By Honor Bound (13 page)

“I’d rather sit with you.”

“No,” Philippe had to shout over the rising wind. “You’ll get soaked.”

“I don’t care. I want to be with you.”

Philippe warred with precipitate and surprisingly strong emotions. He wanted her to be safe, had always been so protective of her. Yet he also wanted her close. He wanted her beside him, pressed to his shoulder … always.

There was no time to wonder at the sentiments raging within him. Sentiments which, he had to admit, had been growing for quite some time. A heart-stopping clap of thunder decided him.

All at once she was in his arms, being lifted. With an outstretched hand she felt the bench seat. When Philippe released her, she slid over to one side and pulled long locks of wind-whipped hair from her eyes. She clasped her arms to her breast. The wind now had an edge to it, and her thin cotton gown was little protection.

Philippe grabbed the reins before he was even seated. The frightened horses did not need to hear the crack of the whip, and it was all Philippe could do to control them and hold them to a rapid trot. A miniature tornado of leaves and twigs rose abruptly in front of them, and both horses shied to the right.

“Hold on to me,” Philippe yelled as the coach lurched sickeningly.

Honneure didn’t need to be told twice. Turning slightly, she wrapped both arms around his waist and pressed her face to his shoulder. She felt the first, fat raindrops plop on her arms and head and stain the pale yellow of her skirts.

Philippe no longer held the horses to a trot but let them break into a gallop. They were a long way from the palace, west and north of the foot of the Grand Canal. Just ahead was a group of buildings, the center of which was the Trianon. Being traditionally the place for illicit royal pleasures, it was situated quite some distance from Versailles.

Philippe groaned. There was no way they could reach the stables before receiving the full brunt of the storm. As if to underscore his thoughts, three consecutive bolts of lightning shattered the sky in front of them. Philippe braced himself for the boom of thunder he knew would follow.

It was more than the terrified horses could bear. The horse on the right reared straight up while the other bolted sharply left. Philippe tried to control them, but the maddened animals now both bucked and reared. The coach rocked.

Philippe thanked God he had not insisted Honneure ride inside and prepared to push her from the coach. Far better to risk a fall than to be trapped inside and crushed should the carriage overturn. Just when he thought he must drop the reins and push Honneure to safety, the skies opened completely, and rain sluiced down on them like waters from a broken dam.

Honneure was no longer even able to see. She was surrounded and assaulted by a blinding world of water. In mere moments she was drenched to the skin.

The torrential downpour did have one positive effect. The horses were equally blinded and had ceased their mindless plunging. Philippe took advantage of the situation at once.

“Hang on, Honneure,” he shouted into her ear. “I’m going to climb down, and I want you to follow.”

She felt him move away, but he never let go of her hand. A minute later he instructed her to climb down. Philippe’s strong, muscular arms encircled her waist, and he helped her to the ground.

“Stay close. Don’t let go of me. I’m going to try and guide the horses toward the buildings around the Trianon.”

Philippe’s large, steady hands and calm, confident presence soothed the frightened animals, and he guided them through the rain. Honneure didn’t know how he was able to see where he was going. All of a sudden the wind-driven rain seemed to slacken, and Honneure realized they had come around the corner of a stone building.

“Stay here a moment. Don’t move.”

Honneure put out a hand to the nearest horse for the comfort of the touch and waited for Philippe to return. He reappeared, leading the black gelding, and tied his reins loosely to the carriage shafts. All three animals had put their heads down and, with their tails to the wind, seemed content to wait out the storm now that the worst was over. Once again Philippe took Honneure’s hand.

In the lee of the high stone walls, Honneure was able to see the tall ornate doors they approached. Without hesitation Philippe swung them wide and ushered Honneure inside.

“Oh, Philippe! Where are we? What is this place?”

Philippe glanced around the relatively small but gracefully styled, high-ceilinged room. “I’m going to guess this is the French Pavilion.”

From Madame Dupin’s descriptions, Honneure realized Philippe was correct. She gazed about in wonder at the rococo architectural details and furnishings that were attributed to Louis XV’s late mistress, Madame de Pompadour. “It’s lovely, Philippe,” she breathed. “But should we be here?”

Philippe closed the doors, and the din of the storm was abruptly muted. “Whether we should or not, I’m certainly glad we are.”

Honneure had to agree as she stood, teeth chattering, sodden gown dripping onto the ornately patterned marble floor. She hugged her breast to try and stop her shivering.

“I’m so sorry, Honneure.” Philippe moved to her side. He longed to take her in his arms and share his warmth with her, but felt strangely constrained. Instead he rubbed his hands briskly up and down her back.

“Do you … Do you think anyone would mind if we lit a fire?” Honneure inquired as she gamely tried to stop her teeth from clattering together.

“It will only take a moment.”

Honneure watched as Philippe hurriedly and expertly laid wood in a small porcelain stove. It wasn’t long before flames were leaping and crackling, casting a soft, pale light that nonetheless illuminated the gilt which decorated almost every square inch of the three elegant, connecting rooms. Intimate, very intimate, royal parties were held here, according to Madame Dupin, and Honneure could well imagine. Honneure shivered but not, this time, from cold.

“Come, stand close to the fire,” Philippe said as he stripped off his dripping shirt.

Honneure had to briefly close her eyes. He was so incredibly, unimaginably beautiful. She remembered all the summers past when she had come upon him working in the stables, naked from the waist up. She recalled the peculiar feeling of warmth she had experienced and had naively attributed to the mere joy of seeing her beloved brother. The warmth returned, thawing her cold-stiffened limbs and enabling her to move in Philippe’s direction.

Smiling, Philippe held out a hand to Honneure. But he felt the smile fade, and his hand dropped slowly to his side.

Something was wrong again. That vague, uneasy feeling had returned. And why, why did he feel this way in the presence of someone so familiar, so beloved?

Lips parted, brow slightly furrowed, Philippe watched Honneure tentatively approach. She had unpinned the ruins of her chignon, and her long, wet hair fell about her shoulders to her waist. Her eyes were the color of the storm that still raged outside their gilded walls, but they held a strange expression he was not able to fathom.

Nor did he seem able to keep his eyes from traveling downward. Soaked, the thin fabric of her gown clung to her slight frame, accentuating her small but perfectly formed breasts, erect nipples almost seeming to taunt him. She was his sister. He mustn’t look at her this way, feel this way …

The tumult of the storm outside was replaced by the thundering sound of the blood rushing through Honneure’s veins, faster and faster, louder and louder. She no longer felt her feet or the hard marble beneath them. She was no longer even moving of her own accord but being drawn, inexorably drawn, to a destiny over which she had absolutely no control.

He could smell her now, summer, and summer rain, and everything that was good and desirable in the world. And there was no longer any denying it. He wanted her, wanted her more than anything he had ever wanted in his life.

But she was his sister!

Her hands moved without her conscious thought. She placed them against Philippe’s chest, felt the hard muscle, the pounding of his own heart. Slowly she lifted her gaze.

Philippe’s senses swam. She was too near, too dangerously near. He caught her hands.

“Honneure … please … no.” His own voice sounded foreign to him, and he hated to say the words, but he had to. He must! “We can’t … can’t do this. You … you’re …”

“
Not
your sister.” The vehemence of the denial startled them both.

Taken aback, Philippe released his grip on Honneure’s wrists. His hands dropped, numb, to his sides.

“I am
not
your sister,” Honneure whispered this time. Desire so strong it seemed to have a life of its own had taken over her body. She slid her hands upward over the ridges of his collarbone, up either side of his neck. Palms to his cheeks, she captured him.

Philippe groaned, and as the tortured sound escaped and fled, so too did the inhibitions that had held his true emotions in check for so long.

She was not his sister.

She was his love.

Honneure closed her eyes as Philippe lowered his lips toward hers. She felt his arms go around her shoulders. Felt his warm breath against her mouth, his lean form pressed against the length of her body. Then, as flesh touched flesh, the world spun away into the vortex of a storm that raged not in the world but of the soul.

Chapter Twelve

September 1771

It was a perfect fall day, the kind of weather he liked best. There was a chill in the air and a distant scent of smoke. Tattered wisps of clouds scudded across an almost painfully blue sky, and the trees had just begun to turn. Here and there the deep, rich green of the forest was stained with patches of gold and red. It was immensely pleasant to be galloping through the woods on such a day. He would have loved to continue, see the end of the hunt, but he was just too damn uncomfortable. Reluctantly Louis XV, King of France, reined in his mount. The accompanying huntsmen, his grandson included, slowed as well.

The pain in his joints and resulting infirmity were humiliating. Feeling his color deepen along with his irritation, Louis gestured for the other hunters to proceed. “Go on. Go on, dammit!”

The riders milled uncertainly. Only one detached from the group and rode to the king’s side.

“Is anything amiss, sire?”

Louis frowned at his grandson, the dauphin, though he was secretly pleased. “There certainly is. The hunting hounds have gone off without you. How in the hell do you expect to catch up with them?”

“Hard riding, sire,” the younger Louis replied without hesitation. “But not until I’m assured there is nothing wrong with Your Majesty.”

“There is nothing wrong unless you fail to bring down that boar.”

Louis was torn. It was unlike his grandfather to give up in the midst of his favorite pastime, and he was worried. He was also, however, sensitive. Age had been taking a greater and greater toll on his grandsire lately, and its debilities had become increasingly embarrassing to the proud monarch.

“Very well,” he said at length. Raising his arm, he signaled to the other hunters. “We have taken too long in the hunt today,” he called. “The king has pressing matters he can no longer ignore. He bids us ride on without him.”

Despite his discomfort, Louis smiled to himself as he watched his grandson ride away. He was too serious and straitlaced by far. But he had other qualities that stood him in good stead, among them the ability to rapidly assess a situation and act upon it with authority. Perhaps he would not make such a bad king after all.

With only his servants and most loyal retainers now in attendance, the king allowed himself to slump in the saddle. But he did not linger, though the thought of the long ride home was painful to merely contemplate. Antoinette and some of her more adventuresome ladies as well as a few wives of the other hunters liked to follow the hunt and arrive in time for the kill. They would be along presently, and he had no wish for the women to see him in retreat.

With simply a grunt to those accompanying him, Louis pulled his horse off the forest trail, intending to take a shortcut back through the woods. He was only just in time.

The noise of galloping horses and the crashing of vehicles through the forest undergrowth was considerable. Soon he could also hear laughter and feminine voices. The king rode deeper into the woods, away from the trail forged by the hunting party, then turned to watch the procession pass.

Antoinette, driving a two-wheeled barouche, was in the lead, just as Louis had supposed she would be. She was a spirited little thing and quite pretty, despite her rather frizzy, red-tinted hair and high forehead. He had done well to arrange the marriage for his grandson. Now, if only the boy would get over his rigid upbringing and whatever onus his overly religious parents had put on him and bed the prin—

The king’s train of thought halted abruptly as his eye was caught by the occupant of the second vehicle, also a barouche. Antoinette’s Boxer dog sat at her feet while the three smaller ones crowded her lap. She drove her horse with obvious ease and skill, unusual for a servant, which he could tell she was by her livery. It was not the unexpected sight of a female servant so capably driving a horse that captured his interest, however. It was the girl herself.

She was exquisite. Her face was a perfect oval, her features refined and symmetrical. Her smile was unblemished and enchanting. Wisps of pale, wavy hair streamed behind her in the wind. She was the most beautiful thing he had seen in quite some time.

The king’s entourage was somewhat surprised to see their monarch recover with such alacrity. They had to spur their animals as he headed back, suddenly and swiftly, in the direction of the Fontainebleau Palace.

Comtesse du Barry, formerly Jeanne Becu, gazed at her reflection in the ornate Cheval glass and smiled smugly. It never failed to amuse her to recall her past and just how far she had come. Let her detractors say what they might. Let the king’s sisters go on about her illegitimate birth and years as a prostitute. None of them could alter the fact that she was the king’s mistress. She had worked hard to secure the position and worked harder still to maintain it. She deserved everything she had. And more.

The comtesse, still smiling, fussed at the bodice of her low-cut gown. A dab of silken powder had subtly highlighted the swelling globes straining against the taut, peach satin. A scented handkerchief tucked down into her cleavage gave off the fragrance of summer flowers. Turning her head slowly from side to side, she inspected and admired her makeup. She frowned with irritation when a discreet tapping at her boudoir door interrupted her reverie.

“Yes? Who is it?”

Olivia did not respond. She slipped inside the dressing room and closed the heavy door quietly behind her. With practiced expertise she arranged her features into an expression of sympathetic disappointment.

“I am very sorry to inform Madame that the king has returned early from the hunt.”

“What?”

“Even now he rides into the White Horse Courtyard. And it’s such a shame. Madame looks lovely.”

“
Damn
him!” The Comtesse du Barry turned sharply away from her servant and refocused her attention on the reflection in the mirror. “Am I doomed to die of ennui in this godforsaken place?”

Olivia remained silent, knowing the comtesse did not require a response or even acknowledgment. She often spoke her thoughts aloud merely to hear the sound of her own voice, Olivia knew. She knew many things about Madame du Barry, and the knowledge had served her well. Knowing what would be required next, she approached her mistress and smoothed a nonexistent stray hair back into the elaborate and towering wig.

“Shall I go to the parterre for you?”

Madame du Barry did not answer immediately. There were possibilities to consider.

A young, handsome man, her most recent paramour, awaited her. He was quite a skilled lover, and his ministrations had helped to relieve the relentless boredom of her days at Fontainebleau, where they had come for the king to enjoy the fall hunting. The temptation to join her lover, to go ahead and go to the garden where they planned to accidentally meet, was very great.

On the other hand, what if Louis sent for her and she wasn’t there? She had to be very careful when they were in residence at Fontainebleau, for the king still had a roving eye and there were always many willing and attractive young women around. At home in Versailles she had less to fear because of Louis’s own private brothel, a converted hunting lodge he called
Le Parc aux Cerfs.
There he was able to cavort to his heart’s content with any number of low-class women who were no threat to her position.

In the end the comtesse decided it was better to be safe than sorry.

“Madame?”

“I suppose you must go in my stead.” Madame du Barry uttered a small sound of disgust. “Tell him I … I am unavoidably detained.” A slow smile crept onto the comtesse’s prettily curved mouth. “Also tell him I shall make it up to him. Royally.”

Olivia smiled dutifully. “I will relay your message. With pleasure.”

Madame du Barry’s eyes narrowed as she watched her servant depart. Olivia was clever and useful. But she would bear watching. They had too much in common for the comtesse to trust her completely.

There was a flurry of activity among the comtesse’s ladies-in-waiting as she entered her sumptuously decorated salon. She arbitrarily stabbed a bejeweled finger at several of her ladies.

“The four of you, come with me. I go to wait upon the king.”

Madame du Barry’s suite of rooms was, by necessity, close to the king’s apartments. She walked briskly along the wide corridor, glancing neither right nor left at the gilt-framed works of the masters. The fragrance of late-blooming flowers drifted on the still air from a variety of gold, silver, and hand-painted porcelain bowls set atop fabulously wrought tables of rare woods and marble. She noticed none of it. She did not hesitate until she had reached the gilded doors of the Royal Suite.

The king’s guards, long familiar with the royal favorite, opened the doors without blinking or even seeming to notice her. The comtesse sailed into the main salon, casting a jaundiced eye, as she always did, on the peculiar green color which Louis adored and that covered all the room’s chairs and benches. Lifting her chin a notch, she looked down her nose at the king’s valet, the only person in the room.

“Where is he?” she inquired sharply.

The older man held out his hands as if in supplication. “Gone, madame, as you see.”

“Gone
where
?”

The valet took his time answering. He liked the comtesse as little as she liked him. “I believe he has gone to visit the dauphine’s apartments.”

“The dauphine!” A tic jumped in the comtesse’s cheek as she ground her teeth. “And what could he possibly want with her?”

“I have no idea,” the man replied, enjoying the comtesse’s obvious discomfiture. “I only know he has gone to await the princess’s return from the hunt.”

Without another word the comtesse spun on her heel and marched back the way she had come. The dauphine! She would see about that.

The seventeen thousand hectares of forest surrounding the Fontainebleau Palace were so rich in wildlife a successful hunt was virtually guaranteed every time out, and Antoinette loved to follow the hunting party. She enjoyed being outside, away from the palace, having the opportunity to so daringly drive one of her horses, and most of all to watch and admire her husband. Louis was a strong, powerfully built man, who nonetheless was an accomplished horseman and huntsman. He almost always brought down his prey, and today would be no exception.

Antoinette and her ladies arrived in time to see the pursued boar brought to bay. The encircling dogs, the king’s greyhounds included, barked and howled furiously, dodging this way and that as the exhausted boar made halfhearted charges. The hunters had dismounted and warily approached the scene. The maddened boar made a final lunge.

The man who unfortunately stood in the way was husband to one of Antoinette’s ladies. Horrified, she watched the boar’s formidable tusks tear a gaping wound in the man’s thigh. The man went down with a cry of terror and pain, and pandemonium ensued.

Released at once by their handler, the dogs set upon the boar and began to tear him to pieces. Frightened horses screamed and reared, and amidst the chaos of excited voices, cries, and shouts, the victim’s wife shrieked and fainted. It was Louis, with Antoinette’s aid, who brought about order.

“Someone quiet those horses,” the dauphin ordered. “Maintenon, bind this man’s wound with my scarf. Here. Antoinette, help his wife.”

She and Honneure were already on their way. Honneure grabbed the reins of the horse that pulled the woman’s
calèche
and steadied him. Antoinette climbed into the conveyance and helped the slumped woman to a sitting position.

“Someone bring me my salts!”

One of the dauphine’s servants hurried to do her bidding. She opened the vial and held it under the woman’s nose, reviving her almost at once.

“Your husband is being tended,” she said as the frightened woman’s eyes opened. “Everything is going to be all right. The dauphin and I will see to it personally.”

“Oh, Majesty, you are so kind!” The woman, overcome, raised Antoinette’s hand to her lips and kissed it, then laid it momentarily against her cheek.

“There is no need to thank me. I am merely acting as any Christian woman would.”