Page 10 of A Royally Fake French Menage (Rippton U Creatives #3)

GENIE

I wanted to flounce about my room, pound and throw things, but I had something more productive in mind. And I knew just the man to help me get it.

Jacques should have been dressing Barclay after he stumbled in from the garden sometime around midday.

Like everyone, I sleep long, if not well.

The bedding was comfortable and I wasn't cold, but I wished I’d been able to fall asleep with Barclay, or that I’d followed him the night before.

But after I ran back to my room, I’d lost sight of him and I knew nothing about the estate or the house that seemed to grow corridors and turn after turn of duplicate doors, enough to become a horror film in its own right.

The flirtatious man of the night before was not the one who returned this morning.

I knew that even Jacques followed him into his rooms and shut the door behind them both.

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him not to push Barclay, but then they seemed to have a history and at this point I suspected he knew Barclay a whole hell of a lot more than I did.

I loitered near Barclay’s rooms in the hope of catching him after taking my breakfast in my bed when it was offered. I mean, what girl turns that down after crying herself to sleep the night before? But the person I caught coming out of Barclay’s rooms wasn’t the man I sought.

It was Jacques.

The valet turned ex turned lover strode away along the hall with the sort of determination that promised distance between them

Which was the sort of distraction I also required this morning. Perhaps we could be of use to each other. Either way, he wouldn’t get a chance to say no . Not with me.

“I need to shoot something.” I fell into step beside him. Not an easy feat when his legs seemed twice as long as long as mine, and his stride worked at double my speed. I kept up, even when he shook his head decisively.

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” I countered. “You know that if I don’t get you to agree, then I’ll just find someone else to show me where everything is kept, load up and go out and do it on my own anyway.” I didn't bother turning that statement into a prettily phrased question. We both knew I'd do it.

Jacques sighed but his pace slowed. “How long has it been since you've shot?" he growled.

“Too long,” I admitted. “But I’m sure I remember where everything goes.” I let the ramifications of that sink in for a moment. “Or you could just come with me, torture—I mean, tutor me, and then let me do my thing.”

Jacques said nothing for a long moment. Actually, I didn't think he breathed at all. Finally, he made a sound that resembled two cars crashing. If I hadn’t been prepared for some level of drama llama activity, I would have been alarmed.

Instead, I looked up at him. “So, are we sharing now?” I asked brightly.

Jacques stopped and glared at me. “No. We are not, ‘sharing now,’ he mimicked me cruelly, laughing when I rocked back a half step. If I hadn’t been prepared already, the sound would have actually frightened me.

“You should be running, American girl. Run far from me, as far as you can. I can’t control your new boyfriend, nor can I save him from himself.

Do you understand that? He's going to come apart this weekend. Right. Fucking. Here. And there’s nothing he’ll let me do about it.

” Jacques stared at me. Short breaths panted from his lips, his heavy chest heaving.

And all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around his waist and hold him.

I don’t do women.

He said that to me yesterday. I thought it was yesterday. My hours were already running together.

“I understand,” I murmured.

Jacques glared at me. “No, you don't."

“Don’t I?’ I laughed, a brittle horrible sound.

“I came here as your boyfriend’s fake date.

The fake date I’ve wanted for so long and when he did ask me out it was…

wrong. Meaningless. But I said yes because I was curious.

I wanted to see what it was that made Barclay Augustus Chesterfield tick.

And now that I have…” I offered Jacques a woeful smile.

“I almost wish I hadn’t. Almost.” I held up a hand.

“Because now I understand a little bit more about him than I did before. More than I did twelve hours ago. And that matters so much more than me spending four hours crying myself to sleep last night, wishing I was in his arms instead. “Or yours,” I whispered. Shaking my hair back, I fixed him with a hard stare, uncaring if he saw the vulnerability inside me. “Which is why I’d like to go shoot something.” I completed my pitch and stared at the wall opposite.

A particular pitch in my kit that my mother had helped me put together back in the early days when I wasn’t so sure of myself and needed to rely on her inspiration to get me anywhere.

Jacques sighed and shook his head. “Come on then.”

It looked like that little starter pitch kit still worked.

“Are we heading to the shooting range?” I plastered on a smile, still aching from not curling up with Barclay like I wanted last night. I wished I could go to him now, but he didn’t seem to want company if he had pushed this man away who stood beside me.

And I was back in No-Barclay land again, unsure where I stood at all.

“No.”

His answer wiped my not so hidden smile off my face.

“No?”

“No.” I heard the satisfaction in his voice without looking at him. “If you want to fight, Miss Lockwood, then I suggest we begin a little closer to home.”

I snorted. “Are you going to start me off with bows and arrows?” Because that would be so much safer. I’d likely shoot the arrogant preening valet in the tush. Somehow, explaining that little endeavor to Barclay would be both an amusing and horrifying tale.

Jacques smiled slowly. “I’m going to teach you how to use a sword, Miss Lockwood.”

I blinked at him. “I don’t remember giving you my surname.”

His smile widened. “You didn’t.”

That was twice I’d been blindsided recently, by people who shouldn’t have had the information that they did. Casting that information aside for a moment, I focussed on what he just said.

“You want to let me loose in front of you with a pointy object? Are you actually insane?”

“What is it that you Americans say at times like this? He reached a small door just inside the exit to the rear of the house and unlocked it with a key from his pocket. “Jury’s out?”

I smiled at his back as I took the epee from him that he passed back, noting the weapon’s blunted tip. “Can I tell you a secret, Jacques?” I murmured, taking a step back and raising the sword that felt natural in my hand, its weight an old friend.

“Of course, Miss Lockwood,” he murmured, all manners and etiquette.

The tip of my epee pressed to the middle of his spine below his collar. “I’m not American. Didn’t my file mention that when you dug me up?”

He stiffened and turned when I let him, sliding his keys into his pocket, his own weapon loose at his side. Loose but not uncomfortable.

For the first time, interest flared behind those gray eyes.

“No, Miss Lockwood. It did not. Would you like to fight?”

I grinned, my anxiety of this morning thrown off within seconds. “Very much, Jacques.”

The tall valet led the way out of the house and onto a perfectly manicured lawn beyond the house. I half expected there to be a putting green at one end with a little red flag coming out of a hole.

“It’s very you. Wait, do you also cut grass?” I let the innuendo stand.

If I hadn't known better, I would have thought he rolled his eyes.

“Tips on or off?” Jacques rolled his neck. Something popped.

“You shouldn't really do that,” I objected. “It’s bad for your joints to go all the way around.”

“Didn’t you just tell me that you were born French, not American? You’re very nosy for a Parisian born girl.” He laced the words in English, horribly accented as though he strove to make them sound more… Like home.

Because I hadn’t called France home in a very long time.

“Tips off,” I decided, not having wanted to make that choice at all, but his attitude bothered me beyond any ire I'd felt this trip already and that included having to deal with Barclay’s stepmother touching me.

I already understood why he didn’t like her, though it wasn’t clear exactly why she’d called him back to France, or why he felt the desire to heed her call when he was clearly the one meant to be in charge of his own destiny, but wasn’t.

Pacing in a small circle across the lawn, I swept my blade in a tight arc, rotating my wrist. Something squeezed in my lower back and I regretted not taking the moment prior to warm up while I bitched Jacques out.

Not that the taller man gave me the opportunity before his own blade cut the air and landed a swift point on my shoulder.

The fabric of my lime and green silk top—courtesy of my mother’s line from last year—bore a distinct hole. I forced a smile.

“Are you so cheap?” I murmured as we reset for the next point.

A moment later I wished I’d held my peace when he slashed a hole in the other shoulder.

I knew I’d remember Jacques's smug grin forever.

“From riches to rags,” he whispered, his voice carrying on a faint breeze across the lawn as he took two respectful steps back to let me catch the breath I'd barely expelled.

His own exertion barely registered as I raised my blade. Determination set my lips in a fiery smile. “Born with a silver spoon versus earning it, is that right?” I asked softly, my eyes hard.

Jacques frowned at me. “Were you not?—”

I didn’t let him finish, lunging forward in a double step that he didn’t seem to expect after my passive front from before.

Caught off guard, he barely raised his blade in time, but by then it was too late.

I slipped inside his reach and pressed the tip of my epee to the curve of his neck like a lover’s breath, backing off before he blinked.

Jacques raised his hand to his neck, a bemused look on his face as his fingers came away stained with a fine trail of blood.

“Ah, magnifique, ” cried someone behind me.

A smattering of applause surrounded us as I pivoted on my heel.

I was unable to school my expression as I took in the small crowd of still hungover guests who had turned out to watch our impromptu display.

Staff served mimosas and blinis that they apparently knocked out in time for a festive revival.

I curtsied cutely to a secondary round of applause as Jacques liberated my sword.

“We will settle this in the bedroom,” he muttered in my ear, his discontent at being watched without his permission evident.

Mine too, but his sour attitude topped off my morning.

A clock in the house struck the hour twice.

Ah, afternoon. That was fine. But maybe I could find Barclay, after I had cleaned up, and work out just what I could do to help him with his mother’s social situation. After all, I was clearly on a roll today. After besting Jacques, nothing could be tougher, surely.

And besides, I missed my fake date that turned out not to be half as fake as either of us expected.

Or not.