Gabrielle

by Theresa Conway

  Theresa Conway is 26 years old, married, and the mother of a four-year-old daughter. She enjoys travelling, tennis and competitive sports, and lives in Ballwin, Missouri. Ms. Conway worked as a secretary for five years, during which time she researched and wrote Gabrielle, and is currently at work on a second historical romance.

  Other Troubadour Spectaculars:

  THE FLAME AND THE FLOWER by Kathleen Woodiwiss

  THE WOLF AND THE DOVE by Kathleen Woodiwiss

  MOORHAVEN by Daoma Winston

  LOVE’S TENDER FURY by Jennifer Wilde

  THE HAVERSHAM LEGACY by Daoma Winston

  SWEET SAVAGE LOVE by Rosemary Rogers

  WICKED LOVING LIES by Rosemary Rogers

  DEVIL’S DESIRE by Laurie Mcbain

  DUCHESS by Josephine Edgar

  DARK FIRES by Rosemary Rogers

  DISTANT THUNDER by Olivia O’neill

  A FIRE IN THE BLOOD by Mary Kay Simmons

  EMERALD STATION by Daoma Winston

  MY LADY’S CRUSADE by Annette Motley

  MOONSTRUCK MADNESS by Laurie Mcbain

  DAWN OF DESIRE by Joyce Verrette

  THE ATKINSON HERITAGE by Mollie Hardwick

  SHANNA by Kathleen Woodiwiss

  SCARLET SHADOWS by Emma Drummond

  WARRIOR’S WOMAN by Phyllis Leonard

  THERESA CONWAY

  Gabrielle

  A Troubadour Spectacular

  Futura Publications Limited

  A Troubadour Book

  A Troubadour Book

  First published in Great Britain by Futura Publications Limited in 1978

  Copyright © Theresa Conway 1977

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 0 7088 1380 1 Printed in Great Britain by Hazell Watson & Viney Ltd Aylesbury, Bucks

  Futura Publications Limited

  110 Warner Road Camberwell, London SE5

  To my sister, Laura with love

  Table of Contents

  Gabrielle

  PART ONE Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  PART TWO Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  PART THREE Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Chapter Thirty-four

  PART FOUR Chapter Thirty-five

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-one

  Chapter Forty-two

  Chapter Forty-three

  Chapter Forty-four

  Chapter Forty-five

  Chapter Forty-six

  PART ONE

  Paris—1809

  Chapter One

  Gabrielle de Beauvoir breathed in the smells and sounds of the teeming, bustling city of Paris with her usual air of suppressed excitement. Below her, a group of young students on their way to classes glanced up at the enchanting vision of the slim, lovely girl standing there half-naked, and shouted bold compliments and urged her to display more of her charms. Blushing in confusion and aware of the immodesty of her chemise, which displayed the upper slopes of her small, upthrusting breasts, Gabrielle quickly retired into the still-darkened room, fearing that at any moment her aunt would come rushing up the stairs to her room to scold her for her improper behavior.

  She sighed, for her Aunt Louise was forever lecturing her on this or that propriety which she was sadly lacking, taking every possible moment to inject a reprimand directed at Gabrielle’s dead father who had been an abominable rakehell before he was thrown from his horse at a hunt, suffering a broken neck. Andre de Beauvoir, the Marquis de Molisse, had been dead nearly three years now. How ironic that his illustrious name had survived the gruesome Revolution in France only to fall prey to the most mundane of accidents.

  Gabrielle realized, of course, that somewhere in that disapproving heart there must be some love for her only niece, for why else would Aunt Louise have bothered to care for her and taken such pains to ensure that she had an education?

  She heard footsteps on the staircase and braced herself for another lecture, but to her surprise, Aunt Louise burst into the room with a look of elation on her face. “Gabrielle my chérie, you will never guess how lucky, how truly lucky we are today!”

  “What has happened?” Gabrielle questioned, schooling herself against the rising tide of her excitement, for if she knew her aunt, she also knew that many of that lady’s most elevating moments were spent exulting over the birth of some baby, or a new gown, or even a day without rain so that she needn’t worry about muddying her new slippers.

  “I have found us a patron!”

  “A—patron?”

  “Yes, yes!” the woman nodded her head as though she were jerked by invisible strings, “a grand patron who is very rich—rich enough to enable you to attend a convent to further your education—although I daresay at sixteen you are a little too old to be attending one.”

  Gabrielle’s brows drew downward in a little frown, as she struggled to piece together her aunt’s story for her own understanding. Finally, she gave up and asked her point-blank what she was talking about.

  “Do not be ill-mannered, child,” Aunt Louise spoke pointedly. “M’sieur le Marquis de Chevalier, an acquaintance of Bonaparte’s, has offered to become your guardian as well as protector to both of us. He was a great friend of your father’s, and I can only say I’m surprised the offer did not come sooner after André’s death. But no matter, now we need not worry about the future. Don’t you see! You will have the opportunity of being presented at the emperor’s court!” She clasped her hands together in unbridled glee; Gabrielle had never seen her so animated.

  “But how—” she began uncertainly, wondering if she should question her aunt further.

  “You needn’t worry, child. I have made all the necessary arrangements with the marquis, and he has agreed that it would be most advisable to present ourselves at his hotel immediately. Thank goodness, we need not reside in this straggly house one moment longer,” she added, gazing around the small attic bedroom with a sniff of disdain.

  “But this was my father’s house!” Gabrielle protested.

  “Yes, and what did he use it for? Women and drink and gambling. How he ever had the decency to leave it to you in his will—” The woman’s dark eyes snapped with outrage. “But no longer will I have to be reminded of his debauchery, for M’sieur de Chevalier has wisely advised me to put it up for sale.” She cast a sideways glance at her niece, noticing the distressed look on the girl’s face. “You should be happy, my dear,” she commented in a
gentler tone. “Think what this can mean for you. Someday, perhaps, the marquis will have the opportunity of making a splendid match for you with the oldest son of some wealthy noble. You will never have to scrimp and save as I have done these past three years, striving to make ends meet and appear respectable in the bargain.”

  “But Aunt Louise, I was never aware that we were in such dire straits. We live in the country house during the hottest part of the summer and return here to Paris in the fall as we are doing now. You never once mentioned to me that our funds were running out.”

  “I didn’t want you to know how bad things were, my child. There was no point in worrying you since there was no remedy and certainly nothing you could do.”

  Gabrielle found herself confused and somehow uneasy about this turn of events, but certainly there seemed little choice for her now. “When—when shall we be leaving here?” she asked finally.

  Her aunt’s breath exploded in a little puff as if she had been holding it, and Gabrielle felt her plump arms encircle her. “There, now, that’s my girl. You must see that I am really only doing this for your own welfare.” She patted her shoulder awkwardly. “I have already charged the servants with packing our things into trunks, and the marquis will be here in an hour to escort us personally to his hotel. So hurry now and dress.

  Gabrielle nodded, shaking off the moment of depression. After all, if this marquis were a friend of her late father’s, it might be nice to be able to talk with him about André de Beauvoir. A thought came to her mind, and she turned to her aunt who was already nearly out the door.

  “Aunt Louise, you did not say: is M’sieur de Chevalier married? Has he no children?” She could have sworn that her aunt blushed briefly.

  “He is a widower with a sole heir. His son is in the army now, though, and when he does visit, he does not stay long.”

  Gabrielle smiled at her aunt’s discomfiture. Did it mean that she was perhaps nourishing more than gratitude towards this very obliging marquis?

  Turning to the tall pier glass, Gabrielle critically surveyed her reflected image—a young girl, not yet a woman, with a slender body and a lovely face. Her breasts, she noted with considerable satisfaction, were not heavy and pendulous like some of her friends’, but small and tightly rounded, tilting upwards slightly as if the pink tips were forever trying to peep over the neckline of her chemise. Her waist was willow-slim and supple and flared nicely into her graceful hips and thighs.

  Her reflection smiled back at her, and she noted the flawless, peach-tinted cheeks, the determined chin, and the smooth-lipped mouth that was just short of generous and revealed perfect white teeth when she smiled. Her nose was straight and short with a careless dusting of golden freckles across its bridge to testify to her blondness. Her hair was certainly worth noting: almost a honey-blond, it glistened with reddish tints and looked so glowing that it reminded her of a campfire. Set under delicately arched brows were eyes the color of violets with no trace of grey in them. Oh, they could darken to near-black when her temper overcame her, but their color was as fresh and true as the little velvet-smooth flowers that grew in the flowerpots on the windowsills. And, framed by amazingly long lashes, they reminded her of amethysts set in gold.

  More than once, her aunt had told Gabrielle that her mother had had eyes that very color. But look how little help they had been to that poor woman! Aunt Louise admonished Gabrielle not to set such store by her good looks, for they would surely fade as she got older. And then what would she have left but a remembrance? This was the reason she had insisted on lessons for her niece “in spite of their considerable cost” She had never acknowledged how proud she was of her niece’s accomplishments, but Gabrielle had overheard her talking of them to anyone who cared to listen.

  But for all her beauty and intelligence, Gabrielle had been introduced to very few men. When all her friends were giggling over their latest beaux, one of them relating her adventures in a hayloft with some well-endowed shepherd boy, Gabrielle would struggle to keep the color from her cheeks and wonder at their boldness. Then she would think that perhaps she was too backward, but how could one cultivate the artistry of a coquette when one was given no opportunity? The stable boys’ eyes promised a boldness that caused her involuntary shivers, but her aunt’s sharp eyes never let her out of her sight long enough to permit such promises to become reality.

  And the men who visited the country house were mostly old widowers who sometimes drooled unconsciously into their wine cups as their lascivious eyes wandered over the girl's throat and bosom. At such times, Gabrielle felt almost sick and experienced only relief when their visits ended.

  When Aunt Louise would announce their return to the capital, Gabrielle had to restrain herself from throwing her arms around her neck, for at least there were things one could do in the city that made one forget about the absence of suitors.

  Her best friend, Isabel de Montfort, lived in Paris; and although Aunt Louise labeled her a bold little baggage, Gabrielle knew the girl more deeply and realized her true good nature and spontaneous affection. Outrageously, Isabel admitted that her first entry into the realm of love had been initiated by a sergeant in Napoleon’s army, but it had been a wonderful experience. And indeed, it must have been, if one could judge by the steady stream of young men who called upon her now.

  Gabrielle pushed thoughts of her friend out of her mind for the moment as the slamming of trunk lids and the hurried tone in the servants’ voices reminded her that the marquis would be here shortly. Certainly it would never do to show her gratitude by compelling him to cool his heels in the sitting room.

  She pulled a soft, blue gown over her head and settled it over her figure. The neckline was scooped fashionably low, and there were tiny puffed sleeves and a sash tied snugly beneath the breasts. She heard her aunt calling for her below, and with a final touch of rosewater at her throat and breasts, she hurried downstairs.

  Gabrielle sat down on a chair, clasping her hands in her lap and feeling the tide of excitement flow up towards her throat. It would be wonderful to be able to attend balls and soirées with her friend—properly chaperoned, of course—at the neighboring hotels and even at the Palace of the Tuileries itself! Perhaps she would meet some very nice young man who could be induced to be her escort. Of course, Isabel could be counted on to provide someone suitable to her tastes, but whether or not Aunt Louise would approve was another matter.

  Her mind traveled pleasantly in this line of thought until her aunt’s voice, anxiously fluttering, announced that the marquis had arrived and commanded her to ready herself to receive him. Gabrielle hadn’t recognized the strain she was under until the marquis swept grandly into the room at the heels of one of the scurrying servants. For a moment she could only stare at the richness of his finery; then, at her aunt’s indrawn breath, she curtseyed as sedately as possible. A warm hand on her shoulder half-lifted her up, and she looked into dark, laughing eyes in a face framed by dark, gleaming hair. She judged the marquis to be a little more than forty and thought him a fine figure of a man.

  “Good day, Mademoiselle de Beauvoir—or may I call you Gabrielle?” His lips touched her hand as he squeezed it heartily. “It will be a pleasure to allow myself the luxury of launching you in society, my dear. And let me assure you that when your aunt told me how pretty you were, she truly failed to do you justice.”

  His gallant speech caused a blush to suffuse the girl’s cheeks, but she murmured her thanks, casting a hasty glance at her aunt who was gazing at M’sieur de Chevalier most anxiously. As if aware of the girl’s uneasiness, the marquis turned his attention to her aunt, bowing over her hand and talking pleasantries until even her aunt’s cheeks grew slightly pink. At thirty-eight her aunt was still good-looking, with the appearance of a gentle, attractive, middle-aged woman.

  She is truly taken with him, Gabrielle thought, pleased, and yet worried lest her aunt be deceived by the obviously worldly nobleman. After a few moments, one of the servants came to the
door to announce that the packing was finished.

  “Good. I have taken the liberty of bringing along a cart, driven by one of my servants. With the help of some of your own menservants, he will be able to load the cart without delay. Meanwhile, let me escort you two lovely ladies back to my home, for I am positive you can hardly wait to view your new lodgings.”

  He extended a velvet-sheathed arm to each lady and together they stepped from the room into the strangely deserted-looking hall and out into the sunshine of a fine September morning. The open carriage that awaited them was smartly outfitted in blue and gold livery, and the marquis gallantly helped the ladies in.

  Once comfortably seated, he signalled for the driver to start up the horses, and Gabrielle revelled in the fresh breeze that fanned her face and lifted her hair. They chattered about unimportant things—the weather, the Emperor Napoleon’s good health, the former Empress Josephine’s loveliness even in the face of her divorce. Gabrielle’s mind was only half-engaged with what the other two discussed, for she was engrossed in viewing the bustling activities of the world’s second largest city.

  They passed the market place of the Pont Neuf and the raucous cries of the fishwives and tripe sellers mixed with the sweeter notes of the young flower sellers. With untiring fascination, Gabrielle watched the antics of the jugglers and the tightrope walker, who were performing in the large square to the applause of the admiring populace. They trotted through narrow streets lined with refuse, the smell of which caused her to wrinkle her nose in mingled pity and disgust.

  Finally they ventured out into the Rue du Faubourg St.-Denis and stopped in front of an imposing edifice of grey stone which stood three stories high with a wide courtyard fronted by a five-foot wall of white brick. The Hotel Chevalier stood, in spite of its expansive front court, quite close to its neighbors on either side, similar buildings of the same grandeur. Gabrielle caught herself staring speechless at the palace and realized that the marquis was studying her in amusement.