Royal 02 - Royal Passion

by Jennifer Blake

  Balzac possessed himself of her hand and raised it to his lips. “I am sure he would not consider anything you asked as a trouble, mademoiselle. How could he?"

  "Easily,” she answered, her voice dry.

  "You fear him?” Balzac asked, looking at her with a frown.

  "No, no. But it is sometimes difficult to ask for things, especially when they are important to you. Don't you find it so?” She had said too much; she knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth. Perhaps it would not matter.

  "You dislike the appearance of trading your favors for ... privileges."

  "I knew you would understand,” she said, trying for an easy tone. Quickly, before he could comment further, she changed the subject.

  They spoke of a number of things as the time slipped past. One by one the cadre returned, as did Juliana, looking very dashing in a riding habit that featured a soubreveste of black velvet with a gray cross outlined in braid on the chest in the style of the Gray and Black Musketeers of Louis XVIII. It was worn over a red jacket and with a hat made like a plumed helmet. Accompanying he were two poets whose names were lost in the hubbub and a disgruntled comte who followed her about like a dog guarding a particularly juicy bone. A short time later Roderic strolled into the room. He smiled at Mara across the room, saluting her with the glass of wine a servant placed in his hand.

  Mara was just as happy that he made no attempt to come to her. She had not seen him since the early-morning hours; she had been asleep when he left her. What she would say to him when they were face to face again, she had no idea.

  She felt little different inside herself after her night with him. Oh, there was some soreness here and there, but nothing of importance. It had been so natural, so right, while it was happening, not the terrible ordeal she had been led to expect by the whispers and half-overheard remarks she had accumulated since childhood, or after her experience with Dennis's clumsy groping. Regardless, she felt changed, branded in some way. Overnight she had become the mistress of the prince. Many had suspected it; now it was true. Mistress. She had never thought to be that to any man.

  More guests arrived until the room scarcely seemed able to hold them all. Mara, mindful of her duties as housekeeper and hostess, saw to the refreshments and circulated through the room. Juliana also moved here and there, talking in an effortless display of royal good manners to first one and then another. Roderic did the same.

  Then, as if at some magic signal, the guests began to melt away as the hour for morning visits passed. Balzac took his leave, followed by the poets and the comte. The cadre retreated to the long gallery they had claimed as their own. There was only Juliana left in the salon when Roderic dropped down on the settee beside Mara.

  "I am informed,” he said,"that you desire above all things to go to the vicomtesse's ball."

  She sent him a swift glance as the betraying color rose to her cheekbones. She was not ready for this, not ready at all. “I ... suppose Monsieur Balzac told you."

  "Most obligingly. He seemed to think that I would be delighted to hear how best to please you."

  "He was wrong naturally."

  "Now why should you think so? Scribes and thieves and braying asses may sometimes speak the truth. As it happens, he was right, though I find it passing strange that I should be read a homily on the delicate nature of women and the obligation of men to see to their dearest wishes, or that I should have to hear of your desires from him.” He leaned back, stretching out his long legs and folding his hands upon his chest. “Why could you not have told me?"

  "I ... had no idea if it was even possible."

  "So Honoré said. The question is, why does this affair appeal?"

  She made a helpless gesture. “It will be a gala event."

  Juliana joined them, taking a seat with a sweep of her habit skirt. “Why should it not appeal? The king will be there and everyone else of any consequence. Besides, Chère has done nothing except slave for you since you picked her up out of a ditch on a French hillside. She must be ready for some amusement."

  "It is a great pity,” Roderic said with a steady look toward his sister, “that Louis Philippe arranged the marriage of the duc de Montpensier to the Infanta Maria Luisa last year; Montpensier would have been about right for you. The comte de Paris is rather young, only seven, but he is the heir apparent, which makes up for other shortcomings. I must speak to our fathers about a match. Arvin's departure has left you in need of occupation—to keep you from interfering in what doesn't concern you."

  Juliana lifted a brow. “I would take care how I mentioned marriage to Father. He might begin to look around him for a suitable princess for you."

  "That Damocles sword has a coating of rust. He has had a list of possible alliances made since the day I was first presented, red-faced and squalling, by my nurse."

  "You may have avoided the fate of princes, a loveless alliance, until now, but it will come to you. Like the poor little comte de Paris, you are the heir apparent."

  "Your concern unmans me. Will you go so that I may speak to Chère in peace?"

  "So you can persuade her that the last thing she wants is to attend a ball? No, indeed. I am of a mind for a little gaiety and music myself. You are altogether too dull here!"

  "Are we, indeed?” Roderic asked, his voice soft.

  Juliana sent him a look of quick alarm. “That was no challenge, I assure you! I believe Chère would benefit from an outing, and who knows? You might find someone who can identify this mystery lady for you."

  "An object greatly to be wished,” her brother answered, but his voice was without expression.

  "That,” Juliana said, turning to Mara, “was a capitulation, in case you did not recognize it. Now what are we to wear to this ball? We must decide at once and be off to the modiste if there is to be the least chance of having gowns made up in time."

  It had been too easy. Mara had expected that she would have to use every wile that she possessed, to marshal every possible argument, even perhaps to plead. Instead, the compliance of the prince had been gained without effort. It was what she wanted, what she needed; the one thing that she must have. And yet the ease with which it had been gained left her apprehensive.

  It was not like Roderic to change his mind so easily. He had not intended to honor the invitation to the ball. She could not think that he had deferred to her wishes purely for the sake of her embraces or because of the rallying comments of his sister. What, then, was his purpose?

  She tried to scoff at herself, to tell herself that he had no purpose, that the image she had created of him—that of a man of diabolical mental perceptions—was no more than an illusion. It helped not at all. She could not rid herself of the suspicion that, instead of leading the prince into a trap, she herself was being enticed into yet another one.

  The shopping expedition had been a success. Mara had been afraid that Juliana would insist on going to Madame Palmyre. For that reason, she had asked to be set down at Maison Gagelin first, and, once in the draper's shop, had sought out the shop assistant, Worth. She wished to consult him about the materials and colors of her gown, but most of all she wanted to expose Juliana to his views on overornamentation.

  Worth had not failed her. He had brought out a sea-blue satin, heavy and stiff, for Juliana that had made her skin look as translucent as the finest china and given her eyes an incredible depth and sparkle. He had also made a hurried sketch of a gown with an elongated bodice that would make the most of her regal height and superb form without weighing her down with pounds of bows and rosettes or ruchings of lace and clumps of silk flowers.

  For Mara he had recommended a delicate white silk chiné with a hint of pink in the folds and suggested a cunningly draped bodice that made her waist appear tiny, even less than its normal eighteen inches. He had also suggested a modiste, a former grisette, who could be trusted to cut the fine materials correctly and was not so busy that she would not be able to have the gowns ready on time. Since Juliana insisted,
he had sold her several egret plumes to be dyed for a headdress to match her gown, but had convinced Mara that all she had need of was one or two pale pink rosebuds to set in her dark hair. When the Englishman with his intriguing accent had bowed them from the store, Juliana had pronounced him utterly charming and vowed to visit him again.

  They had returned to the carriage and Juliana had given the order that would take them to a cobbler's shop that was known for its dancing slippers when Roderic's sister said, “You know, we should have brought Trude with us."

  "You mean—"

  "I mean it's time she stopped playing at being a man. There is a woman's body and heart beneath that uniform she wears. Surely she would like to go to a ball in something other than trousers?"

  "She might. It's hard to say with Trude,” Mara said.

  "She isn't very open, I will admit, and is even less so with you, for obvious reasons."

  "You mean because I am now sharing your brother's rooms,” Mara said, determined not to spare herself.

  "Of course,” Juliana said with impatience. “She has followed Roderic about all her life, and he has permitted it because he is too fond of her to hurt her and also—let it be admitted—because she is useful to him. If she would only allow herself to be a woman, however, she might find that there are other men in the world."

  "She might, indeed, but would she care?"

  "We will never know if we don't do something to help her."

  "It will take some persuasion,” Mara said.

  "I am good at that,” Juliana answered in all simplicity.

  "Yes. I haven't thanked you for asking Roderic to take you—us—to this ball."

  "You think he did it for me?” Juliana shook her head, a bemused smile playing about her mouth. “What a very modest woman you are, Chère."

  Mara sent her a quick glance, then looked away again. “Do you mind that I am your brother's woman?"

  "Mind? What good would that do? But, no, you have been good for him. I can't remember ever seeing him quite so involved. Everything has always been so easy for him; he has looks, intelligence, strength, limitless ability, good birth, immense resources, a doting mother, a father who cares despite high expectations and the clash of their personalities. He has had a surfeit of women, of the kind who offer a token resistance or none at all; the kind who are so shallow a child can see through them. But you elude him. You have no past, no future, only the present. He cannot know you, cannot explore your mind, and so he is frustrated. It may be a pity for you to ever regain your memory."

  Was Juliana suggesting that once he knew who and what she was, Roderic's attraction for her might disappear? It did not matter; she would be leaving him soon anyway, immediately after the ball. Still, the thought gave her a strange ache in the region of her heart.

  Trude refused the ball gown. Standing at her full height, which topped Juliana by two full inches, she said, “I am a member of the cadre. What need have I for skirts to hide behind?"

  "To hide behind!” Juliana exclaimed, incensed. “They are not for hiding, but to show that you are a woman."

  "I am a woman, with or without them."

  "Yes, but—"

  "Let her be, if you please, Princess Juliana."

  It was Estes who spoke. He had come to stand near them where Juliana and Mara had drawn Trude aside at one end of the long gallery.

  Juliana turned on the Italian. “Then you speak to her! She has no idea what she is missing by never having danced or flirted or had an assignation at a ball."

  "These things have no appeal to me whatever!” Trude said with a stiff gesture.

  "Then you have become masculine beyond recognition. My brother has much to answer for."

  "It isn't his fault. Not all women want these things. Not all women want admiration and flirtation."

  "How can you know what you want if you have never had them!"

  "I know. I am happy as I am."

  "You don't know—"

  "Your pardon, Princess Juliana,” Estes tried again, his narrow face serious behind his beard. “It is you who don't know. Some women have other needs than yours, other satisfactions."

  "Besides,” Trude said, “what good could I do the prince hampered by skirts?"

  "If you are doing this for his sake—"

  "It is no sacrifice. It's a matter of duty, to Prince Roderic and to the cadre. They depend on me."

  This was the source of Trude's pride, Mara thought; she was needed. It seemed to be enough, at least for now. In addition, Trude had gained a champion. For the Valkyrie and the Italian count were standing together, talking in low voices, when she and Juliana left the room.

  The days passed with dizzying speed. The weather continued gray and dreary and cold. Rain mixed with sleet sometimes fell. Regardless, the parade of visitors continued: the famous, the infamous, those of importance, and the nonentities. They were always twenty to thirty at the dinner table, and they often stayed late. But when they were gone and the door had been shut upon them, Roderic retired to his apartment and took Mara with him. Slowly, her belongings accumulated in his rooms, and, just as surely, she became used to dressing and undressing before him, to accepting his caresses, to joining him in the great royal bed. She came to believe that it was not mere physical pleasure he sought in her company, but a respite from the duties and obligations that dogged his every waking moment.

  By degrees, he told her about himself, and it seemed to Mara as if she could see in her mind the flaxen-haired toddler that he had been; the wild young boy always at odds with his dynamic father, always protected by his mother, the lovely and gracious Angeline. She could picture the mountains and forested valleys of Ruthenia: the swift-running and ice-cold rivers; the small villages and walled towns with their ancient bridges lined with images of what might have been saints, but could as easily have been the effigies of beloved past kings and queens.

  Sometimes he would attempt to catch her unaware with questions concerning her past, her own childhood. She had become adept, however, at prevarication, at the use of smiling silence, though in truth it sometimes seemed as if she had no past to remember. It felt as if she had always lived here in Ruthenia House with the prince and his retinue. That she had always slept naked in Roderic's arms and always would. It was dangerous to allow herself to feel that way, she knew, but it was not something she could prevent.

  The evening of the ball arrived. The gowns Mara and Juliana had ordered had been delivered the day before, and Mara's hung in the armoire in Roderic's dressing room. Her underclothing had been laid out, along with her silken stockings and her white satin dancing slippers with pearl beading on the toes. She had bathed early so as to give her hair time to dry. Lila had tended her nails, buffing them to a pink glow. She was supposed to be resting, lying down on a chaise longue in Roderic's bedchamber. Instead, she sat staring into the fire with her hands clasped in front of her, trying not to think.

  This was the night. It was the evening toward which all her energies had been directed for weeks, the evening of the ball, the evening she would deliver the prince into the hands of de Landes. She had played her part. Her task would be complete when she entered the door of the residence of the vicomtesse on Roderic's arm. What happened after that was not her responsibility. Still, she wished with passionate fervor that she knew what was going to take place. The possibility of public disgrace for Roderic occurred to her, though she had no idea what form it might take. She thought of his assassination or else his arrest and exposure as the leader of the Death Corps, even of his imprisonment and torture.

  She tried to make herself think of a more optimistic outcome, of a surprise honor, an award, or perhaps a surreptitious inspection for the purpose of an alliance between France and Ruthenia. The last was unlikely. The daughters of Louis Philippe were married, and his granddaughters were still in their cradles. And as for an award of honor, a simple invitation from the king to the Tuileries would have done as well.

  Nothing good seemed to
make sense. Her horror of what might happen left her cold inside. She held out her hands to the flames that leaped in the hearth and was not surprised to see that they trembled.

  The door opened behind her, and Roderic's soft, even tread advanced into the room. “Moping in the dark? A useless occupation, but enjoyable to some, or so I'm told."

  She looked up, glancing at the window. Night had indeed fallen. She got to her feet and turned to face him. “I was waiting for the time to dress for the ball."

  "Not happily, it appears. You need not go if you have changed your mind."

  The impulse to accept the excuse he offered was strong. If she simply stayed here in the house with him, then nothing could harm him. He would be safe. But her grandmother would not be.

  "Juliana would be disappointed,” she said, forcing a smile.

  "She would survive it."

  Would he survive the night? That was the basis of her terrible fears. She must go to the ball, and he with her, but perhaps if he were warned, all would be well. She stepped forward, reaching out her hand to place it on his arm. “Roderic—” she began, then faltered.

  "Say what you will,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of urging.

  She stared up at him, her eyes wide in the pale oval of her face. He was so vital and quick with energy, even as he stood still with his head bent toward her. She could not bear the thought of him going unprepared into that ballroom, and yet how could she warn him? She could not. Once she began to explain why he must take care, there would be nothing left to do except to tell the entire story. It was too great a risk to take. Impossible.

  "Nothing,” she said, letting her hand fall away from his sleeve, turning away from him.

  He watched her, watched the fans of dark silk that were her lowered lashes, watched the firelight gleam in the black and shining waves of her hair that spilled around her waist as she moved away from him. He drew a deep breath, his chest tight with disappointment. For one brief moment he had thought that she meant to trust him, to confide in him. The need had been there; he was sure of it.