Lion of Languedoc (14 page)

‘Then just watch,' Marietta said, forcing herself to speak. ‘See? By varying the number of stitches set close together and the length of spaces, you can make different patterns.' She had lost the girls' attention. Even old Widow Gautier was gazing after the rapidly vanishing figure of Léon de Villeneuve with a dreamy look in her eyes.

‘How I wish
I
were the Widow Sainte-Beuve,' Jacinthe said, and the others laughed.

‘He'll make a welcome change from the old Mayor of Lancerre, that's for sure,' Thérèse Colet said. ‘I doubt if he even managed more than a goodnight kiss!'

‘She'll get more than that from the
Comte
,' Jacinthe said, and there was another burst of ribald laughter. Marietta kept her head firmly lowered over her work, her cheeks flushed, her eyes agonised.

‘Do you remember how he threatened to kill the Mayor when he first heard about the marriage?' Babette said reminiscently. ‘And how it took his father and over a dozen men to stop him?'

‘And how he said he would return for her, even if it meant waiting years and years and years?'

They sighed rapturously. Cécile giggled. ‘Armand told me that all the ladies at Versailles were in love with him.'

‘Not the Queen as well?' they chorused incredulously.

‘Why not the Queen?' Jacinthe asked. ‘She's a woman, isn't she?
I'm
in love with him, and I would be even if I were Queen.'

‘And a fat lot of good it would do you,' her sister said as she finished marking out her pattern. ‘You can't even get the swineherd to fall in love with you!'

The other girls tittered, knowing full well how infatuated Jacinthe was with Nicholas Sandeau, and how he ignored her.

‘I overheard the Duke telling Madame that Madame Francine Beauvoir was the
Comte
's mistress when he was at court,' Cécile ventured. ‘I bet that's why he doesn't want to return there with his new bride. And he doesn't, Armand told me so.'

‘I heard that he fought a duel over her,' Jacinthe added. ‘I wonder what it would be like to be fought over? She must be very beautiful.'

‘So is Madame Sainte-Beuve,' said Babette loyally. ‘
She'
s the love of his life. He must love her very much to have returned for her after so many years.'

The rest of them agreed that he must.

With immense effort Marietta continued as if they had never been interrupted. ‘Now, Jacqueline, trace a single thread over your finished outline, fixing it in place by passing frequent stitches over it.'

The girls returned their attention to their work and Cécile and Lili had the grace to blush at the way they had spoken of the Comte in front of a girl who, after all, was no servant but a guest. And, if rumours were to be believed, perhaps something more.

Léon spent an unsatisfactory day making small talk with Elise in the claustrophobic atmosphere of her garden. He felt relieved when she made no objection that he spent the next day hunting again. On returning to Chatonnay and finding Marietta and Raphael deep in a game of chess, he had even had the grace to thank her for the instruction she was giving to his peasants.

Marietta had struggled to regain her composure and barely looked up from the game, knowing she could not meet those dark eyes without the emotion in her own showing clearly.

Léon poured himself a glass of wine and spent the evening in conversation with the Duke and Jeannette, glancing with ever-decreasing intervals across the room to where Raphael and Marietta continued to play. He noticed that Raphael was having to concentrate hard and he frowned. Where the devil had she learned to play a game of chess that challenged a de Malbré? And why was it Raphael who was enjoying such a diversion? He himself loved the game, but when he had suggested teaching Elise she had paled with horror, protesting that she would never understand such a complicated pastime and that all but the simplest game of cards was beyond her.

Marietta, becoming more and more aware of Léon's gaze, allowed Raphael to win and excused herself. To be in the same room and not to be able to talk and laugh or have the empathy with him that she had felt in those first heady hours after he had rescued her, was becoming more and more of a physical impossibility. That he would never love her she knew, but she longed for him to like her a little. To smile at her. Talk to her. She leaned her aching head against the coolness of the window, gazing sightlessly out over the dark trees as they soughed in the night air. Her days seemed composed of manoeuvres to avoid him, to save herself some measure of suffering. In the morning she would ride early to see Ninette Brissac. By the time she returned Léon would have ridden to Lancerre, and another meeting would be avoided. She lay down in her bed, but sleep was a long time coming.

Léon awoke with a feeling of unacknowledged relief. Today he could dress for riding and not for courting. It made a pleasant change and it put him in a better mood than he had been in for days. The church bells were ringing the Angelus as he strode across the flags in the courtyard to the stables and Saracen.

Marietta, returning from the Brissacs' cottage, rode full tilt into him. ‘God's truth!' he exclaimed, leaping out of the way. ‘Are you forced to ride as if you're fleeing a thousand devils?'

‘No, but I've work to do.' She hadn't meant to sound rude, but her skirt was covered in dust from the road and the breeze had dishevelled her hair. It seemed that she was always seen at a disadvantage, especially in comparison to the exquisite perfection of Elise.

‘Never mind the work,' Léon said impulsively. ‘Let's fly the hawks,' and without even waiting for her assent spurred Saracen in the direction of the drawbridge. Marietta's hesitation was fractional. It was the first time since her arrival at the château that he had spoken to her in the old free and easy manner. Digging in her heels she rode after him, the church bells were still ringing as they galloped between the thatched cottages of the village and out into the stone and shrub covered hills surrounding it. Saracen's tail streamed in the wind and the sheer speed of her own horse took Marietta's breath away as she strove to narrow the gap between them.

Léon rode fiercely, giving Saracen full rein, feeling a sense of heady breathlessness as the stifling boredom of the last few days was forgotten. Once again he enjoyed the feel of a galloping horse beneath him, the sight of a limitless horizon, and ahead of him his stable boy waiting obediently with the dogs and hawks. The dogs strained at their leashes as he wheeled Saracen round, his eyes alight as Marietta spurred her mare the last few yards.

‘You ride like a man!'

White teeth flashed in a smile Marietta had begun to think she had only dreamed about. It was the highest compliment Léon could give a woman, and knowing it Marietta laughed, feeling a sense of elation. Just when she had given up hope the old empathy had sprung up between them once more. But only for a short time. Tomorrow he would be with Elise. In a week she herself would be in Montpellier or Narbonne, but for the moment they were together and it was enough.

Her face was radiant and the stable boy gazed at her with such adoration that Léon drew his brows quickly together and ordered him to unhood the birds. ‘Have you hawked before?' he asked Marietta, already knowing the answer. There were times when he wondered if there was anything she had not done or could not do.

‘Not since my father died.' Her flamboyant red-gold hair fell loosely over her shoulders, her breasts heaving with the exertion of the ride.

Léon's breath caught in the back of his throat. By the Mass, but she was a beauty. No trinkets, no powder, no paint—just satin-smooth skin, sparkling eyes that made a man feel good to be alive and a vibrant vitality that paled every other woman into insignificance.

‘Then take the merlin.'

The bird had been bought especially for Elise, but Léon knew that his future wife would never ride with it on her wrist. There was a tinkle of bells as the birds moved their legs in the jesses and then the boy had slipped the merlin, the plumes on its feet fluttering lightly in the faint breeze. They reminded Marietta of the way Léon's exotic hat of ostrich plumes swayed elegantly when he rode off to Lancerre. She liked him better without his finery, his body strong and forceful, dressed for riding and for action, the powerful muscles of his arms and chest showing beneath his linen shirt as he slipped his falcon.

The bird flew at once, so high that Marietta had to shield her eyes against the glare of the sun. Then, so suddenly that Marietta gasped, it plummeted, seizing its prey. The stable boy unleashed the eager dogs and they ran, noses to the wind, to retrieve the hare that would eventually grace their master's table.

The merlin brought down a lark and a pigeon, and the dogs yapped merrily at their heels as they rode higher and higher into the hills, leaving the stable boy far behind them. This was better than the lush woods surrounding Versailles, thronged with lords and ladies of the court, more anxious to be seen in the King's presence than in enjoying their sport.

At last Léon hooded his hawk and rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle, feasting his eyes on the land around him.

‘Who would prefer Paris or Versailles to this?' he asked Marietta, his dark eyes gleaming with an expression she had never seen before.

The love he felt for the sun-parched land was tangible and Marietta responded to it fully. ‘Not me,' she answered.

He looked across at her, at the flush that heightened the honey-gold of her cheeks, at the rapturous expression on her face as she viewed the rolling land of vines and figs that was his. She was a southerner by blood and by nature. It was little wonder that she had never fitted into life at Evray: never been happy there. Sensing his gaze upon her she turned, this time no longer afraid to meet his gaze.

The green eyes burned so fiercely that it seemed to Léon no man could look into their depths without feeling the heat. The desires and emotions he had been fighting ever since he returned with her to Chatonnay could be fought no longer. His heart began to beat in slow thick strokes as he slid from his saddle. He must have her. If he did not she would for ever be a fever in his blood, inflaming and tormenting him. Once possessed, surely he could forget her as he had so many others? Slowly, without taking his gaze from hers, he crossed to her mare and circled her waist with his hands.

Her heart racing, Marietta allowed his hands to close around her, their heat searing through the thin cambric of her bodice as if she were naked. He lifted her down to her feet, holding her so close against him that Marietta could feel his heart beating against hers.

‘Marietta … Marietta …' His voice was thick against her hair and then his mouth sought hers with increasing urgency. Every nerve in her body responded to the touch of his hands, the pleasure of his lips on hers and then, as he cupped her breasts and as she felt the hardness of his body against hers and her own shameless desire, she uttered a helpless cry, twisting her head away from his.

‘Elise! What of Elise?' she demanded, and at the fleeting incomprehension in his eyes she knew the truth. He was still going to marry Elise. He was not making love to her. He was taking her as any man would a willing servant girl. And she, Marietta Riccardi, had been on the verge of submitting. Hot tears scalded her eyes as she drew back her palm and slapped Léon de Villencuve with all the force she could muster, across the cheek.

His desire changed to incredulity and then to anger.

‘What the devil …?'

With a cruelty he had not known he was capable of, he crushed her to him, bringing his mouth down so hard on hers that he tasted blood. Vainly she struggled as he forced her down on the ground, the weight of his body pinioning hers.

‘No,' she gasped, as his mouth sought her throat, her breasts. ‘Not like this, Léon! For the love of God! Not like this!'

With one hand he secured her flailing wrists while with the other he tore open the bodice of her gown. Marietta moaned and Léon halted, panting fiercely.

‘Don't play the virgin with me, Marietta. You were not quite so reluctant for Raphael's attentions!'

‘No,' she shook her head vainly, hardly able to breathe. ‘He tried to kiss me once but nothing more.'

‘And so to spurn him you laugh and flirt and play chess?' Léon said savagely.

‘And if I do?' Marietta's eyes flashed fire. ‘And if I had accepted his kiss, what of it? Raphael de Malbré is not a man about to be married!'

Her words were more effective than any show of violence could have been. He hurled her away from him so savagely that she rolled for yards in the dust and dirt. Then, with an oath, he sprang to his feet and strode towards Saracen without even bothering to give her a backward glance or brush the earth from his breeches.

‘Léon!' she called after him, her voice anguished. ‘Léon!'

But the black stallion was already disappearing down the hillside in a flurry of scattered pebbles.

The sun was beginning to set when Marietta returned at last to the château, the white stone walls golden in the last light of day. Her heart contracted when she saw the team of ebony-black horses and the elegant carriage that announced the presence of Elise. She entered by the kitchen door, hurrying discreetly to her bedchamber to bathe and change. Cécile eyed her curiously, noting the torn bodice of her gown. The Comte, too, had arrived back at Chatonnay like a man who had spent the day wrestling in the dirt. It was all very intriguing.

She provided Marietta with a bowl of rose-scented water, noting with interest the bruises on Marietta's wrists. Hurriedly she excused herself and ran to find Lili. They had been together, the Comte and Marietta. Armand himself had seen them ride off into the hills and from the way she had returned … Cécile's plump cheeks were pink with excitement. That her betters should behave as she did was a constant source of wonder to her. Especially when she thought of the Comte, now elegant in black velvet, his buttonholes heavily embroidered with gold thread, paying court to the Widow Sainte-Beuve. Cécile was sure
that
lady had never known the pleasure of having her bodice ripped open or her wrists bruised by an over-eager lover.