The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  Setting both gloved hands behind his back and locking it in place, Gérard stared her down. “I already know about Sade.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. Naudet told me this morning.”

  “Impossible. I only met Sade last night and never told Naudet. In fact, I have not seen Naudet in almost a week.”

  “Do not seem overly surprised. I pay him several hundred a week to watch over you given you do not appear to watch over yourself. And just because you do not see him, or me, does not mean either of us are not watching. We are. Believe me, we are.”

  This man was certainly miffed about something. She lifted a brow. “I appreciate your concern but ask that you deliver it with less…bite. I hardly deserve it. I am working my wig off here.”

  “Yes, I know. I can assure you, I appreciate that.”

  Sensing he was still agitated, she pressed, “Then what is it?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “I came to…” He shoved his hands into his coat pockets. “I am waiting for you to say it.”

  She blinked. “Waiting for me to say what?”

  Gérard crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes roaming over her gown and towering wig. “For one, you look nothing like yourself.”

  Was this about her appearance? “Are you daft? I am in costume and have more powder on my face than there ever was in the jar. I am required to look like this. Have you not been to any of the performances?”

  “All of them. And you, madame, are an inspiration to watch.” His nostrils flared. “But that is not what I meant or why I came to talk.”

  “Well then say it. Before your nose falls off from all that heavy breathing.”

  He drew in a ragged breath. “You appear to have gained some weight.”

  She gasped, knowing full well she had gained half a stone. Her new chef was making incredible food neither she or Rémy could resist. There was also the possibility she was pregnant. Neither of which she appreciated.

  She glared. “So you came here to insult me?”

  “No. You misunderstand.” He continued to stare her down. “I am merely disappointed that you would not have tried to confide in me given all of the concoctions you have been drinking on the hour. ’Tis obvious you know something you have not deigned to pass on to Naudet. Because nothing you do ever goes on without my knowing it. Nothing. Let me be clear in that. When you breathe, I hear it from a mile. Now out with it. Are you pregnant or not?”

  Ohhhh. Now she knew why he was here being all grouchy-grouchy. He was obviously stressed about it. Which made two of them.

  She puffed out a breath in exasperation. “Whilst I have been battling a bit of nausea, it could be nerves. I am rather hoping it is. I am, after all, still getting used to stage life and its harried nature and therefore cannot be certain. I most likely will not know for another month or so.”

  His brows came together as he edged closer. “How the hell can you not be certain? It has been three months. Three. Did your mother not educate you about your menses?”

  Barely five minutes in his presence and she wanted to smack him. “My menses is irregular. Sometimes it arrives in two months and sometimes it arrives in four. Which means, in another month, I most certainly will know. But not sooner. So do calm yourself and be thankful you are a man. Because my menses appears to be about as irrational as you.”

  He swiped his face. “Christ, this is— I have to wait another month? And then I have to wait another five months after that for the babe to come?”

  She paused. One would think he wanted to be a father. It was…unexpected. But then again, he had three months to think about it. She had rather come to accept it herself.

  Still leaning against the door, she apprehensively dragged her velvet covered slipper across the floor, toward herself. “Are you actually hoping I am pregnant? Is that what you are announcing?”

  He dropped his hand to his side but didn’t meet her gaze. “I have certainly prepared myself for the possibility.”

  Her smile broadened. “Are you saying you missed me, Monsieur Aristocrate?”

  He snapped his gaze to hers and glared, his chest now rising and falling more heavily. “Hardly. You, Madame de Maitenon, are having quite the adventure at my expense. And the best part? I am paying for it through the nostrils and the mouth. Especially given what people are saying about you. Whilst I normally do not listen to rumor, it is a touch difficult to ignore the vast amount of men across all of Paris who continue to boast that you have entertained each and every one of them in a carriage, in a bed, against a wall and in every park there is. Look at me and assure me they are all lying.”

  A bubble of a laugh escaped her given how serious he was. “You and these men are delusional. I ask of you, if I were that much of a whore, how would I ever find the time to go on stage?”

  He still glared. “I can easily ignore what these men are saying given I wish to respect you, but what I cannot and will not ignore is what I saw with my own eyes barely a few moments earlier. Watching you serenade your rosy-cheeked Jacques whom you were whispering to so adoringly and kissing on the cheek and lips, mind you, certainly tells me these men are conveying half-truths. You are letting these men touch you. Admit it.”

  She glared. “What is this? We are not married or engaged. So I suggest you stop heaving about it.”

  He narrowed his gaze. “I made you. I made you into the success you are now vastly enjoying at my expense. Which means you and that body are mine. Regardless of a piece of paper.”

  Och. Male jealousy was such a vile, vile little creature. It scratched and bit and made even the most gallant of men turn into the animals they really were. A part of her wanted to return the favor by becoming an animal herself and scratching his eyes out. But given she no longer chewed on her nails because she only ever heard his deep voice of ‘Are you a lady or a goat?’ she decided to be a lady. Not a goat.

  She stayed pasted to the door lest she stray from being said goat. “Sometimes, Gérard, we see what we want to see as opposed to what actually is. Jacques is my friend. Nothing more.”

  “I see. So you let your male friends grab your face and kiss you on the mouth like that? Hm?”

  “The boy was overly excited. He—”

  “Oh, I bet he was. He was practically scratching his trousers off. I heard him.” He wiggled his head and pitched his voice higher to mock Jacques. “‘One day, ma poupée, you and I will make passionate love under the stage lights for the world to see.’”

  A giggle escaped Thérèse. “That was actually quite good. You ought to take to the stage with me.”

  “Why are you not taking me seriously?”

  She sighed. “Oh, come now. Are you actually jealous of someone who barely started shaving? The boy is seventeen. Hardly an age I would ever be interested in.”

  “You seem to forget you are eighteen.”

  “Not true. I am nineteen as of four days ago. I simply did not care to openly celebrate it. There was no time.”

  He paused. “You are now nineteen?”

  “Yes. I am.”

  Averting his gaze, he sighed. “I will send you something. Do you want more jewelry?”

  She rolled her eyes. “How about none of this vile jealousy?”

  He angled toward her. “Maybe I am a bit confused. Naudet tells me you two giggle and hook arms with each other all the time.”

  “I giggle and hook arms with all the actors and people here at the theatre. Does that also make me a lover of women, too? Because I love hooking my arms and giggling with women, as well.”

  He pulled in his chin. “Are you saying you wish to engage other women?”

  This man was exhausting her. “No! No, I— Will you cease? Let us not add women to the list or we will be here all night. The only reason I kissed Jacques on the cheek is because none of the other girls like him. Not that you would understand, Monsieur Aristocrate, given your good looks and all your money.”

  He said nothing.

  She sighe
d, trying to understand what was going on in his head. No doubt thoughts of his Madame Poulin who betrayed him. “If you must know, Gérard, I think about you all the time. How can I not? You have changed my entire life in the most glorious of ways. Look at me.” She pushed away from the door, regally twirling her satin and lace gown. She gestured toward the dressing room around them. “Everything I could have ever wanted, I now have. And none of this would have been possible if you had not made it possible.”

  He adjusted his coat over his large frame, but his features remained stubbornly aloof. “You have everything but me, Madame. And if you do not care to prove your affection for me in the manner I deserve, you will never have me.”

  It was obvious he still wanted her. And annoyingly, she wanted him, too. “Gérard, if you are interested in getting involved with me, I already laid out the rules. Rules you were not willing to follow. Setting aside the fact that I do like you very much, this level of jealousy is unacceptable. For even if we were involved again, I am only doing what is expected of me. I am associating with a long list of men you asked me to. I am also an actress. I am expected to socialize and most of my admirers are men.”

  He didn’t meet her gaze. “Are you interested in anyone outside of me? Be honest.”

  It was obvious he needed assurance. She softened her voice. “No. There is no one. I am not Madame Poulin. I have a bit more in my head and in my heart. As I said before, you have no right to be angry. Especially given what you did to me. You broke my trust barely a day into making it.”

  He winced. “I know and I have been living with it for three months. Three. Try to understand, Thérèse, that I—” His gaze held hers. Striding toward her, he used his large frame to edge her back against the door. “Maybe I am trying not to hope for more. Maybe, just maybe, I want you so damn much, I am trying so damn hard not to let on that I want you at all. Because as you well know, my affection has been played with before. And given the game we are playing, I am having trouble deciphering between what is real and what is not.”

  Her heart skidded. He really did want her in the same way she wanted him. Even after three months of being left to think about it. “I would never play with your affection. That is not who I am. What we shared in the forest was…”

  He quickly veered in close. “Was what?”

  Her backside hit the door, her heart pounding. The scent of his expensive cologne, though spiced and alluring as it had once been, made her throat tighten. Her stomach churned with renewed nausea.

  Oh, no. She swallowed against the excessive watering in her mouth. “Gérard, I…feel ill. I…”

  He set his hands on each side of her, above her head and held her gaze, his chest rising and falling. His tone and his features softened. “What is it? More nausea?”

  A shaky breath escaped her as she glanced up. She half-nodded. “Your cologne. I…”

  He searched her face, his brows flickering. “My cologne? What about it?”

  She gagged and projected all of the contents of her stomach, including the pea soup she had earlier eaten, all over the front of his clothing. Trying to keep the rest from rolling out, she choked. Her heavy periwig tipped toward him, all the pins holding it up falling one by one.

  His eyes widened, his expensive ensemble covered in vomit as he grabbed at her black wig. Lifting it up and off her head, he frantically tossed it aside and far from them.

  She gasped, trying not to move or use the sleeve of her gown to touch her wet mouth. “Oh my…dieu. I…I am ever so sorry.” Her face burned knowing she had retched all over the one and only man she ever wanted to impress. She had never been more humiliated in her entire life. Chewing on one’s nails was one thing, but this?

  “Never mind me,” he rasped. Jumping toward the side, he grabbed a vase of flowers from the nearest table and flung its contents onto the floor, sending water spraying everywhere. He jumped back and held it out toward her. “Here. Aim.”

  She gargled out an exasperated laugh, setting her mouth close to the opening of the vase. “Such…gallantry. I adore you for that alone. I—” She felt her chest tighten and her mouth water again. She heaved and sputtered out whatever tea and food was left over, filling the vase with a splatter.

  Gérard winced and leaned slightly back, while still holding the vase in place.

  She closed her eyes, letting the nausea fade and lifted her head from the opening of the vase. No longer caring, she used the entire white sleeve of her costume to wipe her mouth clean. She staggered over to the chaise lounge and flopped herself onto it. “It appears I am pregnant.”

  He glanced down at the vase and cringed.

  A knock came to the door making her pop her head back up.

  Countless male voices and yelling now filled the corridor outside.

  “Madame?” Jacques called out. “Citoyen de Sade wishes to see you.”

  She groaned, wanting to hit her head against something hard. The night was almost over. That was all that mattered. “Merci, Jacques! I need a few minutes. I am not quite ready!” She sat up and pointed Gérard toward her dressing screen, mouthing, “Hide yourself behind it!”

  Gérard bared his teeth in exasperation and skidded to a side table, setting the vase on it. He scrambled to the other side of the room, frantically removing his coat, gloves and waistcoat that were splattered with vomit and slid behind her dressing screen.

  Staggering back up to her slippered heels, she undid the row of hooks on the front of her costume which was spattered. She yanked down the sleeves and pushed everything down and past her corset and waist. Stepping out of it, she gathered the gown and hurried it over to the basket the maid always collected at the end of the night.

  Within moments, she unraveled her blonde hair from its bundled state, letting it cascade down her shoulders and waist and scrubbed her face clean of all the powder and rouge that covered her face, using the basin of water and soap. She kept scrubbing and scrubbing until her face felt raw. Finally dabbing her face clean, she glanced at herself in the mirror and was surprised to find she looked relatively decent for the amount she had spewed.

  There was another knock to the door through all the noise. “Madame?” Jacques called out. “The crowd is pushing at Citoyen de Sade a bit more than this man needs!”

  “Yes, yes! Do allow me another moment!” Grabbing the chalk, she brushed her teeth with it and spit several times into a tin cup. Yanking on her dressing robe, she tied it into place and then paused, realizing the room smelled like vomit. And there was no window to even open. Ack! She swiped up her perfume bottle and bustled around the room spraying everything, including the vase itself and behind the dressing screen where Gérard was.

  He gagged and coughed.

  She winced and obnoxiously coughed in an effort to cover his male sounding one. Leaning over the side of the dressing screen, she tapped her lips and whispered, “Stay quiet.” She held out the perfume bottle for him to take.

  He gave her a withering look but grudgingly took it.

  She tweaked her nose at him in vast appreciation and then bustled over to the door. Regally setting her chin, she swept the door open, ready to entertain.

  The corridor was now well-lit and over-crowded with men who pushed forward to see her.

  “Madame de Maitenon!” a young man hollered, wagging his calling card. “I beg of you to honor me! I have attended every single one of your performances. Every one!”

  Several others attempted to shove past with their calling cards and flowers.

  Jacques and Léon scrambled to keep everyone back using stage swords “Step away! Step away lest we use force, gentlemen! There will be no more callers tonight! Only this one!”

  An older gentleman, a touch over fifty with sharp, regal features and piercing dark eyes that were all the more pronounced against the snowy white of his powdered periwig set with side curls, swept off his black, tall crowned hat.

  He grinned and set the hat against his chest. “Citoyen Donatien Alphonse Franç
ois de Sade…yet again,” he said in a deep silken tone above the shouts. “I left my gloves in your dressing room last night. Might I fetch them?”

  She stepped aside. “Mais oui. Do come in.”

  “Merci.” He strode past with long legs encased in faded gold knee breeches and dulling white stockings. Halfway into the room, he called, “Might you close the door, Madame? All the noise is agitating me.”

  Amen. She closed the door and turned back toward him, arranging her robe about her feet. “I have only a few moments, for which I apologize. I have countless letters to write and over thirty-two invitations to respond to.”

  “I will do my best to keep this business brief.” Citoyen de Sade leaned toward his gloves set on her corset and swiped them up. He tucked them into his coat pocket and casually seated himself on the red velvet chaise lounge. He crossed a leg over his other knee, the brass buckle on his scuffed black slipper gleaming in the candlelight from the quick movement.

  So much for keeping his business brief. She sighed.

  His dark eyes critically scanned the entire room twice before finally settling on her. He tilted his head. “I do not particularly care for blonde women, but your spirit reminds me of a character I have in mind for a book I am writing.” He twirled his hat, eyeing her. “I hear incredibly scandalous things about you, madame. Are they true?”

  “When one is as popular as I, citoyen,” she countered, “men begin to make up stories that allow them to feel important when I turn them away. Does that answer your question?”

  “Yes. It does.” The older gentleman set his felt hat beside him. Opening his coat, he removed a calling card from its inner pocket and held it out between gloved fingers. He continued to hold the card out.