Bewitching in Boots (2 page)

Agathe simply shook her head in dismay.

Standing in the courtyard, overgrown with weeds, was an old two-story country mansion, its stone masonry crumbling in many spots. The once proud mythical statues adorning its rooftops were blackened with dirt and age.

Elisabeth took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It’s in some need of repair.”

Agathe snorted. “That is putting it mildly.”

This isn’t a setback
. She wasn’t going to be discouraged by the state of Tristan’s abode or, more important, what it suggested about the finances of the lord of this château and how that diminished her already slim chances of being with Tristan beyond the week. She’d come this far. She’d forge ahead.

She’d simply add to the plan. What was one more obstacle in her path? After all, she was already attempting the impossible. In addition to convincing the King that Tristan was capable of commanding His Majesty’s Guard once more, and making Tristan want her, clearly she’d have to convince her father that Tristan was richer than he was.

She was wearing her lucky boots. Good thing.

She was going to need all the luck she could get.

*****

“Is this what you do all day? Sit in the library?” Gabriel de Tiersonnier asked with a smile as he strolled into the room.

Seated on the settee, his leg propped up, Tristan stared out at the gardens. Without glancing at his brother, he responded dryly, “No. Sometimes I sit in the salon.” His tone was caustic. Embittered.

He wanted to be left alone and tried to ignore his younger brother and his good mood. It was as infuriating as the unrelenting dull ache in Tristan’s leg. An incessant reminder of his debilitated state. All these weeks and no bloody sign of improvement. He still walked with a cane. He still couldn’t make peace with his crippled limb. He hadn’t wanted to believe the royal physicians’ prognosis. Now he was beginning to lose all hope of a complete recovery.

And his frustration and fury over it mounted daily.

Still smiling, Gabriel shook his head and sat down in a nearby chair, making himself comfortable.

Merde
. His brother meant to stay.

“Really, Tristan, this sedate existence of yours is as exciting as living among celibate monks.”

“You should know. You were one of them—that is until they tossed you out last week.” Gabriel had returned two days ago, shattering Tristan’s solitude, and he resented it.

He resented just about everything nowadays. He resented how far he’d fallen for a man who had it all—command of the most prestigious, most elite corps in the realm, the ear of the King and his esteem, magnificent apartments at Versailles, and a number of women to bed whenever he chose, including his favorite, Veronique. But his favorite turned out to be a conniving little opportunist, who was quick to leave. The moment he was replaced as Captain of the Musketeers, she was bedding his successor.

What did he have left when all the dust had settled? A lame leg. A broken-down château he cared nothing about. And worse, staid empty years stretched out before him—a life so contrary to his active existence. He’d fought in countless campaigns for his country during his distinguished military career. He’d risen through the ranks to eventually head the King’s private Guard, and had conducted covert operations and quashed conspiracies while in charge of the safety and protection of the royal family.

Gabriel chuckled good-naturedly. “I was not a monk, and well you know it. I was in the seminary. I hadn’t taken any vows yet. Our dear departed father felt he needed to have one son in the service of God. I told him it was a mistake to send me.”

“I suppose ‘our dear departed father’ overestimated your restraint. Here you thought celibacy was a mere suggestion and not a requirement for a man studying to become a member of the Holy Church.”

“Exactly.” Gabriel grinned. “Glad you see my point.”

“Yes, and who could have guessed they’d take it so seriously when they caught you with two women at the same time—twice.”

Gabriel laughed. “Ah, now Tristan, those women were well worth being expelled from the seminary. Who needs to wait to die to go to paradise when a man can sample those four lovelies right here on earth?”

“Tristan?” The sound of his uncle’s voice grabbed Tristan’s attention. He turned to see Richard de Tiersonnier entered the room, his brow furrowed. Despite his salt and pepper hair, he was still the tall, strong figure he’d been during his years in the military. “Are you expecting a Duc?”

“A
Duc?
” Tristan repeated. “Of course not, why?” No one from court had visited him since his departure from the royal palace. He’d been well forgotten in mere weeks—after years of loyal service to the King and his family.

“There is a six-horse carriage among the entourage outside.”

Tristan was baffled.
Entourage?
A six-horse carriage was definitely a Duc. What Duc? Why was he here?

Grabbing his cane, he struggled to his feet, refusing help from Gabriel, and made his way to the courtyard to greet his notable visitor, his uncle and brother falling in behind him.

The moment Tristan stepped outside the main entrance of his château, he arrested his steps. His heart lost a beat. Two carriages, one with six white horses, and thirty of his former men each on horseback filled his courtyard.

But if that wasn’t enough, by far the most astonishing sight was the King’s favorite daughter, Elisabeth, Duchesse de Roussel. Flanked by her maid and her sister, she stood not twenty feet away dressed in breeches, black boots and a white shirt—male clothing custom-fitted to her form.

She looked like anything but a man.

Her breeches accentuated her mouth-watering curves, black boots—like none he’d ever seen—molded to her slender calves, and then there was her shirt. The breeze fluttered the white material, teasing him with glimpses of creamy skin above her breasts. He felt his prick harden.

Tristan squeezed the handle of his cane.
Jésus-Christ
, he hadn’t had sex since his injury. He’d definitely gone too long without a good fuck if the sight of the King’s most spoiled offspring, dressed in men’s clothing, was stiffening his cock.

“Where is the Duc?” his uncle asked.

Gabriel stepped around Tristan. “Never mind that, Uncle. Who is that woman dressed in breeches?”

“One of His Majesty’s illegitimate daughters.” Tristan couldn’t keep the disdain from his tone.

“I thought he legitimized all his children born to his mistresses,” Richard stated.

“He did. He gave them status and arranged powerful matches for them, too,” Tristan said. “This is one of the more self-indulgent among those in the royal brood.”

Tightening his jaw, he made his way across the courtyard, hating it that his former men had to see him hobbling like a cripple. Whatever Elisabeth wanted, he’d refuse. Whatever game she was playing—and it was obvious she was up to no good—he wouldn’t engage in it.

He was going to send her and her entourage straight back to Versailles.

Elisabeth’s heart hammered in her chest as she watched Tristan approach. He wasn’t happy to see her. No surprise there. The summer wind caressed his dark hair and pressed his shirt against his strong chest. Normally in uniform, this was the first time she’d ever seen him in plain clothing.

He looked even more dangerous and delicious.

Elisabeth felt the usual hot quickening in her belly at the sight of him.

He stopped, towering before her, and gave a short stiff obligatory bow. “Madame, to what do I owe this honor?” The last word was particularly weighty with sarcasm.

Here we go, Elisabeth . . .
She prayed he didn’t notice how she trembled. Schooling her features, she lifted her chin a notch. “And a good day to you, too, Tristan.” She’d never addressed him in such a familiar manner, but if she wanted a more intimate involvement, she might as well speak to him in a more intimate way. “Yes, I am well and I had a good trip. Thank you.” She kept her tone light and her gaze fixed to his, anxiety and arousal swirling through her system. Just being this close to him made her sex moisten.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Forgive my manners.” His reply was tightly dealt. “I should have inquired about your well-being and your trip. I’m glad all is well. The point of your visit is?”

The man didn’t believe in mincing words, did he? He couldn’t make it more obvious he wanted her gone. Posthaste. Well, she wasn’t going anywhere.

“Agathe, the letter, please.” She held out her hand to her maid.

Agathe handed her the folded parchment she’d been entrusted with.

Elisabeth held it out to Tristan. “From the King.”

Taking the letter from her, Tristan broke open the seal with one hand, leaning heavily on his cane with the other, and scanned its contents. He snorted. “This asks that I help you secure a new fencing instructor.”

“That’s correct.” Every so often the breeze blew just the right way and delighted her senses with his scent. He smelled wonderful. All male. Potent and virile, his leg injury diminishing him in no way in her eyes. She wanted to lean in and inhale deeply, and had to fight back the urge to lace her arms around him and brush her lips along his neck, his skin tempting her in the worst way. Too many nights she’d lain in bed, wondering how he’d feel against her, inside her. Her every instinct told her that any amorous encounter with this man would be like none she’d ever known. Behind the cold glares he gave her was a man who was naturally—deliciously—dominant in the boudoir. With a wicked blend of hot sensuality and sinful skills, he knew how to drive a woman wild. Stories of his sexual talents abounded at the palace.

Sadly, he didn’t even need to lift a finger to affect her. She was already wild and wet for him.

“I’ll be staying awhile. We all will.” She gestured toward the large group she’d brought. “Now if you will show me to my rooms.”

Gripped by anger, his light blue eyes shone with such bedazzling fire.

“Duchesse, I’ll not show you anywhere, except back to your carriage. I have no fencing instructor to suggest to you. Inform the King of my regrets. Kindly take your party and return to Versailles.”

Where most would have stepped back when on the receiving end of one of Tristan de Tiersonnier’s fierce looks and sharp tones, boldly she took a step closer to him. A delectable rush of heat flooded over her. Her nipples tightened and pressed hard against her shirt.

“I don’t think so. I am staying.” She forced herself to hold his regard without wavering. “You see, my father knows how much I love to fence and has always provided me with fine instructors in the past. I’ve learned all I can from my last instructor. Therefore, I need a new one. He has ordered you to assist me in finding one to my liking, and I’ve chosen the instructor I want.
You
.”

Tristan gave a harsh laugh. “
Me
?
Madame, are you blind? Perhaps you missed my injured leg?” he all but growled at her.

Unfazed, she responded, “I’m aware of your injury. It won’t hinder you, I’m sure. You are the best swordsman in the country. You have a lot to teach me. And you’ll not disobey your King’s orders.”

She stepped around him. Without turning back, she walked toward the château with purposeful strides, passing the small group of servants who’d formed a line outside, her sister and maid on her heels. She hated sounding spoiled and demanding, knowing it fed into his preconceived notions of her, but he left her no choice. He needed persuasion. Only by throwing the King’s name and authority around could she bend his will to hers.

“Oh, this is good. This is so much better than the seminary.” Gabriel snickered. “Tristan, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a woman order you about.”

Tristan watched the saucy sway of Elisabeth’s luscious derrière as she walked away. He held back the expletives bellowing in his head. He was at a full cock stand—in front of a fucking squad of his former men. In fact, the moment she’d stepped close and he’d noticed the telltale sign of her pebbled nipples, he was slammed with a hot wave of arousal. He was exciting her.
Merde
. It was affecting him.

He didn’t need this. He was already in torment thanks to his leg. He didn’t need his prick to add to his misery. Elisabeth de Roussel was nothing more than a coquette—a flirt who didn’t offer up the ultimate prize. He’d seen her cock-teasing at court. She had it down to an art. With her beauty and wit, she had men all but panting for her. She lapped it up, purring with pleasure over their interest and thriving on the power she wielded over them. Countless fools had vied for her attention and were ultimately turned down.

Few had ever made it to her bed. It was a game to her. A mere diversion.

The royal family was, by and large, self-absorbed and full of artifice—Veronique and Elisabeth among the worst. Only Veronique never received preferential treatment from the King the way Elisabeth did. Loyalty, honesty and honor meant nothing to any member of His Majesty’s family. Not a sincere soul in the bunch. He didn’t miss the games at court or those who played them.

Clearly, Elisabeth was bored, looking for new diversions.

He wasn’t about to become that diversion.

Tristan glanced at the men he used to command. Most were dismounting and wouldn’t make eye contact with him. Their first meeting since his dismissal, the awkwardness and tension in the air was palpable. He missed leading these men. Every one of the twenty-seven hundred that made up the King’s private Guard was of noble birth, impeccable character, and superior skill. If he were still in charge, he could order them to escort the Duchesse de Roussel back to the palace with a letter to the King recommending that for her own safety his daughter not travel the countryside in her outrageous attire. But he had no authority over them any longer. They had to abide by their mistress’s wishes, unable to take orders from him.

“Tristan, what do you wish to do with all these men?” Richard asked.

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Gabriel grinning, thoroughly enjoying himself.

“Send them to the stables until I settle this matter.”