Master: An Erotic Novel of the Count of Monte Cristo (13 page)

Dios mio
, how could a woman thank such a man?

Did he have a son, a daughter, a wife . . . someone that he loved as much as she loved Albert?

Mercédès’ thoughts were interrupted by a knock at her chamber door, and she gave permission to enter.

“Madam, this has arrived for you,” Charlotte told her, offering a small parcel wrapped in gold foil and tied with a red ribbon.

With a quiet sigh, Mercédès took the package and nodded for her maid to leave. She was certain the gift was from Georges. He was quite persistent.

But it was her own fault. Last November, she’d returned from Marseille and her brief abduction and interlude with Sinbad, confused, exhausted, and feeling the emptiness of her life even more harshly than before. Most nights, her dreams were threaded with images—lush, sensual, arousing ones—from her experience in Aladdin’s cave. In the morning, or even sometimes deep in the night, she woke alone in her bed, often in tears. Lonely. Frustrated. Empty.

And so, months sooner than she had planned when she left Fernand in anger, Mercédès returned to Paris and threw herself into a whirl of societal pleasures: soirees, dinners, balls, theater, and even, when no one would see her, slipping into the garden to indulge her guilty pleasure, digging in the soil, removing spent blossoms, and pruning rosemary and thyme.

And Georges had been here, waiting for her, intending to woo her back.

The sorrow she saw in his hazel eyes had been sincere, and Mercédès, herself feeling a similar bereft emotion, had foolishly allowed herself to be comforted by him.

Not that she’d taken him back to her bed . . . no, nothing that imprudent. But a stolen kiss here, an embrace there, just to feel the warmth and strength of a man’s touch . . . yet even that didn’t banish the emptiness that had pervaded her life. She was consumed by a feeling of unfinished business.

But he was clearly desirous of more, as evidenced by the gifts he’d been sending. And the long scrawled notes that accompanied them detailing his love for her.

She slipped the red ribbon from its mooring and lifted the note from the box. Inside she found a thick parchment paper, with his boyish scrawl covering the entire sheet. She put it aside for the moment, in favor of the parcel.

Inside was a rectangular brooch of garnet, set in filigree gold . . . rather simple, as compared to many of her other jewels, but Mercédès preferred a less ostentatious design than her husband did. It was beautiful, and, she realized with moist eyes, Georges did know her. He did care for her. He was devoted to her.

Why couldn’t she care for him?

Because he wasn’t Edmond.

He wasn’t . . . Sinbad.

Mercédès gasped; she heard it like a little crack in the silent room. Sinbad?
Dios mio!
How could she even think such a thing?

It had to be the adventure. The seductiveness of being forbidden and dangerous.

She stood, suddenly resolute. That thought must be put immediately out of her mind. She looked contemplatively at the brooch. If she wore it, Georges would be in high spirits. He would take it as a sign that she was acquiescing to his renewed suit.

And perhaps that would be for the best. He would never hurt her. He cared for her. And she needed someone.

It was only a matter of time before Albert married—please, God, not to Eugénie Danglars!—and left their home for good.

Since her return from Marseille, she’d spent few nights at home, thus leaving Fernand no opportunity to claim his marital rights. He didn’t dare complain that she attended house parties or slept at the home of her friend Amelie, the Comtesse Roleaux, for fear that Mercédès would leave again. But there was no certainty about what would happen once Albert left, and Mercédès couldn’t continue to take advantage of Amelie’s hospitality.

Having made up her mind, Mercédès rang for Charlotte. The door to her dressing room opened, and her maid came in. “I’ll wear the dark red gown tonight. And the moiré day dress in gold to meet monsieur le comte.”

Charlotte was quick and efficient, helping the comtesse dress, doing her hair in a properly intricate style appropriate for meeting a celebrated count. Thus it was past one o’clock when Mercédès stepped out of her chambers and found that her husband had already made his way downstairs to meet the Count of Monte Cristo.

A warm, grateful smile fixed on her face, and looking, she knew, particularly elegant, Mercédès walked sedately down the long, curving staircase that led to the main floor of their home. Undoubtedly, Albert had invited the count into the family parlor once they’d finished their breakfast—yes, she could hear the masculine voices from that room.

Unwilling to interrupt the conversation, Mercédès declined having the butler announce or introduce her, and as it turned out, it was just as well. She opened the door quietly and stepped in, at once hearing her husband as he spoke warmly about his soldierly experience in the Greek war of independence from the Turks, particularly the battle of Navarino—which was the occasion on which he’d garnered his aristocratic title.

She wasn’t surprised that Fernand had chosen this topic of conversation. His inclination was obviously to set himself as the count’s equal by describing his own ascension to the aristocracy with all its florid and dramatic details about his involvement in the overthrow of the ruler Ali Pasha.

Mercédès stepped into the little alcove—more of an antechamber to the room—closing the door quietly behind her. She saw her son, tall and handsome, standing at the fireplace mantel. He would be the first to see her, for he faced the door. And Fernand was standing with his hand on the back of an armchair, facing the count.

The Count of Monte Cristo himself was a tall man, and he stood near the ceiling-high windows in such a way that he was half thrown into shadow. From what she could see, he was wearing well-cut clothing, had dark hair, and stood proudly as he conversed with her husband and son. He had a smooth cultured voice with nary the trace of an accent as he responded to his host in flawless French.

Just as Mercédès was about to step fully into the room, to rush across to the count and thank him profusely for the gift he’d given her, the man moved. He shifted, and the shadows fell away, and she saw his face.

The world stopped: Everything froze. Her heart. Her breath. Her face. All feeling drained from her body, leaving her cold and clammy and dizzy. The room tilted, then converged into a pinpoint image . . . then shattered and fell away. Leaving only him.

Then her vision expanded sharply, and Mercédès felt her heart ramming so hard in her chest they must have heard it, pounding through her whole body. Her lungs were constricted; she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t swallow. . . . The world dimmed at the edges and then brightened again as if a great light was blaring in her face.

It was Edmond.

But . . . it couldn’t be.

But . . .

She must have made some noise or movement that attracted the attention of her son, for Albert exclaimed, “
Maman
! At last you shall meet my dear friend the Count of Monte Cristo.”

He was already striding across the room toward her, as if to take her arm and bring her in for an introduction. But Mercédès hardly noticed; she had begun to breathe again, her heart had settled into a more normal rhythm—albeit a harsh, jerky one. Her stomach felt as though it was tumbling down a hill. Her fingers trembled in front of her wide skirts.

She glanced at Fernand, who was looking at her oddly. There was no sign of recognition on his face. Perhaps she was wrong. Perhaps it was just the distance, the sudden shift of the man’s face from darkness into light.

“
Maman
, are you feeling well?” Albert whispered, neatly turning his back to the other men so as to keep his question private.

“I . . . yes, I am fine. Merely a bit of a headache.” Mercédès grasped Albert’s arm a bit more firmly than usual, and allowed him to lead her toward the count as she gathered every bit of composure she could muster.

She must have been wrong.

“Your Excellency, I hope you will forgive me if I take the liberty of introducing you to my mother,” Albert was saying. “
Maman
, this is my friend and savior, His Excellency, the Count of Monte Cristo.”

“Madame la Comtesse,” said the count, already making a deep, correct bow as they moved to stand in front of him. “It is my great pleasure to meet you at last.”

When he raised his face, Mercédès looked up into it fully for the first time. It was like being slammed in the stomach.

He was handsome . . . very handsome . . . yet forbidding, with high, sculpted cheekbones, wide, mobile lips, and a square jaw. His dark hair, the color of walnut hulls, was thick and brushed back high over his tall forehead. A bit of white tinged the hair at his temples and trimmed sideburns. Coffee-colored eyes fringed with dark lashes looked at her with impersonal con-geniality and nothing else. Not a hint of recognition or even confusion.

His shoulders, in a rich brown morning coat, spanned wider and sturdier than those of the young man of nineteen she remembered, and the cuffs of his white shirtwaist showed slender tanned wrists and emerald cufflinks. He wore a large onyx pin in the center of his garnet neckcloth, holding the silk in place. A fine waistcoat of black, brown, and ivory completed his elegant ensemble, that of a man far removed from the simple sailor Edmond Dantès.

“. . . have heard only the most complimentary things about you from your son,” he was saying graciously.

Mercédès gathered up her composure, the tidy mask that she’d worn for years to hide the truth of her marriage and the intense hatred she felt for her husband, and smiled at him. There was nothing in his eyes to indicate that he recognized her. . . . Surely she hadn’t changed that much.

Was he pretending? Or did he truly not recognize her?

Or was she wrong? Had she wanted and missed Edmond for so long that she was going mad, seeing things where they were not? After all, Fernand showed no sign of knowing him.

“You are too kind, Your Excellency,” she replied. Was that really her gentle, gracious voice? How could it be when she was in such a turmoil? “But it is I who must throw myself at your feet in gratitude.”

For the moment, her confusion and shock slid away, to be replaced by a most overwhelming gratitude. Whoever he might be, whatever he might know or not know of her, he had done something for which Mercédès could never repay him. “I cannot thank you enough,” she said, tears warming the corners of her eyes, “for what you did for my son, Your Excellency. Surely, you saved his life. And if there is ever anything the Comte de Morcerf or I can do for you . . . you have but to ask.” Her voice broke a bit at the end, becoming husky with emotion.

Again he gave an elegant bow, but not before she saw a flash of something shift in his eyes. “Indeed, madam, it was my pleasure to intervene for such a good and pleasant young man. I consider him a great friend of mine, and I would do anything for a friend. You have a fine son, you and the count.” When he raised his face, his expression was bland . . . but she thought she heard a stony note in his voice.

Dear God, Edmond!

It had to be he. And here she was . . . here she was, married these last twenty-some years to Fernand, and with a son. A son that was not Edmond’s, as she’d planned and dreamed and hoped . . . but a son that belonged to a man who was as cold and cruel as the sea. A man who’d successfully hidden his true self from her, with gentle wooing and false empathy as she mourned the very man who stood before her now.

The rich and powerful and esteemed Count of Monte Cristo. The room swayed again.

“Maman,”
Albert said, grasping her elbow, “would you care to sit down?” He was looking at her anxiously, and Mercédès again assembled control over herself.

“I do believe it might be the roses,” she said, nodding to the large vases of tuberoses that spread their cloying scent in the parlor. It was as good an excuse as any, for there were six containers of them throughout the room. “Their aroma does make the air rather close.”

“Well, I must be off,” Fernand interrupted, giving a bow to the count. “I meant to be at the parliament session by two o’clock, and it is nearly half past by now. You must allow us to avail you of our hospitality quite soon, Monte Cristo.”

The count bowed in return. “Indeed, I should be delighted. And also that of your son, for he has offered to acquaint me with the delights of your lovely city. And what better recompense could one ask for, than to be taken through such a metropolis than by a son of its own?”

“Of course. But we will also have a dinner party for you, and introduce you to our friends and society,” Fernand continued magnanimously. “Then you will be received everywhere.”

“That would be most kind. And I look forward to returning the favor at my own residence.”

Here Albert interrupted. “The count has rented a home on the Champs-Élysées,” he said. “And he has just purchased a house on the outskirts of Paris, in Auteuil, as well.”

Mercédès hardly heard the conversation. She was feeling numb again, as the reality settled over her. She must speak with him. Alone.

But how?

She couldn’t very well send her son away; nor would he be so rude as to leave his guest alone for any moment.

Perhaps when his carriage was called, she might have the chance.

Decision made, Mercédès smiled at Albert. “My son, I must excuse myself now. . . . I do think the unseasonable warmth and too many sweet roses have made me feel weary.” Hoping that her son would not remark on the fact that it was unlike her to be so sensitive, she turned to the count, steeling herself to remain cordial and impassive. “Your Excellency, I must thank you again for what you’ve done for us . . . and extend to you my welcome to our beautiful city. I hope you will enjoy your time here, and if you are in need of anything, please do not feel awkward about contacting us.”