The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  A breath escaped her. “Are you wanting me to stay the night?”

  He leaned in close, his nose touching hers. “I am wanting more than that. I am asking you to move in with me. My house is five times the size of that thing you call a townhouse. With Maybelle now married, it means when she returns from her travels, we will be hosting events and having great-grandchildren running about. They will all need room.” He kissed her lips, straightened and stepped back.

  She sat up, her pearls rustling, as she blindly tilted herself toward his voice. “Are we getting married?”

  He bit back a smile, trudged toward his dressing mirror and side table. “Do you want us to?”

  “Are you wanting to?”

  He grinned, knowing this could go on all day. “Are you?”

  “I almost married Hughes,” she whined.

  “I know.” He sighed. “We should probably wait for our granddaughter to come back before we marry. What do you think?”

  She perked. “So we will marry?”

  “Was there any doubt, my dear? Why the hell do you think I came back?”

  She flopped back onto the bed and grinned, despite the blindfold. “We had better both live to a hundred and fifty. Otherwise, I will feel cheated.” Her grin faded. She was quiet for a long moment. “When do I get to see your face?”

  “Eventually. Soon. Maybe tonight.” He snatched up one of several velvet masks and strategically tied it over the puckered skin that disfigured his forehead almost down to his jaw. The garnet ring he had carried with him since Paris, gleamed up at him from the sideboard.

  Although he had thought about purchasing a different ring, it was fitting that they not try to erase everything that had been. He glanced toward her, knowing she couldn’t see anything yet, and shoved it into his waistcoat pocket.

  Clearing his throat, he swept back his hair with tonic and leaned over toward the wardrobe, flinging it open. He fingered his way through several morning coats and dragged one off the hooks. He shrugged it on and walked over to her, leaning over the bed.

  She tilted toward him.

  He smirked. “I need my cravat back, ma biche.” He reached around her, his fingers working around the knots, and paused, realizing her full lips had parted and that her breaths were uneven. He slowly continued to unknot the silk. “Are you wanting to go with me to Russia for a small while? While we wait for Maybelle to come back?”

  She grabbed his arms. “Might we?”

  He grinned. “I will take that to be a yes.” He dragged down the loosened cravat and searched those stunning blue eyes. They appeared so much brighter than what he remembered.

  Leaning away, he rose from the bed and went back to the mirror. He kissed the cravat that was now scented with jasmine and wrapped it around his neck. He didn’t care that it was wrinkled. He wanted it around his neck knowing it had been around her eyes. He tied it tightly into place and tucked it into his waistcoat.

  Grabbing up a towel, he sipped it into a porcelain basin, dashing soap against it and walked over to her and wagged his fingers. “We should clean you up.”

  She rolled her eyes, leaned over and snatched the towel. “I will do it myself, thank you.”

  He grinned and seated himself on the edge of the bed, watching her gather her skirts and tilt her head as she rubbed the towel down her thighs, between them and around them.

  Still grinning, he casually leaned back, to get a better view between her thighs.

  The towel smacked his face. He rumbled out a laugh and jumped to his feet, whipping the towel across the room. He turned toward her and snapped out a hand. “I will pay for those ices and the paddle boat, madame. From what Mrs. Berkley tells me, your little school was not as financially successful as you were hoping it would be.”

  She puckered her lips. Slipping her hand into his, she eased off the bed, her skirts falling back down to her ankles and set her chin. “Unlike Mrs. Berkley, I have always tried to use my profession to help people. Not just myself.”

  He pressed his lips against her hand. “In my opinion, Mrs. Berkley is your evil twin.”

  She tilted her head tauntingly. “I will not argue with you in that. She most certainly is evil.”

  He laughed.

  The Boating Lake at Regent’s Park

  Late afternoon

  With her lace parasol tucked against her shoulder, which shaded her from the fading sun, she dreamily watched from her seat on the bow of the small paddleboat as Gérard leaned back, pulling the wooden oars with him. His muscled arms bulked through his morning coat as he continued to drop the oars up and out of the water, moving them across the water.

  A wool cap had been pulled forward onto his head, shading his blue eyes and the mask he wore. A warm breeze fluttered her skirts against his outstretched leather boots.

  The silence around them was only interrupted on occasion by chirping birds and other boats rowing across the lake.

  It had been a glorious day. The sort of day they should have had every day in their youth.

  She twirled her parasol. “Gérard?”

  He captured her gaze, still rowing. “Yes, ma biche?”

  She let out a breathy, disbelieving sigh. “Thank you for coming back into my life.”

  He paused from his rowing, letting the gliding boat slow to the middle of the lake. He quickly set the oars upward, to keep them from falling into the water and leaned toward her. “Thank you for letting me come back into your life,” he rumbled out.

  She excitedly twirled her parasol again. “The sun will be fading soon.”

  “I know.”

  “How about we row our way back to shore?”

  “No. Not yet.”

  “But I was hoping to show you something up in my garret.”

  He lowered his chin. “Your garret?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “And what is up in your garret?” he drawled. “Aside from rafters?”

  She bit back a smile. “If I tell you that, it would ruin the surprise. Might we please row our way back to shore? Because I really think you ought to see it. You will never be the same.”

  “In that case…I ought to hurry up.” He puffed out a breath and yanked off one glove, setting it onto the seat beside him, then the other. He cracked his knuckles and eyed her. He cracked his knuckles again. “Give me two breaths.”

  She blinked. “Two breaths for what?”

  He adjusted his cravat and then dug into his waistcoat. Leaning in as close as the boat would allow without tipping them over, he held her gaze and turned his wrist upward to reveal a garnet ring that gleamed in the sunlight between his fingers. “Will you marry me and become the duchess you have always been?”

  She dragged in an astounded breath and leaned toward the ring, realizing it was the same ring he had given her the night he had originally proposed. He had held onto it. Tears stung her eyes as she set the parasol beside her. She jumped toward him and grabbed his face, kissing him.

  The boat swayed violently beneath them, making them both freeze as water sprayed.

  Gérard quickly leaned far backward, his boots thudding into the sides of the wooden boat in an attempt to use his weight to balance the boat.

  A bubble of a laugh escaped her as the boat continued to rock. “If we fall in, we deserve it.”

  The boat eventually stilled.

  He puffed out a breath, sitting back up again and held up the ring. “No more kissing until we leave the boat.” He wagged his other hand at her. “Your hand, if you please.”

  She bit back a smile, removed her glove and regally held it out.

  He slid the garnet ring onto her finger and then kissed it, his lips grazing the ring and knuckle. “I pronounce us husband and wife. The church can do the rest once our granddaughter gets back.”

  She held up the ring, letting it glint in the sun. “Gérard?”

  He set his forearms on his knees. “Yes, ma biche?”

  She tapped at the garnet. “Pretty though it is, i
ts existence has always plagued me. You had no money at the time you gave this to me. Where did this ring come from?”

  He adjusted his cap twice and winced. “Sade. He lent me money to buy it.”

  She choked and eyed it. “Do we really want Sade, the marquis of pain, sitting on my finger representing our love? Given everything we have been through?”

  He blinked rapidly. “No.”

  She breezed her hand back to him.

  He sighed, yanked off the ring and tossed it over his shoulder. A plunk resounded within the water.

  “We begin again,” she announced, setting her chin. “Without a revolution. Without Sade.”

  “And without brandy,” he drawled, pointing at her.

  “Amen.” She plucked up her parasol and set it back on her shoulder. “Happiness hardly needs a ring. Besides, this butcher girl already has her pearls and her diamonds.”

  He smirked. “Shall we wander toward your garret, butcher girl?”

  “Yes. We should, Monsieur Highwayman. Please honor me and row.”

  Gérard grinned and grabbed up the oars, taking them back to shore.

  “Offer me a hint.”

  “No.”

  “A mere one.”

  Thérèse tsked. “We are almost there. Be patient.”

  “Patience is for people who did not have to wait thirty fucking years to be happy.”

  “Cease with that language. I think you can survive thirty seconds.”

  He rolled his eyes. “I suppose.”

  Following Thérèse up the narrow stairwell leading up into the garret, Gérard held up the lantern to ensure they had enough light. She unlatched the small wooden door at the top of the stairwell and ducked into the space beyond it.

  He quickly followed, also ducking.

  Thérèse gestured toward their surroundings. “The fortune I made as an actress all went to this. I never quite recovered financially after it. It is yours.”

  “Mine? How so?”

  Straightening in the large space of the sloped wooden rafters that was tightly packed with countless trunks, furniture, mirrors, vases, crystal chandeliers and—

  He held up the lantern and paused, his eyes widening. He dragged in an astounded breath as light fell upon a row of neatly stacked paintings set against an ornate dresser that had once belonged to his mother. He slowly approached a painting he thought he would never see again.

  Tears burned his eyes as he knelt and set the lantern before it.

  The regal, shadowed face of a smiling, demure young woman with black hair and blue eyes greeted him. It was his mother. The one who had taught him that altruism and generosity was an art form. It was a likeness he thought he had lost the right to along with everything else.

  Unable to see past his tears, his hand jumped to her kind, painted face. A face he missed so much. He grazed his finger across the face he had been unable to make real and see in his mind because of all the years that had passed.

  In between uneven breaths, he glanced back at Thérèse in disbelief. “How did you…?”

  She lingered, her head slightly tilted. “Sade informed me the Republic was selling everything that had ever belonged to you and your family. I outbid everyone for everything about a month after you left France. The only thing I could not save was your land and your homes.”

  He swallowed and slowly stood, the silence of the garret amplifying the beat of his heart. The dream of her that kept his soul and his heart alive all these years was nothing compared to the reality of her.

  Drifting toward her, he whispered, “I am in awe of everything you are. Everything you have always been. Thank you for…” He paused before her and gently cupped her face, tilting it up toward him. “May I spend the rest of my days proving my worth to you.”

  She brokenly smiled up at him.

  Kissing her lips, he released her, a breath escaping him.

  He was done hiding. They had survived too much for him to belittle what they shared.

  Stripping his wool cap, he tossed it. Lifting his hands to the back of his head, he untied the velvet strings that held his mask in place and let the mask fall. It cascaded in a rustle to his booted feet.

  Her blue eyes captured his. Searching the side of his marred face with widened eyes, a hand jumped to her mouth, her fingernails digging into her own cheek.

  He set his chin in an attempt to remain calm. “It used to be far worse. Time has faded most of the scarring to white.”

  Tears rolled down her face and dripped over her hand. “What was done to you?” she choked past her fingers.

  He shifted his jaw and glanced off to the side, knowing he couldn’t protect her from the truth forever. “Your beloved Jacques avenged you. He sought to ensure you no longer had an interest in me given you had no interest in him.”

  Her hand fell away. “Jacques?” she echoed. “I…from the theatre? He…?”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “Shortly after the Laroche family had departed in a coach heading for the border, Jacques returned with ten other men from the theatre. Despite bloodying up some of them good, I was outnumbered. While four held me down in the corridor, one by one, they proceeded to ensure I never wanted to come back. A few broken bones and a quick touch of a torch to the side of my face and it was done. In the course of one night, I lost everything. You, our son and my face.”

  A sob escaped her. “Forgive me for ever trusting that bastard. I— Forgive me for—” She jumped toward him and reaching up, grabbed his face with trembling hands.

  He held her gaze and smiled, the weight of all the years lifting from his mind and soul. “You are holding me and loving me, ma biche. Despite my face. That is all that matters. It is all I ever wanted.”

  Her pale tear-streaked face twisted. Her lips trembled. “I love you. And I wish to assure you, you are as beautiful as ever.”

  He swallowed, the heat of her hands on his skin pulsing its way to the beat of his heart. Tears stung his eyes knowing she didn’t care what his face looked like. She was holding him and still wanting him and loving him.

  Her trembling hands smoothed his face as she searched his eyes. “No more masks, Monsieur Highwayman. There is no need for it.”

  A breath escaped him.

  Grabbing her face hard, he seized those beautiful soft lips, molding her mouth against his in an attempt to demonstrate that their lives had never been complete without each other. As he slowly made love to her mouth, he undid the pins in her hair, letting them ping to the floor one by one, until her hair tumbled around them both in a silken curtain. He brushed it away from their faces.

  He broke away from their kiss and searched her flushed face, refusing to believe any of this was real. He grazed his fingers through her silver strands that made her face shockingly perfect. “You aged beautifully. Do you know that?”

  She rolled her eyes and smoothed her hands against his chest. “I went completely silver at forty.”

  He smirked. “Are you bragging?”

  She nudged him.

  He dragged his hands from her hair down to her bodice, toward the string of pearls he had given her once upon a spell when he had been falling in love with everything she was. He had recognized them that night he had sent her into a faint. “You still have them.”

  She grabbed his hands, tangling the pearls between them. “I wore them almost every single day. I had them re-strung twice.” She kissed his hands and gushed, “I cannot wait for Maybelle to meet you.”

  He smiled. “Does she even know about me?”

  She smiled and nodded. “Oh, yes. She does. She knows all about the man who introduced me to real passion.”

  He bit back a smile. “Christ. Now I am genuinely worried. What did you tell her?”

  “Only enough to ensure she knew it was real.”

  He laughed and dragged his hands into her hair again. “Ma biche?”

  She grinned and searched his face. “Oui?”

  “Did you know my mother had an emerald ring that I hid
behind the panel of the dresser her painting is resting against over there? I was always worried my father would sell it.”

  She paused. “Do you think it is still there?”

  “There is only one way to find out.” He grabbed her hand and quickly guided her back to the ornate dresser. Releasing her hand, he gently lifted his mother’s painting and set it aside. Angling toward the dresser, he pulled out one of the empty drawers and set it aside. Lowering himself to better see into the slot he had made, he squinted and reached back into it. His fingers hit the fake panel that had been installed. He creaked it open, wedging the section loose. Letting it fall aside, he leaned in closer and felt his way around the small space. His finger grazed a small box. His heart skidded. It was still there.

  Dragging it, he gripped it and pulled his arm back out. He turned back to Thérèse and tapped at the box. “It remained right where I left it.” Striding toward her, he opened the ring box, revealing a massive emerald and gold ring.

  She gasped. “That cannot be real.”

  He quirked a brow. “It is. The emerald came out of India.” Pulling it out of the box, he shoved the box into his coat pocket and took her hand. “May I?”

  A bubble of a laugh escaped her as she pertly held her hand up higher to him. “You most certainly may.”

  He kissed the heavy ring, silently thanking his mother for saving it for something this momentous, and slid the emerald onto Thérèse’s finger. “It was my mother’s favorite ring.”

  She blinked down at it, angling the emerald left and right in admiration. “Now, it is my favorite ring.”

  “If you bought everything from the estate, there could be more.”

  Her lips parted. She glanced toward the trunks and furniture. “Och, we will be here all night.” She bustled back toward the dresser and started taking out more drawers, peering in.

  He burst into laughter. His butcher girl was back. Diamonds and pearls were just the beginning. “Thérèse.”

  She paused and glanced back at him.

  “How about we do this later? Yes?”

  She smirked, straightened and adjusted her emerald ring. “I suppose.”

  He let out a playful growl and ran at her, determined to kiss the smirk off that gorgeous face.