Awakened by a Kiss (23 page)

Now that his mother was gone, it was too late. The Comtesse would never have the opportunity to express her regrets.

Nicolas tossed the letters back in the box, disgusted. Yet at the same time he was . . .
relieved
. There was nothing damning Anne.

There is nothing that proves Henriette is Leduc either
.

Now that he had the master key, he could search for proof—in the Comtesse’s private rooms as well as Henriette’s chambers.

Dismayed that he was feeling reluctant at hunting for evidence, he steeled his resolve, retied the yellow ribbon around the box, and locked it in the desk once again.

The key firmly clenched in hand, Nicolas stalked from the room with purposeful strides.

He had a job to do. He’d get it done.

And in the meantime, none would be the wiser.

Anne slammed her book of poetry shut. “I’ve decided to take a lover,” she blurted out.

Camille gasped.

Sitting behind the desk, her quill frozen in hand, Henriette’s mouth fell agape.

With a squeal, Camille jumped out of her chair and clapped her hands, the book on her lap falling to the floor. She rushed over and dropped down beside Anne on the settee.

“Who is it?” she asked with breathless anticipation. “It’s Nicolas, isn’t it? His eyes devour you whenever he looks at you.” A giggle bubbled out of her.

Her younger sister’s giddiness made Anne smile. “Yes, as a matter of fact, it is.”

Slowly Henriette set the quill down, rose from the desk in Anne’s private apartments, and walked around it, staring at Anne as if she just sprouted a horn out of the middle of her forehead, her expression a mixture of shock and horror. “Have you lost your mind?”

“No.”

Camille let out another squeal of jubilation. “I think it’s wonderful!”

Henriette glared at Camille, the same incredulous expression etched on her face. “Pray tell, what is wonderful about Anne and the Comtesse’s grandson?”

“Well, Henriette,” Camille began, “unless you’re completely blind, you may have noticed he’s incredibly handsome.” Turning to Anne, she beamed once more. “And he’s interested in our sister!”

Henriette rolled her eyes. “Good Lord.” She approached and sat down in a nearby chair. The latest chapter of Gilbert Leduc’s story that she’d been editing now lay forgotten on the desk. “He has beguiled you.” Henriette shook her head. “I knew I didn’t trust him.”

“He has
not
beguiled her. Anne knows what she is doing,” Camille defended. “Go ahead, Anne. Tell Henriette she’s wrong.”

“Perhaps I wish to be beguiled,” Anne stated.

Henriette’s eyes widened. “But he’s only looking for a tumble.”

“As am I.” Anne’s answer set Camille into a fit of laughter.

“You see! I told you, Anne knows what she’s doing,” Camille countered, then leaned into Anne. “Has Nicolas said or done anything to initiate a physical involvement? I must say, I’ve been having rather shameless thoughts about Thomas and wondering if he would—”

Henriette threw up her hands. “Am I the only one who has any good sense left? Anne, you are talking about the Comtesse’s very own grandson. What will she say?”

“The Comtesse is no prude,” Anne said.

“I think the Comtesse will not mind at all. She adores Anne, and she’ll adore her grandson, once she gets to know him. He’s very charming.” Camille patted Anne’s hand. “However, I do think you should still be discreet.”

“Anne, I think this is a mistake.” Worry creased Henriette’s brow. “Though it pains me to mention it, you and I have hardly had good luck in selecting men. I married out of love . . . and look how disastrously that turned out. And then there’s your involvement with Jules d’Orsay. He took your innocence and your heart before he left and married the Baron de Grimaud’s daughter—who, he’d conveniently neglected to mention, was his betrothed all along.”

Anne leaned forward and squeezed her older sibling’s hand. “Henriette, this is not about love. That is not what I am looking for.” She’d found a man who stirred her. Excited her. She wanted more of the same. More of the wild abandon she’d experienced with Nicolas earlier.

He was nothing like Jules.

The sumptuous memory of what had happened in the library with Nicolas flooded her mind. Hot need unfurled in her belly, sending waves of heat shimmering over her nerve endings. Her body tightened and ached for more.

Anne picked her book of love poems off her lap and held it up. “Do you see this, Henriette? Today, for the first time in a very long while, I reread my poetry.” It had been jarring and revealing. “I realized just how withdrawn I’ve become. I used to want passion. After Jules, I wanted
nothing
. No passion of any kind—involving either the heart or the body. And this is how I have remained. Embracing nothing. It’s empty.”

She’d
gladly
turn her back on love, but in no way did she want to withhold herself from the glorious passion she’d discovered in Nicolas’s arms.

With one wickedly delicious act, he’d showed her that she wasn’t as dead inside as she thought. Moreover, he’d made her see the physical act of love in a whole new light. It wasn’t simply an act where the man took and the woman gave. At least not with him.

Henriette frowned. “Your life is not empty. You are Gilbert Leduc. You are doing something with your writing. You are giving women a chance to speak through his stories.”

“Yes, and I must confess that there are times during the interviews I feel like screaming, ‘
Is there not one decent man anywhere in the realm worthy of a woman’s heart or body?’
” Anne let out a sharp breath and placed her book back down on her lap.

“What are you saying?” Henriette asked. “You can’t be thinking of quitting—of no longer writing Leduc’s stories. We couldn’t earn enough to feed ourselves from our writing before. And you know how the Comtesse feels about the stories.”

“What I am saying is that we live in the most powerful nation in all of Christendom. A nation of twenty million people, half of which are men and none of which seem to have any appeal,” Anne said.

Her sisters fell silent.

“Well, I have found one who appeals to me,” she continued. “One can indulge in physical intimacies, share some bliss, without involving the heart. Men do it all the time. Why can’t I?”

Her sisters looked at her with a mixture of emotions. The predominant one—concern.

Anne rose and helped Henriette up out of her chair. Guiding her back to the desk, she said, “Everything is fine and is going to remain that way. For me and for Leduc. His stories will continue to delight his avid readership. Now get back to editing so this story can be published.”

She would never stop writing Leduc’s stories. She believed in them. The Comtesse believed in them, and the people clamored for them.

She’d never allow anything to interfere with them. Not even a heavenly affair with a beautiful man. The deadline approached. The volume had to be sent to the printer soon.

She had a job to do. She’d get it done.

And no one would be the wiser.

Nicolas pressed the key into Thomas’s palm. “Take this. It’s the master key to the desks in the hôtel.”

The afternoon had trickled by. At last it was evening. Only a few more hours before he’d be with Anne.
“I want you inside me.”
Each time her provocative words spiraled through his system, his cock swelled and his fever for her spiked.

Thomas’s eyes widened. “Where did you get it?”

“Anne.” His response was purposely short and tight.

Thomas grinned. “I take it the lady’s unaware you have her key?”

“That’s correct.”

Still grinning. “Care to share some details?”

“Absolutely. You have a stomach ailment,” Nicolas said, grabbing the justacorps Thomas was about to put on and tossing it onto a nearby chair in Thomas’s rooms. “You’re in great discomfort and are unable to go to supper.”

“I am?”

“Yes, and I will offer your regrets to the ladies.”

“Why can’t I go to supper?”

“Because you’re going to be searching Henriette’s and Camille’s private desks in their chambers. During the day and at night, a search is quite impossible. They are almost always in their rooms. The only time one can be conducted is while they’re together in the
Salle de Buffet
for supper. I’ve already searched both of the Comtesse’s desks. Neither desk yielded any evidence of any kind. I found nothing that proved or remotely hinted at the identity of the author of the pen portraits.”

Thomas held out the key. “Since you’ve been conducting such thorough searches, why don’t you look through the desks and I’ll go to supper.”

“Because I’m in charge of this mission, and therefore, you’re the one with the stomach ailment.” Nicolas didn’t mention that
he
was experiencing an annoying stomach ailment. It was driving him mad, but each time he thought of the proof he might uncover in the end, his entrails tightened.

“Ah. Yes. I see your point.” Thomas’s arm dropped to his side. Disappointment was evident in his eyes and Nicolas suspected it had something to do with Camille. “Do you want me to search Anne’s desk, too?”

“No!” Nicolas mentally cringed at how strongly that came out.

Thomas lifted a brow.

Nicolas cleared his throat. “I’ll take care of Anne’s desk and her rooms. Search her sisters’ rooms, desks, everything. Keep the key. I’ll get it from you in the morning.” If Thomas found evidence implicating one of the other two, he wouldn’t have to search in Anne’s private domain. “Make certain you leave nothing unturned.”

Nicolas’s heart rate doubled as he approached Anne’s door.

Supper had been long and drawn out. Being forced to make witty commentary and polite conversation, with Anne so near, had been maddening.

Her cheeks slightly flushed, her breaths slightly quickened, she’d looked achingly beautiful. And—God help him—aroused by his presence at the table. He’d been impatient for the ordeal to be over, so that he could join her in her rooms. Each time her eyes met his, a bolt of heat shot through him. Starved for her, he’d barely touched his food. He couldn’t get the image out of his mind of her on the desk in the library, her sweet body half exposed, her glistening pink sex slick with desire, looking every bit like every man’s fantasy.

Because Anne and her sisters had been in their rooms all afternoon and he couldn’t search Henriette’s chambers as he’d wished to, he’d had to find other ways to fill the long hours before he’d be with Anne. Caring nothing about the books in the trunk—his grandmother’s favorites—he was drawn to Anne’s volume of poems.

He’d reread them.

He shouldn’t have done it.

Her words had affected him more strongly this time. This time he found them even more moving than before. Because this time he knew the woman behind the words. Her smile. Her voice. Her taste. Intimately.