Lysette

by Sylvia Halliday

  Tenderly he lifted her and carried her to the bed, placing her gently down and sitting beside her. She lay passive, her eyes closed, every nerve and fiber concentrating on the waves of feeling that swept over her, unfamiliar and wonderful. His lips burned on her breast, his soft hands ranged her body, seeking out secret places that made her tremble and quiver in ecstasy. It was lovely. Lovely. She felt her senses reeling, slipping out of control—she alone existed in the void, she alone, and the fire that raged within her.

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, she felt his weight leave the bed. Annoyed, feeling the excitement fade away, she opened her eyes and raised herself up on her elbows. His back was toward her; he had stooped to remove his boots and stockings. He straightened and pulled his shirt over his head; through half-closed eyes she admired the smooth sleekness of his back and shoulders, the strength of his muscular arms. She noted the scratches he still bore from their encounter that day near the lake, and she smiled indulgently and tenderly. Ah, Dieu, let him only caress her again and ignite the flames—she would never more raise her hands against him! He stepped out of his breeches and turned to her. Her eyes swept his body, seeing the fierceness of his passion, and she gasped, comprehending at last. As he lowered himself to the bed, panic began to rise within her. She did not want his body! His seed! His child!

  She had only wanted the pleasure he gave to her. She felt somehow betrayed—by him, by her own passion, by stubborn reality. With a small cry, she clamped her knees together and tried to ward him off with her hands, sluing her hips away from his potent loins. Caught off guard, he sat back on his heels, watching her cringing form, scarcely believing his senses. Then, with a strangled oath, his eyes glowing like hot coals, he grabbed at her legs and pulled her under him. She struggled furiously, her fingernails raking his shoulders, but he parted her thighs with hands that were strong and determined, and entered her quickly, violently, so she cried out in shocked surprise. Even as she writhed and twisted, hating him, hating herself, she felt the cool smoothness of his chest upon her bosom, his mouth, so alive, so young, pressing on hers; despite her will, she felt herself yielding to him, responding to his passion, her hips rising to meet his every thrust.

  It should have been André. André! She saw him suddenly before her—the handsome face, the warm blue eyes—as a wrenching thrill raced through her body, and Jean-Auguste shuddered and collapsed against her. It should have been André. Narbaux withdrew and sat up, half expecting a response; when none was forthcoming, he arose from the bed and began to gather his things. It should have been André! With a heartbroken cry she turned on her side and began to sob bitterly. Drawing on his clothing, Jean-Auguste watched in dismay, hardly knowing what to do. At length he leaned over her.

  “Lysette.” He touched her gently on one quivering shoulder, but she shook him off and wailed all the louder. In a moment he had left the room, closing the door softly behind him. She wept for a very long time, pouring out her disappointment and longing for André, wondering, even as she did so, how it was possible to feel so miserable, yet so strangely content, at the same time.

  The horse raced into the wide meadow; its hooves, crushing the grass that shimmered under early morning dew, left a dark green trail through the pale haze. Wielding her riding crop, Lysette urged the mare ever faster—as though the devil rode at their heels—until the dew jetted upward in tiny sprays with each flying step.

  And perhaps, after all, she was bedeviled. She had awakened early and sat up in a panic, remembering the night before. What was it Dominique had said? A hot bath. But it was too early. There was no one stirring. And already she seemed to feel the dreaded seed growing within her! Damn Narbaux! She dressed quickly, putting on her old travel clothes. If she were lucky, she might find a stable boy astir who could saddle her horse. She discovered one curled up in the stall next to her mare; a couple of sharp kicks to his sleeping form brought him quickly to his feet, and ready—if not exactly pleased—to serve Madame la Marquise.

  Now she rode fiercely, bobbing up and down in the saddle, her hair wild about her face. It must be so, what Dominique had said about riding. Could she not feel her insides jouncing with every stride of the horse, dislodging the enemy that would inhabit her womb? She thought again of Jean-Auguste and was filled with righteous anger; it was he alone who was responsible! After all, he had raped her, violated her person, gone against her will and her wishes. She did not care to dwell on her contribution to what had happened; she knew only that somehow she had let her guard down and Narbaux had taken control of the situation. In the future she must be more careful; now that she knew that a man’s kiss could thrill her so she must be vigilant, lest another kiss, another man—André even!—reduce her to helpless victim. Still, she thought with a smile, slowing her horse to a walk, it had not been entirely unpleasant. There might come a time in her life when she would be willing to surrender totally to a man, let herself be swept away, though she could scarce envision it now, even with André. She liked having her way—she liked being the focus of a man’s attention and concern, without having to reciprocate. Let the Marielles of this world subjugate themselves to a man’s needs; if she could get what she wanted at the price of a smile or even a kiss or two, all the better.

  She headed the horse back toward Vilmorin, letting the mare choose its own path, past orchards and carefully sculpted hedges. Just before the stables, she came upon a small, semicircular line of trees that turned away from the château and enclosed a patterned garden, centered with a splashing fountain and a small stone bench. She entered the garden, meaning to enjoy its seclusion for a few moments; too late she saw that Jean-Auguste was standing beneath one of the trees, deep in thought. He looked up in surprise, then strode toward her, his expression unreadable. She fidgeted uncomfortably in the saddle, half minded to bolt, feeling more awkward than angry. They stared at one another for long minutes, then, without a word, he lifted his hands to assist her down. She shrugged and dropped the reins, sliding into his outstretched arms; he set her on her feet and held her for a moment, strong hands about her waist. Perhaps it was the memory of the night before, his overpowering strength and masculinity, but she found herself for the first time conscious of how he towered above her; angrily she pushed his hands away, disliking the sudden feeling of helplessness, and sat down on the bench. She did not feel so small if she were not standing with him, and if he chose to sit beside her, his long legs stretched out before him, they would be nearly equal.

  He slapped her horse’s rump, sending the mare in the direction of the stables, then sat at the far end of the bench, staring morosely at the tip of one dew-stained boot. “I am surprised you rode out this morning,” he said at last. “I should have thought you had had your fill of riding ere now.”

  She nearly laughed aloud at that, with the smugness of one who holds a secret, then remembered she should hate him for being the cause of her wild ride. “Can you blame me?” she said caustically. “My bedchamber scarce holds pleasant memories!” And smiled to see her barb had hit its mark.

  He squirmed unhappily and kicked at a small pebble near his boot. “As to that…methinks I owe you a profound apology…and an honorable offer of marriage.” He raised his head and looked at her intently, but the cool gray eyes, so expressive when they probed her soul, told her nothing.

  “Do you offer marriage to every woman whose bed you invade?” Her violet eyes flashed maliciously, her voice heavy with sarcasm. “Or…could it be…am I the first? O callow youth! O more than fortunate Lysette! To be the vessel for Love’s first thunderbolts!”

  He flamed red at her cruel taunt, his jaw set in a hard line, but when he spoke his voice was low and controlled. “I am not usually given to raping a woman…nor even taking advantage of her unhappiness…” Lysette looked up sharply, feeling suddenly exposed, vulnerable. Jean-Auguste smiled wryly, his eyes full of regret. “I am aware that I was a poor substitute for André. Nevertheless, I dishonored you, and in recompense I offer you marriage if yo
u wish it.” He turned away again, once more preoccupied with his boot.

  Lysette seethed. Oh, the effrontery of the man! To presume to read into her heart, to intrude on her feelings for André! And then to ease his conscience by offering her marriage, aware that she must surely refuse! She stood up, tempted to strike him across the face with her riding crop.

  “Good morrow!”

  It was a smiling André who greeted them, leaping from his horse and striding into the small garden. “I marked the trail in the damp grass and wondered who was riding before me!” Eyes twinkling merrily, he indicated Lysette’s tousled hair. “It would seem, ma petite, that you rode with demons!”

  She blushed, her hands flying to her tangled curls, embarrassed that he should find her so unkempt. Then her heart sank within her, remembering the figures in the moonlight, the reason for his gaiety this morning, and she pinned her chignon carelessly. After all, what did it matter? He might smile at her, look into her face—but those warm blue eyes were seeing only Marielle. He spread his arms wide, gulping in great draughts of air. “Mon Dieu, but it is good to be home! And you, Jean-Auguste—what do you propose? Will you stay a day or two at Vilmorin?”

  Narbaux rose easily from the bench and shook his head. “Nay! I too have missed my home. I shall ride to Chimère after breakfast. It will allow me the better part of the day to see the vineyards.”

  Lysette looked up, surprised. “Is Chimère so near, then?”

  “A good hour’s ride, no more,” answered André.

  Jean-Auguste smiled. “Near enough for me to take my revenge! I have not forgot that you bested me when we hunted last autumn! I vow the red stag will be mine this year—more than a match for that roebuck you took last November!”

  André clapped him on the back. “And if you do, I shall toast you in good Vilmorin wine!” It was a fresh challenge.

  “When the harvest is in, mon ami, it will be the wines of Chimère of which the poets will sing!”

  Lysette stood quietly, listening to the banter of old friends, feeling isolated, excluded from their warmth. She hated André. He had friendship. He had love. And not a crumb of kindness left over to see how her her heart ached for him. He smiled at her…impersonal, indifferent…she might have been a servant, an underling, a stone in the wall of his beloved Vilmorin. She longed to cry out: Look at me! See me! See how I love you!

  “And you, Lysette,” he said, “will you stay for a few days before you go to Chartres? Marielle would welcome female companionship, I have no doubt.”

  “I shall not go to Chartres,” she said impulsively. “Jean-Auguste has asked for my hand in marriage. I…have…decided to accept his proposal.”

  André grinned in pleasure, while Jean-Auguste, struggling to hide his surprise, smiled tightly and crossed to Lysette’s side, his eyes stormy and troubled as they searched her face. Dutifully he bent to kiss her, his hands gentle on her shoulders; she responded stiffly, torn with uncertainty, half minded to recall her words, feeling André’s eyes upon her.

  “I scarce can tell you how pleased I am!” exclaimed André, shaking Narbaux’s hand warmly. “Chimère has long needed a woman’s presence—and such a lovely and charming one as Lysette!” He turned to her, his blue eyes suddenly serious. “Jean-Auguste has been like a brother to me…how gladsome to welcome a sister!” He kissed her tenderly on one cheek, mistaking the sudden tears that sprang to her eyes as a surfeit of happiness, then turned again to Narbaux. “You will marry here, of course, in the chapel of Vilmorin. Marielle would not hear of anything else!” Jean-Auguste nodded in agreement, but said nothing. “And when is it to be?”

  “I must see to Chimère—it should be made ready…”

  “Then Lysette must stay here, for propriety’s sake. Will you wait until after the grapes are in?”

  Narbaux looked thoughtful. “Perhaps it would be best…and it will give Lysette a chance to write to her brothers…a few weeks…”

  A few weeks! To stay at Vilmorin—to see André happy—to imagine Marielle in his arms. “No!” she cried sharply. “I do not wish to wait so long! I scarce need my brothers’ consent—there will be time enough to write to them after the ceremony…” She stumbled and stopped, aware that the two men eyed her strangely. She laughed demurely, and lowered her eyes, suddenly the shy maiden. “And we have had such a long courtship already—through Angoumois and Poitou—I could not bear to wait for weeks and weeks.” Unable to manage a blush, she turned her back to them and hung her head.

  “Very well. A week at most.” Narbaux’s voice was uncertain, and when she turned to meet his eyes she saw skepticism in their gray depths. She smiled tenderly to convince him of her sincerity, and was gratified to watch the doubt fade from his face. For his part, André was vastly amused by the whole exchange.

  “Oho, my friend,” he teased, “such impatience from your bride speaks well of you! I wonder if the women of the Court know how empty will be their days—and nights—when Lysette shall be at your side as Vicomtesse.”

  Jean-Auguste smiled crookedly. “And the men will envy me, will they not, ma chère?” His eyes, cool and searching, perused Lysette’s face with such sharp scrutiny that she turned away, flustered, uneasy, wondering if he had truly accepted her reason for haste.

  “Come!” said André. “Let us tell Marielle at once.” He threw one arm about Jean-Auguste’s shoulder and held out his other hand to Lysette, meaning to lead them both back to the château.

  “Please.” She shook her head. “I should like…just for a little…to be alone. You understand…” She bit her lip and fought back her tears, praying they would read modesty and sensitivity into her sudden emotion, rather than the unhappiness that now threatened to engulf her. André nodded understandingly and the two men circled the line of trees and headed back to the terrace. They made a strange contrast: André, looking for all the world as though it were he who had just been betrothed, laughed and joked animatedly; Narbaux plodded along beside him, hands behind his back, his face frozen in a lugubrious smile.

  Lysette watched them out of sight, then slumped onto the bench and gave way to her misery. The reluctant bridegroom, she thought bitterly. He no more wanted to marry her than she did; he had felt honor bound to propose, that was all. But what had possessed her to accept? Was it the loneliness? Her envy of André and Marielle, that they should have each other, and a future together, while she had only the emptiness of Chartres and the meager gleanings from her brother’s life?

  And yet…why not marry Jean-Auguste? She sat up resolutely and wiped the tears from her eyes. Unlike Guy, he had money, estates, position. And he was kind and good, comfortable to be with. It was strange: Guy had been none of those things, though she had seen him through the eyes of youthful romance; yet not even her dislike of Jean-Auguste in their weeks together had served to blind her to his decency.

  And he was perhaps more manageable than she had at first supposed, despite his piercing eyes. She was not sure that she had deceived him, yet he had been willing to advance the wedding, whatever her reasons, simply to please her. If he continued to be so agreeable as a husband, she might find this marriage very much to her liking. She frowned suddenly, remembering the night before. If only she did not have unpleasant obligations as a wife! It had been so lovely, indulging her senses, luxuriating in his kisses and caresses—if that were all he expected of her she would welcome him to her bed every night! But she had turned Guy aside often enough—she felt certain she could cool Jean-Auguste’s ardor, more especially as he scarcely wanted the marriage in the first place.

  She rose from the bench and smiled to herself. No, there was hardly a reason to be unhappy after all. All would be well. She would be Madame la Vicomtesse de Narbaux, with a fine husband and a good life. She made for the château, feeling pleased with herself, her rational decision.

  Wicked Lysette. Save reasoning for the world. She paused on the grassy terrace, willing her heart to stop its wild beating, her brain from crying out the
only reason that mattered, that had ever mattered: Chimère was a scant hour from Vilmorin—she had a lifetime now to be near to André, to love him, to win him.

  Chapter Nine

  “By my faith, Marielle, it is the most beautiful gown I have ever seen!”

  Lysette swirled about the bedchamber, noting with pleasure how the taffeta folds of her skirts rustled silkenly, springing forth from the snug bodice. The gown, a soft purple, the color of wood violets, was trimmed at the waist with ribbons and rosettes. The sleeves, long and puffed, were slashed from shoulder to wrist—the slashes edged with more ribbons and silver lace—allowing the white satin undersleeves to peek through. The low-cut bodice, adorned with a lace-edged falling band, a kind of wide collar, accented the graceful curve of her bosom.

  Marielle smiled. “I can scarce imagine what blandishments Jean-Auguste held forth to the merchants of Vouvray, to persuade them to work so diligently in your behalf!”