Louisa Rawlings (58 page)

“Let me go home. I’ll try to pay back the money you gave to Tintin.”
 

“How?”
 

“I’ll sell off some land. I’ll marry Arsène.”
 

“Don’t be foolish, Rouge. I know you’re hurt. Let me make it up to you. I love you. I know you love me.”
 

“No! I’ll never love you now. Not ever!”
 

“Rouge…” He reached out to pull her into his arms.
 

“Don’t touch me!” she shrilled. “You make me ashamed of last night.”
 

He scowled in anger. “Last night was beautiful! You gave me your love!”
 

“No. No!” Oh, God, how she hated him for what he’d done to her! “It was fear of Villeneuve.
Never
love for Pierre!”
 

He clenched his jaw, fighting for control. “Damn your stubborn pride,” he muttered. “Pierre or Villeneuve—you belong to me.”
 

“Send me back to my father,” she said coldly.
 

“You signed the contract.”
 

“Surely you don’t intend to hold me to it,
Monsieur de Villeneuve,” she sneered. “Knowing how I despise you.”
 

He bowed mockingly. “The contract, Mademoiselle de Tournières. And the marriage. Yes.”
 

“You’ll have to drag me to church to claim your loving bride,” she said, her voice deep with scorn. “And my door will be locked against you. Always!”
 

“Name of God, Rouge! Will you be reasonable? Stop this!” He took a deep breath, tried to smile. “You’ll feel better tomorrow. When you’ve had time to think. We can talk about it rationally, before the wedding.”
 

“There’s not going to be a wedding. I’ll see you in hell first!” Eyes glowing in rage, she smashed the porcelain rose at his feet. She drew herself up, feeling nothing but hatred and contempt for him. “Now, get out, you villain,” she said, “and leave me in peace!” Angrily she turned her back on him and marched toward her bedchamber.
 

Behind her she heard a low growl. His hands clamped about her shoulders and spun her around. She gasped in pain and fear, and pushed against his chest with desperate fists. She lashed out at his face, her flailing hands turning his cheeks a deep red. He swore softly and scooped her into his arms, carrying her, struggling and writhing, into the bedchamber. “You’ll be my wife!” he said, and tossed her onto the bed.
 

She raised herself up on her elbows, her bosom heaving. “A wife you bought like a sack of grain! I have nothing but hatred for you! There’ll be no joy in this purchase. You’ve made a bad bargain,
miller
!”
 

He swore again and dropped down to the bed, straddling her where she lay. Before she could attack him with her hands, he grabbed her wrists and pinned them to the bed. “Haven’t I made myself clear?” he said. His eyes burned into her, a green fire that seared her soul and left her trembling with terror. “You signed the marriage contract of your own free will! It was
your
bargain, with an unknown suitor, to save your father. It was the bargain you would have struck with Falconet, or Saint-Esprit, or…God knows who else! But you struck it with Villeneuve! Knowing of his villainy! You were bought because you wanted to be bought! Now, by Saint Martin, I expect you to uphold that bargain for the honor of the de Villeneuves—and the de Tournières!”
 

“You whoreson!” she shrieked. “Let me go!”
 

“Be still, and listen to me! You’ll walk to the church tomorrow with your head held high, or your father will learn how you disgraced his name! There will be a wedding, by God! And a wedding night! Do you understand? I give you my word, Rouge—if ever you lock your door against me, I’ll lay my hand to you so deservedly that you won’t sit down for a week! If you insist on war between us, you’ll know the consequences!”
 

He released her and flung himself from the bed, stormed to the door, and slammed it closed behind him. Still quivering, Rouge rose to her feet, then sat down again, her shaking legs incapable of supporting her. Pierre was gone. And in his place was a frightening man, a man who meant to have his way, no matter the cost to her in grief or pain. “So be it,” she whispered. It
was
war. “I give you my vow, Charles Hugues Pierre-Jean de Villeneuve,” she said slowly, her lips curling in loathing around each syllable of his name, “you’ll not have a day’s peace while I’m in your home.” Cringing in horror at the memory, she pictured again the scene at the mill—she, groveling at his feet, her heart and soul laid bare. And more. The recollections crowded back to her. That night of terror, when he’d tried to rape her. His jealous unreasonableness at the May fair because she’d danced with the nobleman. All the little hurts and grievances and insults that had seemed so unimportant at the time, but now returned to limn the portrait of a cruel villain—a man who, by his own admission, had led an evil life. “Not a day’s peace,” she said again. “Not a minute!”
 

For her wedding the following afternoon she wore the cloth of silver gown he had bought her. She’d almost thought to wear another, to spite him, but the remembrance of his threat stopped her. Besides, a small voice in her brain whispered, she
did
want Tintin to be proud of her. The small church was crowded with villagers from Choisy and the many tenants of the estate, who craned their necks to see the handsome duc and his beautiful new duchesse. In honor of the wedding, a great feast had been laid out on the grounds of Choisy-aux-Loges, and half the parish had been invited. As the evening wore on, there was dancing to a fiddle, eating and merrymaking. Rouge and Pierre sat apart at a small table near a fountain, supping quietly and receiving the good wishes of the villagers. Rouge was silent and distant. She hadn’t forgiven him. She hadn’t forgotten her vow. The only time during the whole day that she’d spoken in his presence was when she’d made her responses in the church. At last, when she felt that she’d stayed long enough at the festivities to maintain her honor, she turned to him. “May I have your leave to retire, monsieur?”
 

He sighed. “You can still call me Pierre. Or Pierre-Jean. It
is
my name. I didn’t lie about that.”
 

“May I retire, monsieur?”
 

She saw the flicker of pain in his eyes. “Of course, madame. I’ll not disturb you tonight.” He rose and bowed, signaling to Madame Benichou to show Madame de Villeneuve to her suite.
 

Rouge allowed the housekeeper—joined by the wives of the elders of the village—to lead her to her
appartement.
She found it distressing to have to listen to their giggling, their sly jokes. (“If monsieur le duc is as vigorous as he looks, madame, you’ll be fat as a Michaelmas goose in no time!” With a great to-do, they put her into her nightdress, exclaiming in delight at the clarity of her skin, the fullness of her breasts, her rounded hips that were surely made for childbearing. They called for the priest to bless the marital bed, then bundled her into it and left her alone.
 

They had left a single candle burning by the bed. She stared at it, wondering if she ought not to put it out; Pierre had said he wouldn’t disturb her tonight. Then she heard a noise from her drawing room. Masculine laughter and cheering. She shrank down into her pillows, wishing the ladies had drawn the bed hangings. The door burst open; Pierre, in dressing gown, was pushed into the room, followed by the village Council, full of good fellowship and jostling one another for a peek at the bride. Their laughter stopped at sight of Rouge, her eyes wide with surprise. They bowed, wished monsieur and madame a good night, and retired from the room, closing the door softly behind them.
 

Pierre stirred uneasily, staring down at the carpet. “I wouldn’t have come,” he said. “I’d hoped to reach my
appartement
unnoticed. But they insisted on escorting the bridegroom. ’Tis an occasion when the
seigneur
marries. And they’ll be camped outside for half the night.”
 

“Sleep on the floor,” she said coldly. “You’ve done it before.”
 

He crossed the room to her and sat on the edge of the bed. He took her hand in his, holding it fast even as she tried to pull away. “No,” he said firmly. “Now that I’m here, I’ll sleep here. With you.”
 

“As you wish, monsieur my husband. You’ve made it clear I have no choice.”
 

“Listen to me, Rouge. I love you. And I think you love me. What has begun badly—and I blame myself alone—need not continue so. We knelt together before God today, and pledged ourselves one to the other. Give me your lips, your love, your friendship. In the name of heaven, forgive me.”
 

“Is that a command, my husband? To be followed by a beating if I disobey?”
 

He sighed heavily. “Sweet Jesu! Will you use every weapon against me? Very well. I beg your forgiveness for that as well. I didn’t mean to threaten a beating. I’d never touch you. I swear it to you.”
 

“You swore I was safe at the mill,” she said waspishly. “And then you tried to rape me.”
 

He clenched his teeth, a hard line appearing at the edge of his jaw. “Is it to be war, then? Is it always to be war?” He stood up and pulled off his nightclothes; his naked body was strong, overpowering, potent. “So be it. Take off your nightgown, madame, and prepare to receive your husband.” He turned to the night table and extinguished the candle, plunging the room into darkness.
 

Sullenly she loosened the string on her nightdress and slipped it over her head, then lay stiffly in bed, hating him, as he climbed in beside her. He murmured her name and pulled her into his strong arms. His mouth sought hers in a deep kiss; his hands fondled her shoulders and soft flanks. She hadn’t thought she could be indifferent to his burning mouth, his gentle caresses. But her anger at his deception was a cold poison, numbing her senses, chilling her heart. She allowed his loving overtures with an icy passivity that seemed to frustrate him. His movements quickened, his hands and mouth urging a response. Damn him, she thought. She would give him nothing.
 

He drew away from her, released her. His voice was ragged with chagrin. “Would you prefer me to go?”
 

She was determined to wring the last drop of poison from her hatred tonight. “Do as you wish. I’m your wife and chattel. Bought and paid for.”
 

He laughed softly, but she caught the quaver in his voice. “If I can’t please you, I might as well please myself.” His strong hands spread her legs and he moved on top of her. When he thrust into her, she stifled a cry. It had been so hard, so sudden, yet so thrillingly evocative as well, reminding her stubborn body of the passion they had shared in the past. In spite of herself, she began to feel a stirring of her senses, a spark that drew its heat from his impassioned thrusts. But her manner had invited him to please himself and he did so, quickly and violently, while she yet struggled to catch fire.
 

She felt an unexpected disappointment that only added to her grievances against him. He hadn’t even
cared
about her feelings! Perhaps if he’d tried to be thoughtful, instead of treating her like the whores he’d been used to in his wild days, she might have felt something! She turned her head away from his last kiss. “
Did
you please yourself, husband?” she said cruelly.
 

She could almost feel his eyes boring into her in the dark. Without a word he arose from the bed, donned his dressing gown, and left her.
 

In the silence, she heard nothing but the pounding of her broken heart.
 

The weeks that followed were misery. The September days turned warm and hazy, the air filled with the pungent scent and sound of dry, crackling leaves. But within Château Choisy it was winter. His cold silences matched her own, and they nodded to each other in passing like distant acquaintances. After that first night he had no longer come to her bed. She was embarrassed when the servants gossiped that monsieur le duc had left his wife’s rooms at a shamefully early hour on their wedding eve, and hadn’t been seen to return since. She felt too much the stranger to speak to Colinet about it, or even Madame Benichou; it distressed her that Pierre was aware of the gossip and did nothing about it.
 

She wrote long, happy letters to Tintin, filled with lies. Then she wrote to Emilie, urging her to join her, and promising that Colinet would apologize for the thrashing. He had already begged Rouge’s pardon, asking her to forgive his behavior on the grounds that he had misunderstood Monsieur de Villeneuve’s orders in his zeal to oversee the new duc’s affairs with competence and loyalty, as he’d done for the old. He made it clear to her that it wasn’t his wont to beat servants, even ones as pert and insolent as Emilie. “Still,” he added, nodding his head cheerfully, “’tis a bad habit, when a young girl is given to sauciness and lies. Perhaps your maid has learned her lesson, and will mind her manners from now on!” Rouge was beginning to think that his cheeriness was matched only by his certitude in all things.
 

She began to find little gifts waiting for her when she returned to her rooms from an afternoon’s walk: a bouquet of fresh flowers, a pretty little box filled with sweetmeats, a crystal bottle of perfume. She acknowledged them with indifference; she wasn’t about to be bought again!