Royal 02 - Royal Passion (48 page)

Long seconds ticked past before he spoke, and even then he avoided her gaze. “You are more like your mother than I supposed. I married her because—who can say precisely why? I was lonely. She was beautiful and as different as possible from Angeline, and most of all she loved me. She discovered soon enough that my affection was not deep. She knew that I would never dishonor our wedding vows, that as my wife she would always grace my table and share my bed, and that we would be comfortable together. It wasn't enough. I suppose it isn't enough for you either. When you are strong again, in a week or two, I will make the arrangements for our departure."

"Thank you, Papa.” The victory had been easier than she had expected. She should have been glad. Instead, she felt numb, and in her eyes was gray bleakness.

Her father's well-meaning interference was not all she had to face. The cadre, for no reason that she could see, began to treat her as though it were an accepted fact that she would be with them always. They solicited her opinions on a thousand things and listened as if the answers had the weight of authority behind them. She could see no reason for it, unless it was Roderic's constant presence at her side, his air of possession. It made her uncomfortable, yet at the same time it gave her such a warm feeling of belonging that she was reluctant to discourage it. It would end soon enough.

She had progressed from sitting up in a chair in her room to taking her meals with the others and joining them in the salon. She put aside her dressing gown for ordinary clothing. She had thought she would have to leave off her corset, but discovered that the whalebone-stiffened garment, so long as it was not too tight, supported her mending ribs. The knowledge gave her hope that she would be able to leave sooner than she had expected.

In Louisiana it would be spring, but in Paris winter lingered. Despite the welling of the buds on the trees and bright displays of primroses on windowsills, the days continued gray, often with chill, drizzling rain. It was on such a day that Trude approached Mara in the salon.

Mara had been trying to embroider. She lay on a settee under one of the tall windows opening onto the entrance court, trying to find light to see the faint pattern she was following. As the other woman drew up a chair, she tucked her needle into the stretched linen in her hoop and thankfully flung it aside.

"There is something I have wanted to say to you,” Trude said, her face solemn.

"This sounds serious, indeed,” Mara teased her. “What is it?"

"Once I thought—I thought I loved Roderic. I know now it was only because he is my prince, my leader, and a handsome man."

The humor died from Mara's eyes. “And now?"

"Now I know something more is needed. I will honor him, I will follow him, perhaps I will love him a little. No more."

"It ... will be his loss.” Mara could think of nothing else to say to such a simple declaration.

"I think not. I love you also. I will be content."

"Trude, you must not think—"

"I don't think, I know. You have his love. I want to tell you that you take nothing from me. I also have my love."

Diverted, Mara asked, “Estes?"

A faint blush stained the amazon's cheeks. “The count. He is droll, is he not? He makes me laugh. I like that. And he has knowledge of women. That I also like."

Mara tried to picture the Italian and the tall, blond woman in a moment of passion, and failed. Perhaps Trude had not meant that Estes was experienced with women, but that he understood their needs. She would never know, and it was not important that she should. She reached out to press the other woman's hand. “I wish you joy."

Trude smiled, returning the clasp. “And you."

A few days later, Angeline arranged for a
musicale soirée.
The music would be provided by a trio of gypsies, great musicians all. Much of the music of Europe, Mara had been informed, had been taken from the ancient melodies and rhythms of the
Tziganes
, and many of the greatest violinists had gypsy blood in their veins. It was to be a rare treat.

Many of the people she had met in Paris were on hand: Aurore Dudevant, known as George Sand; the Dumas, rather and son; Honoré de Balzac; Victor and Adele Hugo. Conspicuously absent were Lamartine and the other deputies; they were much too busy for frivolous entertainments.

The music was superb, the sounds brought forth from the common stringed instruments were exciting in their complexity, yet achingly pure and sweet, like a pain in the heart. The hardened experts that were gathered applauded with tears in their eyes and shouted for encore after encore.

The conversation afterward was witty and sharp-edged. A great deal of it centered, not unnaturally, on politics. There was already a feeling of disenchantment, or so it seemed to Mara, with the new régime. The compromises necessary to govern a diverse people and the lack of firm proposals to deal with the worsening economical situation were viewed with disdain by the literary elite. The ideals of reform appeared to be lost. The only surprise in that, according to Roderic, was why the French, usually such realists, were so surprised.

Mara wore a gown of pale yellow satin for the soirée. She was feeling much better, and had even persuaded Lila to draw her corset strings a bit tighter for the occasion. Still, even when the music ended she kept to the settee where she was ensconced. Michael brought her refreshments and, deputized by Roderic, who was performing his social duties, stayed to keep her company. He was relieved a short time later by the twins. When they deserted her to chase after an actress from the Comédie Française, they were replaced by Luca.

The gypsy talked easily enough of the music they had heard and of great composers who had been influenced by his people, but his mood was morose. He seldom took his gaze from Juliana as she moved about the room. The princess never looked in his direction. That very omission seemed suggestive to Mara, but the man standing behind her was not encouraged by it.

There was a long period of quiet while Luca watched Juliana flirting with extreme vivacity with a French nobleman. His hand gripped the carved rosewood back of the settee until the knuckles were white. He said a soft word in the
calo
of the gypsies that sounded far from complimentary.

"What does she want of me, the Princess Juliana? I have given her my love, my heart, all that I am. I have suffered insult to gain her father's favor. I have left the tents of my people for her. What more can I do?"

Mara, watching the willful set of Juliana's head on her shoulders, said on impulse, “You have given so much, perhaps too much. What have you asked of her?"

"Only her love."

"But don't you want to know her, to discover what she thinks and dreams, what makes her laugh and cry, what strengths she has to complement yours?"

"More than the world, but how can I learn these things if she will not let me near her?"

It was, indeed, a problem. Finally, Mara asked, “What would you do if she were a gypsy woman and treated you this way?"

He smiled so that his teeth flashed white in his face."That would be easy."

"Well, then? She is a princess, but also a woman."

He looked skeptical, then, as he continued to watch Juliana with the lights of the chandeliers gleaming on her white shoulders and in the gold of her hair, his gaze became thoughtful. “Yes,” he said slowly. “Yes. And if she still despises me, it can be no worse."

That might be so, and again it might not. In some trepidation, Mara asked, “Luca, what are you going to do?"

He did not answer."Ah, Mara, what would we do without you? You must hurry and be well so that you and Roderic may be wrist-joined as man and wife."

He left her then, moving with the smoothness of the excellent muscle control of a man who has danced as well as fought for most of his life. He bowed before Juliana, speaking to her. Juliana said something sharp, turning away. Luca caught her arm so that she was pulled off balance, stumbling against him. In an instant, he bent and swung her into his arms, striding with her toward the door that led into an antechamber not far away. After the first moment of stunned incredulity, Juliana struggled, pushing against his chest, but she did not scream or call out for help. So quietly and quickly was it done that only a few people turned to stare.

Mara had swung her feet from the settee to rise, to go after them, when Roderic stepped in front of her. He put a hand on her shoulder, detaining her. “What, may one ask, did you say to Luca to turn him into a brigand carrying off the spoils?"

She looked up at him with a worried frown. “I only recommended that he treat Juliana as he would a woman of his own people. I had no idea that was what he would do."

"So simple,” he murmured. “Why didn't I think of it?"

"Aren't you going to stop him?"

"I don't expect he will go far; Juliana will see to that."

"But what if he harms her?"

He shook his head. “He is still her bodyguard, not an assignment he takes lightly. Luca is the one in danger, or so I would have said until a few minutes ago."

What Luca had said to her still rang in her ears. She took a deep breath. “Then if you have a few moments, could I speak to you?"

"Darling Mara, you have been speaking to me."

The facetious answer was, she saw, a barrier designed to give him time to assess her request. “I mean, seriously."

He searched her face, the smile dying out of his eyes. Inclining his head, he said, “As you wish."

He helped her to her feet and gave her his arm for support as he led her from the room and along the main gallery to his own apartment. A fire burned in the private salon, and he put her in a chair in front of it. He offered her wine and she refused. He moved to stand in front of the fireplace with his back to the glow until he saw the way she was forced to look up at him. He stepped then to the companion chair to her own, dropping into it, relaxing with his elbow propped on the arm. His face pensive, he waited without the least sign of impatience for her to begin.

She could not think of what to say. All the many things she wanted to make plain to him tumbled together in her mind without form. She wished futilely that she had planned better for this meeting instead of bringing it about on the spur of the moment. It was so important that he understand and accept the decision she had made.

She looked down at her hands, moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. “It seems we have been at cross-purposes since we met, always doing what was required of us, but for a different reason than the obvious. I am deeply ashamed of the way I used you. You have dealt with me better than I deserve. I—I did what I could to right the great wrong I had done, to repair the damage. And now I must leave."

She glanced up at him, at the arrested look on his features, then transferred her gaze to the fire. “There seems to be a feeling among your cadre that you—that we will be wed. I don't know where it came from, but I wanted to tell you that it isn't required. I am grateful beyond measure for your support while I have been ill. I know—I remember some of the things you said. They helped at the time, immensely, as they were meant to do. But I would not hold you to the letter of them. I will be returning to Louisiana soon with my father. You will be free of me, I give you my word."

His answer was soft. “That has the sound of pious renunciation."

She should have remembered how acute he could be. She sent him an earnest look. “There is no reason it should. It was an accident that two people such as you and me, from different sides of the world, ever met. That we should go our separate ways again is normal."

"Sacrifice. Ritualistic and complete. I cannot allow it."

"I won't marry you.” She could not put it more baldly than that.

He got to his feet, regaining the dominance he had willingly set aside before. Clasping his hands behind his back, he gazed in some bemusement at the oval of her face framed by the upswept curls of her hair, at the gentle curves of her breasts revealed by the low décolletage of her gown and the swift rise and fall of her breathing under the yellow satin. How lovely she was, and how stubbornly determined. Unlike Luca with Juliana, he could not sweep her up and shake some sense into her head or kiss her until she yielded because of her injured condition. The only weapons he had against her denial were words.

"Do you know why I came to Paris? It was not to occupy the official residence of Ruthenia or to sample the entertainments at which the French excel. I came because the events taking place here threatened the stability of Europe and my own country, because there were rumors flying of yet another attempt to assassinate Louis Philippe, one that showed signs of a greater chance of success than most—and because violent death among crowned heads is like a spreading disease; one often leading to another. My task was to prevent the assassination and to minimize the effects of the attempt."

Mara, aware that few ever received an explanation of his actions from Roderic, listened closely. When he paused, she said, “I would have thought the prevention of the revolution would have been your goal?"

Real humor lit his eyes. “I appreciate your confidence in my ability to control the political factions of France, but I confess it is beyond me—as it has been beyond several French kings to date. I did try. I took what steps I could to learn what the different groups were doing, but my first concern was to protect Louis Philippe since it appeared that he would be able to keep his middle-class support and therefore had the chance of holding France together."

"Juliana told me about your cadre and your role in preventing other assassinations."

"We were called the Death Corps, not what we would have chosen ourselves, but apt since assassins are usually driven men who must be permanently stopped if they are to be deflected from their objects. In Paris, the
garde de corps
and I set about testing the wind, collecting information. And then I saw you."

"You saw me."

She repeated the words with dull acceptance. Until that moment she had not really believed him capable of the duplicity of enticing her into his orbit, had not wanted to believe it. The knowledge hurt.