This odd feeling of being two people at once continued. It was the daughter and sister—the old Emily—who was led downstairs and placed in the carriage beside Papa, who smiled at her, but it was a sad smile, as if he knew. It was the old Emily who walked into the mayor’s office for the civil ceremony that was required in France. There was a stiffly proper young man watching her nervously as Papa led her in. His hair was darkened by the oil that held it stiffly in place. His cheeks were shaved so closely that they seemed paler than the rest of his face. His black coat fit snugly, and his stiff collar forced his head up.
He looked like a stranger until she stood beside him. Then he took her hand and grinned at her, and she grinned back. He was Lucien, her adventurer, and they were about to set off on a grand journey together.
Thirty-one
Much as she loved her family, happy as she had been to meet Lucien’s relatives, Emily was exceedingly grateful to be spending her wedding night away from them. Their rooms in the Hôtel d’Europe were lovely—the building had, after all, started out life as a marquess’s palace. They were also quiet, looking out over a courtyard.
Extremely quiet.
After all the tumult of the day, the embraces and the noisy good wishes that had followed them down the drive as they left, she should enjoy the quiet. There was, after all, no need for her to feel nervous. They had done this before. It had been… She knew… There was no need for her to be nervous.
The lamp had been turned down, so there was a soft glow in the room. She tried to settle herself in the huge bed. Should she lie down or sit up? She had neglected to ask Elinor about that particular point of etiquette. There were so many pillows, she could just lean back against them, and she would be half-sitting, half-reclining.
She was still piling up pillows when he came in, and she stopped in mid-pile. She just stopped. He was wearing a robe, a quite gorgeous robe of heavy, dark green silk. That wasn’t what had stopped her, though.
The robe stopped halfway down his calves and his legs and feet were bare. In the opening at the neck, she could see a vee of skin and a few dark curls of hair.
She couldn’t stop staring at those curls. They meant that he wasn’t wearing anything under the robe. She swallowed and made herself look up at his face. He was smiling a little, looking uncertain, almost as uncertain as she felt.
He sat down on the edge of the bed beside her and began playing with her fingers.
“You aren’t wearing anything under that robe,” she blurted out.
“No,” he agreed. “Does that bother you?”
She examined her feelings. “No. But does that mean… Am I overdressed?”
That made him smile. He switched to playing with the lace edging the neckline of her nightgown. Her new nightgown of silky, almost sheer, linen.
“It is a very pretty nightgown, but perhaps we should remove it. I would not want to damage it,” he said, still smiling.
He stood up and drew her to her feet beside him. A lift of his arm, a lift of her arms, and poof! the nightgown was gone. Seconds later, his robe had also fallen aside.
In the soft lamplight, he looked almost golden. Beautiful. She reached out a hand to touch him and ran her fingers hesitantly over the hard muscles of his shoulder and arm.
“Emily.” He sighed her name as he pulled her gently, tenderly against him and buried his face in her hair. “Chérie, I know there was pain for you before, but this time it will be better. I will make it good for you, I promise.”
His hands moved gently, deliciously down her back, and he brushed kisses over her eyelids, her cheeks and—oh, behind her ear. She gave a little gasp, and could feel his smile as his mouth moved lower.
Then she was on the bed, and his hands were moving over her, gently, then more intently, everywhere, and there were all these sensations, strange, marvelous, until she could no longer think. She could only feel as she flew through the universe.
Later, much later, she drowsily opened her eyes to see sunlight sneaking between the curtains. She lay spooned against her husband—her husband—with his arm wrapped around her. Protectively? Possessively? Perhaps both, but cozy and comforting in any case.
He had been right. It was much better the second time. She would have to tell him. With a sigh of contentment, she went back to sleep.
*
It was another three weeks before they reached Burgundy. Her parents had been right. The emperor wanted to see them—an invitation arrived the day after the wedding—so they had spent a week at Fontainebleau. Lucien had been charming, gracious, and noncommittal. Emily had been charming, gracious, and admiring. She had to admit that her mother had also been right. The Worth gowns pleased the empress. What pleased her even more was that they were not quite as dramatic as the empress’s own gowns. Nor were Emily’s jewels terribly impressive. This was also pleasing. Emily’s most dramatic piece of jewelry was the Roxelana ring, but this carried with it an aura of romance from the exotic East. Emily was therefore forgiven for its magnificence and established as an acceptable bride for a future comte.
Best of all, they had been given a delightful room at the palace with a view of the Jardin de Diane, with its fountain topped by a statue of Diana. The blue flowered wallpaper and matching bed linen and upholstery were, they discovered to their amusement, used in any number of the guest apartments. Whether this was a matter of economy, with a good price given for quantity, or simply a paucity of imagination, Emily could not decide.
More importantly, the room had a large and comfortable bed of which they made good use. Fontainebleau was so enormous, with more than a thousand rooms, that it was impossible to keep track of visitors. They needed to appear only when specifically invited. The rest of the time, they indulged themselves in a privacy of the sort they had never before enjoyed, and came to know each other in new and delightful ways.
When the time came, they left the court with the good wishes of the emperor and empress—and their own unspoken hope that they would never need to return.
By the time they reached Burgundy, it was already late June. When their carriage turned in at the gates of Varennes, Emily had her first view of her new home. It was not an ancient building, perhaps little more than a century old, three stories high of smooth gray stone, topped with a mansard roof. Black shutters flanked the long windows, and a simple stone porch covered the entrance. It might have looked austere were it not for the glossy paint on the door and shutters and the sunlight sparkling on the windows.
She pulled her head back into the carriage and turned to see Lucien watching her nervously. “Don’t be foolish,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”
“Ah, but you have not seen inside. You must remember that no one has lived here in many years. Everything will be old, faded.”
“Good. That will make it easy for us to turn it into our own home.” She was growing accustomed to speaking French all the time. Perhaps she would soon start thinking in French. She leaned over to give Lucien a quick kiss, which turned into a much longer, more thorough embrace that ended abruptly when the carriage pulled to a halt.
The door of the house opened to let out an elderly man whose gray mustache drooped but whose eyes were sharp. His dark coat and trousers betokened respectability rather than fashion.
“M. Bouchard.” Lucien bounded up the steps eagerly, pulling Emily behind him.
“M. de Chambertin.” The elderly gentleman bowed politely, and there seemed to be a smile under that mustache, though it was difficult to be certain.
“Emily, this gentleman is M. Bouchard, who has cared for Varennes in my absence and who has made all the preparations for our return.” Lucien looked at Bouchard with real affection, somewhat to Emily’s surprise. This was the first person in France—aside from his relatives at Marbot—toward whom her husband had shown real warmth, not a somewhat distant courtesy.
“Enchanté, madame.” Another polite bow, but definitely no smile this time.
Emily refused to be put off by
the notaire’s stiffness. After all, she was now wearing the red silk gown with the Zouave jacket. So she smiled her honest smile and held out her hand. “I am very glad to meet you, M. Bouchard. My husband has told me how much he owes to you for all your help over the years. And I must add my appreciation. The house positively sparkles with welcome.”
The smile was apparently honest enough to win a response, as M. Bouchard blushed slightly and rewarded her with a shy smile of his own as he bent over her hand. “I fear that all I could arrange was cleanliness. The house has been kept in good repair, of course, but all is sadly out of date.”
Wearying quickly of the formalities, Lucien was tugging her into the house. “Come, I want you to see inside.”
With an apologetic look at the notaire, she entered the hall, floored with large grayish-blue tiles. A wide oak staircase with a heavy wooden balustrade rose up to a landing that circled three sides of the entrance. Light poured in from the two windows flanking the door, and high above, an intricate brass chandelier hung from the center rosette of the plasterwork in the ceiling. The sole item of furniture in the room was a small table, much too small for the space, to the right of the door.
“The hall,” said Lucien, unnecessarily, as he pulled her along into a large drawing room, again bright with sunshine coming in through four windows along the length of the room. The walls were paneled in walnut boiseries, gleaming with polish. Once more, there was not much furniture, but a pair of armchairs flanked the fireplace, where the marble mantle was supported by an exuberant throng of cherubs.
Lucien regarded them, arms akimbo and smiling with pleasure. “I was afraid my memory might have played me false, but they are just as I remember them. Look here, this one, with his head tilted out. There is a space behind, and maman used to hide little treats for me there when I was small. Later I would hide my special fishing lure there.”
A door in the paneling opened, and a maid stepped in, carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies. She gave a gasp when she saw them and promptly disappeared again.
Emily looked after her. “Are we so frightening, then?”
M. Bouchard chuckled. “The coachman must have been delayed in the stables or the news of your arrival would have spread throughout the house. Now, I estimate another five minutes before all is known.” He turned more serious. “I hired only a minimum of servants, and they all know that they are on trial, so to speak. You must feel free to make any changes you desire.”
“Well, I can certainly find no fault with the cleanliness of the house,” said Emily with a smile. “It is all most welcoming.”
The notaire suddenly looked distressed. “Speaking of welcomes…” His voice trailed off. With a deep breath he began again. “A message has come from La Boulaye.” He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded sheet of heavy paper sealed with wax and handed it to Lucien, who received it with a frown.
Snapping the wax, he opened the missive, scanned the contents, and handed it to Emily.
She read it quickly and looked up with a laugh. “He orders you to appear before him immediately? How very peremptory.”
M. Bouchard blinked. He had obviously never expected laughter as a response to the message.
Lucien, however, grinned at his wife. “Peremptory? Yes, it is that.”
“I do not think we can appear quite as quickly as immediately,” she said, tapping the letter on her cheek thoughtfully. “I, for one, am rather tired from all the traveling. Let me see, it is now Thursday. We shall need a few days to rest and settle in. Perhaps on Tuesday?” She smiled. “I will send a note, saying that if it is convenient to the comte, we will call on Tuesday afternoon at three.”
“That sounds…unexceptionable.” Lucien managed to restrain his laughter. “But why at three?”
“Too late for lunch, too early for dinner. That way they will feel under no obligation to offer a meal.”
“And we will feel under no obligation to accept one.”
M. Bouchard looked back and forth between them as they smiled at each other, and his worried frown relaxed into a smile.
*
Another carriage ride, approaching another chateau, but this time Emily was filled with trepidation rather than eagerness. They rode past miles of vineyards, their neat rows stretching on and on, and a bleak village of gray stone but with no visible inhabitants. Not even in the café.
Emily would have asked, but Lucien seemed lost in thought. Or in something. He had withdrawn, and seemed to see nothing as they rode along. She looked down at her lap and smoothed the red silk with her matching kid gloves. Nervousness on her part was understandable, she supposed. It was not every day a woman was introduced to her husband’s relatives.
But the red dress and the little black velvet hat perched on her head gave her confidence. She was no longer a sensible young girl, always doing what was expected of her. She was now a married woman, prepared to do whatever was necessary to support her husband.
Lucien’s clothing had also been carefully chosen, she suspected. Instead of a formal cutaway or even a frock coat, he wore a loose sack jacket and a tie in a loose bow under a soft turned-over collar. His hat, resting on the seat opposite them, was the sort of wide-brimmed hat with a low crown that he had worn in Mesopotamia. It was an extremely casual costume.
They were dressed for battle.
The carriage turned into a gate and began to climb a long, steep drive. This time her gasp on seeing their destination was not one of pleasure. La Boulaye was a fortress, surrounded with high stone walls leading to round towers with arrow slits for windows.
“You are right. La Boulaye is designed to intimidate visitors, not to welcome them.” Lucien’s mouth twisted, almost in pain.
Emily sniffed. “How very pretentious.”
He stared at his wife and gave a shout of laughter. “Thank you, chérie. That is precisely what it is.”
He was still grinning when they drove through the imposing portal and entered the courtyard of a miniature Versailles. Emily looked at him in amazement. “Yes,” he said, “I agree. Even more pretentious.”
Six bewigged footmen in silver-laced black livery hurried out the door to help them from the carriage and line the steps as they ascended to the door, where a majordomo in more elaborate livery and a much larger wig awaited them. Lucien winked at him. “Don’t worry, Alphonse. I’m not back to stay.” He turned to Emily. “I used to bedevil poor Alphonse here when I was a child. I always wanted to find out if I could make him laugh or frown or grow angry, but I never succeeded.”
“If you will come this way, M. de Chambertin,” said the majordomo impassively as he turned to lead them into the house.
“You see?” Lucien whispered to her. He sounded amused, but as she rested her hand on his arm, she could feel the tension in his muscles.
Eventually they reached a pair of carved and gilded doors, flung open by another pair of footmen as they approached. The majordomo stopped in the doorway to announce, “M. and Mme. de Chambertin,” before he stepped to the side to allow them entrance.
Given what she had seen of La Boulaye so far, she should not have been surprised to enter a drawing room that looked more like a throne room than anything else. True, the comte did not sit on a raised dais, but other than that, the room could have held its own with Queen Victoria’s throne room at St. James or the emperor’s throne room at Fontainebleau. There was enough red silk damask on the walls and gilding everywhere to make any monarch feel at home.
She was almost disappointed that there was not a runner directing their feet to the foot of the comte’s throne or even a railing. They could have wandered anywhere in the room. Well, perhaps not. The comte’s obelisk stare drew them inexorably to him.
Looking at the old man, she wondered that those dark eyes could be so intensely alive when the rest of him seemed so desiccated. He was dressed in a uniform of some sort, with fringed epaulets, a blue sash across his chest, and an enormous starburst decoration pinned to his chest.
Its high, stiff collar forced his chin up, and his legs were encased in gleaming black boots up to his knees. He sat on an armless chair whose high carved back looked decidedly uncomfortable, his skeletal hands resting atop a walking stick that stood between his knees.
The silence in the room was so complete that she could hear the faint silken rustle of her skirts as they walked toward him, coming to a halt about five feet away. Emily wondered if that was a prescribed distance or if Lucien did not wish to get any closer.
“Grandfather.” Lucien dipped his head in greeting.
“So you have returned at last.”
“Indeed.” Lucien nodded again. “I know how delighted you must be to see me alive and well after the alarms regarding my death.”
The old man’s mouth twisted in a grimace of some sort—anger? She was not sure.
“And you need not concern yourself about that foolishness with the bankers,” Lucien continued. “I spoke with them on my return from Fontainebleau. They have restored things as best they can, and I assured them that there would be no prosecution.”
The comte flicked his eyes briefly at Emily and then returned his stare of barely repressed fury to Lucien. “The only foolishness is your failure to do your duty to la Boulaye.” Without turning his eyes away from Lucien, he raised a finger in Emily’s direction. “And this nonsense?”
Emily was unable to decide which nonsense caused the greatest fury, Lucien’s casual dress, his return to Varennes, his remarks about bankers and Fontainebleau, or her own existence.
Lucien maintained an amiable smile. “Allow me to present my wife, Lady Emily.” He turned to her. “My dear, this is my grandfather, the Comte de la Boulaye.”
She smiled and offered him a brief but graceful curtsy. She did not claim that it was a pleasure to meet him.
The comte’s full glare was turned on her this time. “Impossible.” He turned back to Lucien. “You knew that I arranged a marriage for you to Mlle. Fournier.”
“Which, as you also know, I refused. I do hope no one expected the poor girl to wait. Indeed, I thought I had heard that she was married some years ago to a young man from the north.”
Lady Emily's Exotic Journey Page 27
