The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  Gérard was too numb to respond.

  Sade released him with a shove. “Get Laroche’s family ready to leave within the hour. You will leave shortly after they do with Lady Madeleine’s family.” His voice darkened. “One day, when you are old enough to see past the pain, you will be thankful.”

  Gérard rose to his feet and whispered, “I will never see past the pain. Ever. My godfather is dead, my father is dead, and now this?”

  No. He wasn’t ready to— Gérard flexed his hands and stalked to the door, banging it open.

  Shoving his trembling hands into his pockets, he jerked to a halt, his fingers grazing the garnet ring Thérèse had returned. He dug the stone into his skin, chanting to himself that she would forgive him. She would forgive him for putting his righteousness before her safety.

  Walking out into the night, he dragged in uneven breaths, trying to focus.

  If she truly loved him, she would forgive him. Because that is what people who truly loved each other did. They forgave each other.

  He only prayed her love was strong enough to save them both.

  An hour later

  In the corridor of an abandoned window-shattered building

  Setting down the lantern onto the warped floors at their feet, Thérèse shoved the large basket she was holding into Jacques’s hands. “Tell Andelot there is plenty of food and money for him and the Laroche family. His travelling papers are in the basket, as well. Give it to him. I will wait outside in the carriage. I have to get back to the house before Robespierre wakes up.”

  Jacques angled in. “Are you saying this Andelot is the father of your child?” he demanded. “That godforsaken aristo impregnated you and then left you to suffer scandal as if—”

  She gave him a withering look. “Whilst I am thankful for your assistance, Jacques, let us not complicate an already complicated night. You are here to assist the Laroche family out of Paris. You are not here to rescue me or my reputation.”

  He grabbed her shoulders hard. “Knowing he was the one who put you through having a child out of wedlock is…” He stared her down. “I will avenge you and your honor.”

  She yanked herself out of his grip and glared. “There is no honor to avenge. Leave him be. He has suffered enough. And despite him and I parting ways, I love him. I will always love him.”

  “What about me?” He angled toward her. “I at least have proven myself. Was I not the one to place myself before you when that bastard’s father—”

  “Jacques.” She swallowed, knowing he was still twisting that night into meaning more. “I hardly want to return to that night. How dare you speak of it?”

  He averted his gaze. “My only regret is that you cannot see past him.”

  “My only regret is that you continue to think we are more than friends.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. “I am still your servant. You know that.”

  “And I thank you for that, Jacques. These people are depending on you. Now please. Deliver the basket. I will leave the lantern here in the corridor for you.” Gathering her veil, she drew it over her head.

  Watching him disappear through one of the farthest doors leading into a small flat, she let out a shaky breath and hurried down the darkened corridor past half-open doors leading into abandoned, empty rooms that had once belonged to the haute ton.

  A dark figure loomed before her from one of the open rooms.

  She froze, realizing it was Gérard.

  His features were anguished. The faint light of the lantern in the corridor barely illuminated his blue eyes.

  She swallowed, knowing he had heard her entire conversation with Jacques. “I wish you a safe journey. May you cross the border before those papers expire.”

  Gérard’s riled intensity thrummed in the narrow corridor as he lowered himself onto one knee. He said nothing. He only kept kneeling, never once breaking their gaze.

  Her pulse roared, knowing he was asking her to leave with him. She quickly angled around him to pass.

  “No!” Gérard grabbed her arm hard, his bare fingers digging into her skin. Jumping to his feet, he yanked her into one of the abandoned, darkened rooms. Shoving her against the nearest wall, he then quietly shut the door with a soft click, drowning out all light.

  That strategic, overly soft closing of that door whispered of the storm he was holding within.

  It scared her.

  Plastered against the wall in complete darkness, her heart pounded knowing he planned on having the last word. Her vision was smeared with black.

  Although she could see nothing, she felt him draw near.

  He set a large hand on each side of her and leaned in close enough for her to smell the sting of brandy. “I am begging you to forgive me,” he rasped. “Forgive me for forcing you to do what you did.”

  “Forgiveness will not save you. You and I both know that. You need to let me go. Just as I am letting you go.”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Thérèse.” His voice cracked. “I love you.”

  “In time, you will come to love someone else.”

  He set his head against hers. “Never. Tell me I can come back for you. Tell me we are not done and I will come back and—”

  “No,” she choked out. She didn’t trust that he would leave. Or that he would wait long enough. “When I said we were done, I meant it.”

  He lifted his head. “Then you do not love me. You never loved me.”

  “If you think that, then you most certainly deserve what I am doing.”

  His voice darkened. “You have one of two choices. You either turn around and face the wall and let me hurt you in the way you are hurting me right now or you can kiss me and we forgive each other before we take this too far. You decide.”

  Her throat tightened. Why was it Robespierre did not terrify her half as much as Gérard did in this moment? Maybe because she knew of the flame that really burned within him. Kissing him and breaking both of their already broken hearts was not an option.

  If this was his way of letting her go, she loved him enough to let him do it.

  Wordlessly, she turned, her skirts rustling against his trouser-clad legs and faced the wall. She set her hands against his large ones, which still draped each side of her against the wall. “Do what you will,” she managed, her voice amplified given she was so near the wall. If she didn’t hurt him, he wouldn’t leave. And he had to leave. “I will never again be yours. You are a drunk and a liar.”

  His breaths became ragged in the silence as he continued to linger behind her, unmoving. He finally leaned in. “So you would rather endure the pain of living without me than forgiving me?”

  She closed her eyes, willing herself not to love him anymore if only to give him the chance at living a new life. One he did not want to take. “Pain is strength,” she whispered.

  He stilled. “Then I am about to test yours. In thirty years, I will make you cry. In thirty years, you will remember this fucking day and wish to God you would have chosen otherwise.”

  Removing his hands from beside her, the leather belt around his waist, the one holding his pistols, creaked as he unfastened it. “Are you ready to know real pain? The sort that will bring you to your knees?”

  She squeezed her eyes tighter, her limbs trembling as she leaned into the wall, readying herself for that belt to whip her.

  He set his belt and weapons at his feet with a loud clatter. Rounding her, he opened the door with a bang and left, his heavy steps disappearing down the corridor.

  In between uneven, astounded breaths, she opened her eyes and waited. She waited and waited in the darkness of the room that was barely illuminated by the lantern still sitting in the corridor.

  Realizing, he wasn’t coming back, she slid down the wall and let out an anguished sob. He knew. He knew that the greatest pain was not one delivered to the skin but one delivered to the soul. He was officially sentencing her to a life of living in pain without him.

  In thirty years, I will make yo
u cry. In thirty years, you will remember this fucking day and wish to God you would have chosen otherwise.

  May those thirty years never come.

  London, England – 1830

  The quaint little townhouse of Madame de Maitenon

  Life was so beautifully strange. It kept introducing her to so many misadventures she did not expect. Of course, it took a brilliant woman such as herself to keep up with all the drama knowing that her darling, bright-eyed granddaughter, Maybelle de Maitenon, was a far greater misfit than she had ever been at her age.

  Some things were inherited. Sadly.

  Thérèse waved away her overly stuffy, British butler and said in fluent, though heavily accented English, “We thank you for the cognac, Clive. You may leave us.”

  The butler inclined his balding head and stiffly walked out of the crimson parlor.

  Thérèse tapped the tray with a finger, intent on keeping her granddaughter from leaving the country. “Drink. And when you are done, I will hope your lips are loosened enough for us to discuss what it is you are doing with your life. Because your father, Henri, heaven rest his poor soul, was as stubborn as I and would have hardly wanted you to prance out into the world on your own or he would have never left you in my care. You know full well he and I only ever argued about my way of life but that in the end, we still loved each other.”

  Maybelle eyed the full glass of cognac, which had been set onto the gleaming surface of the walnut table before her, and heaved out an exasperated sigh as she sank into a chair, the curls of her gathered blonde hair quivering from the movement. “I take it there is no tea in the cupboards?”

  Thérèse rolled her eyes. Tea was not going to get them through this day. “Och. Tea. The English are overly obsessed with it.” They both needed something stronger given the state of their finances the poor girl did not know about.

  Rising from the settee she was draped against, Thérèse offered with theatrical flair, “We have every right to toast to all of our upcoming adventures. After all, you will finally get to visit your beloved Egypt, while I, I will finally have my School of Gallantry.” There. She said it.

  Maybelle paused. “Your School of Gallantry?”

  “Ah.” Thérèse bustled over toward the small writing bureau set in the corner of the parlor and snatched up a piece of parchment from atop a pile of correspondences. Turning, she bustled back again, her verdant skirts rustling. With a smile, she held out the sizable cream-colored parchment.

  Her granddaughter mutely stared at the parchment dangling before her.

  Still smiling, Thérèse grandly envisioned the words she herself had written a few months earlier when the idea first came to her. She needed money, after all, and British men were more than willing to give it when offered the right service.

  Madame Thérése’s School of Gallantry

  All gentlemen welcome.

  Learn from the most celebrated demimondaine of France

  Everything there is to know about love and seduction.

  Only a limited amount of

  Applications are being accepted

  at 11 Berwick Street.

  Discretion is guaranteed and advised.

  Maybelle gaped at the parchment with wide blue eyes but still said nothing.

  “Well?” Thérèse prodded, still holding out the advertisement. “What do you think?”

  Her granddaughter rose from her parlor chair and snatched hold of the parchment. “Our reputation is already limp. Why on earth do you feel the need to flog it to death? You promised Papa you’d never return to being a demimondaine. You promised.”

  There were some things one could not change, including one’s reputation that went back too many years to count. Whilst yes, she had entertained a long list of men in her lifetime given she had always wanted to believe there was a man worth loving out in that world, her name as a courtesan had always been far more exaggerated. Though…not by much.

  Whilst being scandalous was advantageous in keeping most of the world away, it became incredibly annoying when it drove away the very people one wanted to stay. Sadly, her own granddaughter had a tendency to think her love for sex equated to her love for money. And whilst she loved sex, yes, one did not need sex to survive. Money, on the hand, one needed to survive.

  Thérèse arched a silver brow. “This is not a return. I am merely selling techniques.”

  “Techniques?” Maybelle smacked the parchment with the back of her hand. “It’s ludicrous. What man would ever admit to needing lessons in seduction? You of all people should know that it comes natural to men.”

  What little this girl knew. “Does it? How odd. I suppose the thirty men who have already enlisted are merely looking for entertainment.” Thérèse plucked the advertisement back and smoothed the edges of it.

  “Are we having trouble with our finances?” Maybelle prodded. “Is that it?”

  Oh, dear. She couldn’t let the girl know their finances had been a mess long before she arrived into England. Spoiling a grandchild for nine years was a terrible, terrible thing that resulted in far more than bankruptcy. “Non. Our finances are exceptionally good.”

  The last thing she wanted or needed was having the girl selling off all the countless items sitting up in the garret. Items she had acquired when she was barely twenty and still in love with...a duke. A duke whose face she only ever saw in her dreams and in the attic. An attic that was filled with countless paintings, trinkets, clothing and furniture she had purchased from the Andelot estate when France set all of his items on sale. She had outbid everyone for every last item.

  It had cost her everything she had been worth, sending her into bankruptcy.

  Love made one stupid for life.

  Not wanting to get emotional about a past that no longer mattered, Thérèse set her chin and nonchalantly added, “Although I did have some assistance from the lovely widow, Lady Chartwell. The woman fondly shares my vision of educating men.”

  Those blue eyes widened.

  Thérèse knew her granddaughter well enough to say, “You are not pleased, I see.”

  Not good. The girl would end up going to Egypt using money they did not have and she would be left alone with nothing more than a garret full of items she refused to sell and a bunch of British men who knew nothing about life or women. No and no.

  Thérèse wandered back toward the bureau, setting the advertisement onto it. She tilted her head to one side and centered the parchment before her as if she were straightening a painting. “London has always been so boring compared to Paris. I am used to more excitement. More passion. As you know, I have long sworn off my occupation and sadly, have no great- grandchildren to occupy my time. What is worse, you and I have completely different interests. A pile of old rocks set upon endless hot sand is nothing short of torture. I am too delicate for such things.” She hoped the pity-me routine would make the girl stay. Money aside, she would miss her.

  “No one forced you to stay in London,” Maybelle argued in exasperation. “You chose to stay here. Furthermore, I won’t have you calling the pyramids a pile of old rocks. They are amazing historic monuments worthy of genuine fascination. I’ve already postponed my trip four times because of you and every time I was forced to pay my designated traveling companion ten pounds despite the fact I never traveled anywhere.” Maybelle grudgingly crossed her arms over her chest, crinkling the bodice of her morning gown. “So what is it that you want this time? Aside from great-grandchildren.”

  The girl knew her all too well. “Want? What would make you think that I want anything?” The only thing she wanted was enough money to ensure her granddaughter could eventually go to Egypt in style. She knew the dear had her heart set on it and going to Egypt with barely a few measly pounds in one’s pockets would be no different than sentencing the girl to months of licking the sand she was so excited about seeing.

  Maybelle narrowed her gaze. “You know exactly how I feel about these things, which is why you are trying to leverage th
is against me. Otherwise, you would have never told me. You would have waited until I left England and then opened the school.”

  Not true. “I am not trying to leverage anything. The advertisements have long been sent and the townhouse rented. It is done, ma chére. Classes begin next week. And in the end, I confess that the most difficult aspect was having to choose only four out of the thirty who originally enlisted.”

  Maybelle paused. “You are renting out an entire townhouse to host only four men?”

  If Thérèse could stop being so soft-hearted and actually take the money she needed from these desperate men, yes. The problem was she actually wanted to help these poor aristocratic bastards knowing they were needy enough to turn to a woman for advice.

  It made her pity them. Some of them even reminded her of Andelot. Pieces of him. One had scarred hands like Andelot. Another wore a queue like her Andelot had, despite it long being out of style. Each and every one of these men made her realize she could do some good given all the bad her reputation had brought.

  “Oui, but it is only temporary,” Thérèse finally offered. “Until I regulate the schedule and coordinate the lesson plans. As time goes on, I will add more men. Which of course will mean more work. It will require more teachers. More hosts. More toys.” This was just the beginning of a lucrative new career that would not require sex or relationships from her. Merely talk of sex and relationships. It was genius.

  Thérèse eyed her granddaughter, hoping she could recruit the girl for a few months until their finances were what they needed to be. “You would not consider staying and becoming a hostess for a few months, would you?” She bit back a knowing smile and playfully chided, “Though we should qualify you more by dispensing of your virginity.”

  Maybelle gasped. “I believe you are the only grandmother in the history of England to ever say such a thing to her granddaughter. That aside, do you even realize what you’ll be promoting by opening such a school? Do you?”