Destiny's Kiss

Destiny's Kiss

A Novel

Jo Ann Ferguson

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For Elayne and Yves
,

dear friends who are living their own

happy-ever-after ending. May it never end
.

Prologue

Spring, 1789

Music spilled into the garden. Magical music played on the harps of angels. Sweet music. Luscious to the ear and tempting to the feet. Music from violins enticing the bored to set aside their ennui for the night.

Light flowed into the garden. Light from a thousand lanterns strung on walls inlaid with gold and mirrored to reflect the glow.

Voices whispered in the garden. Soft, feminine voices. Deeper ones offering delights far from the lanterns.

Hidden, a girl sat. Her toes moved as she was caught up in the splendid melodies. She dared do no more, for to be here tonight was forbidden.

Not that she had planned to disobey, but the music had crept into her sleep and lured her to the pavilion where powdered beauties danced with their dandies. She did not care about the difference between the cloth of gold they wore and her own ragged gown. Nothing existed for her but the music.

Swaying to the rhythm, she dreamed of dancing. Not the sedate minuets and reels, but the dance of a soul freed from bonds of servitude and drudgery.

With a sigh, she rose. She must return to bed, so she could rise before the sun to work in the kitchen. There, the only sound would be the clang of wooden spoons on iron pots. The melodies in her heart would die once again.

This magic was not meant for her, but she refused to relinquish it. Letting the violins tempt her, she whirled in the shadows, then hurried toward the door which should not have been left unlocked. She flitted from shadowed rosebush to shadowed rosebush. When a hand grasped her arm, the music shattered.

She tried to pull away. To be discovered here would mean a whipping … or worse.

The man laughed, his wine-scented breath striking her. Gripping her hair, he pulled her mouth toward his.

Her broken nails raked his face. He cursed and shoved her toward the ground. Trying to roll to her feet, she cried out when he seized her shoulders and pinned her to the damp earth.

“Where are you,
mm ami
?” a jovial voice asked.

The man growled drunkenly, then stood.

Looking up, she saw another man. Good humor filled her rescuer's voice. “
Mon ami
, why do you loiter with a serving lass when a fair lady awaits you?”

“Who?”

“A lady in a white silk domino.” Her rescuer chuckled as her attacker rushed away. Holding out his hand, he brought her to her feet. “You should be more careful where you dance, bright sprite. You can never guess whom you might attract with such a pretty show.”

She pulled away, seeking the shadows. If the tall man did not see her face, he could not tell Madame. Broad-shouldered, he wore a silver coat, which glistened in the faint light, over breeches of pale silk and white stockings. She was grateful her earth brown dress masked her.

“Who are you, bright sprite?” His warm voice, which was slightly husky, rumbled through her.

She shook her head. To speak was to invite punishment.

His hands caught her shoulders. “Do not fear me.”

In her horror, her eyes widened. Although she could not see his face for the domino he wore, she knew his voice's self-assured arrogance. Shaking her head, she tried to pull away.

“Are you frightened? No need.” Untying the cloth around his head, he urged. “Here. Take my domino, bright sprite. Then you need not worry about my breaking your enchantment.”

She wanted to refuse, but dared not anger him. If she played his sport, he might tire of it and return to the pavilion. Her hands were unsteady as she reached for the silk that was as black as his hair.

With a laugh, he slipped the cloth around her head and tied it. His fingers lingered on her hair, and she gasped at the unsettling sensation flowing through her.

“So untouched you must be, bright sprite,” he whispered. “I give you a gift. Now you must give me one in return.” When she shook her head, he laughed. “But that is the way of the magic folk who lurk beneath rosebushes.”

She reached for the cloth. She had to leave
now
.

His broad hands caught hers again, pulling her to him as, gently, his mouth brushed hers. Surprising fire leaped along her, burning hottest where his firm body touched her.

When he released her, he whispered, “Begone, bright sprite, before a man who has no lady to please him decides you shall.” His fingers curved along her cheek. “'Tis my misfortune tonight that I have another waiting, for the sweetness of unsampled pleasure is on your lips.”

She gasped when he spun her toward the back of the garden and struck her sharply on the buttocks. His chuckle followed her as she fled, tearing off the domino. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him returning to his friends. She was sure he already had forgotten the kiss he had seared into her lips. As he had forgotten her.

But she would never forget him.

One

Summer, 1793

Until Death do us part
.

Philippe de Villeneuve's hand fisted on the banister of the marble staircase curving up toward the private chambers in the Fortiers' country house. He had never spoken those words to Charmaine Fortier, but death was coming between them.

Not Charmaine's death, but his, if fortune continued to turn its back on him as it had his brother. Curse the guillotine and the fanatics who wielded it. Curses upon the one who had betrayed his brother. That man would learn the price of treachery was death at the hands of the newest Vicomte de Villeneuve.

He climbed the stairs, his every muscle tight with rage, and went along the hallway. Pausing to look at a painting of the countryside, he frowned. No doubt everything within Château de Villeneuve was stolen or ruined. The rabble had no appreciation for beauty.

Philippe rapped on a door. It was curved and painted white and gilt. Charmaine liked everything to be as pale as her skin and as golden as her hair.

He brushed past the lass who opened the door and went to greet his dear Charmaine. Splendid in silk
déshabillé
that could not lessen the opulent glory of her hair, Charmaine Fortier was the goddess he worshiped. He had from the moment he first saw her, even though she had been betrothed to Thibault Fortier, whom she had married two months later. Such a wondrous woman deserved better than an old husband who could not satisfy her. Philippe had been happy to do so when he could spare time from his family's lands a half-dozen leagues from here.

So many times he had entered this round antechamber, but he seldom noted the pastoral scene painted along the walls or the gold-covered benches ringing the room. He thought only of reaching the door to the inner chamber where pleasure was undeniable and undenied.

Taking Charmaine's hand, he knelt next to the chaise on which she sat and pressed his lips to her perfumed palm.

“Ah, Philippe,
mom cher
,” Charmaine murmured in her breathy voice. “How sweet of you to spare me from the boredom of an empty afternoon! So long it has been, my dearest love.”

“Forgive me, but I have had no time to ride here,
ma coeur
.” Sitting beside her, he fought to keep his voice even. “Nor may I linger, for I am on my way to Paris to do what I must for Lucien.”

“Your brother always makes a mess of everything.”

“
Made
a mess of everything.”

Her pale-blue eyes widened. “Lucien is dead?”

“Executed as an enemy of this Revolution. He—”

The door from the inner chamber opened, pushed aside by a slender hand. Dark hair framed the face peeking around it. “He is gone, Madame. He was not seen by Monsieur de Villeneuve.”

“Vicomte de Villeneuve,” Charmaine snapped. “Remember that, girl. Now, begone.”

“And whom was I not to see?” Philippe asked quietly.

The young woman recoiled, staring at him in horror with wide, brown eyes. When she pressed her hands to her lips, he turned to Charmaine, who was coming to her feet.

“Begone, you fool,” Charmaine snapped, “for the
vicomte
has no interest in hearing the gardener has finished delivering the plants I ordered.”

“Of course, Madame,” the young woman said.

Philippe chuckled as he noted the warm tint of a flush along the serving lass's cheek. As she closed the door, he said, “Such enthusiasm your servants have to do your bidding,
ma coeur
.”

“She is a fool!” Her voice remained sharp. “I took her from the kitchens when one of my servants ran away to marry a man as silly as she. I endeavor to give her a chance to better herself, but she has no wit.”

“You are kind to offer her the opportunity.”

Charmaine clasped his hands, drawing them to her breasts. “
Mon cher
, Thibault will not return until the morrow. Surely you need not rush away.”

Even as his body responded eagerly, he shook his head. “I must go without delay to Paris.”

“Paris?” She shuddered, brushing against him.

Mayhap he could delay his journey to sample anew what was waiting for him in her grand bed with its silver curtains.… Impossible! Even an hour might cost him his vengeance.

“Tell me, Philippe”—her lips grazed his cheek before teasing his ear—“is it as bad in Paris as rumored?”

“Worse than you can know.” He stepped away while he still could resist her full lips. If matters were different, he could savor them. A pulse of pain surged through him. The duty was his alone, because he alone survived of the name de Villeneuve. “The horde controls the streets, I am told. They have turned upon each other when they do not have other prey. I would be foolhardy to enter Paris without some sign I have accepted the mob's rule.”

She touched the tricolor ribbons he had pinned to his coat. “You wear their emblem proudly.”

“Not proudly. I simply wear it.” He curved his fingers along her cheek. “'Tis not enough,
ma coeur
. I need an outward symbol that I have embraced the lunacy they profess.”

“What kind of symbol?”

He went to the door to her bedchamber. Putting his hand on the gold knob, he said, “The lie must serve me until I delight in seeing Lucien's betrayer dead at my feet.”

“Philippe!” She picked up a befeathered fan and wafted it. “What do you plan?”

“To marry.”

“Marry? Who?” She flung her arms around his shoulders. “
Mon, cher
, what have I done to make you turn from me? Only last summer, you told me that if anything happened to you, you would entrust me to watch over Lucien, so he would be a good guardian of Château de Villeneuve. Now …” She spun away. “And now you toss me aside to wed another.”

He brought her to face him. “Charmaine, I marry only for pretense.”

“Pretense?” She wiped her eyes.

“It is well known that I now possess the title of
vicomte
. That alone is enough to sentence me to death.” He combed his fingers through her tawny hair. As he drew it back, he saw the unmistakable bruise of a deep kiss on her neck. His eyes narrowed.

Charmaine turned her head and pushed her hair back into place. “Even Thibault thinks occasionally of love.”

“You said he was gone.”

“He left this morning.” She fluttered the fan again. “Philippe, he is my husband.” Not giving him a chance to retort, she went on. “What I wish to know is who will be your wife.”

“That is up to you.”

“To me?” She lowered the fan.

Philippe laughed tightly. “Heed me,
ma coeur
, and do not tell me I am crazy, for I fear the only way to fight the insanity gripping France is to be as mad.”

Lirienne heard the voices from the antechamber and closed her eyes. How dare Madame make her a part of the lies she spun, like a spider securing its prey, about her lovers! Monsieur—no, Vicomte de Villeneuve—was nothing like Madame's other lovers. Even though he had said little to Lirienne, he had not emphasized those words with a blow.