Brocade Series 02 - Giselle (9 page)

The first course was served
. Giselle toyed with it. The second arrived. She lifted a bite and put it back down. It must be delicious.
By the time sorbet arrived to clear their palates, everyone was eating.
She barely managed to stay upright in her chair and hold onto her
spoon.

“You must eat, Giselle,” Navarre whispered. “You look ready
to faint.”

He motioned to her plate, and Giselle picked up a mouthful
of something and put it in her mouth. Swallowed
. She tried to stop a tear that slid from one eye but failed. It was
more mortification that he saw it. She wondered how she
was going to get through the entire meal. She’d never felt so lost and
alone.

“Giselle!”

Navarre leaned toward her as if retrieving
something he’d dropped. His head touched her skirt and Giselle
closed her eyes, feeling two more tears make a path to her mouth. This was impossible. Horrible.
She couldn’t endure it much longer.

“Must you make this harder for me than it already is?”

He
hissed the question at her skirt before sitting back up. She didn’t see his movement. She didn’t have to. And for a moment, she thought she’d misheard him.
He couldn’t
possibly have just said….

Giselle opened her eyes and was stunned by the
deep, almost black color in his as he looked at her.

“Well?”
He raised one eyebrow.

“No.”

To her horror, the word came out in a giggle. Giselle
lifted the napkin to her lips to hide what couldn’t possibly be absolute joy. He hadn’t been reprimanding her. He’d been asking for his sake. And that must mean…that he felt the same?

Oh sweetness!

Suddenly, the light wasn’t mellow at all. It was bright and
golden. The peacock tasted wonderful, and everything was superb
and sparkled with perfection. She dared not look at him again, though. It was lustful, it was evil.

A
nd it was wonderful, too.

She had been kissed!

Oh wonders
! She had been held and kissed, and it
wasn’t wicked-feeling. It was everything she’d dreamt it would be.
Giselle finally admitted it to herself as she passed by the five armored
sentinels in the weapons room.
It had been Aunt Mimi’s fault, actually. It was her idea that
Giselle see the portrait gallery, and that Navarre was the perfect one
to show it to her.

Giselle had been listening to Jean-Claude’s wife, Margot. She
couldn’t recall what they were discussing when Aunt Mimi entered
the drawing room with Esmee.

“There she is,” the dowager
duchesse
announced. “I’ve been
describing the Berchald portraits to Giselle earlier, Esmee. Perhaps
you could show them to her? It’s the perfect time.”

“Oh, I couldn’t
. Please don’t ask that of me.”

Her answer made Giselle
narrow her eyes. Esmee looked very anxious. Over a
ncestral portraits?

“Then it will have to be Navarre
. He knows as much about the
artists and periods as anyone. Navarre!”

Giselle’s heart began pounding loudly
. She wondered if
everyone could hear it.

“Yes, dearest aunt
? Can I be of service?”

He lifted her hand to his lips, and Giselle’s stomach turned
. She tried to tell herself that it was the amount of food she’d eaten, but
she knew she was fooling herself. It was because he’d kissed
his aunt’s hand, and she could almost feel it on her own.

“Me?” Navarre looked at Giselle for a moment before he turned back to his aunt. “Why am I being chosen
? You know we
decided—”

“You’re perfect for the task, Navarre. That’s why
,” his aunt
interrupted.

Giselle looked from one to the other
. Only Margot looked as
confused as Giselle was. “I can see them some other time,” she
offered. “I’m feeling quite tired. Perhaps I’ll simply go to my
rooms….”

“Oh no, dearest Giselle. I insist
. Navarre would love to show
them to you. He would.”

“Of
course,” he said. “I’d enjoy showing the
duchesse
where
her portrait will hang. I’m honored.”

He held out his arm to Giselle. She looked at it, afraid to meet
his eyes. He didn’t sound honored and pleased. He sounded angry. But e
veryone was watching, so she accepted his assistance. She
placed her hand on his forearm and thought she detected a slight tremble in
response. Her heart raced. He turned her and began walking. Two menservants
opened the double doors for them and Giselle swept from the room with
Navarre. No one said a word.

It wasn’t
a true portrait gallery. It was a long corridor ending
in plateaus of steps. Another set of servants opened the doors
for them to enter. Giselle didn’t have time to thank them. She was having
trouble keeping up with Navarre’s strides while he spoke.

“The Berchald
family actually goes back to the Capet rulers,
when our ancestor was granted the title
marquisat.
No portraits
exist from that era. Most of our holdings had to be fought over again
during the Hundred Year War. Once the English dogs were defeated
and sent back across the channel, King Charles the Seventh bequeathed the titles and holdings of
Duc
du Berchald to this man,
Jean-Phillipe.”

Navarre held the candelabra aloft so Giselle could
better see the
painting they’d stopped in front of.

“Painted in 1454, it was restored just before my uncle came
into the title, but it won’t last much longer, we fear.”

Jean-Phillipe was painted strangely
. Perhaps it was the
dullness of the colors, but it looked flat and one-dimensional to her. The man
was blond, but there the resemblance to her guide ended. The paint
was rippled at the edges of his clothing and flesh. In some places, it
appeared to be missing altogether.

“There is no portrait of the first
duchesse,”
Navarre continued. “
That tradition didn’t
begin until the fifth
duc,
also named Jean-Claude like my
brother. That portrait is near the stairs. In the meantime…”

Navarre moved her to another picture, mounted on black velvet
and Giselle held her breath. It could have been Etienne.

“The second
duc,
also named Etienne. He was killed in a duel, or
so the legend goes. He didn’t wed, so his title passed to his brother,
and my namesake, Navarre.”

He walked farther, passing by several paintings Giselle might
have wanted to see had the situation been different, then he stopped before a life-sized one.

“He doesn’t look much like you
,” she said.

Navarre’s eyes flicked to hers for a moment
. Then he looked
away. “No, he doesn’t.”

“What are we doing here, Navarre?” she whispered, amazed at
her bravery.

She was watching close enough to see him flinch at the
question. She wondered if he would tell her the truth.

“We’re viewing portraits, Giselle.”

He walked to the first set of stairs, and she was left no course but to follow.

“The
Duchesse
Bertina du Berchald. She was painted in 1602
when she married Jean-Claude. Bertina was sister to the queen and
had Spanish ancestry. You probably have noticed the resemblance to
Esmee and me.”

Giselle saw it
. They had the same nose. The
Duchesse
Bertina had been
painted wearing an impossible collar affair. Giselle remembered seeing similar portraits at Antilli.

“Bertina was Jean-Claude’s first wife
. His second was the beautiful
Comtesse
Raniou, a widow. Her portrait was commissioned through Paris. It’s said she was one of the King’s
mistresses, but that has never been proven. She brought immense royal
favor to Jean-Claude, though. It was through his marriage to her that he was awarded the title of Hereditary Master of His Majesty’s
Wardrobe.”

The
Comtesse
Raniou was a beautiful woman, at least for her
time. She had a flirtatious smile on her lips and a very full bosom
. The
Comtesse
Raniou wasn’t blond. She had very
dark hair, topped by a tight-fitting caplet, and her face was
framed by a high collar, too.

Giselle murmured something, and they walked onto the first
landing, four steps up. The staircase was as wide as the corridor. At
each landing, more portraits graced the walls.

“This is my great-great-Uncle Pierre
. He was more
accustomed to spending time at court than attending to family duties,
and it shows.”

“He…looks a bit like you
.” Giselle stepped closer.

If it hadn’t been for the prominent widow’s peak on
the subject’s
forehead, he resembled Navarre greatly. He was dressed in a foppish manner, but very like the man at her side.

“Why did you have to be so lovely, Giselle?”

Navarre spoke so softly, Giselle almost didn’t hear him. And then she couldn’t believe she had correctly. The image of the long-dead Pierre
smiled at her while her eyes widened on his handsomeness.

Giselle dared a glance up at Navarre, holding her breath
for
the strange connection of his gaze. He wasn’t looking at her, however. He was studying the same portrait while a nerve
twitched in the side of his jaw. She’d never seen anything as stirring.

He sighed and looked down toward her
. Giselle couldn’t look
away fast enough and spent some time looking at the gilded-wood
frame.

“Come, Giselle
. Let us get this over with.”

He reached for her arm. She s
kipped to keep up as they
passed three more landings filled with paintings until they stopped
before Aunt Mimi’s portrait.

“My aunt, as you must have guessed…”

He spoke so abruptly it was rude. Giselle wondered what
she’d done to make him so angry.

“…and my uncle, the thirteenth
Duc
du Berchald.”

He turned her to face a larger-than-life-sized painting. The
man was clearly a Berchald, from the light blond hair, to the blue
eyes.

“He was the most depraved man in France
…unless we count my
brother, Jean-Claude.”

He released her arm and stepped back while she tried to
assimilate what she’d just heard.
“Depraved?” Giselle asked.

“Debauched, drunk,
immoral. Wicked. Obscene. Need I go on?”

There was an angry, hard note
in his voice. It felt like a physical blow. Giselle stepped
back from him, bumping against an ornate table as she did so.

“Perhaps you should sit down, Giselle.” He pulled out a Louis
the Fourteenth chair, and Giselle slid into it. “My uncle nearly bankrupted the family, although we don’t look it.”

He probably added the last when Giselle looked up at him in
astonishment.
Bankrupt?
she wondered.
That’s absurd. The castle
is filled with luxury!

“Savignen Valley saved us,” he continued. “Actually it was
you
that saved us. Perhaps that was what made me dislike you so much. I
was only eight when the marriage took place, and it wasn’t to his liking, I assure you. What handsome, strong
sixteen-year-old with the world as his feet wishes to be tied to a
baby?”

“
That’s not fair—”

Giselle began, but he interrupted her.

“I was young. Impressionable. Smitten with hero-worship. I listened to every word he cursed
you with. He didn’t deserve to be forced to wed with you.”

“Forced?” Giselle choked on the word.
“But I was only six, Navarre.
I wasn’t even there! How can you say such things to me?”

“You’re right, Giselle
…God help me.”

She didn’t see him reach for her, but she didn’t have to
. She
felt the heat of his palms against her waist, and then his arms as they
encircled her. And then she was hauled from the chair and held against him.
The lace of his jabot scratched against her cheek when he spoke
again.

“
I cannot finish, Giselle. Forgive me. I can barely stand to be
near you. I
keep telling myself that you belong to Etienne. And even that fails
.”

His hand went
beneath her chin, lifting her face. Her arms
wrapped about his waist, putting the
smooth silkiness of his jacket against her bare arms. It
cooled the heat spilling through her
.
His hair
fell forward as he bent his head towards her. Giselle closed her eyes,
afraid of what he might read, and that it might stop him.

She felt the firm pressure of his lips at her forehead, and held
the gasp as he trailed his caress down her nose. A sound escaped as she pursed her lips in expectation. She was unable to help herself.

But h
e didn’t kiss her lips, despite how her entire frame yearned for it
. Silently beseeched. Her neck craned upward, but he lifted his head away, sighing loudly
enough it covered hers. Giselle opened her eyes to
the most severe expression on his face as he watched her.

It
made her want to laugh and cry simultaneously.

Then he disentangled her, reaching behind himself to unclasp
her hands. Giselle couldn’t have done it — she wasn’t even aware she
still clung to him. She collapsed back into the chair and tried to stop
her knees from shaking.