Marrying the Musketeer (2 page)

She peeked into the chamber set aside for the older guests to play a quiet game of cards.
 
The small square tables were all set up, covered in green baize cloths, with shiny new packs of cards especially ordered for the occasion.
 
She turned them over and took a look through the pack.
 
The Kings all bore the face of their own King – Louis XIV of France – but it was the Queens she was looking for.
 

Ah – there it was.
 
The Queen of Hearts was different from the other stylized faces of the pack – as she had known it would, the Queen of Hearts bore the face of her own mother.
 

She fingered the diamond on her breast.
 
It was an exact copy of the one worn by the Queen of Hearts in her hair.
 
Her father must love her dearly to give up so precious a remembrance of the woman he had adored.
 
She touched the card gently to her lips, honoring the likeness of the mother she had never known.

Next stop – the supper chamber.
 
She sniffed at the door appreciatively, her stomach feeling suddenly empty.
 
The long table was already partly covered with cold meats and fruits, candied jellies and spices which the housekeeper was arranging on the white damask tablecloth.
 

She swiped a piece of candied ginger and popped it into her mouth, enjoying the spicy tang on her tongue.
 
The cook and her assistants, specially brought in for the night, would be hard at work in the kitchen preparing the rest of the food for the midnight supper.
 
With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she suddenly realized what a long time it would be until supper.
 
She swiped another piece of ginger just to keep her going.
 

The housekeeper shooed her away with a flapping of her apron.
 
“Get along with you now, you young minx.
 
You’ll spoil your appetite.”

Courtney blew her a kiss through her mouthful of ginger and skipped out of her way.

On the dais in the corner in the great chamber, a quartet of musicians was tuning their instruments with discordant wails.
 
She shivered to herself as she swallowed the last of the ginger.
 
Everything was ready for her ball.
 
All she needed was for the guests to arrive.

In twos and threes, their friends and acquaintances finally started to trickle in.
 
First came the Flemish merchants who, like her father, had made their home in Lyons.
 
Monsieur Legros and his large family, she noted with a smile, was one of the first.
 
She beamed an extra smile at the handsome young Justin and gladly agreed to dance the second of the dances that night with him.
 
She treasured the prospect of the envious glances of the other girls as she led him out on to the floor.
 
Her evening was off to a fine start already.

The guests started to arrive in ever increasing numbers, until the great chamber was nearly full.
 
Courtney bowed her head and murmured a polite greeting to each of them as they came in.
 
She knew them all more or less – they were her father’s colleagues in the jewel trade and her own friends and companions since childhood.
 
She felt comfortable in their company – they were safe and predictable and good enough company in moderation.
 

Only in her most discontented moments would she ever have voiced her most secret thought: their very qualities of safety and predictability meant they were also dull and boring.
 
Though she did not admit even to herself that her companions were little to her taste, she felt some of the sparkle go out of the air as more and more of her acquaintances crowded around her, all talking loudly at the tops of their voices about profits and losses of one kind or another.

She would not grow up to be like them, she told herself as she curtsied to yet another red-faced merchant and his plump wife, talking about profits and carriages and dowries and remedies for teething babies when they got querulous.
 
She wanted greater things for herself.
 
She longed for the excitement of something new...

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of a couple of strangers waiting to be introduced - soldiers in the dashing uniform of the King’s Musketeers.
 
With their black hair and heavy eyebrows they were darker than most of the guests there.
 
She was sure she had never met them before.
 
They looked slightly out of place in their gathering of mostly blonde Belgians – like a couple of exotic and slightly menacing intruders in the midst of their gathering of family and friends.
 
All of a sudden, the comfortable gathering felt slightly alien and dangerous.

She nudged her father.
 
“Who are they?” she asked, indicating the strangers with a flick of her head.
 
“Do I know them?”

He grinned at her bemusement.
 
“New acquaintances of mine recently come from Paris.
 
They have come to oversee some contracts I have to supply the royal family, and to guard the more important consignments on their return to Paris.”

It was unlike her father to welcome French strangers so readily into their house, though he was ever eager to open his house to any Belgian who should pass though Lyons.
 
“Why are they here?”

“They know few people in town and were pleased to receive the invitation.”
 
He winked at her and grinned.
 
“You did ask me to invite all the young, eligible men in Lyons, did you not?”

She kept one eye on them as she murmured greetings to her guests.
 
She could feel their eyes on her, as curious about her as she was about them.
 
Slowly but surely, they came closer as they waited their turn to be introduced.

Finally they were there.
 
She stood in demure silence as her father shook their hands heartily.
 
“Monsieur de Tournay, Monsieur Charent, this is my daughter, Courtney Ruthgard.
 
You’re a lucky pair to have already caught the eye of the most beautiful woman in the house.
 
She has just been asking about you.”

“Papa,” she complained, scandalized at his teasing in such company.
 
She shot him an evil look out of the corner of her eye.
 
She was no longer a child to be teased so.

Monsieur Charent winked at her, his dark blue eyes shining with amusement.
 
“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Ruthgard.”
 

His gaiety was infectious and she smiled back at him.
 
His handsome face glowed with good humor, putting her instantly at her ease.
 
“I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur Charent.”

He bowed over her hand, lingering just a little longer than was strictly necessary.
 
“I hope you will do me the honor of gracing me with a dance this evening when your duties as hostess are over?”

Her smile widened.
 
As handsome as he certainly was and as good-natured as he seemed to be, she was sure he would make a very agreeable partner.
 
“I would be delighted to dance with you, Monsieur Charent.”

“I shall count the moments until then.”
 
With a final tip of his hat, he moved on into the crowd in the great chamber.
 

The other stranger, Monsieur de Tournay, stepped up to her.
 
His face was darker than his companion’s, and not as openly cheerful.
 
Monsieur Charent looked pleasant and uncomplicated, like a settled summer’s day.
 
By contrast, Monsieur de Tournay looked dangerous and unpredictable, like a sudden summer thunderstorm.

She knew at once that this was the man who had made the air feel different.
 
Monsieur de Tournay was the one who had set the treacherous currents swirling through the room – exotic, musky currents that spoke to her of desires she could not clearly articulate – not even to herself.

He took her white-gloved hand in his and lifted it slowly to his lips.
 
She shuddered as she felt the heat of his mouth through the thin white cotton of her gloves.
 
She surreptitiously tried to pull her hand away, but his grip was too strong and she did not want to make a scene.

“Enchante, Mademoiselle Ruthgard,” he said, his fingers still holding hers firmly and his voice flowing over her like rich cream.
 
“I used to think Parisian women had no equal.
 
Only now do I realize how mistaken I was.”
 
He turned her hand over and planted a trio of soft kisses on the inside of her wrist.
 
“If only I had known before now that such beautiful flowers grew here in Lyons, I would have paid your fair city a visit long ago.”

His soft words and the gentle, fleeting touch of his kisses on her wrist were as heady and intoxicating as the best French champagne.
 
She felt her head swimming and her face growing hot and red.
 
“Thank you,” she murmured, feeling horribly gauche and embarrassed but not knowing what else to say.
 
No doubt he was used to sophisticated Parisian women who would have a thousand witty remarks to make in such a situation, but she was only a simple merchant’s daughter from Lyons.
 
She looked down at the floor as she shuffled her feet uncomfortably.
 
She was not used to dealing with Parisian introductions or Parisian flattery.

His quiet whisper broke in on her thoughts.
 
“Look at me, Mademoiselle Ruthgard.”

Unwillingly, she slowly raised her head and looked directly at him.
 
He wore his uniform with style and ease – indeed, it looked as though it had been designed to show off every best feature he possessed.
 
His shoulders were broad in his jacket, with the lace of his sleeves falling elegantly over his wrists.

His hair was as black as the ace of spades, curling in long ringlets to his shoulders.
 
His complexion was as dark as hers was fair – a bronzed color that looked as though he spent more hours outside on his horse than inside a lady’s perfumed boudoir – but his skin looked as smooth and soft as her own for all that.
 

His eyes were a deep, dark brown, flecked with green and fringed with long dark eyelashes.
 
She looked into them – and she was lost.
 
His gaze held hers with such force and power that she could not look away.
 
“You will dance with me tonight.”

It was a command, not a question.
 
She could not refuse him anything he demanded of her.
 
She nodded, her throat too dry for words.

“I will allow Monsieur Charent one of your dances if you insist upon it – but only because he is my friend.
 
The rest are mine.”

He was intoxicating, enchanting, as if had had put her under a spell that left her utterly susceptible to his power.
 
The newness of him entranced her.
 
He was so unlike every other man she had ever known.
 
She trembled under the force of his magic, but it was not yet strong enough to make her abandon her dear papa when she had promised to dance with him first.
 
She didn’t know where she found the courage to say him nay even in a small way.
 
“You cannot have them all.
 
I have promised to open the ball with my father.”

His teeth gleamed white in a broad smile.
 
“One dance for your father, then, and one for my friend.
 
That gives me the rest of the night to start to get to know you as well as I want to.”

There were goose bumps scattered here and there on her arms as he let finally let go her hand to stride off and mingle with the crowd – part of it and yet standing above it.
 
She gave an involuntary shudder as she watched him go.
 

She did not understand what was happening to her.
 
She was no green girl to be bowled over by the first man to pay her a few cheap compliments.
 
She was eighteen already.
 
Many girls her age were already wed and had a babe or two at the breast by now.

She had been pursued by many a man before, all of them liberally bestowing fine words upon her to disguise the fact that they had nothing of real value to offer her.
 
She had no lack of suitors for her hand.
 
Her father had already refused a dozen offers at the very least – her generous dowry meant that she attracted fortune hunters like flies.
 
“Fine words buttered no parsnips,” her father would say as he sent them packing.
 
He wanted more of his future son-in-law than the ability to make pretty speeches and steal the odd kiss in a dark corner.