Louisa Rawlings (7 page)

“I know it’s unseemly in a woman, but…” She shrugged. “Tintin taught me to enjoy the earth’s bounty.”
 

“Good.” At his signal, the servant brought them plates of food and silver goblets filled with wine. They ate and chatted until, unable to manage another mouthful, Rouge put down her cup, sighed, and closed her eyes.
 

“You set a fine table, monsieur le comte!”
 

“Arsène.”
 

She opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Arsène.”
 

He moved closer and put his hand across her shoulders, pulling her into his embrace, and leaning her back against his arm. His kiss was gentle on her mouth, and when he abandoned her lips to trail soft kisses down her neck and onto her bosom, she didn’t resist. It was pleasant to lie here, to be held and kissed by a man who so obviously adored her. He buried his face in her neck. “You smell of lavender,” he murmured. He lifted his head and smiled. “But you wear no necklace, I’ve noted. Not even with your court dress. No jewels at all. Only that ring.” He held her hand in his, examining the small circlet about her middle finger. “’Tis very old and worn. A lion couchant. The Tournières crest?”
 

“No. Desportes. My mother’s family. As to jewels…I left them all at Sans-Souci,” she lied. “It seemed too dangerous to travel with them.”
 

“Of course.” He released her from his embrace and reached into the pocket of his waistcoat. “Then perhaps you will allow me…”
 

She gasped. In his hand was a choker of large, lustrous pearls—the very latest fashion, and quite the most exquisite necklace she’d ever seen. “Oh, but it’s beautiful.”
 

“Take it. It’s yours.”
 

“Don’t be foolish, Arsène. I can’t take such a gift.”
 

“Why not? It would be my pleasure to see you wearing my pearls.”
 

It really was kind of him, and she scarcely wanted to hurt his feelings. But it was out of the question. “The gift is too expensive, Arsène. A man would give a gift like that to his
mistress
…” She stopped, seeing the look on his face.
 

“And would that be so abhorrent to you?”
 

She looked about the isolated grove. “I think it best we return to the palace,” she said coldly.
 

“Wait.” He put his hand on her arm, preventing her from rising. “You’re angry again. I’ve overstepped the bounds.” His eyes searched her face, peering deep into her almond-shaped eyes. “
Mon Dieu
,” he muttered. “Am I so jaded, so corrupted by this place, that I can no longer see the truth? I’ve never known a woman here who didn’t throw herself at a man at the first opportunity, for all her protestations of innocence. Can it be that you are truly as virtuous as you seem?”
 

“Is that so difficult to accept?”
 

He brushed his fingers through his hair, clearly agitated by his thoughts. “Oh, I know you’ve told me so. On more than one occasion. But—forgive me—I thought you played a game, denying me only to strengthen your hold on my heart. It’s a game the ladies play so well here.”
 

“But why should you have doubted me?”
 

“Do you never look in your mirror? Your eyes are full of mystery, seeming to hold a knowledge as old as Eve.”
 

“Am I to be judged by my eyes? How unkind of you. And you’ve thought thus of me from the very first? But Eve herself was virtuous
before
the Fall.”
 

He seemed to be wrestling with his emotions. At length, he took her hand in his, clasped it tightly in his firm grip. “If that is so, Marie-Rouge, you’re to be prized more than ever. Let me speak to your father.”
 

She gaped, surprised by the suddenness of his proposal. “Marriage?”
 

He smiled. “I scarcely think, from all I’ve heard, that I should care to ask your father’s advice on the playing of cards! Yes. Marriage.”
 

Now the moment had come, why did she hesitate? It was unexpected, but what she’d been hoping for. “Sans-Souci is not a…a fine château,” she stammered. “I’m scarcely a rich prize.”
 

“No man could want more.
My
land is good, my holdings are as fine as any in this realm. I can marry to please myself.”
 

She thought: He never spoke of love. It shouldn’t matter to her, in view of her own feelings toward a good marriage. Still… “
Would
I please you?” she asked softly.
 

His eyes glittered with passion; he kissed her hard, his mouth devouring hers. It took her a moment to catch her breath. “I want to possess you,” he growled. “To know that you’re mine alone! Give me your answer. Let me speak to your father!”
 

“I—I don’t know…” What was the matter with her? Hadn’t his kiss moved her, made her yearn for more?
 

“Is there another man who claims your heart?” he rasped.

She hesitated, wondering whether it was a sudden flash of jealousy she’d seen in his eyes. “Of course not, Arsène. But…it’s so soon. We scarcely know each other. It’s hardly a week! How can we decide so soon?”
 

“From the moment I saw you, I swore to have you. Long before we met. If marriage is the way to win you, to claim your virtue, then I want you in marriage. It’s as simple as that.”
 

She was torn with conflicting emotions. “Give me a day or two. Time to think. Ask me again on Thursday.”
 

He stood up and put on his coat. “I’ll not be here on Thursday. I have business in Paris. I leave tomorrow.” He snapped his fingers impatiently, signaling his servant to begin gathering up the picnic. It was clear he was angry. Or hurt.
 

“When do you return?”
 

“When it suits me.” His voice was like ice.
 

“Surely you’ll be here for Monseigneur’s fête?” She held out her hands to him; with some reluctance he helped her to her feet.
 

“Perhaps.”
 

She put a gentle hand on his arm. He was scarcely to blame because
she
was filled with sudden misgivings! “Arsène, I beg you. Don’t be angry. Only give me time to look into my heart. I know the answer will be what you wish to hear. My father says I’m too sensible, too practical. I must weigh every decision, explore my heart fully.”
 

“I speak of passion. You speak of practicality,” he sneered. “It’s not very flattering.” He gestured toward the château. “Unless you insist otherwise, I’ll not escort you to your rooms.”
 

Conscience-stricken at the pain she was causing him, she tried to be reassuring. “When you return from Paris,” she said softly, “you may speak to my father.”
 

He shrugged. “Perhaps I shall. Perhaps not.” He turned on his heel and strode away across the lawn, his back rigid with injured pride.
 

She bit her lip, cursing her own indecision, half tempted to run after him and fling herself into his arms.
 

Tintin was bubbling with happiness when she returned, heavy-hearted, to their rooms. His pursuit of the widow was going well. At sight of his dear face, wreathed in smiles, Rouge shook off her gloom. She perched on his bed, smiling in pleasure, as François helped him dress for the evening. He was extolling the virtues of his lover for the hundredth time.
 

“I tell you, Rouge, to kiss my sweet Nathalie is like sipping nectar. And when she smiles upon me…ah!”

Rouge gestured to François. “No. Take the other sash. The blue one. I’ve seen your Madame de Chambault, Tintin. She
is
charming. Does she care for you?”
 

Chrétien looked hurt. “How can you ask such a question? She grants me the last favors!”
 

Rouge laughed and lay back on the bed, idly fingering the bed hangings. “Oh, Tintin!
Every
woman grants you the last favors! You have a way of looking like a lost puppy dog. I suspect every woman finds it irresistible.” She laughed again as he hung his head, his expression benign and innocent. “Except, perhaps
Maman
, who knew what a rogue you are!”
 

He grunted and adjusted his cravat. “And who taught
you
! Too well, I’ll be cursed!”
 

“You haven’t answered my question. Does Nathalie de Chambault, the charming vicomtesse, care for you? Enough to make an honest man of you?”
 

Chrétien frowned. “To speak the truth, I don’t know. There’s time for the pleasures of love, of course…”
 

She giggled. “With you, there’s
always
time for the pleasures of love.”
 

He chose to ignore the gibe. “Her brother, plague take him, is still set against me. Our moments are stolen from the day. I adore her, but I scarcely know her well enough to call it love. Nor to consider marriage.”
 

“What’s to be done?”
 

“If we could be alone, far from the distractions of the court and the prying eyes of her brother, I might begin to know the lady better. She has a friend, with a château in Normandie. Nathalie has written to ask if we might stay for a month or so. All very circumspect, you understand. We’d slip away, telling no one,
naturellement
.”
 

Rouge stood and crossed to her father, straightening his cravat for him. “That would be a good idea. I’m off for Sans-Souci right after Monseigneur’s party. I planned to go, whether or not you came with me. There’s so much to be done at home. But it will relieve my mind to know that you’re far away from the gaming tables!”
 

“Poor Rouge! While you husband our resources, I throw them away!” He sighed. “But I’m too old to change my ways, not even for the love of my dear Rouge.”
 

She touched his cheek in a tender gesture. “I know that, Tintin. That’s why I intend to see that you’re taken care of. With enough money to save you from your weaknesses.”
 

“It would take a great deal of money, God knows,” he said, lifting his brown wig to pull thoughtfully at his earlobe. “Even
I’m
distressed from time to time, thinking of what I owe.”
 

“Arsène de Falconet has asked me to marry him,” she blurted.
 

“
Hein!
You don’t mean it!”
 

“Not two hours ago.”
 

“Have you accepted?”

“Well—not completely. That is…I said that I’d think about it.
He’s off to Paris for a few days. I begged him to wait for my answer till his return.”
 

“And what will be your answer?”
 

“When he approaches you with a formal proposal, I’ll want you to draw up a contract.”
 

“Does he love you?”
 

“I don’t know. Or, rather, I’m not sure. I know he wants me. He desires me.”
 

“But passion isn’t always love.”
 

“No. But it can turn into love. You’ve told me that yourself.”
 

“Do you love
him
?”
 

“I don’t think so. But he’s thoughtful and kind. I enjoy his company. I respect and honor him. And, heaven knows, we can save Sans-Souci…”
 

“Damnation! I want you to marry for love!” he burst out. “Not to save me, or Sans-Souci, or anything else! But for your own happiness.”
 

“
Oh!
Sometimes I feel as though I’m dealing with a child! Good marriages are arranged every day, Tintin! And no one’s the sorrier for it! You’re out of step with the times! It’s important for me to marry well; you know that. I’ll not compound your mistakes by…”
 

“My mistakes? My
mistakes
? Don’t take that tone with me!” His soft brown eyes had become hard. “By my faith, the greatest mistake I made was in not taking a switch to you the day you stopped calling me Papa!”
 

She stamped her foot. “I’ll marry Arsène!” she cried. “And you’ll agree to it when he asks for my hand! By God, if the devil himself came wooing me with the money to save Sans-Souci, I’d expect you to agree to it!” She brushed away her angry tears. “The devil himself!” She swirled away from him and swept into her own room, slamming the door behind her.
 

In the days that followed, an uneasy truce reigned between them. Rouge managed to dine with Clarisse de Beaucastel, and Tintin, lucky at the card tables, saw to it that supper was sent in for her and François, while he spent his time with the Vicomtesse de Chambault, his sweet Nathalie. With his good fortune, he had no need to ask Rouge to help him cheat at cards; for her part, she wasn’t sure she’d agree if he
did
ask.
 

But, thinking of Arsène in the dark of night, she began to wonder if perhaps Tintin was wiser than she. At least where the heart was concerned. A lifetime with the wrong man was a very long time. Her parents’ lives had been sweet, for all of Tintin’s recklessness—because there was love to smooth away the disappointments and troubles. She was still too upset with Tintin to tell him so (they had never quarreled so violently before), but she’d almost made up her mind to refuse Arsène, at least for the time being. If their feelings could blossom into love, well and good. But she wasn’t about to rush into marriage with a man she’d only known for a week or so.