The French Affair (Endearing Young Charms Book 2)

by M C Beaton

  Formerly, all the plebeians would stop dancing when the grand folk arrived and bow and curtsy while they made their majestic progress to the end of the room.

  But this year it was different. They had the comte dancing with the butcher’s wife and Delphine dancing with the baker, and so the uppercrust of the county had to edge their way around the edge of the floor instead of marching straight down the middle.

  At last, they surrounded the Mancrofts, exclaiming at the Saint-Pierres’ democracy, “but after all they are French and do not know how to go on.”

  But Sir Giles would have none of it. So far, he said, it had been the best hunt ball yet.

  In previous years, the tradespeople had waited so that they might have a glimpse of the aristocracy before going home, sometimes having to wait as late as midnight and worrying about the amount of coal and candles it was costing back home, since their domestics were waiting up for them.

  Mothers would worry about children who were probably not yet abed. This year, however, they had not only had the pleasure of seeing the comte and comtesse from the very start but of dancing with them, too. Sir Giles and Lady Mancroft were warm in their praise.

  With great daring, it had been planned that the waltz would be introduced for the first time. Of course, everyone had practiced it in secret for quite some time, but it had always been considered too forward a dance for a country ball.

  The waltz was announced. Delphine had never learned the steps but was so pleased with her dancing success so far, that she was confident of picking up the steps very quickly if her husband would guide her.

  But the comte was talking to Harriet, a Harriet resplendent in white muslin worked with silver thread and a diamond necklace and tiara. She looked like a fairy princess, her eyes as blue as the comte’s, her hair as gold.

  Mr. Caxford asked Delphine to dance. Delphine looked anxiously towards her husband and murmured that she had not learned the steps, whereupon Mr. Caxford promptly asked Lady Lucy.

  The comte took the floor with Harriet.

  Bitterly Delphine watched as her husband held Harriet in a firm clasp. Harriet seemed to float in his arms.

  “By Jove! What a marvelous couple they make!” exclaimed Sir Giles, forgetting Delphine’s presence.

  To Delphine, the waltz was a shameless dance and went on much too long.

  At last it was over, but the comte promenaded with his fair partner, as was the custom.

  Since everyone knew Harriet to be monstrously high in the instep, no other partner came up to claim her hand for the next dance. Delphine was again asked by the bookseller, and accepted, noticing out of the corner of one jaundiced eye her husband leading Harriet into the refreshment room. Harriet was leaning against him in a disgustingly familiar way and batting her eyelashes, which were surely darkened with lamp black.

  It was a long time before they reappeared, and when they did, Harriet was flushed and elated, and the comte looked like a cat that had just had a large bowl of cream.

  He asked Delphine to partner him in a country dance and she angrily refused, whereupon he turned and asked Harriet to dance again.

  Delphine took the floor with the vicar.

  Would this awful evening never end?

  Jules’s admiration of Harriet was becoming more blatant by the minute. Harriet looked cool and fresh as well she might—she had not been dancing for hours.

  At last the ball finished.

  It was a silent ride home, on Delphine’s part at least.

  Her infuriating husband chattered on about what fun it had all been, and how jolly the people were, and how friendly.

  Delphine sat and scowled out into the night. A vision of the pink and blond Harriet seemed to dance in front of her eyes with every movement of the carriage. Tears pricked at Delphine’s eyelids. This husband, this Frenchman, had made her feel more foreign than ever. She felt sallow and dark and dowdy.

  On arriving at Marsham Manor, the comte promptly plunged into a long and enthusiastic discussion of horseflesh with Charlie. Delphine stood on the steps for a few moments watching them, then turned on her heel and walked inside and straight up to her bedroom.

  After she had changed into a simple, unadorned, white cambric nightgown, she brushed her hair with swift, angry strokes. She was not jealous of Harriet. She could not be!

  She faintly heard Jules mounting the stairs and put down the brush and listened hard. But when had he ever come to her room?

  Delphine choked back an angry sob. She snuffed the candles one by one and climbed into bed and buried her face in the pillow.

  She was so angry she thought she would not sleep, but the fatigue of the evening’s dancing had been great, and it was three in the morning, so she plunged down into the realm of dreams almost immediately.

  All at once, she was in her mother’s arms. She could smell her faint rose perfume and feel the trembling of her body. They were at the château window.

  “Kill me!” screamed her mother desperately. “Kill me, but save my child.”

  A great roar of derision came from the mob below, and flames started to shoot up, scarlet and yellow crackling flames, lighting up the avid, staring faces below.

  “Maman!” wailed Delphine. “Maman!”

  The comte had gone downstairs again to look for a book.

  He turned over volume after volume. Mostly books on agriculture. He tugged at a copy of Tristram Shandy, glad to find something readable, and as he pulled it from the shelves, a fat volume of The Pig Breeders’ Almanac fell to the floor. The pages flew open, and a pressed and dried pink rose floated to his feet.

  He bent, slowly and carefully picking it up, a tender smile curling his lips. He remembered Delphine as she had been at the fair; beautiful, alive, slightly arrogant, slightly contemptuous of the poor performer who could dress and speak like a gentleman yet earned his living in such a low way.

  He placed the flower back in the book and closed the pages. Picking up the copy of Tristram Shandy, he made his way back into the hall and up the stairs.

  He was about to turn off at the landing towards his own quarters when he heard his wife scream.

  He ran lightly to her bedroom and pushed open the door and hurtled in.

  “Maman!” said Delphine, her voice strange and piping, the voice of a frightened child.

  He lit a branch of candles and sat down on the bed and gathered her tightly in his arms.

  “Wake up, my heart,” he whispered urgently. “You are dreaming.”

  Delphine awoke and stared up at him, her eyes haunted with dreams.

  “The fire,” she whispered. “And the faces, the horrible, staring faces!”

  “Shhh!” he said, rocking her. “You are safe. You are here with me.”

  Delphine gave a great shuddering sob and buried her face against his chest. He stroked her hair gently. “It is as well to remember,” he said softly. “After a time, the horrors begin to fade. So many of us have been through so much.”

  Delphine raised her wet eyes to his. “You, too?”

  “It was part of their sport,” he said, “to make me stand and watch my parents being beheaded. They knew I was there. They were very brave. I lived with fear for a long time, fear and terrible nightmares. But we are alive, Delphine, and we are together. We have each other.”

  Delphine clung to him, listening to his calm voice and hearing the steady beating of his heart.

  “I have not been very kind to you, Jules,” she said.

  “Perhaps not. I was not the man of your dreams.”

  He brushed away a tear on her cheek with one finger and smiled down into her eyes. Delphine’s dropped shyly before his gaze. He seemed to be wearing nothing but his old dressing gown. The firm column of his throat was very close to her lips, the skin smooth and white.

  He shifted slightly on the bed, and she grasped the lapels of his dressing gown and said on a note of panic, “Do not leave me!”

  “I can go on holding you for a little, and comfo
rting you, but you are not a child, Delphine. Already, I am all too aware of your body—and your beauty.”

  “I am not so beautiful as Harriet,” mumbled Delphine.

  “Much more beautiful,” he teased. “Unlike Harriet, you are beautiful inside as well as out. Did I make you jealous this evening? I tried very hard.”

  “Oh, that’s why … oh, Jules how wicked you are.”

  “Your lips are swollen and red and ripe for the plucking, my sweeting. But what if I kiss you now and you cry ‘no’?”

  Delphine looked at him tremulously. She was not a virgin, but she felt slightly frightened, slightly insecure, afraid of turning him cold by her lack of experience.

  She raised one shaking little hand and traced the contours of his lips. “I would not cry ‘no,’” she said.

  He bent his head and kissed her long and lingeringly, using only the movement of his mouth against hers to make love to her until he felt the quickening of her heartbeat and noticed the hot color rising in her face.

  His hand reached for the sash of his dressing gown.

  “The candles,” said Delphine. “Blow them out.”

  “Very well, my love. But do not forget for one moment who holds you in his arms.”

  He blew out the candles. Delphine moved over on the bed, listening to the rustle of silk as he removed his dressing gown.

  And then he was in bed beside her. He eased her nightgown over her head and threw it on the floor.

  “I cannot,” said Delphine in sudden panic. “I am too afraid.”

  He silenced her with his mouth and began to stroke the length of her body, pressing her against him, until at long last he felt her begin to relax. His kisses became fiercer and more insistent, and when his mouth began to trace an erotic path down her body, she buried her hands in his hair and gave herself up to the thudding tumult of emotion engulfing her.

  By the time he took her, she was ready for him, meeting passion with passion, twisting and turning under him, each thrust of his body sending her spiraling up higher and higher until she seemed to collapse all of a sudden, down and down into a warm, black sea of content. But still he had not finished with her, bringing her back to those dizzying heights three times before he joined her, culminating their lovemaking in one long and glorious fiery frenzy that left them both shipwrecked on the shores of love after such a long storm of passion.

  Delphine awoke in the light of a red dawn, and he immediately came awake as well, his mouth sleepily seeking hers and his body beginning to move against hers.

  “Oh, Jules.” Delphine giggled. “You are not lazy at all,” and then that was the last coherent thing Delphine was to say for some time.

  When she awoke again, the sun was high in the sky and the comte was gone.

  Delphine felt like a child at Christmas. The whole glorious day stretched before her, a day she would spend by her husband’s side.

  She sang as she washed and put on a sprigged muslin gown.

  She could never remember being so happy. Delphine ran lightly down the stairs. And stopped on the first landing, her hand flying to her mouth.

  The comte was standing in a shaft of sunlight in the hall; Harriet Bryce-Connell was held in his arms. They were kissing passionately.

  Delphine turned and ran back to her room, a black roaring in her ears.

  All the glory and beauty of the night had meant nothing to him. Perhaps he was even now laughing with Harriet over the ingenuousness of his bride.

  She sat on the edge of the bed and clutched her head in her hands.

  She hated Jules, hated him as she had never hated anyone in her life before.

  There came a gentle scratching at the door, and she turned white as his voice called, “Are you awake?”

  Delphine had locked the door. She sat silently, watching as the handle turned.

  “Delphine!” His voice was sharper. “Let me in. The door is locked.”

  “I am going to sleep for another hour or two,” Delphine forced herself to call out. “Farmer Yardley wanted to see me about something. Would you ride over there instead? I will be waiting for you when you return.”

  “Very well, sleepyhead.” He sounded amused. “I will see you very soon.”

  Delphine waited untii she heard him go back downstairs. She waited, rigid, until she heard him drive away.

  And then she rang the bell.

  The servants were thrown into an uproar. Her ladyship announced her intention of leaving for London immediately. One of the housemaids, Jane, was told she was to accompany her mistress.

  Trunks were packed and corded at great speed; the traveling carriage was brought around. Charlie ran hither and thither, asking questions and getting no answers.

  Maria Bencastle had gone into Littlejohn. Delphine left her a curt note to say she wished to see some of the shops and theaters in London and would be gone several weeks. Then she pulled forward another piece of paper and began to write to her husband.

  “Jules. My lapse into the stews of lust last night has somewhat sickened me. I have decided we will not suit. Do not try to follow me to London. When I return, I hope we will he able to discuss the dissolution of our marriage. The whole thing has been a Most Disastrous Mistake. D.”

  She told Bradley to deliver it to the comte when he returned.

  Mr. Yardley’s farm lay well away from the London road.

  Dry-eyed and bitter and hard-faced, Delphine sat bolt upright as the carriage rolled away from Marsham Manor.

  Jane, the little maid, a sunny-natured girl with a fresh country complexion and mop of black curls, opened her mouth to say something, but the grim look on her mistress’s face made her change her mind.

  Coldly, Delphine made plans. She would find a suite of rooms in a reputable hotel, and then let her lawyers find her a townhouse and see about engaging a temporary staff for what was left of the Season.

  She would visit as many of London’s amusements as she could, so long as they did not involve seeing one member of the French community.

  She wanted to forget she had ever been French. And most of all, she wanted to forget that ruthless and callous heartbreaker, the Comte Saint-Pierre.

  Chapter Nine

  Maria Bencastle was in a state of high excitement. The only thing to mar her pleasure was the absence of Delphine. How strange to have taken off for London just like that! But once all this was over, Maria meant to find her. Someone would have to break the sad news to Delphine, and who better than she?

  What a terrible job she had had to persuade the magistrate that Jules Saint-Pierre was a spy! But at last, she had enlisted the aid of Geoffrey Bryce-Connell and his sister, Harriet. For some reason, Harriet was most bitter about the comte and in a receptive mood to hear any bad news about him. Her brother was in the same frame of mind, since he had been told by his chef that that worthy was leaving to take up employment at Marsham Manor. They had listened avidly to her story and then had taken her to see the lord-lieutenant of the county, Sir Frederic Gibson. After that, things had started to happen rapidly.

  Now she was waiting in a closed carriage with Harriet and Geoffrey on the outskirts of Hegsley, where they could see the entrance to the Green Man. Closing in along the surrounding lanes were the members of the Bedfordshire Yeomanry, led by Colonel Arburthnot.

  “I hope this isn’t more of your silly gossip, Maria,” said Harriet suddenly. “Perhaps we should not have listened to you.”

  “Look,” said Maria. “What do you think of my silly gossip now?”

  The foxy-faced man had entered the inn some ten minutes before. Looking in that direction, following the line of Maria’s black-mittened hand, Harriet and Geoffrey saw the tall figure of the comte, strolling along the quiet village street.

  They were too busy staring at him to notice the small figure of a sweep, laden under his brushes and poles, going into the inn ahead of the comte.

  Maria licked her lips.

  “They will give the traitor a moment to collect the p
apers and then they will have him,” she whispered. “I told Delphine the man was …”

  “Shut up!” hissed Harriet. “That voice of yours carries for miles.”

  But no one could have said anything to Maria Bencastle which would upset her during this, her moment of triumph.

  Inside the inn, the comte quietly studied the papers which Monsieur Bodet had handed him. Then he gave a nod. “I am surprised at some of these names,” he said grimly.

  “And I am surprised you did not know they were supporters of our emperor,” said Monsieur Bodet sharply.

  “You forget,” said the comte with a bitter smile. “Despite Mrs. Bencastle’s gossip, I was not a spy, only a sympathizer. I did not talk politics in London, you know. I was too concerned in making my living.”

  “As long as I can be sure of your loyalty,” said Monsieur Bodet, squinting up at him.

  “My dear fellow,” said the comte languidly, “I would hardly be offering to carry such dangerous material to France were I not a very ardent supporter of Napoleon. I trust he will restore my estates in return for me risking my life?”

  “Of course,” said Monsieur Bodet with a private sneer. These aristos were all the same, he thought. They would join any side just so long as they could get their precious estates back. But the familiar reason, the familiar plea, reassured him.

  “I hope our voices do not carry,” he whispered. “It seems as if that sweep is paying more attention to our conversation than to his work.”

  The comte glanced over to where the small sweep was joining up his poles ready to attack the inn fireplace. The landlord was nowhere in sight.

  The comte rose to his feet. “It seems we must serve ourselves,” he said, fetching a bottle of wine and two glasses. “The place seems deserted. Well, Monsieur Bodet, drink a glass with me and wish me Godspeed.”

  “The emperor!” said Monsieur Bodet, draining his glass in one gulp.

  He reached for the bottle to fill his glass again. “You did not drink the toast,” he said, looking at the comte’s still full glass. “You …”

  His eyes widened, and he made an effort to rise. “You tricked me,” he croaked, “the papers …”