Marietta, becoming more and more aware of Léon’s gaze, allowed Raphael to win and excused herself. To be in the same room and not to be able to talk and laugh or have the empathy with him that she had felt in those first heady hours after he had rescued her, was becoming more and more of a physical impossibility. That he would never love her she knew, but she longed for him to like her a little. To smile at her. Talk to her. She leaned her aching head against the coolness of the window, gazing sightlessly out over the dark trees as they soughed in the night air. Her days seemed composed of manoeuvres to avoid him, to save herself some measure of suffering. In the morning she would ride early to see Ninette Brissac. By the time she returned Léon would have ridden to Lancerre, and another meeting would be avoided. She lay down in her bed, but sleep was a long time coming.
Léon awoke with a feeling of unacknowledged relief. Today he could dress for riding and not for courting. It made a pleasant change and it put him in a better mood than he had been in for days. The church bells were ringing the Angelus as he strode across the flags in the courtyard to the stables and Saracen.
Marietta, returning from the Brissacs’ cottage, rode full tilt into him. ‘God’s truth!’ he exclaimed, leaping out of the way. ‘Are you forced to ride as if you’re fleeing a thousand devils?’
‘No, but I’ve work to do.’ She hadn’t meant to sound rude, but her skirt was covered in dust from the road and the breeze had dishevelled her hair. It seemed that she was always seen at a disadvantage, especially in comparison to the exquisite perfection of Elise.
‘Never mind the work,’ Léon said impulsively. ‘Let’s fly the hawks,’ and without even waiting for her assent spurred Saracen in the direction of the drawbridge. Marietta’s hesitation was fractional. It was the first time since her arrival at the château that he had spoken to her in the old free and easy manner. Digging in her heels she rode after him, the church bells were still ringing as they galloped between the thatched cottages of the village and out into the stone and shrub covered hills surrounding it. Saracen’s tail streamed in the wind and the sheer speed of her own horse took Marietta’s breath away as she strove to narrow the gap between them.
Léon rode fiercely, giving Saracen full rein, feeling a sense of heady breathlessness as the stifling boredom of the last few days was forgotten. Once again he enjoyed the feel of a galloping horse beneath him, the sight of a limitless horizon, and ahead of him his stable boy waiting obediently with the dogs and hawks. The dogs strained at their leashes as he wheeled Saracen round, his eyes alight as Marietta spurred her mare the last few yards.
‘You ride like a man!’
White teeth flashed in a smile Marietta had begun to think she had only dreamed about. It was the highest compliment Léon could give a woman, and knowing it Marietta laughed, feeling a sense of elation. Just when she had given up hope the old empathy had sprung up between them once more. But only for a short time. Tomorrow he would be with Elise. In a week she herself would be in Montpellier or Narbonne, but for the moment they were together and it was enough.
Her face was radiant and the stable boy gazed at her with such adoration that Léon drew his brows quickly together and ordered him to unhood the birds. ‘Have you hawked before?’ he asked Marietta, already knowing the answer. There were times when he wondered if there was anything she had not done or could not do.
‘Not since my father died.’ Her flamboyant red-gold hair fell loosely over her shoulders, her breasts heaving with the exertion of the ride.
Léon’s breath caught in the back of his throat. By the Mass, but she was a beauty. No trinkets, no powder, no paint—just satin-smooth skin, sparkling eyes that made a man feel good to be alive and a vibrant vitality that paled every other woman into insignificance.
‘Then take the merlin.’
The bird had been bought especially for Elise, but Léon knew that his future wife would never ride with it on her wrist. There was a tinkle of bells as the birds moved their legs in the jesses and then the boy had slipped the merlin, the plumes on its feet fluttering lightly in the faint breeze. They reminded Marietta of the way Léon’s exotic hat of ostrich plumes swayed elegantly when he rode off to Lancerre. She liked him better without his finery, his body strong and forceful, dressed for riding and for action, the powerful muscles of his arms and chest showing beneath his linen shirt as he slipped his falcon.
The bird flew at once, so high that Marietta had to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun. Then, so suddenly that Marietta gasped, it plummeted, seizing its prey. The stable boy unleashed the eager dogs and they ran, noses to the wind, to retrieve the hare that would eventually grace their master’s table.
The merlin brought down a lark and a pigeon, and the dogs yapped merrily at their heels as they rode higher and higher into the hills, leaving the stable boy far behind them. This was better than the lush woods surrounding Versailles, thronged with lords and ladies of the court, more anxious to be seen in the King’s presence than in enjoying their sport.
At last Léon hooded his hawk and rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle, feasting his eyes on the land around him.
‘Who would prefer Paris or Versailles to this?’ he asked Marietta, his dark eyes gleaming with an expression she had never seen before.
The love he felt for the sun-parched land was tangible and Marietta responded to it fully. ‘Not me,’ she answered.
He looked across at her, at the flush that heightened the honey-gold of her cheeks, at the rapturous expression on her face as she viewed the rolling land of vines and figs that was his. She was a southerner by blood and by nature. It was little wonder that she had never fitted into life at Evray: never been happy there. Sensing his gaze upon her she turned, this time no longer afraid to meet his gaze.
The green eyes burned so fiercely that it seemed to Léon no man could look into their depths without feeling the heat. The desires and emotions he had been fighting ever since he returned with her to Chatonnay could be fought no longer. His heart began to beat in slow thick strokes as he slid from his saddle. He must have her. If he did not she would for ever be a fever in his blood, inflaming and tormenting him. Once possessed, surely he could forget her as he had so many others? Slowly, without taking his gaze from hers, he crossed to her mare and circled her waist with his hands.
Her heart racing, Marietta allowed his hands to close around her, their heat searing through the thin cambric of her bodice as if she were naked. He lifted her down to her feet, holding her so close against him that Marietta could feel his heart beating against hers.
‘Marietta … Marietta …’ His voice was thick against her hair and then his mouth sought hers with increasing urgency. Every nerve in her body responded to the touch of his hands, the pleasure of his lips on hers and then, as he cupped her breasts and as she felt the hardness of his body against hers and her own shameless desire, she uttered a helpless cry, twisting her head away from his.
‘Elise! What of Elise?’ she demanded, and at the fleeting incomprehension in his eyes she knew the truth. He was still going to marry Elise. He was not making love to her. He was taking her as any man would a willing servant girl. And she, Marietta Riccardi, had been on the verge of submitting. Hot tears scalded her eyes as she drew back her palm and slapped Léon de Villencuve with all the force she could muster, across the cheek.
His desire changed to incredulity and then to anger.
‘What the devil …?’
With a cruelty he had not known he was capable of, he crushed her to him, bringing his mouth down so hard on hers that he tasted blood. Vainly she struggled as he forced her down on the ground, the weight of his body pinioning hers.
‘No,’ she gasped, as his mouth sought her throat, her breasts. ‘Not like this, Léon! For the love of God! Not like this!’
With one hand he secured her flailing wrists while with the other he tore open the bodice of her gown. Marietta moaned and Léon halted, panting fiercely.
‘Don’t play the virgin with me, Marietta. You were not quite so reluctant for Raphael’s attentions!’
‘No,’ she shook her head vainly, hardly able to breathe. ‘He tried to kiss me once but nothing more.’
‘And so to spurn him you laugh and flirt and play chess?’ Léon said savagely.
‘And if I do?’ Marietta’s eyes flashed fire. ‘And if I had accepted his kiss, what of it? Raphael de Malbré is not a man about to be married!’
Her words were more effective than any show of violence could have been. He hurled her away from him so savagely that she rolled for yards in the dust and dirt. Then, with an oath, he sprang to his feet and strode towards Saracen without even bothering to give her a backward glance or brush the earth from his breeches.
‘Léon!’ she called after him, her voice anguished. ‘Léon!’
But the black stallion was already disappearing down the hillside in a flurry of scattered pebbles.
Chapter Seven
The sun was beginning to set when Marietta returned at last to the château, the white stone walls golden in the last light of day. Her heart contracted when she saw the team of ebony-black horses and the elegant carriage that announced the presence of Elise. She entered by the kitchen door, hurrying discreetly to her bedchamber to bathe and change. Cécile eyed her curiously, noting the torn bodice of her gown. The Comte, too, had arrived back at Chatonnay like a man who had spent the day wrestling in the dirt. It was all very intriguing.
She provided Marietta with a bowl of rose-scented water, noting with interest the bruises on Marietta’s wrists. Hurriedly she excused herself and ran to find Lili. They had been together, the Comte and Marietta. Armand himself had seen them ride off into the hills and from the way she had returned … Cécile’s plump cheeks were pink with excitement. That her betters should behave as she did was a constant source of wonder to her. Especially when she thought of the Comte, now elegant in black velvet, his buttonholes heavily embroidered with gold thread, paying court to the Widow Sainte-Beuve. Cécile was sure that lady had never known the pleasure of having her bodice ripped open or her wrists bruised by an over-eager lover.
Elise was happier than she had been for a long time. At last she had persuaded Léon to wait a little while longer before marrying her. The Abbé had been as shocked as she herself had been at the thought of her remarrying within weeks of her husband’s death.
To her surprise and relief Léon had not argued. Another few weeks would make no difference. The urgency he had felt on first returning was now lost in a welter of emotions that he was powerless to understand. When Marietta, unable to stay away any longer from the drawing-room without seeming to display bad manners, had finally descended the stairs and joined them, he had turned his back on her pointedly, engaging the Duke in deep discussion.
Marietta licked dry lips and forced a smile in Jeannette’s direction. Jeannette, even more curious about her son’s and her guest’s activities than Lili or Cécile, smiled back, patting the seat beside her. Raphael, ensconced with Céleste in the window, was unable to join her as he wished. Another few minutes and then he would have done his duty by Léon’s cousin and be free to drink in the sight of Marietta, her red-gold hair brushed into a semblance of order, her simple gown transformed by her natural grace. Her feet, as always when they dined, were slippered in velvet as Céleste’s and Madame Sainte-Beuve’s. He preferred them bare, and felt a rush of heat to his groin as the vision of a completely naked Marietta arose before him.
‘Please say you’ll do it for me,’ Elise was saying, her small hand reaching out for Marietta’s. ‘ It would mean such a lot to me. I shall never have the chance of such a gown again, not even if we go to court, for the Duke tells me that a gown of point de Venise would cost thousands of livres.’
‘But I couldn’t, Elise. There isn’t time.’
‘Then only the bodice. Oh please, Marietta! Please say you will.’
Marietta looked into the pleading blue eyes helplessly. How could she possibly make Elise’s wedding gown after the scene that had just taken place between herself and Léon? Yet how could she refuse? To do so would seem churlish in the extreme.
‘I’ve seen the collar you made for Jeannette and it’s exquisite. Please, Marietta. It would make me so happy.’
Marietta sought for an excuse that would be acceptable and failed to find one. ‘All right,’ she said at last, ‘but I doubt I’ll be able to finish a whole gown, Elise.’
‘Oh, the bodice alone would be enough. I could fit it on to a skirt of heavy satin.’ She clapped her hands with joy. ‘Oh, Léon! Marietta has promised to make me my wedding gown!’
Léon turned to his future bride, a tiny nerve throbbing at his temple. ‘If it pleases you, my love.’
‘Of course it pleases me! It will be the finest gown in the whole of Languedoc. Oh you are kind, Marietta. I do wish you’d promise to stay in Chatonnay instead of returning to Venice.’
Léon kept his eyes determinedly averted from Marietta and the Duke, like so many others, began to wonder. Léon’s reputation with women was notorious, yet the Duke; who had known him since he was a child, would have sworn that when it came to marriage Léon would have entered into that contract with loyalty. He had been right when he had said he was no courtier. The morals of the court might have suited Léon in his single state, but where his marriage was concerned he would be as old-fashioned as his father had been, loving one woman and one woman only. Yet he was sure he saw an agony of longing in Léon’s dark eyes whenever they rested on the Riccardi girl.
Puzzled, he turned his attention to the fair-headed vision in ice-blue silk, receiving a smile that would melt the hardest heart.
‘What about some music?’ Raphael asked, finally disentangling himself from Céleste’s attentions. ‘ I’ve yet to hear that spinet play.’
‘It does, I assure you,’ Jeannette said with a laugh. ‘There’s nothing I would like better than to hear it played.’
Céleste longed to suggest that she should play, but she knew that if she did so, instead of shining in Raphael’s eyes, she would only show herself to be a provincial. Her playing was not of a high enough standard for a man used to the accomplishments of court women.
Raphael’s garter hose fitted indecently tight, bunches of ribbon at his knees and at the shoulders of his silk doublet. In his high-heeled shoes of scarlet leather Céleste thought him even more magnificent than the King himself, but his eyes were no longer on her. They were on Marietta, the question in them clear but unspoken.
Slowly Marietta rose to her feet. Why not? It would do Léon de Villeneuve good to see that the Riccardis were brought up as ladies of accomplishment. That he had made a grave error in treating her as a peasant. She felt a tightening of her stomach muscles as she approached the spinet. It had been ten long years since she had last played, not since her father had been alive and they had lived in comfort. She sat herself at Jeannette’s spinet, every eye in the room on her. To all of them she was an enigma. If she could play, then the breeding she displayed in her every action would prove to be no play-acting. The Riccardis must have been as high-born as Marietta claimed.
Jeannette felt a sudden wave of apprehension and knotted her hands in her lap, whispering a silent prayer. Only Céleste and Elise were happily oblivious of the sudden tension. Marietta raised her hands, and the Duke’s eyes narrowed speculatively. Raphael’s willed her to prove to them all that Marietta Riccardi was fit to marry a de Malbré, while Léon’s were unreadable.
The music came pure and sweet, every note perfect, and Marietta allowed herself a small smile of satisfaction as she heard the intake of breath around her: the Duke and Léon surprised, Raphael and Jeannette relieved.
‘Can we dance?’ Céleste asked eagerly. ‘ Oh, please let us dance.’
The Duke, nothing loth, rose to his feet and held out his hands to Elise. Elise blushed prettily and accepted. Raphael had no option but to proffer his hand to Céleste.
W
ith hands held high the two couples moved down the length of the vast drawing-room in the stately steps of a minuet. Apart, together, apart. The Duke felt like a man twenty years his junior. Reluctantly, as the music ended, he returned Elise to her future husband. Céleste remained firmly on Raphael’s arm as Marietta began to play again.
Léon made a move to join his friend and cousin, but Elise protested with a little laugh and a flutter of her fan. ‘One dance is enough! I am quite breathless.’
The Duke solicitously poured her a glass of reviving wine and proceeded to tell her she danced like an angel.
Raphael, frustrated at dancing and not being able to hold Marietta’s hand in his, asked Céleste if she could sing.
‘As sweetly as a nightingale,’ Jeannette assured him and so it was that Céleste found herself given the opportunity to show off her own accomplishments, but only so that Raphael could dance with Marietta.
And Marietta did not tire as easily as Elise Sainte-Beuve. Refusing to let Léon see the pain he had caused her, she laughed and danced with Raphael, her velvet-slippered feet as light on the floor of the drawing-room as they were nimble in the kitchen garden. Raphael, eyes alight, laughed down at her. She was a delight; accomplished, graceful, passionate. A constant source of surprise and wonderment. He would marry her, and be damned with the sniggers of the court. They would stop soon enough when she had charmed the King and she would do that as easily as she had charmed him.
All too soon Céleste protested she could sing no longer and Raphael reluctantly parted hands with Marietta. He would propose tonight, he resolved. They could be married before they returned to Paris.
Lion of Languedoc Page 11