by Laura Parker
“Can you be certain? The gentleman is a comte.”
Conall laughed. “That’s how little you know our Dee. She’ll have only an Irishman, she will. She’s sung that tune these last eleven years till our ears are weary of the ditty.”
“But a man of property and noble birth—”
“Gains no advantage with our Dee.” Conall cast a speculative eye on his guest. “You show a rare interest in the affairs of my sister.”
“The Fitzgeralds do not tread softly in their new homeland,” Killian answered coolly. “Much is heard of you, and gossip is always of interest to your fellow countrymen.”
Conall considered this. “Aye, ’tis so. But I’ll not have any man or woman speak ill of Dee.”
“There’s no disrespect in wishing a lass luck with a man of wealth and title,” Killian answered, though he was reluctant to pursue the conversation. “Most mothers dream of such a match.”
“Ah well, that’s the rub. There’s no mother to matchmake for Dee. Lady Elva does her best but she’s not even a match for Dee.” He chuckled at his own wit. “Now Dee’s mother, there was a lady a man might prefer for his bride.”
Conall looked about to be certain they would not be overheard and then leaned closer to Killian, a grin on his broad face. “A witch she were, or so they say. For all Lady Grainne was noble born, there was a wantonness in her the likes of which I’ve never seen before or since. Black-haired she was, and red-mouthed. I was all of twelve but I knew I was a man when she walked within me view.” He made a rude gesture with his hand and chuckled. “Da always was a man for the lasses. Dee’s the result. Wirra! The poor soul did not last. She gave up her life birthing Dee. ’Tis Brigid, Lady Grainne’s kinswoman, who’s reared the lass.”
Conall paused to stroke his chin, his merry blue eyes darting away from and then back to Killian’s somber expression. “I know what you’re thinking: why’s he telling me the story of Dee’s birth?”
He rested a hand on Killian’s shoulder. “I’ve had it in me head for a year or more that you should meet our Dee. She’ll not be easy to win, but you’d not have it any other way, I’m thinking.”
Killian’s expression grew remote. “I’m not the man for the lass.”
Conall grinned. “Many a man has made that hopeless vow concerning a lass.”
“And a few have meant it.”
Conall dropped his hand from MacShane’s shoulder. “Well, then, you best be warned that Dee is not a lass to be trifled with. Do not give her false hope. I’ve seen in her eyes a certain partiality for you. She’s a stubborn, willful brat at times; but she has heart and spirit, and I’ll not have her hurt.”
“A man cannot always spare a lass’s feelings,” Killian said, “but I promise she’ll not know grief on my account.”
Satisfied, Conall nodded. “Then I’ll warn you away from her nurse, Brigid, only because I’ve a liking for you. She’s not the way to Deirdre, in any case. She’s calls herself a beanfeasa, with her charms and such. Be careful that you do not arouse her suspicions. Ah, here comes the lass, and dressed like she’s going to a ball.”
As Deirdre entered the stable yard she gave a final tug to the black silk kerchief that held her lace fontange in place. She had chosen her blue taffeta gown with its tight bodice and low neckline because it made her feel beautiful. Yet, when she recognized the man who stood beside Conall, she suddenly felt less certain of herself. “Captain MacShane,” she said in surprise.
“Lady Deirdre,” Killian returned quietly with the smallest of bows, something she had not seen him do before.
“Have you been riding?” she asked politely, though she knew the answer. His face glistened with sweat and his black clothes were dusty.
“Aye, down by the river.”
Deirdre’s throat constricted. MacShane had been to the river. Had he seen her lying asleep in the grass? The fact that he could not possibly have guessed her dreams did not keep a blush from rising in her cheeks. The dream was too fresh, too vivid, to be easily forgotten. What would he think if he knew she had dreamed of him, had dreamed of lying in the cool grass beside him, of lifting her mouth again and again for his kiss? Would he be glad, or would he ridicule her as always?
She would never know because she could never tell him. The lover of her dream had been nothing like the hard, unreachable stranger before her now. His face was closed to her, his mouth a straight, unemotional line.
Killian said nothing. He had no words for the serene creature who stood before him. Only in anger or when she forgot that she was a lady did he feel free to speak his mind to her. Had he known beforehand that he had been invited to Nantes to be paraded before her like a prize bull, he would never have come. For, against his will, she did stir him. When he looked at her he saw his dream made flesh and the yearning to hold her, to love her, nearly overwhelmed the reality of their situation.
She would be shocked, appalled, insulted to know what thoughts he had had as he lay daydreaming on the banks of the Loire. He had dreamed of her lying in his arms, pliant and eager for the caress of his hand.
His gaze dropped briefly to her daring neckline and an unexpected surge of desire jolted him as he lifted his eyes to her face once more. How warily she regarded him, her soft sweet mouth trembling with emotion. It was as if she suspected him already, could read his mind.
He looked away. “Until later,” he said to Conall. “My lady,” he added with a sketchy bow before striding toward the house.
“The gathering at the de Quentins,” Conall called after him. “Ask Darragh about it. You’re invited.”
“He’s invited?” Deirdre questioned in amazement.
“Mind your manners, he’ll have heard you,” Conall admonished, but MacShane did not turn back.
Deirdre blushed. “I meant no insult. I only meant that MacShane would not seem to possess the proper dress.”
Deirdre turned to Conall and saw anger and hurt reflected in his expression. He was dressed informally. The only decorations on his dark blue coat were the lace frills below his turned-back cuffs and a small lace cravat. Instead of the accepted black-heeled shoes of a gentleman, he wore boots and spatterdashes that reached to his knees. His head was free of a wig and crisp red curls bounced about his shoulders.
“I’m not a courtier the likes of Cousin Claude,” Conall said stiffly. “Nor is MacShane a man to sport ribbons and powder. But then, the lass who would win him wouldn’t want him powdered and rouged.”
“No, I think not,” Deirdre agreed, remembering how she had imagined his raven-black hair blown by the wind and the smooth silken feel of it under her fingertips. Patches and wigs would not suit the man of her dreams who had lain at his ease among wild flowers and grass. That man had been a part of the land, an earthy pagan element among his own kind. Which was the real MacShane? Would she ever know?
Bemused, Deirdre smiled at her brother and that smile gave away more than she knew.
Conall grinned back at her. She had betrayed a little of her feelings for MacShane. Because MacShane did not fancy a bride, it did not follow that he would not have one. Many a man had come reluctantly to the altar.
Half an hour later the Fitzgerald coachman turned onto the drive before the de Quentin chateau and the carriageway was abuzz. From the tall front windows, new additions to the centuries-old facade, the light from hundreds of tapers shone upon vehicles of every description.
“You did not tell me ’twas to be a grand affair,” Conall grumbled as he reached for his tricorner hat. “I would not have come!”
“Cousin Claude’s invitation said it was to be an intimate affair,” Deirdre answered, as much surprised as he.
Conall snorted. “A man with this many intimates has no friends at all. But then there’s a merchant for you.”
“The Gouberts haven’t been merchants for at least two generations,” Deirdre reminded her brother.
“Aye, but they remind the countryside of their heritage with such vulgar display. Mind yo
u, there’ll be more meat at supper than the Fitzgerald household sees in a week.”
“They are our cousins,” Deirdre reminded him.
“Just barely, and only because some foolish de Quentin noblewoman with a soft head to match her heart fell into bed with a French captain named Goubert. Amazing what French francs will buy. Now the Gouberts are the de Quentins, properly titled and all. The last comte, rest his soul, was the veriest old pirate who ever lived.”
“You are harsh in your judgment of all who are not Irishmen,” Deirdre teased.
“Aye,” Conall concurred. “Come, lass, there’s Cousin Claude dancing in his red-heeled shoes for want of a glimpse of you.”
Deirdre glanced up the stone steps of the house to discover that Conall was not far wrong. Claude Goubert, le Comte de Quentin, waited just outside the open doorway, a breach of protocol that was certain to be discussed as fireside gossip by his nobler-born guests when the evening was done. He was splendidly attired in a pale blue satin coat whose nipped-in waist and wide skirts accented his slender figure. Tiers of lace cascaded from his lawn cravat, and his sleeves had been split rather than cuffed to reveal blue satin ribbons at his elbows and wrists. Pale blue silk stockings and a tall cane trimmed with a matching bowknot completed his attire.
Deirdre’s spirits sank a little when he nodded at her, a singular greeting that she would rather have done without. He was making no secret of his infatuation with her. Overt displays of tender regard were all the fashion, but she did not like being the center of attention. Suppressing a sigh, she gave Conall her hand.
“Have we come acourting?” Conall whispered waggishly in her ear as they climbed the steps.
Deirdre shot him a sideways glance of pure enmity.
“Why do you not go back to war where you belong, Conall? The pastimes of genteel folk are well beyond you.”
“Mademoiselle Deirdre,” Claude greeted her warmly as she reached the top of the steps.
“Monsieur le Comte,” she returned pleasantly and extended her hand. To her relief, he did not salute it but simply held her fingertips for a moment.
“But we are too formal,” Claude said. Gazing into her face, he exerted the most subtle of pressure upon her fingers. “We are enfamille, cousin. Will you not call me Claude?”
Deirdre smiled. “Very well, Cousin Claude.”
“Cousin Claude,” Conall seconded boisterously and offered his hand.
The Frenchman reluctantly released Deirdre’s hand to clasp her brother’s and winced as the huge ruby on his ring finger was crushed into his skin by a strong grip. “Cousin Conall,” he murmured. Retrieving his mangled hand as quickly as possible, he turned again to Deirdre. “But where is your papa? I most particularly wished him to be here.”
Deirdre leaned close to him, as if she had some secret to impart, and said, “Papa is feeling unwell this evening. Yet, had he known what a grand evening you had planned, I’m certain he would have struggled from his bed to attend.”
In the dazzling moment of having the lady of his dreams so close, Claude did not notice Conall’s snort of amusement. He stood that moment in awe of the glorious beauty of Deirdre’s daring décolletage.
“Mademoiselle, my prayer to God is that your father’s health improves instanter. But, as you’re here, I must confess that my happiness is complete.” Deirdre retrieved her fan from its ribbon about her wrist and flicked it open. “I, too, am pleased. Will you not give me your arm, cousin, before those who stand waiting behind us become less pleased and return to their carriages?”
“More likely they’ll trample us over! Damme, if that isn’t the smell of roast venison in the air,” Conall grumbled in Gaelic as they entered the house.
An hour later Deirdre sank gracefully into a petit-point chair beside Conall, plying her fan with an uncommon amount of energy. “Do not say it, you devil.”
“What should I not say?” Conall questioned in all innocence, but his grin was as broad as ever.
“That I have somehow brought this upon myself,” she answered tartly.
“I would not say that precisely,” he replied and offered her his cup. “’Tis only canary, and plaguey poor stuff that is for a man with a thirst!”
Deirdre took a long sip, luxuriating in the feel of cool liquid sliding down her throat. The Gouberts’ intimate gathering included fifty guests, most of whom had made it their business to engage her in conversation meant to extract the extent of her interest in their host. It had taken all her skill at conversation to keep them guessing.
“Better?” Conall prompted. “Good. Then I will say that you had best keep a place or two away from Cousin Claude at supper. He’s been gazing at you the evening long as though you were his favorite dish. Put a spoon in his hand and he may not be responsible for his actions!”
“Cousin Claude would never do such a thing,” she said stiffly but her eyes twinkled. “I might upset his elaborate toilette.”
“Paint on a man!” Conall muttered. “May the devil himself come to fetch me to hell the very hour I paint me face like an aging jade.”
“I’m told ’tis all the rage at court,” Deirdre answered. “There are those who japan their faces from cheeks to chin. Besides, I am quite taken with his face patch. ’Tis a unicorn?”
“Puts me in mind of a pregnant cow!” Conall said in a voice loud enough to be heard but, thankfully, not understood because he spoke Gaelic.
Amusement got the better of Deirdre, and she retreated behind the shelter of her open fan.
Satisfied to have raised her spirits, Conall patted her hand. “Well now, there’s a certain lady who’s been making eyes at me the evening long. I should relieve the poor lass’s suspense.”
Deirdre followed his gaze. “That’s Madame Perot,” she whispered. “Her husband is away in Spain, I believe.”
“So much the better,” Conall muttered, adjusting his steinkirk.
“She’s married,” Deirdre repeated.
Conall turned on her a surprised glance. “Lass, sometimes I forget how innocent you are. A married woman bereft of her husband is a gift of fate, to my way of thinking. ’Tis easier to tip the scales in me favor if she’s missing a man’s arms already.”
“That’s infamous!” she whispered in genuine shock.
“’Tis life. Do not judge so harshly what you do not understand, lass.”
Before she could answer him, Conall rose and strode off toward the place where Madame Perot sat. In consternation, Deirdre watched him make an elegant bow with his leg extended.
“Bodach!” she murmured. He was much too big and broad for courtier’s gestures but it seemed not to matter. Madame Perot smiled at him, rose from her seat, and accepted the arm he offered. It was not until they reached the doorway leading from the salon that Deirdre realized someone had come to stand beside her.
“Mademoiselle. At last.”
Deirdre felt the muscles of her face stretch into an automatic smile. “Cousin Claude. Do join me.”
With a sweep of his hand, he adjusted the skirts of his coat and sank gracefully onto the chair Conall had occupied.
“You’ve outdone yourself, cousin,” she said, feeling the need of her fan again. “You may be justifiably proud of the evening.”
“Just to be beside you, to breathe the air that you do, chérie, makes me the proudest and most content of men.”
There was an earnestness in his fair face that made Deirdre’s heart ache. He will propose, she thought, and found the idea not repugnant but simply unwelcome.
“Are we not all a merry group?” she said absently to keep the silence from growing too full. As the small orchestra began a country tune she smiled in genuine delight. “Are we to dance, too? Oh, Darragh will regret having missed this evening. He does love to dance.”
“But he is here,” Claude replied.
Eagerly Deirdre searched the crowd of gaily dressed guests. When her eyes came to rest on the man who entered the doorway, she went utterly still.
> “What is it?” Claude questioned, puzzled by her reaction. “Mademoiselle?”
Deirdre turned to look at her companion. “You seem to have another guest, cousin. Will you not greet him?”
Claude looked toward the doorway and saw a tall man dressed severely in black, wearing his own black hair waved about his face in a style half a century old. “I do not know this man,” he said in annoyance.
“It is Captain MacShane, our houseguest,” Deirdre informed him.
Claude rose reluctantly to his feet. Etiquette had demanded that he invite the Fitzgeralds’ guest, but he had not expected the man to accept. He turned to Deirdre, “J’ai regrets, cousin, that I must leave you a moment. I will return, with your permission.”
Deirdre nodded him away and then lowered her gaze, concentrating on the open fan in her lap. It was her favorite accessory. Painted upon the delicate vellum stretched over sticks of mother-of-pearl was a miniature of Liscarrol. Darragh had commissioned the fan in Paris for her sixteenth birthday. She stared at it, smiling at the French artist’s whimsy which had placed a topiary garden at Liscarrol’s left and an artificial pond in the foreground. Neither of those existed at Liscarrol. But every detail of the house itself was correct. The massive gray walls of the Norman castle held a dominant place in the middle of the painting.
“That bored are you, lass?”
Deirdre looked up with a smile. “Darragh, I did not think social evenings much to your taste.”
Darragh sat down beside her. “’Tis true,” he admitted freely in Gaelic. “I’ve little fondness for French society. I prefer me air perfumed with horse manure and the green grass.”
Deirdre agreed. The press of sweating bodies coupled with an abundance of perfumes and powder scents had nearly overwhelmed her. “I suppose one becomes used to it after a time.”
“MacShane agrees with me, but I thought he could do with a bit of entertainment, seeing that Fitzgerald hospitality is not at its most charming.”
Deirdre looked up again in spite of her resolve to keep her eyes from MacShane, and another shiver of anticipation sped through her. He looked splendid in his severe costume of black. He was conversing with the comte in French, the deep murmur of his voice reaching her beneath the rustle and chatter of the room.