Lion of Languedoc (11 page)

Her lips were full and soft, cherry-red. Her nose was straight, her face heart-shaped, and her hair … Dear Lord! Raphael de Malbré gazed mesmerised. Never in his life had he seen hair like it. All of a sudden he was looking forward to more than a few weeks hawking and hunting with his friend. With village girls like this in Chatonnay his visit was going to be a memorable one.

‘Armand is with Ninette, and who else is there?' Marietta was saying fiercely, fighting back tears of humiliation as she saw the amused expression on the exquisitely dressed occupant of the carriage and the all-too familiar look in the younger man's eyes. She might as well be naked the way he was looking at her, and as for Léon … He looked as if he could quite happily-choke her to death.

‘How dare you behave like a peasant!' he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘You've shamed me in front of my guests, made your position at Chatonnay impossible …'

A goat, taking advantage of the stationary carriage, jumped nimbly beneath Marietta's arm and on to the ground.

‘Now see what you've done,' Marietta cried, jumping down from the cart. ‘Do you know how long it took me to get these stupid animals into the cart in the first place?' Breathlessly she raced after it, picking up her skirts to run the faster.

‘Hell's light!' Léon seized his riding crop and leapt from Saracen's back, running after her.

‘Do you realise what a spectacle you're making of us?' Eyes that were once honey-gold were black as the Devil's as he seized the goat's hind legs while Marietta held frantically on to the front ones. The goat squirmed, depositing a large amount of straw and stale dung on to Léon's immaculate black velvet.

‘God's grace!'

She thought he was going to strike her as she hauled the goat from his grasp, and he brushed angrily at the offending dirt.

The sight of Léon, sophisticate of Versailles and warrior of the battlefield, struggling with an unkempt village girl and protesting goat was too much for the de Malbrés. The Duke was wiping his eyes with a lace kerchief, while Raphael's laughter was loud enough to be heard both in Montpellier and Chatonnay at the same time.

Léon struggled to speak, failed, clenched his fists and swung on his heel, leaving Marietta to struggle with the still writhing goat as he mounted Saracen, his shoulders rigid with anger.

Raphael de Malbré, still laughing uproariously, blew her a kiss from the window of the carriage as she sat, the goat in her lap, her skirts high around her knees.

‘Not even a pair of shoes on her feet!' Léon said explosively to his mother when the de Malbrés had been settled in their rooms. ‘Driving the mule and cart like the commonest peasant, and with one hundred and fifty goats in the back!'

‘Twelve,' his mother said, biting her lip to prevent herself from laughing.

‘Twelve, twenty, one hundred, what difference does it make? How am I going to introduce her to the de Malbrés now?'

‘As a kind-hearted girl willing to ride in the heat to Montpellier for goats to provide milk for the peasants who live on
our
land and cannot afford goats of their own.'

‘Any of the village men could have gone for the goats.'

‘And drunk the money,' Jeannette replied equably. ‘You should be proud of Marietta, not ashamed. The goats and bees will make a big difference, not only to us but to all those who depend on us.'

There was a long silence and then Léon said in a voice dangerously quiet, ‘What bees?'

Jeannette winced. She had meant to break the news of the bees gently, not blurt it out while Léon was still in a raging temper over the goats.

‘What bees?' he repeated, eyes smouldering.

‘The ones in the orchard. Marietta thought it would be a good idea to …'

The door slammed behind him and Jeannette sank down into a chair and poured herself a restorative glass of plum brandy.

Lili and Cécile scuttled out of his way as he stormed through the château and out into the orchard. What yesterday had been a wilderness was now transformed by line upon line of neatly arranged beehives. Close by, penned in the meadow adjacent to the kitchen garden, the goats grazed peacefully.

Léon swore, but this time in reluctant admiration. In a week she had done more for Chatonnay than Mathilde had ever done. And the sight of her in that cart surrounded by goats was not one he would forget in a hurry. He grinned, his anger disappearing as quickly as it had been aroused. The Lord alone knew what the two of them had looked like, struggling with that wretched animal! No wonder Henri and Raphael had laughed themselves senseless. If word of it reached Versailles his reputation would be ruined. He determined to threaten Raphael with a cracked jaw if he even so much as whispered about it.

‘What's her name?' Raphael called from behind him and Léon turned to see his friend approach, his travelling clothes changed for a slashed doublet that showed the finery of his Dutch linen shirt and a pair of breeches tied above the knee with a profusion of ribbons in the style affected by anyone with any pretentions to fashion. It was reputed at court that Raphael de Malbré had used as much as two hundred and fifty yards of silver ribbon in one outfit. He was as tall as Léon but slimmer, his hair carefully powdered. In the orchard, the air heavy with the hum of bees and the drifting aroma of goats, he looked out of place—like an exotic bird in a farmyard of hens.

‘Who?' Léon asked, knowing very well who his womanising friend meant.

‘The red-haired wench with the goats. Hell and damnation, I've never seen a sight like her.' He rubbed well-manicured hands in anticipation. ‘I've not had sport with a village girl for years, but I'm going to make up for it now. Did you see that hair and those breasts? They're enough to make a monk break his vows! Now, what's her name and where can I find her?'

‘Her name,' Léon said with a sudden spurt of anger, ‘is Marietta Riccardi, and you can find her at my dinner table,' and he turned his back on his dumbfounded friend and strode back into the château.

‘How was I to know Léon would be riding back on the Montpellier road with his guests?' Marietta asked Céleste bad-temperedly as she hooked her into her gown.

Céleste giggled. ‘But with a cartload of goats! What
will
the Duke think?'

‘I don't know and I don't care,' Marietta lied, beginning to brush her hair fiercely.

‘Well, you can't wear the lawn green again, the hem is thick with dust.
My
gowns never get in such a state!'

‘
You
don't buy goats.'

‘I should think not!' Céleste shuddered with horror. ‘Nasty, smelly things. Have you seen the gown Aunt Jeannette has laid out for you? I think the colour a little drab myself, but at least it's better than my lawn green, and I
can't
lend you my pink satin. I must look my best tonight. Raphael de Malbré is reputed to be the handsomest man in the whole of Paris, excepting Léon of course, but Léon is to marry Elise so he doesn't count.'

She chattered on happily as Marietta stepped into a dress of heavy amber velvet. The colour glowed like autumn leaves, the perfect foil for her hair and eyes, and it was no accident that the deep scooped neck and nipped-in waist fitted to perfection, or that the full-blown sleeves gathered in so tightly at the wrists. Jeannette has spent all day sewing and altering and making sure that the dress that had been hers would look as if it had been made for Marietta and for no one else.

The Duke de Malbré had accepted Jeannette's explanation that Marietta was an old friend, staying with them until the wedding, with a grave face and a twinkle in his eyes. He had known the de Villeneuves for years and had never before met anyone who even remotely resembled the redhaired vixen who had given Léon such a tongue-lashing as they struggled over the goat. As for why any lady of quality should be riding around the countryside barefoot and driving a mule, Jeannette had made no attempt to explain and the Duke had the manners not to press her. It would, he thought, be rather hard for even Jeannette to think up a plausible explanation.

Raphael had been first disappointed, and then delighted. Disappointed because it meant if the girl was no local peasant there was no way he could enjoy her body without preamble; delighted because it meant he would be in her company for long periods, and with Léon on the verge of matrimony he would have no competition. Like his father, he found the de Villeneuves' explanation of Marietta's presence too vague to be satisfying, but it added piquancy to the situation. Was the girl Léon's mistress, and was he reluctant to give her up even though he was about to marry? It wouldn't be the first time he and Léon had vied for the favours of the same lady. This time he, Raphael, had a distinct advantage, for Marietta Riccardi could not be happy at the prospect of Léon marrying and so would be more than willing to find consolation in other arms, and Léon could do very little about it. For if he did, his bride-to-be would discover his secret. Raphael had lost too many ladies to Léon's dark charms not to feel a certain sense of satisfaction. Marietta Riccardi did not know it, but in Raphael de Malbré's eyes she was his already.

With throbbing nerves Marietta followed Céleste along the gallery and down the broad sweep of the stairs. Léon was leaning against the fireplace, a wine glass in his hand. Unlike his friend, his hair was still unpowdered, hanging in glossy curls over the exquisite lace of his falling collar. He was dressed in scarlet velvet, the well-shaped legs adorned with garter ruffs and the heels of his buckled shoes fashionably high.

Marietta took a deep trembling breath and steeled her self to meet his gaze. She felt her legs weaken with shock as instead of the blazing anger she expected she saw at first startled surprise and then open admiration.

The low neckline of her dress was laced with silk ribbon, the bodice embroidered with tiny mother-of-pearl flowers. A string of Jeannette's pearls circled the base of her throat and the fiery cloud of her hair had been swept by Céleste into glistening ringlets in the manner of a lady of fashion.

He felt his throat constrict. Lord of Grace, even with Elise at his side she set his blood on fire. He mastered his emotions, turning graciously to the delicate figure of his bride-to-be as he introduced the two girls.

The moment Marietta had dreaded had arrived. Elise Sainte-Beuve looked like a china doll in a gown of ice-blue grosgrain silk, corn-coloured ringlets falling to her naked shoulders. She took Marietta's hand and gave her a smile of incredible sweetness. If Lancerre and Chatonnay were rife with rumours of the red-haired wench the Lion of Languedoc had returned with, they had not reached Madame Sainte-Beuve. There was no hint of jealousy in her eyes, no disapproval.

‘I've been looking forward to meeting you,' she said, her voice so soft it was scarcely more than a whisper. ‘I've asked Léon to bring you with him when he visits me. There are not many people of my own age to be friends with in Lancerre.'

Marietta stared at her helplessly. She had hated this woman who had Léon's love and now, face to face with her, the hatred she had nursed was evaporating as fast as dew on a summer morning.

‘Le Duc de Malbré,' Léon said and Marietta found her hand being kissed by the distinguished gentleman who had watched her with such amusement earlier in the day. He was in his early fifties and wore shoes that were high-heeled and studded with tiny diamonds. His suit was of dark blue velvet, the collars and cuffs embellished with gold lace.
Point de Venise
lace. She suppressed a smile, wondering if the elegant Duke was one of those who smuggled the precious commodity into the country under cover of his cloak.

‘And Raphael de Malbré,' Léon's voice changed slightly as his dashing friend took Marietta's hand and kissed it for far longer than was necessary.

‘My pleasure, mademoiselle. If I had known Chatonnay held such treasures I would have journeyed here long ago.'

‘And would have been disappointed,' Léon said, trying to keep a note of irritation out of his voice. ‘Mademoiselle Riccardi is staying here only for a brief period. Her home is in Venice.'

‘Her home,' Raphael de Malbré said, blue eyes alight with undisguised admiration, ‘should be Versailles. Her beauty far exceeds that of the famed ladies of the court.'

Léon firmly took Raphael's arm and led his friend to where Céleste waited in a fever of impatience to be introduced. Her jealousy at the flattery he had bestowed upon Marietta was soothed by his fulsome compliments as to her own beauty. But the fire in his eyes that Marietta had kindled was no longer there as he kissed Céleste's plump little hand, and Léon's sharp eyes were well aware of it. He would have to inform Raphael in no uncertain terms that no liberties were to be taken with any guests staying under his roof, though if his own experience was anything to go by he was worrying unnecessarily. Marietta was quite capable of looking after herself, and it was inconceivable that she would encourage Raphael's attentions when she had spurned his.

Jeannette led her guests into the dining-room and the splendidly set table. With relief Marietta saw that Lili had done well. A dazzling white damask cloth set off the silver, and in the centre of the table was a huge roast turkey stuffed with chestnuts and garnished with baked apples. The salads Marietta had taught Lili to make lay appetisingly in their dishes, and on the dresser was a giant bowl of freshly washed fruit.

Jeannette's normally serene face was slightly worried as she turned to her son, saying, ‘Henri tells me that the King is already annoyed at the length of your absence.'

‘Even Louis cannot expect me to travel south and return in two weeks,' Léon replied, aware that Raphael was whispering in Marietta's ear and that there was a smile lurking at the edge of her lips. He was finding it very hard to keep his attention on his mother's conversation.