The Corrupt Comte (33 page)

A curious numbness had blanketed her senses upon waking this morning, no doubt the result of the shattering intimacy Gaspard had forced upon her last night, an intimacy that had splintered her bones and her heart in equal measure. Last night hadn’t been about six thousand, three hundred and sixty-one pounds, or about dangerous secrets. It hadn’t been about anything other than love, for her—love and the wary acceptance she nurtured with each passing moment as Claudia Toussaint,
la comtesse du Lorraine-Mâche
.

Yesterday, she had decided to leave him. Today, she realized she likely never would.

Acceptance.

The numbness cracked just the tiniest bit, and she shook her head, doing her best to sweep aside thoughts that would no doubt torture her relentlessly for days, weeks to come. By the time the butler returned, a dapper-looking Sabien at his heels, Claudia appeared the perfect cool, calm young matron.

“My lady,” Sabien murmured, his accent smooth and cultured. He held a well-brushed hat in one hand, along with a pair of dove-gray gloves, and hovered his lips over the bare knuckles of her proffered hand, the very picture of handsome propriety.

They were fakers, the both of them.

She nodded when he released her hand. “Please, s-sit.” Warmed in a rather detached way that her stutter hadn’t overtaken her speech, she indicated the tea service on the table next to the divan that she’d too long ignored. “I c-can order a fresh p-pot, if you like.”

He shook his head but thanked her quietly as he settled into the chair across from her, a gold curl escaping his neat coiffure to fall artfully across his forehead. He truly did look like a prince from a dream, she thought wryly. Not a month earlier she would have been a proper mess in his presence, but not anymore.

She was a woman who believed in neither princes nor dreams.

“My lady,” he said again, before pausing to gently clear his throat. “Claudia.”

She raised a brow but didn’t reprimand his intimate use of her name.

Apparently taking her silence as encouragement, he sat a bit taller. “Claudia, you are a lovely young woman.”

She could almost hear the silent
but
at the end of his sentence. Deep down, she suspected she knew why he was here, could almost predict the offer he might be about to make. There was no other reason for him to beg an audience, not after so many quasi-disastrous interactions.

If he had the gall to proposition her the day after her wedding, he had better do so manfully. At least when Gaspard had announced to the duke and all assembled that he had ruined her, he’d done it with head held high, unapologetic to a fault. It had been horrible in the moment, yes—but he’d owned his words.

The numbness cracked a little more.

“You should know, madame, that I’ve long admired you—”

She cut him off mid-lie. “You c-could not st-stand the…the s-s-sight of me.”

“Not true.” But a flush crept up from his collar.

“If you’ve admired m-me,” she countered, narrowing her gaze as she dared him to contradict, “you m-m-must have known how I f-felt about you.”

Hazel eyes sharpened on her. “Are we being honest now, Claudia?”

“P-please.”

“Then I think it’s fair to say that not even
you
knew how you felt about me. I was convenient, wasn’t I?” Bitterness laced his tone, a bitterness she didn’t understand.

However, she needed to reward his honesty with her own. “You did s-seem…available.”

“Alas, I was not.” When she raised her brow once more, he answered, “My attentions were elsewhere…engaged. They are no longer so.” There was that bitterness again, but this time she recognized the subtle dagger of heartbreak stabbing through the crisp consonants and precise vowels.

Instantly, any lingering animosity toward this man faded. “Why did you c-come to London, S-Sabien?” So entrenched in her own battles, she’d ignored the odd fact that Sabien had accompanied them from Paris, and that she had heard no word of his intent to return.

For a moment, the lieutenant looked helpless. “I…had to.”

Which was when she deduced the obvious: Sabien wasn’t just Gaspard’s friend. He was a fellow spy, and he’d somehow been involved in the events that had forced Gaspard to flee France. Whether the woman who had held Sabien’s attentions was pertinent to the situation or not, here sat a man—tall and stalwart and more beautiful than any male had a right to be—even more lost and floundering than her husband.

She understood. She sympathized. And, for the first time in her life, she felt as though maybe…maybe she had found a friend. “And why did you c-come to m-me?” she asked gently.

Half a second later, he regained his composure, leaving his hat and gloves on a side table as he moved to sit next to her on the divan, taking her hand in his. “Claudia, there are things you likely don’t know about Gaspard. Things I think you have a right to know.”

This didn’t bode well. She tugged at her hand, but he didn’t release it. “I know m-my husband.”

Sabien shook his head, no less pitying than the assembled wedding guests the day before. “I know that he somehow managed to…to
deflower
you”—his fair cheeks reddened—“but it’s not to his liking. Which is not your fault,” he reassured her in a rush.

“Dear God.” A nauseating mix of dread and embarrassment coiled in her stomach. Sabien had no clue, no clue about Gaspard’s preferences.

Their friendship spanned half a decade, and yet…

“I know this is indelicate, but Gaspard is my friend, and I…I care about his happiness.” He paused, a trace of sadness in his gaze. “I’m afraid that happiness will leave you unsatisfied.”

“Unsatisfied?”

He flushed again. “In the marriage bed. He’ll neglect you—not out of callousness, but simply because he cannot meet your needs.”

“My needs,” she parroted dumbly, no longer trying to free her hand from his grasp. Her wrist hung there, limp, while she stared wonderingly at the delusional man beside her.

He took a deep, fortifying breath. “Sexually. He won’t be able to…pleasure you.”

The words escaped her before she could rein them in, before she could remember that she now had a role of her own to play—as the sexually neglected, perpetually un-pleasured wife of an effeminate fop. For whatever reason, Gaspard hadn’t confided in Sabien over the course of their years of association. So she spoke without thinking and asked, with genuine confusion, “Why not?”

“Because he desires men!” The statement burst from Sabien, overloud and laced with frustration. “He lusts after men, Claudia. He’s a damn molly.”

She sighed and shook her head, helpless to respond otherwise.

“Claudia—” Sabien cut off with an irritated-sounding grunt, then continued, jaw clenched and tone moderated, “I’m sorry. I know this is difficult to comprehend, but it’s true. And I know that wives…wives are often neglected, even in marriages where the husband is capable of sexual congress.” He paused, the momentary quiet portentous. “What I’m saying is I could see to your pleasure myself.”

“
What
?”

“You wanted me once,” he said, determination written across his face. His hand squeezed hers. “Know that I am telling you the truth when I say you are an attractive woman. Claudia…I would consider it an honor if you’d consent to take me as your lover.”

“No.” Her head reeled, and that blessed numbness was quickly melting away into something burning and horrifying and distinctly uncomfortable. “No, that would b-be wrong.” And she did
not
want him, not anymore. No matter how un-ideal the circumstances of her marriage, it was only the public façade they needed to maintain—inside their home, Gaspard would no doubt keep her well pleasured.

The realization shocked her. Their marriage, much like their abbreviated courtship, could thrive in the shadows. He was new to this country, and she rarely socialized to begin with, and most of their days would be spent in the privacy of their home. She wouldn’t feel the sting of loss if friends snubbed her due to her husband, because she’d never made any friends, anyway. She’d always preferred her own company to that of those few souls around her. It was a relief to finally recognize her marriage as something other than complete folly.

With Gaspard in her life now…she would never be lonely.

Sabien released her hand to cup her face between both of his. His palms were clammy against her skin, his hold surprisingly gentle. “It’s not wrong to help one’s friends. That is what we would be doing—helping Gaspard.”

She didn’t fight in his grasp, but she watched him, wary. “You would s-s-seek to pleasure m-me”—her cheeks heated—“s-so that, in all other respects, G-Gaspard and I c-could have a happy m-marriage?”

“Of course.” Said simply. Honestly.

Even as her mind and body rebelled at the idea of falling into the arms of another man, Sabien’s offer was almost…sweet. Of a strangely dictated morality, of course, but sweet. “You’re a loyal friend.”

His face began to lower toward hers, eyes flicking to her mouth and back again to meet her gaze. “It’s…it’s not a hardship, Claudia,” he murmured softly, a hint of confusion in his somber tone, as though he’d just realized for himself that, indeed, seducing her
wasn’t
going to be a toil.

She didn’t like that tone. “Don’t—” Held as she was, she couldn’t avoid him as he set his lips to hers in a quiet, tentative kiss. Her chest ached and her throat tightened, and she squeezed her eyes shut against the sight of him as she pulled vigorously at his wrists. He ignored her protests, stroking the curve of her cheekbones with his thumbs, as though trying to soothe her.

Claudia didn’t want to be soothed, nor did she want this kiss,
his
kiss. She whimpered in distress, mouth clamped shut.

At that moment, the door to the morning room banged open, and a growl of masculine rage was the only warning they had before Sabien was ripped from her and thrown across the room. She blinked rapidly, attempting to make sense of the scene in front of her—because, to her stinging eyes, it looked as though Gaspard had pinned Sabien to the floor, knees to the other man’s shoulders, and had a wicked blade pressed to his friend’s throat.

Gaspard spoke in rapid, biting French. “How dare you kiss her? How dare you even
touch
her? Claudia. Is. Mine.” He punctuated the last words by fisting Sabien’s hair to yank his head back, revealing the prone man’s vulnerable throat.

“Gaspard, no, I—” A nudge of the deadly knife silenced him, his gaze flicking nervously over to where Claudia sat, stunned, her hand to her chest.

“Are you drunk?” Gaspard demanded. “Tell me, are you drunk right now?”

“I’m not. I’m not, I swear.”

Gaspard’s thumb stroked over the gleaming top of the double-edged blade, confident, dangerous. “You just enjoy seducing other men’s wives, then? Is that it?”

“No!”

But it was as if Gaspard hadn’t heard his friend’s hoarse protest. “Claudia makes an ideal mark, doesn’t she? Married to me, of all men, and you thought she’d be easy prey.” His grip on the weapon shifted with deadly intent. “You’ll never have her, you bastard.”

She refused to let her husband do something he would undoubtedly regret. “Gaspard.”

His head whipped toward her, and the last remnants of numbness disappeared at the wildness in his blue-green eyes—wildness tempered by pain. His chest heaved as he stared at her, protective gaze running over her from head to toe, but he said not a word.

The hurt in his eyes forced her to walk to where he knelt. Slowly, so as not to cause his hold on the dagger to fatally shift, she ran her fingers through damp strands. He was unshaven and unkempt, obviously having just bathed and wearing only black trousers, a white shirt open at the neck, and a plain black waistcoat he hadn’t bothered to button. Where he’d found such simple clothes, she didn’t know. His feet were bare against the rug.

He was perfect. Fierce and angry, classless and peerless. And he was looking at her with everything in his eyes—everything she’d worried she would never see, reflected back at her. “Let him up, G-Gaspard.” She gently combed her fingertips through the strands at his temple.

Without sparing Sabien another glance, Gaspard rose gracefully, knife gripped loosely in his hand. As she tilted her head to look up at him, he slid a firm hand around her nape and took her mouth in a fiery kiss. She parted her lips for him instantly, met his seeking tongue with her own, and relaxed into the curve of his strong body, giving herself over to the possessive passion of the kiss. Equals, they were equals in this, both battling, both claiming.

A cough interrupted them, and Gaspard tore his mouth from hers, breathing hard, and leaned his forehead against hers. He closed his eyes briefly, his swallow audible in the tense silence, and she sensed him bracing himself for the coming exchange.

She stroked a hand over his bristled jaw. “Tell him,” she whispered. “You c-can trust him.
We
can t-trust him.”

With an unintelligible noise of apparent aggravation, he lifted his head to glare at Sabien. “Do not touch my wife again,” he snapped in precisely enunciated English.

Sabien’s expression was thunderous as he tugged at the cravat knotted just below his abused Adam’s apple. “Explain.”

“Explain what?”