by Louise Clark
The Reverend Mr. Huntington cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should commence these nuptials without any more delay." There was a smattering of good-natured laughter. Nicholas, a rather rueful smile on his mouth, led Stephanie proudly forward to their prearranged position by the fireplace. The Protestant minister and the Catholic priest took up their places before the young couple and the ceremony began.
As he watched his daughter vow to love, cherish and obey the young English nobleman beside her, Mont Royale felt the weight of time and age bearing down on him. He remembered the joy that he and his beloved wife, Yvonne, had felt when their beautiful daughter was born whole and healthy after Yvonne had suffered numerous miscarriages and a stillbirth. How the young Stephanie's laughter and spirit had brought them hope in the dark days when the baby son, who had been the de la Riviéres' last child, died at the age of two-and-a-half. Stephanie, a precocious five year old, had been the light that kept him sane.
He had indulged her, Mont Royale knew, watching her thin, sensitive lips curl into a tempting smile as she listened to Nicholas, Earl of Wroxton, repeat his vows. But how could one not indulge a sprite as playful and sweet as life itself? Stephanie had been born with a quick intelligence and an endless curiosity that made her a delight to teach. And now that she was no longer a child, but a woman? Would her Earl cherish her with the same loving tenderness she had known from her family?
Nicholas slipped the wedding band on Stephanie's finger. Then, a reckless grin on his lips, he tipped her face up to be kissed, despite the laughing protests of the minister that the ceremony was not yet over.
"But you pronounced us man and wife," Nicholas protested innocently, when he had finally released his bride's lips.
"In the English service," Huntington replied, completely serious. "Monsieur de Mondial must perform the Roman rites before the ceremony is completed."
"Eh bien," Stephanie said happily. "I do not mind if Nicholas also kisses me at the end of that service." She dimpled prettily. "If you would kindly begin, Father?"
The Marquis blinked rapidly to disperse the sudden surge of moisture in his eyes. He had no doubt that his daughter would be cherished by her new husband, the Earl of Wroxton, but the love between them would never have the innocent edge of a parent to a child. Wroxton's love would be passionate and demanding, sweet and fiery, teasing and gentle. It was the love of a man who looked at his bride with his eyes open, who loved her for what she was, not what he wished she would be.
It would endure.
There would soon be further evidence of the love that united these young people, Mont Royale thought with uneasy pleasure, if he were reading the silent signals passing between them aright. The idea of grandchildren was unsettling, but exciting. A child signified succession, a continuation, an affirmation of hope for the future and all that he held dear. It mattered not that the babe's name would be Prescott, not de la Riviére.
"And now, Monsieur le Comte and Madame la Comtesse de Wroxton, you are truly married in the eyes of both your churches." Father de Mondial was smiling broadly, as were the rest of the guests. "Now, milord, you may kiss your bride."
Nicholas looked down into Stephanie's eyes as his arm circled her waist and drew her against him. Her hands rested on his chest. Slowly, she slid them up to his shoulders as his mouth descended to take possession of hers. She clung to him as she surrendered to the demands of his kiss. Lost in each other, only the loud pop, as Lord Gower uncorked a bottle of champagne, drew them back to the reality of their surroundings.
With the help of his wife and the Reverend Mr. Huntington, Gower passed around glasses full of pale frizzing wine. "To the bride and groom!" he shouted, raising his glass high.
To the future, the Marquis thought, and drank.
Epilogue
"This room is insufferably hot," Nicholas muttered, tugging his neckcloth as he walked over to the window to throw it open.
Gideon, Lord Broughton, exchanged a smile of silent amusement with Tony Baxter. "The room feels quite comfortable to me, Nick. But if you are truly overheated we could always bank the fire."
"A better idea than throwing open a window in March," Baxter agreed. The three gentlemen had doffed their coats and were wearing only shirts and vests. "I must say, Nick, I don't think it's the temperature around us that's the problem, but the one inside you."
"Perhaps." Preoccupied, Nicholas paced from the window to the door of the Charles Room and back again. The saturnine portrait of the King gazed mockingly down at him.
"She'll be all right, Nick," Gideon said gently.
Nicholas shot him a fulminating look. "How do you know? How can you be sure? Women die in childbirth every day."
"And even more manage quite successfully," his brother-in-law retorted evenly.
Nicholas clenched and unclenched one hand, an uncharacteristic sign of nerves. He burst out suddenly, "I don't know what I would do without her, damn it!" He resumed his pacing. "Why is it taking so long?"
"Calm yourself, Nick," Gideon soothed. "You might remember that Honoria was in labor for twelve hours before the babe was born."
"That's no consolation, Gideon, when I think of Stephanie upstairs in agony..."
"Have a drink," Tony suggested, interrupting before Nicholas wound himself up still further.
"Thank you, Tony, but no. I want to be clearheaded in case Stephanie needs me."
Baxter sighed and exchanged another silent look with Lord Broughton. For a moment, they both watched Nicholas prowl around the room, tormented by worry and his unaccustomed inability to influence the event.
Once again Gideon tried to be of help. "Think of how much joy the new child will bring Stephanie. Her father's death last year must have been terribly difficult for her. Now she has a new family to delight in."
Nicholas stopped pacing, but he stood warily, like a high-bred horse undecided as to whether or not to take flight. "The Marquis's death was a senseless waste. Stephanie understood why her father refused to leave France, but she will never forgive the way he died."
The Marquis had perished in August, less than two months after Stephanie had last seen him. The cause was another of the increasingly violent demonstrations against the monarchy. When the mob had advanced on the Tuileries palace, this time the King did not stand boldly before them. Instead, he and the royal family fled to the safety of the National Assembly. Behind him he left his Swiss Guard, with orders not to fire on the rioters, and a valiant group of courtiers, determined to defend the chateau to the end. Intoxicated with wine and Jacobin rhetoric, and armed with weapons stolen from the Paris armories, the crowd attacked. Bloodshed followed. The Swiss Guard and the courtiers inside were massacred.
"The Marquis de Mont Royale died an honorable death," Gideon said gently.
Nicholas's eyes flashed. "He threw his life away! What honor is there in serving a weak, stupid man who runs from every crisis in his life?"
"More honor than in serving a strong man whom all would be proud to follow," Gideon countered quietly.
"Perhaps. I do not fault the Marquis. He did what he felt he must, but his death agonized Stephanie and for that I must condemn him." Nicholas smiled rather cynically. "Odd. I knew one day Louis would lose his throne, for he could not hope to survive the revolution, but I had hoped it would be later, rather than sooner. Or that Louis would fall and somehow his courtiers might escape."
"Wishful thinking," Tony observed. "There was talk of storming the chateau and forming a Republic as early as 1791. It could have happened at any time."
Wishful thinking, indeed. After the August invasion of the Tuileries, the political situation had gone from bad to worse. Those courtiers who survived the invasion were locked up in the prisons of Paris, side by side with thieves and cutthroats. In September, during yet another great paroxysm of violence, those same aristocrats were slaughtered in their cells. Four months later, King Louis, himself, was executed. For the first time in her history, France no longer had a monarch.
/> There was a short silence as the three men contemplated the final destruction of the social order as they had known it. All were astute enough to realize that the changes would not be contained within France's borders. Inevitably, the revolution—with its new ideas, beliefs and ideals—would touch all the nations of Europe, altering every man's existence in some way, great or small.
For all that, life would continue. A new generation would be born to carry on the traditions of the old and forge new ones of their own. Deep inside Nicholas, a happy warmth chased away the lingering grief of the Marquis's death as he thought of the child soon to be born. Created in passion and tenderness, the baby would be the best of both his parents.
Impatience set his feet moving again as Nicholas resumed his pacing. Damn! Why was it taking so long?
Tony began to relate the details of the most recent scandal in London, but Nicholas was not listening. He thought he heard the sound of voices in the hall and he tensed. Moments later Honoria thrust open the door and bustled into the room, bringing with her excitement and an oddly supressed amusement. "Nicholas! Congratulations, you are a father!"
At his sister's words he let out a great bellow of jubilation. Striding across the room, he grabbed her in his arms and spun her around. "Stephanie," he said as he put Honoria down. "Is she all right?"
"She's fine." Honoria's eyes twinkled. "Tired, anxious to see you, but fine."
"I'll go immediately." These words were spoken as Nicholas rushed from the room.
Behind him he heard Baxter demand cheerfully, "Well, what is it, boy or girl?" and Honoria laughed in reply. He wondered about that laugh as he took the stairs two at a time, up to the second floor, but he had forgotten it by the time he reached the closed door to his wife's chamber. There he paused to collect himself. Taking a deep breath, he thrust open the door.
Stephanie was lying on the big bed, her dark hair spilling over the pillow, her eyes closed. Thinking her asleep, Nicholas tiptoed carefully across the gilt-and-rose-colored room. As he neared, Stephanie's eyes opened and she smiled up at him. "Nicholas," she said, reaching out for him with both hands.
Catching her hands in his grasp, he kissed first one and then the other as he settled on the edge of the bed. "Honoria says you are safely delivered. How do you feel?"
"Exhausted!" Stephanie's smile was misty, then mischievous. "Nicholas, mon amor, I know we talked of having a son, but..."
Bending down, Nicholas lightly brushed her lips with his. "A daughter is fine, so long as both you and the child are healthy."
Stephanie responded to his kiss with a scarcely banked ardor. "We are all healthy."
He looked into her eyes. There was a hint of a frown in his. "All?"
Amusement teased the corners of Stephanie's lips as she nodded. "Tante Madeleine is supervising the cleaning of your sons right now, but you will be able to see them soon."
Nicholas stared at her for one incredulous moment, then he began to laugh. "My son... s? More than one?"
"Vraiment." The door connecting the bedchamber to what was usually Stephanie's sitting room, opened. For the present the room had been converted into a nursery. A wet nurse and a maid appeared, each carrying one tiny wrapped bundle. They were followed by Madeleine, Lady Wroxton.
"Two healthy boys, Nicholas," she announced. "Identical twins. We've been careful to note which was born first, of course, as he's the heir, but there are only minutes between them. Now, what are you going to do for names?"
They had decided on a name for a boy and for a girl, but not on two male names. Nicholas looked into the tiny, scrunched-up faces of his sons. They had been born with the tilted eyes and determined chin of their mother and his own passionate mouth. A shock of black hair identical to his covered the top of each tiny head. There could be no doubt that these infants were both Prescotts and de la Riviéres.
Stephanie reached out for her babies. The wet nurse put one in her arms. She smiled and tucked the swaddling clothes around him tenderly. Nicholas felt his throat close with emotion. She said quietly, "This is the elder. We will call him after you, of course, as we'd planned."
Tentatively Nicholas touched the baby's cheek. The tiny child opened its mouth and turned its head, wanting to suck.
Stephanie laughed. "He's hungry." She handed the baby to his father.
"If he's hungry, shouldn't we feed him?" Nicholas said, as he gingerly took his son in his arms.
"In a moment," Stephanie replied. She reached for the second child. "We must name this little fellow first."
The tiny infant opened sleepy eyes as he settled comfortably in his mother's arms. Nicholas was entranced by the intelligence he saw there.
"I thought that we might call him Lucien, after my father," Stephanie said, and drew a deep breath. "And I would like to designate him as my father's heir, should France ever free herself from this current madness." She looked up into her husband's eyes. "An heir for Wroxton and an heir for Mont Royale. What do you think, chèrie?"
"That your father would have been proud."
Together they looked down at the tiny infants their love had created. Continuity and the future. The Marquis de Mont Royale would indeed have been pleased.
The End
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PRETENDER'S GAME
Hearts of Rebellion Series
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Pretender's Game
The Hearts of Rebellion Series
Book One
by
Louise Clark
PRETENDER'S GAME
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Silently cursing whoever had forced his hand, James said coolly, "What do you think those plans might be?"
Turning away from the window, Thea went toward the hearth. There she prodded the fire with an iron poker, almost as if she would prefer to be poking him instead, James thought ruefully. "Since you force the issue, sir, I will tell you what you should have told me in the first place. Your plans, I believe, include leaving Edinburgh for some benighted spot in the mountains."
James suppressed his annoyance over her description of his beloved Glenmuir. "You don't approve of our removal to the Highlands."
Thea tossed down the poker, then swept him a graceful, mocking curtsy. "I go where my husband commands. It is not mine to approve or disapprove."
James said mildly, "You would do well to remember that, madam."
Rising to her full height, Thea's angry brown eyes challenged him. "When we've reached Glenmuir, Mr. MacLonan, do you intend to tell others all of those unimportant little details that a husband usually tells his wife? Will I be the last to know if you decide to visit one of your other properties, only finding out when you don't sit down to dinner with me?"
"That is unfair, Thea."
She made a little sound that seethed with frustration. "Was it fair of you to tell my parents that we woul
d be living in Glenmuir before you told me?"
"So that is what this is all about," James breathed softly. He suspected that his father had decided that the Tilton family deserved to know that their daughter would not be living in Edinburgh, and so he'd mentioned the issue to General Tilton—in confidence, most likely, James thought cynically—Tilton had then told his wife, who had told Thea. The result was the righteous fury that was driving Thea now.
"I expected better of you, sir!"
"Thea, have done! I did not deliberately set out to slight you."
"But it happened!"
"Yes, it did."
Her eyes blazing, she hurried to the door in a rustle of silken skirts. There she paused, dramatically outlined in the opening. "We both know the reasons for our marriage, James MacLonan. I do not expect affection from you, but I do expect respect. Next time you have an order to give which concerns me, pray consider informing me before any other."
"That sounds remarkably like a threat."
Thea opened her eyes in a wide, guileless expression. "Would I threaten my husband? I merely ask to be accorded the civilities any married woman is owed by her mate."
She was giving him fair warning that she would not allow herself to be treated as anything other than his equal. Very well, he was willing to accept that, but there were some matters in which he refused to concede his power over his wife. A slow lazy smile touched James's mouth as he caught Thea before she could fully enter the hallway. Gently he drew her back into the room. "I think," he said softly, touching her cheek, "I begin to understand you."
Though she did not struggle, she turned her face away, refusing to meet his eyes. He bent and kissed her lightly along her elegant jawline. She shuddered. He took advantage of the moment to slip his arm around her waist and draw her to him. "I promise you, Thea, you have my respect and more."