her thigh in reprimand. “Try not to get us into trouble.”

  She paused. “Am I not allowed to comment on what people wear? Pardon me for being a woman. I notice these things.”

  He kept pushing the horse through the crowds. Everything coming out of her mouth was an adventure. “That cap signifies he is in support of the new Republic. Do not comment or try to engage them, because they are all like roaches. Where there is one, there is a hundred. And whilst I wish I could boast that my fighting skills are that of God, I cannot very well fight a hundred men on my own and in your honor. Do you understand?”

  Concern edged into her voice. “They would try to fight us? Merely because I commented on his sense of fashion?”

  Gérard tightened his jaw in an attempt to remind himself she was new to what was happening in Paris. “Any comment can be construed as you supporting Sa Majesté. So never comment on those caps. Ever. These bastards are bold. They forget they still have a king. Be he in prison or not, he still lives.”

  A boisterous group of young men sharing what appeared to be several large bottles of stolen champagne out of a crate, paused in unison. Some shifted against the brick wall they were propped against. The entire group stared at them.

  Or rather…they stared at Thérèse.

  All fourteen of them.

  Gérard instinctively tightened his arms around her and veered his horse to the other side of the street. He cued his horse into a quicker pace lest he start shooting their eyes out.

  A few whistled as others nudged each other to keep looking.

  One of the young men holding a bottle of champagne, stumbled forward, gaping up at them as he tried to keep up with their horse. “My heart will never be the same.” He set a dirt-crusted hand on his narrow chest and scrambled forward, his scuff-whitened boots trying to keep up as he held up the bottle he held. “Mademoiselle, my heart tells me we have met before. In a dream, I dare say! And in that dream, I knelt before you and kissed your hand well over a dozen times after you promised to be mine. Marry me, so we may have a dozen children as beautiful as you!”

  Gérard’s lips parted. He didn’t know what astounded him more. Seeing men act like buffoons after a mere glance at Thérèse or the fact it bothered him knowing other men were interested in being buffoons in her honor. Whilst, yes, she was insanely attractive, and he himself had trouble resisting, he thought she had been exaggerating about the men.

  She wasn’t even on stage yet.

  Shite. “Step away,” he rumbled out in warning.

  The young blond only kept running beside them at a sprint, glancing up at Thérèse. “What is your name, mon amour?” he called. “Assure me this outdated fop is not your husband or I will take a pistol to my head for it! He does not even appear to be capable of providing you shoes!”

  Jésus. Gérard glared down at the man, trying to keep the horse at a respectable pace so they wouldn’t fall off. “Being capable of providing her shoes is not my problem,” he delivered through teeth. “So I suggest you keep sucking on that champagne and leave off. Leave off, or I will damn well jump off this horse and—”

  Thérèse elbowed him hard. “There is no need, Gérard. Allow me.” She leaned slightly toward the blond still running beside them and primly offered in a honeyed voice, “Come see me at the opening night of ‘The Delights of Life’ this Friday evening at Spetacle des Variétés Amusantes on Rue St. Antoine. It will be short-lived given I will be going on to a bigger stage, so bring all of your friends, and I promise to sing a song for you and only you.” She scrunched her nose in an excessive form of flirtation and then blew him an ardent kiss with the pucker of lips.

  Gérard sucked in an astounded breath at her tasteless attempt to advertise her cousin’s theatre.

  The youth stumbled and grabbed at the air as if she had actually thrown something. “I will be there with all of Paris, mon amour!” He turned back to his friends and jerking to a halt, guzzled more champagne that dribbled down his unshaven chin before throwing up an arm in mocking triumph. “Long live the Republic and its beautiful women whom I adore!”

  Gérard shifted his jaw in a riled attempt not to get off the horse and use all five of his pistols to show what he thought of this new Republic. Barely a few weeks earlier, he had saved a young woman from being raped by a massive man who held her face to the ground shouting, ‘Prove yourself to the Republic!’ He almost killed the son of a bitch. Given there were too many others watching, however, Gérard could only grudgingly rope the bastard to a lamp post after a few good kicks to the head and demanded no one untie him for a week. It won him an applause and even a few pats on the back, despite him being an aristo.

  Of course, this champagne-guzzling dunce had been encouraged. By Thérèse, no less.

  He half-shook her. “What the devil are you doing? If you think I am incapable of control, you just introduced yourself to rape with that one. Christ, you— That was tasteless and uncalled for. Are you telling me you always tweak your nose at every man in the name of making money?”

  She glared. “Of course not. But what was I to do? Let you fight some halfling in my honor whilst thirteen others watched and would have joined in? I was protecting you, is all. How is that wrong?”

  His pulse hitched. Why did he like knowing she had protected him? It had to mean she had a bit of regard for him. Maybe even more than a bit. “You do realize that idiot will expect to see you now.”

  She patted his forearm. “And he most certainly will. After he pays for it. I can afford to give him two minutes after the show and toss a song at him. It is what an actress does. After he gets his song, he gets escorted straight out of the building by burly men with knives Rémy hires to protect his talent. My cousin told me all about how they deal with unwanted admirers. So you need not worry.”

  She pushed her braid over her shoulder, smacking his face and glanced back at him, her large blue eyes brightening in earnest. “Advertising to the right people is the only way to ensure Rémy’s success. And his success is my success. And my success is your success. I cannot very well gather the information you want by treating these men with disdain, can I?”

  Everything about this woman made him want to grab her face and kiss her until neither of them knew the difference between heaven or hell. He wanted to rip her gown in half, leave bite marks on that skin and—

  She still peered up at him from over her shoulder. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  His nostrils flared in an attempt not to do all the things he was thinking. “I am not looking at you at all.”

  She smirked, her eyes brightening. “Oh, yes you are.” She set her chin. “Admit it. Without me, you are nothing.”

  It was obvious she was well aware of how much control she had over him and was glorying in it. Gérard jerked her against his body as tight as he could so they were both aware of what his body was capable of.

  “Without me,” he returned in a growling tone, “you are also nothing. I suggest you remember that when I drape diamonds and pearls on your neck.”

  Her chest rose and fell against his hand. “You are pinching my skin.”

  He swallowed and eased his grip. “Forgive me.”

  She puffed out a breath. “You almost popped both of my breasts out of my corset.”

  “I beg to differ. They do that on their own. I suggest buying yourself a larger corset with the money I give you.”

  She elbowed him hard.

  He rolled his eyes and glanced out toward passing buildings.

  A large woode
n plaque with the words Spetacle des Variétés Amusantes made his brows go up and his lips part. He slowed his horse to a halt. The sign, boasting crudely painted but shapely female legs in red wool stockings, was affixed to the façade of the building with more nails than was needed. A long line of men – and only men – waited to purchase tickets.

  A dark-haired gent selling the tickets, busily went from person to person, collecting coins in exchange for the papers he ripped. “Hold onto that there ticket, citoyen.” He pointed to the single door painted red. “No entries today but nay do fear. Friday at seven will be the first of this showing, and not a single one of you will want to miss it! New talent this time. New talent. Come see the new face of the future Republic. With but a glance, she will steal what little you have of your heart!”

  The man enthusiastically kept nodding and going down the line as others left with their tickets. He tapped his bright blue felt hat forward, displaying the tri-colored cockade pinned to it and flicked it with a bare finger. “If any of you gents need yourselves a cockade, I most certainly sell those, too. They are in a crate inside. Buy three, and this here ticket is free, free, free.”

  It was obvious the man was a peddler of all trades.

  That bright blue hat was seriously mismatched against the man’s foppish striped green and pink clothing. Clothing that was much too tight for his stocky frame. Everything bulged in all the wrong places in an attempt to free the rolls of fat beneath. Even the stretching flap on his trousers appeared to want to rip the buttons off.

  “Rémy!” Thérèse called out, cupping the side of her mouth with a hand. “Look at this bit of bourgeoisie coming into town! I arrived on my own steed!” She set her shoulder and chin toward him to better display herself on the horse she sat on. “And I have this lusty highwayman to thank! He made love to me twice!”