arm, sighing deeply as her body relaxed against his. Trustingly.
He froze, and an ugly sneer twisted his mouth. He'd really managed lo shag her brains out, he thought. She should be fighting him, remembering he was the worst thing in the world for her. Instead she was sleeping in his arms like a trusting orphan.
Then again, she was the worst thing in the world for him. Because she was turning him into a dead bore, when he'd much rather be his wicked, selfish self. There was nothing he could do about it. He simply ignored his aching cock, put his arms around her and let himself sleep.
10
Etienne de Giverney, the ci-devant Comte de Giverney, rose from the bed. Ci-devant—he despised that term. From before, it meant. An insult to the Bourbon aristocracy who were now, in the blood-soaked streets of Paris, mere citizens.
His cousin, Francis Rohan, had blithely handed over the title when he'd left France, the title that should have been Etienne's from birth. A lawyer had drafted a letter to the king, and voila, all was made right for a few short years. He'd left the tiny surgery where he'd grudgingly worked and enjoyed the life he'd deserved, in the huge old house in Paris, in the countryside chateau.
The chateau was rubble now—burned and trashed. He liked to think some of his servants had died inside, but more likely they were the ones attacking the place. His servants had always hated him.
The hotel in Paris was now some sort of government office, he'd heard. Government! It was to laugh. The canaille could no more govern themselves than they could walk on water. It would only be a matter of time before the bloody new regime would be overthrown, and all the ci-devant aristos would be back where they belonged.
In the meantime, he was an exile, basically penniless, though at least the English respected his title.
And his cousin Francis had been generous, as always, inspired, no doubt, by a guilty conscience.
Except someone like Francis Rohan, Marquess of Haverstoke, didn't possess a conscience.
It was more likely his wife, with her stupid English sense of honor. She'd done her best to make Francis abandon his profligate ways, ensuring him a damnably long life. How Etienne despised her for her softness. No Frenchwoman would be so weak as to attempt to tame her husband.
Ah, but there was Rohan's son, Adrian, Viscount Rohan. As his father had been granted a higher rank by a foolish English king, his son had taken one of his lesser titles, and at least Adrian was well on his way to the early death his father should have enjoyed. Etienne had taken him under his wing, much to the marquess's disapproval, which of course had only made Adrian more determined. He'd introduced him to all sorts of pleasures, any number of which could foreshorten his life. The English were so ridiculously conventional. Adrian liked to think of himself as a true libertine, a man without a soul or conscience, when in fact he still held to a ridiculous set of rules. Morality was for weaklings; it would be Adrian's undoing.
He wondered who he'd disappeared with. Etienne made certain he kept close to his young cousin.
Last he'd seen him he'd been following a young monk. It was too much to hope that the coltish figure in the habit was male. He didn't recognize the woman's walk, but he wasn't concerned. One aristocratic English whore was much like the other. If Adrian developed an attachment, which so far he'd shown no signs of doing, then Etienne could handle the situation with his usual cold-blooded efficiency.
But there was no hurry. If Adrian continued on the path he was leading, the marquess of Haverstoke would be without an heir in no time. His first son had died of an ague ten years before, and Adrian looked to be following shortly, if Etienne had his way. And when he died, all that lovely money and the estates would go to Etienne, as well as the new English title and the old ones.
In the meantime, he was content to wait. Adrian would take care of his own early demise quite handily, and in the meantime, Etienne was enjoying his English life very much, thank you.
He moved to the bowl of water and began to wash the blood off his hands. It was a good thing his own servant, Gaston. accompanied him. Gaston could dispose of the well-paid courtesan who'd shared his bed last night,