By Honor Bound (14 page)

Someone took Honneure’s place at the horse’s head, and she fell in step behind her mistress, who hurried back to her husband’s side.

“Well done, Antoinette,” he said. “Now we must find one of your ladies who will be willing to take this man back to the palace. He certainly can’t ride.”

“I will take him,” Honneure offered at once.

But Antoinette shook her head. “No. My horse is the swifter. Put him in my barouche.”

Louis himself lifted the injured man off the ground. The white scarf binding his leg was already stained heavily with red, and the man’s face was as pale as new snow. With great care Louis laid him on the floor of Antoinette’s barouche. She climbed into it immediately and shook the reins.

Honneure was hard-pressed to catch up with the dauphine. Silently she thanked Philippe for all the hours he had spent teaching her to drive, and then inwardly winced at the memory. She missed him desperately, for he had remained at Versailles while it had been her duty to accompany her mistress to Fontainebleau.

But there was little time to mourn. It was all Honneure could do to control her horse as it plunged through the undergrowth. And it took all her skill and concentration to guide him through the close set trees as they fled back toward Fontainebleau. It was as dangerous a thing as she had ever done, and she marveled at the courage of the princess who drove on ahead, even faster, risking her own life to save a friend.

Trees and foliage sped past in a dark blur. The wind blew Honneure’s hair into tangles, and her arms ached from constantly pulling on the reins to maintain control of her horse. She groaned aloud with relief as the forest at last gave way and the magnificent facades of Fontainebleau’s multiple wings came into view.

Antoinette’s horse, winded and exhausted, stumbled and began to falter. Honneure drew even with the princess.

“Go on ahead,” Antoinette said. “Call for help!”

A single, swift glance into the dauphine’s barouche told her she must indeed hurry. Standing like a Roman charioteer, she grabbed the buggy whip and cracked it expertly over her horse’s head. The barouche surged forward and, as they entered the far end of the White Horse Courtyard, Honneure shouted. Figures appeared, like scurrying ants, running toward the commotion.

King Louis, fascinated, watched from a palace window.

“Majesty!”

The throng surrounding the king turned in unison. Madame du Barry ignored them all, fixed a pleased smile on her lips, and expertly arched a single brow. “What a pleasant surprise to come upon Your Majesty. Pray tell what brings you to this wing of the palace?”

“Pray tell what brings
you
?” The king quickly returned his attention to the window. His favorite’s petty jealousies and artful games more often amused than annoyed him, but he was not presently in the mood to humor her. Far more interesting things were occurring in the courtyard below him.

The woman driving the barouche so daringly was the one he had admired earlier in the forest. Directly behind her came the dauphine, urging on a spent and stumbling horse. Even as she drew the animal to a halt her cart was surrounded and a man was lifted from the floor of the vehicle. He appeared to be grievously wounded.

Louis assessed the situation at once. “It seems there’s been a hunting accident. Someone send for my surgeon and have the man seen to.” As one of the king’s courtiers hurried away, he turned from the window. “The princess, from what I have seen, deserves to be congratulated for her part in this little drama. One of her ladies as well. Let us attend the dauphine forthwith.”

Purposely ignoring his mistress, Louis resumed his journey through the long, light-filled gallery that connected two of Fontainebleau’s wings. And as he walked he had to smile to himself. He had been on his way to see his granddaughter-in-law anyway. Now it would be oh so much more intriguing.

Madame du Barry, a growing storm riding on her brow, followed the king’s entourage, footsteps clicking a staccato rhythm on the parquet floor.

Honneure sat on the edge of her bed in a room similar to the one in Versailles and allowed herself a moment to catch her breath and slow her spinning thoughts. The dogs curled up in their boxes without hesitation, the day’s excitement having exhausted them as well. She smiled at them fondly, then closed her eyes and massaged her temples.

If it was not her life, if she was not actually living and experiencing it herself, she would never have believed it possible. Eyes still closed, she let her thoughts drift back to Versailles … and Philippe. Since the day of the storm, since the embrace they had shared, Honneure felt as if she had been living in an enchantment. Versailles itself was the stuff of dreams. Antoinette could not be a more perfect mistress. And now she had her perfect love.

Honneure considered, for a moment, returning to the princess. But she was being attended to by several of her ladies already. There had been quite a hubbub when the dauphine had returned to her apartments, gown stained with blood. Assured she would not be needed for a while, Honneure reclined on her bed. In an instant she was back in Philippe’s arms.

Remembering the heat of his body, the feel of his lips as they touched hers, tentatively at first, made her tremble anew. Never, as long as she lived, would she forget that first kiss. It had left them breathless, full of wonder. For long minutes they had stared at one another as if they had not seen each other for a very long time and needed to quench memory’s thirst. Then, slowly, expression full of amazement, Philippe had smiled. She had answered him with a smile of her own.

No words had been spoken. None had been needed. She had laid a palm to his cheek, briefly and gently, as they listened to the rain lessen and finally cease. Then it had been time to leave. She had sat beside him all the way back to the château, a small distance between them on the bench seat, and looked neither right nor left. She had not needed to look at his handsome, beloved features or the magnificent grounds surrounding her. She had merely to revel in the warmth of the cocoon that embraced her.

Philippe loved her, had always loved her. But now it was no longer her secret alone.

The following weeks had passed far too quickly. Their moments together had been fleeting but poignant. Eventually, the time of her departure for Fontainebleau had arrived.

Thanks to Madame Campan’s kindness, they had an hour to spend together walking in the gardens the night before the journey. The time had been bittersweet, and Honneure had been unable to stop her tears at the moment of their parting.

Philippe had brushed them tenderly away. “The days will pass swiftly, you’ll see. And from all I’ve heard, Fontainebleau is very beautiful. I know you will not regret your time spent there.”

“I regret nothing but hours lost I might have spent with you.”

“Then do not think of them,” he had replied with a grin. “Think only of the hours we will spend together in the future. All the hours of the rest of our lives.”

Their kiss had been salty sweet.

“I love you, Honneure. I love you forever.”

Raising a hand to her cheek, Honneure realized the memory had brought with it tears of its own. How dearly she loved and missed him!

But there would be no more time for reminiscence. Honneure jumped to her feet as an urgent knocking sounded at her door.

“You must come at once,” plain but sweet Madame Thierry said in a rush. “The king is here. He has asked for
you
!”

Honneure followed Madame Thierry on numb feet, desperately and vainly trying to smooth the windblown curls back into her chignon. The king! What could the King of France possibly want with her?

Honneure’s hands shook, and her knees felt weak as she entered Antoinette’s salon. The room, though large, could not have held another person. She saw the dauphine and her ladies off to one side, near the windows, and to her left a group so elegantly clad they could only be the king’s own courtiers. Even as she watched they parted, as if of a single mind, and a tall, older but still handsome man dressed in a huntsman’s attire strode forward. His gaze was riveted on hers, and she saw the beginnings of a smile as she dropped into a deep curtsy.

“You ably and bravely assisted the dauphine, our granddaughter-in-law today,” a deep, cultured voice said. “I would know your name that I might thank you properly.”

Honneure did not dare to look up. “My … my name is Honneure, Majesty,” she breathed.

“Honneure,” Louis repeated. “An interesting name. And beautiful. It suits you.”

She felt a finger under her chin. Gently, she was forced to look up at her sovereign.

“Rise, Honneure. Rise and accept the grateful thanks of the King of France.”

She had no choice. Knees still trembling, she stood. “Your Majesty does me too great an honor.”

The girl was well-spoken, Louis mused. And even lovelier up close. But there was something about her. Something that tugged at memory …

“Indeed,” came another voice from almost behind her.

Honneure turned and recognized Madame du Barry. The hair on the backs of her arms prickled.

“Indeed, the king has done you, a mere servant, great honor,” the comtesse continued. “More than enough for one day, I should think. Majesty?”

Though he did not look at her, he allowed Madame du Barry to take his arm. He gazed thoughtfully at Honneure for another long moment, then turned to leave.

Under the intensity of Madame du Barry’s glare, Honneure had dropped her gaze. She was aware of the room emptying only by the shuffling of feet and the soft movement of stirring air. She could not move, could barely breathe for the furious pounding of her heart.

The mighty King of France had deigned to notice her, to speak with her, even to praise her. It was a distinction so great she could never even have imagined it.

So why did hands of icy premonition seem to wrap around her throat?

“Honneure?”

Madame Campan’s voice seemed to be coming from very far away. She felt a light touch on her shoulder. Then the room went dark as consciousness spiraled away into a black abyss, and she sank in a billowing pool of skirts to the floor.

Chapter Thirteen

November 1771

It was bitterly cold, far too cold for snow, although Antoinette wished for it with all her heart. A layer of white would soften the starkness of the bare tree branches and blanket the brown, cold, lifeless ground. Depressed, she turned from her view of the Versailles gardens and stared instead at the flames leaping and dancing in the hearth. Her salon was cozy and warm, yet she shivered.

Madame Campan looked up from her needlework. “May I get Madame la dauphine a shawl?”

Antoinette shook her head.

“A glass of wine perhaps?” Madame Campan persisted.

“You know how little I drink.”

“Today might be the very day to change one’s habits.”

Antoinette at last favored her lady with a glance. “
I
am not the one, I think, who needs to change her habits,” she replied in a brittle voice.

The princess’s ladies exchanged nervous looks. Madame Campan laid her embroidery aside and rose somewhat stiffly. “Fetch the dauphine a pot of tea,” she said to a
femme de chamber
who had brought more fuel for the fire. “Come to the bedchamber, Majesty, and let me massage your shoulders.”

Antoinette complied gratefully. Though she knew she should be used to it by now, she sometimes found the royal existence too stifling to bear. To always be surrounded, waited upon, have every word listened to …

Madame Campan closed the boudoir door. “We are alone,” she said quietly. “You may speak freely of what is on your mind.”

“Dear Campan.” The dauphine sighed, love for the older woman filling her heart. “You are always so sensitive, so caring.”

“If you will sit I will give you the massage I promised.”

Antoinette sank gratefully onto a low-backed, velvet-covered stool. Madame Campan’s capable hands began their work.

“Your muscles are in knots,” she chided gently.

“Do you wonder why?” Antoinette’s eyelids drifted downward as a flush of warm relief flooded her upper body.

“I wonder only that you do not obey your husband.”

The dauphine’s eyelids flew open again, and she sat upright and rigid.

“Campan! What traitorous words do you utter?”

“Simply the truth. You steadfastly refuse the dauphin’s advice.”

“To speak to that horrid woman?” Antoinette thrust to her feet to face her lady-in-waiting. “Yes! Yes, I do ignore his advice. I
will
not dignify her presence in this Court, her hold over the king, by acknowledging her existence.”

“Then there will continue to be a chasm between yourself and your husband. And stiff muscles in your neck.”

“But you
know
the things she says about me.”

“If you refer to the incident at Fontainebleau, yes, I do.”

“She called me
common,
Campan. She said it was common of me to take that injured man in my barouche as I did.”

“It wasn’t common at all. It was brave and kind.”

“And just the other day when we went out after stag and I refused to take my party across that poor farmer’s fields to arrive in time for the kill … she said it was cowardice, that I was
afraid.
”

“You were being thoughtful.”

As the princess spent her vitriol, her shoulders sagged. Pushing them lightly, Madame Campan guided Antoinette back down on the stool and resumed her kneading. “You also behaved quite royally, I would say. That was the generous and courteous act of a true aristocrat.”

“Do you think so, dear Campan? Do you really think so?”

“I do not have to think. I know.”

Antoinette remained silent for a long moment. “I suppose, Campan, that you would also say it is the act of a true aristocrat to be … polite … to the king’s mistress?”

“I believe it would take very little, the smallest gesture, to assuage injured parties, no matter how deserving they may be of their wounds.”

Antoinette sighed deeply. “I shall think on it, Campan. This is not something I will be able to do easily. Oh, that feels so much better.” Rubbing her neck, the princess rose once more. “Where are my dogs? I should love to see them before I have to prepare for dinner. I dine tonight with my brother-in-law and his new wife.”

“I know, and I am sorry to disappoint, but Honneure has taken your pets for a walk. She is, I think, going to meet Philippe for the first time since our return from Fontainebleau.”

A wide smile lit Antoinette’s every feature, and she clasped her hands. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give to be able to transform myself into one of my little dogs! What a happy reunion this will be. Their love gives me hope, you know, dear Campan. If Philippe was finally able to see, perhaps Louis …”

She left the thought unfinished. It was simply too painful to speak aloud any more. Night after night, month after month, she lay alone in her bed. Would Louis ever learn to love her?

“You will win your husband’s affection. You will have a happy ending just as Honneure and Philippe.”

Antoinette smiled in assent, but she wasn’t so sure she agreed. She wasn’t at all certain she believed in happy endings any longer.

The chill in the air intensified as fall’s early sunset stole away the sun’s meager warmth. A dry, cold breeze rattled naked tree branches and scudded the last of the season’s dead leaves across the frozen ground. Honneure hugged herself, glad of the coat Jeanne had made to match her red and silver livery. She noticed the Boxer had started to shiver, and she knelt to put her arms about his neck.

“I’m sorry, Baron,” she murmured. “If Philippe doesn’t come soon we’ll return to the château.” Honneure ruffled the heads of the three small dogs and glanced around at the deepening gloom.

The early night was eerily silent. The knife-edged cold had driven almost everyone indoors, and only those with necessary errands hurried on their way, breath pluming before them. Even the fountains were silent, and thin sheets of ice coated the still pools.

Day’s last light glinted off the golden figures of the Apollo Fountain, the god and his steeds. Honneure rose and turned slowly, looking for signs of anyone headed in her direction, worried about Philippe. He had never been late for any of their assignations before. They were simply too few and too brief to waste a single precious moment. And this reunion was especially momentous as they had not seen each other in nearly ten weeks. Philippe would never stand her up or fail to get word to her, unless something had happened to him.

An inner chill shook Honneure. The dogs looked up at her expectantly. She could linger no longer.

With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, Honneure bent her head and started back in the direction of the palace. The dogs trotted obediently beside her, silent but for the sounds of their breathing and the tapping of toenails on gravel, until suddenly they began barking. Honneure jerked her head up.

His long stride was recognizable at once. He, too, had had his head down until he heard the small dogs’ strident voices. As he looked up he saw her and broke into a trot. She could see the brightness of his smile in the rising moonlight.

Honneure also ran, the little dogs leaping excitedly and Baron trotting sedately. She dropped the leashes as she raised her arms to Philippe and stepped within the circle of his own.

He buried his face in her hair, the strands cold and silken against his cheek. His arms felt the delicacy of her, the smallness of her bones, the narrowness of her waist. A rush of love nearly overwhelmed him.

“Honneure,” Philippe whispered against her ear. “God, I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so.”

Nothing had ever felt as wonderful as being in his arms. Nothing. She could never have enough, hold him tight enough, long enough. She wanted to hang on forever, feel his warmth and nearness for eternity. And feel his lips on hers.

Philippe felt her softly gloved hands on his face, tugging him downward. Through half-lidded eyes he saw her lips part in eagerness. Desire rose in him and spread through his limbs like liquid fire, and he brought his lips down to hers and covered them.

Honneure groaned. There had been many stolen kisses during the waning weeks of summer before the sojourn to Fontainebleau. But none had ever been like this. Her knees began to buckle, and as he felt her sag Philippe supported her with a firm hand pressed to the small of her back.

Her hips were now pressed to Philippe’s. Something thick and hot seemed to form in her abdomen, and she instinctively thrust more tightly against him. Now she felt a hardening there, the maleness of him, the proof of his desire for her.

Honneure feared she would faint as her throat threatened to close. Passion filled every part of her body like a living thing struggling to take control of her and give way to the most basic instinct of all. Feeling as if she could no longer breathe, Honneure tore her lips from Philippe’s.

“I love you.” Honneure breathed raggedly. “Oh, Philippe, I love you so much.”

“And I love you.” He kissed her again but quickly. He planted small kisses all over her face, cheeks, brow, and eyelids. The taste of her, the sweetness, seemed to permeate his very soul.

Nothing in the world existed but Philippe. Until two small front paws began scratching at the hem of her skirt. Baron gave a polite but insistent, “Woof,” and Honneure had to laugh. Hands against Philippe’s chest, she pushed away from him.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t forget my charges. They’re probably freezing to death.”

“No,
I’m
sorry. I was delayed. I couldn’t help it.”

“I was afraid you weren’t coming. I thought something had happened to you.”

“Nothing could ever keep me from you. Nothing. But I … I received a message I had to deal with.”

Something unusual in Philippe’s expression sent a little frisson of warning along Honneure’s nerve endings. “A message?”

Philippe hesitated, recalling the strangeness of it.

He had just shrugged on his coat in preparation to meet Honneure when there was a knock on the door of his spare, cubicle-like room in the stable. He could not have been more surprised to open it and find Olivia standing on the other side. Her smile was familiar. And unpleasant.

“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“No. Tell me why you’ve come, and be quick about it. I have an errand.”

“An errand?” Olivia quirked a brow. “You call a clandestine meeting with your …
lover
… an errand?”

“How did you …” Philippe had stopped himself in time. He didn’t need to hear it from Olivia. He knew what a small world, and how rife with gossip, the immense palace truly was. But it disturbed him to learn that people as insignificant as he and Honneure should be watched as closely as they apparently were. To what purpose? And by whom? “Tell me what you came for, Olivia. Or get out of my way.”

“Ooooh, what a big, bad boy.” Olivia had coyly touched a forefinger to his chest. “I love it when you …”

“Don’t touch me.” He had grabbed her wrist and pushed her hand away. “And move aside. I’ll not waste any more time on you.”

Philippe had seen her eyes narrow as he pushed past her, pulling his door closed behind him. He did not look back as he walked down the narrow corridor but could feel her stare boring into his back.

“Don’t you
dare
walk away from me like that, Philippe Mansart,” she had hissed at his retreating back. “I have a message I …”

“You know what you can do with it, Olivia,” he had called back without turning. He heard her sharply indrawn breath but ignored her and kept walking. She was vindictive and there would undoubtedly be repercussions, but he didn’t care. Honneure had filled his mind then, his every thought.

And she was before him now and all he
wanted
to think about. Nor did he wish to upset her with mention of Olivia.

“It … It turned out to be nothing,” he replied at last. “It was a waste of my time while you were waiting for me in the dark and cold.”

“But you’re here now.” Honneure reached up and smoothed an errant curl from Philippe’s pale brow. “You’re here, I missed you so terribly, and I’m so very glad to see you.”

He couldn’t help it. He adored her. Capturing her in his arms once again, he drew her against him and found her lips.

The world started to spin. The cold night faded away. All that was left was the heat of her love and desire.

But Philippe had felt her shivering.

“I’m sorry,” he said, holding her at arm’s length. “It’s so damn cold. I should have thought …”

“Ssshhh.” Honneure laid a gloved hand to his lips. “It doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I have seen you, and know you are safe and well.”

“I am. And anxious to see you again. Soon. Preferably in the warmth and light of day.” Philippe took Honneure’s hand, and together they walked toward the château. “When will you be able to get free?”

Somewhere in the distance a clock chimed. One of the small dogs barked at a group of passersby and a half-moon rose in the night sky. The couple walked slowly, heads bent together as they planned a future tryst. Too soon they reached the Marble Court. Philippe raised Honneure’s hand to his lips.

“Good night. I love you.”