But oh, how he longed for Gosse, sweet, wild Gosse!
Just outside the walls of Saint-Germain, he looked up to see a cavalcade of mounted riders and carriages hurtling toward him. He jerked his horse aside to avoid the onrush, then waved frantically at Jean-Auguste and Lysette in the midst of the throng. They guided their horses to where he waited at the side of the road, and leaned forward in their saddles to shake his hand warmly.
“Well met, André!” cried Jean-Auguste. “I thought you were staying in Paris!”
“Paris was—tiresome.”
“Then join us today!” Lysette bubbled. “We’re off on a gallop through the woods, then by boat to a little island on the river. Louis has sent the cook there, and we shall picnic and play games like happy children all the day!”
“Yes, do come, André. The whole of the court has come on this outing, as you can see.”
“Not I! I have spent enough hours in the saddle. There would be no joy in a gallop for me!”
“Ride in a carriage then,” said Lysette, indicating the half dozen heavy coaches that lumbered down the hill from the château, picking up speed as they reached the path into the woods.
André laughed. “With the ladies who are fearful of mounting a horse? Heaven protect me! They would mock me with softling then!”
Lysette pouted in disappointment and he nearly relented; then a carriage bore down on them and Clémence de Vignon leaned out, waving happily to him as she passed. “No,” he said decisively. “I shall enjoy a few hours of solitude and join you at supper. Think what a pleasure it will be to have someone to listen to the day’s adventures!” And wheeling his horse about, he made his way up the road to the château and the stables.
Delphine hurried down the wide marble staircase, holding fast to the blue velvet hat that matched her riding costume. Bother the foolish shoe! It had pinched so badly, and the cobbler she had sent for had worked at a snail’s pace until she thought she would shriek at him in impatience. And now she was late! She sped into the bright sunshine, dashing through a shadowy portal to the inner courtyard where the party was assembling. It was empty. She spied a groom brushing down a horse in one of the stables, and called to him. He was sorry, he said, but everyone was gone. There was not another carriage to be had, he said, unless madame wished to take the dogcart.
“Never mind,” she said, turning about unhappily. It would be a long, boring afternoon, but it could not be helped. The only bright spot was the letter she had received this morning from Bernard de Janequin. His affair with Louise de Trémont—his old love—had gone badly. Though the lady seemed pleased enough with him, he was dismayed to find her far different from the woman he had remembered. They had quarreled frequently, her jealousy at his past liaisons poisoning their every meeting. Consequently, he was joining Delphine at Saint-Germain as soon as he could make the final break from Louise.
She looked up. André was riding into the courtyard. Ah Dieu! she thought, feeling her heart leap in her breast. How beautiful he was, handsome and self-assured, strong and masculine. She nearly groaned aloud. No! Sweet Jesu, it could not be happening again! She had locked her fragile heart to him, had deadened her emotions—and now the sight of him had set her to trembling again. She turned desperately to the groom. “Is there not another carriage? Are you sure?”
André rode up and swung himself easily out of the saddle, allowing the groom to lead his horse away. “Has Madame Despreaux been abandoned?” The blue eyes twinkling devilishly. “What will you do all afternoon, with no man to entice?”
Her face twisted in disgust. “As I recall, I found you an easy mark. Twice!”
He smiled blandly. “But alas, not a third time! I can no longer avoid the realization that you do not like me; knowing that, it is plain to me that whatever warmth you show is a snare. By my faith, I am not a complete fool—and you are scarcely that desirable!” He folded his arms across his chest, eyeing her, wondering why she seemed agitated. “But I shall keep you company this afternoon,” he went on. “I find it amusing to watch you, to see how artificial you have become!”
She whirled to him, her fists clenched, then took a deep breath and lowered her eyes. But not before he had caught the angry spark in their amber depths.
He roared with laughter, almost seeming relieved. “What? Is it still there after all? That hellion’s temper? Madame Despreaux is not completely civilized after all, n’est-ce pas?”
She turned away, feeling her defenses crumbling. “Go to the devil,” she muttered.
He grinned. “Come!” he said, pressing his advantage. “May I suggest a game of trictrac? It will be amusing to see if the cold and icy Delphine can lose with grace!” He was delighted to see another flash of fury sweep across her face. “How fortunate for me that there is not a single coach left!”
“Damn you,” she hissed, then called out to the groom. “Fetch me a horse! At once!” She glared at André. “I would rather die than spend the afternoon with you!” When the horse was brought, she mounted it from the block and sat stiffly in the sidesaddle until the groom had handed her the reins; then she kicked its flank fiercely with her heel and galloped out of the courtyard.
The groom shook his head. “I did not think the lady could ride.”
“What do you mean?”
“Begging your pardon, monsieur, but that particular lady always rides in a coach.”
André frowned, remembering how stiffly she had sat on the horse, how awkward her hands had been on the reins, as though it was strange to her. Mon Dieu! The little fool! Where would she have learned to ride a horse aboard ship? He paced impatiently while the groom resaddled his horse, then leaped into the saddle and raced off in the direction of the woods.
He found her some half a mile into the forest and at a distance from the path. The blue of her riding habit, vivid against the green trees, caught his eye and he followed it until he found where she lay, crumpled pitifully beneath a large tree, her hat gone, her hair wild and loose about her face. As he leaped from his horse, she groaned and opened her eyes, then closed them again. Scooping her up in his arms, he carried her to a small stream nearby and set her down gently on a patch of soft grass. He moistened his handkerchief in the water and knelt beside her, propping her up with one arm about her shoulders and dabbing at her temples. Her eyelids fluttered; she stared at him blankly, then managed to focus on his face.
“Foolish child,” he whispered tenderly, “do you hate me so much that you would risk life and limb to flee from me?” She murmured and stirred in his embrace. “I beg you, Delphine, tell me what I have done! Let me make amends. By my faith, I do not wish to be your enemy! What have I done?”
She held her breath, seeing the face that bent so close: the sapphire eyes that pierced her heart; the lips that had kissed her, that she ached to feel again on hers. No! I hate him! she thought. Only hatred drives away the pain! She took a deep breath, feeling her strength returning, then shook herself free of his encircling arm. “Your concern is touching, Monsieur le Comte, but the ground is damp and I shall soon be soaked through! Let me go.”
He sighed in exasperation and stood up to fetch his horse. Behind him, she struggled to her feet, wincing at the ache in her bones, and began to limp toward the path.
“No!” he said. “You must ride with me.”
She drew herself up coldly. “I shall walk.”
He frowned, his eyes narrowing. “Gosse’s stubbornness has not vanished! You shall ride before me like a lady, or you shall ride trussed up like a sheep to market and slung across the rump of my horse. But you shall not walk!”
Her angry glance faltered at the determination in his face; she shrugged, feigning unconcern, and indicated the horse. “If you will help me up, monsieur—”
The ride back was an agony. His arm around her waist burned her with its touch, and each time the horse moved and she swayed against André, her back against his muscular chest, she thought she would die. She cursed the weakness of her body, t
he door to sensitivity that she had thought was locked for good. It had brought her nothing but grief with Gilles. Would it betray her again?
Delphine dipped her quill into the inkpot and drew a sheet of paper from her writing desk. “My dear Anne-Marie,” she began. “I send you my warmest greetings. I arrived back in Paris two days ago and found your letter waiting for me. Be assured if the roof of the cottage needs repairs, you may have them done, and I shall forward the necessary funds as soon as I receive an accounting from the carpenter. I am glad to hear my sweet Robert has another tooth; I wish I had been there to ease his sufferings and pain. The weather continues warm in Paris, though not so irksome as it was last month. I am still planning to visit you for much of the month of July; you must save all your tender little stories of Robert to tell and retell to me when I arrive. God keep you. Madame D.”
She folded it and, heating the sealing wax at a small candle, fastened the letter with a dab of wax pressed down with a plain seal. She was surprised when Charlotte announced Monsieur de Janequin; it was late in the evening for Bernard, who liked to retire early.
“My dear!” she said, rising to greet him warmly. “What brings you here at such an hour?” She smiled fondly at him. What a godsend he had been, arriving at Saint-Germain just when she thought she could not bear another second in André’s presence. She had given Janequin all her attention for the rest of their stay, ignoring André, content to spend her hours in the safety of Bernard’s company. When King Louis had decided to return to the Louvre Palace, she had breathed a sigh of relief and gone back to her house in the Place Royale. She knew André was now installed at the Louvre with the rest of the courtiers, and she had carefully declined all invitations from the king. But Janequin had been at the palace tonight. “Was there such delicious gossip that you could not wait until morning?”
“There was gossip,” he said, and now she saw the tight lines around his mouth, the pained look in his eyes.
“Bernard. Come and sit. What is it?” She took his hand in hers.
“It—it was about you.”
“I’m used to rumors and silly gossip! What am I supposed to have done now? Driven my carriage through the Grand Galerie of the Louvre?” She smiled wickedly. “I’ve always wanted to, you know!”
“The rumors were about you and me.”
“La! Do they think us lovers? How flattering for us both!”
“They think us father and daughter. That you are my bastard.”
“They have thought so in the past.” She shrugged in unconcern.
“The gossip names us father and daughter—and lovers as well.”
She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Dieu du ciel! How vile!”
He wrung his hands together. “There was much more, so ugly and obscene that I do not wish to cause you distress by telling it. And it is more than merely harmless gossip. Whoever began it has taken the trouble to discover that—I am keeping you—paying your bills—”
“What is to be done?”
“I should like you to marry me.”
“No, Bernard, I—”
He cleared his throat, his delicate features coloring slightly. “I would not expect you to—fulfill a wife’s—obligations, unless you wished it. But I cannot bear to think of you besmirched by such filth, and I the cause of it. Marriage between us would set the ugly rumors to rest. And I am—very fond of you.”
She closed her eyes, feeling the tears burning behind her lids, moved beyond measure by the kindness of the man. Through all her pain and grief, he had been her salvation. He had rescued her from Gilles, and now, God be praised, he would save her from André—and her own weakness. The passions that once again were stirring within her—to rise up and destroy her—could be buried for good, soothed, quieted, by Bernard’s tender sentiments. She would be safe at last. She opened her eyes, the tears sparkling in her lashes. “My dearest,” she said, “if you want me, I should be honored to be your wife.” He beamed in pleasure and kissed her fingertips. “Now,” she said brightly, brushing away her tears, “I shall give a great soirée! Let the gossipmongers come and see how happy we are together! Will that please you?”
“Indeed,” he said, “if it pleases you.”
“Go home now,” she said tenderly. “You look so tired. Come and have breakfast with me in the morning, and I shall tell you all about the plans for the soirée!”
“Nom de Dieu,” he laughed, rising and making for the door. “Go to sleep yourself!”
“Not I! I must compile my guest list!” She bid him good-night and returned to her writing table, frowning as she picked up the letter to Anne-Marie. Sooner or later she would have to tell Bernard about Robert. If she was going to be the Duchesse de Janequin, and live in a fine château, she would want to have Robert with her. Perhaps Bernard would agree to adopt him, even leave him a title and lands as an inheritance. Yes, she would have to tell him about Robert. But how much else should she tell? The name of Robert’s father? Certainly not. Yet the thought of him assuming Robert was Gilles’s child made her sick. And could she tell the story of Gosse, and her own background? No. Janequin was a fine nobleman, from an aristocratic family, cultured and proud. How could she shame him by telling him his duchesse was the daughter of a common sea captain? Let him continue to think she had a bourgeois background—it still was not aristocracy, but it was better than the common peasant clay from which she sprang. But to be dishonest with such a dear man. Ah Dieu! She sighed. Best to say nothing until she had decided on her story. Best to think of more immediate concerns: her guest list. Drawing a fresh paper toward her, she put quill to ink, shaking off the superfluous drop of ink onto a blotter. She frowned and tapped the pen against her teeth. One more bit of revenge. One more proof to show herself she was free of him, once and for all. With a flourish, she wrote the name of her first guest on the top of the paper: André, Comte de Crillon.
Chapter Nineteen
The Duc de Rannel pouted unhappily and handed the blue ribbon to Delphine. “I shall never wear another woman’s favor, now that you have broken my heart!”
“René, my dear, will you not keep it as a memento of my great affection for you?”
He brightened. “Do you mean that after you are wed to Bernard de Janequin I may still entertain—some—small—hope?”
Gently she cuffed the side of his head. “You are very wicked. And—no—you may not!”
“Then I intend to get very drunk tonight!”
“If you spend the night in misery, I will regret having invited you to my soirée! In sooth, René,” she said, more seriously, “are you not happy for me?” He hung his head, shamefaced. “Then enjoy yourself this evening—it will please me greatly. And I shall know you truly love me.”
He smiled and kissed her hand. “Why is it that a tender rebuke from you fills my heart with more warmth than the sighing devotion of twenty silly women?”
She laughed. “I challenge you to find twenty silly women here tonight. I expect to see them sighing over you before the evening is done!”
“Pah! They are not silly. They are so—common! There is none to match you in breeding.”
She smiled thinly. “What a snob you are, René. Would you love me the less if you thought me common?”
He laughed. “How you enjoy your mystery! But I am not deceived.”
“Time will tell. Now go and find your sighing women.”
“I shall begin at once,” he said, frowning. “I see Monsieur de Janequin bearing down on us. I have not the grace to wish him well.” With a sigh he moved toward a group of women chatting in an alcove.
“Nom de Dieu, Bernard,” said Delphine, as Janequin hurried toward her, his face creased in an unhappy scowl. “What is amiss?”
“Louise de Trémont has just arrived. I had hoped she would not come—”
“Then why did you have me invite her?”
“She—almost begged an invitation—”
“And you could not refuse—dear, kind Bernard! Well
, she is welcome here.”
“I fear she means you no good will. She was—quite put out when she heard of our betrothal.”
“I shall win her over with my charm,” said Delphine, holding out her hand as Louise de Trémont came sailing toward them. “Madame de Trémont! How nice to meet you at last!”
Louise de Trémont was a large, imposing woman with a haughty manner and stiff carriage. There might have been a time—in her youth—when she was considered handsome, but years of discontent had taken their toll, and now the lines around her mouth and nose were set in a permanent sneer of disapproval, as though the world around her had a disagreeable odor.
“Madame Despreaux. Enchanté!” The voice had a high pitch, grating to the ear. “What a surprise it was to hear that Bernard had chosen you for his bride! But you are a sweet child—I can tell it at a glance. And sometimes a man will abandon old friends for—a last fling with youth. I’m sure Bernard will not regret it.” She smiled tightly, her mouth a thin line, reminding Delphine of a large snake that had slithered aboard Olympie once as she lay in the harbor of some tropical port.
“How kind of you to wish us well,” said Delphine. She indicated the milling guests in her glittering salon. “It brings great joy to Bernard and me to be surrounded by dear friends who hold only the tenderest thoughts for us.” Deftly she slipped her hand under Louise de Trémont’s elbow and guided her to a laughing group of people, leaving a relieved Janequin behind to greet latecomers.
As the evening progressed, Delphine circulated among her guests, pleased with the way things were going. Everyone seemed to be enjoying himself—except the one guest who had been invited for the very purpose of suffering. André had arrived late, slinking in like a reluctant thief, moving up the great staircase to the salon as though pulled against his will. He had watched Delphine with mournful eyes, his chin sunk to his chest, declining the invitations of every hopeful female who tried to drag him into the merriment and dancing. It warmed Delphine’s heart to see his agony.
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