Born of Love

by Barbara Cartland

  “You must try and cheer him up,” Marcia suggested. “As he likes being with you and, of course seeing, the Duc’s horses, I am sure he will be happy.”

  She thought as she spoke that this might take the pressure off herself.

  She knew that the Comtesse was listening intently to what she had said.

  “I promise you, dearest child,” the Comtesse replied, “That I will do everything in my power to try and make your father happy and, of course, I want to make you happy too.”

  Marcia realised that she might go on to say something intimate.

  Quickly, so as to prevent it, she said,

  “I am happy, happy to be here and to see France for the first time. I only wish that I could stay for a time in Paris, having heard so much about the amusements there. I am really quite envious of those who have had the chance to enjoy them.”

  “I think, my dear,” the Comtesse replied, “that you are thinking of the amusements that men find in Paris, but are not for us women. Except, of course, we have Frederick Worth and all the greatest couturiers to attract us.”

  “Have you many gowns made by Worth?” Marcia asked. “Do please let me see them. I have always been told that they are the most original that any woman can buy.”

  She felt that she had changed the subject very skilfully.

  And a moment later the housekeeper knocked on the door and came in with the maid who was to look after her.

  “I did not bring my lady’s maid with me,” Marcia explained to the Comtesse, “for the simple reason that I thought she would feel out of her depth in not being able to speak a word of French. Papa, however, has brought his valet, who speaks it very well with a Cockney accent.”

  The Comtesse laughed at this.

  Marcia in her perfect Parisian French talked to the housekeeper and to the maid.

  It was the one thing in the strange education that her father had planned for her that her mother had been most insistent on.

  “I always think it is terrible that we are so insular in England,” her mother had said. “So learn the languages of other countries. I am grateful that I started to learn French when I was quite a small child and Marcia must do the same.”

  She then added,

  “I think it would also be wise for her to know Spanish and Italian as those are countries she will enjoy when she travels.”

  Because, with her boy’s education. Marcia was learning Greek and Latin, she found all languages easy.

  She prided herself on being able to read all the books in the library, which her ancestors had collected on their journeys round the world.

  When Marcia had taken off the small hat that she had travelled in, the Comtesse showed her the boudoir.

  It opened out of her bedroom and contained some beautiful pictures and a ceiling on which the central figure was again that of Venus.

  Marcia realised that everything around her was designed to create an impression of love and she thought it rather sad that the Comtesse’s clearly thought-out plan would fail.

  While the stage-setting was right, the two principal characters, the hero and the heroine, were antagonistic to the theme of the play itself.

  The Comtesse then showed Marcia some of the other State rooms and finally took her into the Duc’s suite, which, naturally, was the most important in the whole château.

  It occupied the whole end of the building with windows looking East, West and South.

  He had therefore a bird’s eye view of the valley sweeping below him down to the vineyards and through the centre of it flowed a silver river while the cliffs rose on the far side to complete the picture.

  The great gorges were magnificent but at the same time awe-inspiring.

  Marcia felt that she could understand the Duc’s satisfaction in being the owner of such a fantastic estate.

  There were, in fact, she decided no words to describe what she could see now.

  She could only stand at the window thinking the panoramic view, if nothing else, was something that she would never forget.

  The Duc’s rooms themselves were almost as impressive as his estate.

  The huge bed reaching to the ceiling was like the throne of the Pope hung with crimson velvet curtains and the Coat of Arms of the de Roux family was embroidered at the head.

  On the low posts at the foot of the bed there were two exquisitely carved figures of kneeling angels.

  ‘No wonder he thinks himself so important,’ Marcia murmured to herself.

  She did not miss what was almost a note of awe in the Comtesse’s voice as she explained how everything had been collected down the ages. She implied that they were almost sanctified by being in the possession of the Duc de Roux.

  As they came out of the Duc’s suite into the corridor, Marcia was aware that there was a young man walking towards them.

  He appeared rather good-looking and, as he approached the Comtesse, she exclaimed,

  “Sardos, where have you been? We missed you at tea.”

  “I have been riding,” he said briefly. “Alone, because I wanted to think.”

  “You missed the arrival of the Earl of Grateswoode,” the Comtesse said. “So let me present you to his daughter.”

  She turned to Marcia.

  “This is our host’s nephew, Sardos de Thiviers.”

  Marcia put out her hand and Sardos took it in his.

  As he did so, she had the unmistakable feeling that there was something sinister about this young man.

  She wondered why she should feel like that and told herself that she must be mistaken.

  “I was told by my friends who have seen you in London how beautiful you are,” Sardos said in his most honeyed voice, “but they were obviously not able to find words to describe you adequately.”

  It was all very prettily said.

  Yet even as he spoke Marcia felt that there was something hostile behind his words.

  The expression in his eyes certainly denied the smile on his lips.

  “Thank you,” she replied. “But I have always been warned not to believe compliments, which are paid by the French far too easily and too fluently.”

  For a moment Sardos was surprised at her reply and then he said,

  “And I have always been told that English women don’t know how to receive a compliment. But, of course, you will have had so many that you have merely become bored with them.”

  The Comtesse was listening with amusement.

  Then it struck her that the last thing she wanted at this moment was Sardos interfering with her scheme to bring the Duc and Marcia together.

  “I don’t know why you are in this corridor, Sardos,” she said almost sharply. “I in fact am taking Lady Marcia to her boudoir.”

  “I was looking for you,” Sardos replied. “I thought if you were not busy that I should like to have a talk with you.”

  The Comtesse looked at him.

  “Later,” she said. “There are so many guests in the house you will understand that I have not much time to myself.”

  “I still want to talk to you,” Sardos insisted.

  “We will see about it,” she replied lightly.

  She slipped her arm through Marcia’s and drew her towards the door of her boudoir.

  She was aware as she did so that Sardos gave her a sharp glance.

  As she opened the door, she was sure that he was aware of the reason why Marcia had been given those particular rooms.

  As she deliberately shut him outside, she thought that it was very unfortunate that he had turned up at the château.

  She wanted there to be nothing to distract the Duc from becoming friendly, and a great deal more than that, with the Earl’s daughter.

  “Who is that young man?” Marcia asked when they were in the boudoir and the door was closed.

  “He is a very tiresome creature,” the Comtesse answered sharply. “He is the Duc’s nephew and permanently in debt.”

  Marcia looked surprised and she explained,


  “He enjoys the ‘amusements’ in Paris that you were just talking about, but unfortunately they are very expensive. He neglects his mother and his estate, which is in Normandy.”

  She sighed before she went on,

  “His uncle has been very generous to him, but he is not in the least grateful and I suspect that the reason he is here now is to demand more money to pay off his debts.”

  ‘That is just what I might have expected,’ Marcia thought.

  It explained the strange feeling that she had had when she shook hands with Sardos de Thiviers.

  “Now what I am sure you would like is to have a rest before dinner,” the Comtesse was saying. “Personally I always feel not only exhausted after a journey but somewhat dirty until I can have a bath.”

  She passed from the boudoir into the bedroom where the maid had nearly finished unpacking.

  “Mademoiselle would like a bath before dinner,” she said to her. “Until then she will rest.”

  The Comtesse then turned to Marcia,

  “You must look your loveliest tonight, my dear, as I am sure you will, and tomorrow we will arrange a special party with all the most charming people in the neighbourhood to meet you.”

  “Thank you,” Marcia said. “But you know that what I really want to meet are the Duc’s horses.”

  “You shall do that,” the Comtesse replied, “but we can hardly ask them into the Banqueting Hall for dinner!”

  She glanced round the room as if to make sure that everything was in place and again Marcia thought that the whole place vibrated with the beauty and the splendour of love.

  She undressed and lay down in the great bed.

  As she did so, she told herself that she would have to fight valiantly against enemies that were soft and gentle rather than hard and forceful.

  “I am beginning to think,” she said to herself, “that the only person on my side will be the Duc.”

  Downstairs the Duc and the Earl had talked exclusively about their horses and to the satisfaction of them both.

  The Duc imparted all the new ideas he had absorbed in Hungary and the Earl responded with some experiments he had made in his stables at Newmarket, which had proved extremely successful.

  Finally it was with reluctance that they realised that time was getting on and they must go upstairs to change for dinner.

  “It is delightful to have you here, my Lord,” the Duc smiled as they rose to their feet.

  “I have been hoping for a long time to be your guest,” the Earl said. “But there have always been some reasons to prevent my coming to France.”

  “But now you are here,” the Duc answered, “we must certainly make the most of it.”

  They walked up the stairs together.

  There was a footman waiting to show the Earl where he was sleeping.

  It was in another State Room that was very much more masculine than the one occupied by Marcia. But it contained every comfort and the Earl’s valet was busy arranging a bath for him.

  The servants had carried huge brass cans of hot and cold water up the stairs to fill it.

  The Duc left the Earl and went to his own suite.

  As he went down the passage he saw a maid coming out of the room that had been his mother’s.

  He guessed at once that it was where his uninvited guest, the Earl’s daughter, was sleeping.

  Instantly his anger rose again.

  He realised that the Comtesse had deliberately put Lady Marcia there because it was the room she would occupy if she became his wife.

  He went into his own suite and slammed the door.

  He told himself that it was intolerable that he could not be left alone.

  His aunt who in fact he was very fond of, had no right to be intriguing in such a blatant way with the Earl to try to push him into marrying.

  ‘Why cannot I be left alone?’ he asked himself and then went to the window to daze out.

  It was something that had never ceased to thrill him.

  He looked down the valley with its abundance of vines and thought that no woman could give him the same pleasure as producing a good harvest.

  No woman could look so lovely as the silver streak of the river curving between trees that had a Fairytale-like appearance about them.

  ‘It is mine, mine,’ he thought. ‘I will not share it with anyone.’

  His valet came into the room to help him undress.

  The Duc did not speak and the man, who knew all his moods, realised that something had upset him.

  He thought it must be Monsieur Sardos as there was inevitably trouble whenever he appeared.

  ‘A difficult young man if ever there was one,’ he thought to himself. ‘I wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw a pebble.’

  He was too discreet, however, to express such sentiments aloud.

  He merely helped the Duc, after he had bathed, into his evening clothes.

  If he looked impressive in what he wore in the daytime, the Duc was in the evening completely outstanding and it would have been impossible to ignore him even if there had been a thousand other men in the same room.

  An observer might have said the same of Marcia.

  She came from her bedroom wearing one of the attractive gowns that she had bought in London at the beginning of the Season.

  She had not made the mistake that so many girls did of being over-resplendent or too elaborate.

  Although her relatives were only too willing to advise her, she had always chosen what she liked for herself.

  It was always simplicity enhanced by a touch of genius that made it a perfect frame for her beauty.

  She did not think of it like that.

  But those who designed the clothes she ordered realised that she knew better than what the fashion decreed and in consequence they produced something original.

  Something that in itself might have been a picture from the brush of a famous artist or a poem from the pen of an inspired poet.

  Tonight, and Marcia was thinking of the château and not the Duc, she wore a gown that was a very soft shade of blue.

  It toned with the blue that Boucher had used in his pictures and Fragonard in his.

  She wore no jewellery except a string of pearls that had belonged to her mother.

  She swept downstairs, her hair shining in the rays streaming in from the setting sun.

  She might have been a young Goddess moving down from the peaks into the valley of the mortals.

  When she entered the Salon d’Or all eyes turned towards her and she was aware that there was admiration in all of them with one exception.

  The Duc was standing in his habitual position with his back to the fireplace.

  It seemed to Marcia, as she moved towards him, that they were ready to duel with each other with invisible swords and were both on guard.

  Then, just before she reached him, the Duc once again turned as if someone had spoken to him.

  Marcia found herself facing not him but Sardos.

  “We meet again, Lady Marcia,” he said. “May I tell you that every picture in the château pales before you?”

  Again he was complimenting her.

  Marcia, however, had a feeling that a sudden thought had occurred to him when she was approaching the Duc and that he was disconcerted by it.

  She did not know why she should think such a thing, but it was undoubtedly in her mind.

  Then, as her father joined her, she slipped her arm through his.

  “I know that you have had a lovely time, Papa, talking about horses, but I missed you.”

  “And I missed you, my dearest,” he said. “Tomorrow we will go together to inspect them and, of course, to see if we can find something to criticise, because we cannot allow them to be as good as those we own!”

  They both laughed.

  Marcia, however, was aware that her father was looking at the Duc as if he thought that he should have been at her side.

  He was, however, as she expected, talking to th
e beautiful Marquise.

  She was obviously determined to out-gown every other woman in the room as she was wearing a dress of vivid pink that accentuated the whiteness of her skin and the darkness of her hair.

  As she stood beside the Duc, Marcia thought that they were an outstandingly handsome couple.

  She wondered, if he had to marry anyone, why he did not marry someone as alluring as the Marquise.

  It was a question that made her curious, and she could not help asking when she sat down at dinner if the Marquise was married.

  She was speaking to Sardos because, to her surprise, she found that she was sitting next to him.

  It was correct for the Marquise to be on the Duc’s right, Marcia thought.

  But as a foreigner and because of her title, she felt she should have been on his left and she thought that it was a quite deliberate decision on his part.

  He had put her between Sardos and another younger man who was unmarried.

  ‘I suppose,’ she thought with a smile, ‘that he is hoping I shall be snatched away at the precise moment when he should be asking for my hand in marriage.’

  Once again she could not help feeling how amusing it was that she and the Duc were allies in lighting desperately against everyone else.

  “Of course she is married,” Sardos answered in response to Marcia’s question. “The Marquis is, however, at the moment in Rome on a very important mission on behalf of the Government.”

  Marcia realised that that was the end of her idea of marrying the Duc to the Marquise.

  Despite the fact that she behaved with every discretion, the Marquise could not control her eyes.

  The way she looked at the Duc, Marcia thought, made it very obvious even to the most obtuse observer where her interests lay.

  He was far more controlled and many would have thought that it was difficult to guess how deep his feelings were for the lovely woman on his right.

  But it did just strike her that they might be lovers.

  Despite her two Seasons in London, Marcia was very innocent.

  Unlike many of her contemporaries she never talked about love and was not interested in gossip.

  It was a waste of time, she thought, to speculate on any relationship between a man and a woman unless it was published in The Gazette.

  She had, therefore, not listened to the whispers of those around her. Nor did she heed the wailing of the girls when some man they fancied was spirited away from them by some sophisticated married woman.