The Duke of Andelot

by Delilah Marvelle

  What had been done to him? Had it happened before he left Paris? Or after?

  Gérard squared his jaw. “I am here because I wish to see my granddaughter. I wish to have the sort of relationship with her that you never allowed me to have with my son. I know I am asking for a lot, given how we parted, but I believe I have long since grown as a man and am worthy of that honor.”

  His words were surprisingly gentlemanly and kind. More than she would have ever hoped for. Unable to contain her joy of knowing they were in each other’s lives again, she announced breathily, “I never thought I would see you again.” She searched his masked face, wishing she could remove it. “You look well for yourself.”

  Gérard snorted and leaned in. “Oh, come, my dear. You need not lie. In answer to the question you have not asked, beneath this mask, half my face is gone.”

  She stilled, sensing the marring of his face bothered him more than he wished to admit. Why else would he wear a mask? What he didn’t realize was that he would always be the dashing man who swept her into his life and onto the stage she had never quite left.

  Gérard cleared his throat and tugged on his coat. “Can I meet my granddaughter? Is that at all a possibility?”

  She brought her hands together, touched by the fact that he wanted to get to know Maybelle, and softly said, “Maybelle has left London with her husband.”

  His full lips parted below the mask. “She is married?”

  “Yes. She married quite recently.”

  “And is she happy with the union?”

  This was so strange. To be talking to him like this. About their granddaughter. “Yes. Very.”

  “Ah.” He half-nodded, no longer meeting her gaze. “I am glad to hear it.” He hesitated. “Who did she marry?”

  She wanted to grab for him and embrace him and thank him for being so darling and downright charming given how they last parted. “His Grace, the Duke of Rutherford. They are currently on tour and will be visiting every city in Europe before travelling into Egypt. They are not expected to return for another eight months. When she does arrive back into London, you may call on her. I have no doubt she would want to meet her grand-pére. As such, I will…I will gladly notify you the moment she returns into town.”

  A breath escaped him. “I would appreciate that.”

  She nodded, hoping this meant he would be staying in London. “Where shall I send the missive when she arrives, Gérard? So she might call on you in person?” She wanted an address.

  He lowered his chin. “I am living at Thirty-two Belgrave Square. I ask, however, that you do not address me by my birth name. It would give me too much hope.”

  A warming glow cheered her as her breath hitched. He wanted hope. Maybe there was a possibility for them to begin again. Maybe she only needed to give him the invitation he required.

  Gérard set his shoulders and after a few pulsing moments offered, “I thank you for your time, madame. It was an honor to see you.”

  “And you.” She lingered, hoping he would ask to see her again. She held his gaze.

  He inclined his head. “I wish you a good-day.” He rigidly rounded her, still holding her gaze in turn, and purposefully brushed past close enough for his entire frame to drag against hers. His hand grazed her skirts.

  She almost staggered and sensed it was his way of silently prodding her into action. As if he were waiting for her to make the next move.

  Tears stung her eyes. She prayed none of this was a game.

  Disappearing out into the corridor, he called out, “Levin, in case you have not noticed, I am leaving.” Swinging open the entrance door, Gérard walked out, leaving the door wide open.

  The afternoon summer air and wind blew in.

  Thérèse glanced toward the gentleman he had come with, tears blurring her sight. She pursed her lips in a noble attempt not to cry.

  In an accent that hinted he was from one of the Slavic countries, Mr. Levin offered in English, “He needed to see you. He was sitting in a carriage outside your window every night for weeks.”

  Weeks? No. She knew it had been months given how long it had been since she had glimpsed him. That night that punched the breath out of her. It was obvious he was still struggling with whatever had happened to his face. It might have been the reason why he had stayed away despite being in London.

  She set a trembling hand to her face and blindly attempted to use the cane to walk to a chair knowing he had been suffering and lingering outside her window all along. A sob escaped her.

  Mr. Levin darted toward her and grabbed her hand and her corseted waist. He turned her and gently eased her into the nearest chair.

  Heavens above. That gesture made her feel old. Eck. She was anything but.

  She swiped at her tears with one hand, her manicured fingers trembling. She grabbed that arm, searching that youthful, rugged face. She needed to know the truth and this man, who was with Gérard, would know. “Where did the scarring come from? The ones hidden beneath the mask? What happened to him?”

  “He never told me. But he mentioned it happened whilst trying to escape France. After you arranged transportation for him.”

  Her hand jumped to her mouth. Dearest God, she had failed him. She should have never left him that night. She closed her eyes, letting another tear slip down her cheek and said through her quaking hand, “Leave me.”

  Mr. Levin seated himself in a chair beside her. “I will leave once I am assured you are less distressed.”

  “Whilst kind, that will take more time than you have.”

  “I have time, madame,” he gently offered. “Do you require anything? Shall I call for one of your servants?”

  The whipping club and Mrs. Berkley aside, it gave her comfort knowing Gérard had surrounded himself with what appeared to be good people. “No. Thank you.” She lowered her hand and sniffed softly. “Might I ask who you are to him?”

  He inclined his head. “I am Mr. Levin. I am a friend.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “A few months. Though most of it was never in his presence.”

  “You have a heavy accent.” Her eyes cut to his. “Are you from Russia?”

  “Yes.”

  Oh, how she wanted to go. If only to see all the places Gérard had been to.

  “I wish to assure you that in my country, Andelot is well-known for being everything a man should be. He is a legend in Moscow and is a patron to the poor and all things good. He is incredibly generous. Overly generous. To me and to everyone.”

  Her Gérard, in many ways, had remained the same. He was still a good man. Which was more than she could have ever hoped for. She reached out and delicately touched the man’s arm. “Care for him, Mr. Levin. He needs a true friend. The sort he has never had due to his status and upbringing. Promise me you will be a good friend to him.”

  He hesitated. “I will ensure he stays out of trouble.”

  “Merci.” She removed her hand. She hesitated, having no doubt Gérard had probably heard about her entanglement with Hughes. Hughes was intent on proving to her he was worthy of her hand. And in some way, he was. He had been an incredibly good friend to her.

  “Please tell him I am engaged to be married to Lord Hughes. He needs to know.” Whilst she planned to end her association with Hughes knowing Gérard wanted to rekindle what had once been theirs, that did not excuse her from having to say it aloud. For she was still engaged.

  Mr. Levin eyed her. “Pardon my asking, but is there any hope for him?”

  She needed to end the engagement first. “I am not ready to answer that. Thank you for staying, Mr. Levin. It was very kind of you. I am quite well now.”

  “Of course.” He rose. “Should you require anything, please send a missive to me at thirty-two Belgrave Square and address it to my name. I should be there for at least another two weeks until I find a place of my own. When I move, I will forward the new address.”

  “I appreciate your generosity.” She swiped away the l
ast of her tears. “Au revoir, Mr. Levin.”

  He hesitated, nodded and left.

  When the door in the foyer closed, she frantically got up and hurried over to the window. Ensuring the curtain remained in place, she peered through a sliver of the fabric to see if she could glimpse Gérard.

  She could see nothing. He was gone.

  If she left it up to him, another thirty years would pass.

  She sighed. It was time to start again.

  Late morning

  So much for not touching brandy ever again. Jesus Christ. The blur of last night was still fogging his brain. Let her marry. Why the fuck did he care?

  Gérard shifted his jaw. He did care. A lot. And no amount of time would ever change it.

  Knowing full well Konstantin was out serenading Lady Stone next door, Gérard didn’t bother putting on his mask. Instead, he staggered out of his bedchamber, raking back his still damp hair with an agitated hand given it continued to fall into his eyes.

  After soaking most of the morning in a hot bath, and despite being fully dressed and ready for the day, he was beginning to wonder if he should simply go back to bed. Of course, he would probably just lie there like the pathetic sop he was and think of Thérèse and the granddaughter who was as far out of reach as his son had been.

  Trudging down the corridor and down the stairs, he veered into his study to write a missive to Mrs. Berkley about the invitation she had sent a few days earlier. He knew what the woman wanted, and despite her being attractive, he wasn’t interested in complicating his life by involving himself with an overly ambitious young woman who wanted his money and seemed to think she could introduce him to something he’d never seen. Ha.

  The calling bell rang, making him pause before his writing desk. He puffed out a breath, not at all up to trudging back upstairs to retrieve his mask.

  Seeing his butler walk past the open door of the study, he called out, “No visitors.”

  The butler paused long enough to reply, “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Easing himself into the leather chair before his desk, he swiped over Mrs. Berkley’s letter and angled it off to the side. He opened the top drawer, needing parchment and paused. The tiny knitted boot he slipped from his son’s foot many, many years ago greeted him.

  He stared at it, unable to breathe. He had not even been at the boy’s wedding or funeral. It was as if the boy had never existed. Tears burned his eyes. Gérard fingered the softness of that boot before releasing it. He slammed the drawer shut.

  Thérèse didn’t even know the truth about what happened the night after she had left.

  In one night, he lost everything. Including the right to his face.

  Jumping to his booted feet, he swept everything off his desk, sending it crashing to the wooden floor. Why marry now, Thérèse? After all these fucking years, why— Grabbing his chair, he swung it up high over his head and gritting his teeth, he muscled it against the bookshelf behind him, slamming it against the shelves of books. Everything crashed down.

  In between heaving breaths, he tried to calm himself but couldn’t. He opened a drawer full of crystal ink wells and still needing to throw something, picked them all up and smashed them against the wall, one by one, spraying shards of glass everywhere.

  There. Now he felt better.

  “Gérard?” a familiar female accented voice echoed in English from the open doorway of his study behind him. “Whatever are you doing?”

  He froze. Sweet merciful heaven. He had summoned her.

  Knowing his mask wasn’t on, he rigidly kept his back to her in between uneven, astounded breaths that were no longer attributed to the objects he had been throwing. He swallowed, the tension in his body coiling. “I am not decent. Go wait in the parlor until I am ready to see you.”

  Her gown rustled toward him. “No. I am not letting you hide from me.”

  Realizing she was approaching, he muttered, “Hell,” and quickly removed his morning coat. He draped it over his head, burying himself in the heavy wool and satin material. He didn’t care what she thought about him hiding. He simply wasn’t ready to show his face.

  Her full, saffron colored skirts appeared at his feet, coming into view below the coat. This was not how he envisioned taking her on. With a coat over his head. “What do you want?”

  She lingered for a moment. “I am no longer engaged to Lord Hughes. I terminated the engagement this morning and wanted you to know it.”

  Well, well. This just got interesting. “Really? And why would you do that?”

  She sighed. “I know why you came to London, Gérard. And I am here to welcome it.”

  Was she? “Welcome what?”

  “A relationship.”

  He knew it. “Who says I want one?”

  “Cease grouching.” A hand smoothed its way across the fabric of his coat, pressing into the marred side of his face. “Remove this coat. Please do not hide from me.”

  He closed his eyes, knowing he wasn’t ready to show her that half his face was gone. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  Her hand drifted away. “To apologize for that night and hurting you. I was angry and in my mind it was the only way to save you.”

  He had always known that and had long forgiven her for hurting him. He had loved her too much for that. “You need not worry. All is forgiven.” He widened his stance, trying to be casual despite the coat on his head. “Was there anything else you wanted?”

  A soft breath escaped her. “If all is forgiven, why this distance? Has everything changed?”

  He paused. Was it really going to be this easy? They agreed and then kissed and would live happily ever after? Really? “Maybe I need time to adjust to having you back in my life. We hardly know each other anymore.”

  “I am well aware of that.”

  “Good. I am glad you do. Because last night, I drank a full decanter of brandy for the first time since leaving France. And I only drank it because I was tired of caring about the fact you once called me a drunk and a liar.”

  She was quiet for a long moment. “I regret those words,” she said softly. “They were only spoken to ensure you left France, but if they also kept you from drinking, then I suppose I am genuinely proud of them. I am also proud of you. I did not realize it was possible for you to give up brandy.”

  He kept his eyes closed, that sultry voice luring him into a past he wanted to make his present and his future. Even after all these years. “I have proven to be much stronger than I thought myself capable of.” He opened his eyes and in an effort to lighten the mood, offered, “By the by, the uh…the Russians do not chew glass. They chew on everything but glass. I thought you might want to know.”

  A laugh escaped her. “I thank you for clarifying that for me.”

  By God. Even that laugh was still the same. Melodious and mischievous.

  They lingered.

  She sighed. “Are you interested in joining me for an outing? Come. The weather is glorious so I rode out in my barouche. I will take you out for some ices and a paddle boat. I will pay for it.”

  He snorted. “Ices and a paddle boat? Christ, Thérèse, do be serious. Sixteen-year-olds do that sort of thing.”

  “And that is why they all have big smiles, Gérard. Because they are all on a paddle boat sucking on ices that makes them feel grand.”

  She hadn’t changed a bit. She still had an answer for everything.

  Opening his eyes, he grudgingly stared down at her skirts which were now brushing up against his trousers and boots. He edged back, agitated with her for trying to sprinkle mere sugar over all the open wounds he’d carried since she had announced they were done. “An outing insinuates you want to take our association public. What makes you think I want that?”

  Her voice hardened. “Gérard, enough. How old are you?”

  “Much older than I want to be.”

  “Exactly. You are wasting your time and mine. Did you honestly come all the way from Russia merely to grouch to me from be
neath a coat? If you wish to pursue me, then do so. We are no longer children with a revolution breathing down our throats. We are now adults who know better than to argue, gripe and be irrational. Am I wrong in that?”

  He eased out a breath. “No. I completely agree.”

  “Good. Now that we agree, how do you wish to proceed? I will respect whatever you decide. Regardless, given you wish to know our granddaughter and share in her life, we have to get along. Otherwise, what is the point of having you in our lives at all? We hardly need the drama. Society provides us plenty of that given who I am.”

  He dragged in a breath, tightening his hold on the coat. It was obvious their time apart had cleared most obstacles and matured them both. He had hoped for as much, but she hadn’t seen his face yet. “My face is going to take some time for you to get used to. I myself am still not accustomed to it and I have had to plenty of time to look at it. As such, we should…remain friends.”

  “Why? Because of your face?”

  Making love to her in a mask would get awkward. “Yes. Understand that I am not ready to show my face. It may be a while.”

  “I see. So you and I will remain friends.”

  “Yes.”

  “Indefinitely?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  Fuck. “No. Not really.”

  “Then why insist on something you do not want?”

  He puffed out a breath, the bundled wool around him making it almost too warm for him to breathe. “Do you have any other ideas as to how we could lead a normal life together without you ever looking at me?”

  She delicately snorted. “Gérard, nothing about my life is normal.” She sighed. “I am still trying to piece together who you have become. Lord Hughes informed me you enjoy ropes. Is that true?”

  The wrong sort of news certainly travelled fast in London. He puffed out a breath. “No. I used to when I was younger. But I—”

  “Apparently Mrs. Berkley had you show her girls how to do it. You surprise me.” Her tone hardened. “Some of those girls are not even eighteen.”