Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1)

Passion and Glory

Book One

Amour

Samantha Kaye

Copyright
©
  The author as named on the book cover. The author has asserted their moral right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work. All Rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written consent of the copyright holder, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

This is a work of fiction. The events and characters described herein are imaginary and are not intended to refer to specific places or living persons. The author has represented and warranted full ownership and/or legal right to publish all the materials in this book. This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

With time and patience, the love of a good woman can make a colossus of an ordinary man, provided his heart is good, and the preponderance of his faults come only from the weakness of irresolution. That same love can, when its power is wasted on the schemes of a scoundrel, make of a bad man a thoroughly rotten one, and all in much less time than it takes to steal an undeserved kiss.

-Anonymous

The girl ran down the château’s long hallway, the soft thumping of silk-stockinged feet muffled by the swish-swash of rustling satin. Each hand held a shoe and a handful of skirt, the hem of her pale blue
polonaise
gown
raised above the knee, exposing satin ribbons which held up her white stockings. The ribbons were a bold cerise, like her lips, which were pulled wide in a girlish grin—inviting and ripe with unspent kisses—a hot-sweet ring of nubile, innocent fire. High cheeks, pink with natural rouge, gave prominence to a long slender face anchored by a nose as straight and true as a Roman road. Her eyes were bright and clear, tinted grey-blue like a Nordic sea, and just as changeable—cold on the placid surface but roiling underneath with currents deep, inviting, and sometimes treacherous. The high arch of her dark brows hovered above each eye, framing the broad, pale expanse of her forehead. She wore no wig, her thick, black tresses combed in tight, overlapping braids piled high above her head. As she ran, stray ringlets loosened, escaping the corrals of pins and stays to fall and tickle the tops of her ears. She was taller than most men and wide shouldered, with a long, tapered torso which branched out into flat, boyish hips and muscular long legs. For all her striking uniqueness, she was too tall, too lean, and too gangly to be considered beautiful according to the tastes of the time. Still maturing in mind and body, she drifted mid-stream between the opposing banks of girlishness and womanhood. But for those with discernment enough, there was more than a hint of promise in this lanky child-woman—part Amazon, part giraffe, with a spirit full of the mystery and enchantment which God attaches to the soul of every woman born.

Darting from room to room, she hid behind furniture to conceal her passage, eyes playful with equal portions of mischief and charm, warily alert for servants and family alike. Poking her head around a doorway to ensure a clear path of escape, she dashed up the long staircase at the hallway’s end in her voluminous skirts, cheeks puffing in and out with the effort of her exertions, swift as the famed Atalanta and equally fair. She reached the first door on the right, inspecting the fit of her dress as she approached the entrance. The plunging necklines of French gowns were not meant to accommodate running or any other form of vigorous movement, and a lady had to be careful to ensure no surprises popped out when leaning forward or to the side. Though not yet fully matured, she had already reached the age where the full white terrace of her breasts swelled against the retaining fabric of her gown, the current of her ripening form rising inexorably to overflow the woven levee of restraint.

She stretched out a hand to grasp the door handle. A stray lock of thick dark hair flopped down over one eye, obscuring her vision. A ribbon of glistening pink unfolded with the grace of an asp to moisten the tips of her fingers and shepherd the errant curl back in place, then retreated into its lair, a pristine sanctuary framed by a curtain of crimson lips and flawless, white teeth. It was a place unexplored, unbreached, yet yearning for its true knight-errant to force or connive entry and thereby lay claim to the treasure of its long-buried secrets.

The latch turned in her hand and she entered the room and stepped inside, pressing her back against the door to close it. She halted a moment to catch her breath, then crouched down, pausing to listen at the keyhole before creeping toward an interior door which had been left ajar. She crossed over this inner threshold into the refuge of the family library, standing shoeless upon the thickly carpeted floor. The room was always empty, unless she or her uncle were using it, but as she looked out toward the main section of shelves, she was startled to find an unfamiliar figure sitting in one of the high-backed, leather reading chairs. She froze in indecision, unsure of whether to proceed onward or turn back and relinquish her hard-won sanctuary. The chair faced toward the central hearth, which was the only reason the man sitting in it had yet to discern her presence.

No one in the family save her uncle shared her fondness for books, which was why the library always made such a good refuge. It was also located at the extremity of the château’s seldom used east wing, which further discouraged most of her family from ever venturing to make use of it. The library was one of the most comfortable rooms in the cavernous mini palace, with a large hearth which was surrounded by a half dozen comfortable reading chairs and nearly two thousand books. It was an ideal place to hide oneself, and her favorite place of refuge whenever she wanted to be left alone, a state she desired with more and more frequency as of late. But despite all the room’s advantages, someone had still managed to find a way in and usurp her place. Was it simply luck, or some other manner of fortune which had led the stranger to her secret lair?

With feline grace, she edged forward, eyes fixed on the intruder who sat at his ease in a long-backed chair of brown leather, one of a matching pair her uncle had specially acquired in Amsterdam. She moved close enough until she was able to inspect the hand worked detail on the ivory buttons of the stranger’s jacket. The man’s right ankle rested above his left knee as he read, revealing the silver buckles and bright red heels of his shoes. His stockings were pristine white and appeared to be of silk, as did his suit. It was a deep navy blue, so dark it was almost black. Even from where she stood she could see the fine detail of the patterned decorative stitching. It was expensive cloth, well-tailored in the latest style, and worn with indifferent ease.

The man shifted his position, returning his right foot to the floor. The movement was graceful and supple, a surface of calm which concealed the tides of muscular strength below. His age appeared to be several months either side of twenty years, more from the strength of his build than the boyish character of his face, which was partly revealed in profile. Despite her close proximity, the stranger was so engrossed in his reading that he had not yet become aware of her presence.

The girl uncoiled from her stalk, rising to her full height as she moved forward to speak. Before she could utter the first word, the stranger stood with abruptness and faced her down. She gasped, startled anyone could move with such casual swiftness.

His gaze rooted her in place. She wanted to look away, but her eyes refused to obey, unable to do anything but return the stranger’s inquisitive stare. Even her voice caught in her throat. She felt the warm rush of blood upon her face as she stared in silence across the measured interval that in normal circumstances she would have taken to begin a dance.

It’s odd to have to look up at him. Odd, but nice.
She was accustomed to staring down at women and men both, and to being gawked at because of her height. But he was at least half a head taller than she and much broader of build than even she had guessed from the profile of her first glimpse. She’d never seen anyone with shoulders as wide as he possessed, but he wasn’t all bulk through and through. The vee of his torso tapered to a surprisingly slender midriff, anchored atop thighs which each looked as big around as her waist, the long arch of muscle narrowing as it approached the knee, into shapely round calves. He reminded her of the plates of Greek and Roman Gods she’d seen in the books her uncle always forbad her to read, but his face had a more boyish air of innocence. It was long and angular, the skin dark, like a Spaniard, with firm cheekbones and a strong prominent nose with wide flaring nostrils. His mouth, wide and sensuous, softened the effect of the brutal axe point of his chin. A high forehead was topped with thick curls, jet black like her own and without even a trace of powder, lengthening into an elegantly beribboned queue which hung down past his shoulder blades. Most remarkable, however, were his eyes, which were the most extraordinary color of green that she had ever seen. Whoever he was, he was exceedingly handsome. Had he been a woman, she would not have hesitated to call him beautiful.

The stranger looked away, breaking the spell of the gaze which had held her. The thump of her heart. The rhythmic cadence of breath. How was it that the constancy of these simple but essential things seemed a boon granted by his conscious will? A trace of vertigo made her light headed, as if the ribbon of time had been snipped in two and then tied loosely back together.

The stranger grinned, revealing at the center of both cheeks, a pair of dimples the size of small diamonds.
How adorable!
she thought, then promptly admonished herself for allowing so foolish and frivolous a sentiment. She didn’t even know who her odd guest was, or his rank and position.

“Forgive me, Mademoiselle. I did not mean to frighten you. I am sometimes captured by intriguing and unfamiliar prose, and become unaware of my surroundings. My father always scolds me for it, but forgives me nonetheless. Should your compassion prove but a hundredth part of your many evident charms, I should still find more than enough kindness to grant the pardon I most humbly beg of thee.”

His voice was a low, smooth rumble, the sound of distant thunder after the summer rain had passed. A graceful bow accompanied the words, his eyes rising expectantly before the rest of him, as he waited to receive her hand to kiss. It was a favor she was not yet prepared to grant. Proper courtesies needed proper introductions. A chance encounter could never be deemed as such, even under the most generous of circumstances.

She folded her hands across the front of her gown, and rested them on the large bow at the base of her stomacher. The stranger had not introduced himself, nor had they been properly presented to each other, and she did not know him by appearance or repute. She was not the type to expose her character to slander, or subject her family’s good name to ridicule by engaging in inopportune coquetry with a person wholly unfamiliar, no matter how handsome.

The stranger straightened his back. The pale, twin emeralds that somehow he had managed to acquire for eyes, picked up the afternoon sunlight as they watched her. He clasped both hands behind his back. For a long time they gazed in silence at each other. Or so it seemed. Perhaps it was only a few seconds.

“My uncle’s library is off limits to everyone. May I ask who you are and what purpose you could possibly have here…Monsieur?”

She had spoken first, because it was her house, and she disliked feeling at a disadvantage, because she was alone and a woman. The stranger stared back but made no immediate answer to her question. His reticence to speak began to vex her. Was it coyness or merely the dignity of his reserve? For all her bravado, she was not yet fifteen and had little experience with unchaperoned conversations involving the opposite sex. This was the first time she’d been on her own with a boy remotely close to her age. She had expected him to respond at once, and now that he hadn’t, she didn’t know what to say. And so they remained as they were.

Why doesn’t he say something?
The longer he remained tranquil and silent, the more she presumed his manner to be formed of some willful conceit or other mean motivation. Had her initial encouraging impression been all wrong? While searching for something to say to relieve the awkwardness of the situation, her gaze wandered to the imprinted gold text on the spine of the book he had been reading. The lettering was reversed and upside down, but with patience, she was able to make out the title. It was a book of very old romantic poetry by Ronsard, who was one of her favorite poets.

“Is that my uncle’s book?”

She realized it was a silly thing to have asked as soon as the words had left her mouth. A grin played at the edge of the stranger’s lips and she felt herself blush. How dare he laugh at her!
Why, he
shouldn’t even be here!

“If this is your uncle’s library, then yes, I suppose it must belong to him. It’s quite an interesting collection of romantic poetry, though I have always preferred history myself. I had never before understood the point of such endless sentimental musings. I suppose I’ve always found them quite pointless,” the stranger said.

He stood stiffly and proud, so full of his grand body and the easy self-assurance it gave him, she supposed. His eyes landed on her again, but this time she was prepared. She looked down toward the floor, avoiding their sorcerous beauty.

“But perhaps I was wrong in my opinions. I would be very much interested to know your impressions, Mademoiselle, and to understand the degree to which they might be similar…or in variance to my own.”

She clasped her hands together, interlocking the fingers until her thumbs met at the tips. It was a habit she often had when reflecting. He was very bold, this odd man-boy. He was the one out of place here. He should be answering questions not asking them. Even had she known him, it would be presumptuous to inquire about so personal a topic as poems of love. She looked at the stranger again from a more skeptical slant, speculating on how many books he might consume in a year. From the broadness of his shoulders and the shallowness of his efforts to impress, she concluded the number was very likely to be counted upon one hand, and might also feature a preponderance of ill-judged etchings.

I don’t know him well enough to want to discuss poetry, romantic or otherwise. Does he really believe me naïve enough to be captivated by such clumsy wooing? The next thing he’ll be asking for is a kiss, the arrogant dandy!