The Duke of Andelot Page 4

  His commanding blue eyes grew all the more amused. As did his husky voice. “You are an incredibly good actress. Do you toy with men like this all the time?”

  She cringed. It was the first time she failed to produce the effect she wanted. “No. Not all the time.”

  He assessed her, his amusement fading. “Do you really have a cousin in Paris?”

  She daintily swiped at what remained of the tears she had theatrically produced. “Yes, of course, I have a cousin. Just because I am an actress does not mean whatever comes out of my mouth is a lie.”

  His brows came together. “I am astounded he would let you walk to Paris alone. Women of all classes are being assaulted on the streets given there are no maréchaussées to oversee the chaos. Some of these revolutionaries are merrily raping women on the street in the name of ‘freedom’. Do you know that?”

  She swallowed. No. She didn’t. But she wasn’t surprised. Men were like that. Self-serving.

  He searched her face. “Your level of intelligence is astoundingly unusual for the daughter of a mere butcher. I cannot help but be skeptical as to who you really are.”

  Thérèse blinked through the last of her fake tears. It was so strange, but this close, those steel blue eyes of his had become more than a color. They were fiercely passionate, soulful and heart-wrenchingly beautiful.

  Those eyes didn’t seem to trust her anymore than she trusted him.

  She heaved out a sigh, ready to call it a truce. “Unusual though it is, I was actually sent to a seminary in Paris for three years. It was paid for by a very generous and wealthy patron my mother used to be a governess to. I thought my parents had lost the last of their bourgeoisie minds trying to overeducate me, only to discover I was an investment. They dragged me back to Giverny and forced me to teach everything I learned at the seminary to every single one of my ten unruly brothers. I taught the same bloody lesson plan for so many years, I am fully convinced I have been to Russia eighteen times.”

  “Russia?”

  Sensing he still wasn’t believing it, she added, “Yes. Russia. ‘Tis an aspiration of mine to visit Saint Petersburg one of these days. They call it the city of giants given how massive the boulevards and buildings are. Apparently, these Russians are so hardened by the snow and life they chew glass for dinner.”

  He smirked. “I doubt they chew glass for dinner. But then what do I know? I have never been.” Rubbing a hand against his jaw, he turned and strode back toward the horse. Unsheathing the single dagger attached to the saddle of the horse, he gripped it.

  Her heart popped as she scrambled back. “What are you doing?”

  He glanced at her. “You are not the only actor in our midst.”

  With that, he detached the brass buttons on his coat with the tip of his dagger, letting the buttons fall onto the dirt path one by one. He kicked them away and detached the remaining buttons on his waistcoat, as well, before sweeping the dagger back into its leather sheath on the saddle.

  Thunder cracked again, startling her. The cooling wind, that whispered summer was almost at an end, gusted through the trees and flapped her skirts, causing them to balloon upward. She gasped, scrambling to keep her gown from exposing her lack of undergarments.

  He eyed her and smirked. Removing his coat with a shrug, he revealed a yellowing linen shirt and well-fitted waistcoat. Pausing before her and the basket that separated them, he held out his coat. “Here. Put it on. It will keep your gown from lifting.”

  She was officially impressed. “You, monsieur, would be the first to try to keep my skirt from lifting.”

  “I did not say I was doing it willingly, dearest.”

  She gave him a withering look. “I take it you offer your coat to every woman you meet?”

  He lifted a brow. “I used to let beautiful women take far, far more than my coat.” He leveled her with a stare. “But I have learned not to trust them to take off with my heart.”

  She blinked. “Are you flirting with me?”

  “Whatever gave you that idea?” He tossed the coat at her, startling her. “Take it.” He stepped back. “The wind appears to be strong enough to push this weather through. So hopefully, it will not rain.”

  She scrambled into his coat before her gown decided to put on another show. The thick fabric was heavy and smooth, weighing her shoulders with an impressive expanse that draped down well past her knees.

  Adjusting it over herself to keep it from falling, she paused, realizing the fabric had a melting scent of expensive cologne. It smelled like freshly hewn amberwood and spice and was so achingly divine, she wanted to do nothing but sniff, nuzzle and cuddle it.

  She refrained. “Thank you for the coat.”

  He said nothing. He simply removed his felt hat, causing strands of longer black hair to fall into his eyes. Brushing it back into his queue, he whipped the hat into the forest, well beyond the trees. Lifting his unshaven chin, he casually undid his cravat and flicked it aside. Stripping off his waistcoat that fully exposed his linen shirt, he hurled it.

  She tightened her hold on his coat. “What are you doing?”

  “I try never to be seen in the same clothing for long. I changed out of my last ensemble over an hour ago by a lake. After I went for a swim.”

  She gaped. “Is there a warrant for your arrest?”

  “I have no doubt there will be.” Holding her gaze, he set a gloved hand to his chest. “The name is Gérard. We will keep it to that until I have established what our relationship will be. I am still deciding.”

  Still deciding? “Do tell the jury my name is Thérèse.”

  He lingered. “Thérèse.” He intently searched her face, dragging in a slow breath. “You certainly were blessed. Everything about you is…your face is—” He still lingered, searching her features.

  She edged back. “Leave my face out of this.”

  He lifted a dark brow. “What? Did I say anything?”

  “You did not have to. I get it all the time. If you ever wonder why I wish to take to the stage, it is because my life is a stage. There is no difference. You men lose your minds around me. And whilst I appreciate the never ending parade of adoration, it does get to be annoying.”

  He hesitated as if intrigued. “Are you saying men crawl for you?”

  He had no idea. Men were the bane of her existence.

  She had always wanted to be known for her intelligence and quick wit that had been rightfully earned whilst raising ten very rambunctious brothers, but how was a woman to become more than a face in a world obsessed with beauty?

  She considered herself rather pathetic.

  For she had no friends outside of her family. She never had.

  All the girls in the village always snubbed her, snickering that she thought too much of herself. Which wasn’t true. They simply didn’t like the attention she always received. They blamed her for the fact that the boy of their dreams ignored them. Little did they know the boy of their dreams wasn’t even worth an oyster pie.

  She set her chin. “They do more than crawl. Giverny and its men about exhausted me.”

  “Is that so?” He rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek. “If you are so tired of the attention, my dear, then why take to the stage? It will only make it worse. Actresses are the epitome of every man’s dream.”

  She kept her chin set. “True. But at least I will get paid for it.”

  “Money only ever shrouds other problems, you know.” He glanced judiciously around the forest, as if preoccupied by too many thoughts. The wind flapped the billowing sleeves of his linen shirt, outlining his broad physique and hinting at the impressive definition of taut muscle beneath.

  Thérèse tried not to stare, but every time the wind shifted his linen shirt against his muscled arms and chest, it gave her more to admire. She pinched her lips in an effort not to dash up to him and tap each pectoral to see if it was real.

  He eyed her and veered his gaze upward, searching the sky through the branches of the tr
ees. “Fortunately, the weather does not appear to be getting worse. In fact, I am quite certain of it.” He pointed at the sky with a gloved finger and stared up at it with contempt. “I command you not to rain. I need to get to Paris without my gunpowder getting wet. Do you hear me?”

  This aristocrat was talking to the rain. To the rain. As if he had power over it.

  No wonder these people were getting stoned.

  She peered up at the sky through the leaves and branches above and paused. Large patches of blue sky pushed out from between the dark clouds. Her lips parted. “Did you just command the weather into cooperation?”

  He smugly adjusted his linen shirt. “I do it all the time. Whatever I want, I get. No matter what it is. The universe is quite used to it. You should get used to it, too.” His wry tone indicated he was attempting humor.

  She tossed his coat back at him, grabbing up the basket. “It must be nice being able to control the universe.”

  Gérard effortlessly snatched hold of his coat in midair and stared. “I am not in control of it yet. But I damn well hope to be.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Let me know when you are.”

  He still stared. “Are you really a virgin? Or are you pretending to be?”

  The prickling of heat overtook her cheeks. She never blushed around men. After all, she was the one in control of how they behaved around her. It was an art she had perfected since she had grown into her breasts. “You are being downright crude. I refuse to answer that.”

  He pointed. “So you are a virgin.”

  She glared. “What are you? The virgin magistrate?”

  “Pardon me for saying it, but I am a touch confused as to how worldly you appear to be for a virgin.” He eyed her basket, as if attempting to assess its contents. “You certainly travel lightly.” He lingered on the apples crowding it. “But well.”

  Averting his gaze, he shrugged on his coat.

  That was certainly him asking for an apple. She paused. There were two leather satchels attached to his saddle. One appeared to be stuffed with stacks of parchment that peered out beneath a tightly fastened flap. The other was well-packed with clothing and several frayed wool blankets that had traces of hay as if he had been sleeping in the fields.

  He wasn’t hiding his wealth. He had no wealth.

  Which would explain why he still hadn’t paid her.

  She sighed. Plucking up an apple out of her basket, she held it out. “Here. Go on.”

  His gaze veered to the apple. “Pardon?”

  She closed the distance between them and held it out. “You practically invited yourself into eating it. Take it. They are a bit tart, but still surprisingly good.”

  He widened his stance. “I thank you, dearest, but no. Those are yours.”

  “Oh, cease with your high and mighty business already. I can see the hay clinging to your blanket. You were sleeping in a field just like me. Which means you are not as well-heeled as you tout yourself to be and are probably hungry. Here. The apples were free and came out of the orchard I was passing through earlier. You would hardly be imposing. Go on.”

  He hesitated but still did not take it.

  She sighed. Wedging herself closer, she was about to shove it into his hand, but noted his gloves were crusted with dry mud.

  So she did the one thing she could. The one thing she always did for her brothers. She brought out her paring knife and balancing the basket on the crook of her elbow, sliced off a piece of the fruit. Tucking the small knife away, she leaned in and daintily reaching up, set it against his lips, wiggling it. “Eat, Gérard. Consider it payment for my ride into Paris.”

  He met her gaze for a long moment, his broad chest visibly rising and falling. “Thank you.” Bending his dark head, he opened his full lips and ever so slowly dragged the sliced apple into his mouth. He leaned in more to take the whole thing into his mouth.

  His teeth and hot tongue grazed the tips of her fingers.

  Her pulse roared as her skin tingled from the unexpected contact. She jerked her hand away. Taking several steps back, she swiped her wet fingers against her skirt, trying to rid herself of the tingling she still felt. “You almost ate my finger.”

  The muscles in his jaw showcased each methodical chew as he continued to heatedly hold her gaze. “It was in the way.” His blue eyes now held a spark of some indefinable emotion. One full of so many secrets he wasn’t telling.

  Swallowing, he said in a low, husky tone, “Bring the apple back over. I would like more.”

  He wasn’t looking to eat apples anymore. She tried to remain calm and held out the apple, keeping her distance. “Here. Take the whole thing.”

  “I would but my gloves are a bit dirty.” He held them up.

  It appeared the bite of an apple had turned this one into a full-fledged rake. “Then I suggest you remove your gloves.”

  He lowered his hands and flexed them, flaking mud off the leather. “Do you think it wise to ask me to remove more clothing?”

  She eyed him. Something in his demeanor had changed. And she didn’t understand why. “No more slices for you. You are making a game of this.”

  Brushing off the remaining dirt from his gloves, he slowly closed the distance between them. “Maybe I am.” He edged in until they were almost nose to nose. The scent of amberwood, spice and leather tinged the air. “Are you too scared to play along? I thought you were a butcher’s daughter capable of cleaving your way through anything.”

  He was too close and was beginning to play the sort of games she was used to. The ones where men tried to sidle up close and touch her.

  Scrambling back, her bare ankle rolled against a large branch lying on the path behind her. She winced, stumbled and gasped as the basket tipped and fell to the ground, thudding apples and the items within everywhere.

  He jumped and grabbed her waist hard to keep her from following the basket to the ground. Jerking her upward and toward himself to steady her, his rigid body and expression stilled.

  Pausing, he eyed her lips.

  She could feel the pulse of his large hands on her waist as he edged his mouth down and closer to hers. The heat of his apple-sweetened breath fanned her lips.

  He hovered, but did nothing.

  She stiffly clung to him, her heart pounding as the intensity of his blue eyes dug into her, hinting that he wanted far, far more than mere lips. It made her stomach flip.

  She had only ever kissed a man once. A year earlier a young royal soldier who was off to fight against the riots had jogged out of line from the regiment and begged her for a kiss on the side of the road. She only did it because she doubted he would ever get another.

  She swallowed and waited for those lips to take hers.

  He released her and stepped back, his expression unreadable.

  She staggered between breaths. Was she losing her ability to charm? Any other man would have kissed more than her mouth by now.

  He widened his stance, surveying her with annoyed superiority. “Why did you not kiss me? I gave you plenty of time.”

  She gasped, regaining what little common sense she had left. The blighter! He had been waiting for her to—

  The horse perked and quickly hoofed its way between them to the nearest apple, swiping it up with its large, yellow teeth. With the shake of its head, it chewed obnoxiously, spraying juice as it headed for another apple and another and another, fully intending on eating them all.

  She gasped again and waved a hand toward the horse. “Tell him to stop eating my apples!”

  “Oh, come now,” he drawled. “Has he not earned it? This here chap is taking you to Paris.”

  She set her hands on her hips. “He could be gracious enough to leave me one. Now call him off. I have not eaten anything all morning.”

  The horse stepped onto her cracked mirror, shattering it.

  She gasped again as it dragged her gown along the path to find another apple.

  A throaty laugh escaped Gérard. “Pardon his manners.
He takes after me.”

  She swung toward him, a shaky breath escaping her. “Your horse is destroying what little I own, and you find that amusing?”

  His amusement faded. He stared at her, his eyes penetrating the distance between them. “Forgive him and forgive me.”

  Something about him unnerved her, yet lured her. It was as if he were a higher being struggling to be human. Averting her gaze, she straightened her basket and gathered what few items she could. The ones that hadn’t been mangled, that was.

  She scrambled for her leather-bound book.

  He knelt beside her on the dirt path. “Leave it be. I will do it.”

  “No, I—” She paused noting the expensive wool of his beige breeches had stretched and tightened against the taut, bulking muscle pushing beneath them. It was as if his entire body were made of steel. The flap of his trouser appeared to be well-filled, too.

  She cringed at noticing.

  Picking up the book, he turned it over to glance at the golden lettering and paused. His gaze veered to hers in astonishment. “Do you speak English?”

  “No. Of course not. I am as French as champagne.”

  He lowered his chin. “Then why do you have a book written in English?”

  Puckering her lips in annoyance, she took it from his hand and tucked it into her basket where it belonged. The last thing she wanted or needed was for him or any man knowing that, at heart, she was a weakling of a stupid romantic. Because she knew full well men took advantage of women with stars in their eyes. “Because one day,” she tossed out, “I plan to read it.”

  A travelling British couple who had spent an entire day cooing at each other in English over a meal at the inn had left it. While she had tried to run it after them, their coach had already departed, and they never came back to claim it. The way the two had gloried in one another made her hold onto the book and believe she might one day have such a thing. She imagined it held the secret to their entire marriage. “Its mystery holds a certain power over me,” she confessed. “When I have enough money, I intend to hire a British tutor so I can read every last sentence.”

  “Is that so?” He tilted his dark head, his eyes brightening. “I speak English, you know. Fluently. My mother was British. I still have family in London, actually.”