Page 6 of Duke of Disguise (Ladies of Worth #4)

Perhaps he had been too forceful, Avers mused as he watched Mademoiselle Cadeaux walking away. Her purposeful glide brought her petite figure swiftly to a set of shallow steps. With her little white dog trotting faithfully at her side, she descended them onto one of the paths that led to the main thoroughfare, and before long she was lost in the promenaders.

Avers stayed where he was. Unfortunately, he was heading to the same destination as Mademoiselle Cadeaux. He considered whether it was wise to go to the café given that it would appear very much like he was following her, but Wakeford was counting on him, and he needed to get there on time.

He would wait five minutes and then follow. While he waited, he might gather his thoughts, for although his mind was focused on the mission, the unplanned meeting with Mademoiselle Cadeaux had thrown up unexpectedly strong feelings.

She had not been what he had supposed. She had walked with poise, her chin high and her face ever forward, and she had spoken with confidence. Not like the mistresses Avers had come across before. No coquettishness towards him, no pining for her lover, no play-acting the courtesan.

Mademoiselle Cadeaux had even appeared offended when he had acknowledged her position as the Comte’s mistress. What an irony—to be offended by the truth—for that is what she was: a mistress. A woman who traded her beauty and company for money and position.

The very idea of it made his stomach clench. She was just like Miss Curshaw— when she had broken his heart. A woman who used her wiles to benefit from a man’s fortune. That was the fate of all who married. To be at the mercy of someone who cared nothing for the most valuable object they possessed—their heart.

No.

No, that was not always true. There were exceptions, such as Lord and Lady Worth who had recently married. Theirs had been a meeting of the minds. But that was the exception not the rule in Avers’ experience.

Despite not knowing Mademoiselle Cadeaux from Eve, she had provoked such visceral emotions in him, that his usual finesse had been overridden. That made him cross, and when he had lost his temper, he had also lost his subtlety and discretion. He had wanted to call her out for what she was choosing to do—to use another for her own gain.

Avers pushed back once more at the bitter feelings and the strong emotions which came again and again like waves crashing over him. He needed to get a hold of himself. But Mademoiselle Cadeaux was like Miss Curshaw. She no doubt schemed for her position, spun falsehoods and promises until she caught the Comte in her web, discarding all lesser prizes.

And that’s what Avers was—a lesser prize.

The third son of the Duke of Mountefield, with no hopes of succeeding to the Dukedom or the vast, if beleaguered, estates attached to the title. No, that would all go to William, the eldest son by the Duke’s first marriage. Avers enjoyed only a modest income from a small property inherited from his mother—the Duke’s second wife—along with the barony he laid claim to from his maternal line.

Yet, all those months ago Avers had been fool enough to believe material things were of no consequence where love was concerned. That love which was earnest and true would weather any difficulty in life and lack of fortune, even the onset of age and the loss of beauty. Wasn’t that the hope? The desire?

Drawing himself out of these maudlin reveries he headed after Mademoiselle Cadeaux and towards the Café Procope.

Avers had come to Paris for a distraction—for something to do while his heart healed— and he intended to fulfil his mission.