He buried his face in her hair, the strands cold and silken against his cheek. His arms felt the delicacy of her, the smallness of her bones, the narrowness of her waist. A rush of love nearly overwhelmed him.
“Honneure,” Philippe whispered against her ear. “God, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so.”
Nothing had ever felt as wonderful as being in his arms. Nothing. She could never have enough, hold him tight enough, long enough. She wanted to hang on forever, feel his warmth and nearness for eternity. And feel his lips on hers.
Philippe felt her softly gloved hands on his face, tugging him downward. Through half-lidded eyes he saw her lips part in eagerness. Desire rose in him and spread through his limbs like liquid fire, and he brought his lips down to hers and covered them.
Honneure groaned. There had been many stolen kisses during the waning weeks of summer before the sojourn to Fontainebleau. But none had ever been like this. Her knees began to buckle, and as he felt her sag Philippe supported her with a firm hand pressed to the small of her back.
Her hips were now pressed to Philippe’s. Something thick and hot seemed to form in her abdomen, and she instinctively thrust more tightly against him. Now she felt a hardening there, the maleness of him, the proof of his desire for her.
Honneure feared she would faint as her throat threatened to close. Passion filled every part of her body like a living thing struggling to take control of her and give way to the most basic instinct of all. Feeling as if she could no longer breathe, Honneure tore her lips from Philippe’s.
“I love you.” Honneure breathed raggedly. “Oh, Philippe, I love you so much.”
“And I love you.” He kissed her again but quickly. He planted small kisses all over her face, cheeks, brow, and eyelids. The taste of her, the sweetness, seemed to permeate his very soul.
Nothing in the world existed but Philippe. Until two small front paws began scratching at the hem of her skirt. Baron gave a polite but insistent, “Woof,” and Honneure had to laugh. Hands against Philippe’s chest, she pushed away from him.
“I’m sorry, but I can’t forget my charges. They’re probably freezing to death.”
“No, I’m sorry. I was delayed. I couldn’t help it.”
“I was afraid you weren’t coming. I thought something had happened to you.”
“Nothing could ever keep me from you. Nothing. But I … I received a message I had to deal with.”
Something unusual in Philippe’s expression sent a little frisson of warning along Honneure’s nerve endings. “A message?”
Philippe hesitated, recalling the strangeness of it.
He had just shrugged on his coat in preparation to meet Honneure when there was a knock on the door of his spare, cubicle-like room in the stable. He could not have been more surprised to open it and find Olivia standing on the other side. Her smile was familiar. And unpleasant.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
“No. Tell me why you’ve come, and be quick about it. I have an errand.”
“An errand?” Olivia quirked a brow. “You call a clandestine meeting with your … lover … an errand?”
“How did you …” Philippe had stopped himself in time. He didn’t need to hear it from Olivia. He knew what a small world, and how rife with gossip, the immense palace truly was. But it disturbed him to learn that people as insignificant as he and Honneure should be watched as closely as they apparently were. To what purpose? And by whom? “Tell me what you came for, Olivia. Or get out of my way.”
“Ooooh, what a big, bad boy.” Olivia had coyly touched a forefinger to his chest. “I love it when you …”
“Don’t touch me.” He had grabbed her wrist and pushed her hand away. “And move aside. I’ll not waste any more time on you.”
Philippe had seen her eyes narrow as he pushed past her, pulling his door closed behind him. He did not look back as he walked down the narrow corridor but could feel her stare boring into his back.
“Don’t you dare walk away from me like that, Philippe Mansart,” she had hissed at his retreating back. “I have a message I …”
“You know what you can do with it, Olivia,” he had called back without turning. He heard her sharply indrawn breath but ignored her and kept walking. She was vindictive and there would undoubtedly be repercussions, but he didn’t care. Honneure had filled his mind then, his every thought.
And she was before him now and all he wanted to think about. Nor did he wish to upset her with mention of Olivia.
“It … It turned out to be nothing,” he replied at last. “It was a waste of my time while you were waiting for me in the dark and cold.”
“But you’re here now.” Honneure reached up and smoothed an errant curl from Philippe’s pale brow. “You’re here, I missed you so terribly, and I’m so very glad to see you.”
He couldn’t help it. He adored her. Capturing her in his arms once again, he drew her against him and found her lips.
The world started to spin. The cold night faded away. All that was left was the heat of her love and desire.
But Philippe had felt her shivering.
“I’m sorry,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “It’s so damn cold. I should have thought …”
“Ssshhh.” Honneure laid a gloved hand to his lips. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I have seen you, and know you are safe and well.”
“I am. And anxious to see you again. Soon. Preferably in the warmth and light of day.” Philippe took Honneure’s hand, and together they walked toward the château. “When will you be able to get free?”
Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed. One of the small dogs barked at a group of passersby and a half-moon rose in the night sky. The couple walked slowly, heads bent together as they planned a future tryst. Too soon they reached the Marble Court. Philippe raised Honneure’s hand to his lips.
“Good night. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
She moved away from him quickly, reluctant to leave yet anticipating the warmth of the dauphine’s apartments. Nor did she ever want to give the appearance of shirking her duties, which must always come first. Secure in Philippe’s love for her, she merely looked forward to the next time she would see him. Honneure turned when she reached the immense palace doors and watched Philippe disappear into the night.
It was difficult, the periods of waiting until she could see him again. But she was patient.
And they had a lifetime together ahead of them.
The long and boring dinner finally appeared to be coming to an end. Madame du Barry glanced around her with disdain.
The Comte de Provence’s new little wife was plain, uninteresting, and totally, disgustingly subservient, and she loathed the room in which she had been forced to dine. The relatively small space of the king’s private dining room in the Appartements Interieurs hardly seemed befitting of royalty at all. She much preferred the grand and elegant chamber where, although they dined publicly, they at least did so in suitably kingly surroundings. Besides, she rather liked the ceremony of the public meals, when any and all who wished could come and see their monarch sup. It was good for the common people to see how the aristocracy lived. And it was divine to feel the caress of their hungry eyes on her face and form, her fabulous gowns and jewels. With a sigh, the comtesse cast her gaze on the opposite side of the table.
No doubt about it. There absolutely was a shadow of a mustache on the girl’s upper lip. Josephine Louise of Savoy was lucky to have bagged any husband at all. The fact that she had wed a grandson of the King of France was positively miraculous. Her family must be powerful indeed. Languidly, she stretched a bejeweled hand toward her glittering crystal wineglass.
“Homely little thing, isn’t she?”
The king had leaned close to her to whisper his observation. She could smell the wine on his breath, and it was almost overpowering. Good. It was time to bring up the matter that had annoyed and distracted her all evening. The comtesse
leaned back in her chair until her shoulder nearly touched Louis’s.
“My very thoughts, Majesty. And my prayer for your grandson is that it won’t take too many attempts to plant a royal seed in that particular field.”
The king chuckled, then laughed aloud. All eyes turned in their direction, but the comtesse ignored them. When she continued to converse with the king in an undertone, the diners drifted back to their own conversations.
Antoinette eyed the pair nervously. She did not like the way du Barry’s gaze kept sliding in her direction as she whispered with the king. What new tale was she spinning? What new harm did she concoct?
Lifting her chin a notch, Antoinette turned her attention down the long table. Dozens of candles cast magical, flickering lights on sparkling crystal and silver. White-gloved, white-wigged footmen moved gracefully and unobtrusively to refill glasses or remove empty plates. A low murmur of conversation hovered over the clink of flatware on porcelain. She glanced at her husband, chatting amiably with Provence’s bride, and her heart went out to the girl. She knew what it was like to come to an unfamiliar land and marry a perfect stranger. Her eyes traveled on down the table.
The Comte d’Artois, Louis and Provence’s younger brother, was laughing with his sisters, Elizabeth and Clotilde. The king’s three plump sisters, Adelaide, Victoire, and Sophie, sat together across from the nieces and nephew in prim and pointed silence. They occasionally exchanged glances among themselves but never once turned their attention toward their brother and his much-loathed mistress. Antoinette pitied them, for they had gotten on well with the king and had led a relatively happy life until the arrival of du Barry. The king’s youngest sister, Louise, had become so demoralized by the situation at Versailles, at its being turned into a virtual brothel, she had entered the Carmelite house in Saint-Denis, one of the poorest and most austere convents. It was widely known she had gone there to pray for the moral conversion of her brother, the king. Antoinette sighed deeply and looked down the table to her left.
Her pale and thin but utterly jovial brother-in-law, Provence, flashed her a disarming smile.
“Don’t look so glum, little sister,” he scolded playfully. “Surely amid so much beauty and splendor, you can find some reason to smile.”
“I have many reasons to smile. But none of them have anything to do with material possessions.”
“Dancing is not material. Think of all the wonderful holiday parties to come. I invite you now to be my partner.”
“What about your wife?”
Provence leaned close to Antoinette’s ear. “I don’t think she knows how,” he whispered. “And, besides, there are other moves I would prefer to teach her.”
Antoinette could not help laughing, even as the blood rose to her cheeks. Across the table, the comtesse watched her with a smug and satisfied smile.
“Promise me, Louis,” du Barry said to the king without taking her gaze from the dauphine. “Promise me you will do something about her impertinence.”
Louis gulped the last of his wine and set the crystal goblet back on the Belgian lace cloth with an unsteady hand. “Sounds to me like it’s only her servant needs punishing.”
The Comtesse du Barry briefly considered how gratifying it would be to have revenge not only on Antoinette but on one of her favorite servants as well. She dared not ask for anything too petty, however. Besides, she had to let Olivia have a little fun.
“No,” the comtesse said at last. “I’m sure it was not the equerry’s fault at all but Antoinette’s. I have no doubt she has directed all her servants to ignore requests from any of my servants. It is simply another way she has found to snub me and show her self-righteous disapproval.” The comtesse finally turned her heavy-lidded eyes on the king and blinked slowly. “And I sent my servant merely to ask the equerry permission to borrow that lovely new sleigh of Antoinette’s, the one you so admired, that we might have a ride together at first snowfall.”
Louis nodded absently, his mind on more fleshly pursuits. But he did make a mental note to have someone have a word with Antoinette. He was tired to death of the trivial squabbling between his mistress and his grandson and heir’s wife. Furthermore, their endless skirmishing had polarized his court. Some of his most able and trusted ministers had begun to side with his prissy little granddaughter-in-law and openly criticized his lifestyle and the drain it put on the nation’s treasury. He could not have that any longer. Antoinette must be seen to be in line with all the royal decisions and choices, no matter her personal bent.
It was ironic, however, the king mused. Of all the brides he could have arranged for his grandson, the future king, he had unwittingly chosen one as morally proper and tight-laced as Louis himself. Well, she would simply have to mend her ways. Or at least appear to.
With narrowed eyes, Louis the elder gazed across the table at his pretty, young granddaughter-in-law. Barely sixteen years old and already as prudish as his sisters. Such a pity. But it would change. He would see to it. There would be peace between du Barry and Antoinette.
Chapter Fourteen
January 1772
Twelve years. Honneure took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she gazed from the princess’s salon onto the snowy scene below her. It was almost impossible to believe twelve years had passed since Paul and Philippe had come to fetch her from Amboise. She recounted the events over those years, being reared and educated in a beautiful château by a warm and loving family, tutored by a generous and caring mistress, becoming a servant of the future Queen of France, finding the love of her life. She had to be the luckiest woman alive. She only wished she could share her joy with her mistress.
Antoinette looked as forlorn as Honneure had ever seen her. She sat with her smallest and favorite dog on her lap and slowly stroked its silken coat while her hairdresser fussed with her elaborate wig. She had already been dressed in her finest day gown. Diamond earrings glittered in her ears. Her highest-ranking ladies-in-waiting had dressed in appropriate finery of their own and stood about awkwardly, as ill at ease as their mistress.
All eyes turned to Madame Campan as she hurriedly entered the room. “The royal party approaches.”
Antoinette’s ladies assembled themselves in two half circles on either side of the door, ready to fall in behind the princess as she passed. Honneure crossed to her and held out her arms for the little dog.
“They’ll all be waiting for you when you return,” she said in an attempt at reassurance.
Antoinette started to lift her pet, then hesitated. “No,” she said, as if thinking aloud. “My dogs can accompany me. Why not?” She looked up at Honneure. “You, too. Bring my precious pets, Honneure. There is no reason on earth why they cannot come as well.”
Honneure quailed inwardly, remembering her face-to-face encounter with the king. She recalled the uncomfortable intensity of his regard and the almost palpable dislike of his mistress. But her duty was to obey, without question, her princess.
Honneure dipped a curtsy, accepted the small dog, and went to fetch the others. She returned in time to take up the rear of the train as it passed from the interior apartments into the formal reception chambers. Their destination was the Salon of Peace, chosen by the king for what he hoped were obvious reasons.
The room was as immense and splendid as the others of the Queen’s Apartments. Complex, gilded architectural detail framed ceiling murals depicting classical Greek scenes of heroism. A massive circular, allegorical painting of Louis XIV bestowing peace on Europe hung over the marble fireplace and gave the room its name. Heels clicking on the intricately laid wooden floor, the dauphine’s party moved to the center of the chamber to receive the Court.
The king, his ministers, his grandsons, and all their entourage arrived first. Antoinette gave a small sigh of relief when she saw her husband, and they exchanged brief, fond smiles. Then she drew a great, deep breath.
She could do it. She could. She must. She had promised both her husband and her husband’s grandfat
her, the king. She would speak to the du Barry. She would acknowledge her. How painful could it be?
More footsteps and a cacophony of voices announced the arrival of the ladies of the Court. Madame du Barry entered the salon first, accompanied by the foreign minister’s wife, the Duchesse d’Aiguillon. She was a respectable lady who had been a friend of the late queen, and Antoinette was rather fond of her. She detested the woman who followed, the Marechale de Mirepoix, known as the little cat. She treated life as nothing more than a great joke, and Antoinette wondered if du Barry had brought her along as a personal comment on the current proceedings.
Madame du Barry’s group came to a halt. The comtesse looked first at the king, but his attention was elsewhere. Irritated, she glanced pointedly at Antoinette.
The princess realized she was trembling. Avoiding the comtesse’s gaze, she spoke first to the Duchesse d’Aiguillon. She turned at last to her nemesis and spoke the words she had rehearsed.
“There are a lot of people at Versailles today.”
No more than that, but it sufficed. She had acknowledged the du Barry, spoken to her. Officially, the feud was over.
Louis, her husband, looked pleased. The king looked pleased and, certainly, the comtesse. Antoinette had compromised her morals and principles, but she had done her duty to her husband and her sovereign. Realizing she had been holding her breath, she let it out in a long, slow sigh.
The public spectacle, tantamount to an apology, was over, and the Court ladies retreated. The comtesse looked back over her shoulder at the king, but he seemed preoccupied, and she moved on. It was the dauphin who finally broke the silence.
“You look quite lovely, Antoinette,” Louis said to his wife in a conciliatory tone. He knew how difficult this had been for her.
“And her Mistress of the Menagerie looks quite lovely as well.”
If the floor had opened beneath her feet and she had plunged to her death in a black abyss, Honneure would only have been grateful for the oblivion. She felt every eye in the room upon her as the aging king walked slowly in her direction.
By Honor Bound Page 15