The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

He stared.

  She grinned. “You ought to see my rendition of Calderón. I make death look real.” She curtsied and regally held out an open palm with the roll of her bare hand. “Might you offer an aspiring actress a few sols for her journey into stardom? It would be greatly appreciated.”

  He lowered his chin. “I only give money to those in need.”

  The cheeky bastard. “I am in need. I left the house without a single sol.”

  “And how is that my problem?”

  She dropped her hand to her side in exasperation. “I was hoping for a sliver of generosity. What else will you have me do? I sing. I dance. I also do a variety of impersonations. The only thing I will not do is bare my breasts or offer up sexual favors. However, if you insist, you may kiss my hand. But not with an open mouth or your tongue. I had a man once lick my hand and I swear I can still feel it.”

  An inexplicable look of withdrawal came over his face. “You and I are clearly at an impasse.”

  She pointed. “You really ought to work on that comedy routine. You are far too serious in nature.”

  He leaned back against his saddle, still staring her down. “What the hell is this? A forest and a show? Are you lost?”

  She puffed out a breath. “I dare not say it, but I could be. I have been walking for over two days now following signs that appear to be misplaced. I am trying to get to Paris.” She held up her basket and brightly offered, “I have apples. Might I barter a few in exchange for directions? Or maybe even a ride?” Still smiling, she enthusiastically patted the sleek, soft neck of his horse with one hand, while still holding the basket up. “He is so magnificent. I can barely breathe in his presence.”

  He edged his hand away from where she had been patting the horse. “Are you referring to me or the horse?”

  She rolled her eyes. “And I thought I was conceited. Not to insult you or your glorious steed, but I intend to own something far more exotic once I rise into the glory of fame I deserve.”

  He said nothing.

  “I intend to own a zebra,” she added conversationally. “’Tis an African white horse with black stripes. I was fortunate enough to glimpse a sketch of one in an old gazette I was wrapping meat in. No one ever sees those pulling a carriage on the street. Which got me thinking about publicity. Every actress ought to have a definable persona that will separate her from the masses. And a zebra will do that and more. I can imagine it already. A black lacquered carriage whose interior is lined with red velvet being drawn by not one, not two, not three…but four zebras! Everyone would elbow each other and line the street just to watch me wave. And if I put my full name on the side of that carriage, they would even follow me straight to the theatre. Brilliant, non?”

  His aloofness showed on his face. “I have a conscience, ma biche, so permit me to give you some advice.” Ignoring the basket she still held up, he rigidly leaned down toward her from within the saddle and rumbled out, “Go home. Paris does not need another penniless country girl trying to get famous. You will only end up whoring yourself out of desperation once you realize the stage pays nothing. Is that what you want? Because that is what awaits you. Acting, whoring, the pox, blaming everyone for your demise, followed by a quick death. If you are fortunate enough to die quick, that is.”

  He was clearly not an optimist.

  She gave him a withering look, lowering her basket. “I have much bigger plans and I can assure you, they do not include whoring myself to a man. If I wanted to do that, I could have easily stayed in Giverny. And whilst, yes, I often barter with men for whatever I need, my stage career comes first. I intend to be the next Mademoiselle Raucourt.”

  “I certainly hope not. That woman is a whore. And not a very nice one at that.”

  She glared. “How dare you insult the greatest actress in all of France?”

  He lifted a brow. “How the hell do you think she became great?”

  She gasped. “I am not about to listen to your vile gossip. I happen to like her. Ambition amongst females should be trumpeted not slapped.” Swinging away, she adjusted the heavy basket, wishing she hadn’t picked so many apples and trudged onward. “I will find my own way to Paris, merci. Whore myself, indeed. I have yet to find a man worthy of it. All you apes ever think about is food, wine and poom-poom.”

  He paused from adjusting his felt hat. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  Why did no one ever get it? “Sex. It sounds exactly what it looks like. Poom-poom.”

  A cough escaped him. “Are you saying you have done such things?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No. I have ten brothers under the age of eighteen. The eldest of them, at seventeen, is already engaged to one of the girls in the village due to his inability to control the stick between his now hairy legs. I caught Benoit with his bare arse in the air, grunting like the pig that he is. Not a pretty sight. Whilst my parents? Those two lusty rabbits have made their bed squeak so much over the years, there are visible grooves in the wood floor that will soon take them and the entire bed to China.”

  A laugh, low and deep and well-amused, escaped him. “I uh…thank you. I needed that. I have not laughed in…a long time.” He slowly trotted his horse after her and eyed her, amusement lighting his eyes. “I wish to be of assistance, my dear. Whatever you need, it is yours. How can I help?”

  Oh, now he cared. She eyed him in exasperation. “Service I can do without. What I need is money. I hear Paris is expensive.”

  “Unfortunately, yes. It is. You would never survive it.”

  She sighed. “How much would you be willing to give to a girl for free?”

  Half-smiling, his voice turned to velvet. “If you answer a few questions about yourself, I promise to be incredibly generous.”

  “How generous is generous?”

  “Enough to make you faint.”

  She quirked a brow. “You are quite the lawyer. So be it. Ask whatever questions you have. Do, however, keep them civil. No gown or corset sizes.”

  His mouth lifted. “What is it with the bare feet? Where are your shoes? Do you not own any?”

  She was getting paid for this? Life was sometimes too easy to warrant breathing. “Of course I have shoes. You see?” She gestured toward the satin slippers peering out of the basket. “Shoes.”

  “How kind of you to let your basket wear them.”

  He was beginning to annoy her. “My basket is wearing them because I happen to prefer dirty feet over blisters. So leave off.”

  “I was teasing.”

  “Were you also teasing about Mademoiselle Raucourt when you insulted her? I met her once outside a theatre she performed in when I visited my cousin in Paris years ago. She was very gracious and even tossed coins to those less fortunate.”

  He paused. “Appearances can be deceiving. Two summers ago, Mademoiselle Raucourt seduced and broke a good man I once knew. He was a struggling carpenter who committed suicide over her by drinking an entire bottle of some concoction he bought at the apothecary. And the worst of it? She did not even bother to attend his funeral. In my opinion, you women are heartless.”

  She winced. Apparently, her idol was quite the cold tart. Eck. “How awful.”

  “It was. For him, anyway.”

  This one was quite the philosopher.

  He continued trotting his horse alongside her. “How old are you?”

  What she did for money. She gave him a pointed look despite him being up on his horse. “My mother tells me I have been forty since the age of five, which puts me at about…oh…fifty-eight- years-old.”

  He thrust out his unshaven jaw and lifted his gaze to the heavens as if asking for patience.

  She smirked, weighing those rugged features in between her own steps. My, my. She never thought a man was capable of being so well-muscled and physically perfect. And yet this one was.

  Whilst he very much looked like a man, he also looked a touch young. Definitely not in his thirties. “I am eighteen,” she offered, sensing she had teased him
long enough. “How old are you?”

  He snapped his gaze back to her. “I am one and twenty.” He trotted the horse even closer. “Which makes me your elder.”

  Was he bragging?

  There was a heightened strain to his tone. “Where are you from?”

  “Giverny.”

  “And you walked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Giverny is over twenty pied du roi in distance.”

  “I know. Believe me, I know. My feet keep reminding me of the distance.”

  His brows came together. “What are you doing out here alone? Who are your parents? What are their names?”

  She sighed and kept walking. “At this rate, forget paying me. Because I have to get to Paris or my cousin might very well give my lead to another. And then where will I be? The theatrical debuts in three days. Three. Which means…I have to be in Paris by tomorrow nightfall at the latest. I have knee-high skirts to be fitted into.”

  “Knee-high skirts?” He shifted in his saddle and let out a whistle between straight teeth. “You certainly are ambitious. I foresee great things for you in the back of some man’s carriage.”

  She put up a hand. “I have officially ceased listening to anything you are saying. If I choose to show off my legs, at whatever price I set, that is my business, not yours.”

  Dismounting with the swing of his long leg, he landed with a heavy thud onto the ground behind her. “You and those legs became my business the moment you stopped me.” He stalked after her and snapped out a gloved hand. “Give me your basket. You and I are going to talk.”

  She turned and lifted an astounded brow. “Have we not been talking?”

  “Only superficially.” Still holding out his hand, he wagged the tips of his fingers. “Give me your basket. I want see what you have in it.”

  She scrambled back, swinging her basket away. “’Tis none of your business what I have in it. Off with you!”

  He lowered his gloved hand, the tails of his coat whipping around his muscled frame.

  Drops of rain spattered her face. “I believe you owe me money.” She presented a hand. “I expect to faint the moment those coins touch my hand.”

  His features and tone hardened. “You are wandering a forest alone without any shoes, are asking me for money and look like you have been sleeping in hay for days. What sort of trouble are you in? Are you on your own? Or did someone hire you to intercept me?”

  She pulled in her chin. “Intercept you? What are you— If you must know, my parents engaged me to a horrid man twice my age and I had no choice but to leave. Unfortunately, I got lost and here I am.”

  His gaze slid to her breasts for a moment, causing him to scratch at his chin. He met her eyes. “Are you wanting to travel with me?”

  The perusal of her breasts aside, she was beginning to wonder if she should trust him. She gripped the basket. “That depends on who you really are. I assume given your casual approach to visually molesting my breasts, coupled with your impeccable use of language and expensive firearms, you must be a merchant of some sort.”

  “No. I am not bourgeoisie. I am well above it.”

  Well above it? There was nothing above bourgeoisie. Nothing except for…

  Her eyes widened. “Are you saying you are of the elite?”

  “Yes.”

  “As in a real aristocrat?”

  He widened his stance. “Yes. As in a real aristocrat.”

  Not good. His kind didn’t like her kind anymore than her kind liked his kind. “That would certainly explain the sour demeanor, the weapons, the mask and an attempt to wear outdated clothing. Are you in hiding?”

  “No. I am merely travelling back from an….engagement.”

  “That required a mask?”

  He swiped at his mouth in agitation. “You are clearly on to me. So what happens next? What should we do about each other?”

  Thérèse hesitated. Either he was not used to making friends or he was not used to people at all. “You appear to be under duress, and while I completely understand, there is no need to take that duress and fling it at me. I share your distrust. This revolution went to muck the moment they started killing people. The things I have been hearing are enough to turn the stomach of even the devil. Did you know the Legislative Assembly oversaw the execution of two aristocratic young men barely a breath over twenty? And they were brothers, no less. It was all maliciously done on the side of a road as opposed to a courtroom, which is how things ought to be done. Even worse, these poor aristos had more than their toes sliced off. They were shot and hanged like animals merely because they tried to quietly leave the country. Did you hear of it?”

  He blinked rapidly, as if unable to comprehend what she was saying, and glanced away. “Yes.” Dropping his hand to his side, his tone darkened. “For a country girl, you appear to be incredibly well-informed on what is happening. Why is that?”

  She sighed. “My cousin Rémy is a bit of gossip. He lives in Paris and has been writing about the chaos since it started back in ‘89. He even joined in a few of the riots.”

  His expression grew tight with strain. “And knowing this, you still wish to go into Paris and perform for him? Knowing he is contributing to the mounting chaos?”

  Thérèse shrugged. “Better my cousin than what my parents have planned for me. Rémy is a good man and anything but violent. He only joined in on a few of the riots to show support and petition change. The theatre he manages was getting so heavily taxed by the Lord Mayor, he almost had to shut it down. The aristocracy owns countless theatrical venues of a similar nature and were never taxed. These wealthy bastards think they can—” Remembering who she was talking to, she cringed. “Forgive me. I was raised in a very opinionated and vocal household. There were thirteen of us and we never held anything back.”

  Hooking his thumbs against the pockets of his trousers, he bit out, “I can see that. Unfortunately, you are part of the growing problem in this country. All tongue but no mind.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He narrowed his gaze. “You swallow propaganda merely because you hear it or because it was written. Be it about a zebra or anything else, those gazettes and pamphlets are paid for and printed by people with a specific agenda. Remember that.” His tone hardened. “And while you insult my way of life by calling me a bastard, your gazettes and pamphlets are pushing the masses to violence in the name of overtaking what little remains of this country. Aristocrats are not the problem anymore. You people are.”

  No wonder the country was going to hell. If a man of privilege refused to acknowledge the struggles happening outside his golden gates, it would seem this revolution was just getting started.

  In truth, she wasn’t a staunch believer in the revolution. The idea of eliminating Sa Majesté was pointless. What would it change? Nothing. Because men in power equated to men in power. And said power would simply go on to yet another self-righteous prick who would only use the government like the devil paging through the bible looking for new words to tear out.

  But she understood why people were demanding change.

  They were out of hope. Much like she was.

  Knowing it was best to leave, for she was getting a bit too riled about their conversation, she edged back. “I suggest you aristos stop blaming the pamphlets and do something about the taxes and the food prices. Maybe then, your kind would be more respected. For without the respect of the people, what keeps us in place? Nothing. Propaganda is only ever allowed to fester when there is nothing left for the people to believe in. That may be why I am prancing off to Paris to be an actress. Because I have nothing left to believe in.”

  He said nothing.

  Thérèse offered him a theatrical bow. “Thank you for wasting my time. I bid you a very good day and ask that you stop following me.” She swung away and started walking again. Only faster.

  She almost hit her head against her own basket, unable to believe she had just delivered a political lashing to an aristocratic man
who had five rosewood pistols, a dagger and a sword.

  Not only did the blighter not pay her the money he promised, he continued to follow her.

  As if it were his right!

  “Maybe I ought to take you back to Giverny and marry you off,” he called. “That would certainly keep you out of trouble.”

  Her heart skidded. Oh, God. She had told him where she was from. Which meant—

  Thérèse broke out into a run, cradling her wicker basket against herself to keep everything within it from bouncing out.

  Determined booted feet thudded after her. “Why the hell are you running?!” he yelled.

  “Because I am not going back to Giverny! So you might as well start shooting with every pistol you have!” Her parents, who were as stubborn as she, would lock her in a room until she married Didier. And then she would find herself covered in his facial powder every single night for life. For life!

  Her heart pounded as she ran even faster. An apple bounced out. She frantically tried to catch it, but it rolled off to the side.

  “Mademoiselle, cease—” Rounding her with astounding speed, he blocked her path with his broad frame by skidding in before her. He grabbed her closest arm, yanking her to a halt that made them both stumble. “For mercy’s sake, arrêtez!”

  Thérèse jerked to a halt in exasperation and winced, knowing he wasn’t going to let her pass. She swallowed, her chest still heaving from the sprint she had attempted. She tore herself away from his grasp.

  There was only one thing left to do. Take to the stage. Like she always did.

  Forcing tears to streak her eyes in a well-practiced attempt to save herself, she choked out, “Please, Monseigneur. I…I beg of you not to insist.” She focused on ensuring her voice quivered just enough to sound real. “I am well aware of your superiority and apologize for my overly passionate words, but I cannot go back to Giverny and marry a man I do not love. It would ruin more than my heart. Is that what you seek to do? To take what remains of my insignificant life and fling me into perpetual misery? Would you be that cruel?” She would have let her lip tremble, but decided it would have been a bit much.