Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (39 page)

Standing behind this lady, a hand to the
back of the chair, the other resting on the jeweled hilt of his
sword, was her husband. He wore the latest fashion in frocks for
that time. The skirts were long, wide and made stiff with whalebone
and paste, and the large cuffs were turned back and held up with
enormous round buttons of engraved gold. His cravat was elaborate
and of the finest lace; his wig, full-bottomed and powdered. He had
lean cheeks, black eyes and a strong nose. There was that air of
calm assurance about him and a smile that was more insolent than
friendly. On a long white finger he wore a large square-cut
emerald.

The fourth figure was a long-legged youth in
oyster grey satin breeches and matching stiff-skirted frock. He
reclined on the floor seated on a velvet cushion, an arm resting on
his mother’s lap, the other about the neck of a sleek white whippet
with its paw on a page of an open book. The boy had his father’s
insolent smile and the beginnings of a strong nose, his mother’s
delicate, finely shaped hands and a head of thick black curls worn
loose about his shoulders.

Lady Paget had no doubts Antonia knew
instantly the identity of the members of this formal but domestic
portrait, for the girl’s gaze was riveted to the canvas in studious
silence. She looked back to the portrait and began her
monologue.

“Madeleine-Julie de Salvan was considered
the paramount beauty of Louis the Fourteenth’s court, and great
things were expected of her,” said Lady Paget. “Her brother, who
was the Comte de Salvan at the time, arranged a splendid match for
her with the son of the Prince de Parvelle. It was what both
families wanted, and indeed, the match had the King’s blessing. All
was in readiness for a splendid court wedding. No one suspected
Madeleine-Julie of other ideas. One day her maid discovered her
mistress missing. Not only that but the girl went missing for ten
days.”

“Where did she go?” asked Antonia, finally
taking her gaze from the portrait to stop a stiffness in her
neck.

“She had eloped with the Marquis of Alston,”
Lady Paget answered brightly. “He was an Englishman, a Protestant,
and five and thirty. She was barely eighteen, a Papist, and
excommunicated for marrying a heretic and for renouncing her faith.
Her family was disgraced and shunned at court. The Salvans lost
their posts. It took them a decade to win back the favor of the
King. The Comte refused to speak to his sister for many years. Lord
Alston had been his closest friend.

“Nor was the marriage accepted by his
family. The Marchioness was shunned by her husband’s English
relatives, too. She never set foot on English soil, and her
children were considered bastards by the French—”

“
Mon Dieu
. It is all too horrible,”
muttered Antonia.

“Not at all,” Lady Paget countered and gave
Antonia a reassuring hug. “You mustn’t think Madeleine-Julie’s life
with Alston was ever sad. They loved each other very much. They had
no need for court life, or the whims of society. They were very
content and happy, and as long as they had each other all was right
with the world. The Marquis was devoted to his wife and children.
It was not many years after their marriage, in fact with the birth
of their first child, that the Comte de Salvan permitted his family
to visit her. I think Roxton must have been seven or eight years
old when the Comte finally forgave his sister.

“She was never permitted the court again,
but what of that when the members of society came to her house in
Paris to dine and visit? Society is very fickle. What is one day
considered a scandal and never to be forgiven, is the next ignored
and papered over, and all is as if nothing untoward had ever
occurred. Life goes on as before. Do you understand, Antonia?”

“I do not care what society thinks or-or how
it may act toward me. Besides, I am not so important that it would
ever be bothered with me,” said Antonia quietly. “I have never been
a member of this society. Be it here, or France, or in Italy where
my father took me after mama’s death.” She hung her head and
fidgeted with the lock of her hair that had escaped its clasp. “But
I do want to be happy, as Madeleine-Julie was happy. And I—I could
not bear it if—if after everything… That is—What if the Marquis of
Alston had not been so devoted to his wife and family? What if he
had re-entered this society without her, and if he had been
unfaithful after all she had sacrificed, and if—”

“La, that is a lot of ifs!” laughed Lady
Paget. “Discount them all! You have nothing to worry that pretty
head about, I promise you. My dear girl, don’t you see? Roxton
loves you to distraction!”

Antonia stiffened and blushed, and stared
Lady Paget bravely in the face. “We were speaking of Madame la
Marquise, my lady,” she said tonelessly. “Nothing more than that. I
may be young, and at times I know I am naïve, in fact, I am very
stupid of the world. But I am not blind, nor a complete fool, that
I don’t see what is thrust in my face. Sir Jasper he confided he
hopes M’sieur le Duc will offer for his daughter. He was very proud
of her exemplary conduct at table, that she pretended to be as one
blind that M’sieur le Duc’s English mistress sat across from her,
and she did not mind in the least. Well, I would mind very much!
And that is a fault in me, I know it, but I cannot help the way I
am. So, please, you of all people will not talk to me of M’sieur le
Duc’s feelings! I will go back now. I am cold and I want my coffee.
Thank you for showing me this interesting portrait.”

“Oh dear,” said Lady Paget with a sigh as
she watched Antonia scurry away. “Damn and blast Jasper!”

Roxton’s guests were well into an evening of
cards and conversation when the Duke finally made his appearance in
the Gallery, the last of the gentlemen to rejoin the ladies. He put
up his quizzing-glass to survey the commotion and was pleased the
evening was progressing to his satisfaction. He was not at pains to
join in the amusements. In fact he declined an offer to play at
whist and ignored an invitation to sit at Miss Woodruff’s side, the
blatant movements of her lace fan eagerly interpreted by two
hopeful gentlemen who scurried to throw themselves at her feet.
Instead he went to warm his hands at the second fireplace.

Antonia did not notice him because he stood
at her back, close to where she sat with the Vicomte on a chaise
longue. Her head was bent over an empty tea dish, as if reading the
signs in the settled leaves. It was not her dish but the Vicomte’s.
She preferred coffee, but he had insisted she try a sip of tea. At
first she had refused, but his persistence made her snatch the dish
so he would stop hounding her and make no further fuss. But a
heated argument ensued. All because he dared to pass judgment on
her choice of gown. He did not like it, he said. It made her look
the whore. When they were married he would dictate what he thought
suitable for the wife of a Vicomte. She laughed, but when she
realized he was in earnest, disbelief made her angry.

“It was a mistake to let you leave France,”
he whispered with suppressed anger. “You not only dress like a
whore but conduct yourself like a cheap strumpet!”

“I have had enough of M’sieur le Vicomte’s
opinions for one night,” she stated and stood up. But he grabbed
her wrist and jerked her back beside him. “Étienne! Let go of
me!”

“Hold your tongue!” he demanded. “You dare
to talk to me—me—the Vicomte d’Ambert, as if I was a mere…a
mere—”

“Oh, Étienne, see reason. When you speak and
act so you are Salvan,” she said in a rallying tone. “We used to be
such friends before he put this silly notion of marriage into your
head.”

“Silly notion?” he echoed, struggling to
find a snuffbox in one of his pockets.

“Yes. I will forget what you called me if
you apologize.”

“Apologize? I?” he said haughtily.
“Mademoiselle forgets herself. It is your conduct which needs an
apology!”

“I trust you are enjoying the evening?”
enquired the Duke in his characteristic soft voice. He had heard
the whole of their exchange and thought it an opportune moment to
intervene. He offered his snuffbox to the youth and was not
surprised when it was refused. “Forgive me, my boy. I forget. The
Vicomte prefers his own—er—blend, does he not?”

The Vicomte was on his feet. “Yes, M’sieur
le Duc,” he replied stiffly. “Mademoiselle and I were talking
privately—”

“How charming,” interrupted the Duke without
a smile. “I regret I must bring your private conversation to an
end. You will allow me five minutes alone with Mademoiselle
Moran.”

“But I—”

“I do not need you to answer for me,
Étienne,” Antonia whispered angrily and stepped aside to permit a
footman to place a backgammon board on the chaise longue.

“You may watch over us if you so wish,” said
the Duke. He sat down with an outward flick of his skirts and began
to distribute his pieces on the board. Without taking his eyes from
his task he waved a lace-covered hand at the Vicomte. “From over
there somewhere. I prefer to play at backgammon without an audience
breathing down by back. Mademoiselle, when you are ready…”

The Vicomte bowed. “As M’sieur le Duc
wishes. Mademoiselle, we will continue our discussion on the
morrow. Perhaps she will have had sufficient time to reflect on the
folly of her words.”

“I have nothing else to say, Vicomte,” said
Antonia without looking up.

She hurriedly put her pieces in position,
though she fumbled as she did so, and kept her eyes on the board,
feeling awkward and nervous. She knew she blushed when the Duke put
an arm over the back of the chaise and tweaked one of her curls in
a cavalier fashion. She cast her die and waited his response.

“The luck is with you, petite,” he said. “An
ace cannot better your point trois.”

Thereafter the game was conducted in
silence. Only the sound of the card players at the tables
occasionally disturbed their concentration. Several of the guests
had spread out down the Gallery, with a few seated about the far
fireplace. At one stage Sir Jasper wandered across to the Duke,
full of bonhomie and too much claret, only to be ignored.

Miss Woodruff drifted up later to divert the
game with a fatuous remark and was also ignored. At first she did
not take the hint and stood chattering nothings until she noticed
the Duke had eyes only for his backgammon partner. It shut her
mouth in an instant and she flounced off to console herself with a
puppy-eyed gentleman whom she had consistently avoided all
evening.

Lady Strathsay, too, tried to disturb the
couple and was intent on ordering Antonia to her rooms. But she was
prevented from voicing her opinions on the lateness of the hour by
her son, who whisked her away to listen to a recital of poetry at
the farthest end of the Gallery.

The Vicomte pretended to interest himself in
a game of Basset but all the while he watched Antonia. When he
finished at the tables and made a move to cross the room he was
intercepted by Lady Paget. He was so diverted to hear his tongue
spoken in a civilized manner that he permitted her to take him to
join the poetry recital.

Antonia saw and heard none of these
maneuvers. To her it was as if she was back in the Duke’s private
apartments of the hôtel, as it had been before she came to England,
and how she had imagined it would be again. They played in silence.
The Duke did not once initiate conversation; yet his mere presence
made conversation unnecessary. At the conclusion of a fourth game
she scooped up the dice and clapped her hands.

“I have won! You could not make the
combinations to outrun my men. Not even with your doublets!”

“As we have won two games apiece we must
play a fifth to decide the contest,” he said and tossed his men
back on the board. “You agree,
mignonne
?”

“Did you—You did not deliberately throw that
game, did you, M’sieur le Duc?”

Her offended air amused him, but he spoke in
a level voice at odds with the look in his black eyes. “That is a
sad accusation to make, Antonia. I am surprised at you. Surely you
know me better?”

“I-I am sorry. I didn’t mean—I know you
would never do so,” she said quickly and cast her die. “It’s just
that you rarely lose.”

“Rarely is not never. I hope I am enough of
a gentleman to admit defeat when such rare instances do occur.” He
put up his quizzing-glass to consider his next move. “Now you must
play at your best. If I am fortunate to win upon this occasion I
will demand a reward, as is my right as victor.”

“But we did not decide a stake before play
commenced!” she argued. “That is unfair.”

Her delay at casting the dice made him look
up. “Unfair for whom? If you win it is your privilege to extract a
reward. I am willing to take the risk. But if you think that it is
not sporting…?”