The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  Gathering her skirts, she sashayed past. “I will meet you by the violins.”

  He mockingly inclined his head. “Get there before I do, ma biche, or there will be no pearls for you tonight.” His muscled frame dodged past and disappeared into the crowd.

  Someone was feeling playful tonight.

  Gathering her skirts, she darted forward and through the crowd, yelling, “Actress in need of pearls coming through! Do make way!” Thankful she wasn’t wearing a wig, for she knew it would have flopped off by now, she dogged left and right in her heels, determined to make it to the violins before he did.

  The sound of the violins drew closer as she frantically pushed her way through more and more people. She stumbled to a halt.

  He was already waiting with his hands in his pockets. “What took you so long?”

  She groaned.

  He tsked and held out a hand. “Not being able to admit defeat can be a serious problem.” He wagged his gloved fingers. “Come to me.”

  She held out her hand. “How about you come to me?”

  He captured her outstretched hand and yanked her close, his hand skimming across her back as he folded her within his arms. He pressed her tighter against himself, gripping her uplifted hand with one hand and setting his other hand on her corseted waist. “Thank you for being here tonight. I appreciate it.”

  “I wish I had been able to unearth more.”

  “We will. Be patient. We are doing everything right.”

  She glanced over the side of his broad shoulder.

  Couples around them trotted at a full arm’s length away, holding hands and abiding by the dance dictated by the violins.

  Gérard continued to merely sway them from side to side, searching her eyes, as if he didn’t care they were breaking dancing convention.

  She grinned up at him, trying to see past the slits of her mask. “You seem different. More at ease. I like it.”

  He shrugged and turned her once, swaying them from side to side again. “I find it rather nice to have someone I can rely on. It is not something I am used to.”

  Why did she want to melt against him for admitting he needed her? “I wish we could see each other more.”

  He searched her face. “We are always together. You are always in my thoughts.”

  She tightened her hold on his hand and shoulder. “Am I?”

  “Cease preening about it.”

  “When do I get my pearls?”

  He shifted his jaw. “Forget the pearls. We are dancing right now.” He rigidly pushed her backward with his upper and lower body as if to emphasize he was in control of what happened next. “I am beginning to believe I like you more than you like me. Am I wrong in that?”

  “Are you insinuating we get married?”

  “I doubt either of us is ready for that sort of commitment.”

  Her hand, which had been resting on the muscled bulk of his arm, skimmed toward his solid chest and his coat. “Then why talk about who likes who more?”

  He shrugged and averted his gaze, still swaying them.

  This man was so much more vulnerable than he wanted to let on. It squeezed her heart knowing it. She raised herself on her heeled toes and kissed the curve of his shaven jaw.

  He lowered his chin to better see her past his mask. “What was that for?”

  “I find vulnerability very attractive in a man.”

  He tightened his hold for a long moment, then released her. He leaned in. “How vulnerable do you need me to be? I can make it happen.”

  She bit back a laugh and shoved him.

  He grinned, grabbed her hand back and tugged her across the floor to join in on the faster dancing, releasing her to allow for each of them to dance with the people around them.

  Every now and then, in between the dancing, those incredible blue eyes would capture hers through the blur of music and her heart would flip at a speed even her feet couldn’t keep up with. Something tauntingly whispered that she had found her dance partner for life.

  He grabbed her hand again, his grin widening, and called out over the music, “Follow me out! Unfortunately, I have to go!” Releasing her hand, he effortlessly wove his way through the dancers and disappeared through the crowd.

  She was going to lose sight of him and who knew when she would see him again. Frantically gathering her skirts, she hurried after him only to bump into one of the dancing masked gentlemen. “Pardon me. I have to—”

  The gentleman jumped toward her and merrily grabbed her hand, dragging her back into the circle of dancing. He lifted his other hand in the air, leading them in time to the music. She stumbled and gaped, realizing that other arm appeared to be missing a hand at its laced cuff.

  She choked. How many men in Paris had stubs? A few, she supposed, but how many of them would be here tonight enjoying the revelry of the revolution as much as this one appeared to be?

  Why was it this revolution had to assault what she and Gérard shared? It more than irked her.

  This society wanted to seize everything. Including what wasn’t theirs.

  Jumping toward him, she grabbed the gentleman hard by the lapels of his black, embroidered coat and jerked him to a halt. “Pray give your name, monsieur.” She attempted to be polite. In case it turned out to be another man. “I wish to know.”

  He froze, his crow mask and its black feathers fluttering. “Begging your pardon, but I came with my wife.”

  She tightened her hold on that coat. “Only your name will result in the release of your coat.”

  He gritted his teeth and stiffly removed her hands from his coat. “I am Monsieur Poulin, a bourgeoisie tailor by trade. Does that answer your question?”

  She knew it.

  Stripping his mask, she tossed it to the other dancers surrounding them and stared the gentleman straight in those dark eyes that clearly had no soul. Angling toward him, she said loud enough for everyone on the dance floor to hear, “How it is you dare to celebrate our revolution as if you were one of us? You, Monsieur Poulin, are a disgrace to the bourgeoisie and all we represent. From my understanding, you whored your own wife to an aristocrat for ten thousand livres after asking for a half a million. No paltry sum.”

  People stopped dancing. Some turned toward them and stared. Others whispered and removed their masks to better see the man.

  Oh, yes. Gossip was a dagger and this one had earned it.

  Poulin’s dark eyes widened. He glanced toward the floor to find his mask, edging back. Unable to find it, he glared. “The aristocrat you speak of, Madame, was nothing but a vile scoundrel who forcefully seduced and raped my wife. And when I bloody sought to defend her honor, this was done to me. This!” He shook the stub at her.

  She narrowed her gaze, knowing full well her Gérard would never force himself on a woman. “You are a liar and not at all one of us. You sought to better your circumstance at the cost of another whilst letting your fellow bourgeoisie suffer. Why did you not offer a single sol of the ten thousand you swindled to help the revolution? Are you not in support of our cause?”

  Various men now angled in, removing their masks, one by one.

  A young man in a queue squinted and stepped past her toward Poulin. “I represent the new Convention we are openly celebrating tonight, monsieur. I was voted in three days ago and find this conversation might require closer attention.” He wagged his gloved fingers, signaling a few other gentlemen to join in. “By law, if funds were taken from an aristocrat, it belongs to the Republic. As such, we wish to see all ledgers pertaining to your finances and will make an appointment to do so this week.”

  Poulin scrambled back.

  A masked brunette scurried toward them and frantically grabbed at the arm of Monsieur Poulin. “Say nothing more,” the woman begged. “Do not engage it!”

  This went even better than planned. She was done here.

  Inclining her head to all of them, Thérèse regally pushed back her skirts away from her feet and swept her way off the dance flo
or. A few months in prison for a man who had vilely swindled Gérard and whored his wife seemed exceedingly fair.

  She paused, realizing Gérard was lingering on the edge of the dance floor a few feet away. A muscle quivered in his clenched jaw right beneath his half-mask.

  She cringed knowing she had probably made a much bigger scene than his private affair warranted. It was the actress in her. She quickly walked past him but said nothing knowing it would be no different than announcing to everyone that the man behind the zebra mask was who she had sought to defend.

  Hopefully he wasn’t too upset. She had been overseeing his honor. Surely, he would—

  Gérard weaved in from behind and grabbed her arm hard, now directing their pace faster toward the back entrance of the hall. His fingers dug into her arm tighter and tighter. “Remind me to never leave you alone for five minutes.”

  She winced and out of the side of her mouth offered, “Did I overdo it?”

  He leaned in. “Everything you ever do is overdone. Now move. We have to go. Lest they damn well want your name on record. Move.”

  She almost broke into a run.

  He jerked her back hard, tightening his hold. “Fast but not that fast, dearest,” he drawled. “Or you will draw attention.”

  Leading them out of the great hall and down the corridor faster, her slippered heels clicked rhythmically with his boots across the marble floor.

  Fast but not too fast, she chanted to herself.

  They soon headed out through a side entrance and into the night that was still warm from the heat of the day. A breath escaped her.

  She glanced up at his towering frame, trying to keep up as they left the light and noise of the festivities behind and headed down a cobble stone path toward a long line of hackneys whose seats were lopsided from overuse. “Are you angry?”

  “Let us not discuss this on the street.” Lifting a gloved hand, Gérard let out a whistle through his teeth, causing one of the hired hackneys to stop a few feet past them. He hurried them forward, leaned forward and yanked open the side door leading to the hackney. “After you.”

  She scrambled up the iron step and in. Flopping herself onto the frayed seat, she pushed aside the debris of pamphlets left by the last person.

  “Forty Rue Saint Martin!” Gérard called out before getting in and slamming the door behind his large frame.

  She eyed him, realizing they were going back to her new flat. “My cousin is still back at—”

  “He knows the city and will be more than fine.” As the hackney pulled away, Gérard yanked all the patched curtains shut over each side of the window, only allowing a sliver of light to come in from the lantern hanging on the side of the window. “Move over.”

  “What are you—”

  He wedged himself between her and the hackney wall of the window. His arm jumped around her. Leaning in, he stripped her mask and his, tossing them both onto the seat. Gripping her outer shoulder hard with one hand, he used his other hand to smooth her hair, his shadowed face hovering close. “Why did you do that?”

  She swallowed and searched his face, those eyes barely visible in the shadows. The heat of his hands, his body and his mouth made it difficult for her to breathe. “He earned it.”

  His gloved fingers dragged its way across her cheek and then her throat. “I am not arguing with you in that. I know he earned it.” He skimmed the tips of his fingers across the tops of her breasts. “What I am asking is why you did it?”

  Half-breaths escaped her. “I have a very strong sense of justice.”

  He flicked her ear with a finger. “If you think I believe that, ma biche, you are delusional. Your sense of justice includes getting paid. And I did not pay you to do that.” He leaned in closer and used the tip of his tongue to trace her lips. “Tell me why you did it. Say it.”

  She felt faint as she reveled in the feel of that hot tongue. She wasn’t ready to admit to him or herself that she wanted him outside of their alliance. She angled her mouth toward that tongue, drawing it into her mouth.

  He broke away. “Why did you do it?” he pressed.

  She slipped her arms around his broad shoulders and draped her legs over his. She sighed. “Because I feel like everyone around us is against us. Their ideals are not ours.”

  He raked his fingers through her hair, tightening his hold on it. “Ours? Are you admitting we share in something more than attraction?”

  This conversation was getting serious. “I suppose I am.”

  He lingered. “Reach into the left side of my inner coat pocket.”

  She paused and slipped her hand past the warmth of that solid chest she could barely see and slid her hand into the pocket.

  His chest rose and fell unevenly against her, but he didn’t move.

  Her fingers grazed what felt like bundled velvet. She grasped it and pulled out the heavy bundle. The sound of sifting pearls made her eyes widen.

  “Anything you want, you get,” he said in a husky tone. “As promised.”

  She clutched it to her chest in disbelief, knowing she was actually holding a set of pearls. Real pearls. Something her own mother could have never afforded. She searched his face. “Thank you. This is—” She pressed her lips to his mouth and lingered before saying against him, “I am a butcher girl no more. And I thank you for that.”

  He edged away. Taking up her mask, he set it against her face, tying the lace ribbon back into place. “There is no shame in being a butcher girl, you know.”

  She rolled her eyes. “There is if you are one. Chickens fear me. I always felt very conscious about that.”

  He tsked and tied his own mask on and lingered. He nudged her. “Open it.”

  She excitedly unraveled the strings holding the velvet fabric closed and pulled it apart. Pulling out the string of pearls by the tips of her fingers, she raised the entire length of her arm and hand toward the ceiling of the hackney. The string of glistening white pearls continued to unravel out of the small satchel well beyond what she could hold up. Her lips parted in disbelief as she wound the pearls around her hand several times in an attempt to get it all out. It kept rustling and rustling out like a never-ending parade.

  The end finally swung out and swayed.

  In awe, she draped the heavy pearls over her head, looping it several times around her throat, before letting the rest fall well past her waist. Holy God. She pressed a quaking hand against it, not even wanting to know how much it cost him. “Was it terribly expensive?”

  He leaned over and yanked open each curtain to let in more light. “Yes. Terribly.”

  She frantically grabbed his face and kissed him. Once. Twice. Thrice. “You are the most amazing man I have ever met! Thank you!”

  A gruff laugh escaped him. “Wait until you see the diamonds. They are being cut for you as we speak.” He leaned in closer, until their noses and masks were touching. “I never had a woman defend my honor before.”

  The hackney came to a halt, causing their heads to bump.

  They winced.

  The driver called out, “Forty Rue Saint Martin!”

  Gérard glanced toward the limestone building beyond the window. “How do you like your new living quarters? Is it acceptable?”

  “I about fainted,” she gushed. “I have a bed the size of a field all to myself. I keep rolling and rolling and never seem to be able to fall off. ’Tis marvelous. And there is so much beautiful furniture all over the place, I keep trying to sit on everything just so I can say I used it.”

  He smirked. “Good. If you need anything else, let Naudet know. In about another two weeks or so, you should be starting over at Théâtre Française. I am finalizing a few sizable payments to the owner.” He kissed her gloved hand. “I am afraid I must bid you adieu.”

  Life was so unfair. She searched his masked face. “When will I see you again?”

  “Not for some time.”

  Her heart dropped. “Why not?”

  “The less we associate, the less lik
ely people will suspect anything.”

  She softened her voice. “Is that the only reason?”

  He touched her cheek, skimming his fingers toward her throat. “If we go any faster, we might ruin this.”

  Leaning into that hand, she half-nodded. “Maybe you are right.”

  “Forty Rue Saint Martin!” the driver called in agitation, his boot hitting his seat. “Ey! Out and out already! Is someone going to pay me double for waiting?”

  Gérard rolled his eyes. “I swear this revolution is making people rude.” He rose and opened the door, jumping out. He extended a hand.

  She stood and grabbed his hand, stepping out of the hackney. Her pearls rustled against her movements, reminding her that she was no longer a butcher girl from Giverny. She was an actress, spy extraordinaire and her lover was third cousin to the king.

  Clutching the velvet satchel and her reticule, she reluctantly released that large, gloved hand. “Thank you for a lovely night. I really enjoyed dancing with you.”

  He inclined his head. “I will wait until you find your way inside.”

  She hesitated, knowing she had a whole flat to herself and no one in it. Maybe…? “Are you wanting to come upstairs?” she blurted, trying to be casual about it. “For tea or anything?”

  Gérard set his shoulders, no longer meeting her gaze. “No. I have to go.”

  She sensed that whatever was happening between them was overwhelming him. It was so darling. One would think they hadn’t even kissed. “I understand.” Digging out the key from her reticule, she turned and hurried to her door. She paused, biting back a smile knowing it was her door. Not her father’s or her mother’s or her ten brothers’. Hers.

  Unlatching the door, she pushed its weight open, stuffing the key back into her reticule and stepped inside, glancing back at him one last time. “Good night.”

  He inclined his head again. “You certainly made it such.”

  She smiled and put up a gloved hand.

  Turning, he paid the hackney with a few coins, then adjusted his evening coat around himself and strode off into the darkness of the night, his mask still in place.

  She leaned out, watching that tall, muscled figure stride down the pavement.