Hearts Beguiled

by Penelope Williamson

  A muscle twitched once in his cheek. His eyes devoured the sight of her in a gown of vaporous silk garlanded with hundreds of tiny pink silk roses, each with a sapphire chip in its center so that she twinkled like a sky full of stars. "I don't think I dare present you to the king wearing that dress, ma mie. It's too seductive by far."

  She lowered her lashes demurely. "You needn't worry, Max. The king has always been faithful to his wife."

  Behind the black mask, Max's eyes glittered with dangerous lights. "That may be true, but then the queen has never once left her husband's side."

  He removed his arm and turned away from her as the coach entered the palace gates into the Cour Royale. The three-sided courtyard shimmered like a bowl of molten gold from the lights that shone from every window and the great flambeaux that lined the palace walls.

  Max descended first to give her his arm. Gabrielle put her loo mask—shaped like the head of a bird and covered with white silk feathers and tiny glass beads—in front of her face and stepped down from the coach. She looked up through wide-open doors to a great marble staircase heavily encrusted with gold and filled with people.

  "Oh, Max." She sighed softly. "It's so . . ." But there were no words to describe what she saw.

  "Welcome," he drawled mockingly in her ear, "to the mournful splendor of Versailles."

  The ball was being held in the Galerie des Glaces. One wall of the great long hall was entirely covered with mirrors, and opposite were as many windows that opened onto the sweeping lawns and canals and fountains of the palace grounds. Chinese lanterns cast mysterious shadows into the Grand Canal and caused mist from the fountains tor twinkle like thousands of fireflies. Inside the hundreds of candles in the crystal chandeliers were reflected in the mirrors and win-dowpanes again and again, on into eternity. Shells, garlands, palm fronds, and cupids were gilded, carved, and painted onto every available space that wasn't already glass.

  There was no place to sit down. But then, only those with the rank of duchesse or above were allowed to sit in the presence of the queen. And then only on a tabouret—& three-legged stool. It was the princesses of the royal blood who got the chairs with arms.

  The gallery was so crowded that Gabrielle could only stand in one place anyway and turn in a circle. The skirts on the gowns of the women were so widely panniered that they tipped and rang against each other like bells. Their frizzed and powdered hair was elaborately dressed and topped with plumes, and they looked in danger of catching on fire from the dripping chandeliers. One woman sailed past Gabrielle's nose wearing a headdress comprised of a wooden ship, including sails and a flag on top of the mainmast.

  It was supposed to be a fancy dress ball in celebration of the carnival—a final day of revelry before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of the dull season of Lent. Some of the revelers wore only dominos and loo masks, but others were dressed in complete costume. The queen's coterie, which were huddled jealously around the royal couple at one end of the hall by the fire, were dressed alike as fantasy milkmaids and shepherdesses. They had daringly hitched their skirts high above their silk-clad ankles and pulled their satin overskirts up into poufs on their hips.

  Max took Gabrielle's arm and began to lead her down the length of the hall. She tried to drag her pearl-embroidered slippers across the glossy, parqueted floor to slow him down.

  Max stopped and lowered his head to speak softly into her ear. "I thought you wanted to be presented to the king."

  "I've changed my mind."

  She had turned her head to look at him. The candlelight overhead was reflected in the glass beads and feathers of her mask, and her face shimmered as if it had been gilded with gold dust. She had left her glorious golden-red hair unpowdered, and it blazed like the copper headdress of some ancient goddess. Beside her, Max thought, every other woman in the gallery paled into insignificance.

  He didn't know it but the smile he gave her was full of an aching, tender love. She didn't see it because his domino cast a dark shadow across the lower half of his face.

  He ran his palm up her arm, stroking her as he would calm an excited horse. "Don't be nervous, ma mie. You are by far the most beautiful woman in the entire palace."

  "Thank you for the compliment, monsieur, but what does that have to do with anything?"

  He laughed. "Why, Gabrielle, surely you've learned by now. Even a king will forgive a beautiful woman anything ..." His voice trailed off. It seemed that every conversation they started tonight was destined to remind them both of all the hurt and anger that still lay between them.

  Gabrielle gazed up into her husband s face. The lower curve of his mask emphasized his perfect, taut cheekbones. He looked magnificent in a suit of silver cloth embroidered with gold metal thread. Ruffles of the finest lace fell over his hands, and a diamond sparkled in the thick lace that cascaded from his throat.

  "Tell me again what I'm supposed to do," she said, wanting to get back onto a neutral subject, wanting more than anything to savor the simple pleasure of just looking at him, of being the woman at his side.

  He shrugged. "Just be yourself," he said unhelpfully.

  She knew what to do anyway. Marie-Rose had once paid fifty livres she could ill afford to have a dancing master teach Gabrielle all the various bows and curtsies decreed by court etiquette. There was one kind of curtsy for the king and queen, another for princes and princesses of the blood, one for dues and duchesses, and still another for lesser mortals. As Max once again began to lead her down the hall toward the king, Gabrielle frantically went over all the procedures in her mind.

  Graceful and at ease in any situation as usual, Max made his obeisance and spoke for a moment to the king, then stepped back and drew Gabrielle forward by the hand. "Your royal highness, may I present my wife, the Vicomtesse Gabrielle de Vauclair de Nevers de Saint-Just."

  Keeping her eyes respectfully downcast, Gabrielle lowered her loo mask and sank into so deep a curtsy that her knees cracked like a cannon shot. She was sure the sound had been heard throughout the entire hall, and the flush on her cheeks deepened. Then to her horror she noticed that the king of France was wearing one blue shoe on his very big right foot and a clashing turquoise shoe on his left, and she was possessed of a wild desire to laugh. She held her breath, bit her cheek, and ground her palms into the sapphires on her dress.

  Her eyes began to tear and her ears roared from the lack of air, but she thought she heard from a long way away a voice saying, "My dear vicomtesse, please rise so that we may look at you."

  Slowly she straightened, praying that her legs wouldn't collapse beneath her. By now she was so starved for air she had to draw in such a heaving breath her bosom quivered. Her eyes were moist and her lips were parted as she raised her head to look at her king, and the fawning courtiers who surrounded him sighed collectively. "How enchanting!" she heard one exclaim.

  Throughout her life she had seen the fat, hook-nosed face of Louis XVI embossed on silver coins. In person he appeared much less imposing. Indirectly this man had caused her much misery, but she realized now he had no idea who she was. He, too, was merely a marionette of the duc de Nevers, jerked around by strings much as she had been.

  He smiled at her with kindly blue eyes that had just a touch of sadness in their depths. "Madame la Vicomtesse, we are pleased to be able to have this word with you," he said in a thin, reedy voice that rose in an undignified squeak at the end. "We wish to have your esteemed husband as our royal astronomer. We beg of you to release him from your side for just the few hours a week that he will need to perform for his king and country this small service."

  The king's announcement created a stir among the surrounding courtiers. The nobles of France depended on lucrative pensions such as this to maintain their expensive positions, and the office of royal astronomer was quite a plum. Gabrielle cast a frantic look at Max. Did he want this post or not? It was impossible to tell by the expression on his face.

  "We are overwhelmed with the honor your royal highn
ess, has chosen to bestow upon us," she equivocated, curtsying again, and she thought she caught a flash of a smile in Max's eyes.

  "Splendid!" the king exclaimed, his voice squeaking loudly. "You must tell me of your experiments with balloons, Monsieur le Vicomte. And you must allow me to show you my laboratory sometime."

  "I would be honored, sire," Max replied, flashing his charming smile. The king was also known to enjoy the plebeian hobbies of making locks and blacks mi thing, much to the annoyance of his wife.

  Until now Queen Marie Antoinette had chosen to ignore Gabrielle's presence, but at Louis's mention of his laboratory, she turned her head sharply. Her eyes rested for a moment on Gabrielle, who got a glimpse of ash-blond hair and a long face with a high brow and a pendulous lower lip.

  The look Marie Antoinette gave her husband was openly contemptuous. "My lord, now is not the time to speak of such things." She slipped her arm through the king's and began to turn him away. "Look, here is the comtesse de Polignac. She's pining because you've chosen to ignore her all night."

  With obvious reluctance the king obediently turned to greet the honey-blond-haired woman. Thus summarily dismissed, Gabrielle kicked back her train and made a perfect backward curtsy without cracking a single joint.

  As she glided down the gallery on Max's arm, he reached over and squeezed her hand. "You did splendidly, ma mie," he said, giving her a devilish smile. "Next time, however, we'll have to remember to oil your knees."

  She tilted back her head to laugh, so relieved the ordeal was over she felt almost giddy. "It seems you're now the court astronomer, Monsieur le Vicomte. You must discover a new star and name it after the king."

  "That particular pension pays fifty thousand livres a year," Max said dryly. He flicked one of her diamond chandelier earrings with his finger. "I'll need the money if I'm to keep you decked out in baubles such as these."

  She tried to scowl at him, but her lower lip gave her away by trembling. Glancing up, she caught a look of such naked hunger in his eyes that her knees felt weak. With his black mask he resembled more than ever a devil on the prowl.

  She turned her head sharply away. "Oh, Max, look," she said, her voice shaking slightly. "There's someone with a glass of burgundy and a plate of cakes. Where do you think he got them? I'm starving."

  But Max's eyes were still fastened on his wife's flushed face. "Let's go home," he said gruffly.

  "Home! But we only just got here."

  He slipped his arm around her waist and lowered his head so that he could project his silken voice to her, and her alone. "Since I first saw you in that dress, Gabrielle, I've thought of nothing else but taking it off you. Very, very slowly. I'm going to take my time with you tonight, ma mie. I'm going to make love to you again and again until you beg for—"

  "Why, if it isn't le beau Max," said a voice dripping with honey. "I thought you had gone to your chateau in Morvan."

  Gabrielle felt Max stiffen, and she raised her loo mask to shield her eyes, turning to look into the beautiful face of a woman with silver-blond hair and icy blue eyes. The woman clung to the arm of a dashing, mustachioed officer of the Garde de Corps, but the look she gave Max was one of invitation and promise. And yearning.

  The woman's eyes flickered to Gabrielle and she bared her teeth in a smile. "You must be Max's little shopgirl of a wife."

  Behind her mask, Gabrielle raised a pair of flaring dark brows. "And you must be Max's little whore."

  Beside her Max made a funny sound, halfway between a groan and a laugh. The officer looked shocked. The woman's face had paled beneath its thick coating of rice powder, and her mouth opened and closed like that of a goldfish feeding on crumbs. Before she could say anything, Gabrielle swept her skirts aside and, holding her head high, walked away from them and down the crowded gallery toward the doors.

  She had gone about ten feet when a strong hand fell on her arm, pulling her around.

  "Gabrielle—"

  She tried to jerk out of Max's grasp. He tightened his grip.

  "Let go of me!"

  "Not until you listen."

  She swung her loo mask at his face. He ducked and, snatching it from her, tossed it over his shoulder.

  She glared at him. "People are starting to look at us."

  "Then quit making a scene."

  "I'll show you a scene, you bastard. If you don't let go of me this instant, I'm gong to throw back my head and scream at the top of my lungs."

  Max didn't take any changes. He clamped his free hand across her mouth and marched her through the press of bodies to where he had spotted a small door camouflaged by a painted panel between two pilasters. He yanked it open and flung her roughly inside. He had to duck his head to follow after her.

  He slammed the door shut behind him with his heel and locked it. They were in a small receiving room, furnished with only a small tapestried chair and a bureau, gilded and intricately decorated with marquetry. The room was lit by a pair of candles set in brass sconces on the wall.

  Gabrielle stood before him, her eyes flashing, her hair tumbling loose and looking like a waterfall of fire. She was breathing hard, and her breasts heaved, threatening to tumble right out of the low-cut bodice. She looked magnificent, and desire burst upon him—full-blown, hard, and demanding.

  "I hate you, Maximilien de Saint-Just," she said, rubbing her mouth with the back of her hand and sounding so much like a little girl indulging in a temper tantrum that he almost laughed. "I don't know why I bother with this marriage. I should let you go to her, your mistress. It's where you want to be anyway."

  "The devil take you, Gabrielle, I am where I want to be and she isn't my mistress." He advanced on her and she backed up, until she was pressed against the edge of the bureau. All the old anger and pain came rushing back to him. He wanted to strangle the life out of her. He wanted to crush her against him and kiss her until she admitted she loved him still, had always loved him, no matter what, no matter what...

  He lowered his face until it was but inches from hers. He saw her eyes widen, and he thought it was from fear. "I haven't touched Claire de Tesse since the night before I found you freezing to death in a ditch." His hands seized her shoulders, and he shook her roughly. "And I wouldn't have gone near the bitch in the first place, damn you, if you hadn't left me!"

  Suddenly her face crumbled. Hurt filled her eyes, turning them from vivid violet to almost black, and Max felt a funny, tight ache in his chest.

  "How could you have done it, Max?" she said, so softly he barely heard her. "How could you have made love to that woman?"

  He shook her again. "I didn't make love to her. I fucked her. There's a difference, and it's time someone showed you what it is." He gripped the sides of her head, crushing his mouth down hard over hers.

  He kissed her cruelly, without feeling, and she held herself stiff, keeping her teeth clamped tightly together. But when he eased the pressure of his lips, she slipped away from him, lunging for the door.

  She scrambled frantically, feeling for the latch. He seized her from behind, wrapping one powerful arm around her and flinging her around, slamming his mouth back down onto hers, impaling her against the wall with his hard, bulging loins and his invading tongue.

  This time she fought him, going for his face with her nails, and he encircled her wrists in a crushing grip, twisting her arms behind her back. Still she heaved and thrashed about so violently that he had to press his entire weight against her body, pinning her to the wall. He hadn't realized she was so strong, and her fury made her stronger. Suddenly he felt trapped, frightened of hurting her yet more terrified that if he let go of her now she would run away from him again, and this time she would be lost to him forever.

  He released her mouth. "Don't fight me, Gabrielle."

  "Damn you, Max, I'm not your whore!"

  "You're my wife. Can't you understand what that means to me, what it did to me when you left? Can't you see how much I—omph!"

  She had jabbed an elbow into
his chest, taking him by surprise. But she got no more than a step away from him and he was on her again, catching her by one of the ruches on her dress. It ripped partway, then held fast, and he enveloped her in a bear hug with both arms, lifting her. His foot caught one of the legs of the chair and they went stumbling and sliding, locked together, across the slippery polished parquet floor. He struck the bureau so hard with his hip that he swore, and it, too, went skidding across the floor and banged against the wall.

  They wound up with her back arched over the rounded top of the bureau and him covering her with the hard length of his body. He was panting so loudly it sounded like a summer windstorm had invaded the tiny room.

  "Goddamn you, Gabrielle. You are mine!"

  "Never!" she managed to spit back in his face before his mouth crushed down on hers again, forcing her lips apart.

  He had snarled the words at her, but his kiss this time, though hard and desperate, was no longer cruel. Love, in all its anguish and all its ecstasy, came pouring out of him. His lips softened, gentled, moved over hers rhythmically, possessively, tenderly. He didn't know it, but with his kiss he was crying out to her, proclaiming his love, and something deep within her heard it and instinctively reached out to answer him.

  All he knew was that he felt the anger leave her and desire slowly suffuse her, taking its place. Tentatively he released her wrists, and her arms came up and curled around his neck while her mouth slanted hungrily across his.

  He pushed the narrow sleeves of her dress down to her elbows and yanked at the bodice, freeing her breasts from their loose restraint. Her nipples were turgid with arousal. He pulled at them gently and then rubbed them between his fingers. Their kiss deepened, their tongues possessing each other, and he thought then that he had won. Or perhaps it was she who had won. He no longer gave a damn.

  He lowered his lips to follow the sweet curve of her jaw, then down along the taut column of her neck, pausing to lick and nibble at the pulse point until she began to writhe and make cooing sounds in the back of her throat. Then lower, down to her breasts. He lifted them in his palms, squeezing them together, and delved his tongue between the deep, moist cleavage. Her face fell forward onto the top of his head and she pressed her mouth in his hair, then rubbed her cheeks in it, back and forth, like a cat. She made a purring sound, too, like a cat showing contentment.