Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance, page 11
“Lucian!” whispered Madame angrily.
“He did not abduct me!” Antonia declared hotly. “I was very clever in arranging that he should rescue me from the masquerade.”
“Oho! So you think!” scoffed his lordship. “I don’t suppose he had any say in the matter? I suppose he’d have rescued you had you been a one-eyed hag with no teeth, aye? And I suppose he murdered those would-be kidnappers into the bargain just to oblige you?”
“M’sieur le Duc did not murder anyone! You must not say such horrid things. And you call yourself his friend. He merely defended himself and was forced to fire at them! He did not abduct me and he is not a murderer!”
Antonia’s angry distress only made Lord Vallentine laugh harder. “A regular fire-eater, ain’t you!”
“Must you goad her?” admonished Estée. “You know she will defend my brother every time. She always does.”
“Here am I,” said his lordship with a wounded look, “visiting every day, allowing you to win at backgammon, reading from the newspapers, and as soon as I say a word out of place it’s come-at-me as quick as you please! That’s fine thanks that is!” He slumped in a chair and crossed his long legs. “And not even a word of welcome for Lucian Vallentine!”
“I apologize,” Antonia said haughtily. “But you must not say such things about M’sieur le Duc. They are not nice words and it upsets me. I cannot help it.”
“I can see that! I ain’t blind to it!”
“You are no better than she with your pout,” Estée scolded his lordship and beckoned Antonia to her. “Stand still, child, so I can put up your hair again. And you are not to speak to M’sieur Vallentine in such a tone, and with that frown. It is bad manners in a lady.”
“Yes, Madame, but he still must not say such things about M’sieur le Duc. I do not like it.”
“The Lord save us!” said Lord Vallentine with a heavy sigh and threw up his arms. “You don’t give up easily! Wait until Roxton learns he’s got himself a chit who defends him right or wrong, sunshine or hail! Don’t it amuse you, Estée, to think your brother is defended so vehemently? And he with a character not worth saving. Hey-ho! What the—What are you doing with that pillow, brat? No! Now don’t you throw that—”
Madame de Montbrail stamped her foot, her arms akimbo. “Have done! Have done! I will leave you both if you do not behave! Do you want to see me cry, Lucian? Do you? I will! I will if you both do not stop acting like bébés!”
“Now, Estée, there is no cause to be upset,” said Vallentine seriously, though it was evident he was enjoying himself hugely. He had sustained a direct hit to the head with a soft cushion, setting his wig outrageously askew. “Antonia and I are only funning. Ain’t we, chit?”
Antonia nodded, her eyes full of laughter despite the throb in her arm which she ignored. “A great John Dory fish! That is what you look like, Vallentine.”
“I am going out!” announced Estée and bustled to the door. “I am going for a drive to the Tuileries to have some peace, and I do not care how cold it is out of doors!”
“Wait up!” shouted Vallentine and jumped up to follow her. “You can’t leave me alone with Mademoiselle Fire-eater. Get your coat, chit,” he whispered to Antonia as he strode out of the room, his voice still to be heard on the landing trying to placate Estée as Antonia called for her maid.
“I do not know why I permitted you to persuade me to let you come,” said Estée sullenly. She was watching the passing traffic and refused to look at her two travelling companions huddled on the opposite bench. She sensed they were smiling at her and clasped her gloved hands tighter in the huge muff of fox fur. “If Antonia catches a chill you will answer to my brother for it!”
“Fresh air will do her good. And she needs the exercise. Cooped up in that ancient mausoleum for nigh on five weeks would make anyone nauseous.”
“It is not an ancient mausoleum,” argued Antonia. “M’sieur le Duc has a lovely hôtel.”
“That heap of old bricks?” scoffed his lordship, rising to the bait. “You wait until you see Treat. Now there’s a lovely house. More a palace really. Then you too would call the hôtel Roxton a heap of old bricks!”
“What is this Treat? It is a palace you say? It belongs to M’sieur le Duc?”
“That’s right. His seat in England. His grandfather had the house remodeled and Roxton’s been addin’ to it and fixin’ it ever since,” Vallentine told her as he helped her alight.
They waited for Madame de Montbrail to step down. All three pulled their capes closer about their throats and the ladies covered their hair with large hoods. Vallentine offered an arm to each and they set off to stroll the walled tree-lined gardens.
“Madame, why does Vallentine call M’sieur le Duc’s house a heap of old bricks when Monseigneur is kind enough to allow him to stay under his roof? Does Vallentine live at the hôtel?”
Despite her belligerent mood Estée could not help a chuckle and she squeezed his lordship’s arm. “You had best answer that, Lucian.”
“I refuse! Now, both of you, be quiet and let us enjoy our stroll in silence.”
It was on their third turn past the newsmongers who lounged under a group of trees and sat at tables arguing and playing at chess, that Antonia gave Lord Vallentine’s great cuff a sudden tug. They had come to an intersection of paths running along the boulevard and a cluster of persons stood at its center. Affected displays of greetings were being conducted with much bowing and scraping, curtseying, and elaborate handkerchief waving. Outstretched gloved hands were touched to painted lips, mouches at the corners of eyes and mouths twitched deliciously, and a shrill of idle chatter permeated the serenity of a cold but sunny autumn day.
The scene reminded Antonia of a flock of gathering peacocks. One nobleman was of an altogether different plumage. Her impulse was to run up to the Duke but Vallentine held her in check. He exchanged a worried glance with Estée. At any other time they would have joined the group for they knew them all. Yet they held their ground only yards away and watched.
“So it is Thérèse who remains his latest diversion,” whispered Estée, blue eyes devouring the tall female who clung possessively to the crook of her brother’s velvet sleeve. “She has dangled her hook in his direction long enough.”
“Just as you say,” replied his lordship in low accents.
“I expected no less from him. She must be very amusing or very talented between the sheets.”
“Both, is the common report,” confirmed his lordship.
“Yes, she must be for he has kept her longer than most. Ah, she looks too well pleased with herself. I wonder if she is aware she shares him with the de La Tournelle and that actress. What is her name? Félice? Yes, Félice!”
“Given those two up.”
“What? The actress?” said Estée loudly.
“Hush, love. Both. I said both of ’em. De La Tournelle and Félice.”
Madame pulled a face. “No! That I do not believe! If it is true then it is no small wonder Thérèse smiles. She thinks she has him all to herself. She will be impossible next time I meet her at a levee. I wish he would fall in love.”
Vallentine gave a snort. “Steady, Estée. You’ve never been one to disapprove of Roxton’s varied interests. And now you’re advocating romance for one such as your brother?”
Estée’s eyes narrowed to slits as she continued to stare at Madame Duras-Valfons with her blonde powdered curls and beautiful laughing face. “I do not want him attached to that woman for too long. She is not good for him. She is vain and stupid and cares for no one save herself. She does not love him.”
“Love him? What’s that got to do with it? He don’t love her either I’ll wager.”
“Why are you whispering?” asked Antonia coming to stand before them, her chin tilted up at his lordship. “Do you talk about M’sieur le Duc and the Comtesse Duras-Valfons? She is as painted as a doll and at court she parades about thus—” She mimicked the woman’s floating walk and got for her pains Madame’s iron grip about her wrist. “Please! That-that is my injured—” A stab of pain crossed her face and she was instantly released. She turned back to the party in time to see the Duke whisper in Madame Duras-Valfons’s ear and she laugh and tell her companions what he had said. “They are all as painted as clowns! Pshaw! That woman she is nothing but a putain.”
“Antonia! Where did you pick up such an expression?” demanded Estée.
The girl smiled angelically. “Why at court of course.”
“Allons! It is time you were indoors,” said Madame de Montbrail and did an about face on her brother and his mistress. “The gnats are always terrible this time of year.”
“Vallentine, you will tell me please,” said Antonia skipping up to him. “Is Thérèse Duras-Valfons M’sieur le Duc’s latest whore?”
This forthright question made his lordship stammer an incoherent reply and Estée’s eyes to widen in horror. Antonia repeated the question unabashed at their response but both deigned to ignore her.
“Parbleu! Where does she get such notions?” whispered Estée.
“Your brother is hardly one to be discreet. The chit’s been at court. She has eyes. And you know what it’s like at Versailles. A nest of vipers. Unsavory company for a young girl, that’s certain.”
“I shudder to think what vices she has been exposed to left in the care of that whore Maria Casparti.”
“M’sieur le Duc says it is more polite to call Maria Casparti Grandfather’s mistress, not his whore,” lectured Antonia with a mischievous twinkle which had Vallentine grinning. “There is a difference, yes?”
Madame de Montbrail only heard her words. She did not see the mischief and stormed off ahead of her companions, remaining silent on the short return journey to the hôtel while Lord Vallentine and Antonia continued their playful banter all the way home. Her mood did not improve once in the relative warmth of the hôtel’s foyer and she announced she had the headache so would go to her rooms to rest for an hour or two before dinner. Lord Vallentine offered his escort, but this was bluntly refused, and she left Antonia and his lordship to stare after her in contemplative silence.
When Vallentine suggested Antonia follow Madame’s example she declared she was not the slightest bit tired, despite a dull ache in her shoulder which annoyed her when she made a sudden wrong movement. She coaxed his lordship into playing at backgammon. Not only did he acquiesce but allowed her to persuade him they should spend the early afternoon by a fire in the Duke’s private sanctum, his library.
And so they spent an enjoyable hour playing at backgammon on the deep carpet in front of the fire. When his lordship declared he was tired of losing he ordered hot chocolate and coffee. And this Duvalier deposited on a heavy silver tray on the carpet before them, taking his time to depart, an ear to Antonia and Vallentine’s heated discussion concerning the various merits and demerits of particular Italian states they had visited. When he took his leave he was more than ever convinced the Duke’s friend, although closer in age to his master, had a brain well-suited to the companionship of children.
When she had finished her chocolate Antonia curled up on the large leather chair closest the fireplace and settled on the velvet cushions with a slim volume selected from the book-lined shelves. His lordship was quick to point out she was not to sit on that particular chair because it was the Duke’s favorite, and that the book she had selected was not fit for a lady’s eyes. Besides, it was in Latin and he did not believe for one minute a chit from the schoolroom could read Latin; if so it was scandalous. His entreaties fell on deaf ears and he was forced to concede defeat, and retreated behind the pages of a day-old English newssheet.
The Duke entered the library not an hour later. He found it deserted despite his butler’s assurances Lord Vallentine and Mademoiselle Moran were within. Duvalier followed him and placed several dispatches on the desk. He began to tidy the chocolate tray when a rustle of movement caught his attention and he almost overset the silver pot and mugs. Roxton glanced up from the pile of correspondence, instantly saw the reason for this distress and waved his butler away. Only with the door closed on the servant’s back did he dare approach his favorite chair.
By the turned leg of the chair was a pair of silk-covered shoes and a leather-bound volume, propped on its spine and with a silk riband tucked between two pages to hold a place. He scooped up a discarded shoe with its large diamond and emerald encrusted buckle and inspected its workmanship. And with it still in his hand he leaned on the high back of the upholstered chair to peer down at its occupant.
Antonia was fast asleep, her face turned away from the dying fire, one arm caught in a quantity of tangled curls, the other resting limp across her bodice. The layers of her silk petticoats surrounded her like a soft pink cloud and exposed her small stockinged feet to the warmth of the fire. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d had the leisure to admire the prettily turned ankles of a sleeping beauty. The sensation was new to him and made him smile.
He wondered what would be his next move, now that he had taken possession of the sweetmeat his cousin so desperately craved. The smile broadened. Poor Salvan, he thought without sympathy, he must be going out of his mind that the singular object of all his pent-up lust was recuperating in the house of his noble English cousin whose wealth and way with women he envied to the point of loathsomeness.
Yet, as he continued to watch Antonia sleep, he became absorbed in the rhythm of her breathing, and the smug smile of triumph dropped into a frown on the more sobering thought that now he had the girl what was he to do with her? Whisking her away from the masquerade had been an instinctive reaction, of grabbing the prize out from under his cousin’s nose; the consequences ignored.
And then Antonia had totally put him off-balance by not being the least wary of him or his intentions. She seemed to have every confidence that he meant to rescue her from that consummate libertine Richelieu and every other lecherous dog at Court. That she regarded him as some sort of knight in shining armor and not of the same mold as his friend Richelieu completely disconcerted him. As did a niggling doubt that the girl had orchestrated the entire escape, he merely a pawn in her plans.
After all, she had pestered him with letters and lingered on the fringes of his social circle at Court for so many weeks that her presence became an unwanted intrusion on his liberty. He was not immune to her striking beauty. He had noticed her on her very first day at Court and been intrigued. But beauty coupled with the inexperience of youth and a lack of sophistication had never appealed to him. He had always preferred seasoned beauties, whose sexual proclivity was equal to his own and who had an understanding husband lurking somewhere in the background ready to offer a padded shoulder to cry on when boredom dictated he move on.
When discreet enquiries about Antonia revealed she was in reality one of his needy, distant relatives out to seek his help, he quickly consigned her to the latrine of annoying liabilities that came with his title and wealth. He went out of his way to ignore her. Yet, why at the first sign she might be out of her depth, attending a masquerade dressed as a whore was certainly way out of a young girl’s depth, had he not only exerted himself to snatch her away from Richelieu, but by such action showed the world that she was his responsibility; a circumstance he had spent the previous three months trying to avoid?
And now, as he continued to watch the flicker of the fireplace shadows play upon her lovely profile, it was patently clear that any satisfaction he had derived from having Antonia away from Salvan had evaporated when considered against the responsibility that was now his in seeing the girl fully recovered from her ordeal and safely placed in the care of her grandmother in London.
He was still contemplating the burden of these new found responsibilities when Lord Vallentine strode into the room, a coverlet over one arm, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“She would fall asleep in your chair,” he whispered apologetically. “I didn’t have the heart to wake her so I thought it best to fetch this myself. Don’t want her taking a chill.” He arranged the coverlet to his satisfaction and glanced up at the Duke. What he saw gave him a start. “Jesus, Roxton, what’s amiss? You’ve not taken ill? I’ll get Duvalier to fetch up a bottle. Hey, Duvalier,” he hissed, “a bottle of M’sieur le Duc’s finest and be quick about it!”
The butler hurried away and Vallentine followed Roxton to a set of sofas in the middle of the room. The fact his friend still had Antonia’s shoe in one hand made him smile. When he commented upon it the smile widened into a grin watching the Duke awkwardly dispose of the article.
“You’ve got yourself a little minx in that one,” said Vallentine in English as he sprawled on a chair opposite the Duke.
“Indeed?” said Roxton in his native tongue, the color back in his cheeks.
“Yes, indeed!” laughed his lordship. “She beats me at backgammon and reversi every time. I’ve tried all the tricks. None have helped me! She told me her dear father taught her how to play. I could throttle the man for that alone! And ever since she’s been on the mend there’s no holding her chatter. And argue? Oho! With me until I’m blue in the face. She’s more subdued with Estée, but only because Estée will get in one of her moods and threaten to create a scene if the chit don’t behave herself.”
“Her manners are atrocious,” the Duke said with annoyance.
“Oh, there’s no spite in her,” Vallentine assured him. “She’s just a bundle of mischief. It’s refreshing. Sometimes it puts Estée out of all patience. If you ask me that’s just feminine jealousy.”
“You amaze me.”
“I ain’t as cotton-headed as you think me. Sometimes I warrant I ain’t the most acute observer but when it comes to females, well, I have a fair notion of what does and what don’t make ’em irritable. Your sister is a beautiful woman, a damned beautiful woman, but Antonia, well, she’s—she’s—unusual.”
“My dear, your tongue trips you up. Unusual in what way?”
To Lord Vallentine’s extreme discomfort he found his face warming. He was relieved when Duvalier sought to interrupt at that moment. A glass of claret helped his color but the Duke awaited his answer with an irritating lift of his black brows.
