Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  “Indeed.” They stared at each other in silence. In the yard, a farm boy shouted happily.

  Lucien came into the room. His eyes were guarded, but he smiled at Topaze in good-natured mockery. “Where the devil did you learn to swear like that, girl?”

  There was an awkward silence. Lucien appeared eager to put their quarrel behind him, but Martin still scowled. Topaze glanced from one face to the other and sighed. It was up to her to make peace between them. They were friends, after all. Before everything. She laughed to lighten the air. “Well, I’m not a fool, by Sainte Cécile! The streets of Bordeaux are good teachers. Almost as good as you two.”

  Lucien looked genuinely contrite. “And you’re not a child, either. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have treated you that way. I don’t know what came over me. I suppose you took me by surprise.”

  “You? Surprised?” She smiled into his world-weary eyes, and saw the pain beyond. I do love him, she thought. God knows I do. “Is there anything that can surprise you?”

  “Very little. I’ve heard peg legs in the Caribs swear like that. And a half-blind sailor after a night of drinking. But…”

  “But not sweet young ladies? About to be reunited with their aristocratic families?”

  “Never.”

  “Do you swear it?”

  He chuckled. “By Lucifer, you don’t lose your wits easily.” He turned to Martin—who still glowered at him—and held out his hand. “Truce?”

  Martin hesitated, then took the proffered hand. “Only a fool doesn’t know when to retire from the field of battle.”

  “My friend,” said Lucien. “I’m glad to make peace. But you concede the field? Does that mean you think I had the right—if only for a moment—to lose my temper with this saucy girl?”

  Martin glanced at Topaze. She read resignation in his face. And deep sadness. “I think you’ve won more than you know.” At Lucien’s mystified look he smiled, put his arms through both of theirs. “Come along, my friends. Spring is here. The sky is clearing. There’s time for a walk before supper.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Madame Le Sage went to church yesterday.” Topaze smiled across the table at Lucien.

  He poured himself more wine and allowed Henriette to take his empty plate. “And so?”

  “I haven’t been to church since we came here. Madame Givet would be disappointed in me. It would be nice to go for Easter.”

  “I suppose it would be safe enough. If you shield your face. Have Martin take you.”

  “He won’t be back from Nantes in time. Tomorrow is Easter.”

  Lucien grunted. “So it is. Well, I trust my friend the banker has no pious scruples about traveling on Easter Sunday.”

  “Here we are. Good Spanish oranges.” Madame Le Sage came into the room bearing a shiny copper platter heaped high with the fruit. “Enjoy them at your leisure, and forgive my absence for a little while. The Easter cakes will never reach the oven this evening unless I spur on the cook.” She smiled at them both. “And then, perhaps, we’ll have a round or two of cards before bed?”

  “In honor of the festive holiday,” muttered Lucien.

  “Eh?”

  “That would be very nice, madame,” said Topaze quickly. She stared at Lucien until Madame Le Sage had left the room. “I don’t suppose you’d take me to church,” she said at last.

  He reached for an orange and began to peel it. “When Hell gives up its dead.”

  “Don’t you believe in God?”

  He laughed. “I don’t believe in your Church. There’s no God there.”

  “Weren’t you raised in the Faith?”

  “Indeed. I was well taught. A fine Jesuit school.” He raised his wineglass in salute; his gaze was far away, focused on some person, some thing he saw only in his mind’s eye. “But life was a better teacher. Out there, it’s every man for himself. And devil take the laggards.”

  “And so you never go to church?”

  “Lord, I’d be afraid to.” His voice was filled with playful sarcasm. “I’d have to spend a week in the confessional alone.”

  Despite his light words, she caught the edge of bitterness. Her heart ached for him. “Alas.”

  “By Satan’s beard, I don’t need your pity. What do you tell your confessor, my little thief?”

  At that she fell silent, concentrating on the orange before her. She hadn’t been to confession since she’d begun to steal. Only to church to pray for the Givets.

  “Damn.” Lucien sat back in his chair and frowned. “Confession. The Chalotais will expect you to be penitent. That means confession. And Le Loup. What will you do? Lie, I suppose.”

  “By all the Apostles, I haven’t sunk that low! I still have a conscience.” She saw the cynical look on his face and smiled sheepishly. “Somewhere.”

  He grinned. “The tiger recognizes… And so, what will you tell Père François?”

  “The truth. But only as much as I can. I’ll not lie. But I may be forced to…leave things out.”

  “And if he asks you, right to the point, if you’re Véronique, what will you say?”

  “I’ll weep, that he should doubt me. Then recount every wicked deed that Topaze has committed on the streets of Bordeaux, and hint that life with an actress was even more immoral. That should keep him so busy prescribing Hail Marys that he won’t think to pursue my authenticity. Only the sins of my past.”

  He chuckled. “By Lucifer, it was my lucky day when you tried to steal my knife. You’re a rare bird, my girl.”

  She glowed in pleasure. “Then you think I’ll do well?”

  “I think, with what Martin and I have taught you, that you’ll be superb. Damn! but I wish I could be there to see their faces. When they’re finally forced to accept you… And then, when you’re gone, and they find the money’s gone as well…” He rubbed his palm against the scar on his cheek. He laughed, a chilling sound, and poured himself another glass of wine. “I wish they could know it was I who planned it all. I wish there was some way for them to know. Perhaps when I’m a very rich and respectable planter, with my respectable wife…”

  Topaze put down her orange. It had lost its taste. “Adriane de Ronceray?”

  “Yes. The de Ronceray line has far more standing than the de Chalotais. Adriane has the pedigree; I’ll have the wealth. How I should like the Chalotais to know that they helped to make it possible. Perhaps someday I’ll take some of that money and hire an agent to ruin Hubert.” He leaned back in his chair, musing. “By Satan’s trident,” he said softly, “it could be done.”

  “What has Hubert ever done to you?”

  He looked at her and smiled. “He’s a Chalotais.”

  Topaze shivered, suddenly seeing beyond his emotionless eyes. Dear Virgin, she thought. It was more than the money. The money scarcely mattered to him! He hated them. Hated them all, with an intensity that had burned out his heart and his soul. And she was to be the means whereby he might be revenged. She was to be his sword of retribution for some unknown wrong. She felt an overwhelming sense of pity, a deep grief. Hatred like that would only destroy him. And she’d be a party to it, and watch helplessly as that hatred consumed her love. “Lucien,” she said, “let’s give it up. What does it matter, after all? You have the bank loan. Isn’t it enough? Find contentment with what you have. With…Adriane.”

  He tossed down his napkin and rose from his chair. “Are you losing your nerve?” His eyes were cold. “I’m going to my room. Give Madame Le Sage my regrets. You’ll have to do without me at cards this evening.” He picked up the bottle of wine. “I intend to drink to the success of our venture. And the renewal of your courage.” He nodded curtly and went to the door.

  “Can’t I persuade you to come to church?”

  He turned. His face was carved in stone; she thought for a moment that he hadn’t heard. “Pity Madame Le Sage has no library,” he said. “There’s a favorite book of mine. I always like to read it in honor of the solemnity of the season.”


  “And what’s that?”

  “Venus in the Cloister, or The Nun in her Chemise.” He smiled.

  Her eyes widened in shock at his sacrilege; then she took a deep breath and composed herself. She could see it in his devil’s smile: he’d only said it to mock her. Or to mock her God. “Good night,” she said calmly.

  He laughed. “Scarcely a flutter. You have assurance, or I’m damned. I defy the Chalotais to shake you from your tale.” He left the room. She heard his measured tread on the stairs.

  She spent the evening playing backgammon with Madame Le Sage. They retired early. It would be a long day on the morrow, what with the holiday dinner, and Martin’s return. But no church. She sighed as she took off her shoes and stockings. Ah, well. Next Easter.

  She heard a loud clank, a clatter, then a muttered oath from Lucien’s room. Praise be that Madame Le Sage was too deaf to be disturbed. But what ailed Lucien? She picked up her candle and crossed the hall. Lucien’s door was ajar. He was on his hands and knees, and cursing softly, when she entered. His shirt was open, his shoes were off, and a lock of black hair had fallen across his forehead. On a table next to his armchair were a glass and the bottle of wine. Its contents seemed much diminished. Topaze laughed. “By Saint Martin, are you drunk?”

  He looked up at her. “Not as much as I’d like to be. I dropped my penknife, then knocked over my rapier while I was looking for the damned thing.”

  She put down her candle. “I see it.” She stooped, retrieved the knife, and held it out to him.

  He took it and sat down. “That’s twice you’ve given it back to me.” He chuckled. “Not a very clever thief. Would you have sold it, that day you took it in Bordeaux?”

  “No. I would have given it to Michel Givet for his birthday. It’s a handsome knife.”

  “Yes.” He turned it over in his hands, fingering the intricately carved handle. “I’ve had it for many years.”

  “Since you were a child?”

  “Yes. I carved my name on a tree at Grismoulins with this knife. ‘Lucien de Chalotais. Aged 10.’”

  “Oh, Lucien,” she said. The sudden memory had made his eyes soft.

  He stared at her. The softness was gone. “Lest sentiment get the better of you,” he drawled, “I also slit a man’s throat with this knife.”

  “Who?”

  He shrugged. “Just another pirate. Another outcast like myself.”

  “Oh, Lucien,” she said again, her voice catching in her throat.

  “Damn it,” he growled, “why do you look at me that way? As though I were some lost dog who needed your pity. Do you imagine I have a spark of remorse for those years? It was kill or be killed. With nothing to live for save the evil of another day. And another. Why should I give a damn?” Her continued silence seemed to unnerve him. His fierce glance wavered, then he grunted and closed his eyes, leaning his head back against his chair. “I drank too much. My head hurts.”

  She moved to one side of his chair and put her hands on his forehead. The flesh was hot against her cool fingers. She rubbed his temples, stroked back the loose curl, touched the silvered wings. She could see the tension draining from his face as she rubbed, the harsh contours relaxing into an appealing softness. His devil’s eyebrows became graceful arches, his high cheekbones rounded gently. And his full lips, curving in a smile of contentment as she massaged his temples, were the most desirable lips she’d ever seen. She put her head down to his and kissed them.

  He opened his eyes and sat upright in his chair. “What the devil are you doing?”

  She felt an ache, a terrible yearning to be held. To be loved. “I am your wife. I thought you might need me.” She struggled to keep her voice light.

  “Damn it, I don’t need anyone. The lonely road is the swiftest.”

  “But such an empty road.”

  His mouth twisted in the mocking smile that broke her heart. “And free from pitfalls.”

  “Well, then, you misanthrope. Not need. Want. If you want me.”

  “Why? After all this time. Are you more cunning than I thought? Do you expect a larger share of the Chalotais money?”

  His distrust made her want to cry. “No. My share is adequate.”

  “Then why?”

  She laughed. “Call it my marital duty.”

  One dark eyebrow angled in disbelief. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  She resisted the urge to blurt out the truth. To weep for love and pity, and throw herself into his arms. She smiled, tossed her head at him. “La! my friend. How mistrustful you are. If you must have a reason…the clothes you bought me, the food I eat. It was generous of you. You set such a store in matching the sides of the ledger. Something for something. Seven thousand livres for one impersonation. But this, these last few weeks…quite generous, and surely you’ll expect a favor in return, sooner or later. I prefer to choose the form of my gratitude. And so”—she shrugged—“here I am.” Oh, Lucien, she thought. Take me.

  His eyes were dark with suspicion. “A generous offer. Why should you give a damn about me?”

  His blindness was breaking her heart. She’d done everything but cast herself at his feet. She couldn’t continue to stare into those cold eyes a moment longer. She turned away from him. “I don’t give a damn,” she said. “But it amused me, to play the wife. A rehearsal, so to speak. For a time when I’ll have a real husband. A man of flesh and blood, not cold calculation. So then.” She pasted a bright smile on her face, turned about, blew him a mocking kiss. “Good night, husband.”

  She snatched up her candle and fled to her room before her brave smile could collapse. She gulped, fought the urge to cry. What did it matter? She moved to the mirror on the wall and peered at her face. She sighed. Her nose was too short, and tipped up. Her eyes were too far apart. And surely her mouth was too broad. Hadn’t they told her, at Maman’s theater, that she was plain? And hadn’t she admired Maman often enough to know she could never grow to such beauty? Martin said that Adriane was very beautiful. Why should Lucien even look at her? She took off her neckerchief and began to unhook her bodice.

  She heard a noise behind her and whirled about. Lucien stood at the door. His chest rose and fell noticeably beneath his open shirt, and his eyes were heavy-lidded with passion. He closed the door behind him, crossed the room in a few long strides, and pulled her into his arms.

  His kiss was hard and savage, and his arms crushed her against his chest. For a moment she thought she’d swoon in his embrace, overwhelmed by the feelings he always invoked in her—the breathless ecstasy of his nearness, his touch; the tremulous joy of being with him. But there was the thrill of fear as well. He was so powerful—his strong arms, his demanding mouth. His iron will. He’d consume her, devour her. And when there was nothing more to be used of her—mind, body, soul—he’d cast her aside and go his way, and never know that she yearned to release his frozen heart. She gasped and pushed at him, freeing her mouth at last. “Lucien…” Her voice shook.

  His eyes glinted in the light of the candle. “You did mean to offer yourself, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, but…”

  He smiled grimly. “Why then, I accept your invitation. I’ve earned a bit of pleasure.” He lifted her pliant arms and put them around his neck. Then he bent again to her mouth. His kiss was as impassioned as before, hot and intoxicating. He thrust his tongue against her closed lips—pushing, insistent—until she opened her mouth and allowed him entrance. Would she have dared to refuse?

  She trembled and clung to him, her senses assailed by a hundred unknown, wondrous, frightening feelings. His mouth had possessed hers. And now his hands claimed her body: they slid down her back and grasped her buttocks, pressing her hips tightly against his loins. She whimpered—a helpless captive—when he pushed her backward onto the bed. There was no time to protest, no time to slow his fierce assault. He tossed back her skirts, then threw himself down beside her. At once his hand sought the softness between her thighs and forced her legs to part. W
ith rough fingers he stroked the tender flesh; she gasped and writhed, frightened, thrilled by the unfamiliar sensation. At the same time he worked furiously at the buttons of his breeches, and struggled to pull his shirt out of the way.

  She was crumbling at his onslaught, her mind and senses reeling. Joy. Fear. Sweet Virgin, help me. Let me not cry out. She steeled herself for the pain that the old wives warned of. She started to speak his name, but his ardent kiss prevented it. This time she felt only pleasure as his mouth ground down on hers. She threw her arms around his neck, and dug her fingers into his shoulders. But there was no time even to enjoy his kiss. His manhood freed from its confinement, he put himself between her legs and thrust hard. It had been so sudden that she was unprepared for it. She was surprised that she felt no pain. But there was no pleasure either. Only his kisses eased her sense of being used.

  And then he abandoned even his kisses. There was only the pulsing of his body, the savage thrusts that intensified in ferocity till he was gasping. Wide-eyed, Topaze watched him. His head was thrown back, his eyes closed, his face tense with passion. A devil’s mask, wild and primitive. He gave a strangled cry, thrust once more, and collapsed against her breast. After a moment he sighed and rolled onto his back, one arm thrown across his forehead.

  Topaze closed her eyes, fighting back the tears. She didn’t want him to think her a weepy child, and green in the ways of love. But it was surely a bittersweet triumph. He’d only come to her room because he was a little drunk, a little unhappy. And plainly hungry for a woman. And because she’d offered herself to him. She couldn’t blame him if he treated her like a whore.

  “Damn!” Lucien cursed under his breath.

  Topaze opened her eyes. He was sitting up, watching her as she lay. She blushed, aware that her skirts were up, her open bodice in disarray. She pulled down her skirts, straining to read his expression in the dim light.