“A most delightful surprise, Camille,” Nicolas assured.
Anne had to admit, the man’s manners were polished and he was charming in the extreme. Not to mention that his proximity had every nerve ending in her body humming with awareness.
More reasons to keep a distance.
“Our other sister, Henriette, is a writer as well,” Camille said, her approval of Nicolas’s response evident by her jubilant expression. “She has penned some wonderful stories.”
Anne glanced at the door. “Henriette must be caught up in conversation. We really must return to the Comtesse’s guests. Her Salon means a great deal to her, so much so that she didn’t want to cancel it in her absence. My apologies for Henriette—”
Nicolas raised a hand. “No need to apologize. Thomas and I arrived quite unexpectedly.”
“Please, join us,” Camille said. “We’ll introduce you to your grandmother’s friends.”
“That is very gracious of you, Camille,” Nicolas said. “In fact, I wish to learn as much as I can about my grandmother, but our trip from Maillard was a lengthy one. We’re terribly exhausted. I hope you understand if we decline?”
Anne was more than a tad relieved, needing space between her and the far-too-attractive Nicolas de Savignac. “Of course. I’ll ask Vincent to show you to your rooms, where you can rest and refresh yourselves.” The faster she could leave the room, the sooner her pulse could return to normal.
“Will you be staying awhile?” Anne disliked the hopeful tone in Camille’s voice and immediately worried about the answer.
“Having come all this way,” Nicolas responded, “I don’t wish to leave without seeing my grandmother. I’ve heard her sister is a robust woman in both health and form. I have a feeling the Comtesse will return soon enough. Until then, Thomas and I will be staying, and I shall anxiously await her arrival.” He smiled.
Anne’s stomach dropped.
He could be here weeks. Oh, this was bad. Very bad. Especially since she found the notion as appealing as it was horrifying.
His light-colored eyes moved to Anne as he said, “There will be plenty of time to get to know each other.”
Nicolas listened to the retreating footsteps of the two Vignon sisters from behind the drawing room’s closed doors. Only when he could no longer hear the sound of heels clicking against marble did he grin, saunter over to a chair, and drop into it.
“Nicolas,” Thomas said, dragging a chair over to him and sitting down. “You are in the wrong profession, my friend. You should take to the stage. That was quite a performance you gave.”
Still smiling, Nicolas propped his boots on a nearby settee, unconcerned for the damask upholstery, and linked his fingers behind his head. “It worked, didn’t it? We have their sympathy. Moreover, we have unfettered access to the hôtel and the lovely authors who live in it.”
“Well, I am not the actor you are. If you are going to surprise me—such as making me your ‘cousin’—please give me forewarning.”
In a good mood, Nicolas simply chuckled. “Do not fret, Thomas. You did fine. And we will do more than fine with this mission. A handful of days, perhaps even less, and I’ll know which sister is Gilbert Leduc, make my arrest, and impress the King.”
It was Thomas’s turn to smile. “You have hardly been in the Guard for long. You’re not hunting for a promotion already, are you, le Loup?”
“Of course.” It had taken some finagling, but he’d convinced his Captain, Tristan de Tiersonnier, to select him for the mission. How was he to catch the eye of the King if he didn’t do things that made him stand out? “I intend one day to be Captain of His Majesty’s private Guard—the King’s most trusted protector. Keeping your eye toward promotion is the only way to excel.”
“Captain?” Thomas laughed. “You do aim high. Not even your brother achieved that.”
That decimated his jovial spirits. Any references that remotely suggested he wasn’t as good as his brother had that effect. “I am not like David.” He was better than David. He was a better fencer. A better loser when bested by his brother. A more gracious winner when Nicolas did the besting—and never, not ever, did he gloat. Pitting his sons against each other all their lives, their father encouraged constant competition between them, fueling their lifelong rivalry. And even though David and their father were both dead, Nicolas still wouldn’t—couldn’t—stop until he’d proved to himself and his superiors that he was in no way a lesser version of his older sibling.
“How do you plan on discovering which sister is Gilbert Leduc?”
Pulling his feet off the settee and placing them back onto the floor, Nicolas leaned toward his friend, his smile returning. “Anne is going to tell me.”
“You think you can get her to talk?”
“I’m certain of it.” The air between them practically sizzled and crackled with hot carnal awareness. He’d never admit to Thomas just how strongly her allure was playing havoc with his libido, but she had him stiff as a spike the entire time they’d spoken, hungry for the taste of her mouth and her tantalizing nipples that were so obviously hard and pressing against the bodice of her gown.
“What makes you so certain?” Thomas asked. “Because she is—if the look in her eyes was any indication—attracted to you?”
“Precisely.”
“And how are you going to attain the information from her? By fucking the answer out of her?”
Nicolas sat back in his chair. “Now you see the added appeal to this mission.”
Thomas laughed and shook his head. “It doesn’t bother you that you’d be bedding the lady one moment, then possibly—if she turns out to be Leduc—arresting her the next?”
“Thomas, a conscience is in direct conflict with ambition. You would do well to remember that. As for the lady, if she is the author—Gilbert Leduc—then she has broken the law by using an illegal press and writing unsanctioned, not to mention defamatory, literature. If Leduc turns out to be one of her sisters, I’ve no doubt she’s assisting in some capacity in her sibling’s criminal endeavors. Either way, she is guilty. I have no qualms about doing my duty, and neither should you. If the lady offers up some decadent delights before all is said and done,” Nicolas shrugged, “I’ll not refuse her.” No man would. Not a woman as beautiful as Anne de Vignon.
He’d seen lustful interest in the eyes of many of the men at the Salon. Did she have a lover among them? The possibility that he’d have competition didn’t worry him. He’d have Anne, his instincts telling him that beneath her cool, proper layers, he’d find passion. Fire. A woman sure to offer a man untold carnal bliss.
“And what about your grandmother? She is mixed up in all this,” Thomas said. “As their patroness, her funding has made it possible for these women to write and publish sanctioned—and one of them, unsanctioned—literature. This ‘Gilbert Leduc’ matter will backlash on her.”
“My grandmother is a willful, uncompromising woman who is devoid of compassion.” Nicolas couldn’t keep the caustic tone from dripping off his words. “I have no doubt she’s played a very important role in this smear campaign. Should the King decide to punish her, she has no one to blame but herself.” He had no sympathy where the old woman was concerned. Though he’d not expected to discover his own grandmother involved in this sordid mess, he wasn’t going to let that deter him in any way. Absurd as it was, the only thing that was truly bothering him was that he’d been correct in his assumption: his grandmother hadn’t spoken of him, or likely his mother, either. That fact was evident by the looks on Anne’s and Camille’s faces. It was obvious they never knew he existed. Though the Comtesse’s silence helped with his plan, he disliked that the notion had any sting at all. After all these years, he shouldn’t care a whit that the heartless hag had disowned his mother—turning her back on her own daughter—and never had any interest in her grandsons, treating them all as if they were dead.
“I’ve read Gilbert Leduc’s writings,” Nicolas said, shoving the past aside.
“I believe the author we seek is a woman scorned. Someone whose anger has spilled over onto the male gender at large. A man or men—past or present—have inspired her to write telltale stories that humiliate men and besmirch their reputations.”
“So you think the author is using these pen portraits as a method of revenge?” Thomas asked.
“I do.”
“Perhaps she simply does it for funds? With the wild popularity of the anthologies, surely it’s been a lucrative venture for her?”
“Indeed, Thomas. The money is likely a motivating factor. But I think the underlying reason why she does this is much more personal. Madame Henriette de Pierpont was once married. Let’s learn as much as we can about her marriage, and in particular, her deceased husband’s treatment of her.” Nicolas rose, suddenly feeling fatigued, intent on seeking out the old servant and retiring to his room. “Camille de Vignon seems to have an interest in you, Thomas. Speak to her. See what you can learn. I’ll focus on Anne,” he said as his friend rose from his chair. “I’ll be with her every minute of the day.”
And each night—if all went according to his plan.
This was going to be easy.
“I don’t like this. Not one bit,” Henriette whispered.
Anne walked between Henriette and Camille as they made their way to the Salle de Buffet. This was their first evening meal with Nicolas and Thomas, and Anne was as enthralled over the prospect as Henriette. Being in the same room with her patroness’s grandson for an entire meal—knowing the stirring effect he had on her—had her on edge. She hadn’t been able to forget the raw desire she’d seen in Nicolas’s eyes before parting in the drawing room. Its seductive lure had incited a craving she couldn’t vanquish.
“Really, Henriette, you are making much out of nothing.” Camille’s statement arrested Henriette’s steps.
“Much out of nothing?” Henriette’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “Dear sister, do the words”—she lowered her voice a notch—“ ‘Gilbert Leduc’ mean anything to you?”
Camille frowned. “Of course they do. They mean as much to me as they do to you, Anne, our dear Comtesse—not to mention all the women who have entrusted their stories to him.”
“Then perhaps you can explain to me how we are to interview the very skittish Madame de Montbel and Madame de Boutette for Gilbert Leduc’s next stories with these gentlemen here? You know the next volume must be brought to press in three weeks or Bruno won’t print it. The more popular the books become, the more risk there is for those involved.”
Camille frowned. “I’m quite aware of the deadline and the risks. What I don’t understand is why you are fretting over the presence of Savignac and Gamory.”
Henriette’s mouth fell agape. She turned to Anne. “Will you please explain it to her?”
“Camille . . .” Anne strove for a more reasonable tone than Henriette’s, though her sisters’ bickering was grating on her patience. Like Henriette, she didn’t relish having anyone whom she didn’t know staying at the hôtel when one of Gilbert Leduc’s volumes was in the works.
Especially a man as inflaming as Nicolas de Savignac.
“Leduc’s identity must be protected at all costs,” Anne said. “Especially since behind his pen are a number of women who have provided scathing secrets for Leduc’s stories. There would be disastrous consequences for them if they were exposed.”
“And the consequences for Leduc would be even worse,” Henriette added for good measure.
“But these gentlemen are part of the Comtesse’s family. Nicolas de Savignac is her very own grandson,” Camille countered. “Surely that makes him trustworthy enough to—”
“To what? To tell him of Leduc?” Henriette sputtered. “Are you mad?”
Camille jabbed her fists into her waist. “I assure you I have complete command of my faculties. Henriette, you are—”
“Enough,” Anne demanded. Usually the one to settle her siblings’ arguments, she was not in the mood for this tonight. “Camille,”—she turned to her younger sister—“Madame de Cottineau is estranged from her grandson, and we don’t know her reasons for it. Until she returns and we speak to her, we’ll not reveal a thing to Savignac or Gamory. We’ll not put anyone in jeopardy.”
Henriette crossed her arms. “I don’t trust Savignac.”
“You haven’t even met him yet,” Camille said.
Anne had, and she didn’t trust him either, or more particularly, herself around him, the physical calamity he inspired a serious detriment. And something she intended to get under control. Lest it got out of control. “We won’t allow this situation to turn into a problem.”
With resolve, Anne stalked toward the dining hall once more. Her sisters quickly fell into step. There was no other option, really. Leduc wrote the sorts of stories that needed to be written. Had to be told.
And would be published. On time.
After a few silent moments, Henriette conceded. “You’re right, of course, Anne. Among the three of us, we can entertain our two guests until Madame de Cottineau returns—and keep them from stumbling onto our secret. Isn’t that right, Camille?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Good. Then there is nothing left to argue about and nothing to be concerned over,” Anne said with more confidence than she felt. Why was she riddled with niggling doubts? What was the threat, really? “I doubt either gentleman has ever even heard of Leduc.” Nicolas and Thomas came from the country, preferring to live at their country estates over Paris, as some nobles did. Leduc’s popularity was for the most part contained inside the city. “And even if they know of him and his books, even if they see a few women come and go from the Comtesse’s home over the next few days, they’d never conclude Leduc is under this roof.” Anne glanced at each sister. “Right?”
“Right,” they responded in chorus.
The tension in Anne’s body eased the more she thought of the situation. Her biggest challenge in all this was to keep her distance from her patroness’s enigmatic grandson. And how difficult could that be? With her sisters sharing the duties as hostess, she could limit her time in Nicolas’s company—until she’d mastered her maddening reactions to him.
Anne’s next book would go to press on time without their houseguests ever knowing that the notoriously famous author—who had tongues wagging in every Salon in the city—was right under their noses. Her books of poetry had never been as popular as her Gilbert Leduc volumes.
But she didn’t write under the name “Gilbert Leduc” for the notoriety.
What motivated her pen was the women behind the stories—and their personal experiences that hit close to home and heart.
Before she knew it, Madame de Cottineau would return, deal with her grandson as she saw fit, and be delighted to find that Anne had published a new volume to titillate Leduc’s fans.
She exchanged knowing smiles with her sisters. By the look in their eyes, she knew they were in accord; Leduc was a secret they wouldn’t reveal.
Not to anyone outside their trusted circle.
There were many who’d tried to learn who was behind Leduc’s pen. None had succeeded. No one ever would.
Keeping their secret from two men who weren’t even interested in Leduc wasn’t going to be difficult.
In fact, this was going to be easy.
3
Laughter rippled through the Salle de Buffet. The women were starting to relax. Nicolas was pleased as he chuckled along with his dining companions at the latest witty exchange.
Sweeping his gaze down the long elegant table, he glanced at each of the three sisters. Then at Thomas. Seated at opposite ends of the table, their gazes met and Nicolas could tell by his friend’s expression that they were in agreement: the night was going well. Even the rather icy Henriette was beginning to offer a smile and the occasional laugh.
In short, Nicolas was making great progress; he was lowering the ladies’ guards a charming comment at a time.
His eyes were drawn back to
Anne. Repeatedly during the meal he’d caught himself watching her. Practically gawking at her. The candles on the silver torchères lined around the room cast an orange light, making the shade of her coppery curls bedazzling.
Making her skin look warm and so enticing.
He was dying to trail his fingers along the contour of her scooped neckline over the gentle swell of her breasts. He was dying to do far more than that with the enchanting poetess. Fantasies of her naked in his bed, wet with wanting, ran rampant in his mind.
Nicolas shifted in his chair, his stiff prick straining uncomfortably inside his breeches. Merde. She was seated to his right, dressed in a simple gown—hadn’t done more than offer polite conversation—and she was driving him to distraction.
Anne brought a spoonful of soup to her lips.
By God, his yearning to possess that lush mouth mounted by the moment.
“Do tell us, Nicolas,” Henriette’s voice cut through his thoughts. “What has driven such a wedge between you and your grandmother? Why the estrangement?”
“Henriette!” Camille chastised.
Anne simply met his gaze and held it. By the look in her beautiful dark eyes, he could tell she was curious about the answer.
He decided to offer an honest one. “My mother married my father—a man my grandmother didn’t care for. She disowned her when she learned of their secret marriage ceremony.”
There was silence for a moment as the women absorbed his response.
“Why would the Comtesse object to your father as a husband for her daughter?” Anne asked softly. He liked her voice. He couldn’t help but wonder at the sultry sounds she made in the throes of passion, what she’d sound like when she came. Or what the tight clasp of her wet sex around his thrusting cock would feel like . . .
She was staring at him. Waiting. Nicolas shot a glance at the others at the table. They all sported similar expectant expressions on their faces.
He cleared his throat. “Because my father was an ass, and he remained that way until his last breath.” By the expression on her lovely face, it was obvious he’d surprised her with his bluntness. Merde. That could have been put a little more gently.
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