The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  Miffed though she was with Sade, it appeared his slumber cake was, in fact, legitimate. It had only been three minutes and the leader of France was already waddling like a duck without its head.

  Robespierre spit into his hand twice and drunkenly attempted to hold up his rigid cock. He masturbated himself with a wad of his own saliva, puffing out breaths. “Do you have a sheath?”

  The man sought to rape her using a sheath he didn’t even bother to bring or buy. How typical of a man. “No. I never use them,” she said in the hopes of scaring him. “Men complain about its effectiveness, so why bother?”

  He paused. “Are you…clean?”

  Oh, this was too good to be true. Of course the man would worry about his level of exposure to disease given he thought she was a whore. What was wretched but not too wretched lest it not be believable? “Unfortunately, I have been unable to rid myself of…papillion d’amour.” Pubic lice. “Is that a problem?”

  He hissed out a breath. “Yes, it is a problem. Damn you for—” He stared at her corset, masturbating himself again. “Undress. I will finish while watching you.”

  This she could manage.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and lifting one leg onto it, gave him the illusion he was in complete control. Swallowing hard, she purposefully exposed her breasts knowing the sooner he spent, the sooner she was out of any danger.

  Robespierre stared at her well-displayed breasts, now masturbating to the point of choking. He jerked his rigid cock, his chest heaving.

  What was so disgusting about men was that most were so focused on their cocks, they didn’t even notice when a woman was or was not participating.

  Setting her chin, she undid the pink bow of her satin garter above the knee of her silk stocking and with the flick of her wrist, tossed the garter at him, letting it land near the cock his hand kept frantically masturbating.

  Staring at her now exposed leg and thigh, he jerked faster and faster, his body trembling.

  Four minutes.

  Regally setting her other leg up onto the bed, she purposefully hitched up her chemise almost to her buttocks. She skimmed the tips of her fingers toward her inner thighs, letting him watch. She dipped her fingers closer and closer to her—

  He gasped. Seed spurted as his hips thrust upward.

  She cringed and almost scrambled off the bed.

  His hand, which had been stroking his rigid cock, slowly released its hold. In between well-sated breaths, he continued to stare at her hand between her thighs as if that had been his undoing. His eyes rapidly blinked and grew heavy.

  Three minutes.

  His hand dropped limply to his side and his stiff cock deflated and flopped over on its side, his seed slathered against his open hand. He stared at her vacantly, his breaths becoming soft. He eventually closed his eyes.

  She swallowed, knowing the effects of the slumber cake were taking their last hold. She tucked away each exposed breast back into her corset, trying to remain calm. She kept telling herself to breathe. To breathe. She had survived.

  His eyes remained closed. A tremor of a twitch overtook his limbs.

  Two minutes.

  In the pulsing silence, she waited, her eyes and her throat burning at the sight of having to look at this bastard as he lay naked. A part of her had always known their association would end in her playing the part of a whore to keep Gérard safe. Unlike any role on stage, however, this part had become all too real.

  The last remaining minute seemed to take forever.

  She glanced at the clock and called out in a choked tone, “Robespierre?”

  He didn’t move and his lids no longer fluttered. His limbs remained still.

  “Are you awake?” she rasped.

  He slept.

  She stared at him in complete disgust and loathing, wishing he were dead.

  Rolling down her ungartered stocking with trembling hands, she pushed it off her ankle and toes. Dragging in uneven breaths, she gritted her teeth and snapped out the stocking toward his shaven face as hard as she could.

  He didn’t move or flinch. He was officially unconscious.

  She let out a sob in disbelief, allowing herself to be Thérèse as opposed to Nina.

  Raising her quaking arm, she whiplashed the silk stocking down at his face and chest again and again and again, trying to let out her anger, her hate, her despair, and the horror of knowing what she had to resort to in order to protect Gérard’s life.

  She wrapped the stocking taut between both hands and was about to wrap it around Robespierre’s neck so she could choke him until he was dead, but froze.

  His death would result in her own.

  Her arm fell to her side. The stocking slipped from her fingers.

  Leaning closer toward Robespierre over the side of the bed, she hatefully choked out, “You will not win this game. I will. And I will do it without risking my life and that of my son’s.”

  He didn’t move.

  Numbly pushing herself away from the bed, she sobbed and kicked away her silk gown that was still on the floor. There was no such thing as real liberty for a woman. It did not exist even in the most hailed of democratic societies. And this was proof of it. She had an unconscious, naked man she hated laying in her bed, because telling a man of power ‘no’ was no different than a death sentence.

  Long live the revolution. May she continue to justify robbing men of their vile, sexual glory from here on out. She would feed every last one of these bastards cake.

  A shaky breath escaped her.

  She would get Gérard out of Paris and to the border well before those three days expired and she would do it using any means possible. She had forgiven him for breaking the first rule she set of not wanting children. But this she would never forgive. He had officially broken her second rule of their agreement: that he would never lie.

  “Thérèse!” Sprinting booted feet thudded closer. “Thérèse!”

  Her eyes widened, her heart pounding in disbelief. Gérard.

  She scrambled toward the bedchamber door.

  The haze of brandy had long worn off given how quickly Gérard had left the one-room, roach-infested flat he was hiding in with the Laroche’s family. Sade’s urgency, sending him to Thérèse’s château, insisting she was in danger, had sent him into a panic that barely got him into clothes.

  The darkness of the night whispered of things Gérard dared not think about as he charged into Thérèse’s château through the verandah door he knew the servants left open.

  Stalking through the empty corridor, and listening for any sounds, he headed through the overly quiet house. Gérard jerked to a halt outside the ornate parlor, his gaze snapping to the middle of the room. His pulse roared at the astounded realization that a man’s periwig and Thérèse’s blade, which was usually attached to her thigh, were on the card table. A knocked over chair by the card table had been piled with a male coat, cravat, waistcoat and linen shirt.

  He couldn’t breathe. Thérèse!

  Setting a trembling hand on the handle of the pistol attached to his leather belt, Gérard swung toward the stairwell and sprinted, his heart pounding. Taking the stairs three at a time, he came onto the landing and thudded straight for her bedchamber door. The same bedchamber where he and she had spent their last breathing hour in each other’s arms.

  He prayed that the mass of male clothing he saw did not mean she was being—

  “Thérèse!” he yelled, thudding faster and faster toward her door. “Thérèse!”

  To his astonishment, the door swung wide open, and Thérèse darted out into him.

  She screeched as he grabbed her by the arms hard, his heart pounding.

  Her disheveled, unpinned blond hair and thin chemise and corset that revealed far more than curves made him suck in a breath he wasn’t prepared to take. Just beyond the open door of her bedchamber was none other than Robespierre, soundly asleep and naked, her silk stocking and satin garter draped over his bare, muscled chest.

>   Gérard staggered.

  Capturing her gaze in a daze he could barely wade through, he noted the flush of her face and the well-bruised mark of sucked skin on her neck.

  He was too dazed to even let it mean anything. Jésus Christ.

  He grabbed her shoulders hard, barely breathing. “Are you— Did he—”

  “I have no words for you right now. None.” She narrowed her gaze as if he were Robespierre. “May I never—” She jumped forward and shoved him hard. “How could you do this to me?!” She shoved him again and again. “You were supposed to leave! Not—”

  He choked and stumbled back. His throat tightened in disbelief, realizing Robespierre was not only naked but wasn’t waking up. “I am trying to understand what I am seeing,” Gérard rasped. “Did he—”

  She shoved him again. Only harder. “I need you to get those papers to me now! Do you understand?”

  God keep him from— Shifting his jaw, he removed his leather belt, setting it onto the floor with trembling hands to ensure he did not enter her bedchamber and use his pistol to slaughter Robespierre and send them all to the guillotine.

  Rising to his full height, he angled toward Thérèse, his breath ragged. “Sade told me you were in danger. What the hell is going on?”

  She slammed the door of the bedchamber shut and faced him. “Sade has been in alliance with Robespierre from the beginning.”

  He sucked in a breath. “No. That is not possible. He helped me. And us. He—”

  “It was an illusion, Gérard. He works for the Republic. But when it mattered most, he did his best to help. And this is him helping. Right now, Robespierre is under the effects of Sade’s slumber cake and will be for the next three to five hours. Which means you have a half hour to get those papers into my hands and three days to get to the border.”

  Unable to focus, he scrubbed his face. “I have six other people who are depending on me right now. The moment I give up those papers, I have no further stronghold. None.”

  “I am your stronghold, damn you!” She marched up to him and grabbed him by the lapels of his coat hard. “Get those papers into my hands and you will have the travelling documents you need to get across the border. I ensured it.”

  He stiffened. “You ensured it? By…?”

  She leaned in closer and then froze. She tightened her hold on his coat. “Using my five thousand for brandy, I see. I can smell it on you.” She glared and smacked him, stinging his cheek and released him. “You clearly made a choice of putting your sense of justice before the promise you made me. You will now live with it. Because this is me claiming my independence from you and men once and for all.” She frantically grabbed at the ring on her finger, tugging it loose. She shoved it into his hands. “We are done. For as I had once told you, regrets come only after promises are broken. And you have broken every last one.”

  His pulse roared. “Thérèse, you cannot mean it. Put it back on.” He grabbed her hand and attempted to shove the ring on her finger.

  She smacked away his hands, sending the ring tinkering across the floor. “It will never go on my finger. Consider this my way of saving you.”

  He jumped toward her and grabbed her face hard, digging his fingers into those flushed cheeks in an attempt to look into her soul. If she had one. “You told me forever,” he breathed out, “but last I knew, ma biche, it has only been eleven days. Eleven fucking days! What are you doing?”

  She shoved his hands away from her face and glared up at him, her eyes and her tear-streaked features so hardened they did not belong to the woman he thought he knew. “If you do not get to the border in three days, you are dead. So I suggest you deliver those papers to me and get the hell out of my house and out of this country, because this is not a game. How dare you put your life in danger like this, you-you…blaireau! You are putting everyone’s life before your own! Everyone’s! Are you not worth more than what your father made you believe?” She shoved him, her voice hysterical. “Move on and live! Because this is not living!”

  He swallowed against the tightness choking his throat. “For God’s sake, talk to me. Why are you half naked and why is he naked?! Why are you—”

  She grabbed his face and squeezed it tight, digging her nails into his cheeks. “If you require proof of the fact that he pleasured me, all you need do is touch a finger between my thighs.”

  The corridor blurred. “Did he rape you?”

  She released him and stared him down. “No. I raped him. Now give me the papers and get out of my life.”

  Something whispered to him that she had purposefully done this. She had purposefully given her body to Robespierre to ensure that he, Gérard Antoine Tolbert, the last remaining heir to the great duché of Andelot, do exactly what she wanted him to do: leave Paris forever.

  He would have preferred being dead.

  He caught himself against the nearest wall, chanting to himself that he wouldn’t hurt her for hurting him beyond what he could endure. His breaths became too uneven for him to control. His gaze veered toward the garnet ring near his boot. Gritting his teeth, he swiped it up and shoved it into his pocket knowing it wasn’t even his to throw away. “I need to hold my son.”

  Her gaze snapped to his. Her features stilled. “There is no time. You have to leave.”

  He would have preferred being repeatedly stabbed in the chest. This hell was— He stalked down the corridor, straight toward Henri’s room. Grabbing the knob, he banged open the door.

  Thérèse scrambled after him and seized him by the waist hard. “You have to leave, damn you! You have to—”

  He shoved her away from himself, refusing to leave until he held their son.

  A startled wail made his heart drop. He jogged up to Henri’s cradle and lifted him out with trembling hands. He held his son against his face, wanting to remember that softness, that warmth he would never get to know. He wanted to walk out the door with Henri in his arms. He wanted to do it and never look back.

  Thérèse pushed away from the wall and scrambled toward him with an anguished sob. “Gérard, I beg of you. You are assuring your death every minute you stay. I am begging you!” She sobbed. “Do you mean to slaughter yourself? Get me those papers so you can leave. You have to leave tonight or you will never make it to the border on time!”

  Henri’s quivering wail and outstretched hands that brushed at his chest and face made Gérard realize he had lost the last of his rational mind thinking he could tear his son away from Thérèse merely because she had slept with another man in an effort to save him.

  Whilst he would never forgive her for butchering the last of his heart in an effort to save his meaningless and worthless life, he knew he couldn’t put his own son at risk.

  Tears streamed from his eyes as he kissed those soft, small cheeks and pressed his lips hard against that head that shifted against him.

  He numbly passed his son to Thérèse.

  Refusing to look at her, he tonelessly said, “Sade will bring you the papers.”

  He left.

  Twenty minutes later

  Citoyen de Sade’s residence

  “If you had left when I told you to,” Sade said in a toneless, cool voice from beside him, “none of this would have ever happened. Fortunately, you now have travelling papers.”

  Sitting on the staircase steps facing the bolted foyer door, Gérard dragged the leather valise with the remaining papers the Republic wanted closer to himself.

  While a part of him wanted to open the valise and flick the papers out one by one without caring as to what would happen next, he still had the Laroche’s elderly wife, her widowed daughter and four of the woman’s children to get out of France.

  Gérard squeezed his eyes shut and rasped, “I would have left days ago, but no one was willing to take the Laroche family out of Paris. No one would take my money. Not even when I asked them to save the children.”

  Sade remained quiet for a long moment. He swiped his face. “Given most of the people I associ
ate with are part of the Convention, no one I know will help them. And if word gets back to Robespierre that I am assisting other aristocrats, my head will be in a basket right along with yours.” A breath escaped Sade. “Lady Madeleine’s father informed me he can leave Paris anytime. He can take you tonight, if need be. The sooner you leave, the more likely you will make it before the papers expire.”

  Half-nodding, he whispered, “What about the Laroche family?”

  “Thérèse knows a lot of men at the theatre who might be able to help get them out.”

  Gérard almost ripped the valise he held apart. “No. I have no need for her help.”

  Sade smacked him upside the head. “Your pain has no fucking place in this.” He rose to his feet and snatched the leather valise out of his hands. “I will get this to her myself to ensure Robespierre no longer harasses her. She has endured enough on your behalf. Now get ready to leave.”

  Gérard swallowed, his eyes still burning from seeing Robespierre naked on her bed. “You should have let me die,” he whispered. A sob escaped him. “What happened to her was…I will forever blame myself for it.”

  Sade fingered the valise. “You are young. And so is she. You will both survive this and learn that life is not meant to be lived like a fairytale.”

  “She loved me,” Gérard choked out. “I know she did.”

  “Yes, and you betrayed her by trying to be a fucking hero to everyone but her and yourself.”

  Jumping up, Gérard gritted his teeth and swung at Sade, his breaths becoming more and more riled. “How could you have let that fucking bastard—”

  Sade grabbed Gérard’s throat hard and shoved him into the wall, thudding him hard into it. Meeting his gaze, Sade bit out, “Begging your pardon, Gérard, but if you are dead, the glory of your love hardly matters, does it? I negotiated to get those travelling papers for you. I saved your goddamn life. And I did not have to. So be thankful. If you dare swing at me again, I will take you to Robespierre myself the moment he wakes up. I have no qualms doing it.”