She watched him move away, shaken and yearning.
Over the next few months he chipped away at her resistance in that intense, focused manner. Seeking out whatever stray moments he could. Asking a question or two about her life, tidbits that told her he followed her activities with avid interest.
Until her mother grew impatient and followed through with her threat to select the Vicomte de Grenier as Marguerite’s husband-to-be. A few months earlier, Marguerite might have been pleased. The vicomte was young, handsome, and wealthy. Her sisters and friends exclaimed over her good fortune. But in her heart, she pined for Saint-Martin.
“Do you want de Grenier?” the marquis asked gruffly after following her to a retiring room.
“You should not ask me such questions.”
He stood behind her in the mirror, his face hard and austere. “He is not for you, Marguerite. I know him well. We have spent more than one evening in the same questionable establishments.”
“You seek to counsel me against a man who resembles you?” She sighed when he growled. “You know I have no choice.”
“Belong to me instead.”
Marguerite covered her mouth to stem a cry and he pulled her close.
“You ask too much,” she whispered, studying his features for some hint of deception. “And you have nothing to offer in return.”
“I have my heart,” he said softly, stroking across her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “It may not be worth much. Still, it is yours and yours alone.”
“Liar,” she spat, striking out in self-defense, painfully wounded by the flare of fruitless hope his words evoked. “You are a consummate seducer and I have resisted you. Now an acquaintance of yours is about to best you. That is the driving force of your interest.”
“You do not believe that.”
“I do.” Wrenching away, she fled the room.
For several nights after, Marguerite took great pains to avoid him, a vain and belated attempt to kill her growing fascination with a man who could never be hers. She claimed illness for as long as possible, but eventually, she could remain hidden no longer.
When next they met, she was shocked by his appearance. His handsome features were drawn, his mouth tight, his skin pale. Her heart ached at the sight of him. He stared at her a long taut moment, then jerked his gaze away.
Worried, she deliberately stood in an intimate corner and waited for him to approach her.
“Belong to me,” he said hoarsely, coming up behind her. “Do not make me beg.”
“Would you?” The question came out as no more than a whisper, her throat too constricted to allow volume. His nearness caused tingles to sweep over her skin in a prickling wave, creating a sharp contrast to the numbness she had felt the last week. That their minuscule interactions had come to mean so much was frightening. But the thought of not having them at all was even more terrifying.
“Yes. Come with me.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Abandoning everything she knew, Marguerite left with him. He took her to the residence he presently occupied, a small house in a respectable neighborhood.
“How many women have you brought here?” she asked, admiring the elegant simplicity of the ivory and walnut palette.
“You are the first.” He kissed the bared nape of her neck. “And the last.”
“You were so certain of my capitulation?”
He laughed softly, a warm and sensual sound. “Until a sennight ago, this place served a far less pleasurable purpose.”
“Oh?”
“A tale for another night,” he promised, his deep voice raspy with desire.
The house had been her home ever since, her refuge from the censure of Society for forsaking their approval to become his mistress.
“Je t’adore,” Saint-Martin groaned, his thrusts increasing in speed and power.
Inside her, his thick cock swelled further, inundating her with delight. She whimpered and his embrace tightened, pushing her forward so that he could pump deeper. His lean, powerfully built body mantled hers, and his mouth touched her ear.
“Come for me, mon coeur,” he whispered.
His hand slid between her legs, his knowledgeable fingers rubbing her distended, swollen clitoris with precision. His carnal expertise and the long, rhythmic strokes of his cock made the impetus to climax irresistible. Crying out, she orgasmed, her hands reaching behind her to cup his flexing buttocks. She tightened around him in rippling waves and he groaned, jerking with his own release, filling her with the rich creamy wash of his ejaculate.
As he always did in the aftermath of their passion, Philippe clung to her, his parted lips pressing open-mouthed kisses along her throat and cheek.
“Je t’aime, ” she gasped, nuzzling her damp cheek against his.
He withdrew from her and bent to lift her into his arms. The thick, golden strands of his hair clung to his damp neck and temples, accentuating the flush of his skin and the satiated gleam in his dark eyes. He carried her to the bed with the ease of a man accustomed to physical labor, a proclivity which led to his magnificent form. Marguerite could never have imagined that he was so beautiful beneath his garments, but then he kept a great deal hidden under his dissolute façade.
A knock came to the outer bedchamber door just as Philippe began to crawl over her reclining body.
He cursed and called out, “What is it?”
“You have a visitor, my lord,” came the muffled reply of the butler.
Marguerite looked at the clock on the mantel and noted the hour. It was nearly two in the morning.
He cupped her cheek and kissed the tip of her nose. “A moment, no more.”
She smiled, knowing it was a lie but indulging him regardless. When he had first confided his activities as an agent in something he called the secret du roi—a group of agents whose purpose was to further the king’s hidden diplomacy—she had been stunned and unable to reconcile this new image of him with the one he cultivated in Society. How could a man known as a voluptuary who lived only for his own pleasure be in truth someone who risked life and limb in service to his king?
But as love grew from their lust and their daily interactions progressed to a true joining of the minds, Marguerite realized how layered her lover was and how brilliant was his disguise. The proliferation of mistresses had not been entirely an affectation, of course, but he was not heartless. To this day he felt remorse for luring her to her “downfall.”
When she had professed a similar regret for leading him away from his wife, he’d held her and revealed a surprising truth: Marchioness Saint-Martin—so pitied in private discourse for her husband’s excesses—maintained her own lovers. Theirs was a marriage of duty. It was not unpleasant and they were both content to proceed with separate agendas.
Marguerite watched him shrug into his robe of black silk, then walk to the door. “I will miss you,” she said. “If you are gone too long, I might cry out in the streets for you.”
He paused on the threshold and arched a brow. “Mon Dieu, do not believe that nonsense. It was one woman and her brain was afflicted.”
“Poor thing. However, I doubt it was her brain you were attracted to.”
Philippe growled. “Wait up for me.”
“Perhaps . . .”
He blew her a kiss and made his egress.
As he shut the bedchamber door behind him, Philippe’s smile faded. He belted his robe more securely and descended the stairs to the lower floor. Good news was rarely delivered at this hour, so he approached the coming discussion with grimness. With the scent of sex and Marguerite still clinging to his skin, he was more aware than usual of how vital her presence was in his life. She kept him connected with his humanity, something he feared had been lost by years of pretending to be someone he was not.
The door to the parlor was open and he entered without slowing his stride, his bare feet crossing onto the rug from the cool marble of the foyer.
“Thierry,” he greeted, startled by the identity of his visitor. “You were to report to Desjardins this evening.”
“I did,” the young man replied, his cheeks still flushed from his ride. “That is why I am here.”
Philippe gestured for the courier to take a seat on the settee while he sank into a nearby chair.
Travel-stained and disheveled, Thierry sat gingerly upon the edge. Philippe smiled at the care displayed to protect the new burgundy velvet. When the home had served as a bastion for secret du roi agents, the furnishings had been abused without thought. But the house had been abandoned after a time, an oft-used tactic to avoid suspicion, and he had removed all traces of the house’s former use and refilled it with luxuries suitable for the love of his life.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” Thierry said wearily, “but I have been ordered to depart again in the morning and I could not chance missing you.”
“What news is so urgent?”
“It regards Mademoiselle Piccard.”
Straightening from his semireclined state, Philippe studied the courier alertly. “Yes?”
“When I arrived at Desjardins’, he had a visitor and I was asked to wait outside his study. I do not think he realized how clearly his words travel.”
Philippe nodded grimly, having always found it noteworthy that such a slightly built man would have such a booming voice. He did not, however, find it interesting that the man would be discussing Marguerite. It was alarming because, quite simply, his very sanity rested with her well-being and proximity. Comte Desjardins was young, ambitious, and hungry for the king’s regard. Those qualities made him dangerous to those who stood in his way.
“I heard the name Piccard,” Thierry said softly, as if he might be overheard, “and though I attempted to turn my thoughts elsewhere, I could not help but listen more closely.”
“Understandable. You cannot be faulted for hearing conversations spoken within earshot.”
“Yes. Exactly.” The courier offered a grateful smile.
“About Mademoiselle Piccard . . . ?”