Delphine

by Sylvia Halliday

  Only Delphine was glad of the enforced captivity; there was no way André could avoid her. And he was suffering, that was plain. He wanted her. He ached for her. Where once—on Olympie—his presence had tormented her with longing, now it was he who burned with desire, his eyes hungry and tortured each time they dined in the same room, or passed one another in a dim corridor, or gathered with the rest of the courtiers and their ladies to play the countless games that helped the rainy hours to pass more quickly.

  They had just finished a game of charades. Delphine, glowing in her pink gown, was basking in the compliments her clever imitations had elicited. She allowed one of the gentlemen to kiss her hand and slip his arm about her waist, knowing André was watching, his brow furrowed in anger and jealousy. Several of the company began to murmur in discontent. What were they to play now? It was too warm for dancing, and too early in the evening to play the kinds of games with kisses that would inevitably lead to alternative pairings in the bedchambers later on that night.

  Delphine smiled brightly. “I have a game!” she said. “The children play it, but it might be amusing.” Quickly she outlined the game. One person was to stand with his hands behind his back; his chosen partner was to take his place behind him and slip his arms through the opening thus created. As the person in front improvised a monologue, his “hands” would act it out. There were nods of approval from the company. It sounded amusing, and there would be opportunities for ribaldry never dreamed of by children.

  “But we must have rules,” said Delphine. “Each player is to be allowed to choose his next partner to be his hands, then the ‘hands’ becomes the ‘body,’ and chooses a new player. And the one who uses his hands must obey all that the speaker commands! At the end, we shall decide who has been the most clever.”

  The game began innocently enough, with a red-faced comtesse standing behind a gentleman in green brocade. As he complained of fleas, she scratched his beard and nose, then retied his falling band strings at his command. When they were finished, there was a polite smattering of applause and the comtesse chose her husband to be her hands, feigning sleepiness with much stretching and stifled yawns. But after a few more players, the gestures called for became a great deal more crude, and the company was laughing merrily. One young cavalier, a buxom duchesse pressed up against his back, complained of the need to relieve himself, while the lady’s hands explored his groin. Since everyone but her husband knew that the two were lovers, the joke was doubly delicious. At last Delphine was called to partner a shy young man; she kissed him sweetly on the cheek before going to stand behind him and slip her arms through his. His improvisation was not particularly witty, but she made so much of it, unbuttoning his doublet, scratching his ear, propping up his head with her hands, that the company applauded long and loudly when they were done, and the young man beamed with delight, thinking himself the cleverest man in the room.

  Delphine scanned the faces of the eager men, all desirous of being her partner; her glance focused on André leaning against a wall, arms folded across his chest, his handsome face twisted in obvious disapproval. “I choose—Monsieur de Crillon. Perhaps we can make him smile tonight.”

  André shook his head in protest, but several voices urged him on, and the gentleman in green brocade took the opportunity to push him toward Delphine in the center of the room. Reluctantly he stood behind her, aware of the fragrance of her hair, the warmth of her back against his chest. She twisted her head around to peer at him over one shoulder, and grinned wickedly, her golden eyes twinkling. “Remember,” she said, “you must do everything I say!” She turned back to the company and began her monologue. “Oh, dear,” she said, tilting her head to one side, “I wonder when my lover will come to see me?” Worriedly, her “hand” scratched at her chin. “Will he find me beautiful?” André patted her cheeks, then fussed with the curls about her face. “How the blood throbs in my temples waiting for him!” The action was suited to the words, her “hands” pressing against her forehead. “And my heart—how it beats in my bosom—” André had not moved. “My heart,” she said pointedly. “I can feel it beating in my bosom!”

  “Vixen!” he hissed in her ear, and put a reluctant hand on her breast. One of the women giggled.

  “I shall wear my pearl earrings,” Delphine continued. André’s hands went to her earlobes. “Ah, Dieu—” the fingers covering her mouth in dismay “—I have lost my earring!” André clutched at one ear. “My right earring.” He switched hands quickly and the company laughed in delight.

  Delphine smiled to herself. He was beginning to enjoy the game, thinking it harmless deviltry. She had lulled him, led him on, like a skillful fencer. How do you like my passado, André? she thought and let out a little shriek. “I have lost the earring in the bodice of my gown! I must search for it!” The men guffawed loudly and the women whispered among themselves, each longing to be in the clutches of the handsome Comte de Crillon. How clever was La Déesse! She could have any man she wanted.

  Delphine peered over her shoulder. André’s face had gone red, and a small muscle worked in his jaw. “I shall never find my earring unless I search in my bodice!” André glared at her, his eyes like blue fire. Delphine turned back to the company. “What shall I do if my hands do not do my bidding?” she asked, amber eyes wide in innocence.

  André growled and pushed her away. “’Tis a foolish game!”

  The shy young man leaped forward and bowed before Delphine. “Sweet goddess, let me be your hands!”

  She smiled gently at him. “You, at least, are not a coward. But alas—you are not my hands.” She turned to André, her eyes cold. “Yes. Coward, monsieur, that could not even play a simple game. Coward!”

  He flinched at that feeling helpless. If she were a man he could have struck her down, left his challenging glove in her face. Without a word he whirled about and strode from the room. Behind him, he could hear the sound of her mocking laughter.

  “Excuse me, madame, but there is a gentleman who wishes to see you.”

  About to unpin her chignon, Delphine stopped and turned away from her mirror, frowning at the chambermaid. “Do you know who he is?”

  “It is Monsieur de Crillon, I think. I have seen him here at Saint-Germain in the past. Will you receive him in your antechamber?”

  Delphine smiled. There was hardly a need to plot against André. He invited his own destruction. “No. Here in my bedchamber. Show him in and then leave me for the night.” As the maid left the room, she bent to retrieve her peignoir from a chair, then changed her mind. She would receive André in her nightdress alone; it would be great fun to see him struggle to keep from noticing how the thin lawn clung to her curves.

  He strode purposefully into the room, nodded at her, and began to speak at once, his words calm and reasonable—and seemingly rehearsed. “I do not know why you hate me, Delphine. I bear you no ill will. Truly, I had thought we were friends. But that is neither here nor there. It is you I am concerned about. Master Fresnel would be ashamed to see what you have become. You flirt with all the men, you practice deception, you hide your malice behind honeyed words—would you want your father to know you flaunt yourself like a common strumpet, your bosom exposed shamelessly?”

  “You shall not provoke me with your ugly words. Gosse’s rages have vanished with Gosse.”

  “Even your coldness is an affront to the memory of Gosse. But heed me, Delphine. I have only your best interests at heart. As a father—and I am old enough to be your father—I beg you to recall the warmth that was Gosse, and the modesty that was Gosse, and the honesty that was Gosse.”

  She threw back her head and laughed, that rich melody that stirred his senses. “A father? No. You may pretend so to yourself, but your eyes tell a different story.” She indicated her large bed, shadowy behind its heavy draperies. “Tell me, ‘father,’ if I lay down and spread my legs for you, would you commit incest?” She laughed again as his face purpled in sudden anger.

  “You whe
lp!” he said through clenched teeth. “You foul—”

  “Tut, tut!” she interrupted. “Can you not control your temper? By my faith, I do not find it difficult!”

  He took a deep breath, struggling to recover his aplomb. “I do not desire you. Your father was my friend. I think of you merely as a child—his child—who needs my guidance.”

  “Indeed?” With graceful fingers she unpinned her chignon, shaking out the blond tresses so they fell about her shoulders and rippled down her back. André seemed almost to flinch at the sight of that golden glory, finding it suddenly hard to breathe. Delphine laughed softly. “And I say you want me. That you were afraid to touch me when we played the game tonight.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Then touch me now.”

  “What? Are you mad?”

  “Touch me now. If you are as a father to me, it will mean nothing.” She put her hands behind her back—as she had in the game—and stood in front of him, presenting her back. “Touch me now.”

  Reluctantly André slipped his arms through hers, and reached up to cup her breasts in his firm hands, his fingers stroking her through the thin fabric. She had steeled herself against his touch, and was surprised to realize that it had not been necessary. Thanks be to God, she had no feelings left. It was Gilles’s legacy, and she blessed him. Her sensuality had been her weakness; without it, she was invincible.

  André pressed her more tightly against his chest, and buried his face in the silken tresses that curtained her neck and shoulders. “Delphine,” he whispered.

  “André, mon cher, do you want me?” she asked, her voice inviting and husky in her throat.

  “Mother of God, you know I do!” He turned her in his embrace and bent to kiss her. Then he saw the eyes like amber ice and drew away, frowning in disbelief.

  She laughed under her breath, an ugly, guttural sound. “But perhaps I do not want you!”

  He grabbed her fiercely by the shoulders. “By my faith, I ought to—” His eyes burned in fury. “Gosse was more woman than you, for all her crude ways! God knows she was a creature of passion and spirit—not a cold, scheming whore!”

  “Will you leave?” she said, her voice frosty. “Or shall I send for a footman and have you thrown out?”

  He stormed from the bedchamber, slamming the door behind him. She stared at the closed door for a minute, then, with a shriek, she picked up a small bench and hurled it violently against the panels, so it shattered and fell to the floor in splinters.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The bright rocket burst high above the terrace of Saint-Germain, sending dazzling pink showers into the night sky. There was a loud explosion, and a golden starburst joined the pink sparkles. Lysette gasped in delight and clutched Jean-Auguste’s arm.

  “Was it not a happy circumstance, Jean-Auguste, that I had occasion to write to Madame Séguier, the wife of the chancellor? Else we would not have thought to visit her here at Saint-Germain.”

  “Indeed, a happy circumstance,” he said, his mouth twitching. “I have no doubt, my charming wife, that you would never have found André but for Madame Séguier!”

  “I never know when you’re laughing at me,” she said sharply. “I was not seeking André! It was merely a fortunate accident that Clémence de Vignon was able to accompany us.” She indicated with her fan where André and Clémence were leaning over the parapet, watching the glittering Catherine wheels set far below on the slopes of the embankment. “And you see, André is delighted with Clémence. He has scarce left her side all the evening, fussing over her like a devoted husband.”

  Jean-Auguste watched the path of a green rocket as it climbed to the heavens and exploded in a shower of red, then turned to Lysette, his gray eyes thoughtful. “I’ve known André long enough,” he said. “And despite the attentions he has paid to Clémence since we arrived, I would swear his real interest lies with the woman they call La Déesse.”

  “Nonsense! He has been very cold to her, and she to him. They have not exchanged half a dozen words all day, I’ll wager—indeed, they seem to be avoiding one another.”

  “Precisely. I have never known André to be cold to a woman. He is naturally gallant and courtly, though the woman be plain or tedious. It is his nature. So why should he be cold to La Déesse? Unless the coldness masks the fire within.”

  “Have you asked him of his sentiments toward La Déesse?”

  Jean-Auguste tweaked her nose. “What an inquisitive imp you are, my love. I have no doubt that if André wished to share his inclinations with me—or you!—he would do so!”

  “Really, Jean-Auguste!” She flounced away from him, then sidled back as Delphine swept the length of the terrace, trailing worshipful admirers in her wake. “I do not like her,” Lysette announced, the mother hen aroused. “She cannot possibly care for André. She is treating him shamefully, flaunting her cavaliers before him! And surely you are mistaken about André’s feelings! I have never seen him so attentive to Clémence!”

  Jean-Auguste laughed sardonically. “And more especially when Madame Despreaux is nearby to see!”

  “Don’t be silly! He is attentive because he knows that Clémence is the perfect woman for him. She will make him a proper wife, eminently suitable to his needs.”

  “Mon Dieu, Lysette!” he said, an edge of exasperation in his voice. “We seldom fall in love with suitable types!”

  “What do you mean?” Her dainty chin outthrust in injured pride.

  “Rest content, my sweet. I still adore you. But if I had chosen a suitable wife, she would try me less than you do! And as for you—you would have profited more from a husband who was easily duped. You would not have had to work so hard to convince him of things that are not so!”

  She pouted and swirled away from him, going to join André who now stood alone on the promenade, seeming absorbed in the dazzling fireworks display.

  “Poor André! Has Clémence abandoned you?”

  “Not at all, Lysette. She went to fetch a shawl.”

  “Charming woman, is she not?”

  “Indeed.”

  Lysette sighed. “I always thought it a pity that le bon Dieu did not bless her marriage with children. I watch her sometimes with my twins. What a sweet mother she would make!”

  “Perhaps a trifle old, now. Near thirty, I believe?”

  “How ungallant of you, André! If she were to marry a—a widower, mayhap—”

  “One with children, no doubt.”

  “It would be a great joy for her. And an—older woman—is far more suited to a man of years. More faithful—less skittish and apt to bring him woe.” She smiled brightly, indicating Delphine who had just greeted her shy young suitor with a kiss. “What think you of Madame Despreaux?”

  “A handsome woman.”

  “Pooh! A child! Not yet twenty, I vow.”

  “Only just twenty, I believe.”

  “And still a child! Did you know—” and here Lysette leaned forward, a conspirator’s smile on her face “—that she is seen often in the company of Monsieur le Duc de Janequin? Such a disgrace for a man to go about with a woman young enough to be his daughter! Well, there’s no fool like an old fool, n’est-ce pas? She will lead him a merry chase ere she’s done with him!” She smiled again and moved back to stand with Jean-Auguste, confident that she had set André on the path to wisdom.

  André frowned, staring at Delphine. How she bedeviled him! He had been cold to her all the day, his pride still rankling at the way she had humiliated him. Yet try as he might he could not hate her. He could only suffer to watch her play the coquette with every man who came within her orbit, wanting nothing more than to drag her away, unpin that golden hair, take her in his arms. Name of God! He turned away from the sight of her, his brain exploding with fire like the rockets that lit up the night sky.

  “André, have you missed me?” Clémence came hurrying toward him, smiling sweetly. “I could not find my shawl,” she said, the edge of a whine in her voice. Ah Dieu, h
e thought, will this tormenting evening never end? Clémence was gentle and gracious—as Marielle had been. But sweet Mother of God, he could not remember a moment’s boredom with Marielle! And surely that complaining tone in Clémence’s voice—heard all too frequently—had been foreign to Marielle. Mechanically he tucked Clémence’s hand under his arm and led her inside the château to seek the missing shawl.

  Tomorrow, he thought. He would go back to Paris tomorrow and seek out Marion de Lorme. She did not make him feel old, nor bore him to death.

  Nor drive him mad with desire.

  Marion de Lorme carelessly pinned up her disheveled hair and handed André his sword. He buckled it on and stooped to kiss her once again, feeling her yielding body beneath the thin chemise. She stepped away from him and began to don the petticoats and gown so hastily cast aside an hour before.

  “André,” she said, her eyes gentle, “you are charming and I adore you, but pray do not come again.”

  He frowned. “Have I displeased you, Marion?”

  “Not at all, mon cher. Never. But I do not want you to visit me. Not while your thoughts are filled with someone else!”

  “What foolishness is this?” he growled.

  She put a sympathetic hand on his. “Oh, my dear! You do everything but call me by her name! It is quite disconcerting, you know!”

  He laughed nervously. “I did not think—is it so plain?”

  “Yes, my love, it is. But—it is very odd. I cannot decide whether you desire her—or despise her.”

  “Nom de Dieu. I scarce know myself. I only know she torments me.”

  Marion smiled and handed him his gauntlets and hat. “To bed her, or to beat her. Is that your dilemma? Methinks, sweet André, you had better go to her and find out!”

  So it was that he found himself back on the highroad to Saint-Germain barely two days after he had left. This time, he told himself, he would not let Delphine get the better of him. As much as he desired her, he would not let her beguiling ways seduce him. She meant only to lead him on, that she might humble him. He would be cold, distant, reasonable, seeking the crack in her icy façade, the why of her animosity. And if she proved to be the cold bitch she seemed, he might at last be free of her spell.