Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (7 page)

Nicolas’ dimples twinkled in the torchlight.

“It was a clumsier rescue than I should have liked, and rather a narrow one too, but I suppose it was sufficient. Now, my dearest Mademoiselle, how are
you
going to repay
me
?”

An enthusiastic call from the baron delayed for the moment, the prospect of any response from the vicomtesse.

“Come, everyone, let’s not let such a splendid night end so early! Shall we have a bit of music to cheer us?”

There was a general murmur of approval and the party re-entered the château through the open doors of the music room, which had already been arranged to receive them. 

“Who wants to be the first to sing?” the baron asked, looking at the ladies for volunteers.

Julienne needed no further prompting to take the stage. She beckoned toward Sérolène to play for her on the harp. They sang a pleasing airy duet, Sérolène’s accompaniment no less refined than Julienne’s singing. After a succession of encores, the baron asked Sérolène to display her solo talents on the harp. Sérolène was less eager than her cousine to perform, but more accomplished as an artist, displaying her supple virtuosity on a very difficult instrument. After a well-earned round of applause, she played and sang a single encore, a haunting melody she knew her uncle was particularly fond of. Sérolène dared not look at Nicolas even once during her performance, fearing she might reveal her true feelings. Everyone listened in rapt silence, the vicomtesse’s voice soft and piercingly clear with emotion.

“Bravo! Bravo! It’s evident the joy of tonight’s happy occasion has affected you as well. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard you in as fine a voice, I tell you,” the baron said.

“Yes, I am very joyful indeed, Uncle,” Sérolène agreed, bowing her head with modesty as she looked at Julienne.

Sérolène glanced toward Nicolas.
But not for the reasons you suppose
,
Uncle
.

The baron turned his attentions toward Nicolas, a stern expression on his face. “Monsieur d’Argentolle. I have been watching you with some scrutiny. I call upon you now to reveal what you have been concealing from us.”

Nicolas’ eyes widened with shock. He felt his stomach begin to twist.
Does the baron know about us? What could he possibly mean by such a cryptic statement? Should I admit my actions and confess?

“Come, Monsieur, it’s no use. Monsieur le Marquis told me earlier that you were quite accomplished on the pianoforte. On such a night as this, I simply must have the favor of hearing you play.”

Nicolas sighed with relief. “Monsieur le Marquis has not heard me play in some time. I believe the remembrance of my playing might be dearer than the current reality. But of course I shall consent to your wishes, Monsieur, if you insist.

“I take note of your modesty, young man, but I insist, nonetheless. Come play for us. Your audience eagerly awaits you.”

Nicolas bowed his excuses to the assembled guests and approached the pianoforte, a magnificent Viennese instrument by Johann Andreas Stein, It had a gleaming walnut veneer and the new set of pedal dampeners. Nicolas was quite familiar with the characteristics and sound of the instrument. He had one of his own, which sat in the music room at his father’s estate in Caracol.

“There’s music there on the shelf if required, I’m sure my niece would be happy to turn the pages for you if necessary.”

Nicolas sat down at the keyboard and stretched his hands over the keys. “Thank you, Monsieur le Baron, but that won’t be necessary. I give you
Les Barricades Mystérieuses
, by Couperin le Grand.”

Nicolas launched into the tune at once, without preamble or preparation. The piece was heavy, hypnotic, relentless, and so was Nicolas’ playing. The tempo was nearly double what the composer intended, but the force of Nicolas’ emotions would sustain no other pace. He allowed his feelings to carry him, and they transported him into a realm of genius. The performance was simply magnificent. And when Nicolas had finished, the baron shot to his feet to lead the applause.

“Magnificent, Monsieur! Magnificent! Such breathtaking virtuosity. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard finer playing.” 

Nicolas bowed with modesty and made his way back to his seat. He knew the recital was over. Not even he would have wanted to try and top his performance.

“What a wonderful night it has been for all of us,” the marquis said with appreciation. “But I fear we have inconvenienced you long enough, Monsieur. The hour is quite late. We should be on our way home.”

“Home?” the baron said, as if the thought had not occurred to him the night must come to an eventual end. “At this late hour? I won’t hear of it, Monsieur le Marquis. We have plenty of room here, I tell you. You are all family to us now, you must stay the night as our guests. Tomorrow you may, of course, depart at your convenience.”

The baronne grimaced at Nicolas, unable to bear the idea of him spending even a single night under her roof. “If it were only possible, my dear, but I see you have forgotten about the renovations to most of the guest rooms. As much as I regret to say it, I fear we don’t have enough space for all our guests.”

Francis had caught the direction of the baronne’s scowl, and so had Nicolas, who understood at once her real intent. It was his presence alone that she objected to.
There must be at least a dozen rooms on the first floor alone. She cannot expect us to believe they are all unsuitable
, Nicolas fumed.

Sérolène lowered her head in shame, knowing her aunt’s assertions to be wholly false. Francis glanced at Julienne, but she was also too embarrassed to meet his gaze. The baron furrowed his brow in bewilderment.

“No room? Really, my dear? Have we all this space and no quarters suitable for so few guests?”

Nicolas stole a glance at Francis.
How disappointed he seems! Everyone was getting on so well. I should hate to be the cause of my brother’s unhappiness
. It was not in the chevalier’s nature to accept reversals without challenge, nor to act in opposition to the dictates of his character. He found the baronne’s machinations wholly unacceptable and as he had professed earlier in the library to the vicomtesse, when faced with adverse circumstances, he had the will and the character to try and reverse them.

“Monsieur de Salvagnac, might I trouble someone to show me the way back to the stables? We had sent instructions for our horses to be prepared for travel some time ago, but I’d like to check on them myself.”

The baron acceded to this request, though he still did not like the idea of his guests departing so late. The roads from Cap Français to the interior were not altogether safe at night. Brigands and escaped slaves often prowled the roads at night in search of victims of opportunity. To be prudent, a sizeable escort of men would need to be sent along to accompany the departing guests, which as host, he would bear the responsibility for.

“Certainly, Monsieur d’Argentolle, if you feel it necessary. I’ll have someone accompany you at once,” the baron said.

The baron rang a small bell and an attendant appeared almost instantly in response to the auditory summons.

“François, see the Chevalier d’Argentolle to his horses.”

Nicolas bowed his thanks to his hosts.

“It has been an honor, Monsieur de Salvagnac, Madame de Salvagnac, Mademoiselle de Salvagnac, Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire.”

With a nod to his father and brother, who both regarded him with suspicious interest, Nicolas then turned and followed the enslaved servant François out of the room, unable to resist a final parting glance toward Sérolène, who watched Nicolas depart with great reluctance. Frantic he should leave so soon, and on such terms, she too decided to seize her chance.

“Uncle, Aunt. I’m afraid I’m very tired. Might I also be excused?” Sérolène asked.

The baron offered his clean shaven cheek for the vicomtesse to kiss, always happy to indulge his niece in almost anything she wished.

“Of course, my dear niece. How inconsiderate of me to have kept you up so late. You may take your leave of our guests and retire for the evening.”

Sérolène performed her parting courtesies with as much haste as decorum would allow, and then left by a separate entrance from the one Nicolas had taken. As soon as she was out of sight of the others, she removed her shoes and ran headlong down the hallway in an attempt to head Nicolas off before he exited the main house on his way to the stables. She used the back corridors to her advantage, skidding several times as she raced across the polished hardwood floors. She arrived out of breath at the end of the hallway which opened into the back courtyard, across from which lay the path to the outer courtyard and stables. She waited in silence under the stairs, concealed by the darkness of the rising stairway. Her heart galloped in her breast, every nerve on edge as she listened for voices and footsteps. At last she saw François coming down the hall toward her, Nicolas trailing close behind him. Sérolène hoped fate would be kind and François would stop far enough back from the doorway that she would not be discovered.

Nicolas detected a vague but familiar odor of lilacs as he reached the end of the hallway. He smiled to himself, then spoke to François in an effort to attract his attention and also to prevent him from going any closer toward the staircase.

“Through this door?”

“Yes,
Maître
,” the enslaved servant replied.

“‘Monsieur will do well enough. I’ve no need to be the master of any other man,” Nicolas corrected him.

The servant bowed his understanding and his respect.

“François, will you convey a message to the Marquis de Blaise on my behalf?”

“Of course…Monseigneur.”

“Tell the marquis I have decided to return home on my own with the horses, to tend to my ailing mother. Inform him also that the horses needed a good run-out and I couldn’t resist such a splendid moon.”

François bowed again. “Understood, Monseigneur.”

“I should like to have all the horses made ready at once. Oh, and do me the favor of taking your time on your way back, if you please,” Nicolas added, pressing a single coin, a
louis d’or
, into François’ hand.

The enslaved servant’s eyes were wide with astonishment as he stared at the gold gleaming in the center of his palm. Though he had handled his master’s funds on many occasions, he had never before been given such a reward of his own.

“It shall be as you wish, Monseigneur. I shall have the horses prepared at once.”

“Thank you. I believe I can see myself out from here,” Nicolas assured him.

François nodded and in an instant was gone, as if he had disappeared into the very walls. Nicolas continued his walk down the hallway, veering to the left as he approached the darkened stairwell, the soft tapping of his heels against the dark hardwood floor the only audible sound.

“It’s all right. He’s gone,” Nicolas whispered.

In an instant, Sérolène came out of her place of concealment and into his arms. Nicolas quickly led her back toward the rear of the corridor where they wouldn’t be observed.

“Your scent gave you away. How I’d hoped you would follow me, so I might say a proper farewell. Dear sweet Mademoiselle, it may sound like madness to say it, but how deeply I adore thee,” Nicolas said with passion, pressing Sérolène’s hands to his lips and bathing them in soft kisses in the semi-darkness. 

“Then how happy I am you should be so afflicted. Now, Monsieur, about your reward…”

Sérolène pressed her mouth gently against Nicolas’ own, raising herself up on her toes, her tongue gently tracing the contours of his lips, drawing forth his own, which plunged forward with tenderness in search of its mate—probing, twisting, entwining with hers in the most ancient of dances. Her head tilted back as her body arched against him, sweet oblivion enfolding them in its embrace. Time melted away, utterly forgotten—lost in the magic probing folds of their tongues. Nicolas at last pulled back, needing all the power of his considerable resolve to descend back to earth from the heaven to which the vicomtesse’s sweet lips had transported him.

“Sérolène, my darling, I must go…while I am still able. I’ll not spoil the night for Francis. Please. You must come and visit us at Caracol as soon as you can,” Nicolas implored her.

“I shall try. I promise,” Sérolène whispered, her head against his chest, feeling the tautness of his muscles beneath her hands like bands of iron.

Nicolas kissed Sérolène a final time, once on the forehead, then gently on the nose, the left and then the right eye—making the sign of the cross with his kisses, the final one reserved for her full, tender lips.

“Do not forget me. As I have forsworn, you are forever my love.”

Nicolas relinquished her hand with reluctance and disappeared into the darkness.

Still cloaked in the darkness of the stairwell, Sérolène watched him go through the outer doors and into the night. She could still taste him on her lips—her mouth open, alive, tingling with want. Her legs trembled, but the gentle shaking was ecstasy. All along her torso, hips, thighs, where his body had been pressed flat against the plane of her own, she felt a burning marvelous heat. Her soul soared free, unbound—unbearably happy.