Intrigued

by Bertrice Small

  Jasmine noticed the change in her daughter almost immediately. She said nothing. The plans were found for the new winery, and the preparations began to build the addition. Autumn had been back at Chermont a week when a visitor arrived one morning. It was her old suitor, the Comte de Montroi. Amusing as ever, his blue eyes twinkling, he greeted Autumn with a smile and a jest, and almost immediately Autumn was laughing.

  “Guy Claude, you have not changed, I see,” she said with a small chuckle. “What brings you to Chermont?”

  “I am the bearer of an invitation, ma belle,” he replied. “The king has just arrived at Chambord to hunt, and he wishes you to join him. Cherie, how did you manage to catch the eye of the monarch from this backwater?” The comte accepted a silver goblet of wine that a servant offered.

  “I cannot imagine I have caught his eye,” Autumn said. “I met him several years ago. He was a child, but very bold.”

  “He is still bold where the ladies are concerned,” the comte told her, “but he is no longer a child. He is eighteen, and a man full grown. The women throw themselves at him. The queen mother labors night and day with the cardinal to marry him off. Not that that will keep his eye from roving, ma chere Autumn. He has the blood of Henri the Fourth and Francoise the First in him. It is hot blood.” He sipped his wine. “Excellent vintage,” he pronounced. “Is it yours or Archambault’s?”

  “Ours,” she said.

  “I was sorry to hear of your loss,” he said to her.

  “We have survived,” she responded dryly.

  “When shall I tell the king to expect you?” the comte asked.

  “Say to his majesty that I would be excused as I yet mourn my husband. I thank him for his kind invitation and for remembering me, but I should be poor company.”

  The comte’s blue eyes grew troubled. “I do not think you should refuse the king, Autumn,” he said to her.

  “I do not think the king should invade my mourning,” she replied.

  “The marquis has been dead a year now, hasn’t he?” the comte responded. “I believe a year is a respectable time of mourning for one’s husband. The king will certainly think so, Autumn.”

  “The king may think what he wants. I will not go to Chambord, Guy Claude. It is unthinkable!”

  “I shall deliver your message, cherie,” the Comte de Montroi said reluctantly. “The king will not be happy, however.”

  “I cannot imagine the refusal of a country widow should matter much to him,” Autumn said with a laugh. “His invitation was a polite one and nothing more. I’m certain such invitations have gone to others in the region. My absence will hardly be noted or spoken about.”

  The Comte de Montroi departed, troubled. Louis might only have met Autumn once, but she had obviously made a deep impression upon him. All he had spoken about on their journey from Paris was the beautiful widow of Chermont. He remembered every nuance of her features. Her odd eyes. The scent she wore, which the king recalled as being fresh and wholesome. Louis, the comte realized, wanted more than to render his personal condolences to madame la marquise. He wanted Autumn in his bed, and she, innocent as she remained, hadn’t the faintest idea with regard to the king’s intentions. He already knew what the king’s reaction to her refusal would be. Louis would not be pleased at all.

  And he was not. “She said she would not come?” the king asked, quite astonished. Women did not refuse King Louis.

  “She thanks your majesty but says she is still in mourning for her husband. She was surprised you remembered her,” the comte said.

  “How does she look, Guy Claude?” the king demanded.

  “More beautiful, if that is possible, sire,” the comte told the monarch honestly. “Her skin is like white silk, and those gemstone eyes are as fascinating as ever.”

  “What was she wearing?” came the query.

  “Her gown was of midnight blue silk. It was plain, without any ornamentation, however,” the comte recounted. “Her hair is still long, and she wears it in a chignon as she ever did.”

  Louis sighed deeply. “I can imagine I still smell her scent,” he said softly. “Honeysuckle and woodbine. So English. No French-woman would wear something so simple, yet the memory of it haunts me.”

  “I am sorry, your majesty,” the comte said.

  “Do not be. We will ride to Chermont tomorrow and pursuade the reluctant widow that she cannot refuse her king when he calls,” Louis said with a smile. “I want her, Montroi, and I shall have her. Did you not court her once? Did you kiss her? Fondle her pretty breasts?”

  “Alas, your majesty, Autumn never took my suit seriously, and I never took liberties with her. It would have been unthinkable. She was a virgin of good reputation and good family. Besides, no one had a chance with her once her eye lit on Sebastian d’Oleron,” the comte explained. Best the king not consider him even a distant rival, Guy Claude thought wisely to himself. “Autumn and I became friends only. She says I make her laugh. No woman ever gravely considers a man who makes her laugh, I believe,” he concluded with an impudent grin.

  The king chuckled. “Perhaps, but perhaps not, Montroi,” he said thoughtfully. “You will come with me tomorrow.” It was an order, not a question, and the Comte de Montroi bowed servilely in agreement.

  “As your majesty wishes,” he said.

  “We shall have to teach madame la marquise the same nature of obedience as you exhibit, my dear comte,” the king replied. Then his brown eyes grew thoughtful. “Is she fire or ice?” he wondered aloud. “I attempted to seduce her just before I became king in fact. She set me down quite firmly. I have never been able to forget that fire, and yet now she is so cold.”

  “Her heart is broken, your majesty,” the comte offered.

  “Then I shall have to mend it,” Louis said with a small smile.

  “Knowing women as I do, your majesty,” the comte said, “and I base my knowledge upon my years, of course, I think Autumn will resist you and be angry that you have approached her.”

  “I shall win her over, Montroi. I shall coax those fires she has banked so neatly into a conflagration of passion,” the king said confidently. “Madame la marquise shall be mine!”

  Guy Claude d’Auray battled with his conscience over the king’s words. Should he send a message to Autumn warning her of the visitor she would have the following day? In the end he decided that discretion was advised. He had become an intimate of the young king, and Louis trusted him. It didn’t matter whether Autumn was advised of the king’s coming or not. What Louis wanted he would have. Autumn might dispute the king’s lust, but in the end she would yield to it, and she would probably enjoy it. Louis, at eighteen, already had a reputation as a great lover.

  They left at first light for Chermont, several hours’ ride across the countryside from Chambord. The day was sunny and there was only the slightest breeze. In the vineyards through which they passed the grapes were being harvested, and the air was redolent with their lush fragrance. Louis was in a particulary good mood as he anticipated meeting again with Autumn. She might have changed little, but he had changed a great deal. Madame la marquise was in for a great surprise.

  “The king?” Autumn jumped to her feet, growing pale. She swayed and grasped the back of the settee to keep from falling. “Mama?”

  “Show his majesty in, Lafite,” Jasmine said calmly.

  “At once, madame la duchesse,” the majordomo said, and hurried from the salon.

  Autumn’s hand went automatically to her hair to smooth it. She shook her skirts to remove any unseemly folds they might have. “What can this mean, Mama?” she whispered.

  “I think you know what it means,” Jasmine replied. “Keep your temper, ma fille. Remember, this young man is the king.”

  The salon’s door opened and Louis entered. Autumn’s eyes widened with surprise. Then she curtsied deeply, holding her position until the king raised her up. “Welcome to Chermont, your majesty,” she said, her voice breathless with her nervousness.
<
br />   “Merci, madame la marquise,” Louis replied. He had not released her hand. Then he turned to the comte. “You did not lie, Montroi. Madame la marquise is as beautiful as ever; more so, I think.” He tucked Autumn’s hand into his arm and then smiled at Jasmine. “I can easily see, madame la duchesse, where your daughter gets such loveliness.”

  “I thank your majesty for his gallant speech,” Jasmine replied, curtysing in return. “My daughter forgets her manners, sire. Please, will you have some wine?” She smiled and nodded to the attending footman.

  The king drew Autumn over to the settee and sat, drawing her down with him to sit by his side. He accepted a goblet, but before she might take one, Louis put his goblet to Autumn’s lips, encouraging her to sip. Then, after she had, he drank himself. He behaved as if no one else was in the salon. “It pleases me to see you again, ma bijou,” he told her in a soft, caressing voice.

  The Comte de Montroi took the Duchess of Glenkirk’s arm and quickly escorted her from the salon, signaling the footman to follow.

  Autumn heard the doors click shut and, panic-stricken, realized her mother and the others were gone. She attempted to rise from her place at the king’s side, but he would not permit it.

  “Why are you afraid of me?” Louis demanded. “I only want to love you, ma bijou.”

  “How dare you speak to me in such a manner?” Autumn said, but the king put two fingers over her lips to still her protests.

  “I am your king, madame. You owe me perfect obedience,” he told her. Then his knuckles grazed her cheek. “Montroi is right. You have skin like white silk.” He tipped her chin up with his hand and brushed her lips very lightly.

  Autumn recoiled, her eyes widening with her surprise. “You were a bold boy,” she said. “I see little has changed.”

  “Except now,” he replied, “I am a man full grown, madame. I wanted you as a boy, and now I am a man, nothing has changed. I yet dsire you, ma bijou.”

  “I am not your jewel,” Autumn snapped.

  Louis laughed. “Do you presume to resist your king, madame? I have always enjoyed a challenge far more than an easy conquest.”

  “ ’Tis you who presume,” Autumn responded angrily. “I am a respectable widow, your majesty. I am not some Paris whore you may buy with a few coins or paste jewels! I am not some alleged lady of the court who seeks to gain your favor! I refused your invitation. Now you dare to come into my home and solicit me.”

  “You are plainspoken, madame la marquise. I shall be equally plainspoken. I am the king. You and your daughter are my subjects. You owe me your obedience, and I will have it. Do you understand me, madame la marquise? You will yield yourself to my will!”

  Autumn burst into tears, and the king knew he had won. A woman without a good defense always resorted to tears. He put his arms about her and caressed her dark head. “There, ma bijou, I will not be unkind. I adore you. You have been in my thoughts since that afternoon at Chenonceaux those five years back. I have longed to kiss your lips and cuddle your delicious form against my body. I have dreamed many a night of having you beneath me, of entering your body slowly, slowly; of making you weep with our combined pleasure. Do not resist me, Autumn. Let me love you the way you were meant to be loved.”

  “How can you make me betray my husband?” Autumn sobbed.

  “You cannot betray a dead man, ma bijou,” he murmured softly against the side of her head, kissing her ear tenderly. His tongue began to gently explore the whorl of that ear, and she shuddered. “You are not a nun,” the king said softly. His hand began to fondle her breasts through the silk of her gown.

  “Please, no!” Autumn gasped.

  In response, he caught her chin between his thumb and his forefinger and kissed her. His fleshy mouth pressed passionately upon hers, coaxing from her, to her great astonishment, a reply. Her lips softened, yielded, parted to exchange breaths with the king. His tongue found hers, and she shuddered again as the two digits intertwined and brushed against one another alluringly. Autumn half-swooned, falling back against the king’s velvet-clad arm with a soft cry.

  Louis groaned aloud. Time, it would seem, had not dimmed his great desire for this beautiful woman. He could feel his manhood, tight and hard, pressing against the fabric of his breeches with an urgency he could barely contain. He could have taken her then and there. She would have been powerless to prevent him from doing so, but he did not. He had planned his seduction of her ever since he had learned of the untimely death of Sebastian d’Oleron. When he first possessed Autumn it would be amid flowers and candlelight. He would lay her back against the pillows of his bed and caress her until she begged for his favor. He would not lift her skirts here in her salon and take her on an ancient, creaking settee.

  Leaning forward, he tenderly kissed her lips again. Then her closed eyelids, saying as he did, “It will be all right, ma bijou. You shall come back to Chambord with me, and we shall enjoy a sweet idyll, you and I. Open your eyes now, cherie.”

  Autumn obeyed, and Louis was startled as always by the emerald and turquoise of her two eyes. Her demeanor was serious. “You would make me your whore, your majesty. Can I say nothing that will dissuade you from this course, sire? And when you have satisfied your passion for me, then what? Who will have me to wife? If indeed I ever wanted to wed again, which I do not.”

  “There is no shame, ma bijou, in being a king’s mistress,” Louis said in matter-of-fact tones. “The women who are, are usually the most desirable and greatly sought after as wives, particularly if they have been wise and kept their king’s friendship after their mutual passions waned, Autumn.”

  “You comfort me,” she replied dryly, sitting up, and he laughed.

  “We shall ride back to Chambord this very afternoon,” Louis said decisively.

  “No,” she replied. “I shall come tomorrow, properly, with my carriage and my maids and a wardrobe. Who is with you?”

  “But a few gentlemen friends,” he answered.

  “There are no other women?” She was surprised.

  “We have come to hunt, ma bijou.” he said.

  Autumn shook her head. “And now that you have captured your prey, sire, she will sit at your highboard and hold court over your gentlemen, I think. You are fortunate I am used to my father’s hall, where only my mother and I held sway.” Then, suddenly, she said, “Mama must come with me to give the appearance of propriety, your majesty. If you would take me to your bed, at least allow me the illusion of decorum and dignity. People may think what they choose, but if Mama is with us, they cannot say for certain that I have entered your bed.”

  “This is important to you, ma bijou?” he asked.

  “Oui, your majesty, it is,” she replied quietly.

  “Then your mama shall come to Chambord,” he decided. “Now, give me a kiss to thank me; mouth open, so I may salute your naughty little tongue with my own. Oh, the things I shall teach you, ma bijou! Things your good husband, I am certain, did not think proper knowledge for a respectable French wife. You will be an excellent student, I have not a doubt. You are filled with fire, Autumn. I shall very much enjoy warming myself by that fire.” They kissed, and then the king leapt up with a smile. “I have changed, haven’t I?” he said.

  “You were still a boy the last time I saw you,” Autumn replied. “Aye, you have changed, your majesty. You are a handsome man now, but I am still seven years your senior.”

  “Remember the story I told you of Diane de Poitiers, who first possessed Chenonceaux?” he demanded.

  Now it was Autumn who smiled. “Oui, your majesty, I remember,” she responded. “So, I am to be your Diane, eh?”

  “You will not be unhappy, ma bijou,” he promised her. Then he swept her a graceful bow and left the room.

  Autumn sighed, shaking her head in amazement at what the past minutes had wrought. Louis had indeed changed. He was a man of medium height and build. His long hair, which he wore clubbed back, was jet black. His eyes were a warm amber brown. He had a fa
ce that was more long than round, and an aquiline nose, beneath which lay his lush mouth. He was so completely different than Sebastian had been. The door to the salon opened and her mother reentered.

  “What has happened?” Jasmine demanded.

  “Are they gone?” Autumn countered.

  “Aye, the king smiling broadly as he went.” She sat down and patted the settee by her side. “Tell me.”

  “He wants me for his mistress,” Autumn said frankly. “I have said we will come to Chambord, but what am I to do, Mama?”

  “You have no choice, ma fille,” Jasmine replied. “If you claim the citizenship of your native land, Autumn, then you reside in France at the king’s pleasure. If you have become French by virtue of your marriage to Sebastian, then you must obey your king.”

  Autumn bit her lip. “We could go to . . .”

  “We cannot go home until Cromwell’s forces are driven out and King Charles restored to his throne,” Jasmine said quietly. “We could go to Holland or to Rome, I suppose, but what of Madeline? She is the heiress of Chermont. Will you risk her legacy over this matter? You are no virgin protecting your maidenhead, ma fille. You are a woman, and sometimes we women make choices we would prefer not to make.”

  “Was that how it was with you and Prince Henry, Mama?” Autumn asked astutely.

  Jasmine nodded. “While I found him attractive and very exciting,” she said, “I was outraged by the knowledge of what he wanted from me. I can still remember my stepfather, the Earl of BrocCairn, saying to my mother that a handsome, charming young man wished to make love to me, and I would have to yield myself to the inevitable. He scolded me quite roundly for my prudishness, for as he wisely pointed out, I was not being asked to give up my life or my wealth. Still, I would have run back to Cadby but that Alex locked me in my chamber,” Jasmine chuckled with the remembrance. “Oh, I was angry with him. I threw a vase of flowers—roses I think—at him in my fury. Then Prince Henry came, and before I knew it I was won over by his charm. Your brother, Charlie, has that same Stuart charm,” Jasmine concluded with a smile.