Awakened by a Kiss

by Lila DiPasqua

  Setting a blue velvet purse down on the desk, Madame de Montbel said, “This is compensation for Monsieur Leduc’s trouble.”

  Anne pushed the purse back. “He accepts no payment from those who provide him with stories, madame. Your satisfaction with the work is compensation enough for him.”

  “Then please provide him with a note expressing my thanks and stress to him that I want him to show, through his pen portrait and story, just what kind of scoundrel the Duc is. He’s to spare him no mercy.” No longer did Madame de Montbel weep. Her expression was hard, her eyes now narrowed.

  “Of course,” Anne assured.

  “And now to address that aspect of the story that Leduc’s readers love—that scandalous morsel they all devour.” For the first time since Madame had been escorted to Anne’s private apartments, she formed a smile, a bit of joy entering her eyes. “There is something I have learned about the Duc that I’m certain he wouldn’t want others to know. He dares to question my daughter’s character. Well, I have a bit of information to expose that will have everyone questioning his.”

  Uncertain what she was about to hear, Anne waited, quill inked and ready. There was nothing anyone could do to have Eléonore de Terrasson freed. Or reunited with her children. Gilbert Leduc was not about to right a wrong here, but he was going to make sure that the Duc’s callous actions didn’t go unpunished.

  Nicolas ran his fingertips along the top shelving in the library, his arm stretched high. Methodically moving around the perimeter of the room, row by row, he glided his fingers over the smooth wood, until he’d checked them all.

  No key.

  He glanced across the room, frustrated.

  The locked desk near the windows glared back at him. He’d already searched his grandmother’s chambers. There, too, he’d located a writing desk. Also locked.

  He’d looked under the furniture and in every nook and cranny where a key could be hidden in his grandmother’s rooms, and had stopped the search only when it was clear the key wasn’t in her private apartments.

  And—merde—he wasn’t having any more success in the library than he’d had upstairs.

  With Henriette, Anne, and Camille in their respective rooms, their private apartments couldn’t be searched. Nicolas had hoped instead that a search of the Comtesse’s desks would yield the evidence needed to prove Henriette was Gilbert Leduc.

  Nicolas raked a hand through his hair. One master key could very well open both desks. If hidden in the library, it was possible the key was between the pages of one of the thousands of books lining the floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  How was he ever going to locate something so small in such a vast collection of volumes? He didn’t want to resort to trying to pick the lock, but would if he didn’t find the key. Soon.

  One of the volumes near the door caught his eye. Nicolas pulled it off the shelf. A slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he gazed at the title. He’d read this book.

  A book of poetry written by an alluring woman with the most magnificent red hair.

  Anne de Vignon.

  A hot rush streaked through him. He was anxious to see her, and wondered how much longer she’d be sequestered in her rooms.

  This time there’d be no holding back. This time he was going to give her what she’d been begging for with her eyes last night.

  Nicolas opened the book and thumbed through it. He’d actually enjoyed Anne’s poems. Her romantic verses at times were even moving. He found himself—to his astonishment—lost in its pages.

  He could only imagine the amusement Thomas would derive from that.

  Nicolas turned back to the first page, where it indicated that the book had been printed in Paris and—more important—that it had passed the Royal Censor and had received permission to be published.

  The book was completely legal.

  Unlike Gilbert Leduc’s books.

  Nicolas had to give Henriette credit. She’d cleverly twisted the law to her benefit. Leduc’s books claimed to be printed by a foreign publisher—which made them legal for purchase in France.

  Foreign books didn’t need royal consent the way domestic books did.

  But the claim was false. The volumes weren’t being printed out of the country by a foreign publisher. They were not foreign at all. Acting on a suspicion he’d had from the beginning, Nicolas had tracked down the press printing Leduc’s books—located right in Paris.

  In short, it wasn’t just the sensational subject matter that made the books a problem. The entire illegal operation—from author to printer—would have to be brought to the attention of the King.

  Nicolas heard fast footsteps approaching the room. He jerked his head up, froze, and listened.

  Anne swept into the library and stalked straight to the desk. Instinctively, Nicolas slipped behind the nearby door. There was a brown ledger in her hand.

  Setting the ledger on the desk, Anne pulled at the gold chain around her neck. A locket slid out of her bodice. She opened it, took out a key, and unlocked one of the desk drawers. Putting the ledger inside the desk, she relocked it, placing the key back in the locket.

  Transfixed, Nicolas watched as the gold pendant slid down her smooth skin into her bodice once more.

  Now there’s a hiding place worth exploring.

  Nestled between her soft breasts was the very item he needed. The very item he intended to get his hands on. He was about to have the key and the beautiful author. Dieu, he liked this mission more and more with each passing day.

  Nicolas stepped out from behind the door, hiding his smile.

  Anne looked up and started. “Nicolas . . .” she breathed. The breathless way she’d uttered his name made his heart hammer and his sac tighten.

  Clearly, she hadn’t expected to see him. It confirmed for him—just as he’d surmised—that she’d sent the trunk of books to his chambers for reasons other than to better acquaint him with his grandmother. She was trying to keep him busy—a clever parry on her part. She was attempting to elude him. Moreover, she was trying to avoid the sexual lure between them.

  There was no way he was going to let her.

  Nicolas stopped before the desk. His cock was already stiffened and eager. “I’ve startled you.”

  “No . . . well, yes. I thought . . .” She was adorably flustered. She wasn’t a giddy woman. She was educated, intelligent, and always poised, and he loved that he could fluster her. However, that she caused him to make missteps was something he didn’t find quite as appealing.

  “Rather . . . I didn’t see you there.” She bit her lip.

  Oh, how he was going feast on that pretty mouth. In fact, on her entire sweet, edible form until he got his fill.

  Before she left this room again, she was going to express, not avoid, her desire for him.

  “Was that your intrigue and adventure story you placed in the desk?” Nicolas kept his tone light, feigning mild interest.

  “No. It was simply an accounting ledger. Henriette often helps your grandmother with accounting matters. I was placing it there for her.”

  “I see.” He would see—the ledger and the rest of the contents of the desk. Later. After he had the key. And the woman before him. “It was very kind of you to send the trunk of books. Thank you,” he said.

  She formed a smile, donning a cordial mask. One he wanted stripped away. Her writings had given him a glimpse of the real Anne de Vignon. Definitely passionate. He wanted to see more. Know more.

  Sample some of that very passion firsthand.

  “You’re welcome. I hope you enjoy them as much as the Comtesse. You may discover you have more in common with her than you think.”

  Jésus-Christ, he hoped not. “Perhaps so. But I noticed that some books were missing. Ones I’m sure she loves.”

  Her delicate brows drew together. “Oh?”

  He held up the book still in his hand. “Like this one.”

  Anne pulled her gaze away from his handsome face to the brown leather v
olume. Her book of poems.

  “This is yours, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  In his dark blue justacorps and breeches, he looked so good. So tall and strong. So potently male. Was it possible that he looked even more beautiful today?

  “Why didn’t you add this to the trunk? Surely the Comtesse loves your work,” he said. “I doubt she’d be your patroness otherwise.”

  Her two volumes of poetry had been written when she was a different person. With whimsical ideas of love. Before Jules had disillusioned and disenchanted her.

  Both she and Henriette had had the misfortune of knowing love and its stinging effect.

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested in reading a book of love poems.”

  Something glinted in his eyes. “You’re right. I’m not interested in reading a book of love poems.” He sauntered around the desk. She watched his approach, heat flaring in her belly. He stopped beside her, his body all but touching hers, and handed her the book. “I’d like you to read it to me.”

  5

  Anne forced her gaze down to the book in her hands. It was a futile attempt to divert her attention and collect her wits. Maddeningly, she didn’t have to look at Nicolas to know he was there, every fiber of her being acutely aware of him.

  And, God help her, what he was doing to her . . .

  Her pulse raced. Her breasts felt achy, and her sex was slick. She was a mortifying mess. What irony—for a woman who wrote the stories she did. Who tried to embolden women and discourage this very sort of vulnerability.

  With his exceptional looks and charismatic comportment, Nicolas was just the kind of man who could sweep a woman off her feet, into his bed. And shatter her heart.

  She’d already been down that road.

  She’d never venture there again.

  And yet, as he stood close to her, all the warnings, all her good reasoning were being drowned by the powerful urges clamoring in her body. He tempted her. Sorely.

  She wasn’t naïve. She knew he was trying to seduce her. From the moment they met, all the signs were there. It was in his every look, every well-timed touch and well-practiced tone. Other men had attempted to stir her desire with similar tactics, but none had invoked her interest. Until Nicolas.

  She had no idea why this man called to her on such a carnal level. Especially since she’d been so dead inside for so long.

  Nicolas moved behind her. She felt his unmistakable erection against her bottom. Briefly, she closed her eyes. The light pulsing between her legs had just turned into a hungry throb.

  His arms slid forward, brushing along the sides of her waist. He opened the book in her hands, flipped a few pages, then murmured against her ear, “Read this one.”

  He removed his arms but the sensations remained in the wake of his touch.

  Anne scanned her verses, quickly realizing he’d selected one of the most provocative, amorously suggestive poems in the book. She’d forgotten just how fervid the ardor in her words was. How ardent she once was. There was emotional and physical yearning in every line.

  She felt a twinge of sadness as she realized how much she’d changed, resenting that she was revisiting old wounds—thanks to Nicolas. Her intuition told her he’d read some of her work and selected this very evocative poem intentionally. A purposeful strike at her pathetic weakened state. He might be a master of seduction, but she would not be played.

  But you want this . . . She shoved the thought away, trying to mute her base needs.

  Anne shut the book, tossed it onto the desk, and spun around to face him. It was time to put an end to this. She’d tried being polite. She’d tried keeping a distance. She’d even tried diverting his attention to keep him otherwise occupied by sending him his grandmother’s books. All to no avail.

  He might be her patroness’s grandson but he was overstepping his bounds and she was going to rein him in.

  “I know what you’re trying to do.” Her tone was firm, accusatory, yet her ire hadn’t diminished her fever.

  His face was unreadable, giving nothing away. “Oh? What am I trying to do?”

  Jamming her fists into her hips, she rose up onto the balls of her feet so that she was closer to eye level when she responded, “Bed me!”

  One dark brow rose, then his lips twitched as he held back a smile. He leaned in so that his mouth was mere inches from hers. “I know what you’re trying to do, Anne. Avoid me.” His warm breath made her lips tingle. “You’re afraid.”

  She dropped back down onto her heels. “Afraid? Of you? You jest.”

  “No, not of me. Of you. You want me and it frightens you. Admit it.”

  She gave a mirthless laugh. “Good Lord, you are conceited.”

  A slow, knee-weakening smile spread across his mouth. “No. Just observant. Your body betrays you,” he said with far too much smugness.

  She hated it that he was right. Her body was betraying her. This tormenting need and the moisture between her legs were the last things she wanted.

  No, the last thing you want is for him to “know” that you desire him.

  “If it’s bed sport you seek, I suggest you look elsewhere. I am not looking for a lover.” Her body railed at her words.

  “Why not? Do you already have one?”

  “That’s none of your concern.”

  “I’ll take that as a no.” He shook his head. “I’m amazed.”

  “At what?”

  “That such a beautiful woman has a cold, empty bed, and no one to fulfill her carnal yearnings”—her sex contracted, a fresh wave of arousal flooding through her—“especially when it is obvious that she’s so naturally drawn to sexual pleasures. I’ve read some of your work, Anne,” he said. “Those poems were written by a woman of passion.”

  “I told you, I wrote those poems a long time ago. I’m not the same woman.”

  “Yes, you are. Now that the mask of propriety has dropped, the real Anne de Vignon finally appears. Spirited and fiery—just as your writing suggests. At last I get to see the real you.”

  “And why do you care to see the real me?” No one had ever expressed such an interest. Certainly no man. And only after Jules had left had she finally seen that he didn’t care to know her either. “Why would it matter to you who I am?”

  He brushed a curl behind her ear. “I find you as intriguing as you are desirable.”

  “Really,” she responded blandly, though her fever spiked at his touch. “Please spare me your flowery words.” She’d heard enough of them from Jules to last three lifetimes. “You are wasting your efforts.”

  Anne turned to leave. He caught her wrist. She snapped her head around, ready to deliver up some hot words, when he stunned her into silence by pressing her palm to the bulge in his breeches. “You make me hard every time you walk into the room. I’m willing to admit how much I want you,” he said, his voice low, intoxicating. Anne fought back the powerful urge to tighten her fingers around him. Even through his breeches she could tell he was thick and lusciously large, bringing to sharp focus the void between her thighs aching to be filled, and that a lonely bed was waiting for her upstairs. “I’m not wasting my efforts as long as the desire is mutual. Your nipples are hard, Anne, and begging for attention. Your pulse is racing and you’re wet for me, aren’t you?”

  Wet? She’d soaked her caleçons.

  He grazed her palm up his length and squeezed her hand hard against him. She lost her breath.

  “Why not give in to the sexual pull between us?” he asked, releasing his hold of her hand. “It’s going to happen eventually.”

  Her body burned for him . . . Could she really do this? “You’re my patroness’s grandson.” She knew she was grasping for reasons. Dear God, she was still grasping his erection.

  She released him.

  In a quick fluid motion he picked her up and set her bottom down on the desk. She gasped and grabbed his shoulders. His hips were now suddenly wedged between her thighs. “That is no deterrence. Sh
e has nothing to do with this. She doesn’t own your body. You do. You’re a grown woman, Anne. It’s your decision to make. It’s just sex. Some shared physical pleasures.”

  He was right. Love was one thing. Physical pleasure quite another. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been any more successful with sex than she’d been with love.

  Nicolas could tell she wanted to surrender to him. She wanted to give in to the demands of her body. He was so close . . .

  Her procrastination was killing him.

  Slipping his hands around her, he gripped her soft derrière and pulled her closer, pressing her against his cock. A small sound escaped out of her throat the instant he’d come in contact with her sensitized clit. There were too many damn clothes between them. “Are you a virgin, Anne?” He could tell that her sexual experience was rather limited, but how limited, he didn’t know. “It’s all right if you are. I’ll leave you intact until you say otherwise,” he assured her. “There are still decadent delights we can enjoy.” He brushed his lips against hers. “Say yes, and we’ll begin right now.”

  The tip of his cock was wet with pre-come, his body screaming for release.

  Her hands slid down from his shoulders and fisted his justacorps at his chest, still indecisive.

  He ran his tongue along the seam of her mouth and lightly bit her bottom lip. “Say it, and I’ll make it worth your while.” Rolling his hips, he rubbed his length along her sex. This time she moaned, a long sultry sound. Oh, yes. That’s it. Mentally, he willed her to acquiesce. It took everything he had not to push her onto her back, shove her skirts up, and thrust into her. “Say yes . . . Do it . . . and we can indulge in some mutual gratification,” he added. Seigneur Dieu, he was practically begging.

  He’d never begged anyone for anything.

  She pulled back slightly. “Mutual gratification?” She was breathless and flushed. “That’s . . .” She swallowed. “That’s what men say, but . . . in truth . . . in the boudoir they take their pleasure. Then they take their leave.”

  Merde. What was Henriette filling her head with? “Not all men are the same. Some of us enjoy giving pleasure as well as receiving it. There’s nothing sweeter than a woman’s release.” Those spine-melting ripples along his thrusting prick when a woman came were exquisite, and something he’d never forgo. “It is a heady rush—empowering—to have someone desperate for you. Desperate for what you can give.”