Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (3 page)

“And please, Mademoiselle, I’d prefer to be called Chevalier, or just Nicolas, if you don’t mind. Though I understand it may seem too familiar.”

“If you wish it, Nicolas. But would you do me the honor of calling me Sérolène in exchange?”

“I am humbled, Mademoiselle, to be extended such a favor. Forgive me my presumption, but may I also ask what happy coincidence brought you here? I would have presumed to find you downstairs enjoying yourself with everyone else.”

The vicomtesse glanced up at Nicolas from her place on the chaise, an awkward but engaging expression upon her face.

“Pardon me for saying so, but in truth, Monsieur, I generally prefer the company of books to the society of strangers. I can’t think of a more pleasant way to spend an afternoon or an evening than lost among the contents of this library.” 

“I know precisely how you feel! Why, at school I was often teased for my bookish ways. Pity we hadn’t such a grand library as this for me to have taken refuge in.”

Sérolène considered the chevalier’s robust physique. “Bookish and teased? I am surprised to hear either of those conditions might have applied to you, Monsieur, or that you would have needed to seek refuge from anyone. May I ask where it was you attended school?”

“Brienne-le-Château, in Champagne. At the military academy, to be exact.”

The vicomtesse’s was eager to know more. “Oh, will you tell me something of your experiences? It is not often I have a chance to speak to someone who has been away from the colonies for any considerable length of time. You must have had so many interesting adventures. At what age did you begin your education in Brienne?”

“I was eight when I left to begin my studies, though I turned nine before I started my first term.”

“It must have been difficult for you, to be sent away at such a tender age. I’ve heard conditions at the military schools can be quite austere. I can’t at all imagine living under such a Spartan regime. Did you not find yourself longing for home?”

“Very much so, Mademoiselle, but one has no other recourse but to adapt. Even well into my second year I remember how unsettled I felt, hearing the whimpering of the youngest boys at night, still pining for their mothers and the comfort of a soft bed. In time, though, it all grows dim. Even the memories of your loved ones’ faces begin to fade.”

Nicolas’ manner suddenly turned pensive. Sérolène wondered if perhaps her questions had been too intrusive. Her gaze softened with sympathy.

“How brave of you to have endured such a thing.”

“I was no less homesick than the rest, just more determined not to let it show. My years at school were principally an exile of sorts, at least that’s how I came to look at it. But one can find advantage even in banishment. Much like the circumstances which brought me to you.”

“That’s the second time you’ve referred to your visit here as being in exile. I’m afraid, Nicolas, you really must explain. Did you not say you were an honored guest of my aunt and uncle?”

Nicolas felt an odd pang in his chest, a mixture of joy and hope and perhaps a sense of something more which he was yet too young to comprehend. The cause was nothing certain. Just the way she pronounced his name, the manner in which she lingered on the second syllable just a half breath longer than most. Perhaps it was silly, but it seemed quite exceptional to him, as if he were hearing it spoken properly for the very first time. She made his name sound special. And he wondered why it should be so.

Nicolas gazed down at Sérolène, her glance was soft and expectant. His cares seemed to melt away in the pale grey-blue of her eyes. Then he remembered her question, and his face tightened as he confronted the reality of his current circumstances.

“I believe Madame de Salvagnac’s welcome applied only to my father and brother. It was made quite clear when we arrived, that the baronne had not expected, nor did she welcome my presence.
Voilà,
my place of banishment, albeit a much more comfortable one than I endured at Brienne. No matter. I understand there are greater matters at stake. As a second son, one gets used to such treatment.”

Sérolène looked down at her hands. She felt a sympathy for Nicolas, and an attraction which went beyond his obvious physical qualities. There was something sweet and tender about him, beneath all of his formidable bulk. She also knew what it felt like to be an outsider, even amongst her own family.

“You must forgive my aunt, Monsieur, whose sanctions and temperament govern this house. She means well, at least most of the time, but her actions, on occasion, do not reflect the goodness of character those who know her well have come through long experience to rely upon.”

“I suppose it is rare to find a heart generous enough to welcome everyone. The history of the Caesars tells us we, as men, are born to conflict—if not against other nations, then amongst ourselves. Rome’s chronicles are full of the misfortunes of those who counseled peace and tolerance in opposition to the common will. Most ended as martyrs or pawns. Sometimes they were both,” Nicolas observed.

“You seem to have a deep fascination for great and dusty antiquity,” Sérolène quipped, making gentle fun of Nicolas’ sermonizing. “But then again, Monsieur, I was never very fond of Latin, nor the chronicles of the Roman emperors.”

“Why Mademoiselle de La Bouhaire, I am surprised a lady of your erudition should profess a dislike for so important a tongue. For prose, Livy has few rivals, for rhetoric, the great Cicero provides the example for all men, and for philosophy, you may take Seneca the Elder or the Younger, as you please. Sweets of the mind, better than sugar and not to be missed.”

Nicolas grinned wide.

“I have heard the histories of Rome called many things, Nicolas, but ‘sweets of the mind’ is an entirely new and original description. I’ve always found Cicero to be very dull with all his long speeches, though perhaps now you’ve persuaded me to revisit him. Since you love Rome so well, you
must
tell me what you think of the Greeks.”

Nicolas was utterly charmed. He couldn’t think of when he’d had a more enjoyable conversation, especially one with a lady who was not only learned, but also possessed a quick wit and ready willingness to laugh. Ancient history was not a standard part of a woman’s education and most girls were never taught it at all. If the vicomtesse had read Cicero in Latin, she had likely done so of her own volition. Now she asked him his opinion of the Greeks? Had she also acquired knowledge of that difficult and arcane language? If so, he would be more than impressed, he should fall in love with her in an instant.

Sérolène shifted her position slightly on the chaise. Nicolas gazed down at the smiling, enchanting maiden before him, and began to appreciate the many other splendid qualities which his initial preoccupation with the wonderfully laid plan of her countenance had caused him to overlook. But intelligence wasn’t the only thing the vicomtesse possessed in abundance. From his standing position just behind her seat, the gently sloping swell of her full, ripe bosom made that abundantly obvious. He wondered why it had taken him so long to notice her very fine figure, but when she had been standing, he had been so bewitched by the pretty red mouth, the delightful color of her eyes, and the long thin line of her perfect nose, that he really hadn’t taken full stock of what a complete beauty she was.

Nicolas had been introduced into the company of many ladies, though the greater part were twice his age, or more. Most he found uninteresting—either too talkative, too severe, or too quiet to suit his tastes. He didn’t like word games, using puns as a substitute for wit, or cards, all of which were staples of genteel society. He wasn’t against these pastimes because he lacked skill at them, but because he learned nothing substantive or new by engaging in such play. Religion was interesting from a philosophical perspective, but Nicolas scrupulously avoided any discussion of the topic in mixed company, as any honest appraisals always ended in a row, or threats of damnation, both of which were tedious. Politics was of course, out of the question, at least in polite society, as it was deemed a topic unsuitable to be discussed with a woman. That left poetry, literature, and history. Of these three subjects, most ladies preferred the first two. He, of course, preferred the latter, which invariably left neither party with much to say to the other. 

This captivating girl before him was different from any he’d ever met. Her mind seemed as keen as a razor and she was not afraid to wield it with speed and precision. He liked that about her. He also liked her size. She was nearly as tall as he, with square shoulders and big luminous eyes of an exquisite grey violet-blue. When he had helped her to re-don her shoes, he had marveled at how large her feet were, but the proportions of her foot and ankle were nearly perfect. As he had held her foot, he had caught a brief glimpse of the long taut taper of her calves and had begun to wonder what the rest of so fine a leg might look like. She was slender at the waist, with delicate arms which were as expressive as a dancer’s. The graceful taper of her long fingers drew attention to her large hands, which she kept folded in her lap when she sat. Whenever she spoke she used them with animation, as if the words were an adjunct to their silent communication, and not the reverse. Her shoulders were broad, and Nicolas liked the way she sat proudly erect, not shrinking inward to try and make herself appear smaller than she was, which would only have directed more attention to her bosom, which was so full and perfect it required no embellishment at all.

Nicolas shuffled his feet, making an effort not to stare, but every part of the vicomtesse he focused on was so superb, he wished he had some talent as a portraitist. As such, he might have a reasonable excuse to gape at her for hours. At a loss as to where he should direct his attentions, he finally resorted to looking at her ears, which were the only parts which might be deemed ordinary. But the more he looked at those, the more he found himself wondering what they might be like to caress, especially the lobes, which dangled down like little pears. Everything about the vicomtesse was long—neck, torso, arms, hands, fingers, and legs. Most might find her ungainly, but he loved the way she was proportioned, a strong, lithe mare and one of a kind—like the tall grey which was his favorite mount—swift, powerful, temperamental. Only he had been able to master his beloved favorite. Would it be the same with this endearing creature before him? He wondered what it would feel like to envelop her in his arms, imagined what a perfect fit her body would be against his, becoming more aware as each moment passed, of just how much she held him in thrall.

Sérolène glanced quickly up at Nicolas, as if she guessed at what he was thinking. A grin spread slowly across her lips. She folded and unfolded her hands together in her lap.

Ah, to taste so sweet a ring of fire!
Nicolas thought. Then he remembered she was still waiting for him to respond to her question. Blood, and then color, ran to his face.
How long had he been lost in his reflections?

Nicholas finally spoke. “Rome is street theater. Greece is an opera, and a German one.” 

The chevalier returned Sérolène’s smile measure for measure, hoping to brush away the lingering tracks of his embarrassment.

“I confess, Mademoiselle, I can hardly get three volumes into Thucydides before my eyelids begin to feel as heavy as stones.”

Sérolène’s face lit up with enthusiasm.

“Three volumes? Most of the bookish pretenders I know can barely make it through the first few chapters. How different you are from what I had imagined, Monsieur. I had not on first glance taken you at all for a scholar.” 

It took a moment for Sérolène to realize that perhaps she had not phrased her comment in the most flattering light. She blushed in apology, hoping the chevalier would overlook the candor of her admission. Nicolas, however, didn’t seem to mind the remark at all.

“I suppose it does not help to have the physique of a stonemason. Come now, what did you take me for before I introduced myself? A smith’s son is the most common supposition.”

“I did think you might make an excellent cooper or smith, especially given your admitted fondness for horses. You are very good natured to bear such false presumptions so well, Monsieur. Tell me, how is it you are such amusing company? If your brother and the marquis are half as agreeable as you, I should think I’ve made a dreadful mistake in hiding from everyone.”

“You are very naughty, Mademoiselle, to deprive us of such splendid company.”

“Well, had I known how much I should have enjoyed meeting you, Nicolas, I would not have been so mischievous.”

“My father and brother are
far
more interesting company than I, Mademoiselle. However one looks at it, I must be considered the most fortunate to have encountered you by chance.”

“Perhaps fortune smiles upon us both. I hope you’ll think no less of me if I confess I’ve only read your beloved Thucydides in translation. In the convent they teach us only enough Latin to allow us to properly recite our prayers, and we learn no Greek at all. What little knowledge of either language I do possess is self-taught and mostly of very poor utility. Still…do you really enjoy spending so many hours buried in the august and severe tomes of Roman antiquity, when there is so much to keep you more happily engaged?” Sérolène asked, with genuine interest.

“Well, Mademoiselle, what, pray tell, would you recommend so my mind should be better occupied?”