handsome and educated and well spoken. He didn’t prevaricate, and he had an unyielding sense of honor and duty. He was loyal, nearly to a fault, and he would be an excellent husband to any woman, should he ever choose to marry. Especially to Claudia.
But Sabien didn’t want her, and Gaspard wasn’t like the Sabiens of the world. He was a bad man with a fake title and a dung-heap castle, passably attractive, educated only insofar as his formative years had allowed, and he had never mastered the ingrained politeness those born into the peerage seemed to possess. He lied freely, evaded truthfulness in every situation, and his sense of honor and duty extended no further beyond the constraints of his own person. He supposedly cared for Sabien and Max and Faron, but the moment they became dispensable was the moment he intended to rid himself of the weight of their friendship. He’d never considered marriage or what type of husband he’d be, but he had to believe that, along with his various other faults, marital bliss remained leagues beyond his reach.
Yet he considered Claudia his. His. He’d already claimed her maidenhead—an act spurred by financial necessity, of course. But she was his nonetheless.
Guilt coiled like acid in his stomach. “Do you see me proposing?”
Comfortable with the return of their banter, Sabien smiled. “No, but women seem to prefer you go down on bended knee. Keep that in mind. Ten thousand pounds…” He shook his head, then murmured, “See you after midnight,” and disappeared into the sea of guests.
Gaspard stared after the lieutenant. That dowry wouldn’t do what Sabien thought it would. Gaspard wasn’t going to rescue his decrepit castle and whisk his new moneybags bride off to the Lorraine-Mâche estate nestled in the foothills of the French Alps. No, he was going to pay the debt on his lands, keep the title he’d bled to earn, and burrow down in England with a woman he could bed whenever he wanted, in the privacy of a safe, secure home long miles away from this wretched country he hated so very much.
He was such a rotten excuse for a Frenchman.
He should feel more shame for using Claudia so callously. After introducing her to the sort of shocking sensations a proper young woman never expected to experience in or out of the marriage bed, he’d kept her on tenterhooks, wondering what new, sensual encounter he would next offer her. It wasn’t fair to seduce her—she wouldn’t know any better than to start… feeling for Gaspard. She wouldn’t know that any halfway decent excuse for a man could give her the releases she now craved.
Instead, he had flung open the doors to her pleasure, her first surrender a foray into submission. The blindfold, the bonds at her wrists, the bruise he’d marked her with. Claudia had melted at the growl in his voice and the firmness of his commands, both in the closet and in her bedchamber, the perfect pawn to desires he’d never fully been able to explore himself.
He swallowed as he watched the ballroom entrance, remembering again her honeyed taste coating his greedy tongue.
His cock pulsed.
He was an idiot to have given her an ultimatum. To present her with Sabien and Gaspard was to force a choice between a prince and a pauper, and every young woman wanted to be a princess, didn’t she? Yet should Claudia suffer a lapse in judgment, Gaspard wouldn’t hesitate another second in pouncing.
But for all that he wanted to pounce upon Claudia, he hadn’t fallen on her like an animal last night, even though he was certain she’d have welcomed him with open arms to her bed. It was an exercise in restraint, testing the limits of his control with the depth of his desire for her. The tenuous connection he’d noted from the very first—one that defied common sense and drew instead on gut instinct—had the curious effect of soothing him as it engulfed him. It was easier to affect some sort of…generosity, some gentleness, with Claudia than it
But Sabien didn’t want her, and Gaspard wasn’t like the Sabiens of the world. He was a bad man with a fake title and a dung-heap castle, passably attractive, educated only insofar as his formative years had allowed, and he had never mastered the ingrained politeness those born into the peerage seemed to possess. He lied freely, evaded truthfulness in every situation, and his sense of honor and duty extended no further beyond the constraints of his own person. He supposedly cared for Sabien and Max and Faron, but the moment they became dispensable was the moment he intended to rid himself of the weight of their friendship. He’d never considered marriage or what type of husband he’d be, but he had to believe that, along with his various other faults, marital bliss remained leagues beyond his reach.
Yet he considered Claudia his. His. He’d already claimed her maidenhead—an act spurred by financial necessity, of course. But she was his nonetheless.
Guilt coiled like acid in his stomach. “Do you see me proposing?”
Comfortable with the return of their banter, Sabien smiled. “No, but women seem to prefer you go down on bended knee. Keep that in mind. Ten thousand pounds…” He shook his head, then murmured, “See you after midnight,” and disappeared into the sea of guests.
Gaspard stared after the lieutenant. That dowry wouldn’t do what Sabien thought it would. Gaspard wasn’t going to rescue his decrepit castle and whisk his new moneybags bride off to the Lorraine-Mâche estate nestled in the foothills of the French Alps. No, he was going to pay the debt on his lands, keep the title he’d bled to earn, and burrow down in England with a woman he could bed whenever he wanted, in the privacy of a safe, secure home long miles away from this wretched country he hated so very much.
He was such a rotten excuse for a Frenchman.
He should feel more shame for using Claudia so callously. After introducing her to the sort of shocking sensations a proper young woman never expected to experience in or out of the marriage bed, he’d kept her on tenterhooks, wondering what new, sensual encounter he would next offer her. It wasn’t fair to seduce her—she wouldn’t know any better than to start… feeling for Gaspard. She wouldn’t know that any halfway decent excuse for a man could give her the releases she now craved.
Instead, he had flung open the doors to her pleasure, her first surrender a foray into submission. The blindfold, the bonds at her wrists, the bruise he’d marked her with. Claudia had melted at the growl in his voice and the firmness of his commands, both in the closet and in her bedchamber, the perfect pawn to desires he’d never fully been able to explore himself.
He swallowed as he watched the ballroom entrance, remembering again her honeyed taste coating his greedy tongue.
His cock pulsed.
He was an idiot to have given her an ultimatum. To present her with Sabien and Gaspard was to force a choice between a prince and a pauper, and every young woman wanted to be a princess, didn’t she? Yet should Claudia suffer a lapse in judgment, Gaspard wouldn’t hesitate another second in pouncing.
But for all that he wanted to pounce upon Claudia, he hadn’t fallen on her like an animal last night, even though he was certain she’d have welcomed him with open arms to her bed. It was an exercise in restraint, testing the limits of his control with the depth of his desire for her. The tenuous connection he’d noted from the very first—one that defied common sense and drew instead on gut instinct—had the curious effect of soothing him as it engulfed him. It was easier to affect some sort of…generosity, some gentleness, with Claudia than it
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