The Star of Versailles

by Catherine Curzon

  “Yet you and I…we never met?”

  “That was all before you came to London.” William shook his head.

  “Really?”

  He laughed then, the entire situation of his life so utterly absurd. “You have absolutely no idea who I am—of course you don’t—no, not who I am, who I was.”

  “Why would I?”

  “Does the name Knowles mean anything to you?” William wondered briefly what he was doing, where this was leading, but somehow he couldn’t bring himself to care.

  Gaudet pouted as he thought about that then said, “I don’t think so…should it?”

  “A viscount.” He leaned closer to whisper. “There was an incident over a debt. A young man—it was most unfortunate.”

  “Ohhh…” The green eyes blinked again. “White’s club—the chap took his own life. Some beastly peer pursuing him for money.”

  He felt again the sensation of sickness, the dread and horror that had accompanied that, the worst incident of his life. “Yes.”

  Gaudet nodded once, gaze still on William’s, and he managed to hold it for a while longer, dreading what he might see cross those green eyes. There was no approbation or disgust, though, no outrage or malice. Instead, there was a smile of utmost tenderness and Gaudet tightened his arm on William’s just a little.

  “A bad business, to be sure.” He shook his head, walking on at a strolling pace. “But any man who does what you have since done is not a man who should hide away. You made a mistake years ago, but you did not kill the boy, Knowles, and you must not punish yourself to your own grave.”

  I should have let the debt go—nobody should die over cards.

  “I fear,” he confided what he had never admitted before, “that I will never atone for it.”

  “What the young man did nobody could have expected—to die for the smallest gambling debt.” Gaudet paused for a moment before resuming his stroll. “If not for you, I would now be minus my head and my sister would be without hope. I believe that counts for something.”

  “But is it enough?” William searched Gaudet’s face, hoping desperately for an answer that would not leave him damned.

  “Everything that was good in my world was gone—not jewels and silks, but my family, my little girl, my freedom… You lifted the darkness when all was lost.”

  He almost laughed but couldn’t quite find the energy to, swinging round into Gaudet’s arms as he declared, “Well, you’re the only one to ever say so.”

  “I cannot believe that.”

  “Believe it.” The Frenchman’s face was again, he suddenly realized, rather close. “I am a despicable human being, everyone says so.”

  “We never had our dance,” Gaudet whispered. “You and I.”

  “Then let’s,” he decided. “Now.”

  “Here?” The word was a gentle laugh as he glanced around the moonlit field. “Really?”

  “Why not?” William gestured. “No one can see us, and we can hear the music.”

  “Lead on.” Gaudet took William’s hand. “I shall be your swooning partner.”

  William’s own legs were hardly steady as he pulled Gaudet closer, musing that it had been a good long while since he had danced with anyone. That it should be Alexandre Gaudet was not half as ridiculous as he had expected, the other man’s company filling him with an odd sense of cheer he had not felt in far, far too long.

  “Don’t you dare,” the Frenchman whispered as they tentatively began the dance, “tread on my shoes.”

  “I have never,” he replied, “trodden on toes in my life.”

  “You dance very well.”

  “I told you.” William forced open eyes that he had not realized he had closed. “Plenty of practice.”

  “When we are home in London, we will go dancing.”

  “No one,” William warned, “would dance with me.”

  “I said, chérie Guillaume, we,” Gaudet pointed out in a decidedly decadent tone. “Why would we need any other?”

  Why indeed? He closed his eyes again, noting as he did so that Gaudet was also a very fine dancer, that he moved as though air, not earth, was beneath his soles. In this field in the middle of nowhere, moonlight instead of a fine chandelier lighting their way, they danced to the distant music, worries forgotten for these stolen, drunken moments.

  “I do dance very well,” William realized. He found that he had slowed, he and Gaudet not really doing more than swaying together.

  “Not as well as I. I’m a very nimble fellow.”

  “Nimble.” Gaudet nodded silently in reply. “Are we very drunk?”

  “Not me.”

  “I might be,” he said, leaning closer until there wasn’t really much closer to be.

  “Probably.” Gaudet slid his hand up, brushing through William’s hair. “You’re English, after all.”

  “And you’re French,” he pointed out needlessly, eyes closing slightly at the touch. “And we’re dancing in a field.”

  “I have danced with plenty of Englishmen,” his companion admitted. “But none as charming as you.”

  “You’re my first Frenchman.”

  That sounded, he realized, more suggestive than he had meant. He discovered that it was possible to be even closer, stilling as his lips brushed the playwright’s, finding them gentle and yielding. It was the first time in longer than he could remember that he had touched another person so intimately. Even by accident, the brush of Gaudet’s lips on his was strange, enticing, and he found himself lingering there, every muscle in him frozen still.

  “Well.” Gaudet sighed. “Your first Frenchman indeed…”

  “We should probably…” he whispered, realizing that he hadn’t moved, gaze locked on Gaudet’s.

  “Probably.”

  Even as William thought about pulling away, he leaned closer instead, lips brushing Gaudet’s again before he could think about it further. It was certainly a kiss this time, his eyes slipping shut when Gaudet’s mouth moved tentatively under his. It could have been hours or mere moments that they stood like that until he finally had to stop to breathe, murmuring a soft apology as he did so.

  “Not drunk enough?” Gaudet suggested lightly, letting his head shift a little to rest for just a moment on William’s shoulder. “Let’s get you safely back and into your bed.”

  “Our bed,” he reminded him. “It’s our bed.”

  “And it looks very cozy.”

  He nodded, holding the Frenchman’s gaze before asking, “Then why are we still standing in a field?”

  Gaudet smiled tenderly, taking William’s arm again and murmuring, “Why indeed?”

  It all seemed to make the most perfect sense when he led the way toward the farmhouse, silent as he pushed open the door, urging Gaudet to pass through before him. He watched the Frenchman do so, the poodle pausing to shoot him a beady glance before following her master.

  With the door closed behind them, he caught Gaudet’s arm again. “The stairs.”

  “Are you too drunk to manage them, chérie?” Gaudet teased, wrapping his arm around William’s waist.

  “If I said yes, would you help me up them?”

  “I will do that anyway.” The Frenchman stole another kiss to his cheek.

  It really shouldn’t have been so easy to accidentally find Gaudet’s lips with his own again, he knew, but there it was, another kiss, less tentative than the first. This time, Gaudet deepened it, Gaudet’s lips softly coaxing William’s own apart. Somehow, his arms were around Gaudet’s waist, everything else slipping from his awareness other than Gaudet and the kiss that was growing in intensity by the moment, long and distinctly distracting. He was hit by the thought that Gaudet was as good at kissing as he was at dancing, the Frenchman’s tongue moving gently as he slid his hands over William’s back.

  “Stairs,” he remembered. “Don’t forget the stairs.”

  “What of them?”

  “We need to get up them.”

  “We do.” Gaudet smiled
against his lips, renewing the kiss.

  “And into bed.”

  “Are you propositioning me, sir?”

  Was he? He had no answer for that, and it was easier to kiss Gaudet again, all the time urging him toward the stairs.

  “Go.” Gaudet finally broke the kiss to set William on his way upstairs. “I will follow and admire the view.”

  It was a decided effort and involved some enthusiastic help from Gaudet before they were both safely on the landing, where William found himself somewhat confused over whether he should be kissing Gaudet or trying to get to their room as quickly as possible.

  “Bedroom,” the Frenchman urged as, downstairs, the sound of voices could be heard.

  “Bedroom,” he agreed, wondering when it had become so hard to open a door before it gave way and he pulled Gaudet into the room with him.

  Papillon darted through the door. Gaudet closed it with a kick, his lips never leaving William’s. He gave himself over to the kiss, sliding one hand into Gaudet’s hair. Kiss followed kiss for long moments, the rest of the household forgotten. Finally, he broke for breath, forehead pressed to Gaudet’s before he opened his eyes, certain now there was no way to make sense of this, and that he must cling to the Frenchman or else fall apart.

  “You have kissed the finest Frenchman you will ever meet,” Gaudet whispered playfully. “And I knew you could not be a Bobbins.”

  “Why?” William asked, curious despite himself.

  “Bobbins is a farmhand—you are…well, lovely.”

  William blushed at that, covering the moment with another long kiss—again, it deepened, more intoxicating with every second. He tightened his arm around Gaudet’s waist further, a gasp escaping unbidden at the press of the other man’s hips against his own, his breath quickening.

  “Will you…?” He drew back, gaze meeting William’s. “Shall we go to bed?”

  He couldn’t find his voice for a response, aware of himself nodding as he held Gaudet’s gaze.

  “We don’t have to…”

  “Please…”

  “Guillaume…”

  The sound of his name made his breath catch in his throat and he kissed Gaudet deeply, urging him toward the bed. Gaudet went without another word, tumbling them both down, arms around William’s waist as though they had every right to be there, as though men did this all the time. And yet, William thought as he kissed Gaudet over and over, perhaps they did. After all, he was almost lost in it himself, refusing to think, to do anything other than feel.

  “Let me…” Gaudet’s voice was breathless when he shrugged out of his ornate jacket, his arms around William again a moment later.

  “Please…”

  With another deep kiss, Gaudet settled back onto the pillows, drawing William over him. William had no idea what he was thinking of, the only important thing making sure his mouth was still on Gaudet’s, his hips shifting instinctively against him. There was no question of the playwright’s own desire in kind. Gaudet caressed William’s behind as he slid the other hand beneath William’s shirt, the touch warm on his back.

  “Please,” he gasped again.

  “Too many clothes.” Gaudet laughed breathlessly, unbuttoning his own ridiculously ornate waistcoat. “God…”

  “Get them off,” William agreed, attempting distractedly to help him with just that.

  It was, William realized, as he stroked over the waistcoat, the most buttons he had ever seen on a single item of clothing, but eventually, Gaudet managed to shrug the garment off, followed quickly by the flamboyantly tied cravat. He pressed his hand to Gaudet’s shirt, mouth hungry against the Frenchman’s, tasting brandy and scent and a heat that had to be desire.

  Desire for him.

  The simple gesture was greeted with a breathless moan of approval, Gaudet squeezing his behind very encouragingly. It was intoxicating as any liquor, the soft sounds of pleasure in Gaudet’s throat wonderfully bewitching.

  “Yes.” He got his hands under the shirt, stroking Gaudet’s chest where the locket still hung.

  For a moment, no more, Gaudet withdrew his touch so he could cast his shirt aside, then he took William in his arms again, ducking his head to press kisses to his throat. He closed his eyes, hands running over Gaudet’s back, the skin warm and inviting. Somewhere William realized that the soft moans and gasps must be from him, but he pushed the thought away, moving his hand with sudden boldness down farther to Gaudet’s backside, pulling him closer.

  “Chérie!” Gaudet laughed coquettishly.

  “No one else calls me that.”

  “Then I will always call you it.” A tender kiss. “Or Guillaume, of course.”

  “I’m not,” a gasp as he rocked his hips, “French.”

  “I am French enough for both,” Gaudet assured him, teeth grazing William’s shoulder. “And you are so wonderfully English.”

  “And you are just wonderful,” he said, reaching to pull at his own shirt.

  With some urgency, Gaudet assisted in the endeavor, throwing the garment across the room before he moved his hands to William’s chest, stroking and caressing.

  He returned his own attentions to Gaudet’s chest and back, tasting the saltiness of his skin, needing to feel his touch, his desire.

  “I am sorry,” Gaudet whispered with an uncharacteristic timidity, “about my back… Those scars…”

  “What scars?” William breathed the words against Gaudet’s lips, stroking firmly down his back and lower as he did so.

  “Oh, chérie…” The next kiss was unmistakably tender, Gaudet’s hips pressing to William’s.

  ‘Chérie’…

  The moan was most certainly the viscount’s own, he realized, slipping one leg between Gaudet’s as he moved with him, swept along on a wave of feeling with all else forgotten.

  “Take me,” Gaudet whispered, nipping at William’s ear.

  His eyes snapped open at that, meeting Gaudet’s as he tried, and failed, to find words.

  “Oh, are you…?” Gaudet’s voice was light, gaze meeting William’s. “Forgive me, you prefer to be taken?”

  He could hardly breathe, utterly incapable of anything for a long moment before the words, feeling woefully shameful, left his lips in a whisper. “I wouldn’t know.”

  William waited then for the inevitable mockery, the witty retort. Instead, Gaudet kissed him again and replied, “Then, Guillaume, let us take all the time we need.”

  The kiss that followed was one of pure relief, soon forgotten in the tangle of Gaudet’s tongue with his, the touch of his hands.

  “Chérie.” A gasp, one hand in his hair. “My chérie.”

  “I want…” He barely knew what he meant, eyes closing again as he continued to rock against Gaudet, breathing harder with each passing moment. Again, words deserted him, cheeks flaming and he gave a small tug to the top of Gaudet’s breeches.

  “Let me…”

  Gaudet’s words were soft and William nodded, feeling utterly absurd, but at the same time certain that Gaudet didn’t mind, laughing as he whispered, “Please do.”

  “You are…lovely.” Gaudet sighed, one hand moving over the front of William’s breeches, pressing to him, tracing the outline of his hardness. He just managed to catch a whimper and slid his hand down to Gaudet a moment later, feeling the evidence of his own desire all too clearly beneath the silk breeches. William was vaguely aware of Gaudet’s hand at the laces of his own clothes, of air touching his skin, then he was lost in another embrace, every kiss more heated than the last.

  At Gaudet’s first touch William bit his lip hard, his fingers tightening on the other man’s back. It had been so long since he had been this close to anyone, the sensation one he had told himself he could do without. Now William felt an almost unbearable need and he gave an encouraging shift of his hips. His heart slammed as Gaudet curled his fingers around him, stroking softly, appreciatively, savoring his body. William closed his eyes and pulled at Gaudet’s breeches, gasping when his hand en
countered delicious, tantalizing bare flesh.

  At the slight catch of Gaudet’s breath, William renewed the kiss, deepening it, surrendering. He lost himself entirely in Gaudet’s touch, their mouths meeting again and again for long, deep kisses. He couldn’t think if his life depended on it, knowing only that he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to, and that he was murmuring utter nonsense, but too far gone to care.

  There was nothing in the world but the two of them, no screaming children in the yard outside, no drunken singing from the merry coachman and his companions, not even the sound of the music to which they had danced beneath the moonlight. He heard his own heart, Gaudet’s soft whispers and gasps close to his ear, felt the hand working at him, assured, tight and fast in its strokes.

  William tried to slow, to prolong the delicious moments, but he was powerless to hold back, nearing the end and gasping the fact against Gaudet’s lips mere moments before release hit, body tensing as he cried out. Gaudet’s own answering cry was just seconds behind him, his hips bucking hard into William’s hand.

  There was nothing but harsh breathing and a dizziness that had him clinging to Gaudet, face buried against his shoulder. The world should stop now, he thought, with everything perfect and just as it should be.

  Before daylight.

  “Chérie…” The word was a sated sigh, the arms around him tender.

  “Thank you…”

  “I have longed for you.” The words could have been artful but were not, too much vulnerability in the tone of Gaudet’s voice.

  He couldn’t answer that, he found, though he nodded wordlessly, stroking softly through Gaudet’s hair. For a long time they simply lay there together, wrapped in one another’s arms. He gave up trying to think and drifted a little, certain then of Gaudet’s presence, the closeness they shared.

  Eventually William was vaguely aware of movement as Gaudet gently shifted him onto the mattress, his embrace still as tender as it has been. Then the dandy snuggled close to him, sighing very contentedly as they allowed sleep and drink and happiness to claim them.