by Shana Galen
Straightening her gown once more, Felicity opened her bedroom door and started toward the dining room. She hoped she remembered the way. Her room was in the back of the house on the second floor. This was the same floor the family slept on, and as Felicity walked past the other rooms, she wondered who was behind the closed doors. She wondered how close the comte’s room was to her own.
The heavy runner that lay over the polished wood floor muted her steps and made a shushing sound under her slippers. The candles in the sconces on the wall flickered as she walked past them, giving the illusion that the paintings on the walls swayed and danced. Felicity studied each as she passed. There were no family portraits, only paintings of landscapes and still life. Felicity tried to imagine what it must have been like to lose everything so violently. Had the duc managed to save any portraits of his family? What about the duchesse? She had said she was a governess. Did she also have a family? And had they suffered similarly in the revolution? Or perhaps she was English? Unlike the duc, the duchesse had no French accent.
Felicity reached the stairs and descended, pausing on the first floor. Here she had to walk down a little corridor that ended before the drawing room. The grand staircase was before her, rising majestically from the vestibule. She could already see the glow from the crystal chandelier. But from behind the closed door of the drawing room, she heard the tinkling of laughter. Should she go into the drawing room and wait to be summoned to dinner or go directly down to the dining room?
“Oh, curses,” she muttered.
“Exactly,” said a voice behind her.
Felicity swung around and stared at a tall, elegant woman with black hair and green eyes.
The woman gripped Felicity’s arm to steady her. “What are we bemoaning?”
“I—ah—” Now this woman looked every bit the duchesse. From the regal way she held her head to the refined clip of her words, this woman was an aristocrat through and through.
The older woman smiled. “No matter. Come inside.”
Felicity blinked and then allowed herself to be led into the drawing room, where the duc and duchesse were settling on the couch. Felicity nodded to each, her cheeks heating a bit when she saw the tender look the couple exchanged. There was something romantic about the warmth and obvious love the duc and duchesse shared. In an age when marriages were often arranged, it was charming to see a marriage based on love.
“Rowena, this is Miss Felicity Bennett,” the duchesse said as soon as Felicity entered. “She’s the tutor I engaged for Armand.”
“Ah,” the elegant woman said, crossing to a table where glasses filled with a burgundy liquid stood waiting. Felicity noticed the duc also held a glass.
“And, Miss Bennett,” the duchesse continued, “this is the dowager duchesse of Valère.”
Felicity curtseyed. “It’s a pleasure, Your Grace.” She had not intended to curtsey, considered the gesture ridiculous and demeaning, but somehow it felt appropriate with this woman. One look at her, and it was obvious she was the duc’s mother, and yet her accent was aristocratic English. Felicity recalled reading the duc and his brother were only half French. Their mother was from a prestigious British family, which was why the ton, decidedly unenthusiastic toward the French, had welcomed the Valères so warmly.
Felicity saw now everyone had dressed for dinner. The duchesse wore a gown of midnight blue with matching sapphires about her neck and dangling from her ears. The dowager wore a simple black gown, elegant in its clean lines. The duc wore a navy tailcoat and breeches, and his shirt and cravat were of the starkest white.
“Oh, dear me, no.” The dowager handed Felicity one of the glasses. “The pleasure is all mine. My daughter-in-law speaks very highly of you. We are all expecting great things.”
Felicity’s heart felt as though it were sinking into her belly. “I’ll do my best, Your Grace.”
“Of course you will.” The dowager sipped from her glass. “But do not expect me to be patient. I have waited twelve long years to have a conversation with my son, and now that you are here, I find myself growing impatient.”
“Ma mère.” The duc’s deep voice captured everyone’s attention. “Miss Bennett is not a miracle worker. You’ll have to give her time.”
Felicity was thankful someone understood. Everyone was looking at her, so she smiled and sipped a bit of the liquid in her glass. It was Madeira and quite good.
“Now that you have met my brother,” the duc said, “do you have any plans for commencing instruction?”
It was a good question, one she would have asked herself if she had been in the duc’s place. Felicity wished she had had more time to formulate a plan. As it was, she had an idea, but was not at all certain how successful it would prove. “I had thought I might use pictures and link them with words,” Felicity said quietly. “If you would be so kind as to furnish me with some paper, I will draw images and the words. For example, I might draw a cat, show the comte the picture of the cat, and then teach him the word.”
It had been a vague idea in the back of her mind, but now that she said it aloud, it seemed very promising. She could draw a dozen pictures tonight in preparation for the lessons in the morning. Felicity smiled, but no one around her spoke.
She cleared her throat and took another sip of Madeira. Finally, the duc rose and went to a side table where a decanter of burgundy liquid sat. He refilled his glass, and then turned to her. “We’ve tried that. It didn’t work.”
Felicity blinked. “Oh.” Suddenly, her legs felt unsteady and too light to support her body. She wished she could sit, but no one had invited her to do so, and the dowager was still standing. Then another idea hit her like a ray of sunlight. “Perhaps I might show the comte actual objects, for example, a flower, and teach him the word that way.”
The duchesse smiled weakly. “We’ve tried that, as well. However, just because a method did not work for us, does not mean it will not prove beneficial to you. After all, you have already forged a special connection with the comte.”
Felicity glanced at the pianoforte on the other side of the room. She had been studiously avoiding looking at it until now because she was afraid seeing it again would cause memories of being held in the comte’s arms to return. But her fears were for naught. The incident this morning seemed to have happened in another lifetime, to another person.
In fact, Felicity was certain it had only been the passions aroused by the music that had caused her to feel anything more than surprise when the comte had taken her into his arms. It had just been the residual passion of the music that made her heart race.
And then the drawing-room doors opened again. The comte stood framed in the doorway, dressed much as he had been this afternoon. He wore no tailcoat and no cravat, but his shirt was clean and starched. The sleeves were rolled at the wrist, and Felicity could see the bronze-corded skin of his arms. His buff breeches were tight, showing off legs that were muscled and well-shaped. But he wore no stockings or shoes. Many men would have looked ridiculous with bare calves and feet, but it only made the comte look more masculine. His one concession appeared to be his hair. The unruly mass she had observed this morning had been caught back in a neat queue, hinting at a thin layer of civilization beneath the overwhelming air of feral sensuality. He glanced at her, eyes smoldering with primitive heat, and the room reeled. Her ears rang with a whooshing sound, and she fumbled with her glass. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she lifted the glass to her lips and drank deeply. But the Madeira was finished far too quickly.
She looked down, surprised to see her glass was empty. Then she looked up again, into the cobalt eyes of the man in the doorway, and she found she was still very, very thirsty.
Five
Seated across from the yellow-haired woman, Armand was having difficulty focusing on dinner. There were many Rules to eating with others, which was why he generally preferred to eat alone in his r
oom. Some of the Rules, however, were vaguely familiar. Armand thought that if he reached far enough back into his murky memories, he might remember having learned these Rules.
But there were so many memories. And many were bad, very bad, and Armand did not care enough about the Rules for eating to go to those places.
Only now he wished he wasn’t such a damn coward, because the woman was following all the Rules effortlessly, and he had to think and remember. He could not use his fork and spoon and watch her at the same time. Frustrated, he finally threw them aside and picked up the meat with his hands.
He looked up between bites and saw the eyes of the others at the table dart away from him. That was another thing. The Rules said you could not stare outright, but his family would watch him with sidelong looks. He had known this would happen, as well. He rarely ate with his family, and tonight he had not just come down to eat, but he had changed clothes and pulled his hair out of his eyes. He even put on one of those neck cloths—for five minutes. But it cut off his breathing, and he had torn and shredded it.
How did his brother stand being confined all the time?
Armand glanced at Julien and saw his brother watching him, a scowl on his face. Armand wanted to tell his brother he had nothing to worry about. Armand was not going to hurt the woman. He just wanted to be in her presence, and he wanted her to make that music again. He would find a way to demand it.
“Miss Bennett, you said you come from Hampshire?” His mother spoke now, breaking the silence Armand had been enjoying. It seemed he was the only one who preferred silence over noise.
“Yes. My father was a vicar in Selborne. He passed away recently.” As she spoke, the woman’s gaze touched on all of those seated at the table except him. Armand saw she was careful to avoid meeting his gaze, and when she did so, her face turned a light shade of red. He liked listening to her voice, liked watching her talk. And for some reason, he liked seeing her cheeks color when she looked at him.
“And your mother?” his mother asked. “Is she still alive?”
“Unfortunately, no. She passed away when I was only ten.” She lifted her wine glass, then glanced in his direction, and set it down again. Armand wondered at the gesture. Why would she lift her glass and then set it down again? Did she want a drink and then suddenly change her mind? Why would a glance at him change her mind? Did he repulse her as he did so many others?
“Armand obviously appreciated your playing,” Sarah said, signaling the footmen to remove the course and bring in the next. It was cheese and nuts, and Armand was grateful. One Rule he knew—cheese and nuts meant the ordeal of dinner was almost over.
“Did your mother teach you?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, she was an accomplished musician and had an enormous talent. She could hear something once and then play it perfectly.”
“How extraordinary!” his mother said.
Armand sat perfectly still, his heart pounding. They were speaking of music. Now was his chance to ask the woman—Miss Bennett—to play again. But how? Frustration infused him like heat from a warm coal. Logically, he knew he was safe here. There was no danger in speaking. But he could not make himself do it. The words clogged in his throat, and panic rushed through him. Angry at his own weakness, he gripped his fork and bent it.
“I’m fortunate enough to have the same gift as my mother,” the woman was saying, “though I do not always play the selection perfectly the first time.”
Armand took the bent fork and clanked it against his plate loudly. Everyone looked at him. Normally, he tried to avoid attention, and now he remembered why. The feel of everyone’s eyes on him made his skin crawl. He had the urge to reach out violently and rip away the eyes. Instead, he clenched his hands around the fork and glared at the woman who had caused him to endure this discomfort. The fork snapped in two, but the woman stared back, seeming unperturbed by his glare. He would have to think of a way to see her cheeks color again, but now he wanted to communicate a different message. He dropped the fork pieces and pointed at her.
Ah, there was that red color he so enjoyed.
“Armand is trying to communicate with Miss Bennett!” Sarah said in a hushed whisper.
Armand ignored her.
Armand showed the woman his hands again then turned them down and pretended to play the instrument she had played earlier. He glanced into her eyes, saw she had seen his movements, and waited. What would she do now? Would she make the music again?
The room was silent; even the footmen had frozen with their plates of cheese and nuts held aloft. Finally, Miss Bennett looked away, toward Julien. “He wants me to play again.”
Armand felt like smiling. She had understood! Good. Now she would play again.
Immediately.
But she remained seated, her gaze on his brother. “Do you think I should?”
Recognizing her interrogative tone, Armand turned to Julien. Not surprisingly, he found Julien watching him thoughtfully. Armand raised his eyebrows at Julien in a gesture of impatience, and Julien actually smiled. “If you don’t mind playing, Miss Bennett, I don’t see why we shouldn’t enjoy some music after dinner.” He turned to the frozen footmen. “But first, the last course.”
Armand sighed and thrust back in his chair. Why must he be forced to wait? He refused the cheese and nuts and glared at his brother in an effort to make him eat more quickly. His efforts were not rewarded. Julien’s movements actually seemed to slow down.
Finally, after an eternity, the family adjourned to the drawing room, Armand leading the way with his mother beside him. He was vaguely aware he should take her arm, as Julien took Sarah’s, but the discomfort of her touch was not worth obeying The Rule.
They reached the drawing room, and Armand would have arrowed for the instrument, but his mother caught his elbow and tugged him over to the couch. “Sit here. You should be able to hear very well beside me. And”—she gave him a pointed look—“I have missed your company.” She took her place beside him and patted his arm. To his annoyance, Armand had to crane his head to see the yellow-haired woman and the instrument—pi… something.
Think! Idiot! Word!
In a flash, it came to him—pianoforte!
The woman went directly to it.
“Is there anything you’d like to hear?” the woman asked, looking at each of them in turn. Armand did not understand the question, but he nodded at the pianoforte to encourage her to begin.
“Why don’t you play the piece you began this afternoon? Obviously, Armand enjoyed it,” Sarah said.
Miss Bennett nodded and raised her hands. Seconds later, Armand was once again captured. Almost involuntarily, he closed his eyes and allowed the music to take him away. The music made him believe there was a time when he had been an innocent child, a time when he had been happy, a time when prison was a word and not his life. When he heard the music, he could almost forget the years he had spent crammed in a cell and all but left for dead. He could pretend they had never happened.
The music slowed and paused, and Armand opened his eyes again. Around him, everyone smacked their hands together. He frowned at the sound they made and was about to rise to make her play again, but her hands lowered, and a new song began. From the first notes, the song was familiar to Armand. He could not say how he knew it or when he had learned it, but he found himself anticipating the notes before the woman played them.
His eyes met Julien’s, and it was obvious his brother knew the song. Was it something they had learned as children? Armand stood, needing to move nearer to the pianoforte, to the source of the music. Seeming to sense his need, his mother released him. Armand edged forward, and the yellow-haired woman watched him as he came closer. Her sky blue eyes locked on him, and she offered a small smile. She did not seem afraid, but Armand could sense his brother moving nearer. He was always aware of anyone behind him. And though he trusted the people in this
room, he would never relax with his back unprotected.
The song continued, and now words tickled the recesses of Armand’s mind. Not so much words as ghosts of words he had once known.
Au clair de la lune…
Were those the actual words? He rehearsed them in his mind. He had no idea what they meant, but they seemed right. As the woman began to play the third verse, he began to sing in his mind.
Au clair de la lune
Mon ami Pierrot
Prête-moi ta lume…
The last few words escaped his lips, and he flinched at the sound of his voice. A gasp sounded somewhere in the room, and the woman stopped playing. Armand was frozen in shock and disbelief. He had spoken. True, his voice had sounded hoarse and brittle as ancient parchment paper. And he had not been singing or speaking so much as rasping out words through vocal chords that choked on every syllable.
But he had spoken. He had used words. His gaze went directly to his mother’s, and he saw the sheen of tears on her cheeks. It had not been simply his imagination, then. She had heard.
He opened his mouth to speak again, then quickly shut it.
No!
Silencesilencesilence…
Must control. Control words.
He knew secrets, things he must keep to himself.
He looked at his mother, saw the eagerness in her eyes, and looked away.
Angry, he slammed a hand down on the pianoforte. The instrument was not harmed, but he saw the woman jump at the action. He had frightened her. Again. Was that all he could do? Frighten and terrorize? He had fewer manners than a dog, and he sounded like a creature one might find in the Tower Menagerie. Sometimes he wished Julien had just left him to rot in that prison.
Without a backward glance, Armand strode out of the room.