At court for a mere three weeks, she had been elated by her Tante Renée's invitation to attend her at the royal court; Mama was not. However, Mama had been beholden to Tante Renée on other occasions and felt to refuse her would not be politic. Besides, her aunt was a great favorite of the Queen, and any influence, no matter how obtained, was prized, not scorned. Even Mama accepted that fact of life.
Five minutes later, she reached the formal rear gardens. She looked around for the Lieutenant, but not seeing him, she contented herself with wandering amongst the flowers and fanning her warm cheeks with an ivory fan.
Mon Dieu. But it was hot. The flowers put forth so many wonderful scents, it was difficult to tell which fragrance was her favorite. The many varieties of roses were at their peak, and they all vied for her attention as she walked past. Occasionally, she stopped to bury her nose in their gossamer petals, like a butterfly after their sweet nectar.
Quick steps clicking on the brickwork walk made her turn. She smiled at the sight of her Lieutenant hastening toward her. She gave him a petulant smile, warning him of her displeasure with his tardiness.
“Mademoiselle, I must apologize for keeping you waiting. I was held up by my Captain. It could not be avoided."
She knew she shouldn't pardon him so easily, but he was so handsome, it was difficult to breathe, much less pout effectively. Still she tried, tapping her fan in her gloved palm. “Lieutenant, I had all but given you up, but since you are finally here, I suppose we might walk a while in these lovely gardens."
“Pardon, mademoiselle, I would never have kept someone as lovely as you waiting without good cause."
His face assumed an expression so intense it nearly made her lose her breath. Perhaps it was the July heat—no, it was the young officer himself. After all, he did possess the loveliest jade eyes she had ever seen. While she debated on her response, the misery in the Lieutenant's face became so apparent, she relented. Any moment now, he would be dropping to his knees, begging her forgiveness. And she couldn't have that.
“Your tardiness must not be repeated, Lieutenant Du Mont. I fear I would have to turn my attentions elsewhere, to some other more punctual companion.” She opened her fan with a snap, then gave him her most coquettish smile over its pierced-ivory design. “I forgive you this time."
“Merci, mademoiselle. Merci. Then may I have the honor of accompanying you to view the fountains?"
“Certainement."
Duly chastened and forgiven, the Lieutenant offered her his arm. She placed her dainty gloved hand on his well-muscled forearm, relishing the strength of it—indeed, merely touching him made her feel quite giddy.
Together they walked about the garden; her reserved companion fell silent. She, however, had no problem maintaining the flow of conversation, prattling about the fountains, the flowers and the greenery. “This is so inspiring, Lieutenant Du Mont. It is difficult to believe gardens this beautiful exist at all. I never dreamed I would ever see anything so magnificent."
“Oui, mademoiselle, it is a very beautiful place,” he said, smiling down at her. “Made more beautiful only by your charming presence."
She fluttered her eyelashes and gave him her sweetest smile. “Merci, Lieutenant."
After they toured the gardens for thirty minutes, the Lieutenant halted and took her hand in his. “Mademoiselle, my presence is required in my barracks shortly. May I escort you to your suite?"
She nodded. “Oui, Lieutenant."
At the door of her aunt's suite, he stopped, clicked his heels together and, bowing, took her hand in his. “Mademoiselle, I shall always treasure the memory of this day."
“It was most enjoyable, Maxime."
“It is my fervent hope you will save a dance for me at the upcoming masked ball, mademoiselle?"
“Bien sûr, Lieutenant.” Nicole considered it quite intelligent of the Lieutenant to reserve his dance early. After all, she had every intention of being the belle of the masked ball.
The Lieutenant bowed over her hand and brushed his lips across the back of it. He pivoted on his heel and cast one last, longing glance over his shoulder. He straightened his back and marched away, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor.
She entered her aunt's suite and leaned against the door. Fanning her face briskly, she tried to calm the rapid beating of her heart. She found the tall, handsome Lieutenant quite enthralling, and if she allowed it, she could easily fall in love with the dashing royal guard. There had already been two frantic missives from poor Mama, filled with an abundance of admonitions. She did not trust her daughter's ability to form the right associations or make the correct decisions. Well, Mama would discover that Nicole knew exactly what she was doing.
With the connections and assistance of her Tante Renée, she would make a good marriage. She had no intentions of living out her life in the country as the poor relation of anyone ever again. A count or a duke would do her quite nicely. While the Lieutenant was extremely handsome and a royal guard, he did not have a title which would assure her a comfortable life. She would practice her wiles on him, and no doubt, he would be the first of many.
Trying to forget about the Lieutenant's jade green eyes, she decided his older brother Henri, le Comte Du Mont, would be a more suitable choice. The royal court had moved to Versailles only two days earlier, and a masked fête had already been planned for five nights hence. Perhaps the occasion would provide the perfect opportunity for her introduction to the older brother. She hoped Henri would prove as companionable and exciting as the younger. Perhaps, the count would have the same jade green eyes. Mon Dieu. Henri might be even more handsome.
Later that evening, a gaily wrapped parcel was delivered to her quarters. She pounced on the package, tearing off the paper in great haste. “Oh, Tante Renée, look. A mask.” Nicole withdrew the white, gold-trimmed mask; there was an arrangement of marine blue feathers positioned on each side of it. Picking up the mask by its ivory wand, she held it to her face, then rushed to the nearest mirror and posed, turning her head first one way, then the other. “It is beautiful. The blue feathers accent my eyes, no?” she asked.
“Hmpf,” her aunt replied. “Who would presume to send you a personal gift? You must return it at once."
“Lieutenant Du Mont has honored me with a token of his esteem,” she replied saucily, placing her hands on her hips. “I will not offend him or his family by returning it."
Tante Renée took a deep breath and reiterated, “You and your family are the ones who should be offended. He has overstepped the bounds of propriety. A young lady may not accept a personal gift from a gentleman, unless they are affianced."
Nicole stamped her foot. “No. I think it lovely, and I will not return it, no matter what you say."
“Nicole, I forbid you to wear this mask, and if you persist in this heedless manner, you shall not attend the ball."
“You will have to keep me under lock and key if you think you will keep me from attending the ball.” Nicole shouted. She could not believe her aunt, an old woman of thirty-five, was trying to ruin her life.
Tante Renée drew herself up to her full five feet, one inch and shouted back, “That can be arranged."
Her aunt's angry tone made Nicole stop and reconsider. Perhaps she had better make an attempt to placate her aunt. “Now, now. If I promise to return the gift, may I at least do it in person? The Lieutenant is from an honorable family, and he has a right to know why I may not accept his lovely gift."
“And when were you introduced to him, pray? I do not remember him ever presenting himself to me as he should have."
Nicole thought for a moment. “Surely, Tante Renée, you remember? He was a guest at Honoré DuPre's salon only last week. He is very well thought of, I am told. He is a member of His Majesty's Royal Guard, after all."
A puzzled look crossed her aunt's face. Nicole hoped a slight exaggeration of the truth would suffice to soothe her aunt's misgivings.
“Well, there were so many at the
salon, how can I be expected to remember every young officer?” Renée frowned. “Was he short and rather rotund with a washed-out coloring?"
“No, he is tall, very muscular, and he has beautiful green eyes that seem to change with his mood—sometimes gray, sometimes crystal green, sometimes dark as emeralds,” she murmured.
Her aunt's sudden scowl told Nicole she had gone too far in praising the young Lieutenant.
“Yes, I remember him. He has no inheritance, you silly girl. He is a second son,” Renée replied, her tone exasperated.
“But he has an older brother, does he not? The one with the title, no?"
“Mon Dieu. I refuse to discuss it further. Return the mask and forget about both of the Du Mont brothers. Maxime Du Mont has no money or lands. Le Comte Du Mont is not suitable, either."
“He has a title and lands, so he must be suitable,” Nicole insisted.
“No, he is not, and never mind why.” Renée turned, gathered her voluminous skirts in hand and swished from the room.
Nicole turned to her mirror once again, raised her chin a notch and vowed, “I will wear this mask to the ball."
~ * ~
Max slammed the door to his apartment. All the way home, he'd tried to shut out the confused rush of memories of his dead wife. He knew what his mother thought. He'd wanted to reassure her he wasn't confusing Nikki with Solange, but the girl's presence had made that impossible.
Hell. Maybe he had confused the two women.
No. The resemblance—it was a coincidence, nothing more. Nikki was simply a beautiful product for his agency—that was all.
Max pulled off his jacket and threw it across the leather sofa. Striding over to the bar, he poured himself a double shot of vodka. He tossed back the contents and gasped as the one-hundred-proof alcohol burned its way down his throat and exploded in his stomach like a stick of TNT.
He poured another, then walked to the sofa and sat down while he considered what he should do next. His sudden fascination with the young runaway worried him. He knew what he must do—he must stay away from her. She was a child—a minor, for pity's sake. Sixteen, but still ... What was the appalling, American term for it? Jail bait.
The sight of her shy, yet knowing, face, so like Solange's, disturbed him on a primal level. Of course, he felt protective—nothing wrong in that—but the flickering of desire, that was something else. He actually longed to touch her, claim her. What kind of perverted creature was he to be attracted to a girl as young as Nikki? It had to be her resemblance to Solange. It was difficult to suppress his old feelings for his wife when he looked at a younger—and very lively—version. Yes, that was it.
Right then and there, he vowed he would guide Nikki's career from a distance—just like any other model at his agency. His mother would make the perfect mentor and buffer. Never again would he allow passion to rule his life. Never again would he suffer the loss and pain of another betrayal.
Time passed, and the alcohol took effect. Warmth crept through his body and eased the tension he'd felt since he'd first seen her on the street. A chance meeting and the runaway's life would never be the same. Would his?
Inevitably, his thoughts turned back two years to the horrible night Solange died.
Three
Nikki awakened with a start. Confused by the lingering vision of a masked ball, she looked around, then gave a contented sigh. She was safe—and in a comfortable, clean bed. As she watched the bright morning sun streaming through the sparkling windows, she felt a big smile spread across her face. She allowed her gaze to travel around the room, taking in all the details. Never in her wildest dreams, had she ever expected to live in a place like this.
Like a cat, she yawned and stretched, luxuriating in the feel of fresh bed linens and the flowery fragrance pervading her room. “This is more like it. I don't miss the stink of garbage at all."
A soft rap sounded on her bedroom door.
“Nikki?” came Renée's soft voice.
“Yikes.” She jumped from the bed and raced for the door. Breathless with excitement, she flung it open. “Yes, ma'am."
Renée Devereaux stood in the doorway, wearing a tailored, beige suit and a wide smile. “We have a lot to do today, Mademoiselle Nikki."
“I'm ready for anything,” Nikki exclaimed, way too excited, but she couldn't help it. “Move over, Cinderella."
Renée chuckled. “Shopping first, then we'll see Michel. He's the best hairstylist in the city. That should take most of our morning. But first, I shall find something for you to wear. I warn you. You probably won't like it. The style will be much too old for you, but it can't be helped."
“I'm sorry to be so much trouble."
“It will not be trouble. It will be fun. I do not know when I have felt such exhilaration. It will be almost like having a daughter again.” A sad, but fleeting, expression crossed Renée's face.
“I'm sorry about your daughter-in-law. Ma—Mr. Devereaux told me she died."
"Oui, it was a great tragedy—for everyone.” Renée's face grew troubled. “But we must not look back. We cannot change the past, but we may look to the future—even if we do not know what it holds.” Renée's expression lightened again. “But I am very sure that your future is going to be very bright."
“I hope you're right.” Self-doubt washed through Nikki. What if she couldn't live up to Max and his mother's expectations? Her entire future depended on them. Her life, too.
“You will be fine. Do not worry,” Renée counseled her. “First things first. Coffee and croissants for breakfast or a bagel, if you wish. You will find a robe in the armoire, then come downstairs to breakfast. We'll find you something to wear afterwards. Hein?"
“Yes, thank you."
After Renée left, Nikki flew to the tall, ornate chest and opened one of the doors. Inside she found exactly what she needed, a white terry cloth robe. She stroked the robe's sleeve, marveling at its thick texture. She'd certainly never seen a towel that thick, much less a bathrobe. Jerking it off its hanger, she pulled it on and rushed downstairs, ready for day one of her new life.
~ * ~
Renée leaned over and picked up her drowsy granddaughter, then carried her downstairs to the comfortable French-country kitchen.
"Grandmère, ‘ongry,” the four-year-old murmured, snuggling in a sleepy bundle against Renée's chest.
“Alexa, we have company. Her name is Nikki, and she's going to live with us while she learns to be a model.” Although Renée and her son often dropped into French when they were alone, most of the time she spoke to her grandchild in English. Alexa would grow up in America. The more her granddaughter heard English spoken, the more natural it would be for her to speak.
Alexa reached up and patted Renée's face. “Nee-kee? I want to see Nee-kee."
Renée walked into the kitchen, resting Alexa on her hip. Nikki sat on a stool pulled up to the butcher block counter. She looked up at Renée and grinned. “These—uh, rolls are to die for, Madame."
Amused, Renée watched as Nikki licked the butter from her fingers. “They're called croissants,” she said, emphasizing the French pronunciation.
“Crah-sans?” Nikki said, attempting to mimic Renée's accent. “I don't think I can twist my tongue around that word the way you do, but whatever they're called, I love ‘em."
Renée nodded and laughed, agreeing, “You'll soon learn.” While her new houseguest seemed quite inexperienced and innocent, Renée found her naïveté quite fresh and charming. Although Nikki might resemble Solange, Renée observed no similarities in their personalities. She set Alexa down on the floor and turned to pour a cup of coffee.
“Pick me up, please.” Renée heard Alexa demand. She turned in surprise to see the four-year-old holding her arms up to an equally shocked Nikki. The runaway grinned and complied by bending over and picking up the insistent little girl. “Here you go, sweetheart. Want a bite?” Nikki asked, offering the child a piece of buttered croissant.
Alexa stunned her g
randmother by gazing up at Nikki with a loving expression. “I missed you,” the child murmured, snuggling close.
Renée swallowed, then blinked furiously, attempting to hold back the tears. Somewhere, locked deep in her subconscious, Alexa must have retained memories of her mother.
Nikki's eyes widened. “Does she think I'm her ... you know?"
Renée shrugged. “Perhaps a little. You are very similar in appearance.” She bent down to her granddaughter's level. “Ma petite, this is Nikki. She's going to stay with us and be a model for your Papa's agency."
Alexa nodded. “Nee-kee. I love Nee-kee, Grandmère.” The child stifled a yawn, then snatched the proffered bite of croissant from Nikki's hand, squealing as she did. Butter dripped down Alexa's chin onto her nightgown. Undaunted, the child swiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing butter over her chubby cheeks.
Nikki grabbed a soft, linen napkin and swiped at the tyke's mouth. “Here, you're gonna be a mess if you're not careful."
Alexa giggled and reached for another bite of the flaky pastry.
“I think she likes you, Nikki. I've never seen her warm up to anyone so quickly.” Nor did her son, as a rule, invite strangers off the street into her home. But both he and his child apparently felt a connection with the beautiful waif—as did she. Was it merely the resemblance or something more?
Initially on hearing her son's plan, she had been skeptical—very skeptical—but difficult as it was for her to understand, Nikki had won her over.
See You In My Dreams Page 4