From this moment, she should think of her as Charmaine. She shivered. No, she preferred using Madame Fortier.
“You should go,” Orva murmured.
“Yes, he is waiting.”
“And not alone.”
“He just asked me to marry him!”
“But he adores Madame. If you leave them alone for even a few moments—”
The door opened, and Lirienne spun about. The soft silk swirled about her ankles as her gaze locked with Madame Fortier’s. “Pardon me, Madame. I do not want to delay Philippe any longer.”
Madame Fortier’s lips tightened, but Lirienne pushed past her.
Philippe stood, astonishment stealing the taut lines from his face. He motioned, and she slowly turned, the train of her gown swishing across the floors she had scrubbed on her hands and knees.
“Cinderella,” he breathed.
“Excuse me?”
That hint of a smile returned. “Don’t you know the tale of the cinder girl who became a princess for one night?”
“For only one night? What happened then?”
Walking to her, he took her hands. “Then she became a cinder girl again until her prince brought her lost glass slipper to her.”
“A … charming story. However, I have no slippers of glass. Only of felt.” She raised her skirts to reveal her shoes.
He pushed her skirts to the floor. “Have you no sense of propriety?”
Her breath caught, but not at his reprimand. His touch unsettled her.
“This has taken longer than I planned,” Philippe continued. “We must leave now if we hope to be wed today.”
Madame Fortier rushed forward, grasping his sleeve. “Stay an hour, so we might enjoy a bit of fun before you tie yourself to a peasant wife.”
“Not now.” He sighed like a martyr. “I must find a municipal officer who is marrying today.”
“So I cannot talk you out of this madness?” Madame Fortier’s nose wrinkled with disgust.
“Ma coeur, ’tis the least deranged thing I can do if I want to enter Paris. In spite of what you may believe, I take my duties quite seriously.”
Lirienne was shocked by his sarcasm. This was not the way he should speak to a woman he professed to love.
“And Lirienne?” Madame Fortier laughed sharply. “Look at her. She can think only of her good fortune.”
“She will do as I order, for she wishes the reward I have offered her.”
Madame Fortier smiled and traced the curve of his jaw with her fingertip. “Aren’t you going to give your betrothed a kiss, Philippe?”
Lirienne gasped. “No! I mean, that is not necessary.”
“Not necessary?” Madame Fortier laughed. “If she were to shy away from you in Paris, everyone would suspect the truth.”
“There must be no question that this is not a true marriage.” Philippe caught Lirienne’s hands and tugged her to him.
“A true marriage?” she cried. “I thought—”
“Do not think, ma petite folle,” he murmured. “Just kiss me.”
His arm snaked around her waist. His glass buttons cut through her gown as she stared up into his hooded eyes. Boldly, she dared to lift her hands to his shoulders. Surprise flickered across his face, but he bent to press his lips to hers. His kiss sparked a fiery ember within her.
“Satisfied?” he asked as he released her.
No, she longed to cry. She wanted that flame on his lips to be for her, not for a woman she despised.
“Let me rid you of that horrid taste.” Madame Fortier drew his mouth over hers, kissing him deeply, not caring that Lirienne watched.
He drew away quickly, astounding Madame Fortier. Holding out his arm to Lirienne, he grasped her hand when she hesitated. “We shall leave now. I have no wish to waste the rest of the day looking for someone to perform a wedding.”
“Yes,” Lirienne whispered, not sure whether to be outraged or overwhelmed.
Philippe said nothing as he led her out of the rooms. Curious eyes peered from every nook along the corridor, but Lirienne stared at the floor. As the pattern of tiles repeated, she hoped she would never return to this house.
Lirienne glanced at a footman and almost smiled as he mouthed, “Good luck.” She would need good fortune to deal with this strange marriage.
“Mon Dieu,” she whispered as she stared at the elegant coach on the drive. The family crest had been stripped from the white doors.
A lad wearing simple trousers and a muslin shirt opened the door. He gaped at Lirienne.
“I shall hand Miss—I shall hand her in myself.” Philippe added in a low voice that did not conceal his irritation, “I hope you do not continue to attract such attention. It could be our deaths.”
“Those who know me are shocked to see how I’ve changed in such a short time.”
“You have not changed.”
His terse answer struck her more harshly than Ma-dame’s blows. He would not let her forget her origins. And why should she care? Not forgetting his vow to take care of her family should be all that mattered. It should be … but her heart ached.
He held out his hand to assist her into the carriage. She stumbled over a bag on the floor, but lowered herself to the velvet seat, which seemed to swallow her. When he sat next to her, his leg brushed hers as he tapped on the roof. Her heart thudded as roughly as the horses’ hooves as they pulled the carriage onto the road north.
Lirienne touched the tooled-leather design on the wall. Years of dreams had come to an end today, even as she was being offered a dream come true.
As the carriage bounced along the road, she peered out. She wondered when she would see the small cottages again.
A hand drew her back, away from the window. When she looked at Philippe, he said, “You should avoid being noticed.”
“But I wished to see my family’s home.” She glanced toward the window. “If Papa comes to the house, I do not know if anyone will tell him where I have gone.”
His finger brought her chin up so she could not evade his blue gaze. “They shall know when you send for them from Château de Villeneuve.”
“But that could be fortnights from now.”
“No, for my task must be done swiftly.”
“And what is that?”
“Do not be curious, ma petite folk, for curiosity can lead to arrest and death now.”
“I am not a fool!”
Folding his arms over his chest, he rested one foot on the opposite knee. “Charmaine considers you witless, but I believe she is wrong. Do not prove I am the one who is mistaken.”
“I wished no more than to look at my family’s home.”
“I trust you shall see it often, for I—and now you, as my wife—shall be frequent callers here.”
Lirienne was glad he was not looking at her, for she could not have hidden her horror. Although Lirienne would have Philippe’s title, Madame Fortier still had his heart, which she would not relinquish until she chose.
And never to Lirienne Gautier de Villeneuve.
Three
The carriage slowed before a narrow building. A tiny swinging sign announced it was a municipal office. This village was no different from the half-dozen others they had driven through, so Lirienne was unsure why Philippe had ordered a halt here. A fountain was set in the middle of the square, but no children played near it. The shutters on the houses were closed. It was as if everyone had vanished.
Lirienne put her hand to her throat. Had the shadow of the guillotine reached this far? The guillotine was not for simple folk. It was for the enemies of the Republic, for the aristocracy, for the man beside her and the woman she was about to become.
“I do not like this silence,” she whispered.
“Neither do I.”
When she looked at Philippe, he held out his hand. She could not keep her fingers from trembling as he handed her out. Letting him draw her hand within his arm, she went with him to the door which gaped in the sunshine.
She
was marrying this handsome man she did not know. When he vowed to love her forever, would he take her in his arms and kiss her with that fleeting fire? Her knees quivered at the thought of his mouth on hers.
A man glowered as they entered the dusty room. The walls were covered with pages outlining the new laws of the Republic. She had seen Monsieur Fortier ripping apart similar sheets when they were brought to his house.
“What do you want?” the gray-haired man demanded. He scratched behind his ear and burped.
“To be married,” said Philippe.
“Yesterday was for marriages.” He pointed at the wall. “If you wish a divorce, citizen, that is what today is for.”
“Forgive us,” Philippe said with a humility she knew was as faked as his patience. Beneath her fingers, tension had tightened his muscles. “We are strangers here, but your village’s beauty urged us to stop and speak the vows of our hearts.” His hand rested on the table. Gold flashed before the municipal officer made the coins disappear.
“I would not want you to think us inhospitable.” The official spread his arms as if to embrace them, and his filthy shirt gaped. “Will you—?”
“Philippe de Villeneuve and Lirienne Gautier,” he supplied quickly.
“Will you, Philippe, take this woman to wed?”
“Yes.” His voice lacked any emotion.
The official’s smile widened as he ogled Lirienne. She resisted the urge to step behind Philippe, for she did not want to insult this official. “You are a fortunate man to find such a lovely maiden.” He gave neither of them a chance to answer before he asked, “And will you, pretty Lirienne, take this man to wed?”
Drawing in a deep breath, she nodded. When the clerk ordered her to speak her answer, Philippe’s gaze pierced her with sapphire flame. If he decided to make this marriage more than a parody … She shivered and stared up at him as his hand covered hers on his arm. “Yes, I shall marry Philippe.”
“Good. You are man and wife.”
“Just like that?” she gasped.
The official’s eyes narrowed. “Do you question the ways of the Republic, madame?”
Philippe’s laugh did not sound forced. “You must forgive her. She is recently out of school. She is but a girl.”
“Soon to be a woman, eh?” The clerk winked. “Go, and be happy. If it does not work out, come back, and I shall dissolve your marriage.”
“This marriage will be very successful, citizen. Won’t it, Lirienne?”
“Yes.” Wasn’t he going to kiss her? She was not sure if she should be relieved or upset. She was both.
“Good day, and thank you.” Philippe accepted the paper the clerk handed him and placed it beneath his coat. He dropped another coin on the table before steering Lirienne into the sunshine.
She was glad for his hand beneath her elbow. Her legs threatened to collapse. With a handful of words, she had given her life to a stranger. Philippe de Villeneuve had the right to share her bed. She had no right to deny him … and she was not sure she wished to, for at each touch of his skin delicious fire flashed through her.
“Here,” he said as they reached the carriage, “I almost forgot this.” He slipped a gold band on her finger.
Lirienne ran her finger over the splendid ring. The gold was twisted and engraved with flowers and vines. The band fit perfectly. Had she been chosen to be his bride because the ring would fit upon her finger?
“All vicomtesses of my family are married with this ring,” he said. “Care for it well.”
“If you wish me not to wear it, mon seig—”
With a growl, he tugged her into the carriage and slammed the door. She moaned when he clenched her shoulders. “You little fool!” His eyes sparked with blue-hot fury. “If you call me that again, I shall break your neck with my bare hands. You agreed, wife, to call me Philippe. Are you going to renege so quickly?”
“No,” she whispered.
“Then think before you speak.” He released her and slammed his fist against the carriage. “Get us out of here.”
Lirienne whispered, “Forgive me, Philippe. It has been such a short time.”
“So will be the time from our arrests to our deaths if you speak so thoughtlessly in Paris.”
“Philippe—”
“Enough!” Reaching for the bag she had stumbled over, he pulled out a book and opened it.
Lirienne clenched and unclenched her hands in her lap. Glancing at the book, she sighed. So many questions burned within her.
“Is this the road to your château?” she asked.
“We go directly to Paris.” He did not look up from his book. “Now be quiet, wife. I wish to read.”
She said nothing as she wondered what type of book it was. Her mother had taught her to sew, and her father had introduced her to the stables, but like them, she could neither read nor write. More than once, she had been brave enough to sneak into Monsieur Fortier’s library to enjoy the dust-dry scent of books, but the words within them were denied her.
Looking out the window, she tapped her fingers on the sill. She was not accustomed to idle hands.
She flinched as a broad hand covered hers. “Must you do that?” Philippe asked, irritated.
“Forgive me. I did not—”
“No, no more apologies. You are, as the result of the absurdity of the times, a vicomtesse.”
“I cannot change my ways as quickly as I changed my clothes and my name.”
“You must if you wish to survive.” His hand cupped her chin. “When we enter Paris, a single word is enough to condemn us.”
“A single word?” she whispered in horror.
His hand slipped to her throat as his eyes narrowed with cold fury. “Speak that word, and I shall make certain there is so little of you left that the executioner will not have enough to drape over the guillotine.”
Philippe opened his eyes as the tempo of the carriage wheels slowed. Twilight disguised the countryside, but he recognized the gate of Vachel de Talebot’s country house. At last! He had not guessed the blasted journey would take so long in the carriage.
As the sun set into a mottled sky, he recalled the bloodred sunset the last time he had ridden across the dry moat and away from Château de Villeneuve. He had not guessed how the horror ruling France would keep him from returning.
He had been more than twenty miles away, at the home of Marquis de Belisle, when the estate manager from Château de Villeneuve was announced.
“I came as soon as I could.” Lemieux’s voice quivered.
“What is wrong?”
“Mon seigneur … he is …”
Philippe grasped the old man’s lapels. “What has Lucien done now? What jealous husband has he enraged this time?”
“Mon seigneur …” Again his voice broke.
Icy dread swept over Philippe. The old man’s horrified face told him the truth. “Dead?” At Lemieux’s reluctant nod, he choked, “When?”
“They came last night. They took him into the courtyard and killed him, mon seigneur.”
He tensed at the title he had never expected would be his. “And the château?”
“’Tis overrun, mon seigneur. When they killed the vicomte, no one knew what to do.”
Philippe patted the old man’s shoulder. Both of them knew Lucien was incapable of ordering the defense of the château, for Lucien was lost in a world that had vanished when the mob gained control of Paris.
“But why would they kill Lucien?”
The old man shook his head. “The charge they read before they killed him was that he plotted to reinstate the monarchy. The order to kill him came from Paris.”
“I shall leave within the hour for Paris, Lemieux.”
“I brought the carriage, mon seigneur, but—”
“Good!” He refused to reveal his pain as Lemieux spoke that accursed title again. “Have it brought around while I arrange to have my bags packed.”
“Mon seigneur!” The old man grasped Philippe’s arm. “I d
o not wish to gainsay you, but stay far from Paris. It is said there is nothing but danger and death waiting for any man or woman who claims any connection with the aristocracy.”
“I shall not let my brother’s murder go unavenged. I must—”
“If you go into Paris, you may meet the same fate as your brother. No one will listen to a man of your class.”
Philippe sighed, then smiled. “Then the solution is not to go alone.”
“I shall go with you if you wish.”
Again he had patted the old man on the shoulder. “No, for you must go back to Château de Villeneuve and gather up those who are loyal. Wait for me to return to you with the glad tidings that Lucien’s murderer has met his end.”
“Then who will go with you?”
“That I shall decide soon,” he had replied.
Regret scored Philippe now as he recalled those words. How long before he could return to Château de Villeneuve and claim his inheritance along with the fine line of horses he had been breeding? He fisted his hand on the window.
A murmur brushed his ears as soft hair grazed his cheek. He looked down at Lirienne’s head which had fallen against his shoulder while they slept away the late afternoon of this eventful day.
Was he insane? He needed to enter Paris, and this farce might be the only shield between him and the mob. Guilt tweaked him, but he ignored it. Lirienne had agreed once he had met her price, which was not as high as he had been willing to pay. In return for giving her parents a cottage at Château de Villeneuve—if any remained standing in the wake of the attack—he had this outward sign that he embraced the revolution and its idiotic ideals.
He would admit to no one, especially not to Charmaine, how shocked he had been by the transformation of this tattered child into a woman whose borrowed dress clung to curves he had not suspected she had. His mind must be too much upon gaining vengeance if he had failed to take note of Lirienne’s fairy prettiness. She was no golden goddess like Charmaine, for her chin had an unattractive habit of jutting when she argued with him. Yet, she moved with a grace that amazed him, and her body was soft against him.
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