Humbled (12 page)

“But what of your parents, have you heard?”

She shook her head. “No. I know nothing.”

“Oh darling, I thought you knew. The Duc and Duchesse of Gramont died on the scaffold of the guillotine,” Madame Montpelier said gently.

* * *

Corinne did not return to the hotel that evening, and Jean-Claude found himself anxious over her safety, though he knew she had probably been invited to stay the night. In fact, if things went well, she could be invited to stay indefinitely, giving her access to the social events, balls, and parties.

The idea should make him happy, but instead he wondered how she would feel to be back amongst her social class. How would he compare to the gentlemen with whom she would be surrounded? Would her desire for him fade?

When she did not return the following day, he decided it was time to move onto his own path, calling Besnard to sell a few jewels and beginning to scout for an appropriate location to house his workshop.

He shaved and cut his hair as Corinne requested and found lower-priced lodging more suitable for a silversmith. He left a message for Corinne with the hotel clerk before he departed.

By the end of the week, he had secured a workshop and purchased the pewter and silver to begin his work. Still, he had not heard from Corinne.

He walked back to his lodging, his mind absorbed with the details of what more he required to begin work.

“Monsieur Armand, a lady awaits you in your room.”

His eyebrows shot up. “A lady?”

The clerk looked embarrassed. “Forgive me, I let her in. She said you expected her, and I did not wish to make her wait down here.” Clearly, the man assumed she was his lover, visiting him for an illicit affair.

Damn her! Risking her reputation because she did not believe rules applied to her!

He took the steps two at a time, throwing open the door to find her lying on his bed, stark naked.

Closing the door behind him before anyone saw the sight greeting him, he gaped. She had taken her hair down and it fanned over her shoulders like a mantle of dark mahogany silk.

“Are you mad?” he demanded, ignoring the insistent bulge of his cock against his trousers.

She swallowed, looking taken aback at his anger. “No.”

“Corinne, you cannot risk your reputation by coming to me as a paramour,” he insisted, more to the part of himself that raged at him to tear off his clothes and leap upon her.

She leaned up on her elbows, the ripe apples of her breasts bouncing with the movement.

He stifled a groan.

“Just once. I am moving to the Montpelier’s manor. I told the maid who accompanied me I had a headache and wanted to lie in my room for the afternoon. Just this one time before we part.”

He could not resist her, but he could not allow her disobedience to go unpunished either. He walked to the dressing table and picked up the razor strap. She watched him approach, viewing the strap warily.

“I specifically told you not to enter my room again.”

“Oui, monsieur,” she murmured, her eyes round.

“There is a price for disobedience.”

He rolled her to her belly and lifted the strap overhead.

She tensed every muscle, her buttocks clenching, her back muscles standing out in wiry cords.

He brought the strap down across her beautiful moons, leaving a red line as proof of its bite. Again and again he strapped her, listening to her cries, watching the way she jerked away instinctually, then resumed position, offering her bottom up for his punishment. He striped down her cheeks to her thighs then back up and tossed the strap on the bed.

Rolling her to her back, he pounced, bruising her lips with a crushing kiss, dragging his open lips down the side of her neck, suckling her breast. She made tiny cries of pleasure, her fingers wrapping in his hair, her nails digging into his shoulders.

“You are killing me, Corinne. Do you know that?” he rasped. “You’re killing me.”

* * *

He rolled her back over and spanked her with his hand, a relief after the burn of his strap. “I am trying to keep my hands off you,” he said, increasing the intensity of his spanks. “But you make it impossible. Showing up in my room with your hair down and your clothes off was unsporting. As if I had any chance of refusing you.”

He stopped spanking and wrapped his fingers in her hair, pulling back to lift her face from the bed. “Do not do it again,” he said.

She could not answer.

“I mean it, Corinne,” he said, a serious edge in his tone. “Do not do it again.”

He held her head up until she answered, “Oui, monsieur. I understand you.”

Releasing her head, he stroked her, his large palm traveling up and down her back, around her tingling bottom, over her thighs. When his fingers slid between her legs, she arched to meet them. He stroked them over her slick sex, then shocked her by pressing his thumb over her anus.

She attempted to twist out of his grasp, but he slapped the back of her thigh. “I will take you this time, Corinne. But I will take you here.”

His words fanned the flames of passion already burning, but she resisted, squeezing her cheeks together and listing to one side.

Jean-Claude withdrew his hand and she relaxed, thinking he had given up. A moment later, the searing pain of leather across her buttocks made her gasp. He whipped her, each stripe making her gasp anew at the fire it left on her tender flesh.

Perversely, part of her welcomed it—not just the pain, but Jean-Claude’s infliction of it. So different from the time he strapped her on the ship and she cursed him in furious defiance. Now she craved his lash, eager to offer herself wholly to him, no matter what he asked of her. She was frightened—she did not understand just what Jean-Claude intended or required of her, did not know how far he would take her punishment, yet she trusted him.

He stopped the whipping at ten strokes, slid two fingers into her sex without preamble, and pressed his thumb against her anus. Before she drew in a breath, he breached her back hole, his thumb penetrating at the same instant his fingers filled her sex. The sensations overwhelmed her and she clawed the bedspread, her toes curling as her lover brought her to a level of terrifying need.

He stopped before she reached climax, though, climbing off the bed. She heard the rustle of clothing and turned to watch him undress, his masculine body powerful in its grace. He crawled up behind her, sliding his hand under her hips to find her dripping sex with his fingers. He drew lazy circles around her pleasure center, distracting her from the pressure of his cock against her anus.

She gave a whimper of protest when the stretching burned, and he withdrew, moistening the head of his cock with saliva before trying again. This time he breached her hole.

She squeezed her eyes shut, the burning of her stretched orifice causing her to grit her teeth even as the feel of him moving inside her brought her to the edge of ecstasy. His fingers between her legs began to dance, distracting her from the pain and driving her pleasure to a razor edge of desperation. And yet, it was impossible to climax until he finished—she could not clench her muscles as he moved within her without risking pain.

“
S’il te plaît, s’il te plaît, s’il te plaît
…” she begged.

“Mon dieu, yes!” he shouted, stilling inside her, his fingers rubbing her stiffened nub as she sobbed to climax.

He held her in his arms for a long time, his breath warm on her neck, his firm body as familiar as if he had been her lover for years and not just a few weeks. She found the words “I love you,” floating to her lips, but she bit them back. Instead, she said, “My parents are dead.”

He rolled her to face him. “I am so sorry, Corinne.”

“You are not surprised.”

“No, love,” he said with sympathy. “I feared it. They were sympathizers with the king. I doubted they could escape the guillotine.”

She had cried at Madame Montpelier’s. She had not meant to make a spectacle of herself, but they seemed to crave it, pressing handkerchiefs into her hand and patting her with sympathetic clucks.

“Madame Montpelier told me. She has taken it upon herself to collect the aristo refugees who arrive. She and her group of friends had great sympathy for me. But they are attracted to the drama of it all. They fed on my story and drank in my tears.”

Jean-Claude brushed her hair from her face. She thought she might cry when she told him but instead found he was like firm ground. With the sympathetic society ladies she had been a hen. With him, she felt brave and strong.

“Do they expect you back tonight?”

“Yes.”

He nudged her out of the bed. “Come, then. You do not want them to wonder at where you have been.”

She frowned, not wanting to be shoved out of Jean-Claude’s bed.

He stood and began handing her clothing, giving her sore bottom a pat. “Do not come again, Corinne,” he said.

Chapter Seven

To distract himself from the pain of parting with Corinne, he spent the next few weeks setting up his new workshop and experimenting with his first custard cup. He began by fashioning a small cup out of pewter, then hammered silver into a thin sheet to layer over the pewter. He struggled with the nooks around the handles, but after a stretch, he developed something presentable. He took his time then, decorating the arms with punched edging and finished by stamping the bottom with his sign—the fleur-de-lis.

He debated calling Besnard to see what he could sell it for when a note arrived for him at the hotel from Monsieur Montpelier. He opened it, reading the fine scrawl.

Monsieur Armand,

Your services come highly recommended by my guest, Mademoiselle de Gramont. When you have a piece to sell, you are welcome to call on me to show it.

He closed his eyes, offering up a prayer of gratitude.
God helps those who help themselves. God and Corinne.

He donned his new suit. The men’s fashion had changed since the revolution as well—men now wore somber suits in black or dark colors. Upon Corrine’s advice he had chosen a practical suit—not too fancy, but well-made so it hung perfectly on his large frame. He struggled with getting the cravat tied and looking right, but eventually he decided he could pass muster as a silversmith. He hired a carriage to drive to the Montpelier plantation, carrying the prototype cup wrapped in a handkerchief in his coat pocket.

He gave one of the calling cards Corinne had suggested he have made at the door, saying Monsieur Montpelier had invited him to call. A servant invited him into the anteroom and bade him to wait there. After a long stretch, the butler arrived and ushered him in. He heard the sound of ladies’ voices as they passed the parlor, and he stole a glance, stopping in his tracks when he spied Corinne. Her eyes lit up, making his heart skip several beats.

“This way, monsieur,” the butler said firmly. He was probably breaking protocol by peering into rooms. He gave a quick bow in Corinne’s direction and followed on. He now desperately wished he had quizzed Corinne more on etiquette. Was it appropriate for him to ask to call on her whilst he visited on business?

Monsieur Montpelier did not stand when he entered his study. In fact, he did not look up. A middle-aged, portly man, he sat pouring over the papers on his desk. Like most of the upper class in La Nouvelle-Orléans, Montpelier was a younger son who traveled to the colony to make his own fortune. In his case, his father was no less than a vicomte, but even that exalted rank provided little benefit to anyone but the firstborn son had he remained in France.

The man lifted his eyes, taking him in with an appraising glance. “Have a seat, Armand. Mademoiselle de Gramont has nothing but praise for you. I understand you rescued her from the rabble when her château was overrun?”

He lifted his eyebrows, surprised at the direction of the conversation. “I did what any man would do when a young lady is in danger.”

“And you escorted her all the way to La Nouvelle-Orléans. Was it your idea or hers?”

He cleared his throat. “Hers, monsieur. I had expected to escort her to England, but she had some romantic notions about La Nouvelle-Orléans.”

Montpelier sat back and touched the tips of his fingertips together. “Romantic notions, yes,” he mused.

He had the distinct impression Montpelier saw through their game. Like Moreau, he appeared to be a man of keen observation. Not one easily fooled. Sweat trickled down his ribs.

“You are far younger than I imagined.”

He did not know how to answer, so he simply nodded.

“You owned your own trade? Or were you an apprentice to a silversmith?”

He swallowed. “I owned my trade, yes.”

Montpelier lifted his eyebrows as if he did not believe him.

“Silversmithing?”

He met the older man’s eye, tension running between the two. He felt certain if he lied, Montpelier would know. “I did silver work for the Duc de Gramont,” he said truthfully.

“Ah.” Montpelier sat back in his chair. “But your primary trade was—?”

Damn the man.
He sank a bit in his seat. “Blacksmith,” he admitted.

Montpelier considered him under heavy brows. “A great many men change their fortunes in the New World. I am one of them. I do not begrudge you your ambition. How have you financed your beginnings?”

“With the sale of Mademoiselle de Gramont’s jewels,” he admitted.

“I suppose she believes she owes you.”

“She owes me nothing!” he snapped, earning a lifted eyebrow from the older man. Not wanting to reveal the intimacy of their relationship, he grasped for an explanation, “It is an investment. She expects a return.”

He smiled. “A wise businesswoman, then. I appreciate that. What have you brought to show me?”

He removed the cup from his pocket and handed it over. “This is my first piece made in my new shop. It is a custard cup.”

Montpelier turned it around in his hands. “What is the price?”