The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  Her heart popped. Dearest God. They were meant to meet!

  She shoved the book back at him, still on her knees, and frantically opened it to the first page, her hands almost trembling in excitement. “You have no idea how long I have waited to meet someone who can speak English.” She pointed at the book. “Might you translate a few words? Can you tell me if it is a romantic novel? One with a happy ending?”

  He searched her face.

  She tapped at the page. “Cease being a man and read it.”

  He took the book from her hands, still kneeling on the ground beside her, and glanced at the golden letters on the front leather binding of the book. “Candide: or The Optimist by Voltaire.” He edged it open. “’Tis actually a translation. I read this in French some time ago. It was quite good. I enjoyed it.”

  “Did you? What was it about?”

  He flipped to another page, where an array of words started the first line of the book. He silently read, his brows coming together.

  Thérèse leaned in, peering down at the page and then up at him. She waited.

  He continued reading intently in concentrated silence. Time passed. He rapidly blinked, then turned the page and read on.

  She elbowed him. “If you keep at it, you will read the whole book twice. What does it say?”

  He slapped the book shut and shoved it into her basket. “Allow me to sum up the story. It is all too much like real life. Candide’s love for Cunégonde propels him to abandon paradise, he commits murders in her name, avoids execution and when they can at long last be together, he no longer wants her.” He gave her a pointed look.

  Thérèse swallowed. After waiting years to learn about its contents, it appeared the happy couple had been carrying a foray of mockery.

  She veered her gaze away, grabbing up a dirt streaked gown and her cousin’s letter that held the address she was supposed to travel to. “So much for marital secrets,” she grouched. “And yet again, another male writer rips apart the glory of love and happy endings in a book. What do you men have against love and happy endings anyway?”

  He lifted his gaze to hers, an arrested expression settling onto his rugged features. His square jaw tensed visibly. “Nothing. We simply recognize that they can be dangerous to a man. It gives him too much hope, and some men need more than hope. They need a full guarantee.”

  She swallowed. That was certainly a confession she did not expect.

  His brow creased. “So this is, in fact, real. You really are heading to Paris to be an actress.”

  She blinked. “Yes, of course. What— Was there any doubt?”

  “A part of me was worried you had been hired by the gendarmerie nationale.”

  The…oh. Oh! “No. I…no, no, no. I…no. I would never work for men like that. Not given all the murders and the butchering they do. I am nothing more than an aspiring actress trying to get to Paris.” She poked at each cheek to emphasize how real she was. “See? Nothing nefarious here.”

  He intently searched her face, his masculine mouth softening. “Your appearance into my life is unprecedented.” His steel blue eyes smoldered as if he were finally introducing her to who he really was. “Do you know how many times I kept thinking I was going to die? And how every person that crossed my path only brought me closer to death? Do you know what that does to your mind?”

  Her throat ached.

  He hesitated and leaned in, searching her face. “Kiss me.”

  And she thought she was overly forward in nature.

  She leaned far back and awkwardly patted his unshaven cheek none too lightly, more than forgiving him given his mind did not appear to be in the right place. “If I were madly in love with you, I would most certainly let kisses and far more happen. But given we just met...you know...a girl has to have standards.”

  The wind scattered some of his hair against his forehead. He placed an apple and a folded, muddy gown into her basket. He said nothing.

  His self-effacing silence pinched her given his earlier words of others wanting him dead. “Are you all right?”

  He lifted his gaze to hers.

  The pulsing disquiet in those striking eyes punched her. It was as if he were recovering from seeing something no man should have seen. She leaned toward him. “What is it?”

  He only held her gaze.

  Good Lord. What had this man been through?

  Leaving the basket on the ground, she stood and brushed off her skirts. She hesitated and held out her hand. “Come. Get up off the ground.” She scanned the split apples whose inner pieces were mashed into the ground and rolled her eyes. “Leave the rest of the apples. Sadly, they are too damaged.”

  He jumped onto his booted feet, startling her. Grabbing her outstretched hand, he kissed it with warm lips and then yanked her rigidly close, squeezing her hard.

  She froze, her cheek mashed against that hard, muscled chest and linen. The scent of his cologne pierced her astounded breath. Her pulse roared. “The hand was meant to help you up, you know. Not…this.”

  He only tightened his hold and rubbed her shoulders. “Let a man be happy knowing he is alive and in the presence of a beautiful woman who is going to change his life. Or rather, my life. I have plans for us, ma biche. Plans.”

  She didn’t know whether to be flattered or worried.

  Glancing at his horse, he let out a quick whistle through his upper teeth and gestured toward the smashed apples. “Have at it,” he prodded. “You have earned it more than I, my friend.”

  The horse eagerly moved forward, dipped his head toward the pieces and slopped each piece off the dirt road with oversized lips.

  Thérèse tried not to get comfortable in those muscled arms that continued to boldly hold and rub her as if she were his to rub and hold. Especially after his talk of plans. She wanted to be an actress first, mistress last. Or at least second. But definitely not first.

  She edged herself out of Gérard’s firm grip after a few leaning tugs. “Might you…?”

  His large fingers finally, though barely, released her hand.

  Stepping back, she puffed out an exasperated breath. His intensity still pulsed against her skin, and his cologne had practically rubbed itself into more than her pores. Watching the horse noisily chew, she tried to lighten the mood. “Look at that. Country dining at its finest.”

  “Thérèse.” That low voice broke with huskiness. “Come here.”

  Unadulterated and uncensored need reverberated from that deep voice beside her.

  Veering her astounded gaze to his, she sensed he wanted her back in his arms.

  She swallowed.

  Slipping his hand into the leather purse attached to the belt of his waist, he dug out everything in it. He held out a sizable stash of two-Louis gold coins, displaying well over twenty in the palm of his glove. “I believe I owe you money.”

  Her eyes widened. Holy— Those coins had to be worth about a thousand livres. A thousand! Heavens, those coins could have easily sustained her entire family of thirteen and a few neighbors in Giverny for a whole year.

  So much for him being poor.

  She eyed him. “I get to keep all of it?”

  He edged it further out. “This is just the beginning.” His expression stilled. “I need you to be completely and utterly devoted to me and only me. In return, whatever you desire, I will ensure you get.”

  Every inch of her skin turned to fire. He was asking her to be his mistress.

  Whilst a part of her wanted to be offended enough to smack him so hard all of his dead ancestors would feel it whether they were in heaven or hell, she sensed whatever this man had been through warranted this idiocy and her leniency.

  She stepped back, ensuring her tone was firm. “I understand my forward nature might have led you to believe you could make an offer of my person, but I am not that sort of woman.”

  His steel blue eyes held hers. “Us being lovers is only a breath of what I want. I need you for something more.”

  Her breath h
itched, and she found herself extremely conscious that unlike other men, this one wanted to control far more than her body. He wanted control over her mind. As if he didn’t trust her mind.

  He tossed the coins he was still holding into her basket, announcing they were in agreement.

  She eyed him in riled exasperation. “No. No, no, no. What are you— Take it back! I am not— Even for a full thousand, I am not kissing you.”

  He stared. “Then we will do everything else.”

  Thunder cracked again, startling her as much as his words.

  A downpour of cold rain rustled its way through the trees, soaking her. Feeling water trickling down her hair, forehead, nose and cheeks, she glowered up at him. “I thought you had a talk with the rain.”

  He dragged back wet strands of dark hair from his eyes. “Maybe the rain and I made arrangements to ensure you stayed.” Slowly removing his coat again, he draped it over her head and leaned in, adjusting it onto her with a firm tug. His gaze dropped to her lips. “Do you trust me?”

  She peered up at him, trying to throttle the fluttering in her stomach knowing he was looking at her lips and using the rain and his coat as an excuse to kiss her. “No. Not really.”

  He searched her face. “I do not trust easily myself. But if we could make this work, if we do this right, I foresee us doing great things for the world.”

  She swallowed. “What sort of things?”

  Dragging in a ragged breath, he edged in closer, his body pressing into her.

  Her pulse pounded.

  He brushed his masculine lips across her forehead, grazing the warmth of his own lips against the moisture of the rain that had cooled her skin.

  She swayed, unable to even resist.

  His chest rose and fell unevenly. Slowly removing his gloves, he tucked them into her basket, revealing calloused hands that clearly did not belong to an aristocrat but a man who dug himself into real work. Holding her gaze with rising intensity, he cupped her face, pressing his large fingers into her skin with silent urgency.

  She almost dropped the basket, but her trembling hand managed to hold on to the wicker handle. Her breaths mingled against his while the rain continued to gently fall around them.

  It was like a dream. Unreal.

  He dragged his hands down her throat to her bodice. Lowering his gaze, he tugged the bodice down just above her nipples, exposing the upper full rounds of her breasts.

  She stilled in disbelief of what she was letting him do.

  He bent his dark head and kissed each top, lingering with the heat of his lips. He dragged his lips from one to the other.

  Her skin felt so hot, she wanted it to rain harder. Her head lulled back in complete submission as the cool, misting rain overwhelmed her heated senses.

  The tip of his rigid hot tongue traced the dip between both breasts. His hands dragged her skirts and petticoats up just enough to let the heat of his bare hand touch the skin of her thigh.

  Her chest heaved as she leveled her head, waiting for that hand to drift toward her inner thigh.

  He hesitated, making no attempt to hide that he was now watching her. Holding her gaze, he released her skirt and slid her bodice back up, his large fingers grazing her breasts beneath the fabric of her gown. “As you can see,” he breathed out, “lust is as equally powerful as any love. Did you give in to me, ma biche, because you loved me? No. But it certainly felt like it, did it not?”

  Their eyes locked as their breathing came in unison.

  Her throat tightened. For the first time in her life, she had no words. None. He had erased them with but a touch and pointed out something she was too stunned to admit. That he was right. She had indeed allowed lust to choke out everything she thought she had wanted out of a man. She had let him touch her and tongue her breasts even though she did not…love him.

  Stepping back, he smoothed the flap of his breeches that displayed a thick erection beneath. “Pardon the uh…display.” He turned and guided his horse off the road.

  Thérèse staggered.

  Removing the blanket from his saddle, he tucked it beneath his arm and wove into the canopy of low hanging branches. He bent far forward, to fit beneath the thick, green foliage, and laid out the blanket.

  Falling onto it with a breath, he leaned back on both elbows, crossing his boots at the ankles and held her gaze. “Are you coming?”

  An explosive current zipped through her, making her knees wobble. This one was a smooth lover of women. So smooth silk poured right out of his nostrils. “Uh…no. I…no. We should try to head to Paris. It may rain all day.”

  “I cannot afford to get my satchel drenched.” He patted the space beside him, his gaze never once leaving hers. “Come. I want you here.”

  “No. I prefer getting wet.”

  “You already are.” Setting both hands behind his head, he stretched fully onto his back, broadening his frame and stared up at the canopy of leaves above him. “Come, ma biche. I want to talk to you. I have a proposition.”

  Oh, yes. Like that was reassuring given they were alone in the forest.

  Thérèse glanced down the narrow path of trees, both before her and behind. There wasn’t even a field or an opening in sight. She would be running blindly into a thicket. In bare feet.

  Thunder rolled. The rain now came down harder through the branches above the path, soaking her and the coat she held over her head. She winced against the onslaught of heavy drops that angled in past the coat. Her cold feet now miserably stood in a large puddle of what would soon be a large river of mud. She groaned.

  It was as if this aristocrat had indeed conspired with the weather.

  God had to be a man. There was no other explanation for the amount of torture the Lord put a good woman through. She paused and eyed Monsieur Aristocrate. “Tell the rain to stop.”

  Smoothing a large hand over the curve of his unshaven jaw, he flicked his gaze to her gown. “Why would I do that? In a few moments, I will be blessed to see everything beneath the fabric.” He hesitated. “Cease being stubborn and come here.”

  She sighed. There was no sense in being stupid.

  Better to be seduced by a gorgeous half-god than end up dead from pneumonia.

  Cradling her basket, while keeping his heavy coat in place over her head, she frantically hurried toward him, dodging branches. Rounding his booted feet, she settled herself next to him beneath the thick canopy that was surprisingly cozy. She set her basket aside, just off the blanket, shook out her wool stockings and hitched up her skirts to her knees and yanked on a stocking.

  He leaned toward her on a propped elbow, his gaze skimming her legs.

  She paused. “Did I invite you to look?”

  He shifted his jaw, still perusing her legs. He reached out and dragged a finger down her exposed calf.

  She almost fainted against the unexpected caress, her thighs and knees instinctively pressing together. Heart pounding, she smacked his hand. “What are you doing?” she rasped.

  He lifted his gaze to hers, tilting his dark head. “I know you felt it. You closed your thighs.”

  Her breath hitched. Dearest God. She was going to end up pregnant by the end of this night. “I felt nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

  She finished yanking up her other stocking and folded her skirts back over her legs in an effort to save herself. She bundled her skirts around herself tighter. “Despite what I allowed you to do earlier, I suggest you not get any ideas.”

  He searched her face.

  Thérèse pinched her lips together and stared out into the forest, listening to the rain rustling through. She had encouraged this overly amorous libertine by letting him yank her bodice down in the middle of a forest and lick her almost to the nipples. Not even days out of Giverny and she was already a strumpet.

  He shifted closer and peered up at her.

  She ignored him and shifted away, fully aware she was already on the edge of the blanket.

  Leaning in, he scraped his lower teet
h against the sleeve of her slightly damp gown.

  Her body trembled from heightened awareness. She pressed her knees together to ensure they didn’t fall open.

  He nudged her with his chin. Twice.

  Lord save her, he was acting like an animal seeking attention. “I am not doing this.”

  “Why not?” He reached over her and gripping her waist, hoisted her up and toward him. “We are beyond attracted to each other, and you know it.” Setting her onto his lap, he intently held her gaze and wrapped each of her legs around his waist, forcing the heat of his large body against her own. “You and I met in this forest for a reason. Ask me what that reason is. Go on. Ask me.”

  His nearness and the intensity of those steel blue eyes and that rugged face made her so weak she almost just wanted to flop. “I…fate?”

  He shook his head from side to side. “No. Not even fate could have devised something as perfect as this.” Still holding her gaze, he dragged her skirts up higher. “If you help me, o darling actress of mine, I will help you. Say yes to me in what I want, and I will give you everything you ever wanted out of life. Everything.”

  Thérèse grabbed hold of his muscled shoulders hard, torn between wanting to stop him and wanting him to continue so she could thoroughly explore this fabulous whole idea of ‘everything’. She was no fool. There was no such thing as getting everything in life, but this was fairly darn close to it.

  He was gorgeous. And…gorgeous.

  Deny it though she may, this was her definition of the ultimate fantasy. He was rich, muscled, beautiful, and he desperately wanted her. Not in that oh-look-at-what-I-can-do sort of way. But rather in a you-will-never-forget-me-for-life sort of way.

  Maybe, just maybe, she was about to become a strumpet.

  Tilting her head, she walked the tips of her fingers across his solid chest, trying to appear in control of what appeared to be a most promising situation. “Define everything.”

  He sensually rubbed her thighs as his full mouth drew near. “You can have zebras and velvet-lined carriages along with whatever you want or need. And if you want your own theatre with your name on it, with a script written for you and only you, I can make it happen by quietly tossing a few thousand at the right people. Théâtre Française is the most prestigious venue in all of France. I know half the people there, and they owe me more favors than I know what to do with. Give me a month, and you will be famous in three.”