Destiny's Kiss

by Jo Ann Ferguson

  Folding her hands in her lap, she tried to guess why he was agitated. He fired the next question at her so viciously, she flinched.

  “Are you married?”

  “No, mon seigneur.”

  “Betrothed?”

  “No, mon seigneur.”

  Stopping in front of her, he crossed his arms over his chest again. A hint of a smile curved his taut mouth. “No lover, Lirienne?”

  “No, mon seigneur.” She lowered her eyes as heat edged up her cheeks. Was this a horrible jest he and Madame had devised? She could imagine no other reason for him to ask. He could not be interested in seducing her, for Madame would not allow her lovers to be unfaithful. If the vicomte was taunting her, he was not the man she had thought he was.

  His mouth twisted into a caricature of a smile. “Then you are perfect, Lirienne.”

  “Perfect?”

  “How would you like to better yourself in exchange for doing a favor for me?”

  “It would depend on the favor, mon seigneur.”

  “Depend on the favor?” His eyes became sapphire slits. “You do have some wit. Mayhap too much.”

  He reached toward her. She stiffened, afraid she would pull back or, worse, reach out to him as if to give her dreams life. Lifting her loose braid off her shoulder, he laced his fingers through it. His other hand cupped her chin and tilted her face toward him. The rough caress against her skin was the sweetest she could imagine.

  “Say ‘yes,’” he ordered.

  “To what?”

  “To what I ask.”

  “But I do not know what you ask.”

  “I ask you to be my wife.”

  Lirienne stood, staring at him. What had unhinged his mind? When his eyes narrowed again, she held her breath. When she had been young, a madman had come into the stables one night. Her father had been able to slay him only after the madman had killed two other men and injured nearly a dozen.

  “Where are you going?” the vicomte demanded.

  “I—” If he were mad, he might focus the fury in his eyes on her.

  He laughed. “Sit. I assure you I am not deranged.”

  “But to ask me to marry you?”

  “Amazing, is it not?” His smile became a scowl. “These are, as even you must know, amazing times. So what is your answer?”

  She gripped her skirt. Through countless nights on her lumpy pallet, she had imagined when a man might ask her to marry. Each time, he had the vicomte’s deep voice and his compelling eyes. Each time, he had drawn her into his arms and kissed her until she whispered of her delight in spending her days—and all her nights—with him.

  “Why do you wish to marry me?” she asked.

  “I have no wish to marry you.” His finger tipped her chin back, and she gasped to discover his face close to hers. “Do not take insult, for I wish to marry no one now.”

  “I understand.” That much was the truth, for she guessed his heart was Madame’s. As long as Monsieur Fortier remained alive, much to his wife’s irritation, the vicomte would wait for a woman he believed loved him. If he knew the truth …

  “You are a maiden, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, mon seigneur.” She yearned to turn away, but his cobalt gaze held her captive.

  “Do you find me distasteful?”

  If she spoke of her dreams, he would find her infatuation amusing. “No, mon seigneur.”

  “But you cannot understand why a vicomte would propose marriage to a serving wench?”

  She squared her shoulders. Mayhap she had been right from the first. She would not be a pawn in their heinous games. “Only moments ago, you asked my name. I find it unlikely fondness for me has grown in your heart since then.”

  “You are right.” He shoved her to sit on the bench. “And you shall answer me. Will you marry me?”

  “But why do you ask this?”

  “I offer my name in exchange for your assistance in saving my head.”

  “Your … head?” He was mad.

  “Can you be so isolated you have not heard of the punishment for being well-born in France?” He slashed one hand against the other. “The guillotine is a lord’s reward these days.”

  “But—”

  “You ask too many questions. Listen!” He gripped her shoulders so she could not escape his intense gaze. “That I marry a serving wench shows my approval of this new equality.”

  She nodded. This house was not so sequestered that she had not heard of the horror of those who, like the king, had died beneath the guillotine. “Why do you ask me?”

  “You are unbetrothed. You are not so stupid you would reveal the truth.” He pushed her hair back from her face. When she winced, he frowned. “Save for that bruise, you are not unpleasant to look at. What do you say?”

  Standing, Lirienne edged away. “No.”

  “No?”

  “That is my answer, mon seigneur.”

  “That is not the answer I wanted.”

  “I realize that.”

  Lirienne was not sure if he heard her soft answer, for he strode to the door to the antechamber and swung it open. She frowned as it crashed into the wall.

  “Philippe, what has happened?” cried Madame, rushing in.

  When he slammed his fist against the wall, gouging a hole, Lirienne backed toward a corner. He whirled to face her and took a step toward her.

  Madame put her hand on his arm. “Philippe, mon cher, calm yourself. Losing your temper will solve nothing.”

  “Everything is lost already. Find me a wench, Charmaine, who will not refuse!”

  “She refused you?”

  “Yes, odd though it may seem to you, who never has.” Philippe took a deep breath and released it. He did not need Charmaine warning him to govern his temper, for he was well aware of its strength.

  The serving wench—What was her name?—was trying to make herself small. Too much was at stake to jeopardize his family’s honor through the whims of a silly lass.

  Charmaine raised her hand, and the lass stiffened. When Philippe stepped forward, she lowered her hand to pat his arm. He saw the frustration in her eyes, and he shared it.

  Quietly, Charmaine said, “You shall not refuse the vicomte his wish in the matter, Lirienne.”

  Lirienne. That was her name!

  Lirienne said, “Madame, he wishes—”

  “I know what he wishes, and ’twas I who suggested you as his bride, Lirienne. Tell the vicomte you will marry him.”

  Philippe watched Lirienne’s face, wondering if anything could be more absurd than this moment. As he had so often since the Bastille fell, he hoped this was a nightmare. Everything that was good and beautiful about France was being destroyed. Everything, including his family’s honor, but if this wench would cooperate, that would be resurrected. No price was too high.

  “I know I ask much of you, Lirienne,” he said. “Ask of me what you will in return.”

  Her eyes were luminous as her lips parted in astonishment. He wondered what men had tasted them. He pushed that thought aside. What did he care when this wench would be in his life only a short time?

  “In return, mon seigneur?” Lirienne whispered.

  She risked a glance at Madame. Her face was as taut as the vicomte’s. Mayhap he meant what he was saying. He needed her help. If so, he might be willing to pay highly for ruining her dreams.

  “Ask what you will,” he said.

  “Maman and Papa have worked on this estate all their lives. They are growing old, and I wish for them to be granted an easier life.”

  “You ungrateful girl!” Madame cried. “You know the servants here are treated well.”

  Lirienne did not touch her aching cheek. “Mon seigneur, I speak no insult to Madame Fortier or her husband.” When his jaw tightened at her unthinking mention of Monsieur Fortier, she hurried to add, “I ask that Maman and Papa be granted the last few years of their lives to be spent without work.”

  “You wish only this?”

  “It is what
I ask in return for becoming your wife.”

  He sat and stared at her. She had no idea what he thought. She knew too well how insignificant she looked next to Madame’s magnificence.

  “If you will do as I ask, for as long as I need a wife,” Vicomte de Villeneuve said, “I pledge to you that, upon our return from Paris, your parents shall be taken to my lands, where they will be given a comfortable cottage and an income to fulfill their needs.”

  “And if you do not return from Paris?” she whispered.

  “Lirienne!” Madame gasped.

  The vicomte smiled. She guessed it was the first genuine smile he had worn since he arrived. “You are wise to ask, Lirienne, but remember, wisdom is not what I seek in a wife.”

  “I can assure you, mon seigneur, I have no education.”

  “And I can assure you, Lirienne, if I fail to leave Paris alive, Charmaine will be certain my pledge is carried out.” He reached up to take Madame’s hand. “You will do me this favor, won’t you, ma coeur?”

  “How can I say no to you?” She bent to kiss him.

  Lirienne wondered if her eyes were as wide as Madame’s when the vicomte stood before Madame’s lips could touch his. Did he believe Madame would do as he requested? How could he be so foolish?

  He held out his hand in a silent command. Lirienne dampened her lips, then raised her hand to his.

  “Will you become my wife, Lirienne?”

  “Yes,” she whispered, and feared the greatest fool in the world was Lirienne Gautier.

  Two

  “See how utterly simple that was?” Madame slid her hand over Vicomte de Villeneuve’s arm and purred, “She is no different from others of her class, even though her price is higher.”

  The vicomte shook off her questing fingers. “There is no time to delay. Go and pack what you wish to bring, Lirienne.”

  “There is nothing,” she answered, not daring to look in Madame’s direction.

  “Nothing you wish to bring?”

  “Nothing I own, mon seigneur.”

  “Philippe,” he corrected as he reached for the door.

  Her eyes widened. Even in her sweetest dreams, he had been Vicomte de Villeneuve. “I cannot call you that!”

  He gripped her shoulders, all kindness vanishing. “Lirienne, no wife calls her husband ‘mon seigneur.’ You must use my given name. I can grant you a life beyond your dreams. In return, I expect you to safeguard mine.”

  Overwhelmed by his abrupt, powerful rage, she whispered, “I shall use your given name … Philippe.”

  “Again! Without hesitation.”

  “I shall use your given name, Philippe.” Only now was she realizing that she had traded one type of servitude for another.

  Madame laughed and, slipping her arm through the vicomte’s, drew him away from Lirienne. “I fear you shall have to explain every detail to her.”

  “She is not stupid,” Philippe answered as if Lirienne did not stand an arm’s length from him.

  “That is your opinion, mon cher.”

  Lirienne bit her lower lip. Nothing had changed, for she was only a way for Madame and Philippe to keep from being separated. A vengeful smile teased her mouth as she imagined meeting Madame after the wedding. Then Lirienne de Villeneuve would hold the higher rank.

  In astonishment, she pressed a hand over her pounding heart. She would no longer be Lirienne Gautier, daughter of a stableman. She would be Lirienne de Villeneuve, Vicomtesse de Villeneuve and the wife of handsome and wealthy Philippe de Villeneuve. It was impossible to believe, yet …

  She discovered Philippe’s gaze focused on her, although he continued to speak to Madame. His blue gaze seared her like acid, hot and fierce. He took a step toward her, pausing when Madame curled her fingers along his cheek, turning his face back to hers.

  Lirienne fought to breathe again. How long had she been holding her breath? She dropped onto the bench.

  As the door opened to reveal a servant bringing wine, Madame turned to Lirienne. Fury twisted her full mouth. “How dare you sit—?” She paused, false kindness sifting into her voice. “Philippe, I thought we would drink a toast to your wedding.”

  “There is little time,” he said, holding out his hand. “Lirienne, we must go.”

  “Impossible!” Madame poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Philippe while she kept the other for herself as she flashed a haughty smile at Lirienne. “To your marriage, Philippe! May it bring you what you desire from it.”

  “Thank you.” He waited for her to drink, then put his untouched glass on a table. “Ma coeur, we must be on our way. I want to be at Vachel de Talebot’s before day’s end. To go into Paris after dark is to ask for trouble.”

  Madame smiled. “You cannot plan to take her looking like that.”

  “Vachel—”

  “Is a friend, I know.” She took another sip. “Yet you do not want your friends talking about this too much, for it might endanger you.” Walking her fingers up his arm, she twisted one in his black hair. “Mon cher, let me help you.”

  Lirienne rose as Philippe gestured to her. His nose wrinkled as he touched her sleeve. She wondered what would happen if she reminded him that Madame was responsible for her clothes.

  “You must have something she can wear,” Philippe said. “Nothing fancy, ma coeur.”

  She smiled. “Wait here, Philippe.” Her smile vanished as she ordered, “Come with me, Lirienne.”

  Lirienne fought back the habit of curtsying. Instead she held her head high. Walking across the room, she murmured, “Excuse us, Philippe.”

  He grinned. She started to return it, then realized he was looking past her. To him, Lirienne Gautier was a tool, a means to an end. His amusement was focused on Charmaine.

  Madame’s fury was revealed in her sharp call to her maid, Orva, as she closed the door to the dressing room. The chubby woman came running. Her eyes widened when she heard what Madame ordered.

  “A gown?” she gasped. “For her?”

  “Do as you are told, fool!” Madame’s hand struck her maid fiercely.

  Lirienne touched her own cheek as Orva sped to a cupboard. “I appreciate your generous offer, Madame. I shall have the gown returned as soon as Phi—”

  “Do not speak his name in my hearing!” she ordered in a vicious whisper. Madame seized Lirienne’s arm, smiling when Lirienne winced in pain. “He is a fool to try this and a greater fool to wed a nothing like you.”

  Lirienne pulled her arm away and raised her chin in the defiance she had never dared to show. “He has asked you to lend me something to wear. You know he has no wish to be delayed.”

  “You shall never be better than your beginnings. Let the fools fight. They cannot change the natural order of life. I was wellborn, and I shall die that way. You are cow dung.” A cruel twinkle lit her dark eyes. “Mayhap I shall come to Paris and host a soirée for you, so I may see you squirm before your betters!”

  Although she wanted to shout back an insult, Lirienne said, “If you and Monsieur Fortier wish to call on us, I am sure Philippe would—”

  “Stop using his name, or I shall silence you. He will not appreciate your constant chattering, so be silent.”

  She did not reply. The only thing she could say was Yes, Madame, and she had vowed never to speak those words again.

  “Madame?” came the maid’s uneasy whisper.

  Madame tore the gown from Orva’s hands and peered at it before tossing the light blue dress to Lirienne. “You need not send it back. Philippe can bring it himself.”

  Lirienne stared at the gown as Madame laughed. In her dreams, he had come to love her as she loved him.

  “Help her!” snapped Madame. “I can endure no more of her common company.”

  The door slammed behind Madame, and Lirienne raised her eyes to Orva’s stunned face.

  “What has happened?” asked the plump woman.

  “I am to be married.”

  “In one of Madame’s gowns?”

  “Ye
s.”

  “To whom?”

  She faltered, then whispered, “Philippe de Villeneuve.”

  “Philippe? Madame’s Philippe?” Orva muttered what might have been a prayer or a curse. “Are you mad, Lirienne? Madame never relinquishes one of her lovers.”

  “I know that.”

  “She will destroy you.”

  Lirienne tried to smile. “The vicomte wishes to marry me, so she has consented.”

  “But why? Why would he marry you?”

  She opened her mouth, then slowly closed it. To speak the truth even to Orva risked it being repeated in the very ears of the one who could order Philippe’s death. “Will you help me with this dress, Orva?”

  Although she feared Orva would ask another question, the maid nodded, her eyes still bulging. Lirienne had to be grateful that Madame expected unquestioning obedience from her servants.

  Lirienne slipped her shapeless dress over her hips. She let it fall on the marble floor, for Madame would be furious to discover it on her fine furniture. When Orva slid the blue silk gown over Lirienne’s head, it settled into place like the sweetest caress.

  “This will not do,” Orva said as she hooked it up. “You are too thin, Lirienne.”

  “It must do.” Lirienne tightened the sash at her waist and smoothed the excess material so it was hidden beneath the full sleeves edged with a wide band of ecru lace. Adjusting the square neckline above the bodice which was not as oversized as she had feared, she let her fingers linger on the satin ribbons twisted along the front.

  Turning before a cheval glass, she viewed herself from every angle. She had never understood vanity. Until now. Smiling, she admired how the silk clung to curves that had been concealed. Her hands clenched. Madame would not be happy to discover this dress was so flattering to her.

  “Shall I fix your hair, Lirienne?” Orva said.

  “Madame did not say I could use her combs.”

  “I would rather use them than suffer her fury if I send you back out there with your hair tangled.”

  Sitting, Lirienne let Orva comb snarls from her hair. When Orva piled black curls around Lirienne’s ears, leaving a few strands to drop along her throat, Lirienne could not believe the reflection was hers. Save for the bruise on her cheek, she could have been as fine a lady as any who called at this house … or the wife of any man who called here, for Madame seldom had female callers.