Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (20 page)

Antonia was in the library searching the
shelves for a suitable book to read while she waited for the Duke
to return from his early morning ride. As soon as he had changed
out of his riding habit he was taking her on the promised drive
into the country. She really did not feel she could sit still and
read, such was her excitement, but the waiting was worse than
anything and she had been up and dressed for an hour.

The door opened and she thought it the Duke,
but Duvalier ushered in the Vicomte d’Ambert and left at the
youth’s insolent wave of dismissal. She gave a start then smiled
and put out a hand in greeting as he crossed the room. He frowned
at her, and at the whippets curled up on the hearth for they had
cocked an ear at his intrusion. He did not like dogs and he liked
these two even less. They were a reminder of the Duke; that this
was his house and that Antonia was under his protection.

He bowed over her hand and stepped back to
look her over. “I meant to be here yesterday but father asked that
I wait. He is coming especially to see Madame de Montbrail, and
you.”

She did not like the way he was regarding
her from head to foot but still managed a smile. “Have you no word
of greeting, Étienne? It has been a while since last we saw each
other, has it not?”

“Yes,” he replied mechanically.

There was something about her that annoyed
him. It was not her appearance, though he couldn’t remember when he
had seen her looking so pretty. The day gown of dark red velvet
became her figure, and the honey curls tied loosely with a red
riband fell caressingly about her bare white shoulders. He was
pleased she was finally out of the sick-room and seemingly fully
recovered from her injury, but it annoyed him she should look so
happy and pretty in the house of his father’s cousin. In fact, she
looked radiant.

She turned away and continued her search of
the shelves. “Can you reach the book third along; the one with the
burgundy spine?” she asked pointing up to a shelf out of her reach.
“No, the next one. Yes, you have it. It is a history of the
Julio-Claudian emperors. Have you read Tacitus?”

“Did you hear what I said to you?” he
demanded.

“Yes,” she said and took the book out of his
hand. “Your father is coming to visit Madame—”

“—and you,” he stated and took snuff.

“You take too much snuff, Étienne.”

“That is not for you to say!”

She smiled hesitantly. “There is no need to
shout at me. I thought you would be pleased to see me but it does
not seem so when all you do is frown.” She brushed the hair off her
shoulder. “Look. The scar is not so very bad and my arm is not so
stiff. So if you are worried lest you think me still ill—”

“Cover your shoulder,” he said, averting his
eyes. “I don’t want to see it. It is a hideous reminder—a reminder
you nearly died. If I had done what I threatened and locked you in
your room and not let you go to that masquerade…”

“Hush. You can’t blame yourself,” she said.
“Tell me what you have been doing whilst I have been ill. Have you
joined the Academy? Oh, Étienne, do not look at me in that way! I
am recovered, I assure you. And now I can look at the episode as a
great adventure! I have never been held up by highwaymen before,
not even travelling with Papa. And M’sieur le Duc was very brave to
shoot two dead and now—”

“—you are in his house receiving his
hospitality when you have no right to be here!” he flung at
her.

Antonia stared at him and bit back a retort.
She sat down on a sofa by the fire and pretended to read, but all
the while she was conscious of the Vicomte staring at her in
mutinous silence.

“You are quite content to remain with the
persons under this roof, are you not, Antonia?”

“Madame and Monseigneur have been very good
to me,” she answered without looking up from the printed page.

“And why do you think that is? Why do you
think they have been very good to you,
bébé
Antonia? Look at
me when I address you!”

Antonia still did not look up. She knew he
was beside her chair and she heard the familiar snap of his
snuffbox. The tan whippet moved to sit at her feet and its mate sat
up from the hearth. “Étienne,” she said calmly, “if you are about
to scold me, or try and warn me against M’sieur le Duc de Roxton,
or frighten me with one of your silly tales about your father
locking you up, I would rather you did not. I will not believe a
word of it. That is to say, I do not think you deliberately lie to
me, but that your own fears about your father have made you imagine
unreasonable fears for my safety. I know it is only because you are
worried for me but—”

The Vicomte burst into laughter and stamped
a foot upon the upholstered arm of her chair. “Worried for you?” he
snorted and snatched the book out of her hands and tossed it over
his shoulder. “Look at me,” he ordered. “Yes, I am worried for you.
But I have more to worry about than you can ever imagine! You truly
have no idea what is afoot, do you? You really are a
bébé
!”

“What is the matter with you?” demanded
Antonia. “Why do you goad me? What have I done to deserve your
anger? If you cannot speak in a civil tongue please go away. And I
hope for your sake you have not ruined that book because it is a
rare edition and M’sieur le Duc will be very angry with you.”

“What a fine lady thinks mademoiselle!”
mocked the Vicomte. “You think because Roxton plays the hero he is
one? Wrong! Wrong! Wrong! He is merely playing a game with my
father. Do you know what the prize is? Your virtue! Yes, oh so
shocked Mademoiselle Moran. It is a game they are playing with you
and me. The sooner you realize this the sooner you will learn to
trust me and do as I say, or both of us will come out the losers.
Your precious Duke laughs behind our backs as surely as you sit
there with that expression of outrage on your face. He hates my
father and my father him. They hate each other so much that they do
not care who is hurt in the process of their revenge. Let me tell
you a family secret—a scandal involving Roxton and my father.
Mayhap it will convince you he is not the man you believe him to
be.”

“You will not shock me, Étienne,” Antonia
said stubbornly. “I know precisely what his life is like. So?”

“So? Have you wondered why my father and
Roxton hate each other? They, close in age and raised almost as
brothers; they who are first cousins. They were very close as boys
and as young men they often debauched together. Grandmother told me
all about their adventures when young. I do not love my father, but
I pity him. He is a great coward. I would have called Roxton out
for what he did to my mother. But my father, he cares more for his
name than his honor. So he simpers about pretending to be on the
best of terms with cousin Roxton, all for the good of the family
name. Ugh! I despise him!”

He pulled a face and dipped into the
contents of his snuffbox a third time.

“You think I am raving to say all this but I
am not. No. You tell yourself the Vicomte d’Ambert is mad,
deranged, a foolish boy, but I am telling you only the truth. He is
not a good man, Antonia. My father is not a good man but Roxton, he
is much worse. My father can never be branded a filthy
murderer—”

“Murderer? All because he dared shoot two
villains dead? That is not murder,” argued Antonia. She shifted so
the Vicomte was not so close but he came around to the other side
of the chair and blocked her view of the fire. “Étienne, I do not
care if he has shot a dozen villains dead.”

“Will you still not care when I tell you he
killed my mother?” he said softly and smiled to himself when she
looked swiftly up at him. “My father loved her very much and she
betrayed him. He shut himself away from the court for six months
after she died. He did not know she had had a lover until her
letters were found. Her letters and those of her lover! This lover
made her elaborate promises, and for these she betrayed my father.
Then, when this lover deserted her for some other pretty trinket
she could not live with the betrayal. She poisoned herself. Her
lover did not even have the decency to leave Paris when his
villainy was made known to the world. I know. I was twelve years
old and I remember M’sieur le Duc’s visits to my mother. It
disgusts me even now to think about it!”

“I am truly sorry you lost your maman in
such—such awful circumstances,” Antonia said gently. “The world can
be very cruel at times. But you must try not to dwell on such
matters. You were only a young boy and so cannot know the whole
truth of the matter. How—how can you be certain it was M’sieur le
Duc who was your mother’s lover? And your father, mayhap it was his
great jealousy of M’sieur le Duc which prompted him to accuse him
of such cruelty?”

“You are not shocked? You do not care that I
tell you he murdered her? He drove her to her death. She would not
have poisoned herself if he had not seduced her with false promises
and lies and forced her to be unfaithful to my father who loved
her!”

“That is unfair! M’sieur le Duc is no
rapist. If your maman had been a chaste woman she would not have
taken M’sieur le Duc as her lover. I am sorry if that offends you
but that is the way of the world, Étienne.”

The Vicomte gaped at her and the anger he
felt was uncontrollable. “You cold hearted bitch! I will not have
my future wife speak of my mother in such a fashion. What do you
know about her? You are not fit to speak her name! Father was
right. The sooner you are away from here the better for me.”

“What are you talking about? Wife? I am not
going to marry you, I told you that. Stop talking nonsense,” she
said in a level voice though he truly frightened her now. She made
to stand but he pushed her back in the chair. “M’sieur le Vicomte
forgets himself!”

“It is you who forget,” he spat out. “At one
time you could not wait to flee to England and now you sit in this
house as if you have a claim to it. You do not.”

Antonia held up her head defiantly but the
Vicomte saw his words had had an effect because she was trembling.
“When I am well enough I am going to London to live with my
grandmother.”

“So you think?” sneered d’Ambert. “Your
grandmother wants nothing to do with you. She has agreed that you
should be cared for by my grandmother until such time as our
wedding takes place.”

Antonia was out of the chair in an instant
and heading for the discarded book when the Vicomte caught her
about the waist and pulled her to him. “I do not believe you! You
are lying!” she said and struggled to be free of him. “Let go! How
dare you touch me!”

“You think I am lying? Just this week Salvan
received a letter from the Comtesse de Strathsay. It is true I tell
you! Salvan is coming here today to show it to your precious Duke
and his sister. Your grandfather will sign our marriage contract
and your grandmother has agreed with his wishes. Stop struggling!”
he demanded and kicked out a foot at the grey whippet that pawed at
his leg. “Call off these stupid animals!” He kicked out again,
connected with the tan whippet’s soft under-jaw and sent it
sprawling backwards with a yelp.

“Leave them be, Étienne,” Antonia whispered
fearfully. “They are frightened. They will not bother you if you
let me go.”

He seemed not to hear. He held her closer,
causing her to wince with the pain as her stiff arm was forced
behind her back. “Why would this grandmother in London want
anything to do with you when she has never seen you in her life?”
he argued. “Why should she not think a marriage with the Salvan
family in your best interests, eh?” He smiled down at her and
laughed. “I will not be going to the Bastille you see, because I
mean to marry you.”

Antonia stared at him in mute disbelief.
When he bent and kissed her full on the mouth she flushed scarlet
and jerked her head away, down into the crook of her arm.

“To seal the bargain,” he explained and
attempted a second kiss.

Lord Vallentine strode into the library.
Behind him was the Duke. They had just come from the stables. Dust
covered their jockey-boots and their riding frocks were slung over
a shoulder.

“I warned De Chesnay that last fence was
damned difficult,” said Lord Vallentine over his shoulder. “But the
silly fellow had to try and jump it anyway. It’s a small wonder
something other than the whalebone in his corset didn’t snap!”

“I seem to recall you only warned
the—er—silly fellow as he and animal were in full flight of the
attempt. Not the most opportune moment to shout out a warning.”

His lordship’s smile broadened into a grin.
“Damned inconsiderate of me, wasn’t it?” He glanced back into the
room to discover the Vicomte with his arm about Antonia’s waist. He
was holding her to his chest and kissing her on the mouth.
Vallentine sucked in air through his clenched teeth and pretended
an instant of blindness when the young couple sprang apart and
stood red-faced and guilty in the middle of the carpet. “Where’s
Duvalier with that bottle of burgundy?” he demanded in a loud
voice. “You sure the man ain’t getting on a bit in years to be of
use to you, Roxton?” He saw the Vicomte as if for the first time.
“Didn’t know you’d come to visit, d’Ambert. How goes the Academy? I
hear you’re top of your fencing class.”

The Vicomte mumbled an answer and declined
to say more. He was acutely conscious of Roxton’s hard gaze upon
him and he brought himself to stand up tall, despite the sick
feeling in the pit of his stomach. The grey whippet still pawed at
his leg and refused to be shaken off.

“I came to visit Mademoiselle Moran,” he
explained looking straight at Lord Vallentine, his face burning
bright with a hot flush. “It has been an age since last we spoke.
My father, he is to visit also, in a little while. He has a most
important letter for M’sieur le Duc. It is from the Comtesse de
Strathsay.”