Her life was never droll. “I will talk to him.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that. The boy means a lot to me.”
Her voice softened. “Yes, I know.” She rather admired how Hughes wielded a crop toward the world but when it came to his nephew, the man fell to his knee with a tear in his eye.
Setting his gloved hands behind his back, Hughes cleared his throat, scanning the dance floor. He lowered his voice. “That kiss we shared not too long ago was amazing. It gave me hope.”
Using her fan, she tapped at his arm. “It has taken some time, but I will admit you have grown on me.”
He rolled his eyes. “You make me sound like a damn wart.”
She laughed. “My days of finding passion are long over, Hughes. If you want me, you have to accept the fact you will be nothing more than an accessory I shove into my reticule. I have more use for rouge than I do for men at this point.”
He paused and leaned in closer. “I swore I would never commit to a woman again, but I am not getting younger and you make me feel…young. I need that. Will you marry me? I hear you need money, and whilst my finances aren’t as glorious as I would like them to be, I do have enough to help you and your granddaughter along. What do you say?”
Poor Hughes. The man had no idea that asking a woman to marry him at a gathering as if offering pork pie was anything but a compliment. Fortunately for him, she rather liked pork pie. It was food meant for comfort. Which is all she needed anymore. He made her laugh and was well beyond dependable. Not having to worry about money would also be nice. What was marriage anyway? A piece of paper. “Consider us engaged.”
He searched her face, his lips parting. “Do you mean it?”
She smirked. “We have known each other for a long time. I know what to expect from you, and you know what to expect from me. We call on each other practically every day. Why not save us both a carriage ride?”
“God love you.” He grabbed her face, despite the crowd of the ballroom surrounding them, and soundly kissed her on the lips. Releasing her, he grinned. “You have given me a reason not to grow old.”
She pointed her fan at him. “Do not put such a burden on me, Hughes. Or you will go bald.”
He grinned. “So when do we set the date for the church? Next month?”
A breath escaped her. He was moving far too quick. “No. Next year.”
His brows came together. “Next year?” he echoed. “Why so damn—”
“Hughes, my granddaughter comes first and she plans to go to Egypt. We have to wait until she comes back. She would be upset if I married without her being there.”
“Oh.” He lowered his voice. “Can I call on you at your house later tonight? After these festivities are over? So we could…?”
She adjusted the collar of his coat. “No. Not tonight.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“No.”
He glared. “When?”
“One does not plan these things, Hughes. One simply lets it happen.”
He puffed out a breath. “The trouble is you never let it happen. Even our kiss did not last quite as long as I would have wanted it to. You ended it well before I was done.”
“What did you expect? We will always be friends first.”
“Then why marry me?”
“Because at my age, I prefer a friend in my home as opposed to a man I have to train.”
He eyed her. “That goddamn school of yours is going to your head. You had better watch your derriere. Do you realize what London is saying?”
She groaned. “It is no different than what France was saying when I left it. A school of this caliber is serving a far greater purpose beyond my need for money.” She set her chin with renewed pride. “These men need me. They require proper guidance and assurance. I am the mother they wished they had.”
He snorted. “And why do you think it is your responsibility to guide men half your age?”
She was quiet for a moment, knowing true passion had to be guided whilst one was young. “Maybe some of these men will get to live the sort of life that should have been mine. Not every relationship has to end up in shambles.” She tried to keep the angst from her voice, but it remained. She had often wondered what life would have been like had she told Gérard that night she refused to let him go.
Hughes lowered his shaven chin, his brown eyes hardening. “I know that look and that tone. You are thinking about that bastard right now. That French duke of yours. Admit it.”
A sentimental breath escaped her. “I always think about Andelot. If I have a thought, he is usually in it. It is something you will have to accept.”
He was quiet for a moment. “Are you devoted to me?”
“Would I have agreed to marry you if I was not?”
“I want to hear you say it. Are you devoted to me?”
Och. Men. Even the less needier ones were still needy. “I am devoted to you. Yes.”
“Good.” He stared her down. “Because your Andelot is in London, you know.”
Her heart skidded. She swung fully to Hughes, eyes widening. “You lie.”
Swiping his face, he shifted from boot to boot. “I am not one to keep anything from you and you know it. This is me setting aside my jealousy and being a friend.” He puffed out a breath. “There is a gentleman by the name of duc de Andelot who started frequenting Mrs. Berkley’s whipping club a few weeks ago. Apparently, he is well known in Russia for unusual rope binding techniques. Mrs. Berkley is insisting he try on all the girls so they can learn how to do it. According to gossip, they line up every single fucking night to try it.”
She gasped. Rope binding techniques? Out of Russia? He—
She’d been upset with Gérard for some time given he had not even made an attempt to contact her. Not once. Of course, she had told him they were done and had left France many, many years ago in order to be with Henri here in England.
A shaky breath escaped her. Gérard went to Russia. Which meant he hadn’t forgotten what they shared, after all. Why else would he have gone to Russia? It was the one place she had always wanted to go.
She was quiet for a moment. “Do you know if he has been asking about me?”
Hughes glared. “What happened to your devotion?”
Of all times to agree to an engagement. “Hughes. Whilst you and I are very good friends and I adore you, you know what Andelot means to me. No man will ever go near it.”
He leaned in close. “He does not deserve you given how long he waited. Let it go.”
A breath escaped her. “I should at least see him.”
“Think twice before you ask for the devil to appear.” From behind a gloved hand, he offered, “Apparently, he wears an array of masks in public. Even in private. No one has ever seen him without it. Something happened to his face.”
Dread scraped her. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “Hell if I know. Mrs. Berkley only tells me so much.”
There was only one reason as to why Gérard would have come back into her life after all these years and still not have announced himself. He was out to finish what he had started thirty years ago. Delivering her pain. Rope binding was just the beginning.
She grabbed Hughes arm, shaking it. “Do you know where he is staying?”
He snorted. “Even if I did, dearest, I would never tell you. The man binds up women like little roasts about to go on a spit. Hardly something you want to get involved with.”
She rolled her eyes. “His ropes hardly scare me.”
“Are you insinuating you wish to—”
“If he wishes it, why would I not? I have been waiting for him. I knew it was only a matter of time before he would come back.”
Hughes pulled in his chin, his face flushing. “I will bloody smack him with a duel.”
She glared. “Non. Are you a friend to me or not?”
He glared back. “We are engaged, madame. Or did you already forget?”
She adjusted her pearls. The ones Gé
rard had given her. How fitting that she was wearing them right now. “I will marry you next year if he does not appear to me.”
Rolling his tongue against the inside of his cheek, Hughes eyed her breasts and pearls. “And what if he appears after we marry? What happens then?”
She snapped her fan out at him, hitting his arm. “Ça suffit. You are whining now. Whatever will be, will be. You hardly own me nor will you ever. I know all about the women you continue to bed and crop despite the kiss we shared. You are a scoundrel, like the rest.”
He cleared his throat. “I have needs you refuse to meet.”
“I am retired from my profession. What more do you want?”
He muttered something.
She tapped her fan against his shoulder again. “Be the dear friend I know you to be and tell me more about Andelot. Is he married? Does he have a mistress or a lover I can talk to or visit? Do you know?”
He sighed. “I know nothing more except what Mrs. Berkley tells me. She calls him the Messiah and appears intent on turning him into a lover.”
Thérèse almost gritted her teeth. She hated Mrs. Berkley. Hated, hated, hated that woman. That British red-haired vixen was always trying to outdo her and every courtesan and prostitute in London with her crops and whips and shackles and torture devices. Thérèse herself had long tried it all back in France. It was nothing new. Sade was well ahead of his time.
She paused. Ropes. Why ropes? What did Gérard get out of it? Pleasure? A sense of control over a woman? A need to be malicious? All three? It sounded nothing like him. Surely it was nothing but gossip. Surely he had not become the very thing the Revolution had wanted him to be: sordid.
Hughes leaned sideways and squinted toward the French doors leading to the balcony of the garden. “Uh…there appears to be a small crowd gathering. Where is your granddaughter?”
Thérèse froze. Maybelle! Her heart pounded. She had completely forgotten about the poor girl.
Gathering her skirts, she darted past men and women, shoving her way by the gathering crowd. Pushing through, she stumbled out onto the terrace and jerked to a halt at seeing the Duke of Rutherford on the stairs, his black hair well-mussed as his tall frame lingered before Maybelle who was busily swiping at the front of her skirts, glancing down in the process. Those dainty gloved hands stilled against the cream satin of her gown. Dirt marks and grass stains spattered the entire front of her bosom as well as the length of her knees.
Oh, dear. In only twenty minutes these two started more than a relationship.
Thérèse swept toward them. “Ma chére?”
Maybelle paused, turned and met her gaze, her porcelain skin well-flushed.
Smiling in an effort to assure the girl that everything would be all right, Thérèse quickly held out a gloved hand. “It is best we leave. People are beginning to gather.”
Maybelle eyed the lighted balcony of people surrounding them.
The duke stepped toward them from behind, adjusting his evening coat. “I am to blame for this,” he offered in a low, sincere tone. “Entirely. Allow me to settle this matter in private.”
An offer? Already? Now here was a gentleman worthy of consideration. Aside from a title, he was wealthy enough to provide for her granddaughter and good-looking enough to give her those rosy-cheeked great-grandchildren.
Maybelle turned to the duke, startled by the offer.
Commitment was the girl’s nightmare. Och. They would come back to this later. “No need, Your Grace. Bonne nuit.” Thérèse gently took Maybelle’s arm, turned her away from the duke, and led them back toward the stairs leading to the balcony.
Toward the gathering crowd.
Leaning closer to Maybelle, Thérèse whispered, “There is no other way to depart except through the ballroom. Walk slowly, with dignity, and pretend all is well.”
They walked up the remaining stairs of the balcony.
The men on that balcony, both young and old alike, openly gaped at them with unwavering fascination as they passed, while several women leaned in toward each other, whispering behind their elaborate, hand painted fans.
They marched on in a slow procession, past all the endless faces of the ton. It felt like days of old. Not at all what she missed. The stage is the only thing she missed.
The orchestra’s minuet soon faded and they eventually left the ballroom.
Their steady steps on the marble floor echoed all around them as they headed toward the front entrance. “So,” Thérèse whispered, tightening her hold on her granddaughter’s arm. “Was he worth the parade?”
Maybelle eyed her and whispered back, “I promise to tell you everything later.”
Oho and no. “Later, later. You will have me wait that long? Absolutely not. I—” Thérèse paused, realizing there was a figure standing in the shadows by the stairwell behind them.
A tall, broad-shouldered and well-muscled man with silvery-steel hair, dressed in expensive evening attire and leather riding boots leaned against the farthest wall. A cigar dangled from a black leather glove as he lifted it to his full lips, drawing attention to the fact that he wore a well-fitted, black velvet mask that hid half his face. He glanced at her in agitation, revealing only half of his masked face and ice-blue eyes, then pushed away from the wall, smoke wafting around him in the shadows as if he emerged out of hell. He stalked in the opposite direction, disappearing from sight.
Thérèse’s grasp slipped. Dearest God. He really was back. And he was doing what he did best. Watching her from a distance.
Maybelle paused and turned toward her. “Grand-mére?”
Thérèse took in several deep, ragged breaths and shakily placed her gloved hand to her heaving bosom, unable to breathe. She felt like she was being shoved into a trunk with no way out. And the worst of it? She wanted him to turn the key.
“Grand-mére?” Maybelle’s panicked voice echoed all around them in the now empty corridor. “What is it?”
“I feel...” Thérèse staggered back, trying to reach out for Maybelle with gloved hands to balance herself, then collapsed, allowing herself to careen into the spiraling darkness she had no doubt Gérard wanted her to fall into.
Months later - August 28th, 1830
32 Belgrave Square - evening
At least there were still people in this godforsaken world a man could depend on.
Meaning, the Russians.
Grabbing hold of the brass handles leading into his study, Gérard flung the doors open, sending them slamming into the oak paneled walls that shook the large portraits and mirrors hanging throughout the room. The lit candles flickered, sending disfigured shadows across the high, crown molded ceilings.
Shadows were his domain now. And he was fucking proud of it. He loved it.
He glanced toward the walnut encased burgundy sofa, where a young unshaven Russian lingered. Black hair was scattered beneath a low-slung cap that shadowed the color of his eyes. A pinstripe waistcoat had been unevenly buttoned beneath a wool coat of respectable means. As always, Konstantin Alexander Levine wore no cravat around that neck and his linen shirt was left wide open for all the women to see.
Despite the young man’s inability to properly dress himself and the fact Konstantin was a former guard for criminals, the Russian’s demeanor had always been incredibly polite and noble.
Gérard adored the boy like a son and owed him his life.
Konstantin had taken a bullet to the shoulder for him back in Saint Petersburg when a bunch of anti-aristocratic idiots thought Gérard was a threat to their ‘organization’ given the peasants liked him for not only donating thousands of rubles to the poor every year, but also stripping down to a linen shirt and trousers, with his mask in place, while he went out into the fields with a scythe to muddy his own boots alongside his laborers. Everyone always seemed to have a problem accepting that aristocrats were capable of compassion and generosity and hard work. Fucking idiots.
“We meet again, my Russian friend,” Gérard rumbled out in Engli
sh. His Russian wasn’t very good. “How is your shoulder?”
Konstantin thudded his left shoulder. “It healed well.”
“I am infinitely pleased to hear it, and I am infinitely pleased you came. Although it took you long enough.” Gérard smirked. “Did the boat sink and leave you to swim?”
Konstantin inclined his dark head. “It might as well have. Russia is not exactly next door, Your Grace. I stayed in Saint Petersburg a bit longer than I planned.”
Gérard entered the room, striding toward him. “Might I offer you a drink, Levin? Sherry? Cognac? Or are you hungry? Shall I have the chef prepare something for you? Is there anything you wanted? Name it, and it is yours.”
“No, thank you. I ate at an inn before coming into London. But I would like to take this moment to thank you for inviting me into a city I have always wanted to see. I only wish I had not arrived at night. I could hardly see anything.”
Like there was anything to see. London held nothing but crowded buildings and a dirty river. Gérard preferred Russia. “There will be plenty of time for that. But I should probably warn you London is a bit quiet this time of year. The Season is long over and most homes are vacated by now. I personally prefer it. A man cannot think with crowds of people around him. So tell me. How was your journey?”
“I spent most of my time hanging over the railing of the boat, releasing my innards through my nose and my mouth. Other than that…it was pleasant.” Konstantin hesitated and cleared his throat. “I also wish to thank you, Your Grace. I really do. I am still a bit overwhelmed and still do not believe I deserve it. I am asking that you reduce the amount. I hardly think—”
Gérard snapped up a hand. “There is no need for us to discuss this. It is done. The money will be in your hands by the end of this week, and all I ask is that you not let others know where the money came from. We are merely good comrades and nothing more.”
“But the amount is—”
“The amount is respectable.” A hundred thousand was nothing. “Are you telling me my life is worth less?”
Konstantin blinked. “No, I—”
“I am a generous man, Levin. Let us leave it at that. I have endured a lot and never give any less than what I believe a man deserves.” He paused before Konstantin and lingered, staring him down through the slits of his mask. He gestured rigidly toward Konstantin’s exposed throat. “What is this? Where is your cravat? You did this last time.”
The Duke of Andelot Page 27
