Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (19 page)

“No,” she said quietly. “It happened so
quickly, all of it, that there was no time to see much at all. But
I thought it strange when one of them should stay in the forest.
The others, they all had their faces covered with kerchiefs and
their hats pulled down, so why would their friend remain out of
sight?”

“A mystery indeed,” he murmured. “Let us not
think on it any more tonight.”

Antonia was ready to comply with this for
she was suddenly very tired. She rested her head on her arm against
the chair and watched the burning logs in the grate crackle and
hiss and occasionally burst into yellow flame. Shadows played up
the walls of the vast room making it feel close and comfortable and
peaceful. It also made her feel very sleepy. She did not know if
she fell asleep or not. It seemed only for an instant that her eyes
closed.

She felt content with her life for the first
time since her father’s death some eleven months ago, curled up on
the footstool at the Duke’s feet, the whippets stretched out on her
flowing petticoats, Grey with his muzzle on one of her discarded
shoes. She closed her eyes again and shifted to be more
comfortable, the Duke resting a hand on her curls. The gentle touch
of his fingers entwined in her hair caused a mixture of sensations
and the heat was back in her throat again. She had the oddest
feeling of embarrassment and yet of complete happiness and
something more, deep within her, that she could not explain but
which she knew was inexplicably linked to this man and this man
alone. She had felt it the very first time she had set eyes on
him.

It was at Versailles and he had been fencing
in the Princes courtyard watched by two dozen or more admiring
onlookers. Stripped to his shirt sleeves, the white shirt billowed
about his wide shoulders and was tucked into the waist of a pair of
tight black velvet breeches that showed to advantage muscular
thighs matched by strong calves encased in black stockings. His
hair, without powder and pulled tight off his starkly handsome
face, fell in a plait to the middle of his wide back. Watching him
thrust and parry with his opponent as they traversed the courtyard
she was caught up in the admiration for two well exercised and very
skilled practitioners of their art. But her eyes were all for the
Duke whom she considered the most magnificent specimen of maleness
she had ever seen.

To think she was curled up on his footstool
and he caressing her hair was dreamlike. She wondered if she opened
her eyes she would wake to find herself back in Maria Casparti’s
claustrophobic filthy rooms at Versailles. But his fingers in her
hair assured her that it was not a dream and she wished life to
remain just as it was, her and the Duke alone together in the quiet
of the library without the interference of others, not the Comte de
Salvan, not Madame and Lord Vallentine, and most definitely not the
Duke’s assortment of mistresses.

The Duke’s soft-spoken answer to a scratch
on the door ended the peace in the library. He did not move or
attempt to turn to see who trespassed on his time with Antonia, and
as she did not stir he was content to leave her be. The butler
informed him Madame had come home, and before Duvalier had a chance
to remove the coffee things Lord Vallentine and Madame de Montbrail
shattered the last vestiges of one of the most peaceful evenings he
had spent in a very long while.

“Bring a new coffee pot, Duvalier,” ordered
Lord Vallentine. “And port. If there is any food in your larder to
throw together a cold collation that would put the growls to rest.”
He looked about the room with a squint. “Why is it so damned dark
in here? Roxton not economizing is he, Estée?” He threw his
frockcoat on a sofa. “Glad we didn’t stay at Duras-Valfons’s little
affair. She has a pretty way with her and I admit she is
fascinating to look at but she wouldn’t suit me! You was right too.
Pleased with herself ain’t she? Glad you settled her on that score,
though your brother may not be finished with her yet. At least
there’s a fire in here. Hey-ho, Roxton!” He took two paces back and
grinned like an idiot to discover the Duke’s hard gaze upon him.
“Told you were in here but didn’t see you, did we, Estée?”

Estée had seen her brother and Antonia well
before Lord Vallentine had made the discovery. She also saw the
girl’s head resting against her brother’s crossed legs, with her
shoes kicked off, and the whippets curled up on the froth of her
petticoats. She stared significantly at him, and at his fingers
entwined in the girl’s honey curls, and sat down heavily on the
sofa opposite.

“How was the theatre?” Roxton asked
casually.

“Tolerable,” she answered in a clipped
voice, not looking at him. Then in a rush, because she could not
help herself, “The girl should have been put to bed hours ago!”

“Your motherly concern is lost on me, my
dear,” answered the Duke.

Lord Vallentine stretched out beside Estée
and drew out his snuffbox. “Salvan was at the soirée,” he said in a
low voice. “He was prancing about in those steepled shoes of his
laughing like a damned girl! I don’t like the look of him. He’s too
well pleased with himself. That makes me nervous.” He took snuff.
“The thing is, Roxton, he was very particular in telling me he is
going to make a call on you tomorrow.”

“Is he? How disappointing for him that I
will not be home.”

Lord Vallentine eyed Antonia for a moment.
“He’s not only giving you the pleasure of his company,” he said
grimly. “He wants to see the girl. Ugh, he offends me! He
positively gloats at the mention of her.”

“Calm yourself, my dear. I intend to take
Antonia with me. We will go for a drive in the country. The fresh
air will do her good. I will leave our cousin in your capable
hands, Estée.”

“As you wish,” said Madame. “Do you want to
hear about Thérèse’s soirée?”

“Not particularly,” answered the Duke.
“Richelieu in attendance?”

“No. He is to be sent to Flanders at the
head of his regiment,” Estée told him. “And it seems de La
Tournelle has ensnared Louis, for it is whispered she is to be
created a Duchesse! Madame de Mailly will surely be banished to
Paris—”

“I can think of a worse fate,” quipped his
lordship.

“But it is horrible for her, Lucian,” argued
Madame. “She truly loves the King. I do not think Marie-Anne
does.”

“Then she’ll last longer than most,”
predicted his lordship and leaned forward to help himself to the
cold collation just put on the table before him. “Know what,
Roxton, I’ve been thinking—”

“Spare me, I beg of you.”

Vallentine ignored the slight. “I don’t
think much of the whole Salvan clan,” he said, pointing a
half-chewed bread roll at his friend. “Grandmother, father or son.
That boy—”

“Étienne?
Parbleu
! He is just a boy.
What have you against him?” demanded Madame. “Tante Victoire and
Salvan I can understand, but not Étienne, he is different from
them.”

“Different, perhaps. But there’s something
about that lad that won’t wash,” said his lordship. “He’s pleasant
enough to you or I and to Roxton, ’cause he’s a little frightened
of your brother here. But I don’t like the way he’s been hauntin’
this house after Antonia. It unnerves me. And it’s obvious the girl
ain’t keen to see him.”

“Do eat that roll, Vallentine. I can’t abide
it in my face,” complained the Duke, and accepted a dish of coffee
from his sister with his free hand, careful not to disturb
Antonia’s slumber. “But go on. Your—er—nerves interest me.”

“How can you possibly have anything against
that boy?” asked Madame incredulously and looked from one to the
other. “How—”

“Let me finish, Estée, then you can scold me
if you wish,” said Lord Vallentine. “I’ve been about these past few
weeks when the lad has been visiting and I grant he can be very
personable. He’s a bit sulky but I’ll leave that be. He’s a black
to his father’s white. He takes too much of that mixture, call it
snuff if you will, but I’ve got my own ideas about the contents of
M’sieur d’Ambert’s snuffbox. You remember how upset he was at
Rossard’s, Roxton? And every time he’s come visiting, the poor girl
won’t see him. Says she ain’t up to it. I’ll tell you why she ain’t
up to it—”

“I am at a loss to know what you are trying
to imply against Étienne,” said Madame in an agitated voice.

“You can say what you like but I think the
lad is queer in his attic,” Vallentine stated and jabbed a finger
at his temple.

“That is utter nonsense, Lucian,” was
Madame’s response. “The boy has a melancholy disposition because
his mother died when he was young. She died under difficult
circumstances which were not pleasant for a sensitive child such as
Étienne to cope with. He was unnaturally attached to her. Salvan,
he has never had time for his son. The way you speak of him, it is
as if he was some sort of monster! He is young, that is all. Young
men, they sometimes do not know how to express their feelings in an
elegant way. And what hope has he with Antonia when she has eyes
only for my brother? Is it a wonder the boy sulks with such odds
against him?” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “You are merely
jealous of him, Lucian.”

“Jealous? Of a stripling?” scoffed
Vallentine.

“You see! You are!”

“I am not!” shouted his lordship, on his
feet and glaring at Estée.

“My dears, if you are intent on a quarrel go
elsewhere. You will wake Antonia.”

“How-how positively
fatherly
of you,”
Estée lashed out at her brother.

“Now listen, Estée,” his lordship demanded
angrily, “you leave Roxton be. He made a perfectly reasonable
request and we—”

“How like you! How very like you to defend
him,” she cried and burst into tears and fled the room.

Lord Vallentine stared after her, jaw
swinging. He colored up, mumbled unintelligibly to the Duke, kicked
a chair leg to vent his frustration, and strode off in pursuit.

Roxton waited a few seconds then peered down
at Antonia, gently brushing the mop of curls off her cheek. “You
can wake up now. I don’t think they will return.”

“Oh, you knew I was not asleep?” she said
with a chuckle and struggled to sit up. She stretched her arms and
tossed her hair over her shoulders. “Was it wrong of me to pretend?
I truly was asleep at first but I did not want to interrupt a
lover’s quarrel you see.”

“So you think?”

“Most certainly, Monseigneur. Can you doubt
their feelings for one another?” When he made no immediate reply
she peeped up at him from slipping on her shoes. “Why does Madame
scold Vallentine when she loves him, and why does he not marry her
when it is obvious he loves her?”

“Aha. Now there are two questions that
require complicated answers. I don’t think I am qualified to answer
for them.”

“Mayhap Madame is hesitant because
Vallentine keeps a mistress and she does not approve?”

The Duke scooped up her crumpled ribbon off
the carpet. “Most gentlemen do, petite,” he answered softly. “That
is not an obstruction to marriage.”

Antonia slowly brushed back her waist-length
hair, wondering how best to answer him. “If I was Madame,” she said
quietly, “I would not wish to share Vallentine with any female. I
would want to be the object of a singular devotion. It is a foolish
thought but that is how I would feel—if I was Madame.” She regarded
him with knit brows, his aquiline profile to the fire. “Do you mind
if Vallentine marries your sister?”

“Not in the least,” he stated flatly.

“I must go before Vallentine returns. He
will ask for your permission tonight I think.
Bonne nuit
,
Monseigneur.”

“
Bonne nuit, mignonne
,” he answered
absently, a hand out-stretched to the mantle. He watched the
flickering flames a long time, unaware she had slipped away until
his thoughts were interrupted by footfall. “Antonia, I—”

Lord Vallentine smiled self-consciously.
“Gone,” he said coming out of the shadows.

The Duke looked at him keenly and did not
miss the smudge of lip paint at the corner of his mouth. He closed
his eyes briefly and sighed. “You have come to ask me something of
grave importance, my dear Vallentine?”

“Well—yes, I suppose I have,” his lordship
muttered with hunched shoulders. “That is, I want to ask
you—possibly you’ve not guessed that I—that we—”

“The answer is yes. You are welcome to
her.”

“Well, stamp me if you didn’t know already!”
He let out a great sigh of relief. “Glad that’s done. Never been
more frightened of asking you a thing in my life.”

“Understandable. Being in love must be the
most frightening thing in the world. Good night
and—er—congratulations.”

Lord Vallentine’s eyes widened but he said
nothing and smiled to himself as he watched his friend silently
leave the library with one of Antonia’s ribbons unconsciously
dangling between two fingers.