Destiny's Kiss (5 page)

He watched her eyes close as his lips descended toward hers. He had enjoyed one sample of their innocence. Now he was eager to teach them the pleasure they could share.

“Philippe, what do you do here?”

At the scratchy voice, he released Lirienne with a curse and looked out the window of the stopped carriage.

Vachel de Talebot pulled the door open. The man was taller than he by nearly a head and had no more flesh on him than a tree. Philippe almost smiled at the thought, for Vachel reminded him of a tree. Vachel blew along with the winds of change, bending this way, then that.

“We are on our way to Paris,” Philippe answered as he stepped out onto the brick courtyard. He glanced skyward as light rain struck him. “I thought we would use the excuse of friendship to ask for your hospitality tonight.”

“We? Who travels with you? Lucien?”

Lirienne doubted if Monsieur de Talebot noted Philippe's tension as he replied, “No, not Lucien. Another member of my family.”

When Philippe held out his hand, she let him assist her and said, “Good evening, sir.”

“Philippe,” said the gangly man, as he led the way to the door, “shame on you for keeping this pretty cousin hidden.”

“She is not my cousin.”

“Then …?”

“We are getting wet, Vachel.”

As their host opened the door to a dusky hall, Lirienne frowned. His thin height was familiar. No doubt, he had called at the Fortiers', although he had not been among Madame Fortier's lovers during the past three days. She smiled when she recalled bringing another bottle of Monsieur Fortier's favorite brandy to the library while he had been in conversation with a man who had been this tall.

Odors assaulted her as they entered the modest passage. Crudely made chairs edged the walls on which plaster had cracked to reveal the stones beneath, and she noted the lighter patches where paintings must have been hanging. Was this simple decoration a deception?

The man Philippe had called Vachel took her hand and bowed over it. “I am Baron de Talebot, my dear young lady.” He looked past her to Philippe. “And I would appreciate being introduced to you.”

Philippe took Lirienne's hand. “Allow me to introduce you to Lirienne de Villeneuve, my wife.”

“Wife?” The baron nearly choked on the single word. “Welcome, Madame de Villeneuve, to my simple
pension
.”

“Thank you,
mon seigneur
.” She would not oblige him by allowing him to ask if Charmaine Fortier knew of this sudden marriage.

“I prefer simply Vachel de Talebot now,” he said. “The difficult times, you know.”

“Yes,” Philippe said, “the times are especially difficult for my wife, for we have traveled far today. Could we trouble you for something to eat and a place to sleep?”

“Sleep?” Their host snickered. “What kind of talk is that for a new husband?”

“Sensible,” Lirienne said, slipping her arm through Philippe's. “Thank you, Philippe, for thinking of me when I know you wish to learn the latest news from Paris.” She smiled. “Isn't he sweet to think first about me, Monsieur de Talebot?”

He pointed to a door to the left. “The stairs are that way. You are welcome to use the third room at the front.”

“Who else is here?” asked Philippe, putting his hand over Lirienne's.

“No one tonight. Courcey was here for the past week, but he has gone, taking his family south. Why are you going to Paris now?”

“Business I have to complete.”

“What can be so important that you would risk your life—and your wife's?”

Philippe smiled. “If you will excuse me, Vachel, I wish to see my wife settled.”

Lirienne was sure the baron would argue, but, after a moment, he nodded. “I shall have a tray sent to you.”

“That is not necessary!” She was astonished at the thought of others waiting on her.

Philippe's fingers clamped over hers. “We are most grateful. Wife?”

She tried to smile, but failed miserably as she preceded Philippe up the steep steps. Murky darkness swallowed her. Rain was striking the panes in the low window at the end of the hall. When she realized Philippe could not stand straight, she wondered how often Vachel de Talebot came up here.

Philippe reached past her to open the third door toward the front of the house. She could not help smiling when she entered the room which was larger than her family's cottage. The ceiling soared with the chimneypiece above the elegantly carved mantel. Although the bed and the pair of chairs were utilitarian, the hearth with its fancy tiles divulged the truth. This house once had been as fancy as the Fortiers'.

Hurrying to the window, she stared out at the gardens, which were awash in the rain. Roses climbed arbors, and a pond reflected the glow of lanterns hung by the door. The trees were not tamed like those in the gardens she knew. This was like being in a cottage in the woods.

“It is so beautiful here,” she said.

“Come away,” Philippe replied, putting his hand on her arm. “You should not be seen.”

“How could anyone see me when there is no one out there?”

He spun her to face him. “
Ma petite folle
, you have no idea what enemies you have garnered along with my name. How would you recognize one?”

“Then tell me of them, so I may be careful.”

“You need look no farther than the streets of Paris.”

“The revolutionaries?”

“Who else?”

“Then why do we go there?”

“You ask too many questions, wife.” His hands softened as they slid along her arms. When she shook her head and tried to step away, he grasped her at the waist. “Do not make me silence you, for you might like it far too well.”

“You arrogant son of a mangy cur!” She stopped, and felt the color drain from her face. How could she speak so to him?

With a laugh, he released her. “This is the first time I have been called that, although I have been called worse.”

She stared as he went to stand by the ashes on the cold hearth. She took a single step toward him, then paused. His pain surrounded him so palpably she could almost see it.

She never had seen anyone so alone
.

The thought popped unbidden into her mind. She knew nothing of Philippe de Villeneuve, save that he was Madame Fortier's lover and Baron de Talebot's friend. There must be many at Château de Villeneuve who depended on him, but he said nothing of his family.

Tears flooded into her eyes. Papa and Maman would be waiting for her to visit. When days passed, Papa would go to the kitchen to ask about her as he had at other times. Perhaps the lad who'd been standing by the carriage would tell Papa. Even so, would that ease Papa's fears? The lad could not explain why she was leaving with the Vicomte de Villeneuve.

A knock sounded on the door. Lirienne rushed to open it. A serving lass carried a heavy tray. When Lirienne reached out, she heard a quiet order to step away.

“Let her in before she drops it,” Philippe continued.

She obeyed. The girl set the tray on a chair and rushed away. Lirienne closed the door behind her.

“Be careful what you do and say,” he cautioned.

“I thought you wished it to be known that I am what I am.” She rubbed her arms. “I thought that was why you wed me.”

“That is what I wish when we reach Paris. Among my friends, I do not want to arouse any curiosity.”

“I do not understand.” She had wanted to speak those words all day.

“I realize that.” He pointed to the tray. “Why don't you eat?”

“But, Philippe—”

“No more questions, wife.”

Lirienne nodded, for she recognized that tone. He would brook no more argument. She wondered if she would ever understand a single thing about this stranger who was her husband.

Philippe pressed a hand against his stomach and wished he had not eaten the swill Vachel had offered them. This guise of hiding good taste behind the ways of the lower classes should go only so far. Vachel should not have locked the door to his wine cellar. Good wine would have washed the disgusting flavor from his mouth.

The sickish yellow of the walls of this chamber did not help. Although he normally avoided his friend's country home, which had become a
pension
for the aristocracy, he had been anxious to hear the latest news.

A quick conversation with Vachel while Lirienne finished her supper had satisfied his curiosity. Paris was a lunatic asylum because the poor of the city, who had named themselves
sans-culottes
, continued to storm through the streets demanding control. They clamored for the deaths of those who preached moderation after they had executed their king.

Vachel de Talebot had been as restless as a chicken in a yard of foxes. “The arrests continue, Philippe. I heard LaFontaine was pulled from his carriage and taken to prison this week.”

“We warned him to change his ways.”

“He had! They did not believe him.”

Philippe had been glad Lirienne was not a witness to this conversation. She knew all too well that Philippe de Villeneuve did not accept the new regime.

An hour later, as the rain splattered on the window, Philippe cursed. He was unsure how long he would have before he was denounced.

Rocking his glass, he watched as Lirienne brushed her hair. She was the sole bit of beauty in the room. He scowled when the chair beneath him creaked as he shifted to admire the ebony cloak of her hair. It dropped to the floor as she sat on the low chair at the foot of the bed.

He hoped this marriage would not prove to be his downfall. When he had concocted this scheme, he had thought only of finding a willing woman. He had feared his scheme was doomed until Charmaine suggested Lirienne.

He smiled. He visited Charmaine at her husband's country estate whenever possible, for she had the morals and sexual appetite of a stray cat. If she had not been foolish enough to marry Fortier, he would have asked her to be his wife. What fun they had enjoyed since he'd met her, before the fall of the Bastille! She wanted adventure, and he had been eager to offer it, daring to believe they would not be affected by the unrest.

He sighed. He had burdened himself with Lirienne Gautier. She was … His gaze followed Lirienne as she stood, shaking her hair along her back. From her lightly chiseled features to the column of her neck to her slim hands, she was not without charm.

He almost laughed. Not without charm? That was an understatement. She was his wife. Charmaine could not deny her bed to her husband, nor should he consider himself unfaithful if he slept with his wife. Marriage beds were made for begetting heirs.

Lirienne looked over her shoulder as Philippe walked toward her. She could not mistake the heated glitter in his eyes. She had seen it often when one of the lads on the estate lured a kitchen maid into a dark corner. She had seen it in Madame Fortier's eyes when her lovers called. She feared she would see it reflected back at her if she looked in a mirror. But she must not forget the words he had spoken in Madame Fortier's bedchamber. She would be his “for as long as I need a wife.”

She backed away, bumping into the wall. She attempted to smile. “Do you want more supper, Philippe?”

“No, for it is time for bed.” He sat on the bed and loosened his shoes. With the sound of her shallow breathing loud in her ears, she took them as he held them out to her. She was glad to carry them to the cold hearth. Anything to put distance between the passion his eyes promised and her heart yearned for.

As he undid the buttons along the ruffled front of his shirt, he asked, “Do you wear your clothes to bed, wife?”

“My name is Lirienne.”

“That is not the answer to my question.”

Turning her back on him as she bent to brush dirt from his shoes, she said, “I have no nightdress.”

“Are you accustomed to such luxury?”

She closed her eyes. “I am not accustomed to being married.”

“Then heed my advice.”

“Advice?”

When his hands settled on her shoulders, she let him bring her to her feet. She stepped away, folding her arms to keep some space between them.

“You should not arrive in Paris with a gown that looks as if it had been slept in.”

“Philippe, do not be absurd! I am supposed to be what I am. I would not have a fine dress unless it was wrinkled and dirty.”

Grabbing a handful of ashes, he ran them along her skirt. She tried to step back as he scooped up more. He caught her arm. She moaned as he rubbed the ashes into the silk. Her lovely dress was going to be ruined.

He drew her down to her knees beside him. “You have an insight into the low minds of your class, and I shall heed your advice.”

When he reached into the hearth again, she tried to rise. His arm around her waist held her in place, and the glow in his eyes grew stronger. Where his shirt gaped, the soft hair along his chest brushed her skin above her low neckline. Each strand was a separate caress.

“Philippe, it is late. If we are to rise early in the morning—”

“Forget the morning.”

He gathered more of the ashes and dropped them onto her pooled skirt. Dipping his finger into the gray powder, he slowly etched the ashes down the center of her bodice. She gasped when lightning seared her as his fingertip rose along the curve of her breast, sending heat to every inch of her. He traced a circular path along her breast. Breathing his name, she swayed.

With a low laugh, he captured her mouth. She gasped into its depths as all tenderness vanished. He created ecstasy on her neck with his lips. As they lilted across hers, she slipped her arms around his shoulders.

At her touch, his kiss became even more demanding. He boldly delved into her mouth to teach her the tantalizing texture of his tongue against hers. She gasped and turned away, shocked by its beguiling effect on her.

With a chuckle, he placed a single finger under her chin to guide her mouth toward his. “Do you disapprove of such pleasures?”