Amour: Historical Romance (Passion and Glory Book 1) (4 page)

Sérolène gave Nicolas a long, considered look before replying, acutely aware that whatever counsel she gave would reflect as much about her own sensibilities as it would about what she imagined his areas for improvement might be.
But how much am I willing to reveal of myself?
For the first time, she was not wholly certain of the answer.

“Tragedies and poems of love, Monsieur, for they speak to the most important truths. Though it is useful to inform the mind, it is nobler, I believe, to nurture the heart. Is that not the true task of gentlemen? Reflect well on the history you love, and you will find the source of great deeds is often great love…or hatred. Both are matters of the heart.”

Nicolas glanced at Sérolène, the sound of her voice thundering in his head like the braying of the trumpets at Jericho. The barrier of all his civilized artifice, constructed layer after painstaking layer over thousands of years of breeding—a high wall, built to keep man, the beast, separated from man, the thinker, came tumbling down in an instant. As he gazed at Sérolène, his heart pounded with the pure essence of primal man. He knew then, the true wonder and power, which is always and ever, woman. In that moment, Nicolas understood that if this enchanting stranger wished it, his soul would forever be hers to do with as she pleased. Absurd as it might seem, he already loved her, but not for any rational reason of beauty, fortune, or circumstance. She had been meant for him. She alone in a world of millions of souls. He felt her resonance in the marrow of his bones, in the thrum of ichor surging through his flesh. From this moment forward, he would love her till the day he died and a stab of cold, numbing fear wrenched his gut, for he had no surety she would or could ever feel the same, and what would he do if she should be lost to him? What would there be for him but bleak empty hopelessness if she did not return his love, or thought his feelings absurd? He would spend the rest of his life seeking warmth from shadows, knowing that the sun forever eluded him. His heart raced. His mouth was dry. He wondered if the first man felt the same, when he looked down toward the hole of his sundered rib and beheld the wonder named Eve.

“Your wisdom surpasses even your beauty. Long shall I remember both,” Nicolas managed at last, his answer unpolished, stripped of guile, of pretense, of everything false, yet bitter tasting nonetheless, not sweet, like everything she uttered. Her voice was the wellspring of his hope, but for him the cistern was dry, desolate, sere—for it was impossible to believe she might ever come to reciprocate his feelings.

Sérolène gazed up at Nicolas. He looked at her with such aching tenderness that she forced herself to stare at her hands, afraid if she met his eyes, he might look straight through her and read her heart as easily as he read his beloved histories.

The vicomtesse was still young and unspoiled. She had not yet known falsehood or disappointment in love. Child-woman that she was, she could still hear with her heart. And because she had not yet been tutored by bitter experience of the world to ignore its melodies, she listened to the delightful music it had begun to make.

“How is it possible, Monsieur, that we have only just met and yet you seem to know me so well?”
And why have I been chattering away with you as if we’ve grown up together since childhood, when the truth is I hardly know you at all?

Nicolas sensed his entire world tilting on its axis. He must tell her, even if she deemed his feelings absurd. For to say nothing would be to consign himself to the darkness of utter hopelessness. Even if she mocked or spurned him, she would still know his heart. That would be something at least.

“
Mademoiselle, there is something I must ask of you. I know I have no right to request such a boon. Nevertheless, I do beg it of thee and most humbly. Will you take pity on this poor soul before you and allow me to lay at your feet the unconcealed contents of my heart?”

Before she could reply, they were interrupted by the sounds of approaching footsteps and muffled but familiar voices.

“It’s my uncle! We must go!”

Sérolène quickly placed the book Nicolas had been reading back on the shelf. Pulling him by the hand, she hurried to the far wall, pressing a concealed mechanism on the edge of the bookshelf. A false bookcase opened into a passage before them and she led him through it just as the inner door to the library began to open. As the secret door closed behind them, Sérolène led Nicolas through a small corridor and then down a flight of stairs in almost total darkness, guided only by the faint glow of distant lamps from below.

“That was close. Let’s go down this way, Nicolas.”

Sérolène indicated the direction with a gentle pull of her hand. She knew the back passageways of the château by heart, and often put them to use for her own purposes or amusement.

“Where will it take us?”

“It leads to the kitchens. We can safely rejoin everyone from there. But first, you must repay me for rescuing you,” Sérolène whispered playfully.

Nicolas was entranced by the touch of her hand in his own, and the nearness of her in the darkness.

“Rescuing me, Mademoiselle? On the contrary. I believe I have never been in greater peril.”

“What danger can there be here to worry us, Nicolas? With all your strength, surely the darkness doesn’t trouble you?”

Nicolas stopped, drawing Sérolène toward him. They were so close in the dim light of the stairwell he could feel the warmth of her breath against his face. It was sweet, like the scent of lilacs. Her hand, still cradled in his, sent tingles along his arm. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end.

“Dear Sérolène, do you not already sense it? An hour ago my heart was unbound and entirely my own. Now…” Nicolas hesitated, realizing he had spoken her name for the first time. Was he being too forward?  Dare he go on and say what he truly wished to say? Sérolène squeezed his hand to encourage him.

“Now what, dear Nicolas?”

“I have known you but a short time, and yet somehow, you have already made me adore you. I am bewitched and as helpless as a lamb.”

For a moment there was silence. Nicolas felt as if his heart had stopped, and that it would only start again if and when she spoke to him.

“You adore me? If that is so, then you must swear an oath of honor to love and cherish me forever. Or I will know you only trifle with my poor heart.”

“Upon my honor, I do swear it!”

Long seconds passed in silence. Nicolas could see Sérolène’s eyes, impossibly big and luminous in the darkness, as if they absorbed and reflected all the limited light. He wondered if he’d said the wrong thing as the silence stretched on between them. She released his hand. His heart sank into his shoes
.
He felt utterly lost, standing silent and unmoving, unable to press his suit forward, or withdraw. Like a colossus with feet of clay, he hovered on the edge of the abyss, teetering between hope and despair. Waiting for her to topple him with just a word.

Sérolène’s hand brushed his cheek. It scalded him like a brand, but oh how sweet it was to burn. Her lips pressed against his. A burst of rapture, tender beyond imagining, lit every corner of his being. The world and all it contained stood still, reduced to the space of their two pairs of lips. Time vanished, and light and sound. There was only feeling—of lips and tongues and unbearable soft delight.

When Sérolène at last drew back, Nicolas had no idea if seconds or hours had passed. It was just as he’d imagined, the way her body flowed into his—chest to hip to thigh. A perfect fit. Neither dared speak. The wonder of what had just passed between them overawing them into silence, though they were both deliciously aware of every sensation.

“My dearest Nicolas, we must go before we are discovered here.”

Nicolas could only nod his reply in the darkness as Sérolène led him down the stairwell by the hand. They went toward the kitchens, the aroma of the feast being prepared, and the noisy banter of those who made and served it, rising up the stairway like smoke ascending a chimney. Nicolas followed blindly along, content to go wherever Sérolène dared. Angel? Sorceress? He knew not, cared not. He was hers now. His heart given by oath, and held firmly in her grasp. And neither death, nor any other pretender, would have strength to unbind him from his promise.

The Baron de Salvagnac escorted the Marquis de Blaise down the long hallway which led to the dining hall. The baron was a prosperous man and the small bulge around his midsection was beginning to show it, though his richly detailed waistcoat, made of Chinese silk, and of a shade partway between ivory and chalk, did much to camouflage the burgeoning extent of his good fortune. His breeches and jacket were a deep sky blue, also made of the finest imported silk. Fanciful complex patterns of flowers, birds, and other subjects of nature were weaved along the lapels and rear vents of his jacket in gold thread, the head of each arrangement centered on one of twelve solid gold buttons, each of which rose like a triumphal column from the elaborate stitching of his suit. White silk stockings, black shoes with silver buckles, and a shirt of the whitest and softest muslin cloth, with elaborate lacing on the collar and sleeves, completed the ensemble. The suit was almost Baroque in its showiness, but it served as a useful reminder that the wearer was one of the richest bankers in France and therefore, the entire world.

The baron was not usually so conspicuous in his dress. Like most very successful financiers, he preferred to be rich, but not to look it. Greys, blues, clarets, and browns were his usual preference, but tonight’s dinner with the Marquis de Blaise was part of a larger transaction that involved more than just financial interests. Key family matters were at stake, and he had need for more ostentation than usual.

“Monsieur le Marquis. I hope you will find the hospitality of our table suitable enough to your liking. Langoustes are the particular specialty of my chef. We take them from a particular cove, just west of the Fort.”

It was something to say to ease his nerves. The marquis responded with a polite inclination of the head and nothing else. The hallway ran the length of the château from east to west, three yards wide and capped by a fourteen foot ceiling decorated with colorful frescoes of biblical scenes. Most who walked the length of the central corridor were duly impressed, not only by the baroque detail of the woodwork and fixtures, and the twelve chandeliers which hung from the ceiling, but also by the many busts, vases and urns which lined the walls—select and expensive antiquities from Rome, Greece and even China. An ornate rectangular mirror hung beneath the grand staircase at the center of the main hall, where East and West wings met. The baron took careful note of his appearance as he and the marquis went past the reflective glass. How far he’d come in life, and how much further he still aspired to go.

Born Guy Christian Hervé Rocheforte, the baron was of medium build and still possessed something of the rugged handsomeness of his youth. Middle age and affluence had smoothed the edges of his features and his temperament. Prosperity however, had not dulled his innate intelligence or dampened the drive which had raised him from obscurity to his current position as one of the most influential bankers in France. His deep brown eyes still glowed with zeal and the optimistic spirit of a self-made man. More than that, they reflected a deep-seated pride in an accomplishment which could only be described as a stunning and unexpected coup of success.

Tonight he and the Marquis de Blaise, the storied patriarch of the house of Montferraud, one of the most noble and ancient houses in France, had agreed on an alliance between their families. Yes, the cost was staggering and would be reflected in the unprecedented size of the dowry his daughter would bring to the pending marriage with the Marquis’ eldest son, but the social elevation the match would bring to his own name and the opportunities he would gain because of this, was well worth the cost.

Why was the alliance so important? Because in France, bloodlines and titles were everything. The baron had purchased his own nobility in his early twenties. For more than thirty years, it had allowed him the right to style himself Baron de Salvagnac. But he was always seen by the high nobles, as little more than a grasping parvenu, despite all his wealth. Though his fortune allowed him to come and go as he willed, and to live in grander style than many of those who looked down upon him, there were still certain very small circles of influence which he could not enter. The court was one of them. But now, that would all change. Nothing, not even access to the King himself would be denied him. And this was all due to the alliance he had just agreed to with the Marquis de Blaise.

The baron had intended the long walk from his library to the dining hall as a march of triumph. The twenty-eight hundred carefully chosen tomes in his library were intended to show that he was a learned man. The walk from the library down the central hall to the dining room made it clear beyond doubt, that he was also cultured and obviously enormously rich. But the marquis didn’t seem overly impressed by what he had seen, and the baron began to wonder if he had made a mistake.

They passed by a magnificent marble statue of Achilles, four feet high and with spear and shield readied against an unseen foe. The baron readied himself to receive the compliments which always came. Everyone who saw the statue remarked upon it. But the marquis passed it by without seeming to notice it at all. The baron considered what he knew of the marquis, beyond the general stories. Perhaps the marquis’ silence was one of envy? Or perhaps he had comparable works of his own on display and simply had nothing to say. It was hard to fathom such a man as the marquis. A man whose nobility began even before the time of Charlemagne.

The marquis’ ancestors had served as
chevaliers
, knights, to the great man himself and the later Carolingian Emperors. Montferraud power had risen in concert with the extension of French authority and greatness. The Montferraud were at heart, warriors more than courtiers. Other families grasped at high titles and offices. Many rose swiftly on the whim of royal favor, others were broken by the same kingly caprice. Those who remained great through the ages were either tied directly by blood to the King, or became indispensable to the maintenance of the crown by mustering knights and men to defend it. The Montferraud were such a family. Their standard had flown in every battle in which a French Emperor or King had taken part. War was the way, the lifeblood of their house, and they bred their sons for it as steeds were bred to be ridden.

The Marquis de Blaise was a fitting archetype of his line; tall, urbane, handsome, erudite, and reserved. His face bore a striking likeness to ancient images of Caesar himself, with piercing grey eyes, and a hawk-like gaze which surveyed everything with absorbing interest. The marquis had both wit and a tongue as biting as a lash, but seldom chose to wield either in petulance or anger. His mind was quick and subtle and he used his piercing intellect to sift through the chaff of his many affairs, always managing to strain out the best prospects for his endeavors. He was noted for his great passion and his acumen for war, but he was also a maverick—a man who regarded himself and his house as allies rather than vassals of his sovereign.

As they passed by the main sitting room which led out onto the gardens, the last rays of daylight bathed the room in an orange-red glow. Two of the baron’s uniformed lackeys stood in the sitting room, waiting in attendance by the twin doors which led out into the rear courtyard. Another two stood directly before them on each side of the double oak doors at the end of the hall which led to the dining room itself. The baron gave his men the once-over, looking for any faults of appearance or grooming, then compared his own suit to the one worn by the marquis as they prepared to enter the dining hall.

The marquis’ suit was a mix of slate and violet, with no visible adornment to the fabric, other than patterned abstracts in silver thread. His waistcoat was white, as were his stockings. The only embellishment he wore about his person was a signet ring on his right hand, about which the baron was curious.

“Monsieur le Marquis, may I ask the significance of the signet you bear? As you may have noticed, I have a certain fondness for antiquities. The ring you wear seems most unique to me.”

“You do indeed have a keen eye for ancient objects, Monsieur le Baron. The signet bears the crest of my family. It once belonged to the original founder of our line. I consider it my one true treasure. It is always with me, except when I play the violin, which I have not done in years now.”

“I did not know Monsieur le Marquis possessed a talent for music. We have a small music room here, Monsieur, with a variety of instruments. I would be more than honored to hear you play.”

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, Monsieur le Baron, but I stopped playing because I can find no time to practice and I prefer not to play at all rather than to play badly. A talent for music runs in the family. It was always encouraged as an accompaniment to the skills of war. My son Nicolas is quite accomplished on the pianoforte. Perhaps you might convince him to play for you.”

“With your consent, perhaps I shall try, Monsieur le Marquis.”

They walked on in silence. The marquis considered what he had won and conceded in the discussions concluded earlier in the baron’s library. For nearly a thousand years, the house of Montferraud had borne arms in the service of France and her Kings. The family had prospered for centuries, reaching its greatest influence as a result of the many wars fought by Louis XIV, the Sun King. The death of the grandest of Bourbon monarchs however, marked the decline of Montferraud influence at court. Much of the family fortune and influence had been lost by Philippe Édouard de Montferraud, his grandfather, who got himself on the wrong side of Madame de Maintenon
[i]
by opposing the revocation of the Edict of Nantes
[ii]
. The Sun King exiled Philippe de Montferraud to his estates for his troubles and confiscated a large portion of Philippe’s wealth as a punishment for trifling with the Royal Mistress. The greater part of the clan’s remaining influence then died with his father, Jean Alexandre Nicolas de Montferraud, General of Cavalry, who cared only for fighting, and spending lavishly on hunting and his many mistresses. He paid little attention to what remained of his patrimony, most of which was squandered while he was off fighting Louis XV’s wars. Realizing at last what a mess he’d made of things when his wife retired to a convent to avoid the embarrassment of being confronted in public by his many creditors, his father had at least had the good grace to get himself killed heroically at the Battle of Fontenoy.

My father’s death left me with the mess of the family’s ruined finances. I suppose circumstances forced my hand, at least in my first marriage. But I was determined not to let them control me in my second.

The marquis had married a wealthy heiress in his early twenties, who had replenished the family coffers and given him a son before succumbing to the tropical scourge of yellow fever. With fortune restored and an heir secured, the marquis broke with previous tradition by immersing himself in mundane affairs of commerce, shipping and planting—all occupations which most of his noble peers considered well beneath them. Having seen his house flirt with financial ruin under his father, Édouard Charles Pierre Marie François de Montferraud, was not above the common pursuit of enriching himself. He paid attention to his money and it rewarded him by growing handsomely.

But I did not know then, that becoming wealthy would make me so many enemies at court. A fortune independent of royal patronage was considered too dangerous. The circle of my enemies around the King wanted me broken and in time they achieved some of their aims by having me exiled. But time has strengthened me and weakened them
.
Our class as a whole, is a parasitic anachronism. Feudal armies are a thing of the past. They will eventually succumb to a national one. The function we have provided for over a millennium will become professionalized. The King would need our expertise, but I will become just an employee of the throne instead of its ally. The basis of our power is evolving and we must progress with it or risk being swept away. 

There was a large portrait of a gale at sea just outside the doors to the dining room. A ship floundered on the rocks. It looked certain to be lost. The marquis thought the painting an apt description of the current times.
Other storms brew on the horizon. The challenge to absolutism is real and the despots of Europe can’t ban or burn the books of liberty fast enough. The Americans already fight for their freedom. If the they succeed, their revolt might not be confined to the New World.
Wealth will be the new aristocracy, and I intend to stake out a solid foundation for it now. A foundation upon which the great and lasting structure of our new power will be built. 

It had been nearly twenty years since the first Madame de Blaise had died. The son she had given birth to had now grown into a man, and that young man was presently in need of a bride. Tonight, the marquis had given him one, deviating from the usual choice of a girl with an old and famous pedigree in favor of a
petit
name and a grand fortune.

In times past, his forebears would never have even considered the progeny of upstarts like the Baron de Salvagnac as suitable marriage stock for their sons, but France was no longer the great nation it had been under the Sun King. The expenses of Louis XIV's wars were now falling on the heads of his descendants and the backs of the growing legions of French poor. The realm, though still outwardly splendid, was rotting from the inside. But for the bold, there was always opportunity within misfortune. The alliance the marquis had agreed to was a first step toward that end.

The Baron de Salvagnac’s lackeys bowed and opened the doors to the dining room. It was a large circular space, some thirty yards in diameter. At the center of the room was a long rectangular table which looked capable of seating at least two dozen guests, but was now set for just eight.