Page 47

47

HOW TO ENCHANT A BOYFRIEND IN THREE EASY STEPS

A short time later, both women emerged looking primped and prepared, though not half as overdone as Léon and Henry, the latter especially, having got a little carried away in his excitement.

Both Souveraine and Catherine felt the times called for some reserve in dress, but no one was going to get the ruby ring off Henry’s finger.

He was utterly starved for parties, dying for society, desperate to sink into the very fabric of Paris and work himself in so deeply he’d become an integral part of the city.

The five of them dusted off the family carriage that hadn’t been touched in years, and all four horses at their command were soon hitched up, ready for travel.

Henry gave the whip straight over to émile, not that he needed to use it, since the horses were happy enough to go along at Henry’s word, but the boy felt very important and grown up just there between Léon and Henry.

Léon adored Henry all the more for it.

He was natural with émile.

None of it felt like a show.

He was all warmth and kindness, this Henry of Paris.

It wasn’t a long ride, and while Léon had been deathly nervous about how upper-class their destination might be, Henry delivered them to the last place he would ever have expected.

Up stone stairs, into an alcove, right up to the front doors of a cathedral, where he raised his hand and knocked as though it were perfectly normal.

Léon’s nerves shifted into alarm.

“You know I’m not allowed in there. Why would you bring me to a church?”

There was a softness to Henry’s eyes, a blanket Léon wanted to wrap himself in.

“It’s not a church anymore, Ange.”

“It looks like a church to me.”

“Pretty, isn’t it?” The doors opened, and a man checked them over with raised eyebrows and a hard expression.

“Henri De Villiers,” Henry introduced himself.

“We’ve been invited by Citizen Wollstonecraft.”

The man raised a finger of approval.

“Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.” He stood back, pulling the door open for them.

Léon had previous imaginings about what those flickering lights he’d spied through church doors might have illuminated.

He’d seen stained-glass windows from the outside.

But his breath caught in his throat at the magnificence of the vision before him.

Arches… Léon had dreamed of arches.

Up and up, as though he were looking into heaven itself, the ceiling soared.

Dizzying. He felt small and overwhelmed, and Henry slid a hand beneath his arm for support.

Léon’s frightened eyes cut across to him, just as dazzling as everything else beneath the light of church candles.

“Are you sure?”

“The Church is gone. All the horrible things they’ve done to people, gone with them.” He lifted a hand to the beauty before them.

“It’s now a Temple of Reason. You’re perfectly welcome here. This is the revolution. We don’t believe in any of that, and you’re among friends.”

It was too good to be true.

Utterly abnormal. A lifetime of being locked out of the world of human worship, of being shunned by the men who held the hand of God—shunned, by extension, by God himself.

Instead, it was Henry who took his hand and led him into the light.

Into the light of a thousand candles.

Into a room of smiling and animated faces, a room of conversations and introductions, and Henry laughing and shaking hands with people.

Souveraine on Léon’s arm, a glass of wine in his hand, and this room.

Exquisite. It was hung about with flags, every cross, every sculpture or painting of God or Jesus Christ covered or removed, and the words ‘liberté, égalité, fraternité’ etched into the very stone.

Léon hadn’t noticed Catherine pull away, but he did notice her then, shrill across the wide room.

“Souveraine! Come meet Mary!”

“I don’t want to meet Mary,” Souveraine muttered under her breath.

“You can stay here if you want.” Léon patted her arm and offered a smile, but for the first time ever, she didn’t look up at him in lost adoration.

She watched Catherine lean close to a striking woman, utterly resplendent with excitement.

Souveraine’s blue eyes were like glass, shining and hard.

Catherine’s head flicked across.

“Souveraine!”

“I guess I should go over,” she said, then stalked across the room to meet ‘Mary’ with a reserve Léon thought he recognised as jealousy.

“Can I eat that?” asked émile.

The food, laid out on a huge table, was simple, but it was meat and real bread and fruit and it was plentiful.

“Of course you can,” said Henry, suddenly back at Léon’s side.

“Take whatever you like.”

A giddy warmth shot through Léon’s chest at seeing émile run to the table, where a few other children were picking at the spread.

The touch of Henry’s cheek against his.

“There are some people I want you to meet.”

The idea returned Léon to his anxious state, but it was short-lived.

He had rubbed shoulders with important men, a multitude of them, in his role as executioner.

But in this room, these people treated him like an equal.

They knew Henry. They liked him.

And he kept Léon within reach, always a hand on his arm or his shoulder, rarely, but occasionally, on the small of his back, and Léon was accepted as his guest.

It was absurd.

He was in a cathedral, émile was eating and talking.

He heard a laugh from across the room and saw Souveraine looking perfectly at ease, deep in conversation with Mary and Catherine and another woman.

Léon caught Henry’s sparkling eyes, and realised he really did feel like his partner.

For the first time in his life, everything was exactly right.

It was Paris, and Henry had been correct all along.

His faith in the revolution, his belief in the goodness of mankind, it had brought them here, and it was perfect.

But Henry was only getting started.

He had been busy with his letters that afternoon, anxious to make the evening just as wonderful as it could be, and it may have been a gamble, but he chanced it.

“Léon Lyon, I want you to meet Joseph Guillotin.”

Léon’s face went blank as he met the eyes of the man presented to him.

A hand came out, and he shook it by instinct.

“Guillotin?” he repeated, stupidly.

There was a tightening of lips, as the man knew Léon was referring to the machine that was named after him even as he said his name, and Léon knew he’d stuck his foot directly in his mouth.

But then a hand came across Guillotin’s back, the hand of a stout and red-faced man with a big grin.

“He doesn’t like to talk about it, but it’s a mighty good thing if you ask me.” The man’s other hand was thrust out.

“Citizen Lyon? I’ve heard all about you. I’ve been wanting to meet you.”

Léon threw a silent plea for help across to Henry, but the man went ahead and introduced himself.

“Charles-Henri Sanson.”

“San… San…” Léon stuttered.

“Sanson!” He snapped to.

“Charles-Henri Sanson! It’s an honour.”

Henry’s shoulders loosened, and pure satisfaction shot right through to his fingertips on sight of the enraptured smile lighting Léon’s face.

Sanson was to Paris what Léon was to Reims. He was prime executioner, and he was the man, if anyone was going to do it, who would take the King’s head.

Léon was in shock to meet both men there, in a cathedral , but it took only Sanson’s opening of, “I hear you’re still using the axe?” to set in motion a chain reaction faster and more dramatic than the pull of the guillotine’s rope.

Yes! The axe, so personal and reliable.

Utterly, agreed Sanson.

Respectable, noble, efficient.

The executioner was in complete control, Léon threw out.

Barbarians, the rest of them, Sanson declared, saying any man who could hang another deserved no better fate himself.

It was a soothing balm to Léon.

Here was the one other man who understood—really and thoroughly understood—and it felt so good.

All his efforts, all his lonely and grim thoughts matched and expanded and calmed as they discussed modes of death, styles of axe, the crowd’s role in the execution.

“They shouldn’t be there at all,” said Guillotin.

“The whole point of the machine was to make it as quick as possible. It’s no different to a scalpel. If an arm is infected, you cut it off.” No one noticed the anxious lift of Henry’s hand to his own arm as Guillotin spoke on.

“You don’t bring a crowd of people to watch, you don’t give them the arm afterwards, you don’t let them play in the blood. You take the arm and you heal the patient.”

“Won’t be much healing from that,” Sanson joked.

Guillotin rolled his eyes.

“You take my point.”

“I do,” said Léon.

Then, confidingly, “I don’t like to do it. I don’t think we should be doing it at all.”

Guillotin latched on, leaning close.

“Precisely. I was told a lot of people are going to die. And I did what I could to make it painless for them. Yes, I suggested a new method, I approved the machine. But it’s not my design. And now they’ve named the bloody thing after me. I’m a doctor. It’s not my job to kill people, it’s my job to save them.”

“And you’ve done a good thing getting it in play,” said Sanson.

“The axe, you need to care for it, or it blunts. I’ve seen some of the tools people use…” He shook his head, shying away from completing the sentence.

“With that number of people due to meet their end in the coming months, there’s nothing else for it until they do away with the death penalty.”

“They will,” Henry put in.

“Any day now. Robespierre hates it. He always said it was his intention to stop it.”

Both Guillotin and Sanson settled bemused eyes on Henry, but it was Sanson who asked, “And when was the last time you spoke with Robespierre?”

“Uh, well,” on a blush, “never, in person, but my father?—”

“He’s changed,” Guillotin dropped bluntly.

Henry fell silent, so Léon asked, “How do you mean?”

“He’s going mad if you ask me,” said Sanson, speaking low, eyes scanning the crowd to see if anyone might be eavesdropping.

“It’s been a lot—of course it has. It’s not an easy thing to steer something like this. But…” Quieter still, “Just between us, I don’t want to take his head.”

“The King?” Léon whispered.

Sanson nodded slow. “I’m no monarchist, far from it. But I don’t want to be the one to do it. I’m already going down in history as a killer, but something like that…”

Léon’s heart went out to him.

No one could have known better.

That was a legacy few men desired.

But Sanson said, “Still, if anyone deserves it, it’s him.”

“Do you really think they’ll execute him?” Léon asked.

“They won’t kill him,” said Guillotin.

“It’s a step too far. A lot of them might want to, but on what grounds?”

“On the ground of being a treasonous pig,” Henry broke in.

“If the man in charge has shown himself to be the enemy of the people, is that not treason? A betrayal to his own country? If he bathes in diamonds while his people cannot afford food and shelter, if he goes walking in his own private wood while good citizens are too sickly to leave the fetid environs of the city because they cannot afford the aid of a doctor… I ask you, if a man came in from another country and attacked your people thus, took their homes and food and health, would we not send the military in to safeguard our land? Would we not deal with the enemy to our state in a way that prevents further retribution? So tell me, what is the difference, whether that attack comes from within or without? An enemy is an enemy. Whether he wears a crown of jewels or not is of no interest to me. He should be tried in our courts, and if he is found guilty, he should face the same fate as any other man. And if that requires him to have a close shave, then so be it.” He spoke vehemently, eloquently, as though it were a speech he’d dwelt on writing.

Léon didn’t see another thing in that room beyond Henry, scintillating, the centre of the action, exactly where he needed to be.

“Hear, hear!” cried Sanson, thrusting his glass forward.

Léon and Guillotin did the same, their glasses clinking with gusto.

“I’d give my right arm to do it myself,” Henry said after a hearty sip.

“And failing that,” Léon felt the irresistible press of his hand, “I would love to see you do it.” His voice was fire, and Léon’s cheeks turned pink when their eyes met.

The group talked on for a time, but there was a pronounced affection in every word and movement between Léon and Henry that ratcheted up by the second until Henry finally leaned over, in front of everyone, and whispered in his ear, “I need you. Right now.”

Nothing but a breath of air passed Léon’s enamoured lips.

“You’ll go to the back door,” Henry directed.

“Two minutes.”

Léon’s knees turned so weak it was a wonder he could stand.

He looked over at émile, his plate of food being devoured as he sat next to Souveraine, her fingers absentmindedly tousling his hair while she listened to whatever was being said at that table.

With a step so fast it was like his shoes were on fire, Léon rushed over to her.

“The problem isn’t us,” a woman with grey hair was saying.

“It’s the system. It needs to be dismantled and rebuilt from the bottom up. Women are kept, very deliberately, in their place by taxes, property laws, marriage laws—none of it is a reflection of our skill or character. Men want to keep us in a perpetual state of childhood and dependency.”

Léon leaned over Souveraine’s shoulder.

“I, um, need to… be back in… in… not long?”

She vaguely raised a hand towards him.

“Yes, yes, go away.” Then she leaned towards her new associate.

“So what you’re saying is that every difficulty and failure of my entire existence is basically down to being trapped in a patriarchy?”

A shout of agreement went up around the table, and seeing that both she and émile were perfectly happy, Léon looked for Henry.

It took him a moment.

So many people milling about, the light from the fires, the glittering everything.

Then finally he found him.

Henry, distant across the room at the back of the cathedral, half hidden in shadow.

His dark gaze sought Léon’s, and there was something about him that was…

changed. That untouchable tilt of his head was back, just like the first night he’d seen him.

That cruel sneer about his lips.

That masculine energy that had Léon in the palm of his hand from day one.

He took the lot of it, turned his back on Léon, and walked out the door.

Léon was stunned. He’d said he wanted him, but the way he looked just then…

Disconcertingly distant.

Half stranger. But all sex.

Léon dashed across the room, flung the door open, and stepped out into the cold of a frigid alleyway, the door slamming behind him in his eagerness.

A hand smashed into Léon’s shoulder, and his back hit the wall hard.

A clash of metal sounded, and the ice of sharp steel pressed into his neck.

“Listen carefully, pretty boy. You’re going to do everything exactly as I say.”

A squeak of unadulterated excitement escaped Léon’s beautiful lips before a hand wrapped tight around his throat, pinning him against the rough stone.

“You think this is funny?” Henry’s words growled across Léon’s cheek, and he pressed the blade a little deeper, so that it hurt just right.

“No, Monsieur,” Léon whispered, his heart about to burst out of his chest. “Only… I have no money…”

“I don’t want your money,” Henry sneered.

“I want something much better than that.”

“What do you— Uhhh.” Henry’s fingers found Léon’s dick, already hard for him.

“Well, what have we here?” Henry’s dark eyes turned molten, and he gave a little squeeze.

Trying his very best not to push himself into Henry’s hand, “Please don’t do that. I’m not that kind of man.”

“Aren’t you?” Henry trailed the blade across his neck, beneath his chin, tilting his head up with the sharp point.

“Because you look like a filthy little slut to me.”

Henry remained careful with the knife, shifting it quickly to allow Léon’s mouth to drop open, which it did, widely.

Then Henry said, “How about you put those lips to some good use, and I might let you walk out of here alive.”

The knife followed the raise of Léon’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed hard.

“What do you want from me?”

Massaging Léon’s firm dick through his breeches, “Are you really going to play innocent with me? As though I can’t see the way you’ve been fucking me with your eyes all night. You’re going to get on your knees, and you’re going to suck my dick like your life depends on it.” He pressed the tip of the blade to the gorgeous hollow of Léon’s throat.

“Because it does.”

Léon had never fallen on the ground so fast. He ripped at Henry’s breeches.

“Please don’t make me, Monsieur. You’re going to ruin me.”

“You were already ruined. You don’t walk around with lips like that and not expect them to get fucked.”

“Please—”

“Shut your fucking mouth.”

Léon almost came in his breeches.

Henry snatched a handful of Léon’s hair and ripped his head back.

“One more word and I’ll take the other hole.”

Léon took a breath to speak, but quickly had his mouth stuffed full of hot cock.

His eyes rolled back with the heady onslaught of sex and violence and Henry and all his daydreams fulfilled and more.

What a perfect night.

But Henry was beginning to lose his grip on the situation.

That sexual energy that shot from every inch of Léon, all of it amplified with his fantasy playing out, took over him.

He let out a deep groan.

“Fuck, Ange, you’re so perfect.”

Léon slapped his ass.

Hard.

“Sorry. I mean, uh…” Henry put on his gruffest voice.

“Take it, you filthy whore. Swallow the lot down your— Oh fuck.”

Léon choked back a laugh, which wasn’t hard to do with his mouth so very full.

But the way that cold blade then fell across his jaw…

Henry tightened his grip in his hair and wrenched him in till his dick hit the back of his throat.

And fuck, it felt good.

To be Henry’s plaything, his toy, the thing that pleased him.

He wanted Henry to lose control.

And that’s exactly what Henry did.

The knife dropped to the ground with a clatter, a hand closed around the back of his head, and Henry fucked into his mouth, unrelenting, vicious.

Léon’s eyes watered, a moan escaping him that was all sex, and he gave himself over to Henry’s control.

The way Henry wanted him.

Would choose to use him.

The simplicity of being nothing more than Henry’s.

Henry’s orgasm built fast, not least because there was every chance someone would wander out that back door at any minute and find him sunk to his hilt in Léon’s indulgent mouth.

He had a feeling Léon would have liked that.

And he liked that. He wanted the world to know this gorgeous man was his, to see the way Henry fulfilled his every desire, that Henry was the only man who could give Léon what he wanted.

He yanked his hair back, twisting Léon’s face up to the scant light.

“Just the tip.”

He toyed with Léon’s wet mouth, all while Léon gazed up at him, his hot, hazy, and longing look unbroken while Henry took his pleasure.

Now? Should he come now?

To see those pink lips painted white, dripping…

Not yet. “Take your dick out.”

Léon’s hand moved to his breeches, and he pulled his beautiful cock free, so firm and gorgeous.

Henry slid his own dick gently in and out of Léon’s mouth.

“You lied to me. You said you didn’t want it. Then why are you so hard?”

Léon stroked his dick, desperate for the relief, ready to burst if only Henry would allow him to.

“Because you’re a slut. Say it.”

He pulled his dick to Léon’s lips, allowing the whispered, “I’m a slut.”

He drove it back in.

“For me.”

On the gasp of air he was allowed, “For you, Monsieur. Only you.”

“That’s right. You’re a good little slut, aren’t you? Built to have this mouth fucked.”

Léon whined over his dick sliding deep.

“Fuck your hand like I’m fucking your mouth.”

Léon did as told, and what a sight he was.

He was lost to pleasure, in the dream only Henry could make for him.

It was ownership of every sort.

Henry was so proud to be his, to be the one Léon chose to be compliant for, the one, of all men, Léon trusted.

And now he couldn’t help but fuck his mouth with a smooth and deep rhythm, the fist in his hair turning to a caress, and he stopped talking lest he ruin the game.

Because all he really wanted to say was that he loved him, worshipped the very ground he walked on.

Loved him to the end of time and back.

And at the thought, the orgasm took him by surprise.

It burst out of him, a hot cascade down Léon’s throat that he didn’t flinch away from, that he drank down eagerly, lovingly, hungrily, Henry’s fingers clinging to him for support as his body was racked with ecstasy.

And when every drop was gone, when Henry was weak with pleasure, he pulled Léon to his feet and kissed him fiercely, his tongue tasting his own cum still fresh in his mouth.

Then he dropped to his knees and finished Léon off.

It didn’t take long.

He’d been on a hair trigger since Henry hadn’t let him finish after his bath.

He could have made him wait longer, but Henry needed him.

Henry had to know he’d pleased Léon.

Léon took the act as permission, and came deep in Henry’s abiding mouth.

He doubled over, bracing himself against the stone wall, touching delicate fingers to Henry’s thick and beautiful hair, then clamping down on his shoulder.

He was perfection. Henry was everything.

He was happiness and safety and love personified.

The whole scene was too delicious, too perfect, and Léon’s back was against the wall again, Henry kissing him, too wonderful.

He didn’t want to leave.

He would have made his home in that alley with the rats and the rubbish and the mud.

Anywhere. So long as he was with Henry.

A light peck fell on his cheekbone, and how Henry studied him, revered every feature.

Then Henry gave him one last kiss, picked up his knife, and with a roguish smile, he disappeared back inside.

Léon stood in the alley, heart beating wildly, positive in every fibre of his being that he could never go another day of his life without Henry in it.

Léon searched for Henry as soon as he worked up the courage to go back inside.

He was well aware the knees of his teal breeches must be black.

He hoped the dark light of the cathedral would hide some of his dishevelment, cover the hasty fixing of his ravaged hair.

But if he could just be back beside Henry, none of it would matter.

He spotted him fast, dazzling as ever, talking to some small group of men who laughed at his jokes.

But even as he spoke, even as he smiled that gorgeous smile and entertained them all, his eyes sought Léon’s.

Léon started forward, like a moth drawn to a flame, but Catherine stepped in front of him.

“Having a nice night?”

Trying to hide any sign of disappointment, he said, “Yes. Yes, a lovely night. The best one I’ve had in… ever.”

But Catherine hadn’t come to make small talk .

She led with, “I like you Léon. I think it was really nice that you didn’t chop off my head. And Henry… Look at him. He’s glowing. Like an idiot.”

This last sentence she might have retracted, Léon thought, but the rest…

Henry was glowing. Positively.

He was like a magnet, not only to Léon’s eyes, but to everyone’s.

Léon had thought he might feel some jealousy about that, but he didn’t.

Henry had made him so welcome, so comfortable.

He could see it all playing out now—the two of them, side by side, seeing the revolution through.

Changing the world. Really being together.

Forever.

Catherine watched Léon as intently as Léon watched Henry, but without the sheen of hopeless romance.

“Henry is very protective of me, you know. He doesn’t give his heart away easily. He never has. And I don’t know what’s happened between you two, but this has evolved very quickly.” The good humoured sparkle in Léon turned cool, though Catherine’s face was only frank, non-accusatory, if worried.

“We’ve been alone for a long time. Just the two of us. And now he has told you who we are, what we do, and he has brought you into our home, all in the space of a few weeks. I think I would be an idiot to not be a little frightened by that.”

Léon had been so caught up in Henry that the words came as a shock.

But not an unneeded one.

Of course she would have felt that way.

He tried to reassure her, “I’m not going to reveal your secrets to anyone. You can trust me.”

“I know I can trust you after what you did for me. But can Henry?”

His eyes flicked back to his beloved, then to Catherine, confused.

“What do you mean? Of course, Henri can trust me.”

“I see the way you look at him. And he soaks it up like a sponge. You make him happy. But then I look at her…” Her gaze moved to Souveraine, deep in conversation with Mary across the room.

“And she is not so happy. I think you must know, there are two people in love with you.”

The crushing truth of it stripped all the glamour from the night.

But Catherine spoke on.

“If you’re going to marry her, and she really thinks you will, then you’d better stop looking at Henry like that. Because he seems to believe you’re going to stay with us.”

Léon kept his gaze where Catherine had drawn it.

émile had fallen asleep, his head laying on Souveraine’s shoulder, her arm around him protectively.

And Léon loved her. Truly.

His heart ached over the words Catherine continued to speak.

“If you’re not going to choose her, then you have to let her go. She’s not a comfort blanket for you. She’s not some hired help to look after your brother while you’re away with Henry. She does it all for you because she loves you. And it’s cruel. It’s cruel for her, but not just for her.” The steely glint in her eyes softened to a peculiar melancholy, almost entreating.

“She won’t look at anybody else. She loves you and she’s loyal to you. And you’re taking away her opportunity of finding someone who really cares about her.”

“I don’t want to hurt her,” said Léon, not taking her meaning in full.

“I care about her more than you know. I won’t just send her back to Reims by herself.”

“Maybe you have to. Or maybe she will choose to stay in Paris. But you need to give her that choice.” She squeezed his arm, looking deep into his eyes.

“If you love her enough to marry her, tell Henry at once. There’s no shame in it if your loyalty lies with her. But don’t string him along and don’t jeopardise us. This party, these letters he sends out… It’s all for you. He should be hiding, and he’s putting on a show to impress you instead. So if you care about him?—”

Ruffled to anger by the unspoken suggestion, Léon snapped, “I do care about him.”

“Then make your decision and do it quickly.” She gave him one parting spear of a glance.

“You cannot have them both.”