by Jackie Ivie
There was a sculpture of a castle in the midst of the table, carved from ice. Giselle made herself see it and absorb its appearance. There was a peacock on the table as well, with steam rising through its arrangement of feathers. It was just like Louisa had described to her before at Antilli, and— …he said I look beautiful!
I must keep my mind on other things!
Navarre led her to the head of the table, and a manservant held the chair out for her. There was a servant behind each of the twelve chairs. Giselle had never been to a dinner like this. She thanked Louisa and Isabelle for their lectures, then. They’d made certain she always dressed for her lone supper and had perfect table manners. She hadn’t known what it was preparation for, but she was grateful to them, now.
Navarre lifted her hand to his lips without touching it. He didn’t have to. His eyes sent messages down the length of her arm. Giselle only hoped she wasn’t replying with her own.
He pulled out a chair to her left, and Giselle turned to the other side, wondering what fool had seated him so close to her. She had to stop it from happening again. She wasn’t to be near him. She wouldn’t allow it. He would just have to be seated at the opposite end that Etienne left vacant.
Etienne…
That was something which she could concentrate on. Aunt Mimi had mentioned that Etienne ordered a bath. Giselle already knew it, though. The servants were more than willing to tell everything they knew. Gerty was a font of information while Giselle had dressed. She had listened carefully while Isabelle looked sternly at her in the mirror the entire time.
“You’ve been listening to Aunt Mimi, Giselle,” Navarre spoke. “I should have warned you first.”
Giselle turned to him, trying to look more confident than she felt.
“She probably gave away all our secrets by now.”
He smiled conspiratorially, and Giselle tried to return it. She did. But the effort died on her face. In the mellow yellow light from the chandeliers, the shadow of his lashes reached to his lips. She’d known his were full and pouty. She’d caught herself wondering what a kiss from them would feel like. She was ashamed of herself and yet, unable to do a thing about it.
It was mad.
She already knew he was devastating. She knew all of it, yet despite her every effort she was unable to tear her gaze away.
“You mustn’t look at me like that, Giselle,” he said, and turned away.
There wasn’t enough penance for the shame she felt. Giselle immediately turned to face the end of the table, the place Etienne should be. That’s when the first hint of self-hate started, growing until it became an ache. Navarre shouldn’t have to be the one to point out such things to her.
The first course was served. Giselle toyed with it. The second arrived. She lifted a bite and put it back down. It must be delicious. By the time sorbet arrived to clear their palates, everyone was eating. She barely managed to stay upright in her chair and hold onto her spoon.
“You must eat, Giselle,” Navarre whispered. “You look ready to faint.”
He motioned to her plate, and Giselle picked up a mouthful of something and put it in her mouth. Swallowed. She tried to stop a tear that slid from one eye but failed. It was more mortification that he saw it. She wondered how she was going to get through the entire meal. She’d never felt so lost and alone.
“Giselle!”
Navarre leaned toward her as if retrieving something he’d dropped. His head touched her skirt and Giselle closed her eyes, feeling two more tears make a path to her mouth. This was impossible. Horrible. She couldn’t endure it much longer.
“Must you make this harder for me than it already is?”
He hissed the question at her skirt before sitting back up. She didn’t see his movement. She didn’t have to. And for a moment, she thought she’d misheard him. He couldn’t possibly have just said….
Giselle opened her eyes and was stunned by the deep, almost black color in his as he looked at her.
“Well?” He raised one eyebrow.
“No.”
To her horror, the word came out in a giggle. Giselle lifted the napkin to her lips to hide what couldn’t possibly be absolute joy. He hadn’t been reprimanding her. He’d been asking for his sake. And that must mean…that he felt the same?
Oh sweetness!
Suddenly, the light wasn’t mellow at all. It was bright and golden. The peacock tasted wonderful, and everything was superb and sparkled with perfection. She dared not look at him again, though. It was lustful, it was evil.
And it was wonderful, too.
CHAPTER SEVEN
She had been kissed!
Oh wonders! She had been held and kissed, and it wasn’t wicked-feeling. It was everything she’d dreamt it would be. Giselle finally admitted it to herself as she passed by the five armored sentinels in the weapons room. It had been Aunt Mimi’s fault, actually. It was her idea that Giselle see the portrait gallery, and that Navarre was the perfect one to show it to her.
Giselle had been listening to Jean-Claude’s wife, Margot. She couldn’t recall what they were discussing when Aunt Mimi entered the drawing room with Esmee.
“There she is,” the dowager duchesse announced. “I’ve been describing the Berchald portraits to Giselle earlier, Esmee. Perhaps you could show them to her? It’s the perfect time.”
“Oh, I couldn’t. Please don’t ask that of me.”
Her answer made Giselle narrow her eyes. Esmee looked very anxious. Over ancestral portraits?
“Then it will have to be Navarre. He knows as much about the artists and periods as anyone. Navarre!”
Giselle’s heart began pounding loudly. She wondered if everyone could hear it.
“Yes, dearest aunt? Can I be of service?”
He lifted her hand to his lips, and Giselle’s stomach turned. She tried to tell herself that it was the amount of food she’d eaten, but she knew she was fooling herself. It was because he’d kissed his aunt’s hand, and she could almost feel it on her own.
“Me?” Navarre looked at Giselle for a moment before he turned back to his aunt. “Why am I being chosen? You know we decided—”
“You’re perfect for the task, Navarre. That’s why,” his aunt interrupted.
Giselle looked from one to the other. Only Margot looked as confused as Giselle was. “I can see them some other time,” she offered. “I’m feeling quite tired. Perhaps I’ll simply go to my rooms….”
“Oh no, dearest Giselle. I insist. Navarre would love to show them to you. He would.”
“Of course,” he said. “I’d enjoy showing the duchesse where her portrait will hang. I’m honored.”
He held out his arm to Giselle. She looked at it, afraid to meet his eyes. He didn’t sound honored and pleased. He sounded angry. But everyone was watching, so she accepted his assistance. She placed her hand on his forearm and thought she detected a slight tremble in response. Her heart raced. He turned her and began walking. Two menservants opened the double doors for them and Giselle swept from the room with Navarre. No one said a word.
It wasn’t a true portrait gallery. It was a long corridor ending in plateaus of steps. Another set of servants opened the doors for them to enter. Giselle didn’t have time to thank them. She was having trouble keeping up with Navarre’s strides while he spoke.
“The Berchald family actually goes back to the Capet rulers, when our ancestor was granted the title marquisat. No portraits exist from that era. Most of our holdings had to be fought over again during the Hundred Year War. Once the English dogs were defeated and sent back across the channel, King Charles the Seventh bequeathed the titles and holdings of Duc du Berchald to this man, Jean-Phillipe.”
Navarre held the candelabra aloft so Giselle could better see the painting they’d stopped in front of.
“Painted in 1454, it was restored just before my uncle came into the title, but it won’t last much longer, we fear.”
Jean-Phillipe was painted strangely. Perhaps it
was the dullness of the colors, but it looked flat and one-dimensional to her. The man was blond, but there the resemblance to her guide ended. The paint was rippled at the edges of his clothing and flesh. In some places, it appeared to be missing altogether.
“There is no portrait of the first duchesse,” Navarre continued. “That tradition didn’t begin until the fifth duc, also named Jean-Claude like my brother. That portrait is near the stairs. In the meantime…”
Navarre moved her to another picture, mounted on black velvet and Giselle held her breath. It could have been Etienne.
“The second duc, also named Etienne. He was killed in a duel, or so the legend goes. He didn’t wed, so his title passed to his brother, and my namesake, Navarre.”
He walked farther, passing by several paintings Giselle might have wanted to see had the situation been different, then he stopped before a life-sized one.
“He doesn’t look much like you,” she said.
Navarre’s eyes flicked to hers for a moment. Then he looked away. “No, he doesn’t.”
“What are we doing here, Navarre?” she whispered, amazed at her bravery.
She was watching close enough to see him flinch at the question. She wondered if he would tell her the truth.
“We’re viewing portraits, Giselle.”
He walked to the first set of stairs, and she was left no course but to follow.
“The Duchesse Bertina du Berchald. She was painted in 1602 when she married Jean-Claude. Bertina was sister to the queen and had Spanish ancestry. You probably have noticed the resemblance to Esmee and me.”
Giselle saw it. They had the same nose. The Duchesse Bertina had been painted wearing an impossible collar affair. Giselle remembered seeing similar portraits at Antilli.
“Bertina was Jean-Claude’s first wife. His second was the beautiful Comtesse Raniou, a widow. Her portrait was commissioned through Paris. It’s said she was one of the King’s mistresses, but that has never been proven. She brought immense royal favor to Jean-Claude, though. It was through his marriage to her that he was awarded the title of Hereditary Master of His Majesty’s Wardrobe.”
The Comtesse Raniou was a beautiful woman, at least for her time. She had a flirtatious smile on her lips and a very full bosom. The Comtesse Raniou wasn’t blond. She had very dark hair, topped by a tight-fitting caplet, and her face was framed by a high collar, too.
Giselle murmured something, and they walked onto the first landing, four steps up. The staircase was as wide as the corridor. At each landing, more portraits graced the walls.
“This is my great-great-Uncle Pierre. He was more accustomed to spending time at court than attending to family duties, and it shows.”
“He…looks a bit like you.” Giselle stepped closer.
If it hadn’t been for the prominent widow’s peak on the subject’s forehead, he resembled Navarre greatly. He was dressed in a foppish manner, but very like the man at her side.
“Why did you have to be so lovely, Giselle?”
Navarre spoke so softly, Giselle almost didn’t hear him. And then she couldn’t believe she had correctly. The image of the long-dead Pierre smiled at her while her eyes widened on his handsomeness.
Giselle dared a glance up at Navarre, holding her breath for the strange connection of his gaze. He wasn’t looking at her, however. He was studying the same portrait while a nerve twitched in the side of his jaw. She’d never seen anything as stirring.
He sighed and looked down toward her. Giselle couldn’t look away fast enough and spent some time looking at the gilded-wood frame.
“Come, Giselle. Let us get this over with.”
He reached for her arm. She skipped to keep up as they passed three more landings filled with paintings until they stopped before Aunt Mimi’s portrait.
“My aunt, as you must have guessed…”
He spoke so abruptly it was rude. Giselle wondered what she’d done to make him so angry.
“…and my uncle, the thirteenth Duc du Berchald.”
He turned her to face a larger-than-life-sized painting. The man was clearly a Berchald, from the light blond hair, to the blue eyes.
“He was the most depraved man in France…unless we count my brother, Jean-Claude.”
He released her arm and stepped back while she tried to assimilate what she’d just heard. “Depraved?” Giselle asked.
“Debauched, drunk, immoral. Wicked. Obscene. Need I go on?”
There was an angry, hard note in his voice. It felt like a physical blow. Giselle stepped back from him, bumping against an ornate table as she did so.
“Perhaps you should sit down, Giselle.” He pulled out a Louis the Fourteenth chair, and Giselle slid into it. “My uncle nearly bankrupted the family, although we don’t look it.”
He probably added the last when Giselle looked up at him in astonishment. Bankrupt? she wondered. That’s absurd. The castle is filled with luxury!
“Savignen Valley saved us,” he continued. “Actually it was you that saved us. Perhaps that was what made me dislike you so much. I was only eight when the marriage took place, and it wasn’t to his liking, I assure you. What handsome, strong sixteen-year-old with the world as his feet wishes to be tied to a baby?”
“That’s not fair—”
Giselle began, but he interrupted her.
“I was young. Impressionable. Smitten with hero-worship. I listened to every word he cursed you with. He didn’t deserve to be forced to wed with you.”
“Forced?” Giselle choked on the word. “But I was only six, Navarre. I wasn’t even there! How can you say such things to me?”
“You’re right, Giselle…God help me.”
She didn’t see him reach for her, but she didn’t have to. She felt the heat of his palms against her waist, and then his arms as they encircled her. And then she was hauled from the chair and held against him. The lace of his jabot scratched against her cheek when he spoke again.
“I cannot finish, Giselle. Forgive me. I can barely stand to be near you. I keep telling myself that you belong to Etienne. And even that fails.”
His hand went beneath her chin, lifting her face. Her arms wrapped about his waist, putting the smooth silkiness of his jacket against her bare arms. It cooled the heat spilling through her. His hair fell forward as he bent his head towards her. Giselle closed her eyes, afraid of what he might read, and that it might stop him.
She felt the firm pressure of his lips at her forehead, and held the gasp as he trailed his caress down her nose. A sound escaped as she pursed her lips in expectation. She was unable to help herself.
But he didn’t kiss her lips, despite how her entire frame yearned for it. Silently beseeched. Her neck craned upward, but he lifted his head away, sighing loudly enough it covered hers. Giselle opened her eyes to the most severe expression on his face as he watched her.
It made her want to laugh and cry simultaneously.
Then he disentangled her, reaching behind himself to unclasp her hands. Giselle couldn’t have done it — she wasn’t even aware she still clung to him. She collapsed back into the chair and tried to stop her knees from shaking.
“Forgive me again, Giselle. I didn’t bring you here to show you these paintings, or to make love to you.”
He turned and walked from her to stand under Aunt Mimi’s portrait.
“Then…why are…we here?”
Giselle was hoping to keep her reaction hidden, but her voice gave it away. She watched him frown, and then he swiveled to look at the painting.
“I brought you here to ask you. No! I beg you. To save us again! The only thing standing between my brother, Jean-Claude, and the title…. This is too much to ask of me!”
He slammed a fist into the wall beside Aunt Mimi’s portrait. Giselle jumped. Her eyes blurred with unshed tears. She belonged to Etienne. She’d just met Navarre. How was it possible to feel like this in just one day?
“Finish it, Navarre. Tell me.”
“Eti
enne must….” He touched the frame of the painting as if he needed to draw strength from it. “You and Etienne must. There has to be— I’m sorry. I cannot finish it. Esmee will have to.”
“Etienne and I must have a son.”
Giselle said it for him. When she’d finished they were surrounded by complete silence. He nodded, but he didn’t have to. She knew what they expected of her, but they didn’t know how difficult it would be. Etienne was horrid. She shuddered now, from the recollection of meeting him. The idea of intimacy with him was revolting to her.
“He wasn’t always as he is now,” Navarre said, surprising her with how he’d read her thoughts.
“Perhaps…Jean-Claude…won’t be as you suspect?”
He laughed, but it was a bitter sound. “You don’t believe me?”
“No. It’s not that. It’s just I….”
She let the words simply end. How was she to tell him of her aversion to the brother, that by his own words, he hero-worshipped?
“Come, Giselle. It’s late. I’ll see you to your chamber.”
He turned to her, and she shook her head. She was watching the floor at his feet. She couldn’t face him. Too much was happening. She had no experience with men. Her senses were flying at the memory of Navarre’s embrace, and yet reeling with the thought of allowing it to be Etienne. With such a confusing reaction, how could she begin to help the family? How could she begin to try if Navarre touched her again?
“Shall I get your woman?”
He knelt so she could meet his eyes. They were more deep purple than blue in the light and so gentle! They were going to haunt her.
She nodded and watched him go.
Her euphoric state lasted longer than she remembered. She recalled little of the rest of the evening. Louisa chattered at her while she undressed, but Giselle ignored her talk, and barely heard Gerty’s unsubtle musings.
Navarre had kissed her! True, it wasn’t on the lips, but still...
Giselle wasn’t disappointed. She kept remembering what it felt like to be held so tenderly and almost-kissed. She’d wanted him to do it, too. She trembled to recall how it felt. The big bed didn’t feel so large and overpowering.