A Midnight Dance (27 page)

“I like how he affects you. It’s been five years since I’ve seen any sort of fire or life in you.”

Jules leaned on the windowsill and gazed out at the summer day.
Merde.
He was climbing the walls. This horrible state of infirmity was so contrary to his active existence. Between the incessant agony in his side, the constant violin music from the music composer Olivier, and the actress Louise’s loud spontaneous bursts into theatrical soliloquy, his sanity was being tested. The entire lot seemed to thrive on noise and theater. And despite the nervegrating bickering that would ensue from time to time, they were constantly together, seemingly preferring it that way. Undercurrents of loyalty and affection coursed through the constant commotion.

He had far too much time on his hands. To think. To agonize for what surely had to be the millionth time over his father’s betrayal. Over his missing silver. And then there was Sabine.

He spotted her just then standing in the distance with Agnes, engrossed in conversation. Sunlight shone on Sabine’s pale hair, and it was bedazzling to behold. Even in her humble attire, she was lovely.

No woman who was as accomplished at deception as she was should be that beautiful.

Sleeping in her bed every night, with her scent all around him, he dreamed of her. Of fucking her. Of her gorgeous form, so sensuous and sensitive and responsive to his touch.

An instant feral need rolled through him. His groin tightened in response.

Jules clenched his teeth and swore softly.

Each morning he awoke with a stiff prick, battling back memories of tasting, caressing, and kissing those sweet spots on her body he knew undid her. Of being inside her climaxing core, so silken and snug, and feeling those decadent spasms as she came on his cock.

The pain in his ribs alone should have been enough to kill this ludicrous lust he had for her. But it wasn’t. Nothing stopped the mental images of their time together in the forest and at the inn. Laughing and talking and feeling something he thought he’d forgotten how to feel.

Contentment.

She’d quieted his soul. Well, the bitterness and the anger were back. Full-blown.

And he hated it.

He hated it as much as the memories and this unbreakable pull.

He wanted them dead and gone.

Jules turned away. The wooden plank beneath his hands creaked and lifted on one side. He pulled at it. It came away. Jules peered in the hole. Beneath the wooden sill were two books wedged between the inner and outer wall. Hidden as they were, they had to be important.

Removing one from its secret spot, he brushed the dust off and opened it to the first page. Across the top it said,
This is the very private journal of Sabine Laurent. Isabelle, put it down or I’ll read yours!

Yesterday, he’d glanced at the books in Isabelle’s trunk, even thumbed through her journal. They hadn’t captivated him. Yet the moment he turned the page and read the first line in Sabine’s journal, he was ensnared.

Glancing at the date of the entry, February 11, 1650, he made a quick calculation, realizing he was reading words written by a young Sabine just blooming into womanhood.

Oddly fascinated, he covered the second journal with the windowsill and made his way to the bed.

Jules tossed the volume down on the mattress. Gritting his teeth, he lowered himself onto the bed, his hand over the linen binding around his chest.

The wooden bowl on a small table near his bed caught his eye. It mocked him. And tempted him.

He wasn’t going to smear that concoction on any part of his body. Nor was he going to think about the arousing memory that was forevermore associated with it.
Damn her.

Slowly he reclined, opened the journal, and began to read.

Jules turned the page to the next entry.

Jules’s curiosity was more than piqued over the identity of the Dark Prince. Looking for more references to him, he came upon:

Completely engrossed, Jules turned the page to the next entry.

Jules gave a short harsh laugh. “The finest in the realm”? Shaking his head, he wondered how well he knew the poor Aristo she’d set her sights on.

He scanned more entries, looking for any clues to unravel the mystery of the Dark Prince once and for all.

He searched on.

Who was the object of her romantic ramblings? Whom did she long to kiss?

Frustrated, all he knew of the Dark Prince was that he had dark hair and a brother. That description matched many.
Dieu
, it even matched him.

Fast and furious footsteps approached his closed bedchamber door.
Merde
. He knew exactly who was about to burst in. Shutting the journal, he managed to stuff it under his pillow just as the door slammed open.

Sabine marched in, her skin flushed. Her breasts rose and fell with her rapid breaths.

Jésus-Christ
.
Stop looking at her breasts. So, she had the kind of tits a man could delight in for hours
. There were plenty of other women. Plenty of other gorgeous breasts.

Briefly glancing at her lush mouth, he wondered if the Dark Prince ever got to taste those lips. She’d definitely done it so deliciously well, he hadn’t wanted to stop.

“I have had enough of you,” she stated. “You’ll not take any more from us.”

Jules lifted a brow. “I believe those should be my words.”

Raymond rushed in and grasped her arm. “Come!”

She tried to pull her arm free and glared at Jules. “You need him because you’re too much of a coward to face me alone.”

“Really, Sabine. All your obvious baiting and carrying on about cowardliness is getting rather old, don’t you think?”

“You are despicable!”

“Yes. And you’re a lovely woman who gives her body to men, feeds them tainted food, and steals from them. Raymond, remind me to improve myself and adopt Sabine Laurent’s high moral standards.” His ire was mounting with every moment he looked into her deceitful face.

He resented this clash of disdain and desire that constantly warred inside him over this woman.

“Your father should have raised you with a firmer hand rather than to allow you and your sister to wander about the theater unchecked. You’d comport yourself better.”

She stiffened. “How would you know anything about what my father allowed my sister and me to do at the theater?”

Merde
. That was a slip. If he wasn’t so incensed with her, if he didn’t have pain shooting through his chest, he wouldn’t have made the bloody blunder.

“It was a guess. Clearly he was lax in his parenting. He failed to teach you how to be a lady. How to speak to your betters.”

In fact, he’d caught a couple of journal entries where she’d witnessed various explicit acts in dark corners of the theater and in the alley outside that most innocent young women didn’t observe. Paul Laurent had been a fool to let his daughters roam so carelessly.

“My betters?” she exclaimed. “You are not my better. You are my equal. No, you are not even my equal. You are beneath me.”

“I was. At the inn. And I think another time in the forest, no?”

A small gasp escaped her, completely taken aback by his words. And he delighted in it.

Quickly recovering, she said, “I thought you forbade the mention of our time together.”

“I make the rules and I decide which, if any, apply to me.”

“Why are you so angry?” she demanded. “Is it because you were duped? Or is it because you were outwitted by people you think of as less than you? You have only yourself to blame for being robbed. You’ve been to my father’s theater many times. You’ve seen Louise and Vincent in his plays. Had you truly looked at them at the inn, you would have recognized them. But you didn’t. You don’t look at anyone who isn’t part of the upper class. No one outside of it is worthy of your regard—unless you’re interested in a tumble.”

He tightened his jaw. “I’ve grown tired of our conversation.” Jules waved her away. Raymond immediately began hauling Sabine from the room.

“I’m not finished yet!”

“Yes, you are,” Jules responded calmly, though he seethed.

“You’re not taking our best food any longer. Do you hear me?”

“
Chère
, they can hear you in England. And I’ll take what I want until my silver is returned.”

Raymond pushed her out and closed the door behind him, yet Jules could still hear her anger and frustration. Good. Why should he be the only one to feel that way?

He pulled the journal out and located the page where he’d left off. Several entries later Jules was stunned to read:

Marie de Perron? A favorite courtesan among the male population of the aristocracy. An auburn-haired beauty whose charms Jules had personally sampled many times after his return from war in the summer of ’50. In fact, they’d remained friends and lovers until his father’s death years later.

Jules had definitely been to the theater during the time these journal entries were written. Could he be the Dark Prince? No. Marie had had many lovers. The Dark Prince could be anyone.

It wasn’t him.