by Devilish
But D’Eon said, “Do not interfere, Lady Arradale. Sometimes a man has a need to fight.”
Despite that, Diana tried to find words, but he had already turned to Bey. “Not, I think, to the inconvenient, undiplomatic death, but to the blood? First blood. You will not find that easy.”
Diana bit her lip. She’d remembered Bey’s words about her ordering him to be safe. She was not to do that unless she was willing to be controlled that way by him.
Fear fluttered, though, and she began to think this night would be too much for her after all.
Where were Bryght or Elf who might be able to deflect this danger?
Bey said, “You are correct about my need to fight, monsieur. But I could hardly duel with you in skirts.”
“I can arrange matters. It must be now, I think, that we cauterize this wound. Come, where do we do it? I will defend the honor of France!”
Bey looked at Diana, and she saw that he was thinking of her, and ready to step back to save her from concern. D’Eon had been right, however. Bey needed this.
She had no idea whether D’Eon was acting with good intent or ill, but against all instincts, she said, “To minor wounds only. Please.”
D’Eon executed an elegant, flowery bow that wasn’t ridiculous despite his feminine dress. “I will not kill him, Countess. Or even damage him badly enough to affect your pleasure. My word on it.” He turned to smile at Bey. “I must tell you, my lord, that I have never been beaten.”
Bey smiled back. “In a serious contest, neither have I. Come, let us return to the ballroom.”
He led the way by back stairs, so any hope Diana had that they would bump into Bryght or Fort faded. As they went, however, instinct told her that this was right.
She still prayed. Accidents could happen, and though she thought D’Eon was honest in this, it was still possible that he intended death, and was coming at it in a subtle way.
They detoured to Bey’s rooms for rapiers, then walked into the silent, deserted, black-shrouded ballroom. The moon and stars still glowed, giving a certain amount of light.
D’Eon stepped out of his heeled shoes, then discarded his overskirt and petticoat, showing that he wore satin breeches underneath. Peculiarly female on top and male below, he chose a sword and balanced it for a moment in his hands. Then he nodded and began making some passes with it.
Diana could tell immediately that he had not boasted about his skill.
Bey took off shoes and shed his robe, and he too was wearing breeches and shirt. He took off all his rings except the sapphire, and gave them to Diana.
“Is this wise?” she had to ask. “What if he does plan murder?”
“He still has to make the hit.” He turned to D’Eon. “Monsieur, what of your corset? It must hamper you.”
The Frenchman flexed his shoulders. “Not at all, my lord. I indulge in vanity, but not to that extent. You are ready?”
Bey bowed. “I am completely at your service.”
He walked toward D’Eon, but Diana made a sudden resolve, and spoke. “Monsieur D’Eon,” she said, and the man turned to face her, painted brows high. “I still have my bow, and a number of arrows. If there is any foul play here, I will kill you.”
After a still moment he smiled, and blew her an extravagant kiss. “Magnifique! You are indeed worthy of the great marquess, and if de Couriac was not already dead, I would kill him for you.”
“No you wouldn’t,” said Bey. “En garde, monsieur.”
With shocking suddenness, the blades clicked together, and the two men became intent only on each other. It should have been a ridiculous mismatch simply because of height and reach, but Bey had never thought so, and he’d been right.
D’Eon was, quite simply, brilliant. His agility was astonishing, his balance perfect, and the blade, even though it was strange to him, seemed a smooth extension of his body.
It took a moment for Diana to realize that Bey was almost as good, but only almost. It was the height and reach that leveled it, but it was level.
Too level? The blades seem to hiss close to flesh with every daring move.
The fight burned with energy, nothing at all like the bouts she had with Carr. Did Carr fight like this sometimes with skilled men, moving at fierce speed around a huge room, taking terrible chances with vicious speed and strength that could so easily kill?
They swirled close, and she had to quickly back out of the way to be sure of not distracting them. No chance of that. Neither had eyes for anyone or anything but each other.
Almost, she thought, like a deadly minuet.
As the fight went on, she could hardly believe that neither of those wicked, flashing blades had drawn blood. She found that she was sucking in air as they must be.
D’Eon’s powdered wig had gone, and his hair straggled. Bey’s hair had been loose to begin with, but now tangled with sweat.
“What the devil’s happening?”
She started at the low murmur in her ear, and glanced once at Bryght who had appeared at her side, Fort nearby. She looked back quickly, however, feeling that her attention alone stood between this and disaster.
“A friendly fight, of sorts.”
“Friendly …” Bryght muttered, but at that moment D’Eon moved quickly out of pattern, lowering his sword, and Bey checked a thrust.
It stopped.
The Frenchman sucked in deep breaths. “We will kill each other out of exhaustion, my lord … You are satisfied?”
Bey lowered his sword, too, and when he had his breath, said, “Perhaps. You were right. You are extremely good. A little better than I am.”
D’Eon bowed, and did not dispute it. “So, the record is swept clean?”
Bey replaced his sword in the case. “You say you have no plans to kill me, monsieur, but what of your masters in France? Someone instructed de Couriac.”
D’Eon shrugged. “I will try to convince them that it would be extremely impolitic now for a Frenchman to create more havoc in England. You will always have enemies there, however.”
“I am glad of them. The passion of one’s enemies should mark the stature of one’s triumphs. But was there any true attempt to kill the king?”
“No, I am sure not. King Louis would have no wish for it. No king is happy with the idea of regicide. I think that was merely to draw you out for attack. Your protective instincts are very well known.”
“How dismaying to be so predictable.”
“So now?” asked D’Eon. “You have a beautiful lady as your bride, my lord, and happiness ahead of you. We can put this all behind us?”
Bey turned to face him. “Not quite, monsieur. You did, after all, attempt to wound me. I have arranged some discomforts for you in return.” With a smile he added, “C’est la guerre, non?”
The Frenchman’s eyes narrowed.
Bey continued. “However, I will offer a friendly warning. You have enemies in France, and have not perhaps always received accurate information. Take care.”
D’Eon’s features pinched, but he merely said, “We shall see, my lord.” He passed over his sword and picked up his clothes. “Good night, my lady, my lords.”
“What discomforts?” Bryght asked as the Frenchman left the room.
Bey pushed hair off his face, and replaced D’Eon’s sword in the case. “His influence is already undermined with King Louis, along with his master’s, de Broglie. Guerchy comes soon, only too keen to put him in his place. What’s more, D’Eon has been encouraged to keep copies of all materials relating to his dealings with the king. Insurance of sorts, but a keg of gunpowder beneath him.”
“King Louis will be frantic!” Diana exclaimed. “I’m never going to trust anything I read again.”
Bey came over to her, and gently relieved her of the bow and arrow she was still clutching. He passed the weapons to Bryght and put his arm around her. “I said we needed a code. Perhaps sweet and pea.”
Disheveled and sweaty, he still glowed with the exertion of the fight.
She saw that it had scoured away some last, lingering mark. “Very well. But add scarlet and poppy.”
“So that’s where it started?” he said. “With the poppy?”
She looked around and found they were alone. “No, it started, as I remember, with pimples.”
“And pistols.”
“And dalliance,” she murmured, remembering, “which is one step above flirtation, and one below seduction.”
“Ah. Would you care to dally a little, my lady?”
She turned to face him, hand on his chest. “That depends, my lord, on where it leads. My courses are on me.”
He kissed her, but said, “Good. I’m saving myself for my wedding night.”
She laughed, surprised to find herself perfectly content with this for the moment, with togetherness and conversation. She moved apart a little to look again around the ballroom, where the great moon still glowed and the stars still shone. “It’s a shame this was all wasted.”
He took her hand. “It’s bits and scraps. We can put it together again some other time, and this will certainly be one of the most talked about entertainments of the decade.”
“We,” she echoed with a smile. “I love that. I am happy now, here, but how long till our wedding?”
“Are you asking me to name the day? In two weeks, then, when the moon is dark and your powers leashed.”
“Do I frighten you?”
“To death,” he said, but smiling. “I believe I will survive. I liked the sort of wedding Brand and Rosa had, with family and friends. Considering our stations, however, I think it should be on a grand scale.”
“Having seen what you can do in days, I can’t wait to see what you can achieve in weeks.”
“Miracles and marvels. But we have those already. Will you marry me in the south? At Rothgar Abbey?”
“Gladly. It would be too soon after Rosa’s wedding at my home, and I want to be part of your life here, too.”
“Two weeks from now, then,” he said, slowly drawing her into his arms. “At Rothgar Abbey. A country wedding, open to all.”
“But suitably magnificent. Rosa and Brand must be there.”
“Of course. I’ll have to send riders to Scotland to find Steen, too. I’m sure Hilda will want to attend my final conquest.”
She touched his face. “Do you feel conquered?”
He kissed her palm. “Completely. I’m delighted.” Then he kissed her lips, sweeping her into magical night. They broke apart eventually and wandered the now silent house, talking, touching, kissing.
Eventually they arrived at her bedchamber, the marchioness’s bedchamber. He entered with her, but moved on to the adjoining door to his rooms. He paused however, to say, “You must order any changes here you like.”
“I think I like these rooms as they are. But you must put some thought to the redecorating of my spouse’s bedchamber.”
A smile crinkled his eyes. “Don’t touch a thing. I long to be taken with violent passion upon that virginal bed.”
Chapter 35
Two weeks later, the grounds of Rothgar Abbey were thrown open to the world, and the world came—to dance on the lawns, feast from the long tables, and drink from the bottomless bowls of ale, punch, and lemon water.
Six maypoles stood tall, wound with bright ribbons—so delightfully phallic, Bey had remarked.
A full medieval fair took up the deer meadow, with jugglers, fire-eaters, and those skilled at sleight of hand. There were contests in everything, from the greasy pig to butter churning, arranged so that as many country people as possible would take home a handsome prize. There were even contests for the children, so that soon little ones were running around to show off ribbons, toys, and bells.
Their vows were said in a simple ceremony attended only by close friends and family. Afterward, however, Bey and Diana, both dressed in magnificent white brocade, both with hands covered with glittering rings, strolled around so everyone could see them and wish them happiness.
It was all amazing, undiluted joy, but then Diana felt Bey go tense beside her. Seeking the problem, she saw him looking to where a frantic girl stood with a bundle in her arms, a bundle emitting the unmistakable staccato squawks of a very new, very unhappy baby. The girl jiggled the bundle, looking around, and calling, “Mam? Mam?”
Understanding the effect of this, Diana hesitated between pulling him away and trying to stop the noise. She hurried forward. “Where’s its mother, my dear?” she asked, trying to think of some way to calm the baby before Bey ran away or did something else he’d hate.
Then he was there, taking the child before one of the gathering matrons could. Diana hoped it wasn’t as obvious to anyone else that he was pale and sweating. The baby didn’t magically calm, but over the angry, warbling squawks, he managed to say, “Go find your mother, child.”
“Thank you, milord,” the wide-eyed girl said and ran off.
One of the women came forward then. “Give it to me, milord. I’ll feed it till the mother comes.”
He handed the bundle over, and the woman loosened her bodice, murmuring soothingly, and put the child to the breast. After a moment or two, the cries stopped.
Peace returned.
Diana took his hand and led him back a little. “Are you all right?”
Though he still seemed pale, he smiled. “Yes. Amazingly so. I don’t suppose anyone likes that sound, but I can cope with it. I’ve always worried that I might—”
“Strangle it? Bey!”
“Just try to stop the noise.” He looked down at her. “I know now I can enjoy our children, even if they are so rude as to scream at me.”
She hugged him, there in front of an interested, indulgent crowd, and then the errant mother ran up, puffing, to thank the impromptu wet nurse, and put the baby to her own breast.
Bey gave both mothers a golden guinea, and then he and Diana strolled on. Diana hadn’t thought the day could be any more perfect, but she realized now that she’d suffered a small doubt. She’d never thought he’d hurt a child, but she had wondered whether he’d be able to enjoy their children fully.
Now she knew. It wouldn’t be easy in the beginning, but it was possible. Especially with a Malloren.
She looked around at the festivities, which seemed set to continue until nightfall. “I don’t wish to sound unappreciative of your wonderful entertainments, my lord, but when can we be private?”
He looked down at her. “Anytime you wish, my lady. The house is peaceful and ours.”
They tried to slip away, but Rosa and Brand spotted them and set up a cry, so that in the end they had to run to the house through a storm of flowers.
Every one of the family insisted on an embrace as they went—Bryght, Brand, Hilda, and Elf who hugged them twice, once for herself, and once for Cyn. When they ended up in Bey’s sunlit bedroom, the flowered carpet gained a hundred new petals.
Then catching another perfume, Diana turned to see a huge bowl of flowers by the bed—a mixture of sweet peas and poppies. She picked out one of each and, grinning, tucked them behind her low white bodice.
They undressed each other with slow delight, and slid beneath cool sheets to lie for a while simply in one another’s arms.
“Skin to skin,” she said. “This is almost enough.”
“But not quite,” he said, and kissed her. Their lovemaking was languorous and lovely, and led like a river flowing deep and smooth, to where they had so longed to be.
“And that,” said Bey a very long time later, “is perfect enough even for me.” He stroked a curl from her brow. “Truly, beloved, sometimes the gods are exceedingly kind.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Ever since his first appearance in My Lady Notorious, I’ve been bombarded with reader requests for Rothgar’s story. I hope this has lived up to everyone’s expectation. Though I didn’t plan it from the first, the Malloren series has turned out to be individual stories, but with the marquess’s story running through them all. This love story stands alo
ne, but if this is your first Malloren book you may want to find the others and see the complete journey.
They are:
My Lady Notorious (Cyn and Chastity)
Tempting Fortune (Bryght and Portia)
Something Wicked (Elf and Fort)
Secrets of the Night (Brand and Rosa)
The first two are currently out of print, though we hope to correct that, but the last two are available. You can order them through your favorite bookseller, or direct from this publisher. If you want to be kept up to date about reissues and new publications, please see the contact information at the end of this section.
As for this story—I came to realize that Rothgar needed a woman who was his equal, and thus, Diana was born, first appearing in Secrets of the Night. Yorkshire was an ideal setting for her because in the mid-eighteenth century that was still a long way from London and central control.
I also came to see that this story had to move into the highest levels of the nation to truly show these characters as they should be—mighty aristocrats, living at the center of the eighteenth-century world. Paris, of course, would have argued about that, but the French system, strangled by the centralized power of Versailles, was already in decline. London was the seat of power, and would be for more than a hundred years.
The background to this story is true. Louis XV really did run separate governments, and the Chevalier D’Eon was one of his top men. D’Eon is one of the famous minor characters in European history because of confusion over his gender. He did spend time at the Russian court as one of the tzarina’s ladies, and have a brief but brilliant military career. The strangest part is yet to come when this book ends, however, and I like to think that Rothgar’s actions explain the unexplainable.
You can read about D’Eon in the biography Royal Spy, by Edna Nixon, and you’ll find that no one has quite made sense of his diplomatic career in England. During his time as acting French ambassador he showed increasingly irrational confidence, as if he felt invulnerable. Friends in Paris, and de Broglie himself, were constantly urging caution. Of course, as we now know, he was also receiving Rothgar’s forged letters from the French king, promising complete support!
