ever had been with any of the brothel girls whose services he’d paid for.
The possibility of being unmasked and named a liar and a spy had never thrilled him the way it did Maxence Denney, who lived to be found out as not simply a baron but a charmingly deviant cog in France’s political machine. Gaspard risked everything, not the least of which was his life, every time he sought to appease his natural desires…which was why his forays across the bank, ventures fraught with paranoia and precautionary measures, were few and far between.
The release he found with the men seduced for Crown and bloody country was a mere bodily function. There was no excitement. There was no longing. There was no immediacy or desperation or all-consuming lust in those machinations. Every time he rutted behind a man, it was work. It was toil. He suffered for it.
There was no suffering with Claudia. Only an elemental, organic need that shook him, born of trial and battle and war. A need that whispered, with tantalizing nearness, that he could be free if only . If only.
If only she chose him .
The air suddenly crackled with electric life, and he didn’t have to see her to know she entered the room. This was the point of no return, the moment upon which his entire future hinged. He watched from his vantage point on the far side of the ballroom, his back flush against an interior wall, as a petite brunette bundle of raspberry-pink silk paused just inside the doorway and scanned the dancing occupants.
He followed her gaze as it landed on Sabien’s fair head, saw her chest—tantalizingly bared in a low square neckline—rise in a halting breath as her stare lingered on the lieutenant’s tall, lean form, so elegant in his dark blue evening coat. Her lips parted then firmed, and she lifted her chin before stepping into the crowd.
As the top of her head disappeared, Gaspard’s chest tightened until each breath was a flame, scorching his lungs and charring his throat. So. Claudia had made her choice…and he found he couldn’t fault her for it, no matter how much he wanted to. The only reason this stung so absurdly, so painfully, was because it meant the death of his freedom.
Without Claudia’s dowry, he couldn’t possibly pay the debt on his estate before the Crown reclaimed it. If the Crown reclaimed the estate, Gaspard’s title would go along with it, and without the title, Gaspard would be back where he started five years ago: penniless, abused and without the inherent protection and power provided to him as a member of the peerage. The skill set he’d refined over the past decade prepared him only for a life of crime—or prostitution—and it wasn’t as though he’d managed to set aside any funds. His stingy income barely paid for his basic needs and his outdated wardrobe, subsisting mostly on credit and the generosity of others.
He needed the money Évoque owed him, for survival, if nothing else. And if, in fact, debts overwhelmed him and he lost the title, perhaps he could become his father’s son ten years too late.
At least blacksmithing was an honest profession.
There was no relief for the pain in his chest, however, and he fought against an onslaught of unnameable sensations, crushing him, choking him. He refused to believe the tension thrumming through his limbs had anything to do with emotion, or feeling, or Claudia.
It certainly had nothing to do with Claudia.
Mary, Mother of God, this was unacceptable .
A gently clearing throat pierced the deafening quiet pounding in his ears. His blood sang as he shook off the haze that had momentarily blinded him to the ballroom’s goings-on, only to see a vision standing before him. A vision of rose and gold and cream and coffee that hadn’t left his mind in three achingly long days, and Gaspard blinked in patent disbelief before it sank in.
Claudia had chosen him.
Him.
“ Chaton, ” he rasped, his throat unbearably parched.
Her solemn little face lifted. “ Bon
The possibility of being unmasked and named a liar and a spy had never thrilled him the way it did Maxence Denney, who lived to be found out as not simply a baron but a charmingly deviant cog in France’s political machine. Gaspard risked everything, not the least of which was his life, every time he sought to appease his natural desires…which was why his forays across the bank, ventures fraught with paranoia and precautionary measures, were few and far between.
The release he found with the men seduced for Crown and bloody country was a mere bodily function. There was no excitement. There was no longing. There was no immediacy or desperation or all-consuming lust in those machinations. Every time he rutted behind a man, it was work. It was toil. He suffered for it.
There was no suffering with Claudia. Only an elemental, organic need that shook him, born of trial and battle and war. A need that whispered, with tantalizing nearness, that he could be free if only . If only.
If only she chose him .
The air suddenly crackled with electric life, and he didn’t have to see her to know she entered the room. This was the point of no return, the moment upon which his entire future hinged. He watched from his vantage point on the far side of the ballroom, his back flush against an interior wall, as a petite brunette bundle of raspberry-pink silk paused just inside the doorway and scanned the dancing occupants.
He followed her gaze as it landed on Sabien’s fair head, saw her chest—tantalizingly bared in a low square neckline—rise in a halting breath as her stare lingered on the lieutenant’s tall, lean form, so elegant in his dark blue evening coat. Her lips parted then firmed, and she lifted her chin before stepping into the crowd.
As the top of her head disappeared, Gaspard’s chest tightened until each breath was a flame, scorching his lungs and charring his throat. So. Claudia had made her choice…and he found he couldn’t fault her for it, no matter how much he wanted to. The only reason this stung so absurdly, so painfully, was because it meant the death of his freedom.
Without Claudia’s dowry, he couldn’t possibly pay the debt on his estate before the Crown reclaimed it. If the Crown reclaimed the estate, Gaspard’s title would go along with it, and without the title, Gaspard would be back where he started five years ago: penniless, abused and without the inherent protection and power provided to him as a member of the peerage. The skill set he’d refined over the past decade prepared him only for a life of crime—or prostitution—and it wasn’t as though he’d managed to set aside any funds. His stingy income barely paid for his basic needs and his outdated wardrobe, subsisting mostly on credit and the generosity of others.
He needed the money Évoque owed him, for survival, if nothing else. And if, in fact, debts overwhelmed him and he lost the title, perhaps he could become his father’s son ten years too late.
At least blacksmithing was an honest profession.
There was no relief for the pain in his chest, however, and he fought against an onslaught of unnameable sensations, crushing him, choking him. He refused to believe the tension thrumming through his limbs had anything to do with emotion, or feeling, or Claudia.
It certainly had nothing to do with Claudia.
Mary, Mother of God, this was unacceptable .
A gently clearing throat pierced the deafening quiet pounding in his ears. His blood sang as he shook off the haze that had momentarily blinded him to the ballroom’s goings-on, only to see a vision standing before him. A vision of rose and gold and cream and coffee that hadn’t left his mind in three achingly long days, and Gaspard blinked in patent disbelief before it sank in.
Claudia had chosen him.
Him.
“ Chaton, ” he rasped, his throat unbearably parched.
Her solemn little face lifted. “ Bon
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