“He goes on to say that Paris is not the only city in Europe. He has written to Liszt, who remembers you well.” He looked at her, startled. “Liszt? Franz Liszt?”
Her face softened, almost into a smile, and her eyes widened in amazement. “He remembers me?”
“It seems that Liszt is outraged on your behalf, and says that he will sponsor a series of concerts beginning in Weimar, where he is teaching at the moment, and continuing to Vienna and Prague.” He paused to look at her. “I don’t understand.”
The soft expression stiffened. “But Delphine told you, did she not? I am a performer. I go out on stage and play for the entertainment of the audience.”
He gave an angry snort. “Do not talk dismissively of yourself. I have heard you play. But even so, Liszt?”
“Yes. Liszt. He was a friend of my father, a good friend, and at my father’s request he invited me to play for him.” The memory was obviously a happy one, judging from her expression. “Just to play for him was an honor, you must realize. I am not as good as Clara Schumann, he said, but perhaps one day I will be. Oh, that lovely, generous man! To say he will sponsor me. And in Weimar, Vienna. A whole series of concerts. We are saved!” She collapsed back against the rocks, like a marionette whose strings had been cut. But she was smiling. “We are saved,” she repeated softly. “Louvois cannot touch me now.”
That name again. “Louvois?”
She shook her head. “I do not want to think about him. Not now. Did Oscar say anything else?”
“Oscar?”
“In the letter.” She pointed at it impatiently.
“Oh.” He had not looked at the signature. He did not know the name. “Who is Oscar Villoteau?”
Her impatience seemed to be growing. “I don’t know what you would call him. He publishes music, and he arranges concerts, engagements for musicians. A manager? But he does not have a concert hall of his own. What else did he say?”
Little the wiser, Ned nodded and quickly scanned the rest of the letter. “He says he knows you did not ask this, but he was so impressed with your sonata that he sent it to Liszt, seeking his opinion. The Maestro was more than enthusiastic. He said he would be pleased to introduce it, but thought it would be better if you did yourself. Liszt said it will make your concerts an instant success.”
“He said that?” She held her hands to her throat, as if holding up her head. “Truly?”
“Read it for yourself.” With a smile he held out the letter.
“You don’t understand. You cannot know what it has been like.” Shaking her head, she clutched the paper to her. “I’ve been so afraid. But now we’ll be safe. If I can get concert engagements, I will be able to support us.”
“Have you been worried about that? But why?”
She looked at him incredulously. “Why? Only an aristocrat would ask such an idiotic question. Are you so insulated from reality that you do not know that is what most people worry about all the time?”
He could feel himself flushing. “But your father was a famous musician. Surely he left you provided for. And here at your family’s chateau, you are perfectly safe.”
“You know nothing,” she snapped. “Have you forgotten that we just had a war? Paris was in chaos. Everything was in chaos. We came here, yes, but out of desperation. Do you think I would willingly choose to live on the charity of relatives who disowned my mother? Am I allowed to have no pride because I am a woman?”
He snapped back. “And am I allowed no pride? Do you think I am unable to provide for my wife’s family? Or do you think so poorly of me that you think I would not do so?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Oh, you foolish man. Can you not get it through your head that you cannot marry me?”
Oh lord, he thought, she was back on that subject. “Unless you already have a husband, I do not see the problem.”
Suddenly she was on her feet, and thumped him on the chest. “I do not see the problem,” she repeated in a singsong tone, and thumped him again. “If you do not see the problem you are a blind fool. Tell me, if I married you, what should happen with that concert tour Oscar wrote of? What do you propose?”
“Why, I suppose it would not be necessary.”
“No?”
“Well, you will not need the money.” He spoke cautiously, suspecting some trap here.
She shook her head. “You see? You do not understand at all. Tell me, have you ever known a professional musician? Not one of your aristocratic ladies who plays her little Mozart minuet for her guests. But a professional.”
He shook his head.
“Of course not,” she said. “But that is what I am. Do you not understand what those concerts mean for me? It is not simply the money, though those worries would have been enough! But the honor of it! Liszt himself thinks I am good enough. Liszt! And my sonata, my sonata—he thinks it is good. And you would have me give up all this? You would let me play for your family and friends, I suppose. Like a caged bird. That is what Louvois wanted to do to me. You might as well kill me.” She flung a dismissive hand at him, turned and began walking back to the road.
Flummoxed. That was the word he wanted. He was flummoxed.
He had the horrible feeling that she was right.
He had heard her play and thought she was excellent, but he hadn’t thought of it as something more than, well, a pastime. Ladies often played. She just played exceptionally well.
Though if he actually had thought about it, he probably would have realized that no one plays that well, with the practice required, merely as a hobby.
He didn’t know what to think, except that, obviously, he was an idiot.
If she had been a man, would he have dismissed her music so casually? After all, he didn’t think of Tony’s obsession with steel factories as nothing more than an amusing little curiosity. And he knew how offended he could be when people did not take his historical studies seriously.
How insulting he had been without even realizing it. No wonder she was furious.
And that piece he had heard her playing, that magnificent, soul-wrenching piece—she had written it? He had been stopped in his tracks by it. Not only was her playing superb, but she had actually composed the piece. That was not talent; that was…that was genius.
He tried to picture her playing at a musicale, in some London drawing room, where half the guests were not even listening.
It was ridiculous. Ludicrous.
Of course she did not belong in such a cage. He would never try to put her in a cage. That would be criminal—worse than criminal. Any attempt to constrain her would be infamous. He could never be guilty of such iniquity.
Could he?
No, not now that he realized—had been forced to realize—that she was right in one sense. They did come from different worlds. He had only begun to see some of the differences.
This was not going to be simple. The road ahead was not a straight, smooth path. Instead, it was all too much like the road he had ridden to get here—twisted, treacherously muddy, and shrouded in fog.
But he would not, could not give her up, not when he had just discovered her.
This was not what he had thought love would be like. He had always imagined his future wife as someone soft and sweet; not a cipher, not really, but someone gentle. They would live in the country. He would have to travel from time to time, of course, for his research, but he would come home to a smiling wife, surrounded by their brood of children.
It was difficult to picture Marguerite in that setting. No, not difficult. Impossible.
Well, not completely impossible. He could imagine her with children. She would be as fiercely protective of them as she was with Delphine and Horace and Madame. Not indulgent. Not obsessive, like those women who thought of nothing but their children. Protective. A tigress.
A tigress should not be caged.
But if he would never try to cage her, neither would he give her up. He did not know how they would manage it, but th
ere had to be a way. They would find it. On that he was determined.
She had already passed out of sight. He hurried across the sand to catch up with her.
Chapter Eighteen
“Who is Louvois?”
He had appeared at her side halfway through the village and had remained with her, matching her step for step. They had left the last of the houses behind them and now they were climbing the hill to the road that would lead them back to the chateau. In all this time, he had not said a word, and now he asked about Louvois? Marguerite shook her head. The ridiculous things men decided to pounce on.
There was no need for Lord Edward to concern himself with Louvois. “He is no one of any importance,” she said.
He caught hold of her arm to halt her and then turned her to face him. “Your correspondent said that Louvois’ influence frightened people. Who is he? Some sort of criminal?”
A wild desire to laugh seized her. “If only he could hear that! How I would love to see his face when he hears that you suspect he is a criminal. A street thug, perhaps?”
But Louvois was no laughing matter, not for people like her. “No,” she said, “he is not a criminal. Rather, an aristocrat. He is the comte de Louvois, a wealthy and powerful man who wields considerable influence in Parisian society.”
Lord Edward looked puzzled. “What has he to do with you? Why should he wish to make Paris difficult for you?”
She shrugged. She was tired, so tired of Louvois and the problems he had caused. Why not tell Lord Edward? Perhaps it would help him understand what nonsense his talk of marriage was.
Louvois had made no secret of his interest in her, after all. Half of Paris knew of it—and that was probably why he had been so difficult. He was annoyed when he did not get what he wanted. Worse, he must have been embarrassed when people realized he did not get what he wanted, and that—naturally—made him even more vicious.
But she did not want to look at Lord Edward while she told him. The way he spoke of the world—he was a naïve innocent. How could he understand how Louvois made her feel soiled just by looking at her? The way his touch filled her with disgust?
She turned to look off to the side before she spoke. “Louvois decided that he wanted to have me for his mistress, and he considers himself entitled to have whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. For a while, Papa managed to discourage him, telling him I was too young, making excuses. But after Papa died, we found ourselves in financial difficulties. Everything was in chaos, banks had failed, records had been lost. The building with our attorney’s office had been burned to the ground. Everything was in ashes.”
He reached out for her, but she shrugged him away before continuing. She was not asking for comfort. “The comte renewed his attentions, assuming that under the circumstances, I would be grateful for his protection. When I turned him down again, he was…he was furious. He said he would make it impossible for me to find any work in Paris. No concert engagements anywhere. And his patronage was important to the theaters. All at once, there was nothing for me, not even work as an accompanist.”
“What?”
The look of outrage on Lord Edward’s face almost made up for the humiliation of Louvois’ pursuit. It comforted her enough to enable her to manage at least a twisted smile.
“You will understand that the invitation from the vicomte to come here to Morvan was very welcome. It provided a refuge precisely when we needed one. But this is a respite, not a solution.”
“Forget about that. I want to know about this blackguard of a count. Who the devil is he and where can I find him?”
She could not quite identify her feelings at the moment. Amazement, perhaps, at his anger. It was ridiculous of him to react this way, of course. He had not even known her when Louvois threatened her. Many people thought that she was a fool to turn the comte down. He was, after all, a wealthy and powerful man. But to have Lord Edward champion her this way—even Papa had felt obliged to be circumspect in his discouragement.
And his assumption that he could actually do something, that he did not feel powerless. That was what it was to be an aristocrat, then. How strange it must be to think yourself so safe and protected as all that. How strange to be one of the powerful and never need to fear them.
“It is over, my lord.” She put a hand on his arm. “Do not distress yourself. It is all in the past now.”
There was a look of icy determination on his face. He grasped her by the shoulders as if to shake her. “Never,” he said, “never again will anyone offer you such an insult.”
She tried to smile. “Many would have said it was no insult at all, that it might even be considered a compliment.”
His face softened as he looked at her. “I never said there are no fools in the world. Both you and I know that it was a gross insult, a demeaning slander. I will never allow such a thing to happen again.”
“My lord…” Before she could say any more, he put a finger to her lips. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t want to.
“Hush now.” He cradled her face in his hands and covered her mouth with his. He did not embrace her. Only his hands on her face touched her, his hands and his lips.
This was not the passion of that earlier kiss. It was not the wild firestorm that had swept over them. This kiss was gentle, tender, soft and full of promises—promises of something lasting. His lips were warm, and she melted beneath their warmth.
Her head was swimming. She knew she should not surrender, yet she could not help it. It was foolish to believe in tender promises, but she wanted so badly to believe, to trust. She lifted her hands to push him away, but somehow they ended up clinging to his coat. Had she not been clinging to him, her knees might have given way beneath her.
When they came apart, they looked at each other, trading silent questions.
He put his arm around her shoulders and turned with her to resume their journey. “It’s getting chilly. We’ll talk later.”
It was chilly, especially once they reached the crest of the hill and began the walk down to the causeway. Here there were no trees to break the wind. The low sun was disappearing into the clouds and offered only a gray light. His arm around her shoulders sheltered her in a way that meant far more than the warmth it provided.
Whether the road was long or short, she could not have said. She walked as if in a dream, aware of nothing so much as the man beside her. Aware, but bewildered. His nearness promised safety, permanence, to say nothing of pleasure. She could not forget the whirlwind that had swept her up in that earlier kiss. She could so easily surrender herself to him. She could so easily fall in love with him.
He was a hundred times more dangerous to her than any Louvois could ever be.
So lost in her worries was she that it was only when his arm fell from her shoulders that she realized they had reached the chateau. The door closed behind them, and he stood there, looking down at her and fingering the brooch at the collar of her cloak.
“More than an heirloom, I think,” he said. “A talisman?”
She nodded.
He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “May it keep you safe when I am not here to do so.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I do not understand.” Tante Héloise was frowning at her. “You tell me that Oscar sends wonderful news. Liszt himself will give you his support. There is nothing more to worry about. Yet you are looking positively tragic. What is the matter with you?”
Marguerite forced up the corners of her mouth and hoped that it looked like a smile and not a grimace. “It’s just so sudden. I can’t seem to take it in. All these weeks and weeks of worry—I can’t make myself believe that it’s over.”
Tante Héloise sniffed. “It’s not any too soon. We allowed ourselves to be intimidated by that accursed Louvois.”
“It was not just Louvois.”
“Ah, my little one.” The older woman was suddenly contrite. “Of course it was not. So much has befallen you so quickly, so suddenly. Your mother dies, an
d so soon your father dies. All at once you are responsible for Delphine, Horace, and even me. Too much responsibility. Too many burdens.”
Marguerite did smile now and reached out to grasp Tante Héloise’s hand. “You were never a burden. You were the one who kept us all steady. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”
She flushed and patted Marguerite’s shoulder. “Well, that is all past now, and you need not worry. I will write to Oscar and he and I will work out the schedule for your tour. Liszt—who would have believed it? At least now that he has taken minor orders and is known as Abbé Liszt, we don’t need to worry about what he might expect as an expression of gratitude.”
“Tante!” Marguerite was shocked.
The older woman shrugged. “It is not as if he didn’t have women throwing themselves at him all the time. He came to expect it.”
“But we are talking about music. He would never compromise about music.”
“If you say so.” That was accompanied by another shrug. “In the meantime, we can stay here, no? It would be foolish to try to find another apartment in Paris when that is not where you will be playing. Unless you want to move to Weimar immediately?”
Marguerite hesitated. Should she do that—just leave? It might make things easier with Delphine. Paris had not been good for her, and neither was the chateau. Both places fed her fantasies. All around her were relics of the aristocracy she was convinced was her rightful milieu. Perhaps in Weimar, where she knew no one, she would grow calm.
What was she thinking? Marguerite shook her head. Weimar would have the court of the grand duke. It would probably be worse than Paris. She doubted there was any place on earth that could discourage Delphine.
As for her own fantasies, running away would solve nothing. Did she really think Lord Edward would vanish from her mind if she fled to another country? She could barely recognize herself. Never had she reacted this way to a man. It was as if that kiss in that gloomy little alley had dissolved the armor that protected her and left her defenseless against this man.
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