Gabrielle

by Theresa Conway

  The leader, the tall, dark-haired man, smiled with pitying mockery, even as his hand strayed to the pistol that was stuck in his belt. “You must be mistaken,” he commented indolently. “Please be so kind as to remove yourselves to another table.”

  “Goddamn it, Savage!” roared the first sailor, his fists clenching. “Don’t try to palm me off. I know too well who you are. I was on the ship, Marina, that you crippled so badly off Martinique; we barely escaped with our lives.”

  “My sympathies,” the man called Savage rejoined, playing idly with an imaginary string on his sleeve.

  The sailor seemed about to burst in his rage, and the other sailor, suddenly aware of the danger in the man’s still, self-assured presence, attempted to calm him down. “Now, now, Folere, we could be mistaken. I'm sure this—gentleman has been telling the truth. Let’s go now, your wife will be wondering where you are.”

  Gabrielle held her breath, fully expecting the other sailor not to heed his friend’s warning. But to her intense relief, the mention of his wife seemed to bring the sailor to some semblance of calm. Shrugging off his friend’s hand, he made his way uncertainly to the door, pausing only to glare at the man’s back.

  “No matter,” he muttered. “The next time we meet, Savage, I’ll not hesitate to run you through!” Then he walked out the door, to the relief of everyone present, who immediately went back to their wine.

  “Did you hear that?” Isabel whispered. “He’s a pirate!

  I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment by the look of him. Oh, but isn’t it all exciting! ”

  “Very exciting,” Gabrielle retorted, “especially if someone had been killed! ”

  “Oh, that sailor was all wine and bluff—anyone could see that,” Isabel said in her worldly manner.

  “Well, I hope you’ve had enough excitement for one day. Let’s do go home now.”

  “Oh, all right. But remind me never to invite you to a cafe again, Gabrielle. You’re not in the least adventurous,” Isabel complained, retrieving her shawl from the back of her chair and settling her hat back on her head.

  They paid for their food and began to make their way carefully past the tables, taking care not to glance curiously at the tall, dark man who was now apparently engrossed in conversation with his friends. As they were about to brush by his table, a young ruffian, quite drunk, reached out laughingly for Gabrielle’s skirt, catching a bit of the material in his hand. Isabel went on, not realizing that her friend had been momentarily detained.

  More irritated than afraid, Gabrielle gave her skirt a small tug but failed to dislodge it from the boy’s grasp. With a stronger tug, she pulled at it, and, as the boy loosened his hold to return to his glass of wine, the effect of Gabrielle’s exertion released the material so quickly that she lost her balance, coming up sharply against the opposite table. A pair of strong, brown hands were about her waist in a moment. One moved upward in a sliding movement and caught hold of her just beneath her breast, and Gabrielle, attempting to steady herself, looked into those same green eyes that had gazed at her so insultingly.

  The sailor moved out of his chair with a lithe movement that was so swift it startled her, and then his arms were somehow tightening a little on her, and the firm, sensuous mouth curved into a smile.

  “Are you all right?” he said in a voice that held a trace of an accent.

  She nodded, feeling his hands still holding her and her flesh warm where they rested. The next instant, though, he released her.

  She hesitated for a long minute, then hurried as though to escape, still hearing his mocking laughter in her ears. If he were a pirate, she thought furiously, chances were he would have a price on his head and the police would catch up with him soon enough.

  Chapter Three

  November had passed, grey and overcast, a month that Gabrielle had always disliked because of its slowness in anticipation of the Christmas holidays. Her aunt had stressed the importance of deportment, especially after the incident at the cafe, and Gabrielle had been restricted in her outings with Isabel. Of course, the latter was caught up in her preparations for the ball, and Gabrielle could imagine how delightfully busy she must be.

  Finally Alexandre paid a personal call on the de Montforts, expressing his wish that they join him for luncheon the following day. Gabrielle was ecstatic with joy, and at the lunch table she went over every detail of the ball with Isabel.

  That night. Aunt Louise visited her in her bedroom, and Gabrielle was told that Alexandre and her aunt had decided to announce their own betrothal quietly after the Christmas festivities. Privately, Gabrielle was not at all sure of her own reaction to this news, but she marvelled at the obvious change in her aunt, who had softened visibly. Even so, there was a tinge of disappointment to her aunt’s happiness.

  “Charles, Alexandre’s son, does not approve of the marriage,” she confided, her face betraying her deep embarrassment. “He has written his father several letters enclosing his ideas on the exact reasons why I am ‘entrapping’ him in marriage—money, social position, and other things that demean our love and trust for one another. Gabrielle, I want you to know that none of that is true and that, although I will admit that the prospect of wealth and security was what attracted me to Alexandre in the beginning, these considerations are not so important anymore. Alexandre is the only man who has ever been tender and protective towards me. He is the most thoughtful person in the world, as I’m sure you would agree.”

  Gabrielle patted her aunt’s hand comfortingly. “Then there is nothing for you to fret about, is there? Since Alexandre loves you, certainly he will not worry about what his son says. It seems to me that Charles is overstepping himself anyway, presuming to advise his father on the choice of a wife.”

  Aunt Louise shrugged, and she seemed to draw some comfort from the words. “You are absolutely right, of course, but I would hate to be the wedge that might drive Alexandre away from his only son. Charles would never forgive me for that, and I have a feeling that Alexandre would also be grievously wounded by such a development.”

  “You mustn’t feel that way. Perhaps Charles will get over his aversion to the marriage before the time arrives for him to come home from the field. He sounds more like a sulky, spoiled child than a man twenty-three years old.”

  Aunt Louise sighed, passing a hand over her forehead. “Alexandre confided in me that Charles did not have a happy childhood. It seems that his mother, Alexandre’s first wife, Hélène, took hardly any interest in the boy. For that reason, he began to distrust all women, and he has a cruel streak in him at times that is a little frightening even to his father. It would be best if he would remain in the army since it is the only kind of life he can enjoy, but he is to be the witness for the Duc de Gramount as you will be for Isabel at their wedding.”

  At the prospect of seeing this repulsive-sounding man at the betrothal ball, Gabrielle grimaced in distaste. “Well, I shall have to put up with him for Isabel’s sake,” she thought quickly and tried to focus her concern on her aunt’s problems which truly seemed too pressing for a prospective bride.

  Two weeks of Christmas passed happily enough and everyone in the house became gay and spirited in preparation for the betrothal celebration that was getting nearer every day. Gabrielle almost forgot her aunt’s anxiety until they received a letter relaying the message that Charles had decided to return from the campaign early and would be home some time in the third week of December.

  Her aunt looked very pale at the news, but Gabrielle could hardly let the knowledge dampen her enthusiasm, for her new gown had arrived that very day and it was as breathtaking as she had hoped it would be. The bodice was cut very low, almost indecently so, just skimming her breasts at the halfway point and covering the pink tips against the chill. The sleeves were full, and they exposed her shoulders, making them look like marble against the softness of the velvet. The bodice was caught beneath her bosom in a wide, silvery gauze sash.

  The betrothal party was only ten d
ays away, and she knew that she would rank favorably among the other pretty, sophisticated women who would be attending. Isabel exclaimed that she would be extremely jealous if Gabrielle turned her fiancé’s eyes away from herself, but Gabrielle assured Isabel, laughing, that her rose satin gown would look breathtaking.

  Gabrielle mentioned the subject of Charles in an offhand manner, watching for Isabel’s reaction.

  The latter wrinkled her nose. “He is rather crude in social settings, from what I’ve heard, but Henri insisted on naming him as his witness, and of course, I had no choice in the matter.

  “But do you think he would do something to stop the marriage between Alexandre and Aunt Louise?” Gabrielle asked anxiously.

  Isabel shrugged as if to indicate that the matter was really trivial. But she doubted that Charles would do anything so foolish as to anger his father, especially since the marquis could easily have his army commission revoked.

  Gabrielle looked doubtful but decided that Isabel would only become irritated at persistent questioning.

  The days went by too quickly, and Gabrielle saw her aunt’s nervousness increase. Alexandre comforted her, but even he seemed somewhat more withdrawn.

  On the morning that Charles was to arrive, there was an unusually heavy snow that blanketed Paris in a shroud of crystal whiteness. A very young maid, Chloe, had taken over as Gabrielle’s servant, and she was extremely adept at fixing the heavy tresses of her shining hair. She arranged Gabrielle’s hair in a simple chignon for the day and dressed her in a silk gown of soft lilac. Gabrielle had chosen the gown, hoping to make a favorable impression on Charles for her aunt’s sake.

  The clock on the mantel chimed two o’clock and Gabrielle caught the sound of crunching snow as a carriage rolled into the avenue before the house. She dared not go to the sitting room until she was summoned as she did not want to embarrass her aunt or Alexandre should this prove to be a distressing moment.

  A soldier’s boots rang hard on the tiled floor and a deep voice inquired quickly, “Where is my father?” The voice held a tone of ruthless command; its owner was used to being obeyed in any event, and the servant squeaked that the marquis was in the sitting room with Madame de Beauvoir.

  “That adventuress! Tell him I will see him alone in the library, then!” Charles bellowed, and before Gabrielle could think what to do, he had opened the door to the library and swept in, shaking the snow and ice off his army cape.

  For a moment, they could only stare at one another, he seeing a lovely young girl, obviously a trifle anxious, and she taking in a young man of medium height with blond hair, lighter than her own, and puzzled grey eyes.

  She cleared her throat, amazed at this flesh-and-blood antonym of her nightmares, but she did not know what to say.

  He closed the door, fully at his ease, watching her with a mixture of amusement and irony. After a moment, his brows drew downward, and he took a step toward her. “Well, you must be the niece, Gabrielle de Beauvoir. Am I not correct?”

  Stung by his tone of exaggerated arrogance, Gabrielle drew herself up a little and tried to keep herself from glaring at him. “Yes, m’sieur. But you will excuse me for not addressing you so knowledgeably, for I do not know you, nor have we been introduced,” she murmured, not troubling to keep the bite from her words.

  He laughed unpleasantly. “Oh, but ma’m’selle, I am quite sure you must know exactly who I am, for your whole future may depend on me. My eyes do not deceive me when they note the anxious air about you.” He seated himself in a chair, not bothering to ask her permission. “I am told that my father is waiting for me in the salon with your aunt. I haven’t the faintest idea why she would choose to be present at this important family reunion, as it will only prove an embarrassment to her. I'm positive she must have told you I consider her nothing more than a scheming adventuress who, finding my father an easy mark, could not resist but to hold out for marriage.”

  Gabrielle’s face went crimson with mingled rage and embarrassment. “How dare you speak of her in that tone of voice and with such words of stupidity! Obviously you have not chosen to read any of your father’s letters informing you of my aunt’s good and kind nature, nor have you managed to learn the simple rules of etiquette, m’sieur. I do hope all of the officers are not as uncouth as you are!”

  His eyes flickered over her for an instant. “And I hope, ma’m’selle, that I am not expected to be the elegant nobleman for the likes of a child like yourself. I have a strong feeling that we will not meet again soon, ma’m’selle, except where necessity dictates. So I would request that you excuse yourself from my presence.”

  “I am not one of your snivelling aides that you can order around, m’sieur. I’m afraid you will just have to get used to me unless you wish to take your meals in the seclusion of your own rooms. Good day, m’sieur.” Gabrielle walked as sedately as possible from the room, not daring to look back at him to watch the effect of her words. She hurried to her own rooms, fighting back the tears of frustration and anger that threatened to spill over at any moment.

  Chloe found her a few minutes later, dabbing at her eyes with a scented handkerchief and brushing away the tear stains on her cheeks. “Oh, ma’m’selle, you have been crying!”

  Gabrielle nodded, not wishing to explain.

  “I know why ma’m’selle is so sad. I heard the angry words of M’sieur le Marquis and his son in the library just before I came up and Madame Louise was weeping in the sitting room. Oh, I don’t understand what has happened, ma’m’selle. Surely the marquis will not send you away, will he?”

  Gabrielle shook her head. “He will not send us away. He loves my aunt very much, Chloe. But I’m afraid that the son does not share his view, and he is not as courteous as his father.”

  Isabel dropped by on the eve of her party, her spirits bubbling and excitement shimmering from the top of her fur-trimmed hat to the tips of her heavy walking boots. Almost immediately, as they entered Gabrielle’s bedroom, Isabel swept around to face her friend, eyeing her closely. “All right, what has been happening around here, my dear? I’ve heard everything: a story that you and Charles had a bitter fight after rubbing each other the wrong way, and the equally disturbing tale that he refuses to escort you to my betrothal ball. I’ve been in a state all morning and would appreciate your enlightenment at once, if you please!”

  Gabrielle stared at the other girl, striving for words to explain the fiasco of Charles’ homecoming. Finally, bit by bit, the whole distressing truth came out, after which Isabel plopped in a cushioned chair, her hands up in the air.

  “You mean to tell me that he was that rude to you and spoke of your aunt that way? I don’t blame you one bit, Gabrielle, for I most certainly would have done the same. But—” and she glanced at the other with her familiar grin, “I think I would have made sure that he did not leave the house in such an angry mood. I mean, couldn’t you have gone to his rooms to see him and have done your apologizing there in a way that would simply melt him, my dear? You do understand my meaning?”

  Gabrielle nodded miserably. “He would never give me a chance to get near him.”

  “That is nonsense, after all. He has to stand by you during the marriage ceremony, and there is absolutely no way that I am going to change my mind and pick a ‘more suitable’ girl for my maid of honor.”

  Gabrielle smiled her gratitude, then frowned thoughtfully, her eyes watching her friend carefully. “Perhaps your brother could escort me to the party, Isabel. He—” The other shook her head vehemently. “I wouldn’t give that devil Charles the satisfaction of knowing he has you cowed. You’re a woman grown, for Heaven’s sake! I’m satisfied that you have the ability at least to behave as though nothing happened between you and Charles at the ball tomorrow night. He will call for you around eight o’clock. I’ll tell Henri to arrange it.” Isabel laughed wickedly. “Poor Charles! He will be smoldering when he finds that all his plans are thwarted. And certainly there is nothing he can do about the marriage of
your aunt and the marquis. Impossible as it may sound, he will be getting married himself some day and will hardly be seen around here, anyway,”

  Chapter Four

  “You’re sure you don’t want us to wait with you?” Aunt Louise asked nervously, adjusting her long satin gloves.

  Gabrielle shook her head. “Of course not. You and Alexandre go on, and I’m sure it won’t be long before Charles arrives to escort me.”

  Aunt Louise bit her lip for a moment, thinking, then shrugged her shoulders. “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be a good idea for me to be here when Charles arrives. But you are sure you will be all right?” Her eyes went over her niece swiftly.

  Gabrielle smiled, attempting to hide her own anxiety, and willed her hands to stop trembling as she hid them in the folds of soft velvet. “Of course, and if Charles decides to play the boor and not come for me, it would be just as easy for me to walk over to Isabel’s house. After all, most of the snow and ice has melted, and—”

  “You will do no such thing, Gabrielle. If he does not come for you, you will send a messenger to the de Montforts, and I will return to escort you myself,” interrupted Alexandre, just then coming in from seeing to the carriage.

  “Yes, please do not walk over there alone, my dear.”

  “All right. I promise that if Charles does not arrive by a quarter past the hour, I will send a messenger to you.”

  Alexandre smiled, satisfied, and extended his arm to Aunt Louise. Together they went out the door, and after they’d gone, Gabrielle turned into the library, wishing that she had a little more courage.

  She studied her reflection in the mirror, pleased with the coiffure that Chloe had arranged for her. Her hair was piled in large curls on top of her head, exposing her slender neck. She had placed a silvery fillet around the curls and it drew attention quite effectively to the glossy thick tresses that shone with warmth in the light of the fire. Her eyes looked larger than ever in her pale face, and their violet color was almost unreal. The dress was, she admitted, cut very low. It skimmed her upcurved breasts a bare inch above the tips, and the gauze sash tied snugly beneath her bosom accentuated her breasts’ firmness.