by Colette Gale
So that was why he’d left Mercédès in such a state. This was what he had waiting for him. A woman half his age, half her age. Taut and firm and gloriously beautiful.
Mercédès had attended the theater tonight dressed in her boldest, most daring gown of bloodred, in the company of Albert, Fernand, and three of her husband’s business associates— all men, none of whom were married. She’d heard that Monte Cristo meant to attend, and she wanted to give him something to look at.
Apparently, he didn’t even notice her, for he spent the entire time chatting and laughing with the woman, leaning toward her as they shared some intimate conversation or amusement.
Her thoughts, which could not be focused on the play, turned to Georges, Count Salieux. What could have been quite a conundrum—for how was she to cut things off with him permanently after what had occurred in her own garden?—had turned out to be no problem at all. She’d heard through Albert that Georges had left on a sudden, long holiday to visit relatives in Italy.
She hadn’t known he had relatives in Italy, which suggested that perhaps he’d left for some other reason—and she thought perhaps she might know what it was.
Regardless, his absence solved her problem, and allowed her to focus on the one at hand. She glanced across the stage toward Monte Cristo’s box and found that he was looking at her. A thrill ran through her body, warming her face and spiraling in her stomach. Their eyes met and clashed for a long moment as Mercédès refused to look away . . . and at the same time, thought to herself: What next?
What was his plan?
From across the way, he gave her a bare nod, with no emotion attached to it—neither insolence, nor respect, nor cordiality; just a bare movement of the chin—and then turned his attention back to the play.
Had he simply planned to seduce her into a quivering puddle of arousal and then leave her unclothed and stranded during the dinner party? Why? To assert his control over her? To attempt to humiliate her? In either case, he hadn’t completely succeeded.
Was that the extent of his plans for revenge? Were his goals now met?
Mercédès wanted to confront him, she wanted to grab his solid shoulders and shake the man to find out why . . . how . . . where he’d been all these years. Why he hadn’t come back to her . . . and when he had, why he did so now, in this way.
This cold, unfeeling way.
A little shiver caught her by surprise, and Monsieur Hardegree, a Londoner visiting Paris, must have felt her shudder. He was immediately solicitous, and reached to drape her cashmere shawl more closely around her. His gloved hands brushed her bare shoulders, and she smiled her thanks at him, taking care to keep any hint of seduction from her eyes.
She settled back in her seat and felt someone’s attention on her, but when she looked over, Monte Cristo wasn’t even facing her. His back was to the theater, and he seemed to be speaking to someone behind him. But at that angle, his profile . . . it made her heart squeeze with pain. Edmond . . . it was so clearly Edmond, she wanted to cry.
But then he turned back, and it was Monte Cristo again, his demeanor harsh, rigid, elegant.
Mercédès thought for a moment. What did she want?
She wanted Edmond Dantès back. She always had.
She’d leave Fernand and his fine house and pots of money and salacious ways in an instant if she could have Edmond again. She’d live in a hovel, or on his ship, or wherever he wanted to live.
But Edmond, whatever had happened to him, was gone . . . and the man called the Count of Monte Cristo no longer resembled—except in a most superficial manner, in the barest of hints and the faintest of impressions—the man she loved.
And thus, as she thought about it, Mercédès felt less and less kindly toward him. Less and less regretful for the love they might have shared, for the years lost, the plans destroyed, the empty life she’d lived.
For if this was how he came back into her life—in mystery and coldness, and with vengeance—she wasn’t certain she could love the man he’d become.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the play’s intermission, and Mercédès accepted Monsieur Hardegree as her escort to the ladies’ retiring room. Perhaps she thought she might have the occasion to see Monte Cristo as they walked along the promenade crowded with other members of society, all of them equally hoping to see and be seen. But, alas, she had not caught even a glimpse of the elegant figure of Monte Cristo, in his crisp white shirt, black frog coat, and gold-patterned cravat and shirtwaist, by the time she and Monsieur Hardegree reached their destination.
“I shall await your pleasure, my lady,” he said in his delightfully British French, giving her an exact little bow.
Mercédès walked toward the room reserved for the ladies, and passed the largest, darkest man she’d ever seen, standing by the door. His bald head gleamed in the lamplight, and he wore a gold hoop in one ear, reminding her suddenly of Sinbad.
Inside the little room, women sat about and chattered, adjusted their gowns, and fussed with hair, and a few even dabbed rouge on their cheeks and lips. The antechamber was long and narrow, with gold-and-green brocade curtains pulled back to reveal a long mirror above an equally long and narrow table. Six plump chairs were arranged around two low square tables, and every surface was covered with vases of peonies and roses, filling the air with their sweet perfume as if to battle with those other smells of dusting powder, eau de toilette, feminine perspiration, and the results of the small, enclosed stalls beyond this gathering room. There was barely room for more than one woman, with her wide skirts, to walk along the gallery-like chamber
There was Mademoiselle Goutage, applying white powder to cover the spots on her bosom, and Mademoiselle LeFritier using kohl to line her eyes and color her lashes. Since her skin was pale and her lashes blond, it made quite a difference in her appearance—especially when it rubbed off under her eyes, giving her an exhausted look. Madam Foufant greeted Mercédès warmly, and they chatted for a moment before the other woman patted one last curl into its spot and replaced her gloves. As madam took her leave, Mercédès turned and noticed one of the doors of the private stalls in the next room opening.
A young woman came out, and Mercédès recognized her instantly as Monte Cristo’s companion. Up close, the woman was even more breathtaking, and for a moment, Mercédès felt herself flush with despair and jealousy. She turned away from the woman—who was really no more than a girl—and turned her attention to her own reflection in the long, gilt-edged mirror. With trembling hands, Mercédès poked at her thick, dark hair and tried not to look at the other woman, who had come forward to also stand before the looking glass.
But then their eyes met in the reflection, and the young woman paused, holding Mercédès’ gaze, and said, “Good evening.” Her voice was husky and pleasantly accented. She gave a little nod, and Mercédès was struck again, horribly, with how exquisite she was: olive skin, tip-tilted eyes, thick, dark lashes that would never need kohl, blue-black hair just as heavy and shiny as her own locks, smooth skin and a long neck.
Mercédès was not one for rudeness, regardless of what position the young woman might have in her former lover’s life or bed, however gorgeous she might be. Whoever she was, she was likely innocent of anything Monte Cristo had planned or had done. And besides . . . Mercédès thought she recognized a bit of nervousness in the young woman’s eyes. “Good evening, mademoiselle,” she replied with a regal nod, but returned to her own ministrations.
The young woman continued to glance at her under the guise of fixing her own hair. Mercédès noticed that the chatter had quieted in the room, and a few of the other women were staring at the girl—she looked as if she might be Greek—while whispering behind cupped hands. Ignoring them, and the girl, Mercédès adjusted her bodice to make sure it cut just across the tops of her areolas and no lower, and that the bows on her short sleeves were still lined up straight.
Meanwhile, the ebb of conversation seemed to be over, and whispers and low comments began to
filter through the room more loudly. And then one comment rose above the others, settling over the room like a crack of sudden summer thunder.
“The retiring room for servants and slaves is down below. In the cellar.”
Mercédès happened to catch the expression on the girl’s face as she blanched. Confusion and hurt splashed across it, but she pretended to continue her primping as if she hadn’t heard.
“If I had a slave, I would have her press my gown. Perhaps there is one nearby who might be able to assist,” came another catty voice.
The young girl’s hand trembled slightly as she reached to adjust the long strand of sapphires that hung from her ear, and her mouth twitched with quickly subdued misery.
Mercédès turned from her stance at the mirror. “I hardly think,” she said, her flinty gaze skipping over the young mademoiselles who’d been gossiping, “that the Count of Monte Cristo would squire a slave to the theater. And if he did,” she added when one of the little snips dared to open her mouth, “I do not expect that he would dress and bejewel her in a manner more elegantly than any other young woman here.”
The other girls—for they were young, just as young as this Greek one—all closed their mouths. Red spots appeared on some of their cheeks, and Mademoiselle LeFritier had the grace to look away and flee from the room without any further comments. It was just as well, for Mercédès was well-acquainted with her mother, and Madam LeFritier was a lovely, polite woman who would be horrified at her daughter’s behavior.
In front of the other girls, Mercédès turned to the Greek girl and said, “I am Comtesse de Morcerf, and I have had the pleasure of hosting the Count of Monte Cristo at my home.”
The girl gave her a fleeting smile of gratitude, but kept her own regal poise as she gave a little bow in return. “I am fully aware of who you are, madam la comtesse,” she said with a meaningful look. “And I am delighted—no, privileged—to make your acquaintance. My name is Haydée, and I am the ward of the Count of Monte Cristo.” Her voice was dulcet and lightly accented.
Ward, indeed, Mercédès thought; but she held her emotions at bay. She had no right to judge or to make assumptions, despite the fact that Monte Cristo had treated the girl like anything but a ward. Nevertheless, her fingers curled into her gloved palms as she recalled how he had reacted when faced with her lover.
By now the other mademoiselles had fled the room, and the two women were left alone.
“You are very kind,” said Haydée, glancing at the door as it closed behind the last billowing skirt.
“It was nothing,” Mercédès told her, keeping her voice cool and steady. How she wanted to ask Haydée . . . so many things!
How she wanted to scratch at her almond-shaped eyes and tell her to stay away from Monte Cristo.
“They are young and cruel, as girls often are, and I do not believe that such incidents should go unnoticed,” Mercédès said instead.
Haydée was still looking at her. “So you are the one,” she murmured, her attention sharp and interested as it swept over her.
Mercédès raised her brows in surprise. “I am?”
The girl’s look was calculating—but not in a cattish way. More of a contemplative one, as if some light were dawning over her. She gave a little nod and then a small smile, as if making a pleasurable decision. “His Excellency and I are not lovers, madam la comtesse.”
If she would have claimed her nose were blue, Mercédès couldn’t have been more surprised. But she retained her composure and allowed a little tilt to her own lips. “Is that so? He takes great pains to promote that misconception.”
“That is true, but in private he calls me his daughter and treats me thus.”
Suddenly realizing she’d found an ally in whatever competition there was between herself and Monte Cristo, Mercédès grasped the young girl’s arm and gave it a little squeeze. “Thank you for telling me that, for whatever reason you chose to do so.”
“My reason is pure selfishness, madam, if I may be so bold.” Her smile was charming and Mercédès marveled that Monte Cristo had not fallen under its spell. But she had no reason to disbelieve Haydée, and so she smiled back.
“Whatever the reason, you have provided me with information that I may find very useful.”
“I’ve no doubt you will, madam. And the sooner you do, the more appreciative I will be. Now perhaps it is best if I go, for Ali will be pulling his hair out. Or,” she said with a dimple, looking more like a child than ever, “he would be if he had any hair to pull.”
With a curtsy, Haydée swept out of the room with the air of a princess, leaving Mercédès to her thoughts.
They weren’t lovers.
She smiled at herself in the mirror, noticing as she always did that little crooked tooth on top that marred an otherwise perfect spread of teeth and full red lips. She hated the way it dipped into her lower lip, almost like a little fang, when she grinned. But Edmond had thought it charming; he said it made her beauty real and accessible. Perfection, he claimed, would have been much too daunting.
Was that why he hadn’t bedded Haydée? Or was she lying? But there was no reason for her to lie. Mercédès quickly dismissed that thought.
She mused over their conversation for a few moments longer, then, with a start, realized she’d left Monsieur Hardegree waiting for her.
However, when she came out of the retiring room, it wasn’t Hardegree who waited. It was Monte Cristo himself, leaning indolently against one of the gallery’s half pillars, all of which lined the long room and were painted to depict the Greek gods and goddesses.
She lifted her chin when their eyes met, even as her heart gave a little leap and her palms dampened beneath her gloves. Had he been there long enough to suspect that she and Haydée had met? Even if he had . . . he wouldn’t expect them to have the conversation they did.
Wondering why it mattered, why she shouldn’t confront him right now, Mercédès nevertheless kept her gaze steady as he stepped toward her.
“Your husband asked me to escort you,” Monte Cristo said, offering her his arm.
She briefly considered not accepting it, but realized there would be no purpose in doing so, and besides . . . she wanted to touch him. And for him to touch her. Because she knew that, whatever he’d done in the gazebo, however he’d left her, he still wanted her.
God knew, she still wanted him—though she would die before admitting it.
“Did he?” she asked, sliding her fingers around the solid warmth of his arm. He immediately shifted, pulling his elbow tight to his body so that her gown was crushed against his side and his trouser leg brushed her skirts. His close presence was overpowering: dark and strong, nearly vibrating with command. “How amusing, for it was Monsieur Hardegree who was my escort.”
“Perhaps your toilette took too long, madam,” replied Monte Cristo, “and he became weary of waiting for you.”
“Ah, yes,” she mused, stealing a glance at him, now quite certain that it was Monte Cristo who had suggested Hardegree’s defection. “After waiting for a very long time, and without any word, one might begin to suspect that the one for whom one waits has found more exciting delights, and is never to return. And then whatever should one do? Spend the entire . . . evening . . . waiting in the gallery, only to find that the other wasn’t about to return after all—and learn that one has missed the production?”
His beautiful lips tightened but he kept his gaze cool when he flicked it sharply at her, then away. “If one vows to wait, one should stay true to his—or her—word . . . and trust that the other will return as promised. After all, what is mere entertainmentin contrast to one’s oath?”
Mercédès felt a sudden wave of sadness and grief, but she didn’t show it. Until she learned what he was after, why he was really here—and what had kept him from her for years—she would give no explanation for her choices—choices for which he obviously blamed and despised her.
But he clearly had known who she was when he approached her
a decade ago as Sinbad. That, she could not excuse.
“And so you believe, monsieur le comte, that one should never give up hope that the other might reappear? Regardless of all evidence to the contrary, and any other occurrences that might arise to upset the situation?” She bumped against his side purposely as she looked up at him, making her eyes wide and guileless, and her lips part slightly.
“Above all, fidelity to one’s word,” Monte Cristo replied.
Mercédès was silent for a moment, contemplating her next response. The play had started again and the fashion watchers and gossipmongers had returned to their seats. Only an occasional couple or gentleman passed the two of them as they strolled along . . . and she realized, after looking around, that Monte Cristo had guided them beyond the gallery and the theater entrance to the side of the building.
“Fidelity to one’s word,” she replied thoughtfully. “Thus, above all, honesty and honor. I must concur with you in that. Honesty and honor, monsieur le comte.”
He looked at her, his dark eyes delving into hers as if to read a deeper meaning. She saw that they had reached the dark alcove where the side staircase, used by ladies’ maids and footmen, made a landing between the second and third floors.
They paused, and he swept her into his arms—just as she’d suspected he would, for there was little pretense in regard to their passion for each other.
Monte Cristo’s embrace was strong and bold, and he crushed her between his body and the plastered wall. She slid her arms eagerly around his neck, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath the thick locks brushing his collar. His mouth swooped down on hers, no longer drawn hard and firm, but supple and demanding, pulling an immediate response from her even as it snuffed out her breath. She pressed up against him, her gown crushed and wrinkled between their hips as he drove his tongue into her mouth, his fingers curling into the jut of her shoulder blades.