Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1)

by Samantha Kaye

  Francis looked toward his father for tacit approval to kiss his bride to be. The marquis gave his consent with a slight nod of the head. Leaning forward, the comte bestowed a gentle chaste kiss upon the lips of his fiancée as the table broke out in spontaneous applause. If the comte had felt any reticence at the sudden and somewhat unexpected alliance his father had earlier concluded and the baron had just announced, it was substantially lessened by the pleasure derived from a quick glance toward the décolletage of his bride-to-be’s gown. It confirmed undeniably, that he was a fortunate man and soon to be even more so. Julienne caught the direction of the comte’s gaze and smiled back at him without embarrassment.

  The marquis offered his congratulations next, followed by Julienne’s seven-year-old sister, Éléonore, who hugged her sister twice, then pulled on her arm so that Julienne would bend down to be kissed on the lips.

  “Look, my dear, at how excited your sister is to have the prospect of a wedding to attend. But where, pray tell, is my niece?”

  The blank stare on the part of Madame de Salvagnac told the baron all he needed to know. He snapped his fingers, a signal which called one of his enslaved servants to his side.

  “Have my niece found and fetched here at once!”

  The baron was not a man often irritated, but the absence of the Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire, from such an important family event was the sole blight upon his moment of triumph—one he meant to remedy at once.

  The Marquis de Blaise turned toward the baron. “How unfortunate, Monsieur de Salvagnac, that both of our children should have missed the announcement.”

  The remark was an unwelcome reminder to the baronne of the sole mark on her banner of triumph. The Chevalier d’Argentolle was a great black mole, an ugly uncoverable blemish which spoiled the otherwise flawless white make-up of the Montferraud. She had done her best to hide and overlook the spot, even banishing the boy to the east wing while the rest of his family had been welcomed and entertained in style, but there was only so much that could be done. The chevalier’s presence in her house had only been tolerated at all, because it had been the single method possible to secure the company of the marquis and the comte. But at least after tonight neither she nor her family would be forced to bear the chevalier’s presence again.

  The servants fanned out to begin their search, unaware that the vicomtesse was in fact quite close. She had followed the service corridor to the kitchens, arriving just as the baron had begun his speech. The vicomtesse knew all the best places of concealment in the château. She had hidden herself and Nicolas behind a paneled screen not far from the entrance to the dining room, preferring to hear what her uncle had to say before joining the rest of the company. The pair of fugitives had enjoyed a perfectly concealed view of the baron’s announcement and now observed the happy aftermath.

  Sérolène squeezed Nicolas’ hand with affection, quietly pointing out to him the members of her family with whom he was not yet acquainted. “My uncle summons me, Monsieur d’Argentolle. Would you be so kind as to escort me to the souper?”

  “Of course, Mademoiselle. If we must. But I shall regret not having you all to myself. It’s been the most wonderful time of my life.”

  “I suppose we must go before we are discovered,” Sérolène said.

  She didn’t want to go either. Staying with Nicolas would have been a far more preferable circumstance to joining her family at table. But some things were inescapable. At least in her uncle’s house. Mealtime was one of them. Nicolas offered Sérolène a smile and his arm. The vicomtesse accepted both. They left their hiding place together and proceeded into the dining room by the rear doors, walking past the steward as if they had not a care in the world.

  “Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire! Monsieur le Chevalier d’Argentolle!” the steward announced with solemn formality.

  The steward cast an inquiring glance at the company his master’s niece was keeping. But Nicolas looked straight ahead, his gaze firm and unwavering as he escorted Sérolène toward the open place near the head of the table. The opinion of servants was of no concern to him at all. Sérolène’s smiled serenely on his arm, her deportment elegant and serene. Her presence in the room was palpable, enhanced by her imposing size and the pleasing manner of her gait, the way she seemed to glide rather than walk in her voluminous skirts, and the upright carriage of her head atop her long graceful neck. Nicolas watched the vicomtesse as much as he could without being seen to do so. She was simply exquisite. Her brow never furrowed in self-doubt. The fear of her uncle’s reproach for being so tardy to table seemed not to concern her at all. Instead, she exuded the natural confidence of a sovereign at her own court and not the expected anxiety of a young girl very late for an important engagement.

  Nicolas tried not to look too content at the manner of their grand entrance. He noted the way his father and brother observed him and felt as if he were escorting the Queen of France herself. His chest swelled with pride at having the honor of acting as escort, and his heart burned brightly, fueled by the favor of her secret affections. The vicomtesse curtsied very low to the assembled guests. Nicolas couldn’t recall ever seeing such a graceful supplication. He glanced at his father and his brother Francis, and knew they had been wholly charmed.

  Sérolène rushed to kiss Julienne on both cheeks. “Dear Uncle and Aunt, I beg you to forgive the lateness of my arrival, but I had the most awful trouble with my shoes. I heard the happy announcement just as I came in. Oh, Julienne, I’m so pleased for you!”

  Julienne received Sérolène’s wishes with warmth. They adored each other and were the closest of friends and confidantes. After embracing her cousine, Sérolène moved to stand by her uncle.

  “Well, no matter, dear Niece. You are here now. That’s the important thing.”

  Sérolène was not surprised at her uncle’s clemency. Her uncle had always doted on her and the indulgence he displayed now at her tardiness was typical of his lenience. Next to Julienne, her uncle was the person most dear to her in the world. She waited by his side as the baron prepared to present her to his guests.

  “Monsieur le Marquis de Blaise, Monsieur le Comte de Marbéville. May I present to you my most charming and tardy niece, Mademoiselle la Vicomtesse de La Bouhaire.”

  The marquis greeted Sérolène with a low bow. “Tardy perhaps, Monsieur, but some things are well worth waiting for.”

  “Indeed,” the Comte de Marbéville concurred, with perhaps too much enthusiasm to suit his future bride, whose eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly.

  Sérolène curtsied to return the compliments, glancing towards Julienne to convey her apologies for having stolen so much of her cousine’s moment.

  “And may I in turn present to you my youngest son Nicolas, Chevalier and Vicomte d’Argentolle. Monsieur le Chevalier d’Argentolle, may I present to you Monsieur and Madame de Salvagnac and your soon-to-be belle-soeurs, Mademoiselles Julienne and Éléonore de Salvagnac.”

  Nicolas bowed with proper decorum before his hosts. The baron returned the bow as expected. Nicolas waited for the baronne to offer her hand to be kissed, but she pretended to be preoccupied with removing a blemish upon her shoe. Of course it was a snub, but everyone overlooked it. Nicolas glided over the slight, presenting himself to Julienne next, who did not hesitate to offer her hand for the ritual of greeting.

  Madame de Salvagnac glanced at her eldest daughter with a thinly veiled scowl, as if this concession to the chevalier was unnecessary. The future Madame de Marbéville was also good at pretending, and contrived to take no notice of her mother’s preference. After greeting his future sister-in-law, Nicolas was introduced to little Éléonore. She was pretty and small with a fragile constitution but a heart and a smile as big as her elder sister’s. In greeting Nicolas, she also elected to take her sister’s, rather than her mother’s, example. Nicolas smiled down at her as he planted a gentle kiss on the back of her hand.

  “I am exceedingly delighted to meet you, Mademoiselle.”<
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  Éléonore beamed back at Nicolas, but was too shy to offer any spoken reply.

  “Have you forgotten your manners? Say something to Monsieur d’Argentolle,” the baron prompted.

  “Monsieur le Chevalier is exceedingly handsome!” Éléonore declared in youthful innocence, restoring the good humor of everyone but the baronne in a single stroke.

  Nicolas used the respite of the moment to escort Sérolène to her seat, taking the remaining place next to the vicomtesse, all the while under the brooding visage of her aunt.

  “I’m told, Monsieur d’Argentolle, you are addressed by your family as Nico, rather than by your given name,” the baron said, once everyone was seated again.

  “That is correct, Monsieur. It is a sobriquet bestowed upon me by Madame de Blaise in my infancy, though Monsieur de Blaise still prefers my proper given name of Nicolas,” the chevalier explained.

  “A father’s privileges must always be respected, I tell you, but Nico does suit you very well. How unfortunate that Madame de Blaise was unable to join us,” the baron offered, naïvely unaware it had been his wife’s intention to exclude both Nicolas and his mother from the invitation she had extended to the marquis and the comte.

  “Madame de Blaise would have loved to have made the acquaintance of everyone, but she has been feeling rather unwell of late, and the doctors felt it best she not tax herself overmuch with travel,” the marquis replied.

  Nicolas exchanged a questioning look with Francis. The marquise, Nicolas’ mother, was in her usual very good health, and so both rightly guessed that her exclusion must therefore have been entirely for other reasons. Both, of course, knew also what those reasons must have been.

  “Well, how I look forward to meeting her, as I’m sure we all do, when the time comes,” the baron said.

  Courtesy required the baronne to nod in agreement with her husband, though her own salon continued to be one of the principal refuges of the slanderers of the Marquise de Blaise. Hypocrisy was not altogether pleasant. But it was sometimes unavoidable. Necessary even.

  The marquis steered the conversation toward more mundane matters. “We also look forward to receiving your family at our estate, Monsieur de Salvagnac. Might I also compliment you on the surfeit of rare beauty surrounding you? How blessed you are to be so well-favored.”

  “We are indeed much favored, Monsieur le Marquis, in the success of my husband’s endeavors and in our family circumstances. Our happy garden flourishes because the roots are deep and strong and the shoots have been well-nurtured. They blossom of their own accord in the proper time, manner, and place,” the baronne answered for her husband, glancing toward Julienne with approval and pride.

  Francis was appalled that the baronne had the temerity to respond to a question his father had asked of her husband. He chose to respond to the baronne’s statement himself, to prevent his father from taking offense, or showing it by the nature of his reply.

  “Mademoiselle de Salvagnac is indeed a most magnificent flower. Her fairness exceeds even the rose,” Francis agreed.

  Madame de Salvagnac was so determined to exact a measure of retribution for her niece’s willful behavior, that she was blind to the service the comte had provided and proceeded to repeat her first fault by again speaking out of turn.

  “The rose is a poor comparison, Monsieur le Comte, for despite its allure, a rose has thorns. My dear Julienne is a much gentler class of flower, as you will no doubt soon come to learn. But speaking of thorns—perhaps, my dear niece, you’d care to explain where you’ve been? We’ve had the servants looking all over for you. What a bother you’ve put us through, not to mention the discourtesy to our esteemed guests,” the baronne said.

  Sérolène’s cheeks flushed with color. “I’m very sorry, dear Aunt. As I explained, I had an awful time with my shoes, and then I came across Monsieur d’Argentolle on my way to the salon. He had somehow gotten lost and was wandering in the garden.”

  Sérolène glanced toward Nicolas, imploring him with her gaze to come to her aid. Nicolas rose to her defense at once.

  “Please do not be cross with Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire. I believe the fault is entirely mine. I had returned from performing a small convenience and somehow got turned around on my way back and lost my bearings. I tried a shortcut through the garden but only succeeded in compounding my confusion. I was fortunate to come across the vicomtesse, who was kind enough to assist me. I couldn’t resist the temptation however, to admire the delightful plantings as we walked. I fear my preoccupation only added to the length of our sojourn rather than decreasing it as we had hoped, though the vicomtesse was of course kind enough to indulge me nonetheless,” Nicolas improvised.

  The Salvagnacs were content to accept the convenience of this explanation for truth. The marquis however, looked skeptical. Only the Comte de Marbéville, who knew Nicolas best, gave the chevalier a look which said he didn’t believe a word of his brother’s story.

  “I’m happy you’ve had the chance to see our gardens, Monsieur. We do take more than a little pride in the variety and color of our flora, some of which are quite rare,” the baron said.

  “Perhaps we might venture out and inspect your grounds after the meal, provided it’s not too dark or unfavorable to the comfort of the ladies to do so?” the comte interjected.

  “A splendid idea! I shall defer to the ladies with respect to the consideration of their comfort, but as to the matter of light, I assure you it needn’t concern us,” the baron said with confidence.

  Nicolas cast a brief glance at Sérolène. They had made good their escape from apparent trouble, and shared a secret smile of relief.

  The baronne watched Nicolas and Sérolène with care, noting with sharp interest the apparent attraction between the young pair. I should have placed my niece next to me and put Éléonore next to that boy. He’s not at all what I had expected to find.

  Her daughter Éléonore was right. Nicolas was handsome—very much so, with the natural grace and charm one would expect of a scion of the Montferraud, but also with an unbridled physicality his elder brother Francis had only a small fraction of in comparison. What extraordinary eyes. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen the like…such a deep and penetrating green.

  The baronne looked inquisitively at Nicolas. She even tried to hold his gaze but found it too disconcerting to bear for long, the intensity of his regard and the unusual color of his eyes making her feel as if he were looking straight through her. It’s a pity your mother is less than nothing—otherwise you’d be a splendid catch in your own right. But her shame is yours as well, and no matter your rank and title, or your fine appearance, no family of quality will have you—least of all this one.

  The meal continued to unfold at leisure, the serving of the more than fifty courses paced by the steward to enhance the conversation. There was an overabundance of everything. Shellfish drowned in butter and garlic, beef venison and boar roasted and basted in their own blood sauces, ten different varieties of chicken, a whole suckling pig stewed in plums, mangoes, and apples, sweet meats, six plates of fish, langoustes and crab, pies, pastries, candied figs, and cheese, until even the sight of another dish could no longer be borne.

  Nicolas and Sérolène were content just to sit next to each other in silence as the hours slipped by. Their economy of conversation paid them the eventual benefit of diminished scrutiny from the baronne, who was happy to take their quietness for indifference. By the time the sweets were served, Sérolène was emboldened enough by the lack of general surveillance to slip her foot underneath the table and caress the ankle of her beloved, for she had already come to regard him as such. Nicolas flinched at the unexpected contact, almost knocking over his glass of water.

  “You’re as jumpy as a young colt tonight, brother. You sure you aren’t drinking from the wrong glass?” the comte teased.

  “It’s the pleasant effect of the company and not the eau-de-vie,” Nicolas replied, raising his glass of water in salute to Jul
ienne.

  The future Comtesse de Marbéville accepted his compliment with a graceful nod. Sérolène chatted playfully with a yawning Éléonore to distract any further scrutiny, all the while happily stroking Nicolas’ foot with her toes. Dinner was at last adjourned as the hour struck ten. Éléonore, who had been almost asleep on her feet, was sent up to bed. The rest of the party moved on to its next diversion, the baron delighted to lead everyone out into the courtyard, where a path of torches had been marked out through the carefully groomed gardens on the baron’s orders. Nicolas and Sérolène walked together just behind the main party.

  “I am delighted to see your fine grounds at last,” Nicolas whispered.

  Sérolène hid her smile behind her fan.

  “I am sorry for putting you on the spot, Monsieur, but I was quite at a loss as to what to say. Your improvisation, however, was brilliant. Even I believed it.”

  Nicolas’ dimples twinkled in the torchlight.

  “It was a clumsier rescue than I should have liked, and rather a narrow one too, but I suppose it was sufficient. Now, my dearest Mademoiselle, how are you going to repay me?”

  An enthusiastic call from the baron delayed for the moment, the prospect of any response from the vicomtesse.

  “Come, everyone, let’s not let such a splendid night end so early! Shall we have a bit of music to cheer us?”