A moment later, it opened, and there stood the blessed form of his wife. Well and whole, still in her ballgown, her hair half loosed, eyes wide, and gaping at him. She was completely and utterly perfect.
Somehow, a weak laugh escaped from the center of John’s chest, and Hal shuddered a gasp, the sound carrying across the distance with startling ease.
Then they were moving, eyes locked on each other, their pace increasing with each step.
A broken sob passed Hal’s lips as she leapt at him, and John caught her up in his arms, clutching her to him without shame.
“Oh, John,” Hal gasped, her arms folding tightly about his neck. “Oh, heavens, you’re safe.”
John could only shake his head against her, burying his face into her hair as his frame shook with relief and fear. “Ange,” he eventually managed. “My Ange…”
“I’m sorry.” Hal hiccupped and pressed him closer. “I’m so sorry, John. I should never have gone in there… I shouldn’t have risked… I shouldn’t…”
“Hush,” he murmured, sliding his lips to her ear, his arms encircling her back. “Nothing to be sorry for. This wasn’t your fault, darling. Couldn’t be.”
Another cry broke from her, and John could nearly feel an accompanying crumple in her body. “John… Forgive me…”
Swallowing hard, he lifted his head from her and brought his hands to her face, letting her slide until her feet touched the floor and pulling her slightly away from him. He cupped her cheeks, his thumbs smoothing the steady stream of tears away. “Ange… look at me.”
She opened her tear-splattered lashes, and the brightness of their shade almost startling in its beauty.
John brushed his thumb against her cheek again. “There is nothing to forgive. There is no blame to assign. You were magnificent, and brave beyond imagining. You risked everything for our assignment, as we should. As I should. But you… brilliant, breathtaking, beautiful you…” He shook his head, breaking off as his emotions surged. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to her brow fervently. “I’ve never been more proud or more terrified in my entire life.”
Hal’s face lifted, nuzzling against him. “I was so afraid for you.”
“For me?” he asked as his fingers began to thread through her hair. “When you were the one facing a room filled with our enemies?”
“That was nothing,” she whispered, her hands gripping at his coat, sliding towards his neck. “It was leaving without you that I couldn’t bear. Not knowing…” She exhaled, the air dancing across his neck, sending shivers down his spine. “I’m never leaving without you again. I can’t.”
John groaned against her, the words echoing the sentiments that had haunted him all night. He tilted her face towards him, and his lips found hers almost at once. The contact stilled them both, heartbeats pounding between them, every sense attuning itself to that tenuous, powerful connection.
One of them sighed, possibly him, and then there was no hesitation, no pause. His lips molded to hers, blending with them in a heady fusion of familiarity and newness, dancing in a pattern that knew no tutor, needed no guidance. She arched into him, her hands pulling at his neck, fusing them together with an insistence that spurred him on. Yet her lips were tender and giving, generous in their attentions and gentle in their replies.
For it was a conversation between them, the revealing of every admiring look, every teasing smile, every moment of connection that had been steadily building. Words that could not be uttered were shared in each pass of lips, the stroke of each finger. This was no moment of sheer passion; it eclipsed anything that could be so easily written of, so lightly defined.
This was nothing like he had ever known, and nothing he would ever know again.
Slowly, gradually, and with grazing encores, the kisses began to fade, their hold on each other relaxing, their bodies softening against one another until they simply stood in the center of the room, holding each other without speaking.
There was something to be said for being held by the person one loved.
And even more for holding them yourself.
Hal sighed as she burrowed her face into his chest, her arms now loosely wrapped about his back. “How did you get out of there?”
John smiled, quite sure he would never be able to do anything else while holding her in his arms.
“Ruse,” he murmured, his fingers running through her hair as his chin rested atop her head. “He knew the servants’ corridors well and scuttled me out through them. Then we darted about the streets of Paris until we arrived home. I think there were some brutes sent after us, but I never saw for sure. You?”
“Skean.” She leaned back just a little, smiling up at him. “The operative Ruse mentioned. It would seem he is quite familiar with my family and is rather an enigma. I liked him, once I decided to trust him. He bade me keep up my swooning spells, settled me into the parlor I was rumored to be in, and even convinced Jean that I was unwell. He posed as you for the Voclains’ servants and brought me home in our coach. I hope you don’t mind.”
Chuckling, John kissed her softly. “Not at all, though I do hope he wasn’t a better me than I am.”
Hal lifted a brow and tightened her arms around him. “No one is a better you than you,” she insisted, earning herself another kiss, this one lingering. “Mmm, I must say this is an improvement over our former state of marriage, Mr. Pratt.”
“Happy to oblige, Mrs. Pratt.” He touched his brow to hers, his delirium nearly overwhelming. “And I quite agree.”
“Good.” She rested against him for a moment, then nuzzled in and laid her head on his chest once more. “I am so tired, John. What a night!”
He rubbed his hands up and down her back in slow, soothing motions. “Go to bed, darling. Get some rest.”
To his surprise, she shook her head. “No, I can’t. Not yet.” She sighed heavily but seemed to still against him. “I need to draw them.”
“Now?” he asked in surprise.
He felt her nod. “Now. And we need to identify as many as we can as soon as possible. Can you write down all we heard while I begin?”
“Of course.” He smiled as she yawned loudly. “And perhaps you need some coffee.”
“Indeed,” she quipped, though without her usual sprightliness. “And food, I think. We may be at this quite a while.”
When Hal awoke, her head pounded miserably. Even through her still-closed eyes, she could feel every thump of her heartbeat, and it hurt.
Her mind slowly worked on the situation, blurred images from the night before coming into only slightly better focus. She’d been up for hours getting preliminary sketches done, she and John sitting quietly in their parlor, minds on their tasks. At some point, John had built up the fire and fetched them both some food from the kitchen, which she only recollected because he had brought a plate to her on the divan, then kissed the top of her head with tender affection.
She sighed now at the memory, stretching out in satisfaction on the bed. Who’d have thought that kissing her husband, and receiving his kisses, would have been so delightful? And who would ever have imagined that John Pratt would kiss so very well? They possessed the same single-minded intensity as every other task he took on, and there was such power in them, such heart…
It was enough to make one giddy.
And Hal was giddy.
And her head ached. Staying in bed longer than she already had would only leave her feeling more lethargic, which would not help matters. What ailed her was too much work into the wee hours of the morning and insufficient sleep to recover from it.
If the light streaming from beyond the curtains covering her windows was anything to go by, she had already slept far beyond her usual time. That was a clear indication of her fatigue if nothing else was.
Pulling herself out of bed, she dressed herself simply, though the gown she donned was still finer than anything she would have worn at home in London. Sprigged muslin had never been her choice over a comfortable calic
o, but there was an impression to maintain, and she would hate for word to somehow get back to Tilda that she had ignored her work. Besides, she felt slightly pretty in this particular shade of green, and it would be vastly entertaining to see if John thought so, too.
She loosely pinned her hair in the same haphazard style she usually did at home and ventured out of her bedchamber towards the main rooms of the house.
The growling of her stomach would have sent her directly for the breakfast room, though there might not have been anything of breakfast remaining for her, when she was distracted by the sounds of very young shrieks followed by a blend of adult and young laughter. Curious, and expecting her cousin to also have some unwritten rules about roughhousing with his children, Hal moved towards the noises that rendered the house so different from what its formal appearance would imply.
Nothing could have prepared her for the sight that met her eyes in the large drawing room where they had first met her cousins.
It was not, in fact, the Baron de Rouvroy who was playing with his rambunctious and jubilant children.
It was her husband.
John was on all fours, no jacket in sight, and he bore little Clara and Paul on his back while Sophie and Aimée darted around him, tiny little Marie struggling to keep up with her sisters. John chased after the girls, his steps exaggerated to the great delight of his riders. He suddenly lunged forward with a bark at Aimée’s heels, making her yelp in surprise and sending Paul and Clara squealing as they clutched his shirt and waistcoat to maintain their position atop him.
Marie looked at John with some apprehension, her wide eyes turning almost luminous as she hid near the chair by which her sisters stood. She was a shy little one, and this stranger on all fours was clearly not putting her at ease in any way.
Sophie, the eldest of the young bunch, saw her sister’s distress and crouched down beside her. “Tout ma bien, ma chérie. Pourquoi tu ne caresses pas le chien?”
Marie shook her head insistently.
Hal smiled at the ragtag group, hairbows askew, cheeks flushed, pinafores and shirts rumpled. All smiles but for Marie, and it warmed her heart to see John in the midst of them. Not just in the midst, but spurring them on and engaging with them. Where had her staid, proper, reserved husband gone and who was this lively, engaging, affable man in his place?
“N’aie pas peur, Marie,” Clara insisted, patting John on the head. “Il est gentil!”
Still, the little girl was not persuaded.
John eyed Marie for a moment, then imitated a convincing whimper and crept towards her. He lowered himself to the ground, the other children still on his back and giggling at the change in their incline. Then, of all things, he let his tongue loll out of his mouth and panted like a dog.
Hal covered her mouth to keep from laughing, and Marie’s hesitant expression turned to one of curious delight. She took a few steps to close the distance between them, and, cautiously, batted his head twice.
Instantly, John keened a sound of encouragement, then slowly rolled to one side, effectively pinning Clara and Paul to the ground, which had them laughing uproariously as they attempted to free themselves. John nuzzled as close to Marie’s legs as she would let him, and she cocked her head, now actually petting John and mussing his hair as she might a dog. Soon, John was on his back, arms and legs bent in the air, and all the children were scratching and petting the enormous dog they’d so recently been playing with.
Giggles erupted from all quarters, and Marie could even be heard to say, “Bon chien.”
“He will make a good father, cousine.”
Hal leaned against the wall just outside of the drawing room, smiling at her cousin, who had silently joined her. “Do you think so?”
Jean returned her smile and gestured to the room. “You don’t?”
Hal looked back at John, her heart swelling at his antics, at his smile, at his willingness to let go of who he had been to spend this time with the children of his host. And to do it so well, despite all previous impressions and behaviors. There was so much more to this man she loved than she had ever suspected.
Her breath caught in her chest, her own thoughts repeating over and over again.
This man she loved.
Loved.
She loved John, and she loved him with a depth and breadth that startled her into silence. All she could do was stare at her husband and let herself feel just how much she loved him.
Her lips curved into a smile she couldn’t resist. “I know,” she murmured, the simple statement expressing far more than just the answer to her cousin’s question.
Jean chuckled softly from his position. “It has been good for you both to be here, ma chère. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Yes, it has.” Hal nodded to herself, then glanced at her cousin with a sly smile. “And it was good for us to attend the opera alone. You were so good to let us use the box.”
“Pah!” He waved off her gratitude dismissively. “Think nothing of it. As I said, I do not care for that opera anymore. Not everyone feels the same, but I cannot find enjoyment in it.”
“Why not?” Hal asked, folding her arms gently into her wrap. “What changed?”
Jean offered her a rueful smile. “France.”
“I don’t understand,” she responded, frowning.
“Yet it is simple enough.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Les Abencérages was a favorite opera of Napoleon, you see. And his wife.”
Hal stared at her cousin in shock, the significance of such a statement seeming to weigh down her very skirts. “Was it?”
Jean smiled, though it was flat and humorless. “It is said that his supporters flock to it regularly, though it cannot be used as a sign of support, obviously.”
“Obviously.” She blinked and wet her lips with hesitation. “Was that why you didn’t attend with us?”
Her cousin nodded slowly. “I am not in a position to favor according to my opinions, unlike others in my country, Henrietta. I cannot risk my family. As such, despite no one in France being particularly pleased with a return to monarchy, many of us will support His Majesty. We will attend Il viaggio a Reims instead of Les Abencérages, not that we will be judged, but simply to remove any questions that may linger about us.”
Hal shook her head slowly. “As particular as all that? Why accept royalty, then?”
“What choice did we have?” Jean asked, the sad excuse for a smile remaining. “We were a country exhausted, ma chère. Between le Revolution and Napoleon, almost no family was left untouched by death, loss, or war.” He glanced up at the ceiling above them, the artistry a nostalgic memoir of the grandeur of France from long ago. “After the emperor was removed, and the Bourbons took over, French subjects were not treated well. It felt like being beat into submission, and those poor souls who had served in la Grande Armée…”
She should have left his trailing off where it was, but curiosity had never settled well with Hal, and so she ventured, “What happened?”
Jean brought his eyes back to her. “I think it was the late Duc de Berry who said, in your tongue, ‘Let us go marshal hunting’. And Napoleon’s marshals were indeed hunted. I do not know how successfully, but…” He only shrugged once more.
For all her devotion to England, Hal suddenly ached for her mother’s country of France, and her family that still lived here.
And she wondered…
“It’s a wonder you do not rise up again,” she said before she could stop herself. “France, I mean.”
Jean shook his head and straightened. “Someone likely will, should this manner continue. But I will not be among them. While His Majesty is not favored, his brother was fair enough. Monarchs come and monarchs go, cousine. You know this in England.”
At this, Hal could only nod.
“And I,” Jean went on with a sigh. “I do not possess the strength of character, or courage of conviction, to stray from the power most prevalent. I value my life, you see, and the lives of my family
above les parties intangibles de la vie. For this, I am sometimes judged.”
A furrow appeared between his thick brows, and Hal wondered just what sort of judgments he had faced in recent years, and from which quarters.
“But mon Dieu connaîtra mon cœur,” he murmured almost to himself.
My God will know my heart.
It seemed to be a mantra as much as a prayer, a motto for his family, whatever tradition it had been. Surely, there could be no fault in such a statement. And surely, the Baron de Rouvroy was no traitor to his king or his country.
“And He shall be your judge,” Hal replied, smiling gently.
Jean returned her smile and reached for her hand, kissing it softly. Then, the somber moment passed, and he laughed to himself. “So, I pray you will pardonnes-moi, cousine, if I cannot sing Suspendez a ces murs with you. Though I do not mind if you sing it, for the song is quite beautiful.”
“Yes,” Hal agreed with a laugh and a nod. “Yes, it was quite stirring.”
Something in her mind clicked and spun, playing the song in question at twice the speed, the lyrics echoing with a startling clarity.
That song. Those words.
Vous ne me verrez pas mourir…
That was it.
“Holy blessed heavens…” Hal breathed, reaching for the wall beside her with one hand. She swallowed hard, feeling the color draining from her cheeks and did not need her cousin’s concerned expression to tell her so.
“Henrietta?” he asked, immediately looking her over. “You look ill again. I had hoped your rest would have cured you.” He turned to the drawing room. “Pratt, I fear Henrietta is unwell once more.”
John was to her in an instant, the groans of the children audible.
“Ange?” he murmured, taking her arms and giving her a thorough look. “What is it?”
Hal stared at him in horror and awe, her thoughts not quite concise enough to express, and certainly not before such company. “I think… I think I need to place a candle in our window.”
To Sketch a Sphinx Page 15
