by Darcy Burke
She looked stricken. “But that will take too long.”
“We have the rest of our lives, chérie. Turn around,” he coaxed while trying to maintain a grip on his own feral need. He trailed kisses along her neck and shoulder, enjoying the soft, satiny skin he’d missed so much, stripping off article after article until he had her completely unclothed.
Then he swept her up in his arms and carried her over to the generous bed. Placing her in the center, he sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled off his boots.
She was up on her knees in an instant, raining kisses on his shoulders and along his neck. He closed his eyes, delighting in her heated enthusiasm, reacquainting himself with her eager impatience in bed that he found both compelling and contagious.
Yanking the remainder of his clothing off at an accelerated rate, he twisted around and pressed her down, kissing her in the frenzied manner she desired, banishing all thoughts of moderation from his mind. They could slow down when they were old and gray. For now, he would let her dictate the pace.
Arching hard against him, she urged him inside her. He needed no further prompting, driving home with one easy thrust.
Home.
She sobbed with pleasure. He groaned out his.
Controlling his thrusts, he plunged as deep and as hard as she wanted, filling her repeatedly, her juices bathing his cock. Between heated kisses and caresses, they exchanged whispers and words of love.
She wrapped her legs tightly around him. “Stay inside me,” she panted against his mouth. Her words sent a rush of raw heat shuddering through him. He’d never spent himself inside a woman. And he couldn’t wait to spend himself inside his beautiful wife.
His moonlight angel.
He reveled in the feel of her. He reveled in her in his arms. And in their love and untamable passion.
She cried out as she climaxed, her inner muscles contracting along his plunging length. His heart hammering, he drove into her with a final heavy thrust, and tossed his head back, roaring her name, gripped by the paralyzing pleasure flooding through him. Pouring everything he had in her.
His breathing coming in hard pants, he closed his eyes and rested his forehead on hers. If he could have smiled, he would have. He had a lifetime ahead of more of the same. Was there a man on this earth more fortunate than he?
He gazed down at her. Pink cheeks, heavy lids, freshly sated, she looked so beautiful.
Still semi-hard inside her, Simon rolled over onto his back, taking Angelica with him. He pulled her down for a kiss, enjoying the simple pleasure of having her sweet mouth against his own.
“It’s been so long, Simon.” A soft smile played on her lips.
“Too long, mon ange.”
“I want to go home. Back to the island,” she said. Her words filled him with a sense of contentment as images of their future together flitted through his mind.
He was glad to hear it. He had no intention of remaining in France with Louis’s carnal interest keenly focused on her. He planned to take the responsibility that came with his title seriously, but not to Angelica’s detriment. Making arrangements to meet his obligations would be addressed later. He didn’t want to think about it now. At the moment, he just wanted to hold his wife.
“I want Fouquet’s wife to keep the remainder of my estate that wasn’t forwarded to her by her husband. She’ll need it when he’s gone. I won’t litigate over it. It was part of my old life. I have a new life with you.”
He caressed her back. “Very well. If that is what you wish.”
“It is.” She pressed her lush mouth to his. What began as a tender kiss quickly turned heated and hungry, his cock stiffening inside her. “Love me, Simon,” she murmured.
“I do, mon ange.” He rolled them over, pinning her to the bed. “I always will.”
Epilogue
Marguerite Island
France was at peace.
Fouquet was on trial.
And life on the island was very good.
On July 1, 1662, Angelica gave birth to a son, with Simon by her side. He refused to leave until he was certain both his wife and child were not in any danger. They named their son Robert Étienne.
The island celebrated.
Domenico, Jules, and Armand couldn’t have been happier for the marquis and marquise, deriving great amusement from the changes in their friend as fatherhood took root. Simon was known to disappear for hours at a time only to be discovered in the nursery. Or as the baby grew, much to Assunta’s and Marta’s protestations, he was to be found playing with six-month-old Robert, who now had his mother’s eyes and his father’s hair, on a blanket near their favorite spot at the waterfalls. He would regale his son with fascinating tales about a brave commodore named Robert d’Arles and the adventures that they had shared.
Gabriella was thrilled that Angelica had a son who was a year younger than her own son, Matteo. The parents felt certain that the three children, Isabelle de Moutier—Jules and Sabine’s little girl—Matteo, and Robert were destined to become the best of friends. Of course, since Isabelle was slightly older and had her mother’s will, joked Jules, she would no doubt set the boys straight should they go astray.
Good fortune shone on the inhabitants of the island.
While businesses prospered, love bloomed for Armand and Marie Jaures.
True to his word, Paul did indeed kiss Suzette the moment he saw her on the beach upon his return and has not stopped demonstrating his well-received affection since.
Angelica’s life fell into a blissful pattern, teaching with Gabriella each morning in the new two-room schoolhouse, afternoons with her son, joyful evenings with her small family, and nights of passion in her husband’s arms.
***
Late one night while Angelica slept, Simon watched her with a contented smile. Slowly rising from the bed, taking care not to wake her, he donned his black dressing gown and went to Robert’s nursery.
He found the baby awake but not crying. Upon seeing his father peering down at him, Robert squealed with delight. Simon grinned and reached down, slipping his finger in his son’s chubby hand. The baby squeezed and gurgled happily.
“Robert, have I told you about angels? No? Well then, listen well, my son.” Simon bent down and picked up his little boy, cradling him in his arms.
“Should you happen to find one, and I pray that you do, hold on to her tightly and never let her go, for you can never imagine the blessings that she will bring to your life.” Robert pulled the tip of Simon’s finger into his mouth and sucked contently. Simon, still smiling, walked over to the window, holding his tiny boy. “She may not be easy to find, Robert. She may be hiding, but look in the moonlight, when the moon is at its fullest. She may appear then… Seek her out.” He kissed the baby’s head. “The unlimited happiness that she will bring you is most definitely worth the effort.”
Author’s Note
King Louis did not get his way.
Nicolas Fouquet was never executed.
Louis had Fouquet arrested for embezzlement of Crown funds on his 23rd birthday (September 5, 1661), perhaps as a present to himself, and not three weeks earlier at Fouquet’s elaborate party at Vaux-le-Vicomte (August 17, 1661), as indicated in this story. Louis had wanted to arrest Fouquet at the party, but his mother, Anne of Austria, convinced him to wait. Six thousand guests were in attendance, all of whom were served on gold service and given gifts of jewelry, silks, and horses.
Fouquet, although shrewd in finance, completely misunderstood and misjudged his king. Believing he was indispensable, blinded by his ambition to step into Mazarin’s shoes after his death, he never saw his doom on the horizon.
After Mazarin’s death, Louis asked Jean-Baptiste Colbert, who had worked for Cardinal Mazarin, to examine Fouquet’s accounting. Colbert, who disliked Fouquet, took great pleasure in pointing out the malpractices and falsifications. (Perhaps he also had a little help from a privateer fleet commander and his green-eyed moonlight angel *smiles*.)
> Fouquet’s trial was one of the most sensational in French history. The trial process lasted three years. In his defense, Fouquet tried to blame Mazarin, stating that he’d been fully aware of and often dictated Fouquet’s practices, and that Mazarin also made no distinction between the Crown Treasury and his personal fortune. This incensed Louis. He didn’t want the memory of his beloved godfather maligned or Mazarin’s name connected with any of Fouquet’s misdeeds.
As the trial dragged on, people became more divided in their opinions of Fouquet. Louis made it no secret that he was willing to accept the death penalty. However, he didn’t press this because he was concerned it would make him look fearful of Fouquet to his court.
In the end, on December 20, 1664, the assembly sentenced Fouquet to perpetual exile. Louis intervened and changed the sentence to perpetual imprisonment, stating that he wasn’t about to let a man who knew so many state secrets go free.
Fouquet was imprisoned in a fortress in Pignerolo on the borders of Piedmont. He remained there for sixteen years until his death in 1680. It wasn’t until the last years of Fouquet’s life that Louis allowed him visitors.
There are some who believe that Nicolas Fouquet was the actual “Man in the Iron Mask.” There’s enough written about Fouquet and his inner circle—from blackmail to secret societies—to keep conspiracy buffs reeling with all the intrigue.
Simon Boulenger’s accomplishments in this book were, in actual fact, the true achievements of two important men in French naval history, Jean Bart and Réné DuGuay-Trouin. Both these men were born commoners and commanded fleets sailing as privateers for France. As a result of their remarkable naval achievements, both men earned themselves officers’ commissions in the French navy. Bart was ennobled by Louis and made commodore. DuGuay-Trouin eventually made his way from commander of one of King Louis XIV’s rented warships (sailing as a privateer) to vice-admiral in the King’s Navy.
All names and places mentioned in this book were born in this author’s imagination, except King Louis XIV, Nicolas Fouquet, Louise Fourché (Fouquet’s first wife—named here as Angelica’s mother), Marie-Madeleine de Castille de Villemareuil (Fouquet’s second wife), Paul Pellisson (who remained loyal to Fouquet and was imprisoned in the Bastille for four years), Cardinal Mazarin (the son of a Sicilian fisherman, who rose in power and ruled France for Louis until he died), Jean-Baptiste Colbert, Fontainebleau Palace, Petit Bourbon, Palais-Royale, and Vaux-le-Vicomte.
The Franco-Spanish war ended with the Treaty of Pyrenees on November 7, 1659. I extended this war by just over a year, bringing the event closer to the date of Cardinal Mazarin’s death in early 1661.
Fouquet’s controversial grand château, Vaux-le-Vicomte, took eighteen thousand men and a constant supply of funds to complete, and still stands in all of its magnificence southeast of Paris, near Melun.
In fact, it was Vaux-le-Vicomte that inspired Louis to build Versailles.
Glossary
Chère—Dear one. (French endearment for a woman, cher for a man).
Chérie—Darling or cherished one. (French endearment for a woman, chéri for a man).
Comte—Count. (French)
Comtesse—Countess. (French)
Démon Noir—Black Demon (French)
Dieu—God. (French)
Dieu vous garde—God keep you. (French)
Dominum Deum Nostrum—Our Lord God. (Latin)
Estrella Blanca (La)—The White Star. (Spanish)
Hôtel/Château—The upper class and the wealthy bourgeois (middle class) often had a mansion in Paris (hôtel) in addition to their palatial country estates (château). (French)
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti—In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. (Latin)
Madre—Mother—The title for the Mother Superior of a convent. (Italian)
Ma belle—My beauty. (French endearment for a woman)
Mariage de convenance—Marriage of convenience. (French)
Merde—Shit. (French)
Mon ange—My angel. (French endearment)
Vaux-le-Vicomte—Nicolas Fouquet’s infamous country palatial home. Literally translated, “Like the Viscount.” It’s certainly a home befitting a man of influence.
Dedication
Whenever I write a book, I do a lot of research. Pulling a reader into 17th century France, getting every fact and historical detail as accurate as possible is a great labor of love. However, with UNDONE my research went beyond the norm, because in this book my heroine is a rape survivor.
On a warm summer night, when I was twenty-one, I was walking back to my hotel along a very crowded street in San Remo, Italy. I got separated from my friends in the massive crowd, and unfortunately I crossed paths with the wrong guy. One who didn’t take “no” for an answer. (By the way, I speak Italian fluently, and “no” is said and spelled the same way in both English and Italian, so there was no miscommunication here). I didn’t know him. Had never seen him before he approached me that night. To this day, I don’t know why he picked me out of the crowd. He offered me a ride. I refused him. He then grabbed hold of me and tried to drag me into his car. Not a soul walking past helped the straniera (foreigner—me) out. Though he was about three to five years older, bigger and stronger, I fought and got away. I was lucky. I suffered only a few bruises. And the scare of my life. There are others who have found themselves in the crosshairs of a predator and have not been as fortunate.
It is no coincidence that UNDONE begins in the Republic of Genoa, where modern day San Remo is located.
Dearest readers, I dedicate this book to all those who have survived rape. You are true heroines/heroes in this author’s eyes. Like Angelica, you have an inner strength and resilience no words can describe.
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THE PRINCESS IN HIS BED
A MIDNIGHT DANCE
UNDONE
THE DUKE’S MATCH GIRL
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The romance continues with THE DUKE’S MATCH GIRL…
Acknowledgement
A special thanks goes out to Carolyn Williams, Donna Jeffrey, Franca Pelaccia, Vickie Marise, Mary Barone, Kelly Mueller, Janice Leyh, and Elise Rome. You each made this book wonderful in your own special ways. Finally, my thanks to Count Patrice de Vogüé, owner of Vaux-le-Vicomte, who personally took the time to answer my research questions about his beautiful 17th c. château.
To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield
BRONWEN EVANS
Copyright © 2012 Bronwen Evans
Discover other works by Bronwen Evans
at
www.bronwenevans.com
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
To Dare the Duke of Dangerfield is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
ISBN ePub: 978-0-473-20679-9
ISBN Mobi/Kindle: 978-0-473-20679-6
DEDICATION
To my twin sister, Leigh Kaye.
Thanks for telling it like it is, and f
or taking an interest in my work.
Chapter One
Shropshire, England, May 1821
“If you’re going to point that delectable rump at a man you’re asking for trouble.”
Caitlin cursed under her breath and ignored the cultured baritone voice goading her from behind. She remained bent, focused on her task, determined to clear the stone from her horse’s hoof. Still, irritation dribbled down her back. If she were a cat her hackles would have risen.
She knew whom the voice belonged to. She’d heard the melodically ducal tones in church, and the village store, often enough. Harlow Telford, the Duke of Dangerfield, consummate rake and the most powerful man in the Kingdom next to the Prince Regent.
The man determined to see her father ruined.
Of all the damnable luck. Why did she have to run into the likes of Dangerfield on her very first gallop upon Ace of Spades?
She rarely rode her horses off the estate, and certainly not dressed in men’s clothing. Why did he spot her today of all days? She’d needed to put the stallion through rigorous race-condition and had ridden farther than she’d envisaged.
“A woman with a derriere as luscious as yours should not wear trousers. It is most distracting.”
He’d moved closer.
She inwardly sneered at Dangerfield’s banal approach. She expected nothing less of him. The tall, arrogant Duke lived for pleasure and frivolous pursuits. He was a typical rakehell who cared for nothing but himself.
