Read Online The Immortal American (The Immortal American Series) by L. B. Joramo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: L. B. Joramo
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let an eruption of air pensively invade his lungs and exhaled. His beautiful dark eyes became startling blue, and he checked around the dining room once more.
“What of titles,” he whispered. His hand fluttered between us, then dropped when he confessed, “I . . . am only a man, Violet.”
“Oh.” I nodded exaggeratedly. “Yes, I’m sure.” I pursed my lips.
His eyes cut to my sister and mother who seemed to be arguing now about a nice white wine versus a headache inducing red. Then, quite surprisingly, he clutched my hand, pulling it to his lap under the table–his callused palms holding my hand between his.
“I am. Truly. Just a man. A weak, suffering man. I am no different than any other.”
Through gritted teeth, I whispered, “How can you say that? You’re French royalty.”
He shook his head, then shrugged. “On my mother’s side and my father’s I can trace my heritage back to two knights who fought in the first crusade for their king. What of that, hmm? Just because of my heritage I am given a title. Non , I must earn my titles as Rousseau and Descartes and so many other philosophers have laid claim. I have to earn people’s respect. I am no royalty that believes God granted me this life. Non . That is another man’s philosophy to explain why men are created equal, but never treat each other as such. I abhor men who believe that Divinity seeks out titles for men, which is why I’m not popular in court.”
I huffed a fast laugh, then shook my head, confused.
“Do you hate me, being born a nobleman?” His whisper was strained, filled with sorrow, almost to a breaking point.
With a tremulous hand, I reached for both of his that still held my one, and held fast while my sister and mother were discussing the importation of silk.
“Never.” My own whisper was ragged. “Of course not. I could never hate you. I love your speech. It rings of Rousseau and justice and, Lord, I love Rousseau.”
He softly chuckled and rummaged for a grip on both my hands. After finding his hold, he whispered, “You were angry with me? For being a born a Marquis?”
“No.” I looked down, noticing the way his flat stomach was breathing quickly. “Well, perhaps at first, but that was not entirely why I was . . . warm with you.”
“You were angry with me for not confessing sooner—”
“We are each other’s confidants, after all.” I looked up into his blue, blue eyes.
He held a small, proud smile.
I looked away quickly, aware I had said too much.
His thumb began to rub the knuckle of my first finger. My God, why did that feel so wonderful? Something strong bubbled from very low in my stomach, and wrenched its way through to my chest and heart. I wondered if my corset would burst at the magnitude of my breath and how my breasts ached. My skin felt hot and prickly, but all the same, I so wanted Jacque to keep touching me.
“In time, I fear, I will confess everything to you,” he whispered even closer to my ear; his hot breath on the naked skin of my neck.
My body smoldered and screamed of a fire within and branded my skin with his name written on my blazing cheeks. Still, I said, “You fear? Is my confidentiality in question?”
“Never, mon ami . Never.”
“My goodness, but the two of you are enraptured in a deep conversation. Might I dare to inquire as to the topic?” My mother softly laughed.
I looked up and tried to retract my hands from his. Just before I was released from his grip, Jacque clutched at my fingers, holding me still. “We were discussing the stand-off between the British Regular soldiers and the Salem militia that happened last month.”
“Heavens, that does call for lowered voices then. Here, I was thinking Monsieur Beaumont was confessing some love poem in French to my daughter, but, of course, my dark-haired child discusses battles. So, what do the both of you think of that stand-off?”
I swallowed as Jacque’s finger caressed one of my own.
He began with his
“What of titles,” he whispered. His hand fluttered between us, then dropped when he confessed, “I . . . am only a man, Violet.”
“Oh.” I nodded exaggeratedly. “Yes, I’m sure.” I pursed my lips.
His eyes cut to my sister and mother who seemed to be arguing now about a nice white wine versus a headache inducing red. Then, quite surprisingly, he clutched my hand, pulling it to his lap under the table–his callused palms holding my hand between his.
“I am. Truly. Just a man. A weak, suffering man. I am no different than any other.”
Through gritted teeth, I whispered, “How can you say that? You’re French royalty.”
He shook his head, then shrugged. “On my mother’s side and my father’s I can trace my heritage back to two knights who fought in the first crusade for their king. What of that, hmm? Just because of my heritage I am given a title. Non , I must earn my titles as Rousseau and Descartes and so many other philosophers have laid claim. I have to earn people’s respect. I am no royalty that believes God granted me this life. Non . That is another man’s philosophy to explain why men are created equal, but never treat each other as such. I abhor men who believe that Divinity seeks out titles for men, which is why I’m not popular in court.”
I huffed a fast laugh, then shook my head, confused.
“Do you hate me, being born a nobleman?” His whisper was strained, filled with sorrow, almost to a breaking point.
With a tremulous hand, I reached for both of his that still held my one, and held fast while my sister and mother were discussing the importation of silk.
“Never.” My own whisper was ragged. “Of course not. I could never hate you. I love your speech. It rings of Rousseau and justice and, Lord, I love Rousseau.”
He softly chuckled and rummaged for a grip on both my hands. After finding his hold, he whispered, “You were angry with me? For being a born a Marquis?”
“No.” I looked down, noticing the way his flat stomach was breathing quickly. “Well, perhaps at first, but that was not entirely why I was . . . warm with you.”
“You were angry with me for not confessing sooner—”
“We are each other’s confidants, after all.” I looked up into his blue, blue eyes.
He held a small, proud smile.
I looked away quickly, aware I had said too much.
His thumb began to rub the knuckle of my first finger. My God, why did that feel so wonderful? Something strong bubbled from very low in my stomach, and wrenched its way through to my chest and heart. I wondered if my corset would burst at the magnitude of my breath and how my breasts ached. My skin felt hot and prickly, but all the same, I so wanted Jacque to keep touching me.
“In time, I fear, I will confess everything to you,” he whispered even closer to my ear; his hot breath on the naked skin of my neck.
My body smoldered and screamed of a fire within and branded my skin with his name written on my blazing cheeks. Still, I said, “You fear? Is my confidentiality in question?”
“Never, mon ami . Never.”
“My goodness, but the two of you are enraptured in a deep conversation. Might I dare to inquire as to the topic?” My mother softly laughed.
I looked up and tried to retract my hands from his. Just before I was released from his grip, Jacque clutched at my fingers, holding me still. “We were discussing the stand-off between the British Regular soldiers and the Salem militia that happened last month.”
“Heavens, that does call for lowered voices then. Here, I was thinking Monsieur Beaumont was confessing some love poem in French to my daughter, but, of course, my dark-haired child discusses battles. So, what do the both of you think of that stand-off?”
I swallowed as Jacque’s finger caressed one of my own.
He began with his
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