Awakened by a Kiss (26 page)

“What do you mean,
nothing
?” Nicolas asked Thomas, incredulous.

“I mean,
nothing
.”

“You checked every drawer in Henriette’s desk?”

“Yes.”

“And all over her rooms?”

“Yes! I checked everywhere,” Thomas snapped, looking uncharacteristically haggard this morning. “There was
nothing.
” He slammed the key down on the table in Nicolas’s rooms and marched away.

Nicolas had hoped all the evidence he needed would be in Henriette’s private quarters. Damn it, where was she hiding her notes, her drafts?

What if it’s not Henriette at all?
His stomach clenched. It would be difficult enough to arrest one of Anne’s sisters. But to have to arrest Anne. Beautiful Anne. His Anne. Images of last night, of her, of her in his arms, filled his mind and made him ache.

He glanced up at Thomas and caught him raking a hand through his hair as he paced near the windows.

“What is it, Thomas?”

Stopping in his tracks, Thomas exhaled sharply and turned to look out the window.

Nicolas approached. Something was amiss. “Thomas?” He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. His body stiff, his jaw tight, Thomas met his gaze.

“You found something in Camille’s rooms, didn’t you?” Nicolas asked.

Thomas returned his attention to the window, staring blankly at the courtyard below. For a moment, Nicolas thought he wasn’t going to respond, but then, ever so slightly, he nodded. “I haven’t been able to sleep all night.”

Nicolas’s heart raced. “What did you find?”

Keeping his eyes straight ahead, Thomas responded, “Camille came to my rooms after supper. I’d just finished invading her privacy, reading the contents of her desk, looking for possible evidence to arrest her, and she was worried about me. Concerned for my welfare. Do you know what that made me feel like?”

Nicolas had a very strong idea.

Thomas turned to him, his expression rueful. “I kissed her, Nicolas. I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t help myself. I’m not like you, my friend. You can kiss a woman, even bed her, and remain detached. You don’t let anything distract you or get in the way of doing His Majesty’s bidding. I can’t do that. I can’t act. Nor be indifferent. I’m a failure as a Musketeer.”

Nicolas was failing, too. Failing to accomplish his objectives. Failing to break the libidinous hold Anne had on him, and worst of all, failing to keep the soft sentiment she inspired at bay. The more he’d had her last night, the more he wanted her. Everything she did, everything she said stirred his desire and tender feelings he couldn’t quell.

He had not remained detached.

Nor had he used last night’s situation to his advantage as he’d intended—to gain information. He’d never questioned her once the entire night. Hadn’t wanted to.

“Nicolas, I found Camille’s old journal.” Thomas’s voice was quiet. “Many of the entries were filled with venom directed toward her late brother-in-law, the Baron de Pierpont, for his treatment of Henriette, and toward a gentleman named Jules d’Orsay.”

“Who is Jules d’Orsay?”

“The third son of the Comte de Galard. Apparently, he charmed Anne, made promises he never intended to keep, claimed her maidenhead, and then married another.”

Nicolas chest tightened.

Jules d’Orsay
. The man she’d mentioned last night.

Not only had d’Orsay denied her carnal pleasure in bed, but he’d deceived her. Used her.
Jésus-Christ
, no wonder she had such a lowly opinion of men.

And yet, she set aside her biases to be with you
.

Nicolas felt like a scoundrel of the lowest order. And though he reminded himself that he was on a mission for his King, it did nothing to combat the self-condemnation welling inside him.

He
was using her. And it bothered him when it shouldn’t. When it couldn’t.

When there was the chance she was the one he might have to arrest.

“I didn’t think sweet Camille had it in her to loathe so deeply. I have a terrible feeling that Leduc is Camille.” Thomas shook his head. “This is not just a mission anymore. I’m fond of her. I like all three of them.
Seigneur Dieu
, I even like Henriette. How can we do this? How can we arrest any of them? How can I arrest Camille?” Thomas hung his head.

“We have a duty to uphold.” He’d forced each word off his tongue. He was fond of Camille, too. Nicolas had no idea how he’d arrest Camille either. But he knew he could manage it. In fact, he knew he could manage to do just about anything, except arrest Anne.

“We need something more conclusive than some old journal entries,” Nicolas was constrained to add. “It isn’t enough proof.”

“I didn’t find anything else. What about Anne? Have you searched her rooms and desk?”

His body turned rigid. “No. You had the key, remember?”

Thomas walked over to the table, picked up the key, and returning with it, placed it on his palm. “Well, you have it back. Now there is nothing to stop you from examining the contents of her desk.”

Nicolas looked at the small gold key.

Burdened with what he had to do, it felt heavy in his hand.

It burned his palm.

“I’ve been cast aside!” Madame de Boutette sniffled, wiping her tears with a lace handkerchief. “I’ve been completely and utterly replaced by that whore, Pauline Pradeau. She’s bewitched him, I tell you.”

Anne fought back a second yawn. For the last few glorious nights, Nicolas had given her little rest—and more bliss than any heart could hold.

“I have been with him for years,” Madame de Boutette continued, her tone getting increasingly angrier. “I was his favorite mistress. Now he favors another. After I’ve endured all of his disgusting habits, and amorous encounters of the blandest sort! Do you have any idea how dull and distasteful it is to bed the Marquis de Ranvier?”

“No, madame. I don’t.” Anne dipped her quill in the inkwell and wrote,
“Ranvier has disgusting habits
.
Is dull and distasteful to bed
.
”

“Well, then allow me to tell you that I’ve had to moan and carry on as if . . .”

Madame’s words drifted away as images of Nicolas and memories of her moaning and carryings-on in his arms ran through her mind and quickened her pulse. Every reaction he drew from her was real and sublime. She loved how insatiable he was around her. How wonderful it felt to be so desired.

How wonderful it was just to be with him.

During their short time together she’d transformed. For the better. Her heart and soul felt light, and she had Nicolas to thank. What was just as incredible, she’d begun to do something she’d completely abandoned and had lost all desire for after Jules; she’d started writing poetry again!

She’d forgotten how much pleasure it brought her. Wanting his reaction, last eve she’d worked up the courage to show Nicolas her new poems. Poems she hadn’t even told her sisters about.

By his expression, his eyes, and his words, he adored them; his praise of her work filled her with as much joy as his kisses and touch. Everything was so perfect between them, except . . . something was bothering him. If only she knew what.

He denied it. Hid it. In fact, he hid it quite well. Yet she was attuned to it. She sensed it. Saw fleeting flashes of it in his eyes. And she didn’t believe it had to do with his grandmother.

“He rarely bathes. It’s like bedding a barnyard animal. And his rounded belly keeps getting in the way,” Madame finished with a huff.

Anne sighed and put down her quill. “Madame, may I be frank?”

The woman who was only a few years older than Anne raised her brows. “Well . . . I suppose . . .”

“If the Marquis de Ranvier is so unappealing, why bemoan the end of the affair?”

“Well, because I love him! And he loves another. He’s tossed me aside like a pair of old shoes.”

“Love? You’ve described your
love
as a barnyard animal.”

“That’s because he smells like one.”

“And his touch is unpleasant to you, correct?”

“Well, yes.” Madame de Boutette smoothed her skirts. “It is.”

“Madame, with all due respect, it’s rather clear that it is your pride that’s wounded, not your heart.”

The woman’s mouth fell agape.

Undaunted, Anne continued, “If you loved Ranvier, you wouldn’t be repelled. In fact, you’d find him highly appealing. You’d crave to be with him. As much as possible. The thought of him would make you happy, not sick. You’d want his touch. Enjoy his company, and cherish it.”

Anne knew her speech was about more than the Marquis de Ranvier. It was about her feelings for Nicolas. She was in love with him. How could she not be?

Why shouldn’t she allow herself to be?

She’d denied herself happiness long enough. Why shouldn’t she take another chance on love? Love was worth the risk. As was Nicolas.

After what she’d been through with Jules, after witnessing Henriette’s suffering, after hearing countless stories of other women’s heartbreaks, Anne had become convinced that there wasn’t an honorable man left in the realm.

But she’d had a change of heart. And she had Nicolas to thank for that as well.

With love inside her heart, there was no more room for the bitterness she’d harbored there. For the first time, the thought of writing a Gilbert Leduc tale—the particular kind of tale Madame de Boutette wanted her to write—left a sour taste in her mouth.

Anne rose. “Madame, go home, and find yourself someone worthy of your love. Do not despair over the loss of a man who causes you such distress. Consider yourself fortunate to be rid of him.” It was the attitude she should have taken long ago with Jules. She’d been a colossal fool to allow Jules to make her miserable long after his departure. It was clear to her now that by clinging to her heartbreak, she’d actually held on to Jules, making him a part of her life when he didn’t deserve to be.

Madame de Boutette stood up, looking aghast. “But—But what about my story? Monsieur Leduc?”

“Monsieur Leduc is quite fatigued.” Anne ushered the woman to the main door of her apartments, knowing Vincent would show her out.

“He is?”

“He’s long overdue for a respite.”

“Really?”

“Yes, and I can’t say when or if he’ll be ready to write again.” At least not stories for embittered hearts. She wouldn’t do it. She’d talk to her sisters and the Comtesse. Leduc was going to be much more selective. If Leduc’s stories were to continue, they’d have to be fewer and only in instances where a woman found herself in truly dire circumstances—like poor Eléonore, Duchesse de Terrasson, who was still unjustly confined to a convent.

The moment Madame de Boutette left, Anne moved toward her desk. She wanted to seek out Nicolas, perhaps spend the day with him, but couldn’t. Leduc’s book was due at the printer’s soon and she needed to finish Eléonore’s story.

Sitting down at her desk, Anne pulled out the draft of her work in progress and dipped her quill in the inkwell. When the Comtesse returned, Anne intended to talk to her about her grandson, and then tell Nicolas everything about Leduc.

She wanted no secrets between them.

She felt a smile tug at her lips. Nicolas would likely praise her for her stories as he had her poetry. He’d be completely understanding and utterly supportive of her efforts.

Nicolas was smiling as his eyes tracked Anne in the crowded Salon. Another of his grandmother’s Saturday Salons was under way. This one was just as crowded as the last.

He knew he should be mingling with his grandmother’s friends. He was, after all, supposed to be interested in learning about the Comtesse and getting to know the people in her life. But he had no desire to make polite conversation. He was content to simply watch Anne as she moved from guest to guest, charming them all.

As with last week, Nicolas noted how the men looked at her. Their interest keen. Many made no attempt to hide their desire. But as they watched her, gaped at her, her attention, when she was not engaged in conversation, was directed at
him
.