Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (17 page)

“What ails you, my dear friend?” The marquise spoke in a soothing tone.

The marquis huffed his exasperation at the open insincerity of so many of his peers. “This is all very fine indeed, Madame. For fifteen years they’ve snubbed us, and now it seems we’re the toast of the town and every scamp and skipjack feels free to court our society! Do they think with such merry ease to erase all the affronts, the innuendo and slander we’ve endured for so long?”

Madame de Blaise remained silent as she always did when she disagreed with her husband. In this way she allowed the swift current of his temper to run its course. Only when his irritation was finally becalmed in the deeper waters of reason and reflection, did she wade in to offer her own opinion.

“You disagree?” The marquis asked at length, ever attentive to the mood and counsel of his wife.

“It’s no good dwelling on the past, my love. What’s gone is gone, and what’s done is done. These past few weeks, I often worried we might lose our son. Now he is much recovered, and none of these old quarrels seem at all important in comparison. Can we not be brave enough to accept the opportunity his valor has given us? Besides, after fifteen years, a party or two would be quite amusing, don’t you think? Even with a skipjack or scamp.”

The marquise punctuated her opinion with the broadside of a saucy smile to liven it, eliciting a hearty laugh from the marquis. He motioned her to come to him. She rose obediently to stand by his side, eager to read the name of the party who had so excited her husband’s temper. As she leaned over the desk, the agreeable line of her fine figure gave the marquis a more pleasing subject to study. He pulled the marquise onto his lap, adorning her cheeks with kisses as she giggled in pleasure, delighted she and her body still possessed the power to stir him.

“Of course you are right. I thought only of my pride, forgetting what you have also suffered for so long,” he said.

The marquise wrapped her arms around her husband’s neck, resting her head on his shoulder. “I’ve suffered not at all, Édouard. I have the man I want and love, and two fine sons who are more precious to me than anything. There’s nothing more important.”

Blaise pressed his lips against her mouth, his hands wandering with ardent purpose over the marquise’s many delights. He caressed her thighs and waist, his right hand rising to fondle her breast through the layers of satin and muslin armor.

“Perhaps we should try to add another of our own to the brood,” he said playfully.

The marquise leaned forward to encourage his attentions, her hands working beneath the fold of the banyan gown to undo the carved ivory buttons of his waistcoat. He slipped a hand down the front of her bodice, cupping a breast as she leaned in to kiss him.

“If only it were possible my love, but you know what the doctors have said. Now dear Édouard, take me to bed. Then let’s say yes to every damned blackguard bold enough to send us an invitation. That should be enough to scandalize them all!”

Blaise picked her up and carried her toward their suite of rooms, the warmth of their laughter and love echoing throughout the house.

*

“Have you noted the degree of amity between Nicolas and Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, my dear? They do seem to be getting on rather well, don’t you think?”

The marquis sat on the edge of the bed, feeling comfortably lethargic in the aftermath of a lazy afternoon of lovemaking with the marquise. She still lay naked atop the twisted sheets, purring contentedly as her husband stroked the lower hollow of her bare back.

“I was wondering how long it would take you to notice, Édouard.”

Ouragon rolled over, displaying the lean superb form her husband never grew tired of admiring. She watched his eyes fondle and then devour her. As a reward for the compliment of his amorous attentions, she took hold of his hand and ran it along the contours of her chest—down, slowly down past the flat of her belly and then lower still, past the little forest and across the soft cleft of her sex, which was still wet and eager for him.

“Gods, Ouragon…” he said huskily.

“Mmmm….I like it when you use my given name. It makes me feel like I truly belong to you. Every part of me. Especially here.”

She slid her sex against his fingers so he could feel how moist she was. He leaned forward to taste her mouth. Lingered in a prolonged kiss, then pulled back to admire her.

“I adore every part of you, Ouragon. Now what was it you were saying about Nicolas and the vicomtesse?”

The marquise rolled back onto her stomach, leaving her husband to content himself with caressing the soft flesh of her buttocks and thighs.

“They’re inseparable, those two, and she’s very protective of him. I guess more than one match was made on your visit to the Salvagnacs.”

The marquis paused to digest this new piece of information. He was used to arranging the affairs of his family as he saw fit, amorous and otherwise. It had not yet occurred to him that one of his sons, and particularly his youngest, might strike out independently of his guidance. In fact, it was a prospect he had never even considered.

“A second match? Is it quite as serious as all that?”

The marquise saw the calculating look in her husband’s eye and knew she had to tell him now, lest he interfere and ruin things for Nicolas and his sweet young love. The vital moment had come, and while he was still fully under her spell, his heart and his reason softened by their ardent lovemaking, he would be indulgent and open to gentle persuasion, but only for a time.  

“I know how to read a woman’s heart, especially one as tender and passionate as beats in the breast of sweet La Bouhaire. There is no guile in her, Édouard. She’s as open as a book and what’s written on every page tells me she’s desperately in love with our son. Sometimes I even think she’s a mirror of myself—like I was when I first laid eyes on you.”

She watched him to gauge his reaction, but the marquis gave nothing away as he listened in calm silence.

“Be attentive of them and judge for yourself, my love, but I do believe we have another budding alliance in the making. And this one looks to be very much an affair of the heart. On both sides,” the marquise said with certainty.

Blaise lay on his back, considering the matter in silence. He folded his hands behind his head.

“You’re certain he feels the same as she?” Blaise asked.

“Quite certain.”

Ouragon pulled herself up so she could lie across her husband’s chest and listen to the thumping of his heart.

“But how can you be sure?” the marquis asked.

His brow was raised. It wasn’t an encouraging sign. Ouragon rolled over twice which took her to the opposite side of the bed. She reached into the top drawer of the nightstand and withdrew an envelope which she handed over to her husband.

“Read it. It fell from the pocket of Nicolas’ waistcoat when he was brought in from the Cap. The letter in your hand is a copy. I made it myself. I returned the original to his bedside table, so he wouldn’t suspect I knew,” Ouragon explained.

The marquis stared at his wife, who sat up on the rumpled sheets, still splendidly naked. He opened the letter and read it. It was Sérolène’s poem, copied line by line in the marquis’ fine hand.

“I see,” the marquis said, gazing across the room in thought.

Ouragon prodded him gently with her toes, stroking the center of his thigh, just below the hip. “What will you do, my husband, my love?”

There was so much more she wanted to say but it wasn’t her place. He was her lord and the undisputed head of the family. His word was law and whatever decision he came to would be final and his alone. She hoped he would at least give Nicolas and Sérolène the chance the power of their love deserved, but it was his right to decide. Because she loved him so dearly, so utterly, she would also have no choice but to do whatever he asked of her. She hoped he would decide wisely.

“Monsignor Arnaud wants me to commit Nicolas’ future to the Church,” the marquis said, his voice flat and without emotion.

“It would be the best decision for the family. With Francis at court to aid him, and the boy’s natural powers of intellect, there’s no telling how high Nicolas might rise. Bishop, perhaps even Cardinal. Neither office is beyond him. It is also the best way to avoid the likely unpleasantness any efforts to find him a bride of suitable pedigree would cause, were he not to enter the Church,” the marquis explained.

Ouragon sighed. So there it was. Even after all these years there was no escaping the shadow cast by her mother’s origins. The suspicion of her mother’s partial African heritage would forever linger to haunt both herself and her progeny and it seemed nothing on this earth could wash away the stain. For the first time in her marriage, she felt ashamed. Her eyes misted with tears. She wanted to cry but she was too proud to let Édouard see how much the issue of her bloodlines still affected her.

“I’m sorry you feel so ashamed of me,” she said.

It was barely a whisper and he had to lean forward to catch the end of what she said. An aching regret burned through his chest. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. She was the most precious thing of all to him. He took her up in his arms, kissed her tenderly in apology.

“Forgive my foolish and clumsy tongue. I’ve never been ashamed of you, Ouragon. Surely you must know that?”

“Édouard, you know I shall support and obey you in whatever you decide, but I beg you to consider not only what is convenient, but also what is best and right for our son,” Ouragon pleaded, her eyes boring in on her husband.

“If you consign Nicolas to the Church because you believe it the best course for him, then so be it. But if you send him to God’s house to hide him away, he will know it. He idolizes you, Édouard. But even the house of God will have no crypts deep enough, nor towers lofty enough to conceal his humiliation if he thinks you are ashamed of him. The world will see it and so will he. Of course he will do as you say, because that is the child he is, but make no mistake my dearest heart, you will wound him more by acting thus, than any slanderer’s epithet, or any maiden’s refusal, ever could.”

The marquis listened in silence, but made no immediate response. Ouragon clung to him, desperate to know his decision. He sensed her worry, but there were many matters he had to consider, some she didn’t know of—others, he was honor bound not to reveal to her, or anyone. He glanced down at the letter the marquise had copied from Sérolène, reading the lines again—slowly digesting and weighing each word as he considered the course he would take.

“It’s a beautiful little poem. I wish I’d been clever enough to write something so fitting for you,” he said at last.

Ouragon squeezed him tight against her. “There was no need, my husband. Just to hear you speak my name was enough.”

He lay her gently on her back, kissed her with all the ardent longing of a lifetime of desire. She reached between his legs and coaxed him to full length, sliding her hips up toward him. Her sex was wet and eager and they made quick fervent love like novices, the turbulence of their mutual ecstasy forming and then dissipating as quickly as a summer thunderstorm. Afterwards she held him close, wanting him to feel how much she loved and trusted him. When he had strength enough to raise his head up and look at her, he gave his judgment and his promise.

“I shall decide not to decide. If they are meant to be, then I will not stand between them. Even a fool yields to the hurricane,” he said, quoting an old island proverb.

Ouragon beamed then, her eyes and her heart alight with love. Her name, Ouragon, also meant hurricane. “How I adore you, my Édouard. You are the finest man I’ve ever known,” she said, meaning every word of it.

Blaise kissed her between both breasts, nipping lightly at her nipple with his lips.

“Stop it now, Monsieur, unless you’ve appetite for another course,” the marquise teased.

Tempted though he was, the marquis wasn’t nineteen anymore. He was for the moment, most definitely spent.

“You’re a taste I can never have enough of, Madame, but I do have some pressing letters I must write and much now to consider. When you have dressed, I think perhaps we should go and pay our young doves a call?”

The marquise rang for her maids as Blaise rose from the bed and put on his banyan gown. A few minutes later, Sarah entered the room to assist with the task of dressing her mistress. The marquis lounged on a chaise near the bed, still admiring the naked figure of his wife. Sarah grinned. A house with much lovemaking was a happy house. The marquis stood and strode over to the bed. He stroked the soft mound of his wife’s naked buttocks in farewell.

“Go on to your work, Monsieur. We’ll leave our desserts for later. I’ll come and get you as soon as I’m ready. My guess is we shall find our young doves in the music room. If not there, then playing cards in the
salle de jeux
,” the marquise said, shooing her husband off.

An hour later, after she was dressed, the marquise came to fetch the marquis as promised and together they went in search of Nicolas and Sérolène. The marquise’s intuition on their whereabouts proved correct, as the happy sounds emanating from the amusement room confirmed upon their approach. She paused just outside the doorway, looking in on Julienne, Francis, and Sérolène who were all seated around the card table with Nicolas, engaged in animated play. Sérolène clapped her hands with joy, elated at having won the last hand. Madame de Blaise entered the room first, clearing her throat to announce her presence.