L'Ange de la Mort (The Art of Revolution #1)

Chapter Twenty-One - 2. March. 1789

Gabriel

“Marguerite!” Lizabeth gasps out with a few bursts of exaggerated laughter. “We were simply—”

“Discussing the weather, I’m sure,” Marguerite says. “Sophie is going to have a fit when I tell her!”

“You can’t!” Gabriel exclaims, horrified.

“Why ever not? I've known you for years, Monsieur de la Marche, and I’m quite certain this is the first time you’ve been seen kissing anyone. This is the best gossip of the night!”

Gabriel shoots a pleading glance at Lizabeth, hoping she will have a plan to placate Marguerite. The last thing he needs is people gossiping about his kiss with Lizabeth. 

His kiss with Lizabeth.

He swallows, grateful the winter air is enough to cool the fire in his veins. He just kissed Lizabeth Morgan. He threaded his fingers through her hair, pushed her up against the wall, tasted her on his tongue. 

And he hadn’t wanted to stop. 

Lizabeth meets his gaze and gives a quick nod, mouthing, It’s all right. I'll distract her.

He doesn’t want to leave, and would much rather pull her into a dark corner so they can continue where they left off, but it’s unlikely Marguerite will concede to leaving them alone now. Besides, he has barely spoken with Jean since the night began, and Gabriel has yet to tell him about Comte de Coligny. So, despite his bone-deep desire to stay with Lizabeth, Gabriel takes one last glimpse of her before he returns to the party in search of his friend. 

It’s nearing the early hours of the morning, and most people have abandoned the dance floor in favor of alcohol and sweets, leaving the area near the refreshment tables almost impassable. Gabriel pushes by the throngs of people drinking and gossiping, careful not to step on any dresses or dislodge any wigs. But Jean is nowhere to be found—not even near the group of women standing around the pastries. He curses under his breath, gaining a few disapproving stares from a group of older ladies, and exits the rooms in hopes the gardens will bring him better luck.

They do not.

The gardens are more sparsely populated than the dance floor, only a few couples mingling between the hedgerow. Gabriel spots one couple on a bench, sharing a kiss under the shadow of a chestnut tree. He averts his eyes, both ashamed he’s watching such an intimate moment, and annoyed he can’t be doing the same with Lizabeth.

A sudden rustle in the bushes brings him back to attention. He looks down, his gaze falling on the moonlight reflecting off a head of golden curls. Thinking it might be Jean, Gabriel leans forward to inspect further, only to leap back in surprise.

The man behind the bushes isn’t Jean, but his older brother, Charles. And he isn’t alone. Lying on the grass underneath him in a rather questionable position, is Nicolas. He glances up at Gabriel, dazed. Then his eyes widen to saucers, and he shoots up, running his hands through his black curls to rid them of bits of grass and leaves.

“Gabriel!” Nicolas exclaims. His shirt is loose and hanging off his right shoulder, revealing bare, tawny skin and one swooping collar bone.

Charles jumps up a second later, reaching for the frock coat lying on the bushes next to his head. He yanks it on and scoots so far away from Nicolas, he ends up halfway in a manicured evergreen.