thought…until meeting Claudia Pascale.
His shameful secret, he mused wryly as a chilly blast of late-winter air buffeted his exposed skin. An overwhelming and oft-denied hunger for soft, luscious women. He shoved one gloveless hand into his coat pocket, the other gripped over the silver knobbed head of the walking stick, and let the cold sting the backs of his knuckles, trace the webbing of his scars. It didn’t matter that he had come no more than ten minutes ago—his blood heated at the very thought of her name, and he welcomed the vicious relief from his inconvenient lust offered by the wintry elements.
Two days had passed since their interlude in the closet, and the memory of her riding his fingers, suffering her very first orgasm in choked silence as he bruised her shoulder with his teeth, sent anticipation coursing through his tired body. Tomorrow night, she would attend Maxence’s soirée—a fact confirmed when Gaspard had snuck into the baron’s elegant townhouse and sorted through the neat stack of replies—and Gaspard would find an excuse to steal her away, tempting her with release once more.
She wanted out from under her parents’ thumbs, but she’d set her sights on the wrong man. It seemed unlikely that she would have convinced Sabien to kiss her between that night in the linen closet and tomorrow evening, and even if she did, no mere kiss would seduce the lusty lieutenant into marriage. If ten thousand pounds couldn’t do it, nothing would.
So Gaspard would sway Claudia Pascale with seduction, and eventually she’d give him what he needed: a means of cutting all ties with the power-mad master he begrudgingly served. Ten thousand pounds…
Ten thousand pounds was salvation.
A gust of freezing wind slammed into him, and he reached up to grip the brim of his hat, keeping it from blowing away to disappear down the midnight-blanketed streets. The closer he came to the river, the more vibrant the city grew. Carriages clanked by, raucous laughter echoing from within, and drunken groups of revelers spilled from doorways, exclaiming in surprised tones about the bitter cold as they clumped together to hurry to the scene of their next round of merriment.
The harsh weather in no way staunched Paris’s constantly social climate, a fact Gaspard usually appreciated. He’d move from party to party, event to event, either on some business of Évoque’s or following in the wake of his colleagues. Anything to keep from sitting alone and thinking. Remembering. If he couldn’t plot or scheme or run himself ragged on an errand in the name of God and country, he tried to lose himself in sleep. And when the need grew too much to bear, he would lose himself in a brothel on the opposite bank.
With Claudia and her money, he’d not only free himself of the constant reminders of his past, he’d never have to pay for a woman again, because he’d own one. A wife. He could just…be.
Gaspard had never in his life just been .
The shadows clung to him as he turned down the block that led to the sprawling rear gardens of Évoque’s stunted castle. Shouldering his way through a wrought-iron gate bearing the duke’s scarlet crest, Gaspard glanced at the back of the mansion. No light filtered through the tall panes of glass onto the veranda, an element of the original structure at Chantilly that hadn’t existed but was a necessity for town living and entertaining. Those in residence, or any of the numerous guests who attended the duke’s lavish bimonthly balls, often slipped through the doors to the veranda, rushing down either of the stone staircases flanking it to disappear into the gardens for an illicit tryst or two.
A golden glow warmed a trio of windows on the second floor, capturing Gaspard’s attention and distracting him so that he didn’t sense the presence behind him until a heavy hand landed on Gaspard’s shoulder. Whirling, he tossed the walking stick to his other hand and flicked his wrist,
His shameful secret, he mused wryly as a chilly blast of late-winter air buffeted his exposed skin. An overwhelming and oft-denied hunger for soft, luscious women. He shoved one gloveless hand into his coat pocket, the other gripped over the silver knobbed head of the walking stick, and let the cold sting the backs of his knuckles, trace the webbing of his scars. It didn’t matter that he had come no more than ten minutes ago—his blood heated at the very thought of her name, and he welcomed the vicious relief from his inconvenient lust offered by the wintry elements.
Two days had passed since their interlude in the closet, and the memory of her riding his fingers, suffering her very first orgasm in choked silence as he bruised her shoulder with his teeth, sent anticipation coursing through his tired body. Tomorrow night, she would attend Maxence’s soirée—a fact confirmed when Gaspard had snuck into the baron’s elegant townhouse and sorted through the neat stack of replies—and Gaspard would find an excuse to steal her away, tempting her with release once more.
She wanted out from under her parents’ thumbs, but she’d set her sights on the wrong man. It seemed unlikely that she would have convinced Sabien to kiss her between that night in the linen closet and tomorrow evening, and even if she did, no mere kiss would seduce the lusty lieutenant into marriage. If ten thousand pounds couldn’t do it, nothing would.
So Gaspard would sway Claudia Pascale with seduction, and eventually she’d give him what he needed: a means of cutting all ties with the power-mad master he begrudgingly served. Ten thousand pounds…
Ten thousand pounds was salvation.
A gust of freezing wind slammed into him, and he reached up to grip the brim of his hat, keeping it from blowing away to disappear down the midnight-blanketed streets. The closer he came to the river, the more vibrant the city grew. Carriages clanked by, raucous laughter echoing from within, and drunken groups of revelers spilled from doorways, exclaiming in surprised tones about the bitter cold as they clumped together to hurry to the scene of their next round of merriment.
The harsh weather in no way staunched Paris’s constantly social climate, a fact Gaspard usually appreciated. He’d move from party to party, event to event, either on some business of Évoque’s or following in the wake of his colleagues. Anything to keep from sitting alone and thinking. Remembering. If he couldn’t plot or scheme or run himself ragged on an errand in the name of God and country, he tried to lose himself in sleep. And when the need grew too much to bear, he would lose himself in a brothel on the opposite bank.
With Claudia and her money, he’d not only free himself of the constant reminders of his past, he’d never have to pay for a woman again, because he’d own one. A wife. He could just…be.
Gaspard had never in his life just been .
The shadows clung to him as he turned down the block that led to the sprawling rear gardens of Évoque’s stunted castle. Shouldering his way through a wrought-iron gate bearing the duke’s scarlet crest, Gaspard glanced at the back of the mansion. No light filtered through the tall panes of glass onto the veranda, an element of the original structure at Chantilly that hadn’t existed but was a necessity for town living and entertaining. Those in residence, or any of the numerous guests who attended the duke’s lavish bimonthly balls, often slipped through the doors to the veranda, rushing down either of the stone staircases flanking it to disappear into the gardens for an illicit tryst or two.
A golden glow warmed a trio of windows on the second floor, capturing Gaspard’s attention and distracting him so that he didn’t sense the presence behind him until a heavy hand landed on Gaspard’s shoulder. Whirling, he tossed the walking stick to his other hand and flicked his wrist,
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