Humbled Read online

  “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?”

  He named a price he hoped was neither too high, nor too low.

  “I will take twenty-four,” Montpelier said, handing it back.

  It took all his effort not to gulp in surprise. “Thank you, monsieur. I will get to work on them straight away.”

  Montpelier waved a hand, dismissing him, returning to scanning the papers at his desk.

  He stood and bowed, though the gentleman did not look up. He walked out on shaky legs, hardly daring believe his fortune had held.

  * * *

  Corinne stood at the window, watching Jean-Claude climb into the hired carriage.

  “So, he is your silversmith. I pictured someone quite a bit older and not nearly so handsome,” Madame Montpelier remarked.

  “Indeed,” said Mademoiselle Delacour, another aristocratic refugee living on the generosity of Monsieur Montpelier. “You traveled all that way with him, unescorted?”

  “He was a perfect gentleman!” she exclaimed, her face growing warm.

  “You are not interested in the young man, are you?” Madame Montpelier asked.

  Irritated, she drew in her breath but could think of nothing to say.

  “You would consider marrying beneath you?”

  “I would be proud to be a silversmith’s wife,” she said, lifting her chin.

  “My dear, you have not met all the eligible gentlemen here yet,” exclaimed the older woman. “Do not rush into a commitment before you have even been to one ball.”

  “I am not rushing, as I do not have a commitment. I am only interested in repaying the favor Monsieur Armand gave me in assisting my escape,” she lied.

  Madame Montpelier looked at her skeptically. “The more you speak, the more I think you love him. Montpelier and I were a love match, you know.”

  “Were you?” she prompted, relieved to divert the conversation from the subject of her own heart.

  “Yes. My father wanted him to marry my elder sister. He insisted I could not be wed until she first found a husband. His parents, too, pressed the arrangement, but he had already fallen head over heels in love with me, and I with him. He threat
ened his parents we would elope if they would not help him to arrange the match.”

  “So what happened?”

  “His father relented and the two paid a call on my father. I do not know what passed between them, but when they emerged from the study, Garen formally asked me to be his wife and come with him to Louisiana.”

  “How beautiful. Have you ever regretted it? Louisiana, I mean, not Monsieur Montpelier?”

  Madame Montpelier shook her head. “Certainly not. Here I am like the queen. In France I would be a nobody. Or worse still, I might have lost my head to the guillotine by now. Forgive me,” her hostess said, seeing the shock on her face.

  “No, you are right. If only my parents had come. My father spoke of it.”

  “Yes. But enough about me. We must introduce you to the gentlemen here. They will be charmed by you, dear.”

  She frowned.

  Madame Montpelier continued, “Unless you hope to be courted by your silversmith?”

  She felt her cheeks color and gave a little shrug.

  “Ah. I see. But you have no promise from him?”

  She hesitated. She did not have a promise. Jean-Claude’s intent had seemed clear enough, but now she had doubts. “No.”

  “Well, we shall see what Garen thinks of it all. He met with your gentleman today. He will have an opinion on whether you could sustain the match and still circulate in society.”

  Corinne was taken aback by this pronouncement—she had not considered whether the marriage would take her out of society.

  * * *

  At dinner that evening, Madame Montpelier pumped her husband for information. “You met Monsieur Armand, Corinne’s silversmith today, did you not?”

  He raised an eyebrow. “You know I did.”

  “What was your impression?”

  “Of the man or his work?”

  “Well, both. If you please, monsieur, do not be difficult.”

  He fixed Corinne with a speculative glance, causing her to drop her eyes. Turning his gaze back to his wife, he said, “You take a great interest in the young man.”

  “Yes, I do,” she said, lifting her chest.

  “Why?”

  She gave an exaggerated sigh. “Please, monsieur!”

  “He told me you financed his new business with the sale of your jewels, Mademoiselle de Gramont.”

  She started, surprised Jean-Claude had revealed such a thing. But then, Monsieur Montpelier was a shrewd man who would ask many questions.

  “You must trust him,” he said.

  “Of course I do. I trusted him with my life already. Why not my wealth?”

  Montpelier gave a sardonic smile. “The two are not always quite the same thing. Do you have a contract with him? A promise of return?”

  She flushed. “Yes,” she lied.

  He nodded. There was a moment of silence, everyone at the table looking to Montpelier for a pronouncement. “I liked your young man,” he said finally. She released a breath she had not realized she had held. “He has good character and his workmanship is high quality. He will do well here.”

  Your young man. Was he her young man? He had forbidden her to visit, rushing her out of his room after their tryst. He had all her jewels now, but she had nothing from him—neither a promise of marriage nor a contract. He had not even stopped to call on her when he visited. Madame Montpelier had said she saw the way he looked at her, but it proved nothing—the lady’s romantic notions would cause her to see love in anything. Perhaps it had been guilt she had seen glinting in Jean-Claude’s eyes.

  * * *

  A few days later found the ladies shopping in town. When they stopped for tea, she realized Jean-Claude’s workshop was not far away.

  “Madame, I believe I left a glove at my hotel before I checked out. Do you mind if I take the carriage on a quick errand to see?”

  “Just send the driver, he will pick it up for you.”

  “Oh,” she stammered. “Well…”

  Madame Montpelier peered at her. “Unless it is an errand you need to do yourself?” she asked with the knowing of a woman who is not easily fooled.

  “Yes,” she said hastily. “It is.”

  “Shall I send Mademoiselle Delacour to accompany you?” she asked, as if testing her theory.

  “No, no, I will just be a short while. I shall return before you finish tea.”

  “Very well,” Madame Montpelier said with a slight smile. “Enjoy yourself.

  “I—” she stopped, not wishing to further implicate herself. “Thank you.”

  She climbed in the carriage and gave the directions to Jean-Claude’s workshop, her fingers trembling in her lap.

  When she arrived, she marched into his workshop, lifted her chin high and demanded, “Do you intend to marry me, Jean-Claude?”

  * * *

  He gaped, incredulous. “Do you doubt me? Have I not escorted you across all of France and then the ocean? Did you think I would take all your jewels and leave you with nothing?” he demanded, his indignation mounting.

  Corinne’s face flushed. “I know not, Jean-Claude. You will not allow me to visit and you have not come to call. You sent me off to the nobility so I can promote your career so you can become a gentleman…”

  “Why do you think I want to become a gentleman?” he demanded, exasperated.

  She looked uncertain.

  “I wish to make myself worthy of you—not that I believe nobility to be above peasants, but because I want to provide you with something of what you are accustomed to. I want to give you the sort of comfort you expect. And I never want—” he hesitated, finding it difficult to admit his worst fear. “I never want you to be embarrassed of me,” he muttered.

  Her eyes filled with unshed tears and she stepped toward him. “I would be content as a blacksmith’s wife,” she said through trembling lips. “I only wished you to become a silversmith because it is work you love, not because I would be ashamed of you or because I wanted you to better provide for me.”

  “Corinne,” he croaked, his throat closing with emotion as he stepped forward to gather her into his arms. She pressed her face into his chest and he stroked her nape.

  Easing her head back to gaze into her eyes, he asked, stroking her cheek, “Will you marry me, Mademoiselle de Gramont?”

  She gave a half-giggle, half-sob. “Yes, monsieur.”

  Still holding her eyes, he lowered to his knees before her, grasping her hips and pressing his face into the fine satin of her dress.

  Taking her bottom into his hands, he stroked down her thighs until he arrived at the hem of her skirt, where he slipped his hands underneath, traveling up her stockinged legs, past the garters, to touch her bare flesh. His body shuddered at the pleasure.

  He kneaded the firm muscles of her buttocks, breathing in the smell of her arousal. Sliding his hand between her legs, he brushed a fingertip lightly over her slit, satisfied to find it moistened, opening to him willingly.

  “Corinne,” he murmured.

  Throwing her skirts over his head, he faced her sweet sex, parting her lips with his tongue, pulling her hips against his face so he could fully access the tang of her ripe peach. He swirled his tongue over the sensitive pearl at the juncture below her inner lips, earning a soft moan from his lover.

  He ought to lock the door to his workshop to protect them from any walk-in customers, but he could not bear to pause. Besides, standing behind the counter, fully dressed, they were safe enough.

  He slid a finger inside her and felt her thighs spasm. She attempted to close her legs, but he gave her bottom a gentle slap and forced her stance wider, continuing to torment her sex with his tongue and fingers. He followed the sounds of her moans, bringing her to the edge, slowing down, then repeating until she gave a pleading mewl, and then he thrust his fingers in and out rapidly, bringing her to climax.

  Retreating from her skirts, he stood and walked swiftly to the door, closing it and placing a board in front of the window as he did not have curt
ains yet. When he returned, he scooped Corinne into his arms and carried her to a chair, where he sat and settled her on his lap.

  Her eyes were still glassy from her pleasure, and some of her pins had fallen out, freeing the dark locks he loved so well.

  “You belong to me now?”

  She nodded, love lighting her eyes. He cupped her face, stroking her smooth skin with his thumb.

  “What if I cannot keep you in the way you are accustomed?”

  “You kept me quite well in a hammock on a ship. And in a forest underneath a log. You will find a way to keep me here.”

  He felt his chest would burst wide at her words.

  “If not, I could always steal a pig,” she jested.

  He laughed, pulling her face to his, stroking her soft lips with his own, tasting her. “You are not obedient enough to be my woman,” he teased.

  “You shall bring me to heel,” she said reasonably.

  “You know my methods.”

  “I know them.”

  He pulled her in for another kiss, more passionate this time, sucking her lips, invading her mouth with his tongue.

  “I will make you swear I am your master,” he warned.

  “I shall refuse and you will be forced to teach me one of your lessons.”

  His cock, already eager, surged at her words and he groaned. He grasped her breast and squeezed, pulling it up out of her stays and the low neckline of her gown. “I will teach you a great many lessons,” he said, his voice husky. He looked around the workshop. “But not here. Is Madame Montpelier’s carriage waiting outside?”

  “Yes.”

  He helped her to stand and stood up behind her. “Then you should go. We’ve been alone too long as it is.”

  He saw her disappointment. Bringing her hand to his lips, he kissed it. “I am going to court you like the lady you are, mademoiselle. We are not going to elope, if that is what you had in mind.”

  “But how long must I wait, Jean-Claude?”

  He considered. Montpelier already knew the farce but had still supported him. He had his first order and could only assume more might come.