by Anne Herries
Deborah stifled her misgivings and allowed herself to be dressed in the beautiful gown. Louise piled her long hair into an artless arrangement of curls and loops, fastening it with some of the combs and pins Deborah had seen earlier, and arranging a headdress of some fine material to perch at the back of her head. When she had finished, she stood back to admire her work with obvious satisfaction.
‘There—it is done. You are magnifique, a mistress worthy to grace Chalfont this night, no?’
Deborah glanced at her reflection in the hand mirror. From what she could see of herself, her hair had never looked better and she needed no mirror to tell her the dress was becoming. It was of an era when the style of a woman’s gown had been a little simpler and more elegant than the exaggerated court dress she had worn in London.
‘You have made me look beautiful. Thank you, Louise.’
‘Mademoiselle is beautiful,’ the maid replied. ‘I ’ave only dressed you, nothing more.’
‘Shall we go down now?’
Deborah’s heart was racing as she followed the maid from the room, along the gallery and down the imposing stairway. As she drew near the bottom, the two gentlemen standing below gazed up at her. This evening Henri Moreau was dressed in courtly clothes of blue and gold, which showed his wiry figure to advantage. The marquis was plain in black and grey, but his stature would always cast others in the shade. He bowed his head to Deborah, the gleam in his eyes as he saw her revealing his thoughts on the matter of her appearance.
‘You look well this evening, Mistress Stirling. I believe…’
‘How dare you? How dare you wear that gown!’
The angry, accusing tones of Marie Trevern cut across whatever Nicholas had been about to say. Deborah stood as if frozen to the spot, her cheeks crimson. She could only stare in dismay as the other woman came forward to challenge her.
‘Your gown would not have fitted me…’ She offered the excuse lamely, knowing that she could not explain what had truly happened for that would have exposed Louise to her anger.
‘Then you should have worn your own,’ Marie said. ‘That gown belonged to my aunt—Madeleine, Marquise de Vere. No one but me has touched her things in years, and that only to preserve and air them. You had no right to take her gown.’
‘Forgive me…’ Deborah glanced at the marquis awkwardly. ‘I did not mean to offend you, sir.’
‘Nor have you,’ said Nicholas. ‘My mother would have begged you to make free with her hospitality had she lived. I believe that gown was hers when I was but a lad. I remember she wore it once for my birthday. It becomes you well, as it did Maman.’
‘It is very beautiful. I consider it an honour to be allowed to borrow it.’
‘Nonsense! You may use and enjoy anything you find in your apartments, Mistress Stirling. An old gown is but poor recompense for the situation in which you find yourself. I shall put the seamstresses to work to make new gowns—but until then I beg you to use what you will.’
Nicholas’s words had brought a dark crimson colour to his cousin’s cheeks. She was angry, jealous and humiliated. Clearly she had coveted the marquise’s possessions for herself but had not dared to take them for her own. She was hardly able to contain her fury at seeing them given carelessly to another. Yet after a few moments she hid her chagrin behind a smile.
‘Forgive my outburst, Nicholas. It seemed sacrilege to see another woman wearing your mother’s things. I imagined it must cause you pain.’
‘Forget the incident, Marie.’ Nicholas frowned at her. ‘If you desired the gown you should have taken it for yourself, cousin.’
‘It would not suit me,’ she replied, averting her eyes so that he should not read the truth. ‘I merely kept my aunt’s things in good order for the sake of her memory.’
‘I thought them discarded long ago. But it is as well that you were so assiduous in your care, for now they serve a worthwhile purpose. I thank you, cousin—and now we shall sup together. Henri will escort you, Marie, if you please?’ He smiled at Deborah. ‘Come, take my arm, lady, and tell me whether your apartments please you?’
‘How could I not be pleased?’ She looked at him shyly. ‘You were considerate to give me your mother’s apartments. I have never before stayed in such beautiful apartments.’
‘My father would never give my mother less than the best he could provide. I would think myself shamed if I did less for you. You did not ask for my hospitality, Mistress Stirling, but now that you are here I would have you offered every comfort.’
‘I thank you, sir. I am very comfortable.’
‘A little better than the cage you imagined?’ Nicholas could not resist the taunt, his wicked eyes mocking her.
Deborah blushed. He would never allow her to forget the foolish things her temper had caused her to say. Yet how could she have guessed at the outset how generous he would be?
‘I was…disconcerted to find myself on your ship, sir. Pray forgive me for my unruly tongue.’
Nicholas’s eyes gleamed with his appreciation of the apology politeness had forced from her. ‘Only disconcerted, lady? I vow I should have been vastly put out had I been treated as you were. You were quite right—that blanket was filthy.’
Deborah caught the wicked teasing note in his voice and laughed. She had a high, clear laugh that sounded joyous and caused the others to turn and look at them curiously.
She realized they would be a larger gathering than she had imagined. Besides Marie and Henri there was an older woman, who, she was later to learn, was Mistress Roth, companion to the marquis’s cousin. Two other gentlemen, clearly close friends of Nicholas, had come to sup with them. Both were French and young, attractive men. Later that evening Henri told her that both were captains of their own ships as part of the marquis’s fleet.
The atmosphere was merry at table, the gentlemen laughing and jesting with each other in the manner of old friends. Often they spoke in English out of deference to the ladies, but sometimes they lapsed into their native tongue.
Her father, who spoke French well and had spent some time in the country during his youth, had taught Deborah himself. Sir Edward had had his daughter educated as he would have his longed-for son. She was able to understand the gist of what they said, though sometimes they spoke too fast for her to follow all of it and in a dialect that was strange to her. However, they were such kind, thoughtful hosts that Deborah found the evening sped away. She had seldom enjoyed being in company so much and began to feel that she was truly an honoured guest rather than a hostage.
After they had dined Nicholas played on a lute and sang in the manner of a troubadour, songs of love and courtly pleasure. His voice was melodious and had an attractive quality that made it a pleasure to listen to his songs. One of the other gentlemen, whose name was Pierre, told them a story about the brave deeds of Charlemagne, the founder of the Holy Roman Empire and ruler of all Frankland in his age. And so the evening passed away happily in a haze of laughter, music, talk and wine.
When it was time for Deborah to retire she was aware of a feeling of reluctance to leave these charming people, but since the other ladies had made it plain they wished to go to their chambers she could not stay on.
She wished the company goodnight and left the gentlemen to their wine and talk. However, Nicholas insisted on accompanying her to the foot of the stairs. He kissed her hand, smiling at her in a way that set her heart racing wildly and made her even more reluctant to part from him.
‘Will you ride with me tomorrow, Mistress Stirling? I would like to show you my estate—and to warn you of the dangers of leaving it without an escort.’
‘Do you still suspect me of meaning to escape?’
‘I believe you might try if the opportunity arose. Am I not right?’
‘Perhaps,’ Deborah replied, though at that moment she had no desire to leave this man or his home.
‘As I thought, you are high-spirited,’ he said. ‘There is no harm in that—but I beg you to consider caref
ully. You are safe here. Don Manola will not attack me on my own land, for he knows I am too strong, too well guarded—but once he knows you are my guest he might attempt to snatch you by stealth. If you were foolish enough to leave my protection, he might grab his chance to steal you back.’
‘Then I shall not behave in a reckless manner again,’ Deborah gave her word easily. ‘You have given your promise that I shall be returned safely to my father one day and I am content to trust your honour in this.’
‘So we progress,’ Nicholas said and looked as if her words had pleased him. ‘You have the freedom of my home and lands, mistress. And for your entertainment there shall be guests who will be your friends, music and dancing.’
‘Is it always as it has been this evening when you are at home, sir?’
‘I like to gather friends about me,’ he replied. ‘For some long months I confess I have not found solace in music or dancing—but this evening pleased me well.’
‘I also,’ said Deborah, a high colour in her cheeks. ‘If the time always passes so—so pleasantly in your home, I see little wonder that Mistress Trevern chose to stay on.’
‘Marie came to visit with her brother and companion. While they were here Master Trevern died suddenly of a fever. He was but eighteen and had no wife or child, and perforce his estate passed to a distant cousin. Marie believed she would not be welcome in her cousin’s house. I offered her a home here for as long as she wishes and she was pleased to accept.’
Nicholas’s statement was accompanied by a careless shrug. He clearly had no idea of Marie’s feelings for him.
‘You were generous, sir. Mistress Trevern would no doubt have been found a husband had she returned to her home, but not necessarily of her choosing. A woman is at the mercy of her relatives, and they are not always as kind as I think you might be to those you care for.’
‘Your compliment is accepted, mistress. I thank you.’ Nicholas smiled. ‘But you must leave us now. Sleep well—and do not have bad dreams. I promise that you are safe here.’
‘Yes, I know. Good night, sir.’
He inclined his head but said no more. Deborah sensed that he had not moved, was still there watching her with those dark, intense eyes. There was such power in his eyes—the power to make her melt and lose herself in him. But such thoughts were dangerous, especially when she was his hostage, at the mercy of his whims.
The nape of her neck tingled with a strange sensation, and it was all that she could do not to turn around, but somehow she kept her head high and walked along the upper gallery to her own apartments.
Chapter Seven
Louise was waiting to undress her. She greeted her mistress with smiles and chattered on as she helped Deborah to disrobe, bringing out a night chemise of the softest lawn to slip over her head and finally brushing her hair until it shone. Deborah was content to listen to her, smiling but saying little.
After she had dismissed the girl she went over to the window, which had not been shuttered, as it would have been at home, though it was securely fastened from the inside. Gazing out at the moonlight, Deborah thought she would like to walk in what was clearly a beautiful garden, for she could see a profusion of climbing roses and other scented flowers. She wished she dare go down and explore some of the secret walks; she was not afraid of the night air, even though it was said to be evil, nor of the dark itself.
At home she had sometimes walked in her own walled garden late on a summer’s night, and here she knew it would be warm and still, the air perfumed with the scent of flowers that seemed only to give out their true sweetness at night.
But she could not go down. It was not her house. She was a guest here and she must behave with proper respect.
Sighing, she turned back to her bed. Louise had taken off the heavy covers of silk damask, leaving only a light covering. More would not be needed on such a warm night.
Deborah slipped into the bed, settling back against the pile of downy soft pillows. She felt a little sleepy now, but as she closed her eyes she saw again the marquis’s dark eyes gazing into hers. What was it about him that affected her so, making her insides melt in unfamiliar heat?
Was the feeling he aroused in her desire? The feeling that she had heard drove both men and women to the edge of madness, and led young girls to their destruction and shame?
She had never felt anything like it until the marquis kissed her, but now just to look at him, to feel his gaze upon her or the touch of his hand against hers, caused her heart to beat wildly. In her father’s village, Deborah knew, country lads and lasses were sometimes forced to wed because they had come together in unholy lust. The Reverend Howarth had condemned them for their wicked sins from his pulpit. Was she wicked to feel as she did when Nicholas touched her?
Surely such pleasures could not be evil if the couple were blessed in wedlock—but if they were strangers? Deborah was aware that her father would frown on a marriage between her and the marquis, even if Nicholas had asked for her—which he had not! Nor was it likely, she told herself severely. And yet those eyes promised so much…or perhaps that was her imagination?
Oh, why must she be plagued with such wanton thoughts? Deborah groaned as she realized that it could not be other than sinful to allow her mind to dwell on a man’s kisses—a man who was not her husband nor yet her betrothed. He should never have kissed her! That alone was enough to ruin her if it were known.
Perhaps she was already ruined in the eyes of the world. By taking her from her own secure world, the marquis had committed an unforgivable sin in the eyes of her peers—and one that by implication also damned her.
She closed her eyes as her thoughts became too muddled, willing herself to sleep and forget the marquis. Drifting into a state of slumber, she allowed a smile to curve her mouth. For in her dreams there was no right or wrong, no conscience to chide her, merely a sweet content that held her until the dawn crept in at her windows.
‘My master sent word that you were to break your fast in bed,’ Louise said, setting a platter of soft rolls, butter and honey on a stand by the bed. ‘I ’ave brought for you a cordial of fruit, mademoiselle—but there is ale or wine if you should care for it, and water cool from the spring.’
‘I shall try a little of your cordial,’ Deborah said, stretching luxuriously. She felt so good after her sleep, which had been deep in the end. ‘But it is my habit to drink nothing but water to break my fast.’
‘I think you will like the cordial,’ Louise said. ‘But I shall remember the water in future.’ She smiled. ‘My master says you are to ride with him after you eat. He say I should bring to you the marquise’s riding gown. You would like this, oui?’
‘Yes, thank you, Louise.’
Deborah bit into the soft roll she had spread with honey; it was light and crispy outside and tasted delicious.
‘Oh, this is so good. I feel wonderful this morning. So alive!’
‘Mademoiselle slept well?’
‘Yes, thank you.’ Deborah stretched once more, wriggling her toes in blissful pleasure. ‘The bed was very comfortable.’
‘Me, I warmed it with the pan to make sure it was not damp,’ Louise told her. ‘You do not want to catch the agues, no?’
‘No, certainly not,’ Deborah replied laughing.
She was aware of feeling happy as she finished her meal, then hopped out of bed to wash herself in the warm water Louise had provided in a pewter ewer.
Spread out on the bed waiting for her was a riding gown of black and silver. The skirt was cut on simple lines, so much easier to wear than the voluminous gowns that were so fashionable at the English Court; the marquise had obviously been a lady who knew her own mind and dressed as she pleased!
When Deborah was dressed and Louise had finished fastening the bodice, she looked as elegant as she had the previous night. A small hat with a huge curling feather perched on the back of her head, and soft leather gauntlets completed her toilette.
‘The marquise was slender like you,
mademoiselle,’ Louise said with a look of satisfaction when she had finished. ‘And her feet were as tiny as yours. Mistress Tavern, she ’as the big feet. She could never wear the marquise’s things; they would look foolish on ’er.’
‘You should not say such things, Louise. No, really you should not. It is unkind.’
The maid shrugged. ‘I say only the truth, mademoiselle.’
Deborah smiled but shook her head at her. Indeed, their conversation was brought to an abrupt end when, after a perfunctory knock, Marie Trevern swept into the room. She frowned and set her mouth in a prim line as she saw how Deborah was gowned, but made no reference to the fact that she was using the marquise’s things.
‘I trust you slept well, Mistress Stirling?’
‘Very well, thank you, Mistress Trevern.’
Marie’s eyes were cold and disapproving: her hostility seemed to be growing rather than dissipating. ‘My cousin has invited you to ride with him this morning, I believe. He is not in the habit of being kept waiting and asked me to inquire if you were ready?’
‘I am quite ready.’ Deborah nodded to the serving girl. ‘Thank you, Louise. I am very pleased. You may go now.’
‘Oui, mademoiselle.’ She curtsied and left.
For a moment Marie deliberately blocked Deborah’s way, preventing her from following. ‘Who are you?’ she asked, her eyes narrowed and suspicious. ‘My cousin says you were caught in a storm and he brought you here to safety until your family could be reached—but I think he is lying. Are you his latest whore?’
‘How dare you!’ Deborah cried, outraged by both the question and the manner of its asking. ‘You have no right to say such a wicked thing to me. I am no such thing.’
‘Then why are you here? Why have you no clothes or possessions of your own?’
‘You should address your questions to the marquis.’ Deborah lifted her head proudly.
‘He will not tell me.’ Marie glared at her. ‘But I shall discover your secret, Mistress Stirling. Believe me, I have my ways.’