by M. S. Parker
“You don't believe that what we're doing here is important,” Gracen said suddenly.
“That's...” I sighed. “I just know that our being here won’t do any good. Not for a while, anyway.”
He gave me a disappointed look. “Have you ever wondered if we have the chance to expedite the process?”
I stared at him. “You mean rewrite history?”
“It is history to you, but the future for both of us. Can you not see the good we could do if we could provide the Continental Army with more support earlier in the conflict? How many lives we could save?”
Shit. I hadn't even thought of that. But now that I was, I was pretty sure it wasn't a good idea. Sure, most people would think it'd be a great idea to make things better, but I'd seen and read enough time travel stories to know that the ripple effect wasn't always a good one. For all I knew, if the French helped the colonies earlier in the war, it could change the way the people saw George Washington, and he might not become the first President. America as I knew it wasn't perfect, but I couldn't say that if major changes were made, things wouldn't be worse. Hell, for all I knew, if the Revolutionary War ended one month earlier than it had originally, it could lead to the British attacking at a later point and America losing everything.
But looking at the earnest expression on Gracen's face, I couldn't bring myself to try to explain any of that to him. It was history to me, and a part of my brain had been still seeing it that way. Seeing the soldiers that way. As history.
As dead men.
I forced a smile and ignored the question. “I guess that means I need to go shopping.”
Chapter 18
I remembered Bruce joking once that the only worthwhile reason to dance was to avoid any real foreplay. Considering how often he'd used his grinding on me as an excuse to fuck without worrying about me, it wasn't surprising that I hadn't been a fan of going clubbing with him.
As I thought about it, however, I realized any experience of my past life was no help here. Not even dancing.
And as much as I'd kept my cool around some crazy situations, this one was stretching my nerves to the breaking point. The worst part was that I knew my concerns were legitimate. There were too many unknowns here, too many people who could be players in changing history if they had the wrong information.
Then there was the less noble fear. The one that came from not wanting to make a fool out of myself in front of a bunch of French aristocrats.
As I slowly dressed for the evening, I couldn't help but think that it seemed far easier to brave a war zone than go to a French ball. Even though being a medic hadn't put me on the very frontline, it'd been dangerous enough.
My stomach was in knots, my thoughts racing, and I was fairly certain that if I'd eaten anything today, I would've thrown it up already.
I exhaled and smoothed down my dress. I'd needed one of the servants to help me get into this thing, and I could barely manage a full breath. The stays poked my ribs, and the corset shoved my breasts up to create more cleavage than I'd ever had. French styles weren't even close to as modest as the American ones. Hem length, however, was the same, which meant that walking was a pain in the ass. I'd never been the sort of woman who wore skirts short enough to show off my ass, but half a dozen layers that brushed the ground was a bit much.
I couldn't deny I loved the color though. A dark, dove gray that made my eyes look even more silver than normal. A part of me wondered what I would've looked like in a slinky dress made of this same color silk. I had to admit, the thought that I'd never get to wear something sexy, something that I knew would really turn Gracen's head, it bothered me more than I thought it could.
A wave of homesickness washed over me and tears pricked at my eyelids. I'd spent plenty of time away from my family, in strange places, but I'd always known home was there to go back to. I hadn't grown up with a big family, but I had my parents, my brother. They'd always been there for me...and now they weren't even born yet.
“About ready?”
Gracen's voice pulled me away from my maudlin thoughts. They were still there but pushed to the back as I focused on what we had to do tonight. It was too important to go into half-assed.
I turned toward him, smiling as I saw his face light up. At least he seemed to like my dress.
“You are lovely, my dear,” he said as he came over to where I was standing. He pressed his lips to my cheek, lingering to brush his nose against my hair. “If what we were doing was not important, I would keep you here with me all night.”
A shiver ran through me, chasing away the last of my ghosts, reminding me why I'd given up one home for another. And that's what Gracen was. My home.
I took his hand, and the two of us descended the stairs. Our hosts had gone on ahead of us, or so I assumed. Sometimes, I felt like they were intentionally avoiding me. That thought did nothing to ease my nerves as Gracen helped me into the carriage. We rode in silence, but his thumb continued to make slow back and forth movements across my knuckles, and I wondered if he was as nervous as I was.
“Take the opportunity to speak to anyone you can,” he whispered in my ear as we headed into the St. James mansion. “Listen closely, but be careful what you say.”
I nodded in acknowledgment even though he hadn't told me anything I didn’t already know. My eyes were wide as I took in our surroundings. I thought the Lightwood estate was beautiful, their parties impressive. But all of that was nothing compared to this. White marble columns, crystal chandeliers, and oak tables loaded with more food than the Continental Army would eat all winter. All of the guests were dressed to the nines, looking fabulous and knowing it full well. They were shamelessly flaunting it as if being just that was inherently theirs and no one else’s. The level of snootiness in the air was palpable.
This, I knew, was one of the reasons why the French would have a revolution of their own not long after the American one. For them, it wasn't about taxation without representation or being forced to house soldiers as much as it was the huge gap between the rich and the poor.
“Seen, not heard, at least not with anything of importance. Got it,” I muttered back.
He gave me a look that harbored doubt.
Don’t worry, I thought. I won’t make you regret me coming along. I’ll act like a fine lady, be the perfect socialite wife. I could do this.
Except, it was obvious the moment we entered the space that Gracen had this all under control. And why wouldn’t he? He’d been rubbing elbows with these people almost every night since we arrived. He led me straight toward a tall man with graying sideburns, whose angular face would have been greatly softened by the presence of facial hair. He looked like the type who didn’t know how to look at anyone except down the end of his nose.
Lovely.
“Good evening, Giles,” Gracen greeted the man with a cordial smile.
The man offered a formal bow in greeting before shaking Gracen’s hand. “Gracen.”
“This is my wife, Honor.” Gracen's hand flexed on the small of my back. “Honor, may I present Giles Moreau.”
Giles bowed to me, his beady eyes roving over me in a way that clearly said what he thought of me.
And it wasn't much.
“A pleasure, Madame Lightwood.”
“Likewise.” My smile felt fake, but Moreau didn't seem to notice.
“Where is our host?” Gracen asked. “Greeting guests, I presume, but I didn’t see him at the door.”
“Alexandre keeps as far from the front doors as possible.” Giles lowered his voice, his accent thickening. “After an incident involving an angry peasant last month, he prefers to fulfill his duties where he’s safely out of reach from the outsiders. It is all this news coming from the colonies. Damn rebels.”
Gracen made a non-committal noise and glanced at me. I kept my fake smile on my face and hoped I was playing it right.
Then Giles shocked the hell out of me by leaning closer to us and speaking again. “I would speak with St
. James earlier rather than later if I were you. He has a few of his close friends with him, and though I believe they will wait until after they can retreat for cigars and brandy to begin talking politics, it would be best to make yourself a part of their party as soon as possible so it does not appear you are only there for a single purpose.”
Gracen glanced around the room, the movement easy, familiar. I'd seen him do it before, at the Lightwood parties, looking for people while trying to not look like he was looking for them. “Where are the others?”
“Durand is in the far right corner. Peitit is by the balcony doors, making eyes at every wife but his.”
“And they are all amenable to the suggestions you passed along?”
Giles nodded. “They are. Alexandre, however, remains yours to convince. He is a good man but a stubborn one.”
Gracen glanced at me in his peripheral vision, and I could tell he was checking to make sure all of this had registered. I answered by taking his arm, silently telling him not to worry about me. I would do my part. After all, I had plenty of experience dealing with stubborn men.
I let myself fall into the role I'd accepted as the two of us walked around, smiling and nodding my head as if I could understand a single word they were saying. Well, technically I could understand more than a single word. I knew bonjour and merci. That didn't exactly help me figure out what my part in all of this was though.
“We are delighted you could join us tonight, Madame Lightwood.”
My head jerked around when I heard someone speaking English. Gracen paused, squeezing my arm to ask the question I knew he was thinking. I nodded without looking at him, and he moved on to the next group of men as I smiled at the man who'd addressed me.
“Thank you.” I held out a hand.
He took it and kissed my knuckles, bowing over my hand. “Roche Leroy at your service.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I hoped his English went beyond a few phrases because this was going to be a very short conversation if it didn't. “Are you a close friend of Monsieur St. James?”
“Close?” He seemed puzzled by the term.
I gave him what I hoped was a coy smile. “A confidant. Someone he can trust with his...opinions on certain matters.”
Roche's eyes narrowed, but his expression was more one of cautious interest than annoyance. “We do speak on such matters from time to time.”
“I'm an American, clearly.” I let out a laugh that was enough like a giggle to make me mentally cringe. “So, of course I'm curious about what people think about this little skirmish.”
“Chére madame, surely you know that France has chosen to remain...neutral at this time.”
“Yes, yes.” I lightly touched his arm. “But I know that citizens do not always hold the same opinions as their government. Hasn't the Marquis de Lafayette already offered assistance to the colonists?”
“That is true,” he said slowly. “But the marquis is young and can afford to be impulsive. After all, one must always be careful what one says, for a nation's loyalties may change.” He offered a small smile. “Though I cannot see my country siding with the damn English.”
I smiled and gave my best wide-eyed, sweet expression. “Have you spoken to my husband?”
“Not on matters of state or politics,” he said, his eyes flicking up to quickly scan the room. “I have spoken briefly with Petit and Moreau, however, and know that we share common opinions.”
“Wonderful. Perhaps you could share those thoughts with me so I can pass them along to my husband.”
“A woman interested in politics?” His mouth twisted up in mock surprise. “Surely not.”
“Perhaps you don’t think a woman can be trusted as the holder of such information?” I countered.
Leroy's gaze was appreciative. “By no means. You appear to be quite a capable woman.”
I leaned into him, batting my eyelashes and feeling like an idiot. “Does that mean you have a message for me to relay to my husband?”
“And what if I wish to give a message only for you, ma chére?” He lightly touched my jaw.
Men. I swallowed a sigh of annoyance and reminded myself of my mission. “You flatter me, Monsieur Leroy.” I uttered another giggle that made me want to kick myself. “I'm afraid, though, that what is happening in my home country is foremost on my mind tonight.”
“Of course, ma petite.” He ran his fingers up my arm. “You cannot blame a man for being enchanted by such beauty.”
I barely managed to refrain from rolling my eyes.
“Ah,” he sighed, “I suppose I must restrict myself to being a political pawn.”
That brought a genuine laugh from me. “If I offered to reserve a dance for you, would that soothe your wounds?”
His smile was nothing short of lascivious, but I was quickly getting the impression that was the way French men were in general. “It would, ma chére.” He started to lean closer, then straightened with a smile that literally went over my head. “Monsieur Lightwood.”
I turned to see Gracen coming toward us, his eyes fixed on Roche, a tight smile on his face. “Ma femme n'est-elle pas belle, mon ami?”
“Qu'elle est.”
The look Roche gave me made me wonder exactly what Gracen had said. I thought I heard the word belle, which I knew meant beauty or beautiful, but that didn't necessarily bring clarity to the conversation.
“Alexandre would like to meet my wife.” Gracen took my elbow as he stressed the last two words. “If you will excuse us.”
Roche gave us a slight nod that I barely managed to return before Gracen was pulling me away.
“It's not very nice to use another language when you know someone doesn't speak it,” I teased.
He didn't even crack a smile. “I assume it is also not nice to flirt with a man who is not your wife.”
I stared at him. “You think I was flirting with him?”
Gracen didn't look at me as he stopped us in front of a short, rotund man with a jovial expression and platinum blond hair. “Alexandre St. James, may I present my wife, Honor Lightwood.”
“Monsieur St. James, it is a pleasure.” I held out my hand. “I have heard wonderful things about you.”
“You are a fortunate man, Monsieur Lightwood.” Alexandre's dark blue eyes sparkled as he kissed my hand. “And I do not believe I am the only man here who thinks that way.”
“As I have seen,” Gracen muttered, low enough that no one else heard him.
I, however, could hear the edge to his words, and I didn't like it. I didn't, however, choose to say anything at that moment. Whatever issues my husband and I needed to discuss, we could do it in the relative privacy of our room. Our work tonight was too important to jeopardize.
“You are too kind,” I said with a smile. When Gracen shifted next to me, I couldn't help but add, “I have found all the men of France to be equally as kind.”
Gracen made a sound that I knew meant he didn't agree with my sentiment – or that he agreed all too much. Before he could add something, a swirl of crimson silk swept into the conversation.
“Ah, Monsieur Lightwood, I would like you to meet my daughter, Alize.”
I saw her all at once, as every man there must have seen her. Half a foot shorter than me, she had the sort of curves that I could tell would've been just as shapely without a corset. She had her father's platinum-colored hair, lighter eyes that were a startling royal blue, and fine, delicate features. She was younger than me, eighteen or nineteen, but the wicked sparkle in her eyes made me think the older rather than the younger age.
“Monsieur Lightwood.” She gave a little curtsy, her head dipping even as her eyes cut up beneath her lashes. “It is a pleasure for you to join us.”
Her accent was thicker than her father's, her voice low and husky. I imagined it was the sort of voice men longed to hear calling their name, accent or not.
“Le plaisir est pour moi.” Gracen took her hand and bent over it, kissing the back of it.
&
nbsp; Part of me wondered if he was speaking French to piss me off, and then I felt petty for even thinking it.
“Hello,” I said, taking a step closer to my husband. “My name is Honor Lightwood. I'm Gracen's wife.”
Alize smiled at me, but she kept looking at Gracen, something gleaming in her eyes. I didn't quite recognize it, but I knew I didn't like it.
“Shall we dance, Miss St. James?” He squeezed her hand. “I am certain my wife will be able to entertain your father.”
I stared at him, mouth hanging open, as he swept the cute little blonde out onto the dance floor.
Son. Of. A. Bitch.
The ride back to the house was quiet but teeming with tension...and not the good kind. We stayed at the party for another two hours after our first introduction to Alexandre and his daughter. Part of that time, Gracen had spent dancing with Alize while I chatted up Alexandre and his friends. We hadn't really talked about the real political issues, but men had wanted to know about my life in the colonies, which had made me start to question the wisdom of Gracen leaving me to talk to the men while he danced. Still, I'd managed to tell most of the truth, using what I knew of what the country would become to make a point.
By the time Alize and Gracen had returned, flushing and laughing, the men had seemed to be seeing things my way. They'd also been telling Gracen how lucky he was to have me. Now, however, I had a feeling he wished he'd sent me back to America. After all, if he'd been alone here, he could've used Alize to get closer to her father. I had no doubt he'd have had fun doing it.
The moment we entered our room, he turned on me, eyes blazing, expression furious.
“What were you doing?”
“Me?” I closed the door behind me loud enough for the sound to echo. “I was talking to the guys you left me with so you could go dance with that...child.”
“She is nineteen. Hardly a child.”
“Not the fucking point,” I muttered. I started to yank at the ties and ribbons holding my dress up.
“Then what is the point, Honor?” He threw up his hands. “Because I do not understand what you want from me.”