Love's Vengeance (2 page)

Desiree’s slight smile was quickly hidden as Celeste Chandelle turned her attention to her daughter, “
Ma Petite
,” Celeste crooned with a frown of concern, “What is the trouble? Are you upset with someone?”

Desiree was not in the slightest upset but sighed dejectedly nonetheless. She could think of no better way to broach the subject of yesterday and thereby lead into the questions she had been pondering since then.

“Papa teased me about the spill,” she growled, “but Bridgett!—
that
one may as well have blamed me for the misfortune of every male resident of Rouen. She makes such a fuss over the silliest things.”

Celeste approached, plucking at the sleeves of Desiree’s gown, readjusting the shoulders demurely. They seemed to have slipped, or more likely been deliberately lowered, to reveal a tad more white shoulder.

“You know they mean you no harm sweet. In fact, I believe you enjoy all the commotion you stir. Bridgett—poor woman, was positively gray when you strolled into the house yesterday.”

Celeste’s laughter, like the tinkling of gentle bells followed Desiree as she moved away and pensively meandered about the room. Pausing, she inhaled a fragrant bouquet of mixed flowers displayed upon a treasured Louis XIII table. She removed imaginary dust from the smooth marqueterie inlaid tabletop.

“Bridgett told me that I have some power over Antoine—men in general…” she turned to face her mother and was met by a curious frown, “What did she mean by that?”

“Isn’t it obvious to you pet?” her mother asked, spreading her hands before her with a surprised expression.

Celeste was amazed when Desiree shook her head gently, “But it is true sweet!” she paused thoughtfully, then asked, “Do you recall last year when the Comte’ de Cheveis was in discussion with your Papa?”

Desiree remembered well Pierre de Cheveis and his visits. In fact, she still saw him often—in Paris, at balls or other social gatherings. He was dashing—handsome and young. He had come to their home several times and she had always enjoyed his company immensely, “Of course, Pierre is a dear friend.”

“
Oui
,” Celeste nodded, “but once upon a time I believe he had other objectives in mind concerning you. He never made a formal request to your Papa and in truth Robare would not have promised him your hand, your father is set that you shall choose your own husb…”

“Mama!” Desiree burst out with a giggle, “Surely you are not being serious! Pierre? Marriage? Why he is…has never been more than a…a…dear friend!”

“Exactly
Ma Cherie
!” Celeste agreed, taking Desiree by the hand and leading her to a sofa where she took a seat beside her, “That very truth—is your gift. Because you win a man’s respect…his admiration, it makes it nearly impossible for him to think along those lines. Men adore you.”

“Bridgett said that very thing this morning.” Desiree said wonderingly and then tilted her head, “But I have had formal offers. Several offers! Papa has shown me each one received and you know, only too well, the arguments that erupt between he and I when I tell him to decline.”

“True
Ma Petite
. Your Papa wishes you to make a good match. That is my wish for you as well…that you are well and happily wed. But from whom have those proposals come? Take a moment to consider that. A well-titled nobleman—rich merchants, even a diplomat from England as I recall. Many well-established and older gentlemen, who have no idea who you are other than what they have seen of you, and that, in itself, is most assuredly enough for most men. You are a beautiful young woman Desiree. You would make an elegant and graceful spouse for a man. One who would enrich his life beyond his wildest dreams.”

Desiree frowned, considering this. She had, to date, declined every offer, despite her father’s wrath. She could not choose a husband by merely reading over an eloquent document, nor from one meeting in Paris. She needed and was determined to fall in love first. Before accepting any proposal of marriage, she wanted to be thoroughly wooed, to hear stirring words of poetry, vows of undying passion. This set the stage for her next question and she looked into violet blue eyes as vivid as her own.

“Mama…” She faltered and her mother arched a gentle dark brow in question.

“Yesterday…before we were at the creek, Antoine and I were in the meadow on the upper plateau…talking idly…” she paused.

“Go ahead,
Ma Cherie
. I'm listening.”

Desiree hesitated, unsure whether she should go on. She groaned audibly, standing and pacing about the room. “I…I…” she stammered and then touched her cheeks which were growing warm with the embarrassment she felt as she glanced to her mother, “You'll think me terribly wicked.” She warned.

“Will I?” Celeste returned calmly.

“
Oui
and it was so humiliating.” Desiree admitted. She stopped before her mother with her hands clasped tightly together before her and then blurted softly and confidentially, “I asked Antoine to kiss me!” She waited in tense anticipation for some reaction but her mother's face was expressionless, “And the worst of it is…the cad refused me! Have you ever heard of such a thing?”

Celeste stanched her amusement, seeing the real anxiety upon her daughter's face. “It is usually the man who makes such a forward advance. Perhaps you caught him off guard?” she suggested helpfully.

“Hardly!” Desiree spat, then her brow knitted forlornly and she spoke passionately, “Many girls younger than I are wed. Some already made mothers! And I—I have yet to even sample my first kiss, except in a disgustingly brotherly fashion. Why? Am I so unattractive? Undesirable?” She moved to a large oval mirror across the room and scrutinized her image closely.

“No sweet….” Celeste began, but was interrupted as Desiree whirled away from the mirror, pacing the room again furiously.

“He is my friend—he is dear to me and I simply asked him to kiss me…in a fashion that I might know I had been kissed by a man and—and you would have thought I had asked him to commit a crime for me!”

Celeste attempted to convey concern and appear appalled by such a revelation but laughter was close to the surface, “How ungentlemanly of him!” she gasped.

“Not only that,” Desiree nodded with new vigor, “but he also told me if I didn't stop talking of such things, he would turn me over his knee! Then he leapt up, declaring that we had been out long enough and fairly forced me to mount the horse. He refused to even discuss it! I tell you Mama—he deserved that dunking! Odd behavior—especially for Antoine of all people. Why—he is no innocent! Not naïve! I've heard gossip of his af...” She stopped short on that confession. “Oh why would he treat me as if I am a leper?”

“My dear you need to realize that Antoine is your friend and it would be difficult for him to cross that line. He…Rene' Vermillion, Honore' Romains… Philippe—I could name a dozen more! They are all as close to you as family.”

Desiree sat down heavily beside her mother, speaking wistfully, “I did not ask him to cross any line Mama, only a simple request for a small favor. The same favor he has most assuredly granted a score of women, without their even asking. It is humiliating and so unfair.”

Desiree studied her folded hands as tears threatened, until she felt her mother’s touch upon her chin and raising her eyes, Desiree waited for some words of wisdom.

“Sweet—is it, in fact,
fair
to ask such of him? Of a young man, who for most of his nineteen years has guarded your honor ferociously?”

Yes he had done that, Desiree reflected silently, as had so many others. The memory came to mind of a summer festival last year on the town square in Rouen. There had been music and dancing and somehow she had found herself with a constant unwelcome companion, a visiting cousin of Antoine’s. He had sidled her off away from the activities, where in no uncertain terms he had made known his desire for her favors with a clumsy, groping hand that had found her
décolletage
. She had been aghast at his vulgar attempt at seduction and had delivered a sound slap, heaving against his chest to free herself, only to feel the bodice of her gown give way as he fell back. She had shrieked, flaying him with an assortment of well-chosen words and turned away trying unsuccessfully to hide her bosom in the tatters of her chemise.

Then from all directions, across the square had come her heroes at a jog—as always, rushing to her aid. They had surveyed the young Fabre' seated against a tree rubbing his jaw in stunned silence and then Antoine's eyes had fallen to her gown. Quickly accessing the damage he had removed his coat with a curse, draping it carefully about her shoulders while the other young men had glared at their foe with rage.

Rene' Vermillion had made to lay the offender lower still but she had tugged at his arm, assuring him she was fine and pleading with him to see her back to the inn to change clothes. His eyes had been afire with anger, his fists clenched ready to do battle but he had nodded, placing an arm about her shoulders and leading her away.

She had heard Antoine's voice, very tight and menacing behind her as he spoke to his cousin, “Never touch her again or by God you will have me to answer to.”

Although Antoine had been very close to his cousin, the rift caused by that indiscretion had taken the whole of this last year to reconcile.

“You have two types of men in your life Pet,” her mother was now saying, “those you don't know and those you know too well. One day, you must learn to restrain yourself and allow a man to court you or you shall have a multitude of confidants but not a one brave enough to give you even that first kiss.”

Desiree quietly digested this statement. The same words she had heard time and again from Bridgett but to hear them from her mother gave them added weight. Perhaps she were right, perhaps she befriended too easily.

Philippe Barbre came to mind. He looked to her as almost a mother image, although she was only one year his senior. He had been orphaned ten years ago, at the age of seven and taken in as an apprentice to her godfather’s groomsman. She had met him shortly after his arrival and they now shared a closeness that had stemmed from his need to have someone…anyone to care for him. She could not imagine how lonely he would have been if not for her openness that had brought him out of his shell those many years ago.

But if her mother spoke true, then she must be distant. And what man would she distance herself from in order to spark his interest? Which one could she honestly consider as a mate for life? None came to mind. They were all as close as family. And what would she do if she lost the friendship of even one by distancing herself? She could not bear it, she knew.

Then too, she had witnessed enough of the sickening ploys girls that were her peers practiced to entrap a man's interest. In the close living quarters of an exclusive private finishing school in Paris, she had found that she shared nothing in common with the other young women attending. They had but one topic of conversation, men, or more specifically the strategy they were plotting to woo one into a proposal of marriage and she could not abide their prattle.

Her dearest friends had always been boys and over the years she had spent many happy summers romping in the cool murky lake, riding horses, attending social and other functions with Philippe, Antoine and others. She felt a fierce sense of loyalty to each of her friends. Men were not merely a quest to her—not a quarry to ensnare.

Of her closest friends, the four young men who lived within a few miles of her home, three were from well to do families, but Philippe, the fourth, worked, and worked hard, for his keep. Three were vied for by many of the young women of Rouen, while Philippe was given hardly a passing glance. How that fact infuriated her and in itself gave credence to her vehement opinion of most women and their ploys. For Philippe was by far the most appealing of the four—extremely handsome with smoky dark eyes and a sensitive, gentle and loving soul. But that mattered not to those in search of a husband by the weight of his purse or the holdings of his family.

“
Ma Petite
?”

Desiree came from her musings to find her mother waiting for some reply. No—she decided silently, she would not act against her nature, not with Antoine or any other man. She was not some supposedly doe-eyed little twit, secretly conniving and scheming, all for a man’s unwitting entrapment. Aloud she said lightly, “I fear I shall be forced to move to the south of France to find one I have not befriended.”

“Worry not my Precious. One day a man will come into your life and he shall woo you—perhaps dare a kiss, ask you for your hand and take you as his wife.”

“Do you believe that—truly Mama?”

“I do! Now go and find your Papa so that we may be off.”

***

Desiree found her father in the front hall, pensively staring out the large window overlooking the grounds before their home. She quietly moved up beside him, looking out the window and expecting to see some disturbance, which caused him to frown so.

“Papa?” she questioned.

He turned with a start to find an angelic face close to his shoulder. Twinkling eyes sparkled up at him lovingly.

“What on earth were you thinking about?" she giggled, hugging his arm adoringly, “You looked positively pained!”

“I have been contemplating losing my sweet little girl to some man in the not too distant future.” He confessed.

Desiree pursed her lips, knitting her brow, “To be sure Papa,” she quipped, “You spend sleepless nights worrying on just that loss.”

“Do you doubt my concern for you? More nights than you know I wonder on that very topic.” He nodded curtly.

“That must be why I am forever feeling the lash of your tongue when I decline an unappealing offer to wed! You are simply cranky and cross from lack of sleep. Now it is all clear to me.” She teased mischievously, kissing his cheek and with a theatrical flair and swishing of her skirt, swept out the front door, leaving him to glare after her.

Celeste emerged from the drawing room, having caught the conversation as she approached and he scowled darkly at her amused expression.