The Honorable Officer (18 page)

He wouldn’t admit to anyone that he was once again infatuated with the woman he was marrying. He wouldn’t fall in love with her, which would hurt her when she was left alone when he went to war.

And he would be alone, too.

****

Monsieur Henri stared at Fourbier during the short ride to the Poitiers cathedral, apparently still weighing his worth.

Fourbier fussed with the colonel’s wig and told jokes. The comte and Henri nodded and sometimes smiled, but never laughed. Instead of letting himself be amused, the colonel tapped his fingers nervously, tugged aside the curtain to let in rushes of icy air, and kept an eye out for trouble. It was like they were on the way to a funeral, not a wedding.

The colonel was first out at the cathedral, striding to his bride’s carriage before it came to a complete stop. The comte was right behind him, ready to hand down his wife. Madame la Comtesse had probably been similarly occupied in distracting Mademoiselle de Bonnefoi.

Fourbier was about to hop out, too, when Henri touched his arm, sending fire tingling through him. He paused without turning around.

“I’m not an easy man to get along with.”

Henri’s voice was so quiet no one else could have heard him, but Fourbier glanced around anyway. “Do you think I am?”

Henri chuckled, and Marcel—he was permitting himself to think of his old first name from time to time—settled back into his seat so they sat face to face, the door of the carriage still hanging open. “You are all amiability. You bend over backwards to do everything for my brother.”

Marcel shrugged. “He is my employer, my superior officer, and, I hope, my friend. I have remarkably little to do to arrange his life here, away from the army.”

Henri nodded. “You would be bored with my life.”

Marcel shrugged again. He probably would. “They say you have just left your position with the Ministry of Finance.”

The other man looked away, scowling, eyes narrowing. “It was time to resign. My reputation has been spotless for two years, and yet the rumors were intensifying.”

“Rumors?” Marcel wondered more at the two years than the rumors. There were always rumors when one was different. Had this handsome man been alone for two years? Marcel had been alone for longer than that since fleeing Paris in case his brother-in-law really had gone to the guards.

Henri was staring again, his hazel eyes amused now. “I’ve been a very good boy. No one has tempted me enough to commit an indiscretion.”

Marcel adjusted his coat, his breath coming in quick puffs, his cheeks heating. “Indiscretion in the army would have me shot at dawn without a trial.”

Henri’s expression soured. “Then we would have to be very discreet,
n’est-ce pas
?” He slipped from the carriage and walked away to join his milling family at the base of the cathedral steps.

Marcel looked up at the tall spires and felt only distaste for the ornamentation. The religion of his childhood called for plain, dull usefulness. His only foray into color and beauty had lasted the snap of his fingers compared to the years of plain utility before and discretion after.

He took a deep breath and went to meet the jeweler’s assistant who stood by the steps, the wedding ring in his pocket. Then he had enough errands to do for his colonel that he didn’t have time for weddings or for thinking. He eased his disgruntlement with frenetic activity.

****

The wedding was a blur to Hélène, not only because she didn’t have her glass to her eye the entire time but also because her heart pounded out of her chest, her hands sweated, and her head swam. She tried to blame the boning of her stomacher for her shortness of breath, but she felt even more lightheaded when Jean-Louis’ eyes dropped to her mostly-exposed chest for just a second. Ondine was pried out of her arms and carried as they scurried to one of the side chapels.

The bishop was there as a favor to the Comte de Bures, but a priest presided.

The most she could say was that it was over quickly. Jean-Louis gave the priest a small purse and asked for a Mass to be said for them. He insisted they light candles to her late parents, which brought tears to her eyes. He gently dabbed them away, leaving her short of breath again.

Then they were up in the carriages and off to Dumouton, the Comte de Bures’ property.

Jean-Louis sat beside her on the forward-facing seat, gripping her hand as tightly as his jaw was clenched. There was silence between them, broken only by the rumble and clatter of the carriage wheels and horses’ hooves and the sounds of the people of Poitiers outside. Finally, Jean-Louis lifted her hand to his lips and held it there. Just his touch on the back of her gloved hand made her heart pound again.

She took a deep breath. He smiled and let his gaze travel down to her
décolletage
for much longer than he had in the church. He released her hand to put his on the back of her neck and lean in to kiss her lips. Just a light touch to start, then another, then firmer pressure. He licked them, which made her jerk back in surprise.

“Trust me,” he whispered.

“Of course.” Her voice sounded silly and squeaky.

He leaned down again, licking at the corners of her mouth this time, and then he kissed across her cheek, lingering at her temple and breathing into her ear as he clutched her against him, the heat of his body warming her through all the layers of clothing and cloaks.

“You’re mine, Hélène,” he whispered.

“Oui,” was all she could say.

The carriage jolted to a stop, and Jean-Louis set her away and reached for his hip where his saber usually rested. He jumped up and rummaged in the overhead compartment and had just found it when there was a loud knock and Fourbier’s voice.

“Monsieur, Madame.
Excusez-moi
,
s’il vous plait,
but Mademoiselle Ondine is very upset and will not stop crying for her Tata Nénène.”

Hélène tried to catch her breath while Jean-Louis said a few things he should not say, and then apologized for them. He stowed the saber and bent to open the door.

They were in the countryside, the other two carriages stopped in front of and behind theirs. Fourbier brought Ondine out of the front carriage, screaming and wriggling to escape him. Jean-Louis called to her, but she shouted, “Non
!
” and kept struggling and calling for Nénène. Hélène patted her new husband’s arm and leaned past him to call out to Ondine, who stopped screaming but started sobbing. Hélène held out her arms, and Fourbier placed the girl in them.

“
Alors
,
ma petite
,” cooed Hélène as Ondine sobbed out an incomprehensible diatribe against everyone and everything. “I was here, like they told you.”

“Let’s keep moving, Fourbier,” said Jean-Louis. “We are sitting ducks out here.”

“Oui, Monsieur le Colonel,” said Fourbier, bowing. “Madame, Mademoiselle.”

Hélène held Ondine close—she was Madame de Cantière now, wasn’t she? “Merci, Fourbier.”

Ondine took only a few minutes, and a chunk of cheese, to calm down and fall asleep against Hélène’s chest, their blue dresses flowing together.

Jean-Louis stared at them. Finally, he leaned in. “I hoped my head would be pillowed there by now.”

Hélène looked down at where Ondine’s sweaty head rested against her breasts, and her face and torso got hot. Would he really rest his head there?

“I’ll hold her if you would like,” he said.

They slid Ondine from her lap to his, and he covered her with his cloak.

“In case of trouble, take her quickly so I can get my saber,” he whispered.

Hélène shuddered and pulled her cloak around herself, chilled by the thought of trouble.

****

They reached Dumouton without delay; the roads were dry and the horses good. It was only slightly past midday, so they settled in to eat, though Hélène didn’t have the stomach for it. She burned from the kisses Jean-Louis had given her already and of his words about her bosom. What would he want from her? She wanted to be wrapped in his arms, but she didn’t think the mating of livestock looked pleasant.

She was alone in her bedchamber, as Charlotte had led Ondine away to change out of her rumpled new dress. Hélène was in the old bodice and skirt Fourbier had altered for her.

There was a tap at her door, and Aurore came in and closed the door.

“Now, this is a bit awkward,” said Aurore, looking eager and not awkward at all. “But do you know…I mean…oh, I’ll just say it. Lovemaking can be wonderful. Jean-Louis will know what to do. Don’t let him treat you like you will break.”

Hélène blushed deeply and saw her friend—her new sister—blush, too.

Aurore stepped back. “Jean-Louis has had a rider from his estate. There was some trouble there, I think. All the men are closed up in Dom’s office.”

“Oh! Should I go to them?” asked Hélène.

“I’m going straight down.” Aurore raised her eyebrows. “It’s only just come. But we can make a united effort to be included in the discussion.”

They went down in silence, so rare for Aurore. She tapped on the office door, and Fourbier opened it and bowed deeply.

“Madame la Comtesse, Madame le Colonel de Cantière,” he announced as if they had arrived at a party.

The men rose to their feet with looks of disgruntlement.

“Where is Manu?” asked Aurore. “Surely he needs to be here, if all you men are.”

She took Hélène’s arm, and they settled on a
chaise longue
, displacing Jean-Louis and Monsieur Henri. The men shifted on their feet for a moment before
the comte settled back in his chair and sighed.

“Fourbier, have someone find Emmanuel,” said Jean-Louis, looking equally resigned. Fourbier bowed and slipped from the room. “And a chair for him when he is found.” Hélène saw his eyes dart to her. “And a chair for Henri, because I am taking this one.”

He shouldered Henri out of his way and sat down with a teasing, boyish grin. When his gaze rested on Hélène, his smug smile changed to a gentler one. Hélène felt her cheeks heat. She was tired of blushing every time he looked at her.

Henri shoved at his shoulder with a growl. “If it weren’t your wedding day…”

Her husband grinned again. Hélène’s cheeks felt like they were burning.

“Now, boys,” said Aurore. “Do tell us: What is the matter?”

Jean-Louis shook his head, but Henri squeezed his shoulder. Whether it was a show of support or an admonition for him to tell all, Hélène didn’t know, as the look passing between the brothers was incomprehensible.

“
Bien
,” said Jean-Louis, looking at Hélène. “Someone set a fire at my house. It was put out quickly. One maid breathed the smoke, but she is well. No one shot at the servants, thankfully.”

Hélène felt slightly dizzy, then realized she was holding her breath. She let it out as quietly as she could.

“I will ride over to assess the damage,” said Jean-Louis, still looking at her. “They caught one of the men who set the fire. They said he had accomplices.”

“Oh, no,” said Henri. “You will spend the night here. If you must go, you can go tomorrow.”

“I cannot ask you to go in my place,” said Jean-Louis, raising his eyebrows at his brother.

“I will take Emmanuel and Fourbier,” he said. “Manu because he needs to be doing something and Fourbier because he knows more about the other attempts.”

There was a tap at the door, and Emmanuel came in, carrying a chair, Fourbier right behind him with another. Henri gestured Fourbier over and sat, the valet remaining right behind him, hands braced on the back of the chair. Emmanuel hovered for a moment with the chair until he realized they were all looking at him. Aurore waved him over, and he set his chair down with a thump and a scrape at the end of the chaise closest to Hélène. She touched his sleeve in welcome.

They told Emmanuel about the message and the plan. Manu frowned, but nodded when Hélène patted his arm.

Hélène found herself wiping away tears at how close Ondine had been to being hurt, how close Jean-Louis had been to being shot.

Finally, everyone rose to prepare for their trip. Hélène didn’t know what she would do for the rest of the day. Jean-Louis stopped her at the door and asked her to walk with him. “There’s a fine garden out back.”

“It’s cold,” she whispered.

Jean-Louis frowned. “I’ll have someone fetch our cloaks.”

Ondine ran down the stairs to join them, and Hélène hid her disappointment. Finally a moment alone with her new husband—and they would take Ondine with them.

“Charlotte, please come along, too,” said Hélène.

They went out at the back of the house, Jean-Louis patiently helping her negotiate the stairs. Ondine ran ahead, Charlotte chasing after her, laughing.

“We should be having a big dinner now,” said Jean-Louis.

“Pardon?” asked Hélène.

“It’s not much of a wedding day, is it?” asked Jean-Louis. “The first time, there was a huge feast, all of your family and mine. A hundred guests. I am sorry, Hélène. We shall have a proper dinner when we get to Paris.”

“I would rather have it at your father’s estate,” Hélène said softly.

“Would you?” he asked in surprise.

“No one at court knows me. I would like to know your father and mother better.”

“Not my mother,” said Jean-Louis quickly. “She would spoil everything.”

They walked in silence for a few seconds. “Maybe she needs someone to understand her,” said Hélène.

Jean-Louis sneered unattractively. “She needs to stay far away. She is poison to anyone who does not do exactly as she says. Then she changes her mind.”

“Was she spoiled as a child?” asked Hélène.

Jean-Louis thought about his answer. It was one of the things she loved best about him, that he thought carefully before speaking. Amandine had been impatient with him because he seemed slow. Amandine was another who changed her mind a lot.

“I think she might have been. I think Papa spoiled her at first. I remember him always agreeing with her when I was small. After she had Aurore… She almost died having Aurore. Even then, for a while, Papa would give her everything she wanted. It was only when she found out about Papa’s mistress and Michel…”