Awakened by a Kiss (4 page)

Adrien turned and marched down the hall, aggravated, frustrated, with a raging erection and his blasted godfathers on his heels. He wasn’t about to relay any juicy details about Catherine, nor did he care to hear about Charles’s likely conquest of Catherine’s departed aunt.

Upon entering his rooms, he went straight to the brandy decanter on the ebony side table and poured himself a liberal amount. He tossed it back and downed a second goblet before he was ready to engage with the three men before him.

Paul walked up to him and took the decanter out of his hand to fill his own goblet.

“My father sent you,” Adrien stated.

Charles folded his arms. “He wants you at Versailles, Adrien.”

“I’ve already told him no.”

“Yes, and that answer isn’t satisfactory to the King.” Charles accepted a goblet of brandy from Paul.

Adrien held back the expletives thundering in his head, striving for calm. How was he to keep his distance from the man who’d wreaked such havoc in his life? Especially when he mixed parental authority with royal command.

He wanted nothing to do with Louis and his court. Every time his father reentered Adrien’s world, he caused him anguish and suffering.

He’d done enough damage during Adrien’s childhood.

His beloved mother had been born into nobility and widowed at a young age. Using her beauty, wit, and charm, she chose her lovers wisely, until she eventually caught the roving eye of Louis XIV. For a time, she held the coveted position of the King’s favorite mistress. But his mother made one grievous error: she’d allowed herself to fall in love with her lover. Enamored as she was, she never shared Adrien’s jaundiced opinion of his father. Even when she’d been replaced by another woman and sent to live with her brothers, she still clung to the hope of rekindling Louis’s interest.

She’d anxiously awaited each infrequent visit.

Adrien had dreaded them.

Louis would stay long enough to pat him on the head and bed his mother. Then he’d be gone, leaving her bereft each and every time. Heartbroken, she eventually abandoned Adrien and Charlotte to their uncles and entered a convent.

Robert sat down near the hearth, accepting a goblet of the amber liquid from Paul. “Louis feels that living at Versailles will curb your wayward ways.”

Adrien finally exploded into a string of oaths. “What wayward ways?”

“Asks the man who was just caught with a most alluring widow.” Smiling, Paul sat down beside Robert on the settee.

Adrien tightened his jaw. He was in no mood for Paul’s ribbing.

“Duels are against the law,” Charles began.

Adrien raked his hand through his hair. “Not this again.”

Charles pressed on. “The King has looked the other way each time. Your hand is too quick to the scabbard.”

“I’ve not fought a duel for over a year. Does that not satisfy him? Perhaps he disagrees with my paramours? Too few? Too many? Maybe he wishes me to join the Order of Malta? Does His Majesty want me to take the required vow of celibacy?”

“A vow of celibacy.” Paul shuddered in horror. “Is there anything worse? Or more unnatural?”

“Adrien,” said Robert, always the peacemaker, using his be-reasonable tone. “We know how you feel about your father—and with good reason—but he is the King. He has treated his children well—if not his mistresses.”

“He has?” Adrien snorted. “I must have missed that day. When was that? It certainly didn’t occur during my boyhood. Ah, yes, perhaps it was last year—just after my mother died. Fully aware of her passing, her body not yet cold in her grave, he demanded I attend the festivities at Versailles. Was that the day, Uncle? He’d shown her little regard during her life and couldn’t even muster any for her—
or me
—after her death.
‘The King abhors any talk of the dead
.
He doesn’t tolerate any expression of grief,’
I was forewarned as I arrived. I spent two excruciating weeks, forced to smile and make merry, attend picnics and hunts, forbidden to mention my mother’s name for
‘it would sadden the King and His Majesty doesn’t like to be melancholy
.
’
Was that one of the benevolent examples you’re referring to?”

Charles hung his head. Robert rose from his seat, walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “She was our sister. We feel your pain.”

Did they really? Did they know the extent of his devastation as he watched his mother withdraw from him and Charlotte? All love and warmth slipping from her heart and demeanor until all that was left was a shell of her former self? He was eight when she’d informed him—cold and detached—that she was leaving. He’d wept. He’d begged her not to go. To no avail. At the convent, he’d thrown himself on the front steps, a pathetic, childish attempt to stop her, his heartbreak evident in his anguished wails. He could still see her expressionless face as she clutched her skirts, stepped over him, and climbed the final steps to disappear behind the large wooden doors of the Convent of the Sacred Heart. Vanishing from his life.

Paul rose and approached. “He has removed the blemish of being illegitimate, elevating all of his children in society by providing each of you with lands and a title—”

Adrien slammed his goblet down on the side table and walked away from his uncles, feeling suddenly suffocated. Stopping before the window, he braced his hands on the wooden frame, silencing the agony welling inside him. He’d mastered the pain long ago. He never let it overwhelm him anymore. It was why he preferred to maintain a comfortable level of detachment in all relationships. Especially with women. Being in control both in and out of the boudoir was paramount. He limited the time he’d spend with each female and didn’t allow feelings to be fostered—for either party. His encounters with women were about sex. Mutual pleasure in the moment. The women—utterly forgettable.

Except his midnight temptress
.

The pretty little conniver, thanks to her potion, had robbed him of his control and branded him with a memory so heated, he couldn’t vanquish it.

“I care nothing about the lands or title. I care not if he takes it all away.”

“He knows that about you,” Robert said.

“I won’t live at Versailles. I’d sooner have him place me in the Bastille. I prefer that prison over the gilded one he has planned for me.”

Robert sighed. “He knows that about you, too. That is why he sent us to reason with you. He doesn’t wish to take such measures against his son.”

Adrien turned. “
Jésus-Christ
, he has many ‘sons.’ And daughters, too. Why is he so focused on me?”

“Perhaps it is because you remind him of himself,” Charles responded. “Everyone knows what little regard he has for his heir. The Grand Dauphin doesn’t have the mental and emotional fortitude to take the throne. And though he will succeed him nonetheless, Louis has no respect for him. But you . . . you he respects.”

Paul nodded. “Probably because you resist him, at times defy him, when others wouldn’t dare.”

He wasn’t trying to be defiant. He was simply trying to encourage a parting of ways.

“At least consider joining him at court, Adrien,” said Charles. “There are plenty of women there to entertain you. Please him, and he’ll likely let you select your own bride, and offer a high-ranking position where you will—”

“Enough of that, Charles.” Robert walked up to Adrien. “Adrien has already made it clear that none of that entices him.” Robert turned to Adrien. “Stay here. A week. A month. Whatever you need. But do consider the matter carefully.”

There was nothing to consider. He wasn’t going to change his mind, and he was angry that his uncles were even asking this of him.

“Robert is right,” Charles said. “Stay. Drink. Enjoy yourself—just don’t do so with Madame de Villecourt.”

“And why the hell not?” Paul asked for him.

Charles crossed his arms. “Because I heard, while at Versailles, that she is to marry Philbert, Comte de Baillet.”

“So?” Adrien saw that as no hindrance.

“The Comte de Baillet is a man Louis holds in high esteem.”

Paul waved a dismissive hand. “That makes no difference. Everyone poaches.”

“If Adrien chooses to deny his King—a colossal mistake, I might add,” Charles said, “then I should think he wouldn’t want to give Louis more reasons to be annoyed with him—that is, if he wants to walk away unscathed.”

His Majesty ruled by intimidation. If there was a way to force Adrien to comply, Louis would have done it. He wouldn’t have sent his uncles to “reason” with him. Adrien
was
going to walk away unscathed. Louis wasn’t going to strip him of his lands and title or have him arrested or do anything whatsoever to raise the curiosity of his courtiers. To risk having anyone learn that his son had denied his request and hadn’t cowered before the mighty Sun King would, in Louis’s mind, make him look weak. And that he would never do.

However, his father wasn’t going to simply relent. He was going to quietly, incessantly try to break Adrien and get him to acquiesce.

No, if he wanted his father to be out of his life—free himself from his clutches—he’d have to press the matter further.

Philbert de Baillet was going to assist in that regard.

The man was an ass. He had no backbone to speak of. He’d never call Adrien out no matter what he did with Catherine. More important, Philbert had the ear of Louis’s most pious wife, Madame de Maintenon. He’d run straight to her and lament—as he had in the past when someone fell out of favor with him. Louis was absolute ruler on matters of state, but when it came to religious observation and devotion, he looked to Madame de Maintenon, his second wife. She’d greatly influenced a vice-ridden King and his court, curbing their ways.

Madame de Maintenon didn’t think much of hedonists like Adrien.

She’d been cordial to Adrien. Respectful of him the entire time he’d spent at Versailles, keeping her opinion of him to herself. But a dalliance with the future wife of someone she considered a dear friend would loosen the woman’s tongue. It would likely convince her that Adrien was corrupt by nature, and therefore unredeemable. And she’d express to the King her vehement displeasure at having Adrien permanently at Versailles.

Madame de Maintenon and Philbert de Baillet were about to aid in his cause and become Adrien’s unwittingly allies. As would the lovely Catherine.

He felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, pleased for the first time since this conversation began.

Charles’s brow furrowed. “Why are you smiling?”

“Why, Uncle, you just made Catherine de Villecourt even more appealing.”

“Odette, we’re leaving!” Catherine announced the moment she located her maid in her rooms, her insides still quivering.

Odette was holding two of Catherine’s gowns, one over each arm. Her brown eyes widened. “But, madame, you’ve only just arrived. I was unpacking—” Catherine’s belongings were spread across the bed.

“Gather everything. We must leave right now.” She’d leave the country. Where could she go? She had virtually no money. Perhaps Suzanne could advance her some funds.
Dear God, he knows your name
. . . Her hands shaky, she snatched up one of her gowns off the mattress and tossed it back in her trunk, then turned and grabbed another and tossed it in, too.

Perplexed, the older woman watched her haphazard packing. “What has happened? What is amiss?”

Catherine pulled the gowns from Odette’s arms and tossed them into the trunk as well. “I’ll tell you what is amiss. The gentleman whose wine you spiked five years ago is
here
.”

Odette’s mouth fell agape. She clamped it shut and swallowed.
“He—He is?”

“Yes, and that’s not all. He isn’t from Vienna. He’s French.”

Ashen, Odette sank into a nearby chair, looking suddenly older than her forty-nine years.
“He—He is?”

“He is! And will you stop repeating that.”

“Has he . . . seen you?”

“Oh, yes. He has seen me. And recognized me as being the woman who tainted his wine then gave herself to him.”

Odette blinked.
“Pour l’amour de Dieu . . .”

“Oh, and it gets better,” Catherine continued. “Would you like to know who his father is?”

Odette wound her apron around her finger. “Well . . . to be quite honest, madame . . .
not really
.”

Catherine crossed her arms. “I shall tell you anyway.”

“I feared as much,” she mumbled to her lap.

“His father is well-known. A rather important man. Perhaps you’ve heard of him? The.
King
.”

Nervous, Odette smoothed her hand over her hair and mustered the semblance of a smile. “Oh? And which King might that be? Some small nation somewhere far—”

“Of France.”

“Oh. That King.”

Catherine threw up her hands. “Odette, you told me he was from Vienna.”