You and No Other

by Cynthia Wright

  "Your Majesty, don't you realize that Teverant would not have departed from the court before we reached Blois if he were not guilty?" The weasel-faced chevalier was too upset even to heed the look of warning from Louise de Savoy.

  "Perhaps he left because he was afraid certain people might pressure me into having him arrested." The sharp note of annoyance in Francois's voice made everyone at the table fall silent. "I find this conversation tedious. Let us enjoy the music." He spoke over his shoulder to a hovering page. "Bring sweetmeats and more wine, and send in the tumblers."

  Intimidated by the monarch's obvious anger, Aimée tried to make herself smaller in case he might decide to vent some in her direction. For some minutes there was no sound except the lilting melodies produced by a trio of flutes, a spinnet, and a viol. Servants scurried across the tiled floor to do the king's bidding. Furtively, Aimée stole a glance at St. Briac and was surprised to find his expression even stormier than Francois's. His eyes gleamed dangerously as they regarded Chauverge from under concealing lashes.

  The tumblers, clad in bright colors, cavorted for the guests and made a fine diversion from the tense scene of a few moments before. Aimée stared with a child's delight and appreciation. She pressed her hands together, eyes alight, unaware of the watchful gazes of St. Briac, the king, and the duchesse de Roanne, who sat across from them but far enough down the table so that Aimée had not noticed her presence. When one of the tumblers cartwheeled to Aimée's side and impishly tweaked her rosy cheek, she responded with an enchanting peal of laughter.

  St. Briac couldn't repress a smile; he stared at her profile—the fringe of lashes above lively eyes, a delicate nose, and her radiant smile. The minx had no inkling that every man in sight was spellbound by her innocent joy. A now familiar sigh rose in St. Briac's chest, and he wondered again why pleasure and trouble had been presented to him in one confusing package.

  It was long past midnight when the last of the dishes were removed. Guests lingered, sipping sweet red wine as they contentedly awaited the king's departure from the table. None would dare to leave before him. At length, Francois did push back his chair and stand; then he raised his goblet.

  "I want to tell all of you first how much joy it gives me to be here at Blois with those I care for. The welcome I have received everywhere in France has restored my spirits, but this first celebration here is especially meaningful for me." He paused, eyes twinkling, before continuing. "To add further to my happiness, I have an announcement to make. Our friend Thomas Mardouet, seigneur de St. Briac, is pledged to wed the newest member of our court, Aimée de Fleurance. I ask you all to raise your glasses in toasting their love and future marriage."

  St. Briac felt as if the king had struck him in the chest with a lance. Cheerful voices called out congratulations amid the buzz of shocked whispers. Bonnivet, who sat at his left, pounded him on the back.

  "Well done, mon ami," he exclaimed. "I was about to try my luck with that refreshing nymph myself, but I see that you were ahead of all of us. How did you do it?"

  Thomas opened his mouth, but no words came. Florange appeared behind them, kissing Aimée's hand and delivering courtly wishes of congratulations before bending to whisper in his friend's ear.

  "I never thought I'd see the day, you rogue. It's not surprising, though. The maiden is exquisite, and you were long overdue for love."

  Finally, as the chaos diminished, St. Briac looked over at Aimée. She was pale and appeared stricken; his heart went out to her.

  "Are you all right?"

  "No, I don't think so." Her voice sounded remote, and there was no joy in her eyes. "I believe I wish to return to my chamber."

  The king had wandered away from the table, surrounded by the usual cluster of admiring hangers-on, and so St. Briac said, "I'll escort you. Allow me a moment to say our farewells to Francois."

  When they came into the deserted, starlit courtyard, the silence was heavy. St. Briac was perplexed to find that he felt a bit offended by her gloom. Was this turn of events worse than her former betrothal to Armand Rovicette, for God's sake? The chit behaved as if Francois had just sentenced her to a slow and painful execution.

  "Is the thought of marrying me really so distasteful?" he muttered at last.

  Aimée came to a complete stop. Her spine stiffened, and she made a little strangled noise. "I might ask you the same, monseigneur!"

  "What the devil does that mean?"

  She glared up at him, but the sight of his chiseled face, silvered by the moonlight, was irresistible. She stared down at the thick cobbles under her slippers and stalked away. "Men! You are all too dense for words!"

  In three strides, St. Briac had her slim arm in his grasp. "I don't consider that childish insult an answer."

  "Are you planning to break my arm if I don't provide an appropriate response?"

  "You little witch, I don't know why I ever endured your company in the first place let alone was so insane as to rescue you from every predicament you could manage to ensnare yourself in!"

  "Stop throwing your less than gallant behavior in my face every time I raise my voice to you! If you think I'll smile at you in silent adoration for the rest of my life just because you grudgingly came to my aid once or twice—"

  "Arrgh!" St. Briac threw back his head and gave a smothered yell of frustration. He was about to answer in a more articulate fashion, when light from the hall of honor spilled onto the courtyard and two more couples appeared. To his consternation he saw that one couple was the duke and duchesse de Roanne. "Endeavor to close your mouth, mademoiselle," he ground out, "until we reach the privacy of your chamber. I am not anxious to make this quarrel public."

  "How dare you? You cannot order me around, especially in that tone of voice! I shall speak if I—" Aimée's rage flared to new heights as he pulled her along with one hand while the other was clapped roughly over her mouth, muffling her protests.

  Finally St. Briac led his new fiancé into her chamber and closed the heavy door behind them. Freed of his suffocating grip, Aimée whirled around.

  "Parbleu! I pity the poor, unsuspecting maiden who finally does become your wife, monseigneur, and I thank our Lord that I have the wits to escape such a fate."

  "What are you raving about now?"

  "It is obvious that you despise me, that you have only suffered my company out of some misguided sense of responsibility. You said it yourself this morning: Conscience obliged you to save me from the king by offering to marry me!" Unable to bear his unwavering gaze, she turned and walked over to a carved walnut dresser before continuing.

  "I have my pride, monseigneur, and I am not so desperate that I would wed a man who doesn't care for me."

  "And for whom you feel nothing?" he pressed in a low voice.

  "I would not say that, but I certainly don't love you," Aimée retorted with all the emphasis she could muster.

  For some reason, St. Briac was struck by a wave of anger at her words. He was not a vain man, but neither was he obtuse, and over the years many maidens had angled to become his wife. Who did this vixen think she was to spurn the first proposal he ever had made, especially after the king's public announcement? Taking a deep breath, he tried again.

  "Aimee, I am a grown man and am perfectly willing to take responsibility for my words and actions. I was sober when I told Francois that I would marry you. No one has held a sword to my back and forced me to act—not in the Nieuil woods or during the journey here, not in the gardens at Chenonceau, and not this morning when I knew that the king meant to bed you."

  She stood frozen, trying to discern the nuances of emotion in his husky voice. Now she wished that she had not turned away from St. Briac's eyes, for they might have provided the answers she craved. "I understand what you are saying, monseigneur, but the fact remains that you have acted not out of love but for other reasons. Truly I do appreciate all that you have done to help me. You are a man of character."

  "But?" He could not comprehend the fury he fel
t.

  "But what is between us is no basis for a marriage. I want and need and deserve more. So do you. It would be unfair to both of us."

  Who was this perfect man going to be who would supply all the qualities Aimée wanted, needed, and deserved in a husband? St. Briac wondered angrily.

  "Far be it from me to condemn you to a lifetime of suffering my company, mademoiselle. Allow me to inquire how you plan to avoid that fate."

  Aimée was chilled by his frigid tone. Still, when he crossed the floor to stand behind her, she imagined that she could feel the heat from his powerful body. Swallowing, she discovered that her mouth had remained dry.

  "Have the courtesy to face me," St. Briac said harshly.

  She turned slowly, looking small and pale in the faint candlelight. "I will find a way. I shall discover some means of leaving Blois without causing any harm to your reputation and honor. It may take me a few days to think of a plan, and in the meantime, I suppose we shall have to continue this charade..." Aimée's voice trailed off as she became increasingly conscious of the energy in the air between them. He was so tall. Never had St. Briac seemed quite so strong and powerful as he towered over her, and there was something about his hard visage that sent a shiver down her spine.

  "Ah, I see. Mademoiselle de Fleurance will prove once again her legendary resourcefulness. I shall wait with interest to discover what scheme you devise that will save us both from a fate worse than death, but in the meantime I think it would be wise to practice our acting skills so that we will be able to carry off this charade. That was the word you used, wasn't it?" Deliberately, he reached out a dark hand to remove the crispinette that already had come loose during their journey out of the courtyard. Aimée's curls spilled down, silky and gleaming.

  She knew that she ought to react indignantly, but she was unable to fight the hot flush of excitement that swept over her body. St. Briac's gaze was insolently caustic as he bent down to caress her lips with his. He felt the gasp that she tried to smother yet did not touch her anywhere else for a long, tantalizing minute. The fragrance of violets stirred his senses almost as keenly as the taste of Aimée's sweet, pliant mouth. Yearning to kiss her in earnest, St. Briac still held back until she finally parted her lips with a soft whimper. Steely arms pulled her upward into an embrace that seemed to fuse them together with its fire. Aimée felt as if she were being consumed by his mouth, and she reveled in the swirling blaze of sensations. She couldn't think, only feel: the texture of the hair curling at the back of St. Briac's strong neck, the muscles under his velvet doublet that seemed to crush her breasts, the urgent pressure of his mouth as their breath mingled in a kiss more devastating than anything Aimée had ever imagined.

  Her arousal intensified when she felt his undeniable hardness against her loins, seeming to burn through their clothing. She waited instinctively for him to carry her to the bed. They would make love until dawn, and the charade would be over. It would be the beginning of a true betrothal, its flame kindled by joyous love.

  When he released her, Aimée was so unprepared that she nearly fell against the dresser.

  "Brava, mademoiselle. That was most impressive." St. Briac taunted her with an eyebrow arched above cool blue-green eyes. "Truly, even I was nearly convinced by your performance, so I've no doubt that you will be able to fool the rest of the court until you settle on a plan to escape." He walked to the doorway but turned to add, "This charade promises to be more amusing than I had anticipated. Bon nuit, Aimée." Firelight flickered over the planes of his bronzed face as he opened the door and gave her a last grim smile. "Sleep well."

  Chapter 13

  May 6, 1526

  After a night so restless that Aimée was certain she hadn't slept at all, her body surrendered at dawn; she found a dreamless peace from the tormenting thoughts of St. Briac and his outrageous behavior. During hours spent alone in the darkness she had rehearsed dozens of speeches that she intended to deliver as soon as they were face to face again and out of earshot of others. For now, however, Aimée lay sprawled on her back in the middle of the big bed, oblivious to the morning sunshine.

  Suzette winced as she put out a hand and jiggled her mistress's shoulder. "Mam'selle, bestir yourself! It is past nine o'clock, and there are some impatient ladies here to see you!"

  Aimée returned slowly to reality. She felt dismal in spite of the warm, buttery light that poured across her bed. "Tell them..." She paused to lick her lips. Last night's wine must have been more potent than it had seemed. "Tell them to go away, whoever they are. It is most rude to arrive at this hour without an appointment."

  "But I cannot, mam'selle! Your—your"—Suzette Finally coughed out the incredible word—"betrothed has sent them with strict instructions to fit you for as many new gowns as you desire—now! I tried to put them off, but they insisted that they would wait until you awakened." Suzette was dying to ask a dozen questions about the betrothal announcement, but the irritated expression on Aimée's face gave her pause. The court servants could talk of nothing else this morning, and all of them were counting on Suzette to provide details. "I want to offer my congratulations, mam'selle. How exciting and romantic that you and the seigneur de St. Briac have fallen in love and even I was not aware!"

  Aimée crawled out of bed and put on her robe. "I am not in the mood for girlish conversation, Suzette. I didn't sleep well last night."

  "I'm not surprised. I saw the seigneur leaving this chamber when Paul brought me back after midnight, and I daresay that I wouldn't be able to sleep either after being held in that man's arms."

  Turning toward the basin of warm water that waited for her on a carved chest, Aimée rolled her eyes but refrained from verbalizing her feelings. Like it or not, she would have to keep up appearances, as St. Briac had put it, even with Suzette. "You may tell those women that I will receive them in ten minutes."

  The session with the dressmakers was an ordeal. To Aimée's chagrin, St. Briac had given specific instructions about the gowns he wanted made for his bride-to-be. Every suggestion of her own was politely brushed aside until she thought she would scream with frustration. Aimée couldn't recall feeling quite so ill-tempered and restless even at the worst times at home. When at last the final measurements were taken and notations made, the women began to assemble their fabric samples, chattering animatedly among themselves about the wardrobe they would create. Tense and agitated, Aimée wandered over to the window. She felt like a bird locked in a cage.

  Staring down at the assortment of servants and nobility that milled about the sun-splashed courtyard, her eyes widened at the sight of St. Briac and the duchesse de Roanne. They were strolling toward the arched opening to the gardens, her hand through his arm as they talked. Outrage blazed in Aimée as she watched Ghislaine pluck a grape: from the cluster he held and then put it in his smiling mouth, her fingers lingering suggestively. How dare they! In broad daylight! Was this his idea of keeping up appearances? Flaunting his married mistress right under her window! It was too much to be borne.

  Aimée flung open one of the paneled doors on the front of her dresser and yanked out the first gown she saw. It was simply fashioned of faded yellow linen; it had been one of her favorites for long walks in the Nieuil woods. She had been wearing only a chemise and did not even bother to add a petticoat now before pulling the dress over her head.

  "Suzette!" The little maid scurried in from her adjoining cabinet, and Aimée snapped, "Fasten this, please. I am going out."

  Suzette fumbled with the back of the gown while her mistress angrily combed her touseled black curls. "Out? Alone?"

  "Yes, alone. It is not the first time I have gone out alone, and it won't be the last!"

  She wondered what could be putting her mistress in such a temper. "What if the seigneur de St. Briac comes in search of you? What shall I tell him?"

  Aimée donned a pair of kid slippers and passed the dressmakers on her way to the door, ignoring their open-mouthed stares. "I'll tell him myself, I can ass
ure you!"

  She was conscious of neither surroundings nor faces as she crossed the courtyard. Even the panorama of the gardens, laid out in tiers that staggered away from the shimmering Loire, could not soften her with their spring beauty. The kitchen garden was closest to the chateau. A half dozen men labored there, planting vegetables and pruning fruit trees in the sunshine. Below it spread bright, extravagant flower beds of narcissus, tulips, hyacinths, primroses, dwarf irises, and lilies, trimmed by boxwood that had been sculpted painstakingly into the shapes of hearts, fans, and masks. At the farthest edge of the gardens were the cages that housed the royal menagerie of exotic animals from all around the world.

  Although there were other couples wandering over the grassy paths, Aimée had no trouble picking out St. Briac's tall form. He and the duchesse had paused and appeared to be engaging in an earnest conversation that she was eager to interrupt. A breeze from the river sent her tousled ebony curls swirling behind her as she scrambled down the hillside, but Aimée was unaware of her disheveled appearance, not even realizing that the bodice of her two-year-old gown fit just a bit too tightly and revealed more of her ripe breasts than was seemly.

  "Thomas!" She put deliberate emphasis on his Christian name. "Here you are." Ignoring the surprised faces that turned as she approached, Aimée gave the duchesse de Roanne a venomous smile. "I do hope you'll forgive me for stealing my fiancé away for a while. We have so much to talk about."

  St. Briac stared in astonishment, his brow gathering as he tried to discern what the vixen was about. "Aimée! I—"

  "Don't say it, mon cher, or I'll be blushing in front of the poor duchesse," she interjected in a voice that dripped honey. "Considering what we shared last night, it would be embarrassing for anyone to overhear our private conversation." Enjoying his discomfort, Aimée put a hand up to his face and sighed rapturously. "What a day to be in love."