Nature certainly seemed to know women needed a bit of assistance when it came to dealing with men. Thérèse leaned in toward the tray and sniffed at the large, savory and honey-scented mounds, poking at what appeared to look like an ordinary sweet. “What is it made of? Is it any good?”
“It makes the soul melt. Which makes these incredibly dangerous.” He picked one up and shoved it entirely into his mouth, chewing it in between appreciative nods. “Some of the ingredients include: a ridiculous amount of poppy seeds that have to be well-measured lest it result in death, laudanum, a good dash of cantharide and aniseed. Together, it produces delirium.”
Leaning back, she cringed and pointed at his mouth. “Should you be…eating that?”
He grinned, still chewing. “Whilst darling of you to worry, I have grown rather tolerant. It takes eight of these to render this son of a bitch unconscious.” Still grinning, Sade yanked out a handkerchief with the snap of his wrist and dabbed at the corners of his mouth before tucking it away. “Lesson three and this is a rhyme easy to remember: serve one and he is done. Serve two or more and he will end up dead on the floor. So keep him away from eating more than one. Let me repeat that. One and only one. And ensure he eats the whole thing or you may end up with his cock between your thighs whether you want it or not.”
Certainly not good. Certainly not an option. “One and done. Anything more and he is dead on the floor.” She quirked a brow. “Do I get the recipe?”
Sade smirked. “Why? Do you plan on using it again?”
She set her chin. “Any man who dares come to my door will be served nothing but cake.”
He pointed at her with the tilt of a finger. “You are the best student I have had yet. All I ask is that you not kill them all.” He leaned in and pinched her cheek hard between fingers, making her wince. He pinched harder.
“Ow!” She smacked his hand hard to get him to stop. “Cease pinching me, you brute.”
His brows went up. Angling toward her, he smacked at her hand hard in return. “Now you.”
She paused, in between rubbing her stinging cheek and hand, realizing the man was getting overly excited. She pointed at him, missing his nose. “I am on to you.”
Catching his tongue between teeth, he met her gaze. “Playing with crops does not require penetration or nudity. Penetration of the anus, however, does make the pain worthwhile. Are you interested in either?”
At this rate, she was going to need to open up her own bakery full of ‘slumber cakes’ and sell them to every woman in Paris in order to liberate the female population from men. She plucked up said sweet from the tray, sidled closer to Sade and shoved the entire sweet into his mouth with the tap of dainty fingers. “If you ever ask to penetrate me again, I will ensure you eat the whole tray. Do we understand each other, Sade dearest?”
He chewed and enthusiastically nodded. “Perfectly.”
The chiming of the bell made them pause.
Swallowing the rest of the cake, he held up a wagging finger. “Allow me.” Striding out of the small parlor to the door in the foyer, he yanked open the door. He paused, as if astounded by what he saw. “These female callers of mine keep getting…younger. How might I help you, little one?”
An overly young girl’s voice struggled to convey a bit of French, “I am…Mademoiselle Madeleine. I am…looking… Monseigneur de Andelot.”
Thérèse’s eyes widened. Dearest God. The girl was looking for Gérard. Why was she—
Gathering her skirts, Thérèse hurried to the door, her breaths uneven. She stumbled in from behind Sade and almost shoved the man out of the way.
A prim young girl of about thirteen or maybe even fourteen, wearing an expensive lilac gown with a large white sash around her corseted waist, peered up at her from beneath a bonnet with a matching colored sash that framed a freckled, pale face with eager green eyes.
Seeing people were glancing toward them from the street and that a coach waited with a man peering out of it, Thérèse grabbed the girl’s arm, not caring for protocol and hurried her into the house. “Sade, close the door.”
He obeyed with the heave of a breath, slamming the door shut.
Hurrying the girl into the parlor, she turned the girl toward herself by those slim shoulders and searched that youthful face. “You are looking for Monseigneur de Andelot?”
She nodded. “Oui. I…anglais. He keep me from….guillotine. I…thank him.” Those green eyes brightened. “Are you…his? In prison…he said…you pretty. He…right.”
Thérèse couldn’t see past her tears anymore. A sob escaped her as she turned away, trying to compose herself. Whose life had he not touched? Whose life had he not tried to save? He was everywhere. There were times when she was on stage, whilst looking out onto the audience, she thought she saw his face. Only to look back, startled, and find the seat empty.
The girl bustled around her, lilac skirts rustling, and gaped up at her in horror. “Is…did he…guillotine?!”
Crossing herself, if only to acknowledge to God that she was genuinely blessed knowing Gérard had crossed the border weeks ago, Thérèse offered the girl a bright smile through her remaining tears and shook her head. “No. He lives. I am told he is past French borders and on his way to England to be with his family. He is safe.”
The girl’s lips parted into a wide O. She excitedly clapped her satin gloves together, letting the small reticule at her wrist, sway. “Papa will….we visit! We…leave to London…two days! We…permitted. The Convention approved it!” She paused, leaned in and whispered, “Is there…address for… Monseigneur de Andelot?”
Swallowing hard, Thérèse grabbed the girl’s hands and squeezed them hard, trying to take joy in knowing they both could share in knowing Gérard was safe. “No. I wish there were. But from what I understand, his aunt lives in London. Other than that, I have no other information.”
Those features sagged. A long breath escaped her. Pinching her lips, she turned and eyed the room and paused. Her eyes widened. “Gâteuax!” She bustled over to the table cluttered with obscene books and leaning over the silver tray of small cakes, daintily plucked one up and pointed at it and then her mouth. “Oui?” She pushed the entire thing into her mouth.
Thérèse gasped, her heart skidding. She sprinted at the girl. “No! No, no oui!” Grabbing at the girl’s mouth hard, she frantically opened those puckered lips and using a finger, she scooped everything out without taking the time to explain.
Standing frozen, with her mouth still wide open, the girl gaped up at her.
Citoyen de Sade’s laughter filled the room.
Thérèse ignored him. “Spit everything out and do not swallow a crumb of it.” Grabbing Sade’s tin ash pan, Thérèse set it beneath the girl’s chin. “Now spit! Spit, spit, spit.”
Grudgingly, the girl leaned forward and flapped her tongue out enough to let clumps of the remaining sweet fall against ashes. She spit several times, paused and then spit several more times. Eyeing Thérèse, while still holding out her tongue, she barely managed to say against her outstretched tongue, “Eeees eeet…gaaawn?”
Heavens above, all she needed was a girl dying. “Stay still. There are still traces of it on your tongue.” Taking the own sleeve of her own gown, Thérèse swiped at that pink tongue several times and then stepped back and let out a shaky breath.
She staggered over to a chair and sat, setting a trembling hand to her stomacher. Maybe this was a sign from God that she was playing a game that went beyond her acting skills. But what else was she to do? Give her body to Robespierre? Or any man, for that matter? How could she? She was an actress. Not a whore.
And despite what society thought, the two did not always go together.
The girl sidled over to her and seated herself in an upholstered chair beside Thérèse. She daintily arranged her gown and eyed her.
Thérèse eyed the girl, in turn.
Lady Madeleine smiled and smoothed her skirts.
The girl was clearly intent
on staying. Huh. “Was there something you wanted?”
Those green eyes brightened as she eagerly nodded, her curls swaying. She leaned toward her and fingered Thérèse’s coiffed hair. “You are…perfect.”
Thérèse leaned toward the girl and gripped that hand, squeezing it. “I am far from perfect. But I thank you for the compliment.”
Lady Madeleine pinched her lips together, her gaze falling to Thérèse’s bosom. She glanced down at her own, brows coming together. “How do I…make big?”
An exasperated laugh escaped Thérèse. This girl’s father was going to have his hands full. Thérèse removed her fichu from around her décolletage. “Sade, turn away, please. A beauty lesson is about to commence.”
Sade rolled his eyes and gave them his back.
Thérèse stood and leaning toward the girl, gestured toward her décolletage. “Might I?”
Lady Madeleine quickly leaned toward her, nodding.
Pulling away the material of the girl’s décolletage, Thérèse tucked the fichu into each side of that corset, strategically molding it around those small breasts until they were visibly a full size bigger within the corset. Adjusting the material back into place, Thérèse admired her handiwork and then seated herself beside the girl again. “My mother used to do it for me all the time before I grew into mine. Once yours are fully in, take pride in whatever size they may be. The Lord only gives us what our backs can carry. Be thankful for it.”
Lady Madeleine’s brows went up as she adjusted her new breasts. She grinned and pushed her chest further out. “Big.”
Who knew fake breasts could make a girl happy.
A knock came to the door.
The girl’s eyes widened as she scrambled up from her seat. “Papa…waiting.” Lady Madeleine scrambled to yank open her reticule. Digging into it, she withdrew a calling card and tapped at the address. “London…visit!”
Taking the card, Thérèse smiled. “I will.” One day, when the madness of Paris had found a lull, she planned to surprise Gérard. He wouldn’t be the one to find her. She would be the one to find him.
Lady Madeleine waved with both hands. “Adieu!”
Barely lifting a heavy hand to wave the girl off, Thérèse flopped it back onto the chair, still in disbelief that the girl had almost eaten Sade’s slumber cake.
“Stay where you are, Thérèse,” Sade called. “I will see the girl out.”
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Striding toward the door, Sade bent toward the young girl and started speaking to her in English, his tone friendly, smooth and conversational. As if he were not at all a man who enjoyed whipping the skin off the delicate thighs of his lovers.
The girl paused, and her voice became all the more animated and exuberant about whatever they were talking about. She even clapped. Twice.
The voice of another gentleman came in through the open door.
Sade lowered his voice, now sounding firm and secretive, and offered more words of English to both of them.
More words were exchanged.
Eventually, he closed the door.
Sade strode into the room, adjusting his coat around his frame and seated himself across from her with an amused smirk. “An overly excited little thing about sweets, was she not?”
Thérèse fanned her face with the calling card. “My heart about stopped.”
He shrugged. “Ah, now, she simply would have been twitching for a few days. She was already doing that.”
She gave him a withering look. “Your humor is not at all appropriate. She is just a girl.” She eyed him. “I did not realize you spoke English. Did you have a tutor?”
He paused. “Ah, well, I…no. I learned a smidge of it while I was in one of the asylums next to some British sop for six years. Few know I speak it.”
Squinting, she could tell something had rattled him. Which never happened. The man was up to something. “What did you tell her and her father?”
He cracked his knuckles. “I mentioned the weather.”
She lowered her chin. “You never talk about the weather. You, citoyen, are lying.”
He stared her down. “What are you going to do about it? Take a crop to my arse?” He rose and pointed to his backside, looking over his shoulder.
Life would have been so much easier without men in it.
Getting up, she tucked away the calling card into her décolletage and walked by his still pushed out rear. She smacked his bum hard. “A little thank you for your assistance. Now if you will excuse me, Sade dearest, I have to get back home and be ready to entertain Robespierre tonight. I only pray to whatever God there is I have no use for that cake.”
“Thérèse?”
She paused, sensing the urgency in his tone, and turned. “Yes? What is it?”
Sade blinked rapidly but didn’t meet her gaze. He cracked his knuckles, staring down at his large hands while doing it. “There is a reason I am giving you those cakes. Robespierre is on to us.”
She froze, her pulse roaring. “What do you mean?”
“Being a person of character will never work in your favor when fighting against a man who has a warped sense of morality.” He widened his stance, still staring down at his hands. “Make the world your stage. It will turn you into the woman you need to be if you plan to survive on your own with a child out of wedlock. I am introducing you to what your life is about to look like for the rest of your life. Remember that.”
She edged toward him, her hands now giving way to the shakes. “Sade. What are you saying? What do you know? I care nothing for myself in this moment, but my son—”
“You need not worry. Robespierre will not make a martyr out of you. You are too popular for that. But popularity is not going to protect you forever. This revolution will pass and with it, a new society will arise where you will be scorned for the independence you seek to take. You will therefore have to learn how to survive being the object of everyone’s desire and hate. And no one understands the pain of becoming both more than I.”
He strode toward her, his voice issuing a challenge. “Pain equals strength, Thérèse. And the greater the pain you are willing to endure, the greater the strength. I adore you, and this is my way of gifting you with something your own father never could have. This is only the beginning of what I will teach you about men and life.” He grabbed her hand and yanking it toward his mouth, he bit into it. Hard.
She gasped and shoved him away.
He averted his gaze. “Have faith that after tonight, you can and will survive anything. I have to go. Grab a slumber cake for your tête-à-tête and tell Robespierre that his latest speech to the people was done in poor taste. He is no God, and I fucking hate him.” With that, he stalked out.
She staggered and swung toward where he had gone. “Sade?” She tried to keep the panic and fear out of her voice. “Will he hurt me?”
He leaned back in from the corridor. “No. But he will demean everything you are to get what he wants. It is what Robespierre does best. When the time is right, feed him cake.” He pointed at her. “You only ever become a whore when others make you feel like one. Remember that.” He hesitated. “I have to go.” He disappeared.
She closed her eyes and threw back her head. Oh, God.
Château de Maitenon, 10:23 p.m.
Given the time they had spent together over the past few months between ceremonies and gatherings and countless dinner parties, Thérèse was not at all surprised why so many women always gathered around Robespierre, be it during his passionate speeches in the galleries or whilst out on the streets of Paris. Aside from a few pockmarks on his face, he was charming, always impeccably well-dressed, right down to the gleaming shine of his buckled boot, and was very well-spoken. He was never one to brag about his level of power.
He didn’t have to.
When it came to women, he elicited more than the quaking of their thighs. He elicited the dripping that happened between them. It was what made him the political stronghold an
d weapon he was. For in being able to win over every woman he met with his regal presence, he exercised the power over every woman’s household and the brothers and the uncles and the husbands and lovers they associated with.
The unprecedented granting of divorce rights to women made him very popular.
In the galleries, she had watched in complete and genuine awe, how at the end of a half-hour speech where he spoke of ‘maternal love’ and ‘France’ as if his very heart were breaking and he were speaking of his own mother, women used perfumed handkerchief to dab the corners of their eyes in half-fainting reverence and then waited with those same handkerchiefs until he was close enough for them to tuck it into his pocket.
He never took offense to anything these women did. Even those who tried to run up and smack him for sending someone they knew to the guillotine.
He merely swerved away from whatever aggressive advances met him, while soldiers did the rest, and with the gallant bow of his wigged head, always offered, “I am touched by your devotion and am administering an equal amount of devotion to the glory of France.”
Whilst his political rivals, openly fussed, “Robespierre is nothing but a damn priest!” others, who knew Robespierre best, merrily countered, “What a man Robespierre is with all his women. He is a priest who wishes to be God.”
Indeed, Parisian women not only worshipped him and his guillotining ways, but wore necklaces containing his silhouetted likeness around their delicate throats to pay homage to his greatness. Thérèse had never bothered to impress him with such antics and instead, always wore Gérard’s pearls. It made her feel protected, and above all…loved.
Despite her fear and disdain for the man, she was mildly impressed that ever since their first introduction months earlier he had never once tried to kiss more than her hand. She was even more impressed knowing that despite them now being alone in her château for what had been close to two hours (in which she had to excuse herself and feed Henri once before returning him to the nanny), the man had not indicated anything was wrong.
The Duke of Andelot Page 22