Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1)

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by Samantha Kaye


  She almost laughed out loud. If he meant to flatter her by comparing her to the favorite warhorse of Alexander the Great, he was more than a fool and no man of breeding to make such a clumsy appraisal. The last of her patience was expelled with an audible outrush of breath. It was time to see off this clumsy pretender who had only his pleasing form to recommend him and obviously nothing else of wit, grace, or substance.

  “Now you mock me, Monsieur, and with far less grace than you pretend. If by hazard, then I pity and pardon you. If by purpose, then most assuredly, you are no gentleman. Your actions and speech make it clear you are unfamiliar with the practices of etiquette and decorum required of this house. I shall therefore grant you a measure of leniency by not informing my uncle, the Baron de Salvagnac, of your lack of courtesy and respect. I shall invite you instead, to take your leave of my person and this room and embark upon a tour of our fine stables. You will find sufficient flesh there on four legs and two, to which you may apply your “discernment” to your heart’s content. Perhaps the equerries will find you more illuminating than I. If not, you may try conversing with the livestock directly, but, so our discourse should henceforth conform to the requirements of our respective stations, from now on, you may address me properly as Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire.”

  At the announcement of her noble rank, a look of utter bewilderment flashed across the stranger’s face. She watched the change with satisfaction. In one stroke she had succeeded in perturbing the cool arrogant detachment of the unwanted guest. Still, she was ever mindful, as any person of gentle breeding must be, of the duty to properly educate and shepherd the less fortunate. In keeping with this obligation, she made a concession to his embarrassment. Though by design it was but a small one.

  “After your tour of the stables, I’m sure the equerries can guide you back to my uncle’s waiting room, from which you have become so evidently lost. You may continue to attend him there to beg for whatever particular favors you seek. I should be happy to call for the assistance of the servants to guide you, if you cannot find your way out.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the vicomtesse turned her back on the stranger, walking toward a cabinet to the left of the hearth, to take up the bell which would ring for the house lackeys to come at once. Her temper simmered as she considered all the indignities she had been forced to bear. How tiresome they are, these grasping fellows who fill my uncle’s drawing rooms each day in search of a position or a favor. And this one has neither the sense nor the manners to know his place. What could he possibly have in his head but mischief, to make his way here to the private areas of the house? Well, he had best be on bended knee in apology when I turn around, or I’ll have him thrown out and he’ll lose for good whatever position he had hoped to obtain by coming here in the first place.

  From the center of the room the vicomtesse heard the sound of laughter. She turned in complete consternation, the behavior so unexpected she couldn’t decide whether it was endearing or infuriating or both. Their eyes met again and the innocence of his regard quickly took the heat from her temper. Yes, he was laughing, but she could see by the hunching of his broad shoulders, that her words had hurt him. There was something artless and sweet about the way he looked at her now, like an over eager puppy who’d been scolded too harshly. She hadn’t really meant to wound him so.

  But the thing in his eyes which had held her, that special confidence he had possessed as a matter of nature, that was gone now. She hadn’t meant to rob him of that either. Because that magic belonged to him. A part of his spirit as her temper was a part of hers.

  As she looked across the room, the giant she had fashioned, suddenly seemed no more imposing than a bewildered child, despite his daunting size. He shuffled his feet and there were tremors of nervousness in his hands. Had she simply been too preoccupied with her own presumptions to notice his anxiety as well? He bowed low before her. The act was boyish, ungainly, and yet, utterly charming.

  “A third time I ask for your forgiveness, Mademoiselle. You have every right to be cross with me. The unexpected pleasure of finding you here and my own youthful inexperience has caused me to twist a tribute into its opposite. I am not by nature hesitant or uncertain, but standing in the light of your presence has reduced me to being a complete bungler. I beg of you to stay your hand but a moment more and allow me the honor of presenting myself to you, as I should have done from the beginning.”

  Rather than wait for the vicomtesse to reply, the stranger hurried on with his speech, as if afraid she might refuse him even this last request.

  “I am Nicolas Étienne Alexandre Hyacinthe-Christophe de Montferraud, Chevalier and Vicomte d’Argentolle, and I am entirely at your service.”

  “Vicomte d’Argentolle?” the vicomtesse gasped.

  The summoning bell fell from her hand and struck the floor with a dull clang. The chevalier retrieved the bell and returned it to its place on the serving cabinet. The vicomtesse’s hands pressed against her cheeks in embarrassment.

  “Then you are not here to see my uncle for a position, Monsieur?”

  “Not at all, Mademoiselle. I came with my father, the Marquis de Blaise, and my brother, the Comte de Marbéville. We arrived at the invitation of Monsieur and Madame de Salvagnac. I believe my father wished to discuss a potential alliance between my brother and Mademoiselle de Salvagnac.”

  “Oh,” the vicomtesse replied.

  It was a very small sound, dampened by mortification. The vicomtesse bent forward to return the chevalier’s bow with a full curtsey of her own, her face as pink as a rose. My Aunt told us we were to have special guests. My cousines and I were all warned to be on our best behavior! she remembered with chagrin.

  “Thank you for your explanation, Monsieur, but I fear it is I who must now ask for your forgiveness…for my unpardonable behavior toward you.”

  “You would need to have committed a fault, Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse, to require my forgiveness. I have no cause to reproach you. On the contrary, I feel I must offer my own apology for the awkward manner of our introduction. I have just returned from boarding school in France. My manners and speech appear to have suffered from having been too long with gentlemen of arms for company and exercise. Please be assured that I feel toward you, only the most sincere admiration and respect—sentiments which I have somehow succeeded in…expressing so very badly.”

  The gallant and contrite nature of the chevalier’s apology was met with the first genuine smile of warmth from the vicomtesse.

  “You are very kind to be so indulgent with me, Monsieur. Again, I thank you. May I inquire, however, as to how you came to find yourself here? This is my uncle’s private library, you see. Which is why I was so startled to see you. No one is allowed in without his permission. Not even me.”

  The chevalier gestured in the direction of the room across the hall, lifting a long and thickly sinewed arm to make his point.

  “I was shown to the adjoining sitting room by the steward at the behest of Madame de Salvagnac, while my father and brother were received downstairs in a separate salon. The steward said I was to remain where I was until someone came to retrieve me, but I found the door to this library ajar and couldn’t help coming in for a look. I’ve always been a bit of a bookworm you see, though I might not look the part. If such a delightful place is indeed proscribed, then I must consider myself more than fortunate it was you and not someone else who found me here.”

  The vicomtesse twisted her hands with anxiety.

  “I see, Monsieur. Thank you for your explanation, but I’m afraid we really shouldn’t be discovered here. My uncle might only be annoyed but my aunt will be undeniably vexed with us both.”

  “I am your knight to command and shall do as you bid me, Mademoiselle. But if I must now return to my place of exile, I beg my banishment be only from this place and not from your company,” the chevalier pleaded.

  The vicomtesse weighed the matter of remaining unchaperoned with the chevalier, ag
ainst the rigid strictures which governed relations between men and any eligible girl of marriageable age. The proper thing to do was to excuse herself at once and return to the supervised company of her governess. Though it was a solution full of good sense, it seemed the least interesting thing to do, and she was in the mood for a little adventure. The chevalier was a gentleman after all. His word and his actions could be trusted.

  “I should be honored if you would keep me company, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

  “I am most grateful, Mademoiselle. I thank you for being as gracious and obliging as you are beautiful.”

  The vicomtesse’s smile gave Nicolas the hope that they could begin their acquaintance again on more genial terms. He offered the vicomtesse his arm and escorted her to an ornate chaise longue on the far side of the room near the windows, admiring her poise as she lowered herself with grace onto the long seat, despite the considerable encumbrance of her skirts. He placed himself a step behind the chaise in respectful attendance.

  “Are you comfortable enough, Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse? Might I bring you another pillow?”

  “I am quite comfortable, thank you, Monsieur. And my name is Sérolène. Sérolène Adélaïde Isabelle de Saint-Giresse de La Bouhaire.”

  She extended her hand for him to kiss. Nicolas pressed his lips against the soft skin, just above the second line of knuckles, pleased that Sérolène wore no gloves and he could feel the softness of her flesh against his own.

  “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire.” “You do me too much honor, Monsieur.”

  “That would not be possible, Mademoiselle. But perhaps I may do you a small service?”

  The chevalier nodded in the direction of Sérolène’s stockinged, shoeless feet. The vicomtesse’s ears and neck pinkened with color. Somewhere in their encounter she had dropped her slippers. The chevalier retrieved them from where they lay near the chair he had been sitting in and returned to the chaise. Kneeling, he held each shoe before the vicomtesse in turn, so she could place her feet into them without his hands having to touch her person, thereby preserving her modesty.

  “And please, Mademoiselle, I’d prefer to be called Chevalier, or just Nicolas, if you don’t mind. Though I understand it may seem too familiar.”

  “If you wish it, Nicolas. But would you do me the honor of calling me Sérolène in exchange?”

  “I am humbled, Mademoiselle, to be extended such a favor. Forgive me my presumption, but may I also ask what happy coincidence brought you here? I would have presumed to find you downstairs enjoying yourself with everyone else.”

  The vicomtesse glanced up at Nicolas from her place on the chaise, an awkward but engaging expression upon her face.

  “Pardon me for saying so, but in truth, Monsieur, I generally prefer the company of books to the society of strangers. I can’t think of a more pleasant way to spend an afternoon or an evening than lost among the contents of this library.”

  “I know precisely how you feel! Why, at school I was often teased for my bookish ways. Pity we hadn’t such a grand library as this for me to have taken refuge in.”

  Sérolène considered the chevalier’s robust physique. “Bookish and teased? I am surprised to hear either of those conditions might have applied to you, Monsieur, or that you would have needed to seek refuge from anyone. May I ask where it was you attended school?”

  “Brienne-le-Château, in Champagne. At the military academy, to be exact.”

  The vicomtesse’s was eager to know more. “Oh, will you tell me something of your experiences? It is not often I have a chance to speak to someone who has been away from the colonies for any considerable length of time. You must have had so many interesting adventures. At what age did you begin your education in Brienne?”

  “I was eight when I left to begin my studies, though I turned nine before I started my first term.”

  “It must have been difficult for you, to be sent away at such a tender age. I’ve heard conditions at the military schools can be quite austere. I can’t at all imagine living under such a Spartan regime. Did you not find yourself longing for home?”

  “Very much so, Mademoiselle, but one has no other recourse but to adapt. Even well into my second year I remember how unsettled I felt, hearing the whimpering of the youngest boys at night, still pining for their mothers and the comfort of a soft bed. In time, though, it all grows dim. Even the memories of your loved ones’ faces begin to fade.”

  Nicolas’ manner suddenly turned pensive. Sérolène wondered if perhaps her questions had been too intrusive. Her gaze softened with sympathy.

  “How brave of you to have endured such a thing.”

  “I was no less homesick than the rest, just more determined not to let it show. My years at school were principally an exile of sorts, at least that’s how I came to look at it. But one can find advantage even in banishment. Much like the circumstances which brought me to you.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve referred to your visit here as being in exile. I’m afraid, Nicolas, you really must explain. Did you not say you were an honored guest of my aunt and uncle?”

  Nicolas felt an odd pang in his chest, a mixture of joy and hope and perhaps a sense of something more which he was yet too young to comprehend. The cause was nothing certain. Just the way she pronounced his name, the manner in which she lingered on the second syllable just a half breath longer than most. Perhaps it was silly, but it seemed quite exceptional to him, as if he were hearing it spoken properly for the very first time. She made his name sound special. And he wondered why it should be so.

  Nicolas gazed down at Sérolène, her glance was soft and expectant. His cares seemed to melt away in the pale grey-blue of her eyes. Then he remembered her question, and his face tightened as he confronted the reality of his current circumstances.

  “I believe Madame de Salvagnac’s welcome applied only to my father and brother. It was made quite clear when we arrived, that the baronne had not expected, nor did she welcome my presence. Voilà, my place of banishment, albeit a much more comfortable one than I endured at Brienne. No matter. I understand there are greater matters at stake. As a second son, one gets used to such treatment.”

  Sérolène looked down at her hands. She felt a sympathy for Nicolas, and an attraction which went beyond his obvious physical qualities. There was something sweet and tender about him, beneath all of his formidable bulk. She also knew what it felt like to be an outsider, even amongst her own family.

  “You must forgive my aunt, Monsieur, whose sanctions and temperament govern this house. She means well, at least most of the time, but her actions, on occasion, do not reflect the goodness of character those who know her well have come through long experience to rely upon.”

  “I suppose it is rare to find a heart generous enough to welcome everyone. The history of the Caesars tells us we, as men, are born to conflict—if not against other nations, then amongst ourselves. Rome’s chronicles are full of the misfortunes of those who counseled peace and tolerance in opposition to the common will. Most ended as martyrs or pawns. Sometimes they were both,” Nicolas observed.

  “You seem to have a deep fascination for great and dusty antiquity,” Sérolène quipped, making gentle fun of Nicolas’ sermonizing. “But then again, Monsieur, I was never very fond of Latin, nor the chronicles of the Roman emperors.”

  “Why Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, I am surprised a lady of your erudition should profess a dislike for so important a tongue. For prose, Livy has few rivals, for rhetoric, the great Cicero provides the example for all men, and for philosophy, you may take Seneca the Elder or the Younger, as you please. Sweets of the mind, better than sugar and not to be missed.”

  Nicolas grinned wide.

  “I have heard the histories of Rome called many things, Nicolas, but ‘sweets of the mind’ is an entirely new and original description. I’ve always found Cicero to be very dull with all his long speeches, though perhaps now you’ve persuaded me
to revisit him. Since you love Rome so well, you must tell me what you think of the Greeks.”

  Nicolas was utterly charmed. He couldn’t think of when he’d had a more enjoyable conversation, especially one with a lady who was not only learned, but also possessed a quick wit and ready willingness to laugh. Ancient history was not a standard part of a woman’s education and most girls were never taught it at all. If the vicomtesse had read Cicero in Latin, she had likely done so of her own volition. Now she asked him his opinion of the Greeks? Had she also acquired knowledge of that difficult and arcane language? If so, he would be more than impressed, he should fall in love with her in an instant.

  Sérolène shifted her position slightly on the chaise. Nicolas gazed down at the smiling, enchanting maiden before him, and began to appreciate the many other splendid qualities which his initial preoccupation with the wonderfully laid plan of her countenance had caused him to overlook. But intelligence wasn’t the only thing the vicomtesse possessed in abundance. From his standing position just behind her seat, the gently sloping swell of her full, ripe bosom made that abundantly obvious. He wondered why it had taken him so long to notice her very fine figure, but when she had been standing, he had been so bewitched by the pretty red mouth, the delightful color of her eyes, and the long thin line of her perfect nose, that he really hadn’t taken full stock of what a complete beauty she was.

  Nicolas had been introduced into the company of many ladies, though the greater part were twice his age, or more. Most he found uninteresting—either too talkative, too severe, or too quiet to suit his tastes. He didn’t like word games, using puns as a substitute for wit, or cards, all of which were staples of genteel society. He wasn’t against these pastimes because he lacked skill at them, but because he learned nothing substantive or new by engaging in such play. Religion was interesting from a philosophical perspective, but Nicolas scrupulously avoided any discussion of the topic in mixed company, as any honest appraisals always ended in a row, or threats of damnation, both of which were tedious. Politics was of course, out of the question, at least in polite society, as it was deemed a topic unsuitable to be discussed with a woman. That left poetry, literature, and history. Of these three subjects, most ladies preferred the first two. He, of course, preferred the latter, which invariably left neither party with much to say to the other.

 

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