There was a general murmur of approval and the party re-entered the château through the open doors of the music room, which had already been arranged to receive them.
“Who wants to be the first to sing?” the baron asked, looking at the ladies for volunteers.
Julienne needed no further prompting to take the stage. She beckoned toward Sérolène to play for her on the harp. They sang a pleasing airy duet, Sérolène’s accompaniment no less refined than Julienne’s singing. After a succession of encores, the baron asked Sérolène to display her solo talents on the harp. Sérolène was less eager than her cousine to perform, but more accomplished as an artist, displaying her supple virtuosity on a very difficult instrument. After a well-earned round of applause, she played and sang a single encore, a haunting melody she knew her uncle was particularly fond of. Sérolène dared not look at Nicolas even once during her performance, fearing she might reveal her true feelings. Everyone listened in rapt silence, the vicomtesse’s voice soft and piercingly clear with emotion.
“Bravo! Bravo! It’s evident the joy of tonight’s happy occasion has affected you as well. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you in as fine a voice, I tell you,” the baron said.
“Yes, I am very joyful indeed, Uncle,” Sérolène agreed, bowing her head with modesty as she looked at Julienne.
Sérolène glanced toward Nicolas. But not for the reasons you suppose, Uncle.
The baron turned his attentions toward Nicolas, a stern expression on his face. “Monsieur d’Argentolle. I have been watching you with some scrutiny. I call upon you now to reveal what you have been concealing from us.”
Nicolas’ eyes widened with shock. He felt his stomach begin to twist. Does the baron know about us? What could he possibly mean by such a cryptic statement? Should I admit my actions and confess?
“Come, Monsieur, it’s no use. Monsieur le Marquis told me earlier that you were quite accomplished on the pianoforte. On such a night as this, I simply must have the favor of hearing you play.”
Nicolas sighed with relief. “Monsieur le Marquis has not heard me play in some time. I believe the remembrance of my playing might be dearer than the current reality. But of course I shall consent to your wishes, Monsieur, if you insist.
“I take note of your modesty, young man, but I insist, nonetheless. Come play for us. Your audience eagerly awaits you.”
Nicolas bowed his excuses to the assembled guests and approached the pianoforte, a magnificent Viennese instrument by Johann Andreas Stein, It had a gleaming walnut veneer and the new set of pedal dampeners. Nicolas was quite familiar with the characteristics and sound of the instrument. He had one of his own, which sat in the music room at his father’s estate in Caracol.
“There’s music there on the shelf if required, I’m sure my niece would be happy to turn the pages for you if necessary.”
Nicolas sat down at the keyboard and stretched his hands over the keys. “Thank you, Monsieur le Baron, but that won’t be necessary. I give you Les Barricades Mystérieuses, by Couperin le Grand.”
Nicolas launched into the tune at once, without preamble or preparation. The piece was heavy, hypnotic, relentless, and so was Nicolas’ playing. The tempo was nearly double what the composer intended, but the force of Nicolas’ emotions would sustain no other pace. He allowed his feelings to carry him, and they transported him into a realm of genius. The performance was simply magnificent. And when Nicolas had finished, the baron shot to his feet to lead the applause.
“Magnificent, Monsieur! Magnificent! Such breathtaking virtuosity. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard finer playing.”
Nicolas bowed with modesty and made his way back to his seat. He knew the recital was over. Not even he would have wanted to try and top his performance.
“What a wonderful night it has been for all of us,” the marquis said with appreciation. “But I fear we have inconvenienced you long enough, Monsieur. The hour is quite late. We should be on our way home.”
“Home?” the baron said, as if the thought had not occurred to him the night must come to an eventual end. “At this late hour? I won’t hear of it, Monsieur le Marquis. We have plenty of room here, I tell you. You are all family to us now, you must stay the night as our guests. Tomorrow you may, of course, depart at your convenience.”
The baronne grimaced at Nicolas, unable to bear the idea of him spending even a single night under her roof. “If it were only possible, my dear, but I see you have forgotten about the renovations to most of the guest rooms. As much as I regret to say it, I fear we don’t have enough space for all our guests.”
Francis had caught the direction of the baronne’s scowl, and so had Nicolas, who understood at once her real intent. It was his presence alone that she objected to. There must be at least a dozen rooms on the first floor alone. She cannot expect us to believe they are all unsuitable, Nicolas fumed.
Sérolène lowered her head in shame, knowing her aunt’s assertions to be wholly false. Francis glanced at Julienne, but she was also too embarrassed to meet his gaze. The baron furrowed his brow in bewilderment.
“No room? Really, my dear? Have we all this space and no quarters suitable for so few guests?”
Nicolas stole a glance at Francis. How disappointed he seems! Everyone was getting on so well. I should hate to be the cause of my brother’s unhappiness. It was not in the chevalier’s nature to accept reversals without challenge, nor to act in opposition to the dictates of his character. He found the baronne’s machinations wholly unacceptable and as he had professed earlier in the library to the vicomtesse, when faced with adverse circumstances, he had the will and the character to try and reverse them.
“Monsieur de Salvagnac, might I trouble someone to show me the way back to the stables? We had sent instructions for our horses to be prepared for travel some time ago, but I’d like to check on them myself.”
The baron acceded to this request, though he still did not like the idea of his guests departing so late. The roads from Cap Français to the interior were not altogether safe at night. Brigands and escaped slaves often prowled the roads at night in search of victims of opportunity. To be prudent, a sizeable escort of men would need to be sent along to accompany the departing guests, which as host, he would bear the responsibility for.
“Certainly, Monsieur d’Argentolle, if you feel it necessary. I’ll have someone accompany you at once,” the baron said.
The baron rang a small bell and an attendant appeared almost instantly in response to the auditory summons.
“François, see the Chevalier d’Argentolle to his horses.”
Nicolas bowed his thanks to his hosts.
“It has been an honor, Monsieur de Salvagnac, Madame de Salvagnac, Mademoiselle de Salvagnac, Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire.”
With a nod to his father and brother, who both regarded him with suspicious interest, Nicolas then turned and followed the enslaved servant François out of the room, unable to resist a final parting glance toward Sérolène, who watched Nicolas depart with great reluctance. Frantic he should leave so soon, and on such terms, she too decided to seize her chance.
“Uncle, Aunt. I’m afraid I’m very tired. Might I also be excused?” Sérolène asked.
The baron offered his clean shaven cheek for the vicomtesse to kiss, always happy to indulge his niece in almost anything she wished.
“Of course, my dear niece. How inconsiderate of me to have kept you up so late. You may take your leave of our guests and retire for the evening.”
Sérolène performed her parting courtesies with as much haste as decorum would allow, and then left by a separate entrance from the one Nicolas had taken. As soon as she was out of sight of the others, she removed her shoes and ran headlong down the hallway in an attempt to head Nicolas off before he exited the main house on his way to the stables. She used the back corridors to her advantage, skidding several times as she raced across the polished hardwood floors. She arrived out of breath at the end of the hallw
ay which opened into the back courtyard, across from which lay the path to the outer courtyard and stables. She waited in silence under the stairs, concealed by the darkness of the rising stairway. Her heart galloped in her breast, every nerve on edge as she listened for voices and footsteps. At last she saw François coming down the hall toward her, Nicolas trailing close behind him. Sérolène hoped fate would be kind and François would stop far enough back from the doorway that she would not be discovered.
Nicolas detected a vague but familiar odor of lilacs as he reached the end of the hallway. He smiled to himself, then spoke to François in an effort to attract his attention and also to prevent him from going any closer toward the staircase.
“Through this door?”
“Yes, Maître,” the enslaved servant replied.
“‘Monsieur will do well enough. I’ve no need to be the master of any other man,” Nicolas corrected him.
The servant bowed his understanding and his respect.
“François, will you convey a message to the Marquis de Blaise on my behalf?”
“Of course…Monseigneur.”
“Tell the marquis I have decided to return home on my own with the horses, to tend to my ailing mother. Inform him also that the horses needed a good run-out and I couldn’t resist such a splendid moon.”
François bowed again. “Understood, Monseigneur.”
“I should like to have all the horses made ready at once. Oh, and do me the favor of taking your time on your way back, if you please,” Nicolas added, pressing a single coin, a louis d’or, into François’ hand.
The enslaved servant’s eyes were wide with astonishment as he stared at the gold gleaming in the center of his palm. Though he had handled his master’s funds on many occasions, he had never before been given such a reward of his own.
“It shall be as you wish, Monseigneur. I shall have the horses prepared at once.”
“Thank you. I believe I can see myself out from here,” Nicolas assured him.
François nodded and in an instant was gone, as if he had disappeared into the very walls. Nicolas continued his walk down the hallway, veering to the left as he approached the darkened stairwell, the soft tapping of his heels against the dark hardwood floor the only audible sound.
“It’s all right. He’s gone,” Nicolas whispered.
In an instant, Sérolène came out of her place of concealment and into his arms. Nicolas quickly led her back toward the rear of the corridor where they wouldn’t be observed.
“Your scent gave you away. How I’d hoped you would follow me, so I might say a proper farewell. Dear sweet Mademoiselle, it may sound like madness to say it, but how deeply I adore thee,” Nicolas said with passion, pressing Sérolène’s hands to his lips and bathing them in soft kisses in the semi-darkness.
“Then how happy I am you should be so afflicted. Now, Monsieur, about your reward…”
Sérolène pressed her mouth gently against Nicolas’ own, raising herself up on her toes, her tongue gently tracing the contours of his lips, drawing forth his own, which plunged forward with tenderness in search of its mate—probing, twisting, entwining with hers in the most ancient of dances. Her head tilted back as her body arched against him, sweet oblivion enfolding them in its embrace. Time melted away, utterly forgotten—lost in the magic probing folds of their tongues. Nicolas at last pulled back, needing all the power of his considerable resolve to descend back to earth from the heaven to which the vicomtesse’s sweet lips had transported him.
“Sérolène, my darling, I must go…while I am still able. I’ll not spoil the night for Francis. Please. You must come and visit us at Caracol as soon as you can,” Nicolas implored her.
“I shall try. I promise,” Sérolène whispered, her head against his chest, feeling the tautness of his muscles beneath her hands like bands of iron.
Nicolas kissed Sérolène a final time, once on the forehead, then gently on the nose, the left and then the right eye—making the sign of the cross with his kisses, the final one reserved for her full, tender lips.
“Do not forget me. As I have forsworn, you are forever my love.”
Nicolas relinquished her hand with reluctance and disappeared into the darkness.
Still cloaked in the darkness of the stairwell, Sérolène watched him go through the outer doors and into the night. She could still taste him on her lips—her mouth open, alive, tingling with want. Her legs trembled, but the gentle shaking was ecstasy. All along her torso, hips, thighs, where his body had been pressed flat against the plane of her own, she felt a burning marvelous heat. Her soul soared free, unbound—unbearably happy.
“Nicolas, my one and true beloved.”
Her voice was a whisper and a prayer, full of hope and want and plaintive aching need, the sound of love itself, all the emotion mingled and jumbled together, but never was there even the faintest trace of farewell or confusion. She would, she must see him again. For now that she knew what it was to be truly kissed, she ached for the feeling of his lips on hers, filling her heart with the magic of love.
Sérolène spun on her heels, hurrying toward her bedroom. Sleep tonight would be impossible. She knew it with certainty. Her legs quavered as she ran, weakened by the force of her rapture, but her heart trembled even more. She felt light and unbearably happy. From this day forward the world and everything in it, would never again be the same.
Sins of the Past
Charlotte Marie du Plessis, Comtesse de Talonge, glided across the polished wooden floors like a shark circling for prey. The fin of her torso cut easily through the often treacherous social waters of her salon and the dozens of guest who currently occupied it. Like any predator, she instilled a mixture of fear and awe among those nearby. The comtesse had a reputation for devouring the pretenses of fools, high and low. Those most apt to be consumed by her appetite, were alert to her presence and fled toward the safety of the group whenever she approached. Others with cravings for social sport merely watched as she went past, eager to feed on any leavings, should the comtesse choose to snack on a buffoon or two for amusement.
But at the moment, the shark wasn’t hungry. Her salon was full as it always was when she held court in person, but her thoughts were preoccupied more with those who hadn’t come than those who had. As she made her way through the crowded anterooms of her lavishly decorated plantation estate, she bestowed a graceful nod of acknowledgement toward a few special guests. A mark of particular favor.
There were many newcomers to her salon, but this had been by her own design. Too many of the same old faces and things became tiresome. Living on an island could be quite stifling if one didn’t know how to freshen things up from time to time. But there was also the risk that the balance between dignity and drunkenness might swing too far in either direction. That is why she was circling her waters. To make sure that the temperature was just right.
The comtesse’s wake was full of appreciative looks. The attention was pleasing, almost as much as having a house full of important guests, though she was long accustomed to being gawked at. On occasion she paused to allow her hand to be kissed by an admirer, of which there were also many, a good portion of whom were artists, or at least claimed to be. Artists amused the comtesse, they knew a good party when they found one, especially the writers. And if they couldn’t find a good party, they made one of their own. She made sure her salon never lacked for them.
The comtesse wore her thick golden tresses up and pulled back in a tight series of interlocking loops, accentuating the prominence of a face which had attracted the attention of painters and poets since her debut in society nearly two decades ago. The archetype of Venus, at least in so far as most Frenchmen envisioned the fabled goddess of love, the comtesse had wide sensuous eyes, light in color, and a delicate nose which gave prominence to a small but perfectly formed mouth ringed by a pair of full, red lips, always slightly open in a perpetual pout. Her cheeks were naturally rouged, and even with makeup, this coloring shone throu
gh, promulgating an air of nascent sexuality which captivated the admirers of the many portraits in which her image had been used as the model.
Adding to her charm, was the impeccable way in which she blended both elegance and individuality in her manner of dress. She never wore stripes of any kind nor fabrics patterned with more than just simple embroidery. She took primary colors as her foundation, and used jackets, stomachers, scarfs and other accessories to add a touch of daring or splash to her ensembles. Some attempted to mimic her flair, but none had the sense of glamour she possessed, comprised as it was, of a unique combination of both beauty and style. She seemed always at the center of things, and attracted friends like spring flowers attracted bees. And she was equally as good in her realm, at collecting information and pollinating relationships as the bee was in its own.
The comtesse stopped to chat briefly with a merchant captain she had invited to her salon at the suggestion of her banker, then headed toward the vestibule to speak to her steward. She wore a robe à la française of yellow silk brocade with a very faint lace and flower motif, and a crimson stomacher with geometric embroidery in yellow gold. The comtesse halted near the entrance to the main salon, where the crowd was thinner, and surveyed her realm with a practiced, discerning eye. A slight nod of the head was enough to summon her steward Casimir, who took just seconds to reach her from his position at the entrance of the main foyer.
“Madame la Comtesse has need of me?” the night-black enslaved African, enquired.
Because of his unusually great height, he bent slightly as a courtesy to the lady who owned him, so that she could more easily convey to him her instructions. He was dressed in the formal livery of the house, a dark grey coat with brass buttons, green cuffs and facings, dark grey breeches, a white waistcoat, light blue stockings and black shoes.
“Casimir, see to it the Comte de Tonnere has his favorite tobacco, but remind him if he wishes to smoke it, he must retire to the study or the billiards room. Though I tolerate his habit, I don’t want my whole house to smell of it.”
Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) Page 6