Royal Regard

Chapter Twenty-One, Part 1

Adolphe tapped his toe on the graveled path and checked his fob watch for the fourth time in ten minutes. Every time he moved his arm, the red of his costume caused a start. The last time he had worn colors was before his mother died when he was but sixteen. Totting up the numbers, it had been almost forty years. Rarely did he feel his age, but since Michelle's reappearance it had become a regular occurrence—except in bed, where she made him feel like an adolescent.

As though his thoughts had summoned her, Adolphe heard, "Monseigneur?"

He turned his head to peer past the trees and vines effectively hiding him from other couples seeking privacy only a few feet away. "You are late, Michelle."

She entered the alcove, looking over her shoulder to make sure no one saw her. She curtsied when she saw him and giggled. "Excusez-moi, Monsieur le Diable. I think you will be pleased when you hear why."

More pleased if she were wearing clothing appropriate to his mistress, on which he had spent a pretty penny, not grey twill and a Holland apron like a drudge. But still, there was something to be said for the memories of Michelle in a servant's dress.

He reached out, and holding her by the hair on the back of her neck, shoved her backward toward the tree where he had been seducing Lady Huntleigh. Keeping her eyes locked to his by the painful hold, Adolphe backed her against the ruthless bark that would leave bruising, if not draw blood. He used his other hand to undo the buttons of his trousers, then surged forward, holding her body motionless. Pulling up her skirt, he drew her legs around his waist, and took her hard, with no warning.

When she gasped, he growled, "Silence," hand heavy over her mouth and nose. "Quiet, or I will leave you wanting."

She ran her hands and fingers through his hair until he grasped both her wrists and held them above her head. Pushing back against him, her mouth, chest, hips undulated, breathing hitched and ragged, the only sound flesh slapping against hers. "Ma bonne fille," he whispered in her ear as he took his hands from her mouth and her arms and used them instead to heighten her passion. "Such a good girl you are, Michelle."

When he finished, just after she did, he barely stopped the moan she dragged from him, more pronounced because she still followed the instruction to make no sound at all. His forehead fell against her shoulder; one hand held him upright against the tree trunk. He dropped her legs, then her skirts, and tucked himself back into his breeches. She arranged his buttons, placing a small kiss on the underside of his jaw once they were closed.

He indulged himself in a long, languid kiss, whispering, "Ah, Michelle, you make me feel a boy again, all cock and no intellect."

"And me, Dofi, I am no longer an old woman with you near." She nuzzled her face into his neck, biting his earlobe and asking, recklessly, "Shall I come to your rooms once Madame is sleeping?"

He stepped back and put his hand on her shoulder, keeping her at arm's length. "You will come to my rooms when invited, Michelle, not when you take a fancy."

"Oui, Monseigneur, I am sorry. I did not mean—"

"Enough," Adolphe snapped. "What news have you?"

While he watched the disappointment in her eyes warring with fear of his censure and the last vestiges of her pleasure, she sucked in a breath and began.

"The old man's condition worsens. He has not risen from his bed in four days, the mind foggy like the Vosges in winter. He fights his nurses, and they feed him laudanum to calm him." She turned her head slightly away, looking out the corner of her eye to seek his approval. When he smiled, she did, too.