Page 13 of Marrying Bluebeard

“You don’t think he’s old enough to marry? Even though women at his age would be practically spinsters?”

“It’s not his age, it’s his mentality. He’s as green as a ripe head of lettuce.” He shakes his head. “I pity the woman who marries him. She won’t just be a wife, she’ll be a nursemaid.”

“That’s entirely too unkind.” I give him an imperious look. “Miles can be serious when he puts his mind to it.”

His brow quirks. “Miles, is it?”

I blush. “We’re at a casual house party held by a family friend. It’s perfectly acceptable to use given names.”

“I couldn’t agree more. Adelaide.” He doesn’t move, and yet it feels as if somehow he’s gotten closer. Heat pools between my legs, and my blush deepens. What in blazes has come over me? Reacting like that to—what? My name? Gracious.

“It’s a bit stuffy in here, don’t you think?” I rise and move to the window, but when I try to open it, the frame remains firmly stuck. “Blast and damn.”

“Allow me.”

My breath catches at the sound of his voice above my ear. He reaches for the window, and the sleeve of his shirt brushes my arm. He’s so close, if I were to shift back but an inch I’d be leaning against him. My toes curl as I fight the urge to do just that.

Voices outside the door startle us both; the seekers have arrived.

Before I can think what to do, Monsieur de Montragoux is pulling me against his chest, one arm wrapped around my waist as the other draws the curtain closed around us. I can’t help it—I twist to face him, heart pounding as I hear the door click open.

Monsieur de Montragoux (no, not Monsieur—Bertrand. Didn’t he imply as much when he called me Adelaide?) presses a finger against his lips, eyes locked on mine as we stand chest-to-chest behind the drapes. Footsteps echo through the room, and I picture my serious-minded brother drawing back the curtain and finding us. He’d be livid.

It’s absolutely thrilling.

I lean into Bertrand’s solid frame and bite my lip as his gaze drops to my breasts, the creamy swells rising above my décolletage. His grip on my waist tightens, and I swallow a gasp as his thigh presses between my legs. In a move far bolder than any I’ve made in my twenty-two years thus far, I tilt my hips so that my center rubs against him.

The heat from his eyes is blistering.

“See anyone?” Julien’s voice is an ice bath, the closeness of it making his presence in the room all too real. I’d thought it exciting, but now my pulse races with more than lust. If he catches us like this, he won’t just be livid. He’ll be miserable, making the last two days here torture. He most certainly won’t allow me anywhere near Bertrand.

Please don’t find us.

“Not a soul,” his partner replies, and I hold my breath as she glides past the window, her skirts brushing the thick, velvet drapes.

“This is ridiculous,” Julien mutters. “Grown men and women skulking about the house in the dark like children. What was Aunt Charlotte thinking? If anyone in town hears about this, they’ll be gossiping about it for weeks.”

His partner laughs. “You worry too much.”

Julien mutters something back that I can’t quite catch, relief easing its way in as I realize their footsteps are moving toward the door. I wait for the reassuring click of it falling closed, and let out my breath as I lean into Bertrand’s arms.

“That was close,” I whisper.

“Too close,” he agrees, his voice thick. He clears his throat as he steps back and draws the curtains aside. Crossing the room, he reclaims his spot on the desk without meeting my eyes. His foot bounces nervously, and he pulls a silver flask from his inner breast pocket. A tremor runs over his frame as he drinks, and after a moment he relaxes. Tucking it away, he finally lifts his head, a smile on his face that says nothing of our shared moment behind the curtain. It’s as distant as the space he’s so purposefully placed between us.

I swallow the questions I truly wish to ask, and opt for another tactic as I return to my seat at the table. “Let me guess—whiskey?” I raise a brow, looking him over from head to toe. “You look like a whiskey man.”

He touches his jacket where the flask is hidden away. “A tonic, actually.” His voice is grave as he adds, “I wouldn’t last a day without it.”

“You’re ill?” The annoyance and frustration I’ve been feeling melt away in an instant. He looks so healthy—is it possible he’s actually dying? The thought twists my stomach into knots.

“There’s a sickness inside me I wouldn’t wish upon my greatest enemy.” He runs a hand over his beard. “It’s responsible for these blue streaks everyone is so fond of gawking at. Would that I could cut the monstrous thing off.”

“Why don’t you if you dislike it that much?”

“It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated,” I repeat. Meaning he has a reason he doesn’t wish to share. I can respect that. “But if you continue to take the tonic, you’ll live?”