by Jackie Ivie
“He’s never mentioned a preference. I suppose it is lonely for him. Why did he not speak of it before now?”
Aunt Mimi’s words invaded Giselle’s reverie, causing her fingers to stumble again. She concentrated on her playing, instead of their words. Inanimate objects rather than feelings.
The instrument at Chateau Berchand didn’t play as well as her old one, but it was still generous sounding. The notes softly sought each corner of the immense room in which the ladies sat, but it wasn’t loud enough to hide Aunt Mimi and Esmee’s conversation.
About Navarre.
She shouldn’t listen. It was inviting heartbreak. She should stop playing. Retreat to a quiet corner. Hide. But that would never do. No one must ever guess the emotion she was hiding.
The keys misted before her eyes. She was grateful she could play from memory. She closed her eyes again and let her fingers move for her. Jacques’ music had never sounded so lost. Giselle didn’t recall when she changed to another of his compositions. She’d played it for him whenever he requested it, but she hated it, because it made her cry.
“Perhaps it’s for the best,” Aunt Mimi said softly. “Gossip must never cast such a shadow on the Berchald name, you know.”
She worries about gossip with Esmee, a woman who married so far below her station that she was disowned? She gossips with her about Navarre and me? How can I bear it?
There would be Mass that night. And that really would be the end. Giselle had begged le bon Dieu for just one more stolen kiss, but it wasn’t to be. Navarre was leaving her, moving somewhere where she wouldn’t torment him. She should be grateful.
She breathed deeply, shaking through the sobs she dared not utter. Dared not even admit. She may understand why, but that didn’t make it easier.
“Navarre will come to supper, won’t he?” Esmee asked. “It will be rude of him not to when I have planned the settings. Did he tell you?”
Giselle held her breath and waited for the answer.
“You’ve heard how he raves about Chef Aaron’s meals. He won’t miss it.”
They didn’t know. Navarre tired sometimes of heavy sauces. He’d said as much that first day. During their lone supper. At the Minot farmhouse.
“He really should have said something.”
Giselle couldn’t finish playing. The memory of Navarre’s words on the day they’d first met, or what had happened since, was too immense. Her hands hammered a discord from the deep octaves of the keyboard. “Pardon me, ladies,” she said. “I don’t feel well.”
She sensed Esmee’s concern, although Aunt Mimi simply looked at her blankly. Giselle guessed she was pale, but she wasn’t crying. That was taking an act of will to accomplish.
“I must have overexerted myself yesterday. I…I’ve never ridden before.”
“You will be at supper? I’ve planned—”
“If I am unable to attend, Esmee, you will be the first I inform.”
Giselle turned swiftly toward the door. She’d heard Esmee’s gasp at the curtness of her reply, but she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Caring meant the ocean of ache she was holding back had value. She climbed slowly to the second floor, her legs feeling leaden and sore. She stopped at the landing, rubbing at her thighs as she considered her options.
She couldn’t go to her own chambers. Etienne was still there, and he ignored her request for him to return to his own rooms that very morning.
Giselle had awakened, feeling suffocated by the robe wrapped tightly about her. She’d still slept in it, fearing Etienne would somehow reach her through the locked door to the wardrobe room. When she peeked out, she saw him sprawled across the bed again, as if he’d tried to move and failed. Giselle was grateful she had locked the door.
She allowed Isabelle to finish dressing her, and it was almost done before the maid and Louisa knocked for entry, anyway. Giselle ignored Louisa’s clicking tongue. The governess must’ve sensed something, because she didn’t say a word.
Giselle wondered now, where it was safe to go. There were only two choices, really: her room or Etienne’s. She shook her head at her own stupidity. No one would think to look for her in the duc’s rooms, and she could lock the connecting door.
She walked into the ducal chamber. The room looked much better after being thoroughly cleaned and aired. She looked over Madame Dessard’s work. The floor had been polished until the wood shone, and the rugs scattered about were pale gray and fluffy. The room was very bright. Once again she wondered why Aunt Mimi had allowed her room to be so dark and gloomy. Giselle had no answer, and she really wasn’t searching for one.
She quickly locked all the doors.
All signs of dust were removed. Even the coverlet on the bed smelled of sunshine, as did the rest of the room. She walked onto the balcony, looking over the valley as Etienne had done. It was immense, lushly green, and highly productive — enough so to start a war.
It seemed Giselle had simply exchanged one jail for another. The bars of her new prison lay in splendor before her — Savignen Valley. She gripped the twisted metal of the railing, hard enough the design that the iron-worker had pounded into it, bit into her palms. She didn’t feel it. She couldn’t even feel the warmth of the sun.
The sunlight seemed cold and bleak. Life was cold and bleak. The future matched. And that was what Savignen Valley was to her.
Giselle didn’t bother to wipe at the tears blotting her bodice as coldness seeped into her. This must be her penance, and it was everything she’d dreaded… and more.
“Giselle?”
It was Navarre’s voice. Calling to her. Now she had to hear him speaking? Her penance was brutal.
“Why are you out here? And where’s Etienne? You’re crying? Why, Giselle?”
The hand at her elbow convinced her, and her laughter was clogged with sniffles. It wasn’t in her mind. It truly was Navarre. Here. In the duc’s chambers. With her. Alone.
It seemed God hadn’t deserted her after all.
She turned to face him and buried her face against the front of his shirt. And she wasn’t ashamed! There would be time enough for that later. Years of it.
But for now? She quivered through another breath before she felt the answering pressure of his arms. Enwrapping her.
“My love. My darling. Giselle.”
She heard his endearments through a haze. She looked up. He looked unwell. Older. His eyes shone with such emotion, hers flooded with tears again. She fought them. She didn’t want to cry again. She had to be able to see him and memorize everything about this.
“Forgive me, ma petit, for adding to your guilt.” He released one arm to wipe away a tear with his finger. Giselle watched as he glanced at it and then looked away, over her head. She felt his other arm loosen.
Guilt? He thought she cried for guilt? She tightened her arms until he would be forced to pry her away.
“You must let me go, Giselle. Please? I can’t stand for this. Don’t you see?”
She could, because the chest she leaned against shuddered as he concentrated on the valley in the distance.
“Navarre?”
At her whisper, his arm left her completely. Giselle watched the small lines around his eyes deepen.
“Navarre, look at me.”
His jaw tightened, sending a nerve into prominence. But he moved his eyes to hers.
“What would you have of me?” he asked.
She didn’t know. She started by tugging at the back of his shirt until it was free of his breeches. She had to feel him, and had no idea where that plan of action had come from. Her fingers reached flesh, moving over muscle, getting scorched by the contact. And she felt damp, as if a wellspring erupted within her. She arched her body against him, watching his eyes darken further although his skin turned pale.
“Giselle, you must stop this!”
His arms reached behind himself to pull her away.
“Kiss me, Navarre.”
Giselle was blushing furiously as she ask
ed it, but she held on. His eyebrows rose in disbelief while his eyes went wide.
“Must I…beg it of you?” Her breath came in ragged gasps. “Navarre…please?”
He groaned before bending to her, crushing his mouth against hers. Giselle’s lips, as if following some unknown instinct, molded about his. Her thighs pressed against his, her belly brushing against the strangest lump, and that aroused her still further. Louisa hadn’t told her enough! Giselle dug her fingers into him as he moved her lips apart, flicking and then exploring her mouth with his tongue. Her legs gave out and his hands encircled her waist if he knew.
Giselle was lifted against him, her moan surging through them, making his hands tighten until they almost hurt. And it was delicious. Sensuous. She teased the roughness of his upper lip with her tongue, tasting him, and giggling at his reaction. He pulled away as if stung.
“Mon Dieu, Giselle, but I am on fire. You don’t know what you do! You must stop! I must make you—! We can’t be alone! This can’t happen! Merde!”
Giselle wrapped her legs about his hips, balancing herself so she could bring her arms forward. She pulled the rest of his shirt free as she went. The strangeness of his stomach muscles drew her fingers along them, like playing an instrument.
“Giselle, you must stop! You must!”
She lurched upward, supporting herself by leaning on his shoulders, bringing his mouth toward her breasts. He was forced to hold her in place, because she kept slipping, and she giggled at the feel of his arms beneath her. Even through her clothing, she was singed. Burned. Scorched.
“You vixen!”
They moved into Etienne’s chamber. Giselle couldn’t believe the sensations put into play as he walked. Someone should’ve told her. Her most private area was ablaze. She was being consumed by it.
The chamber looked even brighter. Giselle closed her eyes to the glow of it.
“Giselle! Open this door at once!”
Navarre stopped at the loud knocking on the connecting door. Giselle recognized Louisa’s voice.
“You can’t hide forever! And it is time to dress for supper. I can’t imagine what has gotten into you. You can’t hide from your responsibilities. How many times must I remind you?”
Giselle started to giggle at the lecturing words, and then she stilled. Navarre bent forward, sliding her to her feet. He held his finger to his lips for silence. His shirt was unfastened, the ends trailing to his thighs where she’d pulled it out. She couldn’t stop looking. His thigh muscles were easily discernible through the thin material of his breeches. As was the outline of something no one had told her of.
Giselle slapped both hands to her cheeks.
“Giselle! I know you’re in there. Answer me.”
“I must go.” Navarre whispered it into her earlobe, and then he kissed it. And despite the horror of the situation, Giselle shivered at his touch.
“Will I see you at sup?” She grabbed one of his hands.
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it. Until then, my petite love.”
He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed her fingers. Giselle closed her eyes at the sweetness. The tenderness. The ache that was just beginning. It was agony to know that this was the last time she could let him kiss her. Even her fingers. She wouldn’t be able to stand it, otherwise.
When she opened her eyes, he was gone. It was just as well. Louisa was still pounding at the door, and it was Mass tonight.
She would have a lot to confess.
Giselle had promised God that she’d have nothing more to do with Navarre if she was granted just one more kiss— and such a kiss! She touched her lips with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else.
“Giselle!”
“I’m coming. Stop that noise immediately.”
She glanced in a mirror and stopped, wide-eyed and horrified. She didn’t dare answer the door until she looked this disheveled because she’d just awakened from a nap, and not Navarre’s lovemaking.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Giselle tripped on a stair, but it wasn’t because her dress was too long, although it was. She recovered and smoothed down the skirts. Madame Broussard must have really rushed on making this one, for the length was too long, and the bodice was loose enough to be unseemly. Giselle didn’t care how it fit, however. Her concern was seeing Navarre again. The thought made her blush hotly.
How could I have been so wanton? Acting like little more than an animal?
The entire time it had taken to finish her toilette, Etienne had watched from the bed. Giselle had avoided his eyes in the mirror, but she’d done as he bid. He wanted her to wear this dress. He also wanted her to wear the sapphires again. Perhaps that was why he’d chosen a gown so blue, it was almost black. The blue ribbon threading through the skirt and sleeves had such a purplish hue, Giselle felt her heart twinge painfully when she saw it.
It was as if Etienne was making certain she knew who she belonged to…and it wasn’t his brother.
The staircase to the ducal chambers had a landing midway down, splitting into two separate staircases. From that vantage, one could look over the foyer below and choose which direction to finish. Giselle usually took the one to her right since it led to the most-used chambers. Almost defiantly, tonight she chose the opposite. She squealed when an arm grabbed her from the seldom-used Red Salon.
“Navarre!”
She had time to whisper the name just before his lips met hers. And as wondrous as it felt, she had to stop it. She’d promised God, and He’d fulfilled his part. And she couldn’t let this happen ever again— The moment she tried to pull away, his arms tightened. How was she to feign disinterest when she couldn’t prevent her own body from weakening, clinging to his? He felt it, too. Navarre lifted his head and chuckled against her cheek.
“Darling. Giselle.”
His whisper was low, making her entire body tingle. She’d never be able to stop him if this continued. She pulled from him, but it was a loss so acute, she started shaking.
“Why do you move from me? I’ll make certain no one knows about us. You must learn to trust me.”
Oh no! This is terrible!
“I’ve thought of nothing else all afternoon, Giselle. You enflame me beyond reason. You’re the most desirable, beautiful, exciting—ah! Words fail me.”
His whisper was so full of joy that Giselle’s throat constricted.
“Na… varre.”
She needed to explain, but the intent in his eyes made it go awry. His name had started on a harsh note, and ended on a cry of sound. She had to look away.
“Such passion! Oh, Giselle! You no longer need to question what it is. You definitely have it. I still can’t believe it. Come closer.”
“No, Navarre. Please?” Giselle held up her hands.
“Non?”
He stopped the instant she spoke. The look on his face was akin to a slap. Giselle looked up at him, wishing for less intimacy than two candles lighting the space, but perhaps that was too many. Her eyes widened as she stared at him, and she watched him do the same.
They were dressed alike!
The blackish coat he wore closely matched her bodice, the lace edging his jabot was the match to her ribbons, and his breeches were made of the same satin as her skirts. Giselle didn’t understand why Etienne made her wear this dress. It made no sense.
“It appears my tailor spent some time with your seamstress, doesn’t it? This is interesting. I wonder….”
Navarre turned from her. She watched him walk to the window casing to stare out into the night. Perhaps he was looking at her reflection in the glass. She wouldn’t know unless she went to him, and that was something she dared not do.
“Did Etienne choose your dress, Giselle?” He spoke to the glass.
She nodded.
“Strange, that. He specifically bade me to wear this suit. I don’t even like it. I think I know why. Do you?”
She shook her head, waiting for him to finish. The candlelight reflected on t
he sheen of his breeches.
“He’s not stupid, Giselle, far from it. That’s what he’s saying.” He sighed and turned back to her. “Do you know what I’m referring to?”
She shook her head again. The lump in her throat hadn’t budged.
“He has guessed how we feel. I shouldn’t be surprised. He’s not impaired, just immobile. And I bear full responsibility.”
“Oh, no!”
Giselle clasped her hands to her cheeks cooling the heat. She hadn’t considered that, at all.
“Calm yourself. He can’t know everything, darling. We’ll just have to be more circumspect in the future.”
“No, Navarre, non. You…you don’t understand.” She was choking on the words. The lump wasn’t helping, either. “What happened in his chambers can’t—it was—I can’t let you….”
Giselle blushed as he raised his eyebrows. She knew why. It was a silent query to recall who had attacked whom.
“You must understand, Navarre! I can’t—um. I begged God…for just one more kiss,” she stammered, blaming the ball of tears in her throat for the raspy voice, “before I go…to confession. I had to have one more! Just one. Don’t you see?”
“You didn’t want a chaste kiss, Giselle. I may not have Jean-Claude’s experience with the ladies, but even I know the difference.”
Giselle couldn’t bear to look at him. His expression was that of a man who tasted something bitter and wanted to spit it out.
“I…I…”
Her voice halted, and it was just as well. She was choking on the words, anyway. Why was it so difficult to say the word passion? How could she make him see? I was carried away by passion. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t know. And now that she did…the future was impossible to look at.
How could she make him see?
“You toyed with me, Giselle. Admit it.”
“No!” Her horror colored the word.
“You used me to satisfy your…shall we say…curiosity?”
“No, Navarre! It wasn’t like that.”