Time for Eternity (16 page)

The assistants were packing up at last, having measured every part of her, held up swatches, prepared a stuffed mannequin that matched her figure.

“I shall send over a dress until we can put together the ”—here Fanchon smiled sweetly—“two day dresses you require.”

Fanchon waved a hand. “My customer lost her head before she could claim it.” She glanced to Françoise’s look of horror.
“Je
m’excuse,
mademoiselle. I do not guarantee a perfect fit, you understand, but you must have something on your back, and what is in the wardrobe in your room is hardly suitable.”

Françoise gathered her courage. “I am not sure some of the fabrics you chose would be suitable for everyday dresses …” She faltered under Fanchon’s raised brow.

“You question Fanchon?” The little lady raised her brows.

“I should never do that, child.” The baritone drawl came from the shadows in the hall.

“Your grace, what a pleasant surprise.” Fanchon motioned for the assistants to close the draperies. All Françoise could think about was that he was seeing her in her chemise. She didn ’t reach for the dressing gown. The room dimmed. She could feel his eyes on her. Part of her was horrified at her boldness, and part of her was … was challenging him. And she didn’t know which part was which.

He sauntered into the room, his dress the height of fashion except that he didn’t powder his hair or wear any patches. His eyes were glued to hers. They seemed to burn. Then they jerked away. “One may count on La Fanchon without reservation for her taste.” His tone was insouciant, in contrast to his recent expression.

Fanchon looked from one to the other then bent to retrieve Françoise’s dressing gown. “That is one thing we have in common, Avignon. I’ve always thought Satan probably had much better style than all those angels in that dreary white.”

Françoise took the dressing gown and, as she slid into it, a blush crept up her throat. A little late, that blush.

“Alors,
what are you waiting for?” Fanchon swept the assistants, who were standing as if transfixed by Avignon, out of the room. “We have much to do.”

“I should like to consult with you on your way out, ” Avignon murmured. He slid a glance at Françoise, who stepped off the platform so the last assistant could carry it away. Then he took Fanchon’s arm and they walked out of the room. Françoise didn’t like the stir of anger that took her as she watched Fanchon lay her other hand over the duc’s arm and look up into his eyes.

Belatedly, it occurred to her that he had come into the room only after Mademoiselle Fanchon had ordered the draperies closed.

That was odd and … interesting.

Nine

Henri shook himself. It was almost as if the girl had put a spell on him. Her eyes, as she stared at him, had held both ancient wisdom and … and innocence. Her limbs had been just as white, as finely formed as he’d imagined. And curse it all, he
had
been imagining. He should make her leave this house. He was in danger of courting disaster once again if she did not.

But he had come away as much to speak to La Fanchon as to escape the girl.

“Mademoiselle …”

She raised her brows in question. “Your grace?”

“At her first presentation tomorrow night, I want the world to be very certain that she is my ward —and nothing else. Do we understand each other?”

Fanchon cast down her eyes, but not before he saw the speculation in them. “But of course, your grace.”

He gestured ahead and they continued walking to the staircase. “She is an innocent, and I want her to dress that way.”

They reached the head of the staircase. Fanchon looked up at him. The speculation was back. “How old is she, your grace?”

Startled, Henri said, “Twenty-one, I think. Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” She stared past his shoulder down the corridor. “Only, sometimes I catch a look about her … a feeling that she is much older and more experienced. More … world-weary. No girl of twenty-one looks like that.”

He wasn’t imagining it. The dressmaker saw it too.

“One strives to capture the spirit of the woman in the dress one makes for her. ” She tapped one finger against her lips as she thought. “Can one ignore that strange duality of innocence and experience?”

“Mademoiselle Fanchon,” he said firmly.
“À la jeune fille.”

Fanchon seemed to come to herself. “I know. I know. It will be as you desire. And yet, would it not be a test of skill to express that complexity of character in a wardrobe?” She sighed and glanced up to Henri. “Be careful, your grace.”

Henri waved a languid hand. What did she mean? “I? I am never careful, Fanchon.”

She looked him over. “But I think you are. Very careful. You cultivate the bored façade. You never let any of your women near to the center of you. And you
do
have a center, your grace, however hard you try to conceal it. But this one …”

He led the way down the stairs into the foyer. “This one is a charity case, nothing more. She is gently born and fallen upon hard times. I took her in with the purest of intentions.”

Fanchon laughed. “If you want people to believe that, I suggest you stop looking at her as if she were a life preserver and you were a drowning man.”

She did not give him a chance to retort but strode to the cluster of assistants at the door. Fanchon did not enter or leave by the servants’ entrance. At the last moment she turned. “By the way, she has given me very strict instructions to make for her only two everyday dresses. They are what she requires to make her way in the world and she does not desire to be beholden to you for more.”

“I hope you know from whom you take your orders.”

“Of course.” Fanchon laughed. “And I leave it to you to explain to her. Good day, your grace.” Jean opened the door and the gaggle streamed into the darkening street.

He did
not
look at the girl that way. The woman was mad. Was she? Or was she too perceptive by half? She had seen the way the girl flashed between experience and innocence. Henri knew what experience could do to one only too well. What he could not remember was any feeling that the world held promise, the eagerness for experience that was the essence of innocence, and if one obtained that experience, its demise. And he knew for certain that he was death to all innocence. So all he had was his work, and that was like lighting a candle against the darkness in the pits of hell.

Best he get to it then.

He glanced up the stairs. How did she get that world -weary look of experience? He thought of her life as she described it.

Growing up with an aunt who treated her well even if her father did not acknowledge her. That aunt dying and the girl cast upon her own resources. The life of a paid companion. Belonging neither among the other servants nor among those she served, no doubt dodging advances on all sides. Bleak prospects now that her friend had died.

But those experiences were only a glimpse of the horrors of the world he had seen over the centuries. And they did not begin to touch the things one did, the things one became … Not enough to turn one so young into a cynic like he was, nor to grind down one’s spirit, as the world had been grinding on his spirit for nearly five hundred years.

And yet enough so that the mere fact that she had any duality at all was remarkable. Perhaps it was her innocence that was the miracle. Oh, that he could learn to retrieve some eagerness for the world. Even his work could not give him that.

He found himself climbing the stairs again, almost against his will.

He should stay away from her.
Mon Dieu,
but she raised a need again in him at the mere thought of her. Why was she so different from the pathetic creature in the brothel? They were both human. By nature that made them both pathetic, doomed to die in only a few years, subject to the ravages of illness and time. He couldn ’t bring himself to feel any desire in the brothel. Yet even now, his loins were heavy, thinking of the girl. His testicles tightened as he strode down the hall to the yellow salon. He hesitated, then threw open the door.

The room was empty, dim.

She’d taken the opportunity to escape. Was he so fearsome?

Of course he was. He could drive a girl to suicide. He took a breath; let it out. Well, then. He’d use that image to his advantage.

It would keep her away from him. He strode out of the yellow salon and down the hall. He’d go back to his room.

And do what? Think about her? Try to ignore the erection thinking about her brought? Even now he swelled. Why did she draw him so?

He found himself unable to pass her room. He hovered, indecisive, in front of her door.

Damn.

He did not knock, but opened the girl’s door unannounced.

It was a good thing the sun was low in the sky. The draperies were open to the light. But the trees in the park across the street cast long shadows into the room. It was just bearable. Still, he squinted. The girl stood in front of the wardrobe. She whirled to face him, her eyes big.

“What are you doing?” It was the only thing he could think to say.

She looked puzzled. “Trying to find something to wear, your grace. Annette took away my only dress. And these others are …

hardly suitable for afternoon.”

She wore the silk dressing gown. He could see the swell of her breast where the fabric gaped. This was not helping. He pushed past her and rifled the closet.

“Wear this.” He handed her a dress at random. It was some pale orange color. Fanchon would call it peach, or spring sunset or some such silly name. It was one shade away from rose. She would look well in rose. “Join me in the library in a quarter hour. For drinks.” He sounded inane. What excuse could he give for his command? But then he didn’t need an excuse. He was the wicked duc. She had told him so. He grimaced to think he had been afraid she would fall in love with him.

For once he wished he were as immune to emotion as he pretended. Then he ’d just seduce her as coldly as he seduced the others, have his way with her and get her out of his system. But she was under his protection. She was an innocent. Maybe. And he never seduced innocents anymore.

So he simply turned on his heel and left.

My. Whatever was the matter with him? He had looked so fierce. And he had squinted against the light in her room. There must be something wrong with him. Had he been sick? Sometimes she felt that way about light after she’d had a bad cold. She’d heard that gentlemen were sensitive to light if they had drunk too much the night before. That must be it. Avignon no doubt drank too much every night. But he had invited her to join him in the library. She still tingled from his nearness when he ’d reached past her to grab a dress from the wardrobe. This throbbing she experienced whenever she was near him was strange and yet not strange.

She wanted him. She wanted him sexually.

Oh, dear. That brought images flashing through her brain of him standing in the bath, nude and rising. She could practically feel how silken his skin would be against the palms of her hands if she ran them over his back. And down to his hips. And over the swell of his buttocks, cupping them. And if she were close enough to do that, then he would be holding her against his bare chest.

Would she be naked too? Her nipples would be tickled to a luscious awareness by the hair on his chest.

How did she
know
that? Her nipples tightened at the thought. She felt them brush against the silk of her dressing gown.

She would
not
think about what else she would be able to feel against her belly if he were that close. She’d want to grasp it. Oh,
mon Dieu.

“Annette!”

Annette came hurrying through the door.
“Alors,
but I was on my way, mademoiselle. One doesn’t have to yell like a fishwife.”

The girl looked around. “I passed the devil in the hall, looking like he had just been thrown out of heaven.” Annette appeared to be a devout Catholic. Françoise had no doubt the serving girl never thought about Avignon, nude and erect, or wanted to feel his erection …

“Stop that,” she muttered.

“But what, mademoiselle?” Annette wore an aggrieved expression.

“I’m only talking to myself,” Françoise apologized. “Pay no heed.”

Annette bustled over and took the peach dress from Françoise’s hands. “No need to crumple it like that.” She shook it out.

“Looks like it’s never been worn.”

Françoise shook herself back to reality. “He wants me in the library in a quarter hour.”

“Not possible.”

“You are too nice in your idea of how I should look, dear girl. It’s only Avignon.”

In the end, it took her seventeen minutes before Jean was showing her into the library. Her hair was brushed into soft curls. Her lashes were darkened ever so slightly, though she refused powder or rouge or patches. She did not want to think why she had allowed Annette to do even so much. The dress was another matter. It was entirely more scandalous than even the cerulean blue she’d worn the first night. It was cut so low that her aureoles were in danger of showing. The fichu that went with the ensemble was entirely transparent. Tucked into the space between her breasts and covering her shoulders, it really concealed nothing. The bodice was laced so tightly she could barely breathe. That pushed her breasts up, of course. The underskirt, revealed by a wide vee, was one shade darker than the silk of the overskirt above it. The vee itself was edged in gold embroidery as were the sleeves that ended in a wide flounce at her wrist. That she wore no jewelry only contributed to the feeling that she was nearly naked.

You’re going to bowl him over. Just control your own feelings and you can make him suffer for the little time he has left.

Where had that come from? It was almost like a voice inside her head talking to her.

Still, she did appreciate his expression when he turned to greet her. He looked stunned.

“Do you like your choice of dress?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “Perhaps not entirely suitable.”