If he didn’t fuck her soon, he was going to lose his mind.
“He—He didn’t treat your mother well?” Camille voiced the question that was likely on everyone’s mind.
“No, Camille, he did not.” And despite her reservations, his coldhearted grandmother had never once inquired about her daughter’s well-being—from the day she married until her death two years ago.
Camille lowered her head.
“Husbands seldom do—treat their wives well, that is,” Anne said. “Your mother was not alone in that regard.”
“Oh?” This was a direction he definitely wanted to go. Thanks to the forward Vignon sisters, they were making it easy for him. “And why do you say that?”
“Because it’s the truth,” Henriette interjected.
He dragged his eyes away from Anne. “Is it your truth, madame?”
She cocked a brow at him.
“Forgive me, but since we’re being candid with each other, I thought you wouldn’t mind my inquiring.”
Henriette set down her spoon. “I do mind—not about you asking questions, for we have nothing to hide here. But about discussing the subject of my late husband. He had a lot in common with your father, you see. He, too, was an ass.”
Nicolas briefly glanced at Thomas.
Henriette rose. “If you will excuse me, I shall return to my chambers now. Good night.”
Nicolas and Thomas were on their feet immediately. Henriette stalked out of the room.
Camille was the next to rise. “I should make certain she’s all right.”
With his eyes, Nicolas motioned Thomas to follow Camille out.
“Camille,” Thomas called out, halting her steps. “Please, allow me to escort you.” He offered his arm. Together they walked out of the Salle de Buffet.
Nicolas turned his attention to Anne. She was standing and he knew she was about to offer her excuses to leave.
“I have ruined the evening. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause distress.” This was not how he’d intended the evening to end. Distracted by Anne, he’d blurted out his question to Henriette when he should have taken care to ascertain the answer.
“Henriette is fine. She’s still sensitive about the late Baron and doesn’t like to be questioned about him.”
“I gather theirs was not a marriage filled with wedded bliss?”
She shook her head. “No, hardly that. Like your mother, my sister fell in love—and suffered for it.”
He walked around the table and stopped before her. A light floral scent emanated from her beautiful hair, tantalizing his senses. “You sound as though you don’t care for love.”
From the moment he drew close, her cheeks took on a pretty blush, and Nicolas noted the rapid beating of her pulse along the side of her slender neck. Telltale signs of his heated effect on her.
These were exactly the reactions he wanted from her.
She glanced at the door and then at his mouth. Her desire was evident, but so was her unease at being alone with him. His greedy cock twitched. Easy now. If he moved too quickly, she’d bolt from the room. He’d already made mistakes tonight. He wouldn’t make another. This mission was too important to him.
The matter required finesse. Patience. For the first time ever, he struggled with both—thanks to the bewitching writer with the flame-colored hair.
“No, I don’t believe in love,” she stated firmly. He was disappointed in her answer, and he had no idea why he should be. He wasn’t much of a believer in the fickle emotion either, but he’d read her works. They were filled with romantic sentiment. Romantic sentiment she’d clearly lost. Was it her sister’s disagreeable marriage that had jaded her? Or Anne’s own personal experience?
“But I’m told you write poetry. Love poems, to be precise.”
“I do . . . rather . . . I did . . . two volumes of love poems . . . a while ago.” Anne mentally cringed. She sounded like a babbling fool.
He was standing so close—too close—trapping her between the table and his tall sculpted form. From the moment she’d walked into the room and saw him standing in the dining hall with Thomas, her blood had warmed. Now it raced through her veins white-hot.
If he’d step back, she could think. As it was, it took every effort just to keep her breathing even, so that she didn’t humiliate herself by panting in heat. How in heaven’s name did she end up alone with him? This wasn’t supposed to happen. Her sisters were not supposed to abandon her in his company, but then, they had no idea how he incited her senses.
“What do you write now?” he asked, his voice low. It reverberated inside her, making the dull ache between her legs grow fiercer. The very ache that had started from the moment he’d escorted her to her chair and then sat so near. She resented the way he was affecting her—worse, that she couldn’t curb her responses to him. He was a nobleman. She didn’t trust his kind, preferring poets and dramatists. She knew what the upper class were capable of, and yet, he’d still managed to sweep into the Comtesse’s home, and awaken Anne’s long-dormant body with no effort at all.
“I . . . I’m working on . . . volumes . . . various ones.” Another imbecilic response.
He tilted his head slightly to one side. “Volumes of what?”
“They are stories of intrigue and adventure.” She didn’t lie well when the most disarming pair of gray eyes was on her. Well, actually it wasn’t a complete lie. Gilbert Leduc’s stories did have intrigue, and getting the volumes published was an adventurous venture, to say the least.
A slight smile teased his lips. “Adventure?” He dipped his head, bringing his most kissable mouth closer to hers. “Excitement .” His warm breath caressed her lips. “That appeals to you, does it?”
Not this kind of excitement. This kind of excitement could only lead to trouble and heartache. And at the moment, she’d rather not be quite as excited as she felt.
Uncharacteristic thoughts of what that mouth would feel like against her skin were rushing through her mind.
“I should go.” Now. Quickly. Before she did something foolish.
He didn’t move. Instead, his light gray eyes held her gaze, then moved to her mouth, and for a moment she thought he might . . . would he . . . kiss her?
Her heart pounded. She held her breath. Waiting. Anticipating. Frozen with expectation until he took a step back.
“Good night, Anne.”
Anne let out a breath and tamped down her disappointment. “Yes. Good night.” Her limbs shaky, she stepped around him and proceeded toward the door.
“Wait.” He caught her hand, surprising her.
Nicolas stepped closer and gently brushed a lock of her hair from her cheek. The light caress sent a rush of liquid heat from her core. What was it about this man that made her react this way? She was shamelessly vulnerable to him in a way she’d never been with any man.
Not even Jules.
“Anne, I hope I can count on your help,” he said softly.
“Help?”
“With my grandmother. You know her better than I do. I want to learn everything I can about her. I need your help to do that. I want to understand her mind. Her heart. If you don’t help me, I fear I’ll fail in my attempt to forge a relationship with her. My mother went to her grave never having reconciled with the Comtesse. She isn’t getting any younger. This may be my only opportunity to form a bond between us.”
Anne forced a polite smile, her insides in a frenzy. “My sisters and I will do what we can, but I can’t promise results.”
“I doubt Henriette will want to have much to do with me after tonight, and Camille seems far more interested in spending time with Thomas. You’re the only one who can help me. Please, say you will.” His expression was beseeching.
If her thoughts hadn’t been so heated, she might have chosen her next words carefully. Instead, she said, “Well . . . I suppose—”
“Excellent.” Nicolas pressed his warm lips against her hand, lingering a second or two longer than necessary bef
ore he kissed it. A hot tremor shivered through her. “You can begin enlightening me on everything I should know about the Comtesse tomorrow.” He flashed her a bedeviling smile, then turned on his heel and left the room.
Oh, God . . .
4
Nicolas clenched his jaw. Thomas stood near the hearth—one hand on the mantel and the other clutching his side—laughing, the irritating sound reverberating in Nicolas’s chambers.
“Let me see if I have this right . . .” Thomas said, fighting back a snicker. “You manage to get the comely Anne de Vignon alone, and though there is mutual physical attraction between you, and you could tell she wanted—hungered,” he emphasized theatrically, “for a kiss, you denied her, and purposely left her wanting more.”
Nicolas crossed his arms and sat back in his chair. “There is nothing wrong with that approach,” he responded tightly over Thomas’s new bout of laughter.
Thomas sobered up enough to say, “But wait, that’s not all. Then, you, le Loup—a man with a reputation for being irresistible to the finer sex and having uncanny shrewdness in all situations—cleverly cornered her into helping you forge a relationship with your grandmother, which would, of course, give you an excuse to be in her company . . .” Thomas was laughing again, unable to continue.
Nicolas uncrossed his arms and rose. “What is wrong with that? It was a solid tactic to take.”
Sobering, yet still chuckling, Thomas walked over to the small side table. “Yes, and for the first time since I’ve known you, my friend, le Loup miscalculated. While you were convinced she would be spending endless hours acquainting you with facts about the Comtesse—giving you information about Leduc—and offering up promiscuous pleasures, your ‘solid’ tactic got you this instead.” He swiped up the note.
Dear Nicolas, I know how much you want to get to know your grandmother. I have thought of how best to help you with the Comtesse and what I could offer that would aid you in that regard. After much consideration, I believe I know just what you require. Sincerely, Anne
Thomas gestured toward the open trunk that accompanied the note. “Stacks of old dusty books.” Thomas pulled one out, held it up, and wiggled his brows. “All your grandmother’s favorites.” He laughed. “Not nearly as good as a tumble and a confession, but you might discover that you and your grandmother have some common literary preferences.” Thomas roared.
Nicolas approached Thomas and snatched the note from his hand. “I’m glad you find this amusing. Perhaps you’ve forgotten that we are doing all this on behalf of the King.” He stalked to the window and stared down at the courtyard below, clutching the note in his fist.
He’d thought he had her eating out of the palm of his hand.
It had taken enormous will not to kiss her when she’d looked at him so expectantly last eve. He’d left the room burning for her, certain that he’d be rewarded for his efforts with her company today. Not to mention her heightened ardor.
Instead he got a trunk full of books.
He cared not what his grandmother read, nor to learn any more about her. What he already knew was more than enough. He needed to spend time with Anne. Alone. He needed to sate the desire he had for her. Clearly, it was beginning to cloud his judgment. She was occupying his waking thoughts and, last night, his erotic dreams.
As soon as he’d received the books and the note, he’d gone to find Anne. Even went so far as to go to her chambers, but was stopped by the somber servant, Vincent, who informed him that the Comtesse never allowed anyone to disturb the sisters when they were sequestered in their rooms writing.
“Oh, come now, Nicolas. Allow me to enjoy your misstep. You make so few.” Thomas pulled another book from the trunk. “Are you going to read any of these?”
“Put the damned books down. What success have you had?” he snapped. “Have you obtained any information from Camille?”
Thomas tossed the books back in the trunk. “As a matter of fact, I have. She told me about Henriette’s late husband, the penniless Baron de Pierpont, who squandered what little money they had on drinking, cards, and debauchery. A ‘cruel man, especially when into his cups,’ she’d said. And when Henriette miscarried the one and only time she was with child, the Baron refused to return home and sent her a scathing note telling her she couldn’t do anything right. Not even give him an heir. I think Henriette is Gilbert Leduc. She’s definitely still bitter about her husband.”
“We need proof,” Nicolas said. “Something undeniable and damning.” Since Anne was indisposed, he was going to use his time to search the hôtel for evidence.
He wasn’t finished with the pretty poetess. She wanted him. Felt the carnal heat between them, whether she wished to admit it or not. She was playing a cat and mouse game.
Well, he never backed away from a challenge. Nor would he botch this crucial mission—his very first for the King.
She couldn’t hide in her chambers forever.
When she came out, he’d be waiting.
Madame de Montbel blew her nose loudly into her lace handkerchief.
“What he’s done is cruel, I tell you,” she cried. Tears dampened her rounded cheeks, her face mostly crease-free, despite her advancing years. “His misdeeds must be exposed as only Monsieur Leduc’s stories can do—God bless the man.”
Seated at her desk in her antechamber, Anne dipped her quill into the crystal inkwell, ready to take notes. “Yes, of course. He’ll do his best,” she said, compassion in her tone.
She always did her best for the women who came looking for some measure of satisfaction, their woes ranging from moderate to severe.
The men in their lives, the root cause.
As master of the household, a man had absolute authority. His actions were above reproach. Uncontestable. It mattered little to him or his male peers if those very actions caused a woman humiliation. Hardship. Heartbreak. Expected to endure it, a woman was without recourse of any kind.
Until Gilbert Leduc came along.
Born of Anne’s imagination for just this purpose, Leduc offered women an opportunity to tell their stories. And exact some revenge.
Each and every story was laced with a healthy dose of scandalous yet factual detail, putting the scrutiny on the men in her tales.
The titillating tidbits were what made Anne’s stories—Gilbert Leduc’s stories—wildly popular. And what incensed the men. The angrier they got, the more it pleased the women she wrote for. These men deserved the public scrutiny, and at times, the ridicule. Not to mention the frustration of not knowing who Leduc was or where he got his information from.
It gave Anne great pride to know that the precautions she’d put in place had successfully kept anyone from learning Leduc’s identity. The information that made its way into the stories was carefully chosen, so that it never gave away the woman offering up the details.
Madame de Montbel wiped her tears and leaned closer. “Have you ever met Gilbert Leduc?”
“No, madame. He’s very strict about maintaining his anonymity. We simply take notes for him. The notes are dropped off in various secret locations around the city—and the locations always change. I have no idea who the man is.” That was the usual answer she gave.
Together with the Comtesse, Anne chose the women Leduc wrote about; her patroness knew who could be trusted to come to her home and provide details for Gilbert Leduc’s stories. And despite the cautious selection, none was told Gilbert Leduc and Anne were one and the same.
“Of course. He must be careful not to be exposed. I understand,” Madame de Montbel said. “Now, where was I? Ah, yes, my son-in-law, the Duc de Terrasson, asked for a lettre de cachet to be drawn up against my dear daughter two months ago, forcing her into confinement at a cloister. She isn’t free to leave. Nor is she allowed visitors. Including me and her own children! He forbids it. Her imprisonment there could be indefinite.” She sobbed then blew her nose again.
Sadly, Anne had heard stories like these before. Men could have orders drawn up
against an “unmanageable” wife or other female members of their family, and have them confined to a prison or convent, or in some cases, even exiled. Without trial. Sometimes with little or no provocation. It was an abuse of their power.
“What is his reason for having her cloistered?” Anne asked. Not that he really needed one.
“He doesn’t approve of his wife having friends. In particular, Madame de Santerre.”
Anne wasn’t surprised.
Madame de Santerre was an educated, intelligent woman and a darling of the more prestigious Salons. A young widow, she was independent and witty, with a sharp mind and an impressive knowledge of literature.
“He said that Madame de Santerre wasn’t fit company, that she was too high-spirited for his ‘feebleminded, impressionable’ wife. That’s what he called my Eléonore,” she scoffed, disgusted.
What nonsense. More like, the man was afraid his wife might develop opinions of her own, like Madame de Santerre. Or perhaps he was simply looking for an excuse and wanted the Duchesse out of the way.
Keeping her comments to herself, Anne diligently recorded Madame de Montbel’s statements. Dipping her quill back into the inkwell, she said, “Go on.”
“When he caught Eléonore with books given to her by Madame de Santerre, he had her tossed into the cloister. He felt she’d been corrupted and needed to spend some time in religious devotion ‘to reflect on her behavior,’ he’d said. He, on the other hand, immediately moved his favorite paramour into the hôtel—under the same roof as my grandchildren—and carries on openly, making no attempt to be discreet at all. Can you believe that?”
She could indeed. Men thought nothing of the hypocrisy of it all. A man could easily see a woman’s actions as corrupt but never recognize his own wrongdoings.
Madame de Montbel shook her head and dried more tears, clearly heartbroken. Anne wanted to offer consolatory words, but what could she say to diminish the woman’s misery?
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