by Karleen Koen
"You are not in Tamworth," he said, his voice making her writhe with shame, "repulsing the attentions of the village yokels. You are in France, and if you do not wish a chevalier to kiss you, you should never enter darkened alcoves with him! Did he kiss you? Look at me! If he did, by God, I will—"
"No! No! Nothing happened! He tried to—I did not—"
"Be quiet. Go at once and ask Hyacinthe for our cloaks and our carriage. We are leaving."
"B-but we have not seen the king—"
"Do as I say."
"What are you going to do?"
"Nothing that concerns you."
* * *
St. Michel went to the supper room, wiping the perspiration from his brow and upper lip. Trembling, he refolded his handkerchief and took a deep breath. Louise–Anne and Richelieu sat by themselves at a small table, and he joined them without a word, reaching at once for Louise–Anne's wine. He drained the glass. Richelieu motioned for a footman to bring more wine. St. Michel drained that glass too. Then he straightened, his eyes widening. Louise–Anne and Richelieu both turned, in spite of themselves, to see what he was staring at.
Roger strode toward their table, and Richelieu rose, smiling, but St. Michel sat rooted to his seat.
"I came to tell you that my wife has a headache, and I am taking her home. I did not want any of you gentlemen who had solicited later dances to be disappointed." Roger's words were clipped and rude, unlike himself.
"Naturally," said Richelieu slowly, glancing from Roger to St. Michel when St. Michel did not answer.
"I wanted to dance with you," said Louise–Anne, pouting her full lips at Roger, but he did not notice.
"I am assuming you lost your way tonight, Henri, in more ways than one." Roger focused on St. Michel, his face grim, his voice edged with challenge. "Lady Devane is inexperienced socially. But I am not, and I guard what is mine."
His hand moved to his sword. There was a long moment of silence. St. Michel did not move. Neither did Richelieu or Louise–Anne. Abruptly, Roger bowed and left the room.
"What did you do?" breathed Louise–Anne, her, eyes wide.
"I kissed her. He almost caught me." St. Michel wiped his brow again. "I will not fight a duel over one kiss. Not for anyone."
"You kissed her?" asked Richelieu, his eyes sparkling suddenly. "How was it?"
"I hardly know. There was not time—"
"What did she do? Did she lie for you?"
"Not precisely. She started to tell him, but he stopped her."
"A duel would have hurt her reputation. You should have pushed it. I would have," said Richelieu.
"Would you?" snapped St. Michel. "Well, I do not fancy dying over one kiss. A fuck, maybe, but never a kiss!"
"Roger and my uncle," said Louise–Anne, "used to share women between them, and now he is ready to kill for a stolen kiss from his wretched wife. It is too ridiculous for words."
"He was very insulting," said St. Michel, feeling braver now that Roger was gone, and some of the immediate fear was fading. "I ought to kill him for that."
"I can think of a sweeter revenge than death. Do you give up, Henri?" asked Richelieu.
"No! She will come around. She liked my kiss. I could tell—"
"And a moment ago you could not remember. Amazing!"
St. Michel put his hand to his sword. Richelieu stood up at once, knocking over his chair. Both had acted before Louise-Anne had time to blink. They stared at each other, the planes of their faces hard, contemptuous.
"Stop!" she screamed. "If you two fight a duel over that mewling little English child, I will never, never forgive you. Sit down, Armand! Take your hand from that sword! Have you lost your senses? She has not even kissed you yet! Armand, you are not healed from your last duel!"
"She has kissed me," St. Michel said petulantly. Slowly he moved his hand from his sword.
"You kissed her," Louise–Anne said. "There is a difference."
Richelieu sat back down. Louise–Anne shook her head.
She was angry, near tears. Either of them could be dead by morning at the rate they were going. Men were idiots. She had always wanted to go to bed with Roger Montgeoffry and he had never given her a second glance. She wished he would kill St. Michel. And Richelieu. And himself.
"I despise you all," she said in a trembling voice. "You are insane."
"The hunt. The hunt is all," St. Michel said softly.
"And the fuck," said Richelieu.
"I will drink to that," St. Michel agreed, draining his glass. To have come close to two duels in one evening was enough.
* * *
In the carriage, Barbara and Roger were silent. Hyacinthe, sitting by Barbara, wriggled his hand into her cloak, found her hand, and squeezed it. She swallowed. She was struggling not to cry.
Roger sat opposite her, his mouth a hard line. For him, the evening had turned bad from the moment he entered the card room. He had lost at cards, steadily, which was unlike his usual luck. And then the regent had taken him aside and whispered that one of his spies had brought news that the Pretender had given up his fight for the English throne and left Scotland in the dead of night, abandoning those Scot clans that had supported him to the wrath of King George.
Only a few of his followers would be with him, one of them Viscount Alderley. Even now they might be on the seas. Or on the roads. Their destination was said to be Paris. It was not a pleasant situation, from any point of view. The regent was bound by a treaty not to give the Pretender a safe haven in France. And Roger had no wish to deal publicly with the drunken, irresponsible man who was his father–in–law, a ridiculous relationship since he was almost ten years older than Kit. He had no wish to jeopardize his friendship with George, whose own spies would be reporting every move the Pretender and his entourage made. He was so irritated by the news that he went to search for Barbara, to tell her that he was leaving early but that she should stay and enjoy the rest of the ball. And he had walked into a scene that stunned him.
I guard what is mine, he had said to the childlike Princesse de Charolais. He had sounded like an actor in a bad play.
This whole evening had been a bad play, and not entirely a comedy. It had shocked him to see Barbara in another man's arms. A rage had possessed him that he had not felt in years.
He had just enough sense to keep from killing the young fool with her. It was really too ironic, to be spouting the lines of the distraught husband, when the other part, the lover, had always been his. It was really very amusing—except that he did not feel like laughing. He felt like strangling Barbara, who was stupidly impulsive, like her father. First she found her way to his house by herself and cried all over his best coat and upset his entire household; then she convinced that grandmother of hers—Alice made a better general than Richard—to persuade him to marry her immediately; then she appeared tonight, a vision of beauty, surprising him (even while he was amused by her transparency), touching him. She will grow into a lovely woman, he had thought, a graceful complement to Devane House, and then she was kissing strangers in dark alcoves! He was furious with her, even more furious because he knew she did not deserve his anger. But when he had seen St. Michel holding her, something in him had snapped. He had wanted to run his sword through St. Michel's no doubt fleshy belly and see the red blood stain his white shirt. Jesus Christ, what was wrong with him? If he had seen a woman he had wanted at tonight's ball, he would have gone up to her without another thought, except to behave discreetly so that Barbara should not know. Yet, here he was, acting the outraged husband because his naïve little fool of a wife allowed a young man to kiss her.
He did not suspect her of being unfaithful, but that would come. He was far more experienced than she, and he knew how easy it was. One tiny step led to another, until it was done, and then there was no going back. At the thought of Barbara's being unfaithful, he felt as if something sharp had pierced his side. She was so young.
"He is married, you know." What made him say that?
The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. He sounded like a sulking twenty–year–old.
"Who is?"
"St. Michel." There was a silence. Let it go, Roger thought to himself. You have said enough.
Barbara squeezed Hyacinthe's hand and shut her eyes.
"He leaves his wife and children in a chateau in Normandy, and comes to Paris to live as he pleases. His wife runs the chateau and farms and sends him money for his town house and his horses and his mistresses." Why am I doing this?
The carriage lurched to a stop, and Barbara leapt out and ran, her cloak flying out behind her, until she reached her apartments. Hyacinthe ran behind her like a shadow. She stood for a moment in the doorway of her antechamber and leaned her head against the doorframe. From the bedroom, the puppies came barking and tumbling over themselves in their haste to reach her. Thérèse appeared at the opening to the bedroom. She was wiping her mouth with a handkerchief, and her face was pale. There was a sheen of sweat above her upper lip. But Barbara did not notice.
"Madame is home early. Did you enjoy yourself?"
Barbara could not speak. She ignored the yapping puppies and ran past Thérèse into her bedroom. She pulled at the strings of her cloak, she pulled at the feathers in her hair. She sat down on the stool before her dressing table and stared at herself. I will not cry, she thought. I will not.
"What happened?" Thérèse whispered to Hyacinthe.
He shrugged his shoulders. "Madame tells me to fetch the cloaks and carriage. In the carriage she is very quiet. I hold her hand."
"And monsieur?"
"He talks."
"About what?"
"I did not understand. I was thinking of madame. She looked as if she was going to cry. Will she cry, Thérèse? If she cries, I will hug her until she stops."
Thérèse leaned down and gave the boy a quick hug of her own. "Madame needs to be alone. You take Harry and Charlotte in my room, and wait there for me."
"But madame might need me."
"Not tonight, my little one. Do as I say. Go on."
In the bedroom, Barbara's back was to her, but Thérèse could see her face in the mirror. Poor little one, thought Thérèse, perhaps a lover's quarrel. And her husband knows and is angry.
Quietly, Thérèse reached around and untied the strings on Barbara's cloak. When the cloak fell, and Barbara's shoulders were exposed, she squeezed them sympathetically. It was a gentle, quick gesture. Barbara bit her lip. Thérèse unfastened Barbara's gown and helped her out of her petticoats. She unfastened her jewels and unpinned her hair. Everything was done neatly and silently, and as if it were perfectly normal for Barbara not to say one word. Before Barbara even realized it, she was in her nightgown and Thérèse was brushing her hair.
It was comforting to have her hair brushed. Her grandmother used to do that. At the thought of her grandmother, Barbara nearly burst out crying. She missed her; she missed them all. And Roger and St. Michel had nearly fought a duel over her, and it was not romantic and exciting, as in the French romances she had read. And now Roger was angry with her. He thought it her fault.
There was a knock at the door. Thérèse looked at Barbara. Barbara nodded her head. Thérèse opened the door, and before her was the handsomest man she had ever seen. He was older, his face was tanned and thin, he had blue eyes with tiny little laugh lines on each side, and his short hair was gray–blond. He was in a robe. Lord Devane. Thérèse's mouth fell open.
"I am Lord Devane," he said unnecessarily. "Would you ask my wife if she feels up to seeing me?"
She turned. Barbara's face told her everything. She is in love with him, thought Thérèse. And I do not blame her.
She stood to one side, and Roger went into the bedroom. Thérèse closed the door on them, and sat down in a chair in the antechamber.
She had forgotten husbands and wives could love each other. No one did in the Condé household. It was enough to make her forget her sickness.
* * *
"I was too harsh tonight," Roger said, walking toward Barbara. "I do not know what came over me. You are certainly to be allowed your own friendships. I will not interfere. I trust you, Barbara. I do."
She burst into tears. He smiled to himself as he took her in his arms.
* * *
When she woke the next morning, he was not at her side. She sat up, and the bed covers slipped from her. She was naked. She smiled. Roger had not been his usual, controlled self last night; he had made furious love to her. If he should love her…she put her arms around her knees and hugged herself. If he should love her, life would be perfect.
She had been in despair last night. Today she felt like singing. She got up. There was a soreness between her legs. She smiled again. Wrapping a robe around herself, she rang for Thérèse and sat down at her dressing table and began to brush her hair.
"Help me dress, Thérèse," Barbara said. "I have to breakfast with Lord Devane."
Thérèse took the brush from her hand. "Madame seems very happy this morning. Such a change from last night."
Barbara laughed. She could feel a blush starting to burn her neck and cheeks. "I am."
"So would I be. He is the handsomest man I have ever seen."
"Do you really think so, Thérèse?"
"Most certainly. You could have knocked me over last night when I opened the door and saw him. He is gorgeous."
"I agree."
They laughed together, like two wicked old ladies. Thérèse pulled Barbara's heavy hair from her face and began to twist it up.
"This morning we make you innocent, but with a bloom, like a rose opening. The carmine rouge, just a touch. One patch, no more, by your mouth. It will remind him of last night's kisses. I assume he kissed you. We add the rose morning gown with the green belt. The little rose slippers. He will be enchanted."
They were enjoying themselves immensely, but as Thérèse tied the belt around Barbara's waist, she felt the nausea rising, and she clutched her stomach. She could not help it.
"Thérèse, what is it? Are you unwell?" Barbara helped her to a chair.
"A stomach sickness."
"I will send for a doctor—"
"No. I will be fine in just a few moments. Please, madame, do not trouble yourself. Let me rest just a moment, then I will finish helping you dress. Lord Devane will be waiting."
Roger was already eating when Barbara ran into the breakfast room. At the sight of him, her throat tightened. He stood to greet her, and a slight flush appeared on his cheeks, but she did not notice. Roger cleared his throat. She waited.
"About last night," he finally said, quickly, in low tones, "if I hurt you—"
"Oh, no. It was—you did not hurt me."
"You look lovely this morning."
She smiled, all her heart, her happiness, in her smile. She had never loved him so much in her life.
"We have letters," he told her. "They arrived late yesterday. You have two. One from your grandmother and the other from someone whose scrawl I could not read." He handed her two letters.
"Harry!" she exclaimed. "It's a letter from my brother Harry. If you knew what a miracle this is, Roger! I do not think Harry has written two letters in his life—"
She ripped open the seal and read:
Dearest Bab,
What a shock Grandmama's letter gave me. You, a married woman, and to Roger, of all people. Does he know what he has taken on by marrying you, and being related to us all? I send him my condolences and confess that the thought of you as a married woman was enough to make me laugh for days. I also got drunk to celebrate. And celebrate I do, for I need a rich brother–in–law. I have met a friend, the son of Lord Wharton, who is touring Europe, and he wants to come to Paris. When he does, I shall join him. We are in the midst of celebrating Carnival, however, and will not leave before it ends. But expect me, for I have a yearning to see you as a proper married woman. I need money, Bab, and ask you to lend me some. By the way, Grandmama wrote me that part of the marria
ge settlements included paying Father's debts. What do you hear of Father? I owe Roger a letter of thanks and welcome to the family, which I shall write soon. Meanwhile, try to behave yourself, and send money.
I remain your loving brother,
Harry
The words "send money" had been underscored.
Roger was watching her face as she read it. It was soft and smiling. He realized her face always became tender when she thought of her brothers and sisters. She would be a good mother to their children. A nursery. He must build Devane House a fine nursery. Not dark, tiny rooms under the attic, but a spacious, sun–filled chamber where his children would grow strong and tall like greening plants. The thought surprised him. His eagerness to have a child. Not just a child that would be related to Richard. But Barbara's child.
