Louisa Rawlings (6 page)

“’Tis a credit to him. But then, I can hardly expect that a man who sired such a creature as yourself would be anything less than a gentleman.”
 

Not to mention that the stakes were too high! thought Rouge. The gaming tables at an
appartement
were always crowded with members of the royal family, Princes and Princesses of the Blood, who thought nothing of losing a fortune in one night. She’d heard that Madame de Montespan, when she’d been the king’s official mistress, had lost—and won back—in the space of one evening, 160,000 louis d’or.
 

“Come,” said Arsène. He led her to one of the rooms where baskets and silver bowls of food were laid out, fruit and sweetmeats and cheese, wine and cakes. He pressed the refreshments on her, refilling her glass again and again, until she felt the wine beginning to go to her head. When she insisted that she had had quite enough, he took her off to dance, taking the occasion of the stately minuet to hold her hand more tightly than was necessary. He sat beside her at supper, at some tables removed from the king’s table. During the fish course he put his hand on her knee; she was too comfortable, too flattered by his attentions, to scold him. She let his fingers stay.
 

And perhaps she’d had too much to drink, she thought, as he escorted her down the corridors to her room. How difficult it was to focus her eyes!
 

As they passed the open door of a dim antechamber, he stopped, pulled her into the room, crushed her in his arms. “Marie-Rouge,” he breathed, and took her mouth with his. His kiss was sweet, and the wine had dulled her wits. She pressed up against him, enjoying his mouth, the feel of his hard body against hers. Languidly she draped her arms about his neck, returning his kiss. His lips were hot, his tongue invading her mouth to taste her sweetness. She shivered with pleasure. At last he lifted his head, the sound of his voice rasping in his throat.
 

“Goddess,” he said. “Sweet, sweet lady. You must know I worship you. Grant me, I beg of you, the last favors! I know you want me. Your eyes have told me so all the night. Your hand in mine as we danced, your yielding warmth. And now your mouth tells me so. Come to my bed, as you’ve come to my arms, all soft surrender.”
 

The shock of his words cleared her brain. Dear God, she hadn’t meant for
this
to happen! But how was she to extricate herself? She smiled tenderly up at him, playing for time. They were in a remote part of the château; it was late; no one seemed to be around. And she knew so little about him. If she refused, what would prevent him from flying into a rage, taking her against her will, here and now? Perhaps he wasn’t that kind of man, but she wasn’t willing to chance it. And she couldn’t shield herself with claims of virtue. He hadn’t believed her this afternoon; now, in the throes of his passion, he certainly wouldn’t! Guile, not outrage, was her only salvation. She laughed softly and disengaged herself from his arms. “You quite take my breath away, Arsène. But I’m so weary tonight, and the wine has made me giddy. I should not be a fitting lover.
Mon Dieu!
I fear I should fall asleep in your arms! Scarcely a satisfying conquest, I should think. Let me sleep tonight. I beg you.” She moved toward the safety of the corridor, where voices sounded from a distance.
 

“No,” he growled.
 

She smiled her most beguiling smile. “Yes. You’ve already taken the kiss that was not to be yours until tomorrow! And now you sue me for the last favors? For shame. For shame. I will not be hurried, monsieur!” The voices were coming closer; she felt more bold. “I’m quite put out with you, now I come to think of it!”
 

He sighed. “Even when you scold me, I adore you.”
 

She held out her hand. “You may kiss my fingers. But I shan’t allow you to accompany me further.”
 

“Mademoiselle.” He kissed her hand with reverence, and stood aside as she moved toward the staircase.
 

Thanks be to God! she thought. How foolish of her to have allowed it to happen! Well, she would make it quite clear to him in the morning that she’d no longer tolerate such behavior. She hurried to her room—noting that Tintin still hadn’t returned to his—undressed quickly, and fell into bed. The wine had done its work. She was asleep the moment her head touched the pillow.
 

She dreamed of winter at Sans-Souci. It was cold. She shivered. Her legs were cold. Why had she come out without her stockings? Someone was throwing snow at her, soft puffs that brushed her cold legs, her cheek. Her breasts. Her
breasts
! She opened her eyes. Someone was bending over her bed, fondling her breasts through her thin night shift. She started to cry out, but a hand clamped over her mouth.
 

“Hush, my sweet. ’Tis near four of the clock. You’ll wake every courtier in the palace!”
 

She felt her blood run to ice. Arsène. In her
bedchamber.
In the dead of night! She was aware that the coverlet had been stripped from her, and that her night shift was up above her knees.
 

Arsène laughed softly and sat on the edge of the bed, his hand still covering her mouth. “You played the game to perfection, my charming coquette,” he said. “The pouting lips, the frown… And oh, how beautiful, how desirable you are when you frown! You did everything but stamp your pretty little foot.” His free hand began to play with the curls at her temples. “But, on the chance that you truly were tired, or addled from the wine, I thought to let you sleep for a few hours. You were worth the wait. The anticipation. And now…” He lifted his hand from her mouth and leaned forward to kiss her.
 

Her eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness. She saw that he was clad only in shirt and breeches, his wig put aside to reveal his own dark hair, close-cropped. Even in the gloom, she could see that he was smiling as he bent to claim his prize. Damn him, she thought. Damn him! She turned her head aside, evading his kiss.
 

He cursed under his breath. “Will you still be coy?”
 

She threw caution to the winds. She struggled to sit upright, pushing him away from her. “You blackguard,” she hissed. “You villain! By my faith, if you don’t quit my room this instant, I’ll set up a cry as shall wake the dead! I promised you nothing! How dare you come to my room in this fashion? How
dare
you presume to take what is not freely given?”
 

He held her shoulders. “Then give it, you tantalizing witch!”
 

Her voice shook with fury, her anger greater than her fear. “Out! Upon the instant! Or I’ll scream. My father has been known to skewer greater men than you! One cry from me will bring him running.” A bluff, she knew. In all likelihood, Tintin was spending the night in another bed.
 

Thanks be to God, the bluff worked. Or Arsène began to doubt her feelings. He rose. “Marie-Rouge…” His voice was soft with bewilderment.
 

“Out!”
 

She heard the sound of the door opening, then closing softly. Trembling, she sagged against the headboard of the bed, horror and relief washing over her in equal measure. Her door had a lock. She resolved to seek out a footman in the morning: there must be a key for that lock! The first birds were twittering outside her window before she felt secure enough to go back to sleep.
 

In the morning she debated with herself, wondering whether she ought to tell Tintin. But he seemed so happy, extolling the virtues of his new love, the widow, with whom he was to spend the afternoon; Rouge hadn’t the heart to cast a shadow on his day. She saw Arsène from a distance, twice in the course of the morning; both times she managed to hurry away before he could overtake her. He found her at last in the garden, where she had gone to read, sitting in a secluded grove next to a reflecting pool. At sight of him, she closed her book and stood up, meaning to seek the safety of a group of strollers beyond the pond.
 

“Wait,” he said, taking a step toward her. “Mademoiselle de Tournières. I most humbly beg your forgiveness. I must have been mad to think…”

She stopped. She was sorry, too. Sorry that what had begun in so promising a fashion had turned ugly. “I told you before” (was it only yesterday?) “that you are too hasty. A woman is a fool who gives herself in a spendthrift manner. I gave you no cause to think I didn’t mean what I said. I allowed you to kiss me last night. It was, I see now, unwise of me. Governed by your lustful desires, you chose to take it as a promise of more. I had no such thought in mind.”
 

He scowled and turned away. “I seem to have earned your contempt and scorn. I have no defense, except a heart that was too fond. A poor excuse for my unchivalrous behavior.” He looked at her, his intense eyes burning with a blue fire. “Is it too late for me to begin again? May I not show you the tenderness of a gentle lover? Of a repentant heart?”
 

She hesitated, then held out her hand. “I pray I’ll not regret it.”
 

He smiled and brought her hand to his lips; his kiss barely brushed the soft flesh. “Will you dine with me today?”
 

“Weren’t you going to the king’s
petit couvert
? To win his favor?”
 

“Your favor is a greater prize. Take dinner with me.”
 

She was almost ashamed of her practicality. She would be safeguarding her virtue and feeding Tintin at the same time. “Only if I may bring my father.”
 

He nodded. “Of course. I’ll send my calèche at half after twelve to bring you and your father to my
hôtel.
Will that please you?”
 

“You promised once to respect my virtue. It would please me more if you remembered to honor that promise.”

“Lady,” he murmured, and saluted her with a deep bow.
 

Having lost heavily at cards the day before, Tintin was delighted at the prospect of a free meal. And the opportunity to see at close hand Rouge’s cavalier.
 

Arsène de Falconet’s
hôtel
in the town of Versailles was splendid, a beautiful, three-storied townhouse with an enclosed garden. He was obviously a man of property. And no expense had been spared to see to their comfort. They were served a delicious meal on fine gold plate, with servants to wait upon their every need. True to his pledge, he treated Rouge in the most deferential and respectful manner. Indeed, when Chrétien begged leave to depart for his afternoon’s tryst, Arsène suggested that it was wise for Marie-Rouge to leave as well, so as not to compromise her reputation.
 

For the next few days, he was all that Rouge could have wished for in a suitor, sending her little tokens of affection—flowers and perfume and love sonnets—until she almost forgot that dreadful night in her room. It had been a bad dream, an unfortunate lapse of his good manners. Nothing more. She began to let him kiss her again, chaste kisses that were pleasant, without offering more than she intended. If he chafed at the pace of his suit, he gave no indication of it, seeming to find contentment in her company and asking for nothing more.
 

Until one sunny afternoon.
 

They had gone for a ride along the Grand Canal of the Versailles gardens, enjoying the view of the spring flowers from one of the gondolas that had been a gift to Louis from the Republic of Venice. At the western end of the canal, they had been met by one of Arsène’s servants; he had helped them alight, then led them to a small grove of trees where a picnic had been laid for them.
 

“The sun is warm,” said Arsène, removing his coat. “Come and sit here beneath the tree.” He smiled and put his hand to his wig. “If you’ll not be offended…”
 

She sat down on the cloak that the servant had spread. “Of course not. I should think that a wig is a terrible bother.” She watched him with curiosity as he pulled off the long black hairpiece. Unlike the curly wig, his own black hair was quite straight, and cut short. She rather liked it. His head and ears were finely shaped; far too nice to hide under a wig.
 

She leaned up against the trunk of the tree, removing her high scarf and baring her neck and bosom to the cool breeze. “How artificial you men are,” she teased. “Hiding under your wigs.”
 

He stepped closer, looming above her. His blue eyes swept her form, lingering on the patch of soft skin she had revealed. “No more than a woman with her stays. Do you not also practice deception? I can only guess where your whalebones end and your soft bosom begins.”
 

She frowned. “You seem to have forgotten your promise again. Your eyes are brazen, monsieur!”
 

He laughed and dropped down to the cloak beside her. “You must forgive my eyes. They’re far less restrained than my manners. Brazen they are. They feast on your beauty at every opportunity, whether I will it or not.”
 

She stirred uneasily. Best to change the subject. “My face may sustain
you
,” she said, laughing in a lighthearted manner. “But I, alas! need the sustenance of real food! Have you brought nothing to this picnic save sweet compliments?”
 

He shook his head. “You’ve a prodigious appetite, Marie-Rouge!”