He really was a prude. “Unlike you, I have no trouble letting an artist watch us do what we do best if it means we are not going to die. ’Tis a matter of priorities, Gérard. Priorities. What else would you have us do? He said he would go to the committee. And as deranged as he appears to be, I believe him! And so should you.”
“I need brandy.” He swiped at his mouth with a trembling hand. “I have not even had a finger of brandy in three goddamn weeks. Three! And now with my godfather going to trial and this…I am losing the last of my rational mind!”
Her brows rose. Heavens above. The darling! That certainly explained his agitation throughout this entire evening. He’d done away with the brandy.
Her heart squeezed, knowing full well he did it for her.
How could she not adore this man?
She quickly strode toward him, her robe rustling around her feet. Leaning in, she smoothed her hand across his shaven jaw.
He stiffened, capturing her gaze.
She softened her voice. “Did you set aside the brandy for me?”
A breath escaped him. “Yes. I was tired of being weak.”
She kissed his jaw. “No man has ever fought to prove himself like this to me. I am in awe and so proud of you. Three weeks is something to celebrate.”
His dark brows flickered. “Thérèse. We cannot reduce ourselves to the sort of corruption this man wants us to. We are better than this.”
Bless his noble heart. She knew even if they never ended up together, she would spend the rest of her life dreaming about him and wanting him. Because he was the definition of the same thing that beat within her: passion. She dragged in a breath knowing it. “I agree that you and I are better than this. But being better does not make us invincible. We are all mortal. Even you, O dear son of a duc. You bleed like the rest of us.”
He hesitated. “My mother used to say that right will always win out over wrong. And yet nothing but wrong seems to win.” After a long moment, he lowered his hand, gently setting it to her stomach. “I vow to protect you both. No harm will come to either of you.”
This man was trying to steal her heart and soul.
She ardently pressed his hand against her belly.
Drawing his hand back, he averted his gaze. He quickly rounded her and gathered his clothes from the floor behind the fallen dressing screen. He bundled them tight. “I have to go.”
She swung toward him, her breath hitching. “Where are you going?”
“We are not reducing ourselves to the vile games of the Republic. I am done with this shite. I am going straight to my father.”
“And then what?”
He stared her down. “We get the hell out of France, is what. Well before Monday ever has a chance to rise.” He averted his gaze and choked out, “Though it breaks me, if I try to stay and save my godfather, we will all die. Which means you, my father and I have two days to plan an escape and less than three to carry it out.”
Her throat tightened. Dearest God. He wanted her to leave France.
Setting aside how close she was to her cousin, her brothers and parents were still in Giverny. And though they had yet to respond to any of her letters or the money she had repeatedly sent, she owed them to stay. She needed to stay. After all, what if they died because of her? “Gérard. I-I cannot leave. My life is here.”
Coming closer, he leaned in and whispered, “Given our alliance, they will kill you if you stay. Do you not understand that?”
She dragged in an uneven breath, knowing it. “They will also kill me if I try to flee. At least if I stay, I would not be putting my cousin or my family in harm’s way. Because you and I both know if I flee, the Convention will go after them. And I would never toss them toward the direction of the guillotine given I was the one to make this decision. I was the one who agreed to help you and will therefore live by it or die by it. Whatever I deserve.”
He leaned in and gripped her shoulders hard. “Cease talking nonsense. You and the babe are coming with me. I am not leaving either of you to die.”
She swallowed back whatever panic threatened to overtake her. She slowly removed his hands from her shoulders, first the left, then the right. “You speak as if you can protect us from harm. You cannot guarantee my safety anymore than you can guarantee your own.”
He angled toward her. “Upon all that I am, I hold something that will ensure no one touches us. Something that will turn everyone in this country against the committee. And with the recent execution of the duc d’Orléans, who was on their side, I have no doubt they are looking to bury what I damn well hold. A gentleman my mother used to know is holding a set of papers for me with instructions to print every last page and distribute it to the masses should I or any name I wish to save be executed. And you are on that list. These moutons hold no power over me or us. None. Believe it.”
She gaped. “If they hold no power over us, then why do you insist on leaving?”
“Because you and I both know things can and will go wrong. It is best we leave. Do you understand?”
She was not saving herself and leaving her family to die. “What about my cousin or my family?”
“We can send for them later.”
“No.” Trying not to get emotional, knowing she was saying good-bye, she choked out, “I am asking you to leave without me, Gérard. It is best.”
He grabbed her. “No! What are you— What about the babe? Or the future of us? What about us?!”
Squeezing her eyes shut long enough to regain her ability to remain calm, she re-opened her eyes. “There could never be a future at the expense of my family. As for me, I am told they do not execute pregnant women.”
He stared. “Until after they give birth, damn you.” After a pulsing moment, he pointed rigidly. “I am not done with you. You are coming with me whether you damn well want to or not. I will be back in two days. And if you see Naudet, if he dares show his face to you, tell that bourgeoisie son of a sodomite, he is dead for doing this to me. Dead!”
“Please do not speak of killing people. Or you are no different from these revolutionaries.”
“It is either them or us. And it is not going to be us. Do you understand? What is being allowed in this country is–”
Grabbing his face, she captured his lips, desperately wanting and needing to erase everything happening to them.
Dropping the clothing he held, he also grabbed her face and kissed her, molding his lips harder against hers. The searing heat of his tongue feverishly worked against hers as his fingers dug into the skin of her face. He kissed her, harder and harder.
She could feel his genuine passion and affection for her.
It pulsed from his hand and his lips. It was—
He broke away and dragged in several ragged breaths. “Wait to hear from me.” He gathered his clothes, bundling them again then stalked to the door. “Pack whatever you need and make sure it fits into one sack and one sack only. No trunks. The less we carry, the more effective our movements will be. More importantly, do not stray from your regular routine until you hear from me.”
Her heart pounded, realizing he wasn’t accepting that she wasn’t going.
Though she didn’t want to believe in the dread scraping itself into her, a dread that whispered of horrible, horrible things to come, things that would happen to him if he tried to leave, she swung toward him and knew she had to say it. “Meeting you has changed my entire perspective on life and men. I have no regrets. None. I adore you.”
He paused and jerked toward her, staring.
Blinking back tears she did not want to cry, she set her hands on her belly. “If it is a boy, what shall I name him? I will let you decide.”
His features twisted. “Do not dare say good-bye to me. I will come back for you in two days. Two.”
No. He would not. She was not going. “What shall I name him?” she softly insisted. “Please. It will make me happy. And I need happy thoughts.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Henri. Af
ter my mother’s father. In English it is Henry.”
Henry. English. Someday she would learn to speak it. Someday. “And if it is a girl?”
“We will name her after my mother. Marguerite. In English it is Margaret.”
Margaret. English. She did her best to smile for him. “Thank you. I genuinely needed that. Now where will I be able to find you? Should I need to speak to you one last time before you—”
“No.” He kept rigidly pointing. “You are not staying in this hell alone. Especially if you are pregnant with my child! You, I and the babe will be leaving Paris in two days. Two. I need time to gather money, weapons and call in more than a few favors from the people I do trust, which obviously is not Naudet. That damn sodomite, I—” He jerked open the door and was about to step out, when he paused.
Capturing her gaze, he rumbled out, “Watching over you these past three months was the greatest honor of my life. Everything about you makes it difficult for me to let you go. Honor me by loving me, and I swear I will spend my life being everything you need me to be and more. Once we get to England, we will marry.”
She swallowed, realizing he had proposed.
No longer meeting her gaze, he stepped out and slammed the door behind him.
A shaky breath escaped her. Why did a part of her want to take the risk and go with him and leave France for a chance to be with him? Was it possible she was already in love?
Mon Dieu. She was.
The Andelot estate – three minutes to ten that evening
Running down the massive, candlelit corridor which had long been empty of servants given he convinced his father to dismiss every last one in order to save them from the mounting chaos overtaking Paris, Gérard whipped aside the soiled clothing he still held and bounded up the vast spiraling stairs leading toward the upper floor.
“Monseigneur!” he shouted, jumping up onto the landing. “Monseigneur!” He darted toward his father’s private quarters knowing the man had most likely retired.
The door at the end of the massive corridor swung open.
The duc veered out in a robe, a pistol in hand, and stared.
Gérard slid to a halt, and between seething breaths, choked out, “We have to leave France. We have two days to plan and only three days to do it.”
Those blue eyes widened as the lines etched into that aged, regal face deepened. “What the devil is going on?”
There was too much to say. Too much to plan. Too much to do. His hands quaked. “Sa Majesté is going to trial.” He tried not to heave knowing it. “There will be thirty-three charges set against him. Thirty-bloody-three! There is no saving him or his family. They will all die and we are next. I was informed not even an hour ago, that your name and mine, is next given we are so closely related to Sa Majesté. They are amassing charges as we speak.”
The duc dragged in a long breath and let it out through his nostrils. After a long moment, he took Gérard’s hand and placed the pistol into it, molding his fingers against the rosewood handle. “This is my country, and no one will ever run me out of it.” That voice hardened. “Take whatever you can and leave. Go to London to the address you have been writing to since you were seven. Your mother’s family will welcome you and get you through this, and whatever money you need, they most certainly have that and more.”
Gérard’s vision blurred. It was as if everyone around him had given up on wanting to live. “No. I am not leaving you.”
“There is nothing more to be said. Now go and ready yourself.”
“Are you mad? You cannot stay. They will cleave your very head from your shoulders if you do!”
Setting a heavy hand on Gérard’s shoulder, the duc grudgingly met his gaze. “You and I both know I am well beyond saving. The one and only person I ever believed in was your mother, and as you well know, these savages took her from me. They— Honor her and our name by marrying into what we deserve. The Andelot title carries six generations of prestige no one will ever take from us. The moment you get to London, embrace a new life and only associate with people of worth. People of pedigree. The daughter of a viscount or higher in standing is who you must marry. Do this for me and our name. Swear to it. Swear to it so I may die in peace.”
Gérard edged back, his heart pounding. “I…” Shite. There was no way around this. He had to say it. “I regret to inform you that it is too late for me to embrace what you want. Our name is going to who I deem best, and her name is Thérèse Angelique Clavette. She is the daughter of a butcher and now a renowned actress at Théâtre Française. I have taken her virginity and must therefore honor her by marrying her the moment she and I get to England. For it is the right thing to do. The only thing to do. Do you understand?”
Those features stilled. The duc said nothing. He stiffly turned and walked back to his room. He closed the door.
Gérard felt the weight of the pistol tremble in his hand. He half-squatted and set it down onto the floor of the corridor with a clack. Quickly rising, he dragged in several breaths and shifting his jaw. He stalked toward the closed door, more than ready to take on his father in the name of what he wanted and what he saw in Thérèse’s eyes when she told him he had changed her perspective on men. It held a promise of far more than love. It held a promise of forever. Something he thought he would never find.
Opening the door to the half-lit bedchamber, Gérard stepped in. Rolling up his linen sleeves, he announced, “Fist wager. If I win, you come with me and Thérèse to England. If you win, you can stay and die. I will give you that right.”
The duc, who had seated himself on the edge of his bed, stared out vacantly at nothing in particular. He didn’t even blink. After a long pulsing moment, he slowly rose and removed his robe, revealing his night shirt. He went over to the hearth and picked up an iron poker. Turning, he pointed its sharp tip straight at him. “You are no son of mine to take sides with the very people who murdered your mother. You are dead to me. All of my sons are dead. Dead!”
Gérard dropped his hands, feeling numb and…betrayed. For in his greatest hour of need, during a time when the woman he had endangered, a woman who might very well be carrying his babe, needed protection, his father had decided to lose the last of his mind.
“I harbor a great affection for her,” Gérard confessed, “and have ever since I met her. She defies convention but retains a beautiful mind and a beautiful heart. I need you to help me, Monseigneur. If there is ever a time I need you to be a father to me it is now. Help me to protect her, because I cannot do it on my own against an entire nation that wants me dead. Do you understand? Help me. Please.”
Those nostrils flared. “No. I am done swallowing the way these people take everything from us. They will not seize our name.” Walking up to him, the duc stared him down, fingering the poker with thick fingers. “She is not yours to save. Nor does her kind deserve to be saved. Denounce her and I will go with you to London this very night.”
Gérard’s eyes widened, knowing his father was asking him to murder Thérèse and leave her to die. Merely because she was not pedigree.
“Denounce her,” his father bit out. “Denounce her and we will leave this very night. We will become the father and son we deserve to be. The sort your mother wanted us to be.”
Gérard’s throat tightened. This man was not his father. This was the mere skeleton of a hateful name that deserved to be buried right along with the revolution. He had known for some time that his father’s mind was no longer his own, but it had taken this moment to finally accept it.
They were father and son no more. “I would sooner denounce you, Monseigneur, than let her die. To abandon her when she needs me most would be nothing short of murder. If you wish to stay here and die, so be it. Cling to your filthy, rotting name and see if it saves you. As for me? I am taking her to England and giving her the life she deserves. For despite what you think, my title is not what will make her a duchess. She is already that and more.”
The duc’s lips parted. “You ar
e choosing a nameless peasant over your own father?”
“Yes. I am. Live with it. Adieu, Monseigneur. May I never see you again.” Glaring at his father, Gérard swung away and was about to leave, when a crack rattled inside his skull. Choking pain slashed its way straight to his teeth and every bone.
He swayed, one last breath leaving him before everything spilled into nothing but black.
Théâtre Française
Forty-two minutes later
Gathering jars of cosmetics and perfume bottles from her lacquered, oak dressing table, Thérèse paused and then rolled her eyes, setting them all back down, one by one by one. She kept forgetting she had servants to do things for her.
It was a life she was still getting used to.
Tightening the large red bow around the waist of her blue and white gown with hands that still quaked knowing she was more or less waiting for Citoyen de Sade to report her, she swiped up her reticule and was about to blow out the remaining candles in the room when she heard a thundering boom and an echo from beyond the closed door of her dressing room.
Thérèse paused, brows coming together. It sounded like a pistol being fired. In the theatre?
Female screams and random male shouts of actors suddenly penetrated the silence.
Her pulse roared. What—
Swinging toward its direction, she gathered her skirts to keep them from tangling around her slippered feet and ran to the door, her breaths uneven. Jerking open the door, she peered out into the candle-lit corridor.
A few people, who had been gathering props, darted by. “Grab a sword! Move! Move, move, move!”
“There are none on hand! All swords taken off the set an hour ago! Someone needs to find a way out and fetch the bloody gendarmerie nationale!”
Her eyes widened. Oh, God. What was happening? She scrambled down and out of the corridor, to better see what was going on.
Another echoing crack of a pistol being fired pierced the air, causing her to almost fall against the nearest wall. She dragged in heavy breaths, scanning the red curtained area and walkways leading out to vast auditorium, stage and lobby beyond.
The Duke of Andelot Page 16