Noble Satyr: A Georgian Historical Romance (41 page)

“I wish you would stop trying to frighten
me,” she said without looking at him. “I am too annoyed to be
frightened. If you are determined to keep me company come down from
there and look at this fountain. I think it must be of a Chinese
Emperor, no? See how the water cascades into little pools by his
feet. I wonder where the stream leads. Possibly the lake. I should
like to see the lake. There are swans and ducks and—”

“I do not need to understand English to know
you were rude to Mademoiselle Woodruff,” Étienne cut in. “You
walked off when she was speaking to you. That would not be
tolerated in France. I had hoped your manners would improve, but
they are still atrocious. My father, he may think such antics
refreshing, I don’t.”

Antonia did not bother to answer. She walked
away and at an intersection of three paths went off to the left. Up
the hill ahead was a small clearing with a rotunda atop a grassy
mount. The rotunda would afford her a view of the whole gardens and
hopefully she would be able to see in which direction the house
lay. She had just congratulated herself, too, on losing the Vicomte
when he appeared in the center of the climbing path.

“Did you think to escape me, little
Antonia?” he said with a mocking bow. “A very foolish thought! A
singularly stupid thought! For all your book learning you are still
an ill-educated female. It is as well you have your looks for no
man would bother with you. I think Mademoiselle Woodruff’s flaxen
curls preferable to—”

Antonia side-stepped him. “I am happy you
do. You and she would suit admirably.”

“She reminds me of a particular little
Parisian I have come to know quite well. Very well indeed. But you
would not know her. She does not frequent levees and never
salons.”

“She is your mistress?” asked Antonia. “I
hope you are good to her and she is good to you.”

This was not what the Vicomte wanted to
hear. Nor did he like the way Antonia smiled at him. It angered and
embarrassed him. He dug about in a pocket for his snuffbox then
remembered it was empty, its contents wasted on the grass under the
marquee. “No, I am not good to her!” he shouted. “I do not care a
fig for her! It is more than she deserves that I interest myself in
such low-life!”

“That is a horrid way to talk!”

“Why? Do you think I should act a gentleman
with one who is not fit to drink from my cup? They are nothing
these creatures,” he said with haughty contempt.

“Yet M’sieur le Vicomte readily accepts
their favors…?”

“That is different! I do them an honor. When
we are married you will forget these females exist.”

Antonia’s back stiffened and she stopped to
regard the Vicomte angrily. “Étienne, I will never marry you. I do
not love you and you, you do not love me. I do not know why you
persist with this nonsense, but you must stop it. If ever I return
to Paris it will not be as your wife.”

He had a foot on the first of the rotunda’s
six steps and blocked her access with his body. “What say have you
in the matter? It is not your place to tell me what to do or—or to
make decisions. We have decided your fate. My father and me. It is
what we want, what Strathsay wanted, what my father wants; it is
what I want!”

“You want your father to bed me?”

“Be quiet! That is not important. It is what
is in my best interests that is important. Why do you think I came
to this barbaric country, eh? For the pleasure of Cousin Roxton’s
company? I think not. You are returning to France with me and we
will be married—”

“
Mon Dieu
, I am sick unto death of
this circular argument,” muttered Antonia and attempted to go up
the steps. “Please allow me to pass. I wish to see the view.”

“How dare you interrupt me! How dare you
treat me as if I was a-a boy!”

“M’sieur le Vicomte forgets himself,” she
said in a voice of controlled anger when he grabbed her arm. “Even
were we betrothed it does not give you the right to touch me
without permission. Nor to shout in my face. If you cannot behave
in a civilized manner I must ask you to go away.”

Étienne gaped at her. Such was his
astonishment that he let her go. But he soon recovered himself and
bounded up the steps with fists clenched in anger. Antonia was
standing with her back to him. She was leaning on the balustrade
admiring the view of the Ornamental Gardens, and beyond that, the
brightly colored marquee and the field dotted with cricketers.
Through the trees below she glimpsed several figures walking in the
gardens but they were so distant that she could not identify them.
She said something to the Vicomte about the view but he did not
hear her. Before he knew what he was doing he had pinned her to the
balustrade, forcing her arms into the small of her back. The more
she struggled the tighter his twisting grip on her wrists.

“Étienne, you are hurting me…”

“
Taisez-vous
. What do I care for
that? You will listen to me now! I offer you my name and you dare
insult me as if I, a Salvan, was a nobody? You, the daughter of a
buffoon physician who disgraced himself—a-a—heathen no less! And
granddaughter of a painted bawd? No, do not struggle! I am much the
stronger and I would hate to hurt you.”

“Stop it! Let me go!”

“It is a wonder I persist with you—”

“A-a wonder indeed!” she retorted with
spirit, though she was now very much afraid of him.

“A little humility is what I want from you.
I do not want a wife who is bookful of thoughts. It does not become
a Vicomtess to act the part of a bourgeoisie. If you are good and
obedient and strive to please me, I will not complain and need to
beat you—”

“I am never going to marry—” The sentence
was left to hang because the Vicomte had grabbed her about the
throat and squeezed until she struggled to gulp in air.

“Do not—Do not contradict me ever again,” he
hissed in her face. “I have heard enough words from mademoiselle’s
pretty mouth. You and I return to Paris tonight. I will not stay
another day under Cousin Roxton’s roof, to be humiliated and
treated as if I was a mere schoolboy. I have watched the way you
flaunt that whore’s trinket he gave you! Did you think I did not
know? Foolish Antonia! It is a shabby gift. I have seen diamonds
about the wrists of his whores which put your tiny stones to
shame.”

As he spoke he let go of her throat and she
shuddered in a great breath of air. “It is his fault you were
shot,” he sniggered, his long fingers curling about the
tight-fitting satin at her shoulder. “What a great pity you had to
play the heroic idiot and get in the way.”

“You shot at us? You were the one waiting in
the forest? How-how could you do such a monstrous thing?” she
demanded, her horror at learning the truth of that night’s episode
greater than any fear of his intentions. “Why—”

“It was not I!” he spat in her face. “Did I
say it was? Did I? Did I? My father—he—he could not help himself!
He believed Roxton’s boast. I never did. He shot at you, stupid,
stupid Antonia! I told you not to struggle! He put that bullet in
you—disfigured you—Let me see if it is still as hideous as I
remember—”

“For pity’s sake, Étienne,” she pleaded. But
in one movement he had stripped bare her arms and shoulders, and
exposed the puckered scar at her collarbone. She stared at him with
an unspeakable anger, her face scarlet at his touch. It was then
she heard the voices floating up from the gardens, calling out her
name. It gave her the courage to find the words she knew would push
him off-balance, and hopefully allow her to escape. “Étienne,
listen to me,” she whispered, trying to cover herself with the
remnants of her torn bodice. “The night of the masquerade, your
father was right to believe M’sieur le Duc’s boast, because in the
carriage I let him—”

“Liar!” he screamed, his face was now as red
as hers. Not having his precious blend of snuff to calm his nerves
he had begun to shake uncontrollably.

It was all Antonia needed to duck under his
arm and make good her escape. With one hand clutching a bunch of
her petticoats and the other trying desperately to cover her
nakedness, she ran down the grassy slope toward the Oriental
garden. The voices were louder across the stream. She heard her
uncle’s voice and Lady Paget’s, and she knew they could not be far
away, possibly just around the next curve in the walk. She lost her
shoes almost at once. The pebbled walk was hard under her tender
feet but she dared not slow down.

“Cat! Liar! Come back here! I want the
truth!” shouted the Vicomte. “You cannot hide from me!”

A hand grabbed at her through the shrubbery,
but she slipped in a muddy puddle, and he missed his chance. She
picked herself up and ran on, only to be caught in a particularly
narrow section of the path by the thorny branches of a wild
rose-bush. There was the crunch of the Vicomte’s jockey-boots on
the pebbles somewhere to her right as she tugged frantically at the
snag and tore a rent in her petticoats. Her throat was dry, but she
screamed for help anyway, and stumbled on. He could only be a few
feet behind her now, and would be on her in an instant. She only
waited to feel his hands on her shoulders.

Over her shoulder she saw him; his face
contorted with rage. He threw himself at her, caught at her
billowing petticoats, and dragged her toward him. She fell to her
knees under the weight of the tugs on her gown and was dragged
relentlessly backward. She could offer only a pathetic resistance.
She forced herself up, started to scramble to her feet and
screamed. No sound issued from her dry throat and she collapsed.
Just as she gave up the struggle, her legs and arms gone limp with
exhaustion she was unexpectedly scooped up by a pair of strong
arms.

She fell against the broad chest gasping
with relief. There was comfort in the arms of her protector and she
buried her face in the soft velvet of his waistcoat, the dull thud
of his heart beat almost as fast as her own. She could not lift her
head, or speak, or regain the use of her legs for several minutes.
Such was her huge relief that she burst into tears. A handkerchief
was given her and she dried her eyes, but she was reluctant to
leave the protection of the strong arms which held her in such a
comforting embrace. She felt foolish and embarrassed and unsure of
what to do next. Then all of a sudden there came the sound of
voices, the rustle of petticoats and the scrape of shoe-leather on
the pebbles. All at once the garden seemed filled with people.

“Oh, Theo! I am so glad you found me,” she
managed to whisper and finally peeked up through her disordered
curls. Her eyes widened. “Oh, it is you.”

“Hush,
mignonne
. There is naught to
worry you now,” the Duke replied and gently brushed the hair from
her upturned face. “Did you doubt I would find you?”

“I should have known,” she smiled and
snuggled contentedly into his embrace, his arms tightening about
her.

Lady Paget and Lord Strathsay came upon the
scene from the opposite direction, having first gone to the
rotunda. Miss Harcourt, who had followed the path the Duke had
taken, limped in from crossing the stream and collapsed to sit on a
marble bench. All had been brought up short by the sight of Antonia
safe in the Duke’s embrace. There was a general sigh of relief. But
Lord Strathsay had seen the struggle in the rotunda and he strode
forward, searching for the Vicomte. He did not immediately see the
boy crouching, head bent and breathing heavily by the little
cascading fountain of a Chinese emperor.

He took in the state of Antonia’s torn
petticoats and disordered curls and was unable to control his
anger. “Where is he?” he shouted at the Duke. “Where is that
miserable cur! Tell me, Roxton! I demand to have his blood for
this!”

“Must you shout?” responded the Duke
calmly.

“Is she...?” asked Lady Paget and was
instantly silenced by the Duke’s blank look.

“Can I do anything to help, your Grace?”
asked Miss Harcourt.

“No, I thank you, Miss Harcourt. Except
return with Theophilus to the cricket match—”

“Damn the cricket match!” bellowed Lord
Strathsay. “She should never have been allowed to go off with that
monster alone!”

“I fear that was my fault,” said Lady Paget
guiltily. “I should have insisted on going with her.”

“Do not blame yourself, my lady,” said Miss
Harcourt. “You were not to know the outcome—”

“There you are you miserable worm!” shouted
Lord Strathsay and took a step toward the Vicomte who was pulling
at the corners of his crumpled waistcoat.

The Vicomte cowered, but smiled nervously.
“M’sieur! It was a game only! I assure you! A game
of-of—hide-and-seek,
hein
?”

“Damn you! That was no game!”

“Theo, please,” pleaded Miss Harcourt.

Lord Strathsay grabbed the young man by the
lace of his stock and let him go with a contemptuous push which
sent the Vicomte stumbling backwards into the shrubbery. “How dare
you lay a hand on my niece, you mealy-mouthed trencherfly!”

“Strathsay,” said the Duke in a voice of
quiet command. “Allow me to deal with this.”

“I mean to have satisfaction of this piece
of worthless scum!” declared Lord Strathsay and dragged the Vicomte
to his feet. “You’re shaking, and in a sweat, M’sieur le Vicomte.
The sight of you sickens me!”

“Roxton is right, Strathsay,” offered Lady
Paget. “Isn’t he, Charlotte?”

“Yes! Oh, yes!” agreed Miss Harcourt on the
point of nervous collapse. She looked from her betrothed to the
Duke and caught sight of the state of Antonia’s feet. “Oh, the poor
girl’s feet!”

Lord Strathsay spun about without releasing
the Vicomte and stared at the Duke, whose face was as white as the
lace at his throat. “I ask that you take my niece up to the house
and send a servant with our swords. I mean to settle this here and
now. Charlotte, my lady, leave us.”