This captivating girl before him was different from any he’d ever met. Her mind seemed as keen as a razor and she was not afraid to wield it with speed and precision. He liked that about her. He also liked her size. She was nearly as tall as he, with square shoulders and big luminous eyes of an exquisite grey violet-blue. When he had helped her to re-don her shoes, he had marveled at how large her feet were, but the proportions of her foot and ankle were nearly perfect. As he had held her foot, he had caught a brief glimpse of the long taut taper of her calves and had begun to wonder what the rest of so fine a leg might look like. She was slender at the waist, with delicate arms which were as expressive as a dancer’s. The graceful taper of her long fingers drew attention to her large hands, which she kept folded in her lap when she sat. Whenever she spoke she used them with animation, as if the words were an adjunct to their silent communication, and not the reverse. Her shoulders were broad, and Nicolas liked the way she sat proudly erect, not shrinking inward to try and make herself appear smaller than she was, which would only have directed more attention to her bosom, which was so full and perfect it required no embellishment at all.
Nicolas shuffled his feet, making an effort not to stare, but every part of the vicomtesse he focused on was so superb, he wished he had some talent as a portraitist. As such, he might have a reasonable excuse to gape at her for hours. At a loss as to where he should direct his attentions, he finally resorted to looking at her ears, which were the only parts which might be deemed ordinary. But the more he looked at those, the more he found himself wondering what they might be like to caress, especially the lobes, which dangled down like little pears. Everything about the vicomtesse was long—neck, torso, arms, hands, fingers, and legs. Most might find her ungainly, but he loved the way she was proportioned, a strong, lithe mare and one of a kind—like the tall grey which was his favorite mount—swift, powerful, temperamental. Only he had been able to master his beloved favorite. Would it be the same with this endearing creature before him? He wondered what it would feel like to envelop her in his arms, imagined what a perfect fit her body would be against his, becoming more aware as each moment passed, of just how much she held him in thrall.
Sérolène glanced quickly up at Nicolas, as if she guessed at what he was thinking. A grin spread slowly across her lips. She folded and unfolded her hands together in her lap.
Ah, to taste so sweet a ring of fire! Nicolas thought. Then he remembered she was still waiting for him to respond to her question. Blood, and then color, ran to his face. How long had he been lost in his reflections?
Nicholas finally spoke. “Rome is street theater. Greece is an opera, and a German one.”
The chevalier returned Sérolène’s smile measure for measure, hoping to brush away the lingering tracks of his embarrassment.
“I confess, Mademoiselle, I can hardly get three volumes into Thucydides before my eyelids begin to feel as heavy as stones.”
Sérolène’s face lit up with enthusiasm.
“Three volumes? Most of the bookish pretenders I know can barely make it through the first few chapters. How different you are from what I had imagined, Monsieur. I had not on first glance taken you at all for a scholar.”
It took a moment for Sérolène to realize that perhaps she had not phrased her comment in the most flattering light. She blushed in apology, hoping the chevalier would overlook the candor of her admission. Nicolas, however, didn’t seem to mind the remark at all.
“I suppose it does not help to have the physique of a stonemason. Come now, what did you take me for before I introduced myself? A smith’s son is the most common supposition.”
“I did think you might make an excellent cooper or smith, especially given your admitted fondness for horses. You are very good natured to bear such false presumptions so well, Monsieur. Tell me, how is it you are such amusing company? If your brother and the marquis are half as agreeable as you, I should think I’ve made a dreadful mistake in hiding from everyone.”
“You are very naughty, Mademoiselle, to deprive us of such splendid company.”
“Well, had I known how much I should have enjoyed meeting you, Nicolas, I would not have been so mischievous.”
“My father and brother are far more interesting company than I, Mademoiselle. However one looks at it, I must be considered the most fortunate to have encountered you by chance.”
“Perhaps fortune smiles upon us both. I hope you’ll think no less of me if I confess I’ve only read your beloved Thucydides in translation. In the convent they teach us only enough Latin to allow us to properly recite our prayers, and we learn no Greek at all. What little knowledge of either language I do possess is self-taught and mostly of very poor utility. Still…do you really enjoy spending so many hours buried in the august and severe tomes of Roman antiquity, when there is so much to keep you more happily engaged?” Sérolène asked, with genuine interest.
“Well, Mademoiselle, what, pray tell, would you recommend so my mind should be better occupied?”
Sérolène gave Nicolas a long, considered look before replying, acutely aware that whatever counsel she gave would reflect as much about her own sensibilities as it would about what she imagined his areas for improvement might be. But how much am I willing to reveal of myself? For the first time, she was not wholly certain of the answer.
“Tragedies and poems of love, Monsieur, for they speak to the most important truths. Though it is useful to inform the mind, it is nobler, I believe, to nurture the heart. Is that not the true task of gentlemen? Reflect well on the history you love, and you will find the source of great deeds is often great love…or hatred. Both are matters of the heart.”
Nicolas glanced at Sérolène, the sound of her voice thundering in his head like the braying of the trumpets at Jericho. The barrier of all his civilized artifice, constructed layer after painstaking layer over thousands of years of breeding—a high wall, built to keep man, the beast, separated from man, the thinker, came tumbling down in an instant. As he gazed at Sérolène, his heart pounded with the pure essence of primal man. He knew then, the true wonder and power, which is always and ever, woman. In that moment, Nicolas understood that if this enchanting stranger wished it, his soul would forever be hers to do with as she pleased. Absurd as it might seem, he already loved her, but not for any rational reason of beauty, fortune, or circumstance. She had been meant for him. She alone in a world of millions of souls. He felt her resonance in the marrow of his bones, in the thrum of ichor surging through his flesh. From this moment forward, he would love her till the day he died and a stab of cold, numbing fear wrenched his gut, for he had no surety she would or could ever feel the same, and what would he do if she should be lost to him? What would there be for him but bleak empty hopelessness if she did not return his love, or thought his feelings absurd? He would spend the rest of his life seeking warmth from shadows, knowing that the sun forever eluded him. His heart raced. His mouth was dry. He wondered if the first man felt the same, when he looked down toward the hole of his sundered rib and beheld the wonder named Eve.
“Your wisdom surpasses even your beauty. Long shall I remember both,” Nicolas managed at last, his answer unpolished, stripped of guile, of pretense, of everything false, yet bitter tasting nonetheless, not sweet, like everything she uttered. Her voice was the wellspring of his hope, but for him the cistern was dry, desolate, sere—for it was impossible to believe she might ever come to reciprocate his feelings.
Sérolène gazed up at Nicolas. He looked at her with such aching tenderness that she forced herself to stare at her hands, afraid if she met his eyes, he might look straight through her and read her heart as easily as he read his beloved histories.
The vicomtesse was still young and unspoiled. She had not yet known falsehood or disappointment in love. Child-woman that she was, she could still hear with her heart. And because she had not yet been tutored by bitter experience of the world to ignore its melodies, she listened to the delightful music it
had begun to make.
“How is it possible, Monsieur, that we have only just met and yet you seem to know me so well?” And why have I been chattering away with you as if we’ve grown up together since childhood, when the truth is I hardly know you at all?
Nicolas sensed his entire world tilting on its axis. He must tell her, even if she deemed his feelings absurd. For to say nothing would be to consign himself to the darkness of utter hopelessness. Even if she mocked or spurned him, she would still know his heart. That would be something at least.
“Mademoiselle, there is something I must ask of you. I know I have no right to request such a boon. Nevertheless, I do beg it of thee and most humbly. Will you take pity on this poor soul before you and allow me to lay at your feet the unconcealed contents of my heart?”
Before she could reply, they were interrupted by the sounds of approaching footsteps and muffled but familiar voices.
“It’s my uncle! We must go!”
Sérolène quickly placed the book Nicolas had been reading back on the shelf. Pulling him by the hand, she hurried to the far wall, pressing a concealed mechanism on the edge of the bookshelf. A false bookcase opened into a passage before them and she led him through it just as the inner door to the library began to open. As the secret door closed behind them, Sérolène led Nicolas through a small corridor and then down a flight of stairs in almost total darkness, guided only by the faint glow of distant lamps from below.
“That was close. Let’s go down this way, Nicolas.”
Sérolène indicated the direction with a gentle pull of her hand. She knew the back passageways of the château by heart, and often put them to use for her own purposes or amusement.
“Where will it take us?”
“It leads to the kitchens. We can safely rejoin everyone from there. But first, you must repay me for rescuing you,” Sérolène whispered playfully.
Nicolas was entranced by the touch of her hand in his own, and the nearness of her in the darkness.
“Rescuing me, Mademoiselle? On the contrary. I believe I have never been in greater peril.”
“What danger can there be here to worry us, Nicolas? With all your strength, surely the darkness doesn’t trouble you?”
Nicolas stopped, drawing Sérolène toward him. They were so close in the dim light of the stairwell he could feel the warmth of her breath against his face. It was sweet, like the scent of lilacs. Her hand, still cradled in his, sent tingles along his arm. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end.
“Dear Sérolène, do you not already sense it? An hour ago my heart was unbound and entirely my own. Now…” Nicolas hesitated, realizing he had spoken her name for the first time. Was he being too forward? Dare he go on and say what he truly wished to say? Sérolène squeezed his hand to encourage him.
“Now what, dear Nicolas?”
“I have known you but a short time, and yet somehow, you have already made me adore you. I am bewitched and as helpless as a lamb.”
For a moment there was silence. Nicolas felt as if his heart had stopped, and that it would only start again if and when she spoke to him.
“You adore me? If that is so, then you must swear an oath of honor to love and cherish me forever. Or I will know you only trifle with my poor heart.”
“Upon my honor, I do swear it!”
Long seconds passed in silence. Nicolas could see Sérolène’s eyes, impossibly big and luminous in the darkness, as if they absorbed and reflected all the limited light. He wondered if he’d said the wrong thing as the silence stretched on between them. She released his hand. His heart sank into his shoes. He felt utterly lost, standing silent and unmoving, unable to press his suit forward, or withdraw. Like a colossus with feet of clay, he hovered on the edge of the abyss, teetering between hope and despair. Waiting for her to topple him with just a word.
Sérolène’s hand brushed his cheek. It scalded him like a brand, but oh how sweet it was to burn. Her lips pressed against his. A burst of rapture, tender beyond imagining, lit every corner of his being. The world and all it contained stood still, reduced to the space of their two pairs of lips. Time vanished, and light and sound. There was only feeling—of lips and tongues and unbearable soft delight.
When Sérolène at last drew back, Nicolas had no idea if seconds or hours had passed. It was just as he’d imagined, the way her body flowed into his—chest to hip to thigh. A perfect fit. Neither dared speak. The wonder of what had just passed between them overawing them into silence, though they were both deliciously aware of every sensation.
“My dearest Nicolas, we must go before we are discovered here.”
Nicolas could only nod his reply in the darkness as Sérolène led him down the stairwell by the hand. They went toward the kitchens, the aroma of the feast being prepared, and the noisy banter of those who made and served it, rising up the stairway like smoke ascending a chimney. Nicolas followed blindly along, content to go wherever Sérolène dared. Angel? Sorceress? He knew not, cared not. He was hers now. His heart given by oath, and held firmly in her grasp. And neither death, nor any other pretender, would have strength to unbind him from his promise.
Alliance
The Baron de Salvagnac escorted the Marquis de Blaise down the long hallway which led to the dining hall. The baron was a prosperous man and the small bulge around his midsection was beginning to show it, though his richly detailed waistcoat, made of Chinese silk, and of a shade partway between ivory and chalk, did much to camouflage the burgeoning extent of his good fortune. His breeches and jacket were a deep sky blue, also made of the finest imported silk. Fanciful complex patterns of flowers, birds, and other subjects of nature were weaved along the lapels and rear vents of his jacket in gold thread, the head of each arrangement centered on one of twelve solid gold buttons, each of which rose like a triumphal column from the elaborate stitching of his suit. White silk stockings, black shoes with silver buckles, and a shirt of the whitest and softest muslin cloth, with elaborate lacing on the collar and sleeves, completed the ensemble. The suit was almost Baroque in its showiness, but it served as a useful reminder that the wearer was one of the richest bankers in France and therefore, the entire world.
The baron was not usually so conspicuous in his dress. Like most very successful financiers, he preferred to be rich, but not to look it. Greys, blues, clarets, and browns were his usual preference, but tonight’s dinner with the Marquis de Blaise was part of a larger transaction that involved more than just financial interests. Key family matters were at stake, and he had need for more ostentation than usual.
“Monsieur le Marquis. I hope you will find the hospitality of our table suitable enough to your liking. Langoustes are the particular specialty of my chef. We take them from a particular cove, just west of the Fort.”
It was something to say to ease his nerves. The marquis responded with a polite inclination of the head and nothing else. The hallway ran the length of the château from east to west, three yards wide and capped by a fourteen foot ceiling decorated with colorful frescoes of biblical scenes. Most who walked the length of the central corridor were duly impressed, not only by the baroque detail of the woodwork and fixtures, and the twelve chandeliers which hung from the ceiling, but also by the many busts, vases and urns which lined the walls—select and expensive antiquities from Rome, Greece and even China. An ornate rectangular mirror hung beneath the grand staircase at the center of the main hall, where East and West wings met. The baron took careful note of his appearance as he and the marquis went past the reflective glass. How far he’d come in life, and how much further he still aspired to go.
Born Guy Christian Hervé Rocheforte, the baron was of medium build and still possessed something of the rugged handsomeness of his youth. Middle age and affluence had smoothed the edges of his features and his temperament. Prosperity however, had not dulled his innate intelligence or dampened the drive which had raised him from obscurity to his current position as one of the most influent
ial bankers in France. His deep brown eyes still glowed with zeal and the optimistic spirit of a self-made man. More than that, they reflected a deep-seated pride in an accomplishment which could only be described as a stunning and unexpected coup of success.
Tonight he and the Marquis de Blaise, the storied patriarch of the house of Montferraud, one of the most noble and ancient houses in France, had agreed on an alliance between their families. Yes, the cost was staggering and would be reflected in the unprecedented size of the dowry his daughter would bring to the pending marriage with the Marquis’ eldest son, but the social elevation the match would bring to his own name and the opportunities he would gain because of this, was well worth the cost.
Why was the alliance so important? Because in France, bloodlines and titles were everything. The baron had purchased his own nobility in his early twenties. For more than thirty years, it had allowed him the right to style himself Baron de Salvagnac. But he was always seen by the high nobles, as little more than a grasping parvenu, despite all his wealth. Though his fortune allowed him to come and go as he willed, and to live in grander style than many of those who looked down upon him, there were still certain very small circles of influence which he could not enter. The court was one of them. But now, that would all change. Nothing, not even access to the King himself would be denied him. And this was all due to the alliance he had just agreed to with the Marquis de Blaise.
The baron had intended the long walk from his library to the dining hall as a march of triumph. The twenty-eight hundred carefully chosen tomes in his library were intended to show that he was a learned man. The walk from the library down the central hall to the dining room made it clear beyond doubt, that he was also cultured and obviously enormously rich. But the marquis didn’t seem overly impressed by what he had seen, and the baron began to wonder if he had made a mistake.
Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) Page 3