Saving The Marquise's Granddaughter (2 page)

The LeForts were of Grand-mère’s faith and, like themselves, were
noblesse ancienne
—of the ancient aristocracy of France.

But the laughing boy she loved had grown distracted, even irritable, since beginning work with his brother.

The hum of partygoers increased the closer they got to the ballroom.

Depositing her in the archway of vines and flowers at the entrance, Guillame kissed her cheek. “I will go get Jeanne.”

Not wanting to stand in the way, she spied a heavily draped corner to the right and slipped inside. She slid onto the taupe velvet bench and removed her shoes. With her feet already sore, she’d have trouble managing the night. But with Etienne’s arms around her, she’d feel no pain.

Heavy drapes obscured all but a sliver’s view of newcomers. Behind her, satin curtains rustled. She shouldn’t listen but couldn’t help overhearing the two men who conversed—one voice deep, the other higher and nasal.

“I’ve already taken care of the situation.” The man’s sonorous voice was familiar.

“The West Indies for him.” The other gentleman sounded like Madame DeMint’s son, Paul, a friend of Etienne’s family. “But what will you do about
her
?”

“I know what to do.” The first man emitted an earthy laugh.

Suzanne edged closer.

Madame DeMint, her godmother, was supposed to arrange—or at least encourage—the betrothal for her and Etienne. His family’s sugar plantation was in the Indies.

“Her parents will never agree, already refused once.” Well, that couldn’t be about her, for her parents consented to the match. Papa wasn’t happy, but he’d allow the union.

“They won’t be given a choice.”

Suzanne clenched her jaw in frustration, trying to discern if the gentleman was
Monsieur
DeMint. Returning to the bench, she sat and pulled the slippers over her silk stockings. Then she exited to the salon as spectacularly adorned guests glided past.

Framed in the entrance to the ballroom, Jeanne Trompier’s blood-red gown clashed with her auburn hair and with Guillame’s mustard-colored vest. Her friend’s buxom figure was glued, like heavy toile wallpaper, to her brother.

Suzanne’s head began to throb, but the curls prevented her from rubbing her temples without dislodging them.

Jeanne’s clothing displayed that she was a woman.

Suzanne’s bodice suggested otherwise. Now her silk dress seemed insufficient, a lady’s gown on someone with the silhouette of a child. At least Maman had allowed a modest pouf of gauzy material secured on her hips, an illusion.

“Suzanne?” Etienne appeared at her side, bringing with him the scent of sandalwood and cloves. He kissed her hands, sending tingles to her fingertips. Etienne’s satin waistcoat was beaded and trimmed to perfection. His dark eyes promised her everything as he promenaded around her, his eyes appraising her attire before he stopped in front of her. He took a step toward her. “Why are you alone in this corner? You cannot flee from me tonight, my darling.” Suddenly, Etienne’s hands settled warm and possessive on her hips.

She stiffened and pushed them away.

He laughed and held out his arm for her. “Did you notice?” He ran his fingertips along the seams of the inner garment, the tailoring exquisite, emphasizing his trim form.

She smiled but refused to comment on his physique. The blue and gold complemented her ensemble well.

“Was the vest made to match my gown?” Her heart leapt in anticipation, but Etienne’s smile was enigmatic. Squelched, she looked down at the floor.

Abruptly, he turned her, clasping her waist with hard fingers. Her breath caught in her throat, and she searched his face to gauge his intent. Saying nothing, he led her into the ballroom.

She tried to absorb every detail of this golden treasure, the room transformed by night and candles into a glittering vision of its daytime glory.

Etienne’s firm grip pulled her on as he wove through the crowd.

“Gaudy peacocks reflecting in the pond,
n’est pas
?” Etienne gestured to the row of dancers in the mirror.

Tension eased from her as they shared a smile of agreement. They continued past the many paintings, too quickly for her to get but a few details. Heavily carved with intricate woodland designs, the gilded frames of the pictures detracted from the aristocrats portrayed in them.

Ten paces ahead stood a cluster of young men, his new friends, ones her brother despised as milksops.

“Good evening, gentlemen.” He pressed his hand against her back.

“Bon soir.”
All echoed the greeting. Amusement flickered on their smug faces.

Her throat closed. He didn’t bother to introduce her.

She’d hoped for a hint at his intentions. Suzanne opened the beautiful fan from Grand-mère, hoping that as she hid behind the pierced wood treasure, its motion would chase away her tears.

Etienne hadn’t even acknowledged that they were together.

One, a tall blond man, dragged his gaze up and down her figure as if assessing whether more was there than he could see. Swiping two flutes of champagne from a passing tray, he called out, “
Merci.”
His Scottish burr mangled his pronunciation and she almost giggled.

She was tired of being considered inconsequential.

Etienne had always remained attentive until recently, when his self-preoccupation increased. Perhaps he didn’t like his friends’ gawking, for he practically dragged her away from them.

She scurried to keep up.

He stood with her for a moment, aloof.

She sensed her brother’s gaze and searched him out, finally alighting upon Jeanne, surrounded by a bevy of admirers, their hair powdered to perfection. Their heavy perfumes alone cost a fortune.

Etienne frowned and narrowed his eyes. “Your friend is indiscreet.” His tone suggested disgust tempered by another emotion.

She blinked back the tears that threatened. So few friends remained at court. “My brother said he would talk with her this evening.” She waved her fan before her face, grateful for the cool air it stirred.

“
Your
brother?” He pointed at Jeanne, who was kissing Etienne’s older brother, Pierre, full on the mouth, his lace jabot dipping into her bodice.

Suzanne’s body tensed as Pierre rose, cocked his head at her, and gave a lascivious wink.

The memory of Pierre’s touch, once locked away, sprang forth. Suzanne shuddered. “What is he doing here? You said he’d be occupied the entire evening.”

Etienne shrugged, but his narrowed eyes darted around the room. “Probably here on business. Or to ruin my good time.”

Stomach in spasms, she turned away from the twosome. “I know I should try to get along with Pierre.”
And to find a way to ignore the way he looks at me.

“Just stay away from him.” The irritation in his voice surprised her.

She swallowed. The noise of the partygoers seemed a cacophony in her ears. The desire to go home overwhelmed her. Turning, Suzanne caught Jeanne’s triumphant smile at Etienne. What had Etienne confronted her friend about? Clearly, Jeanne thought she won some point with him.

Etienne rubbed his top lip with his thumb, a habit he had when he felt guilty.

She shivered. This evening wasn’t going at all as she had planned. Overhead, the painted figures on the ceiling mocked her.
You’ll never get him to marry you
, they taunted. She wanted to shut out all the overwhelming scents of the perfumes, the sight of so much exposed flesh, and the vulgar speech she overheard in passing.

“Let’s get a drink.” Edging them over to the large engraved bowl, her escort snatched two full silver cups.

Suzanne filled a plate for them with orange slices and cheese.

Etienne handed her a drink and plopped a strawberry into his mouth. “I’m hungry.”

The vile scent of the punch suggested someone had poured spirits into it, but she desperately needed to quell the lump in her throat. She took one tentative sip. The liquid burned all the way down, and her eyes flew open wide.

Etienne raised an eyebrow.

“My apologies. I forget you don’t partake.” He patted her on her back.

Hurriedly, she consumed a few of Etienne’s berries, hoping they would take away the foul sting. She swallowed the overripe fruit, disappointed in the strawberries’ deceptive appearance.

Etienne squeezed her hand and led her around the edge of the ballroom, avoiding the mirrored wall. He swept her out onto the dance floor.

Suzanne refrained from gaping at the rows of diamonds gracing the long necks of several other women.

When the dance ended, Etienne leaned in. “How many vaults do you suppose were opened so that treasured gems might be displayed this evening?” His wistful tone reminded her that his mother’s jewels might be passing by them, worn by whoever had purchased the collection.

She wanted to say she was sorry his father had almost ruined his family financially.

Etienne would have to ply a trade. He still had position, maintained his title, and had many friends at court, but the Marquis de LeFort needed his sons to be successful businessmen.

“Didn’t your necklace belong to your grandmother?” Etienne’s dark eyes roamed her face.

“Oui.” Smelling lily of the valley, now in bloom at Grand-mère’s estate, Suzanne turned her head, but couldn’t locate the wearer of the scent.

Etienne kissed her fingertips, led her to the row of women, and then sought his place among the men.

The music began.

Grand-mère’s necklace jostled against her as she and Etienne executed their portion of the dance together.

“
Belle,
” he mouthed at her, and her cheeks warmed.

Through each new baroque dance, Suzanne gained confidence as she and her partner completed their steps. Minuet after minuet, they continued. The row of dancers swirled in colored silks, glistening jewelry, and high bewigged heads. Only moments seemed to have passed when, with surprise, she noted the candles being lowered.

“I hope they change the chandelier tapers to something casting more light,” she called to Etienne as they passed each other in their steps.

He laughed. “Unlikely.”

Suzanne wanted to wrap a finger around one of the black curls that framed her companion’s perfect face. The most handsome young man at Versailles, Etienne belonged to her. And soon he would be her husband. All that remained lacking was his request for her hand. Her feet were on fire from the pinch of the slippers, but she mustn’t leave now.
Not yet.

Someone tapped Suzanne’s shoulder and she turned.

Guillame.
His face, paler than usual, with perspiration beading above his tight collar, caused her brother to appear as though he were being pursued.

Suzanne’s stomach squeezed into the size of the oranges on the trees in the garden.

“Care to dance?” Guillame offered his arm and glared at Etienne as if daring him to deny them.

Etienne bowed toward Guillame and headed to a cluster of his friends.

Guillame took Suzanne’s elbow and guided her onto the ballroom floor. The slower dance music held a hint of its rustic roots.

“Let’s do one of our country dances, so I can speak with you, Suzanne.” This wouldn’t require that they change partners.

They moved to an open area of dance floor, enough space only for them to perform the steps.

“Stand on my boots,” he commanded.

Peering down, she saw they were clean. But she’d anticipated they might not be. Their many forays into the countryside came to mind. Suzanne hesitated before he lifted her. One arm fit comfortably around her waist, and the other against her arm, their hands clasped.

The best épée swordsman at court, Guillame exuded strength, and she relaxed into it. Soon his service to the king would be demanded. His own scent mixed with the lavender soap he used to bathe, but was still pleasant, unlike most of the men in the room.

Dark eyes clouded as he explored her face. “Do you need to go home now? I can see your feet pain you.”

“You read me well.” An uneasy sensation gripped her. Her brother perceived what Etienne hadn’t.

“I’ve known you all your life. Of course I see your needs.”

Did Etienne care for her as much as Guillame did? Maybe she was too sentimental, as
Maman
always said, wanting her husband to love and cherish her.

“Do you need to leave?”

“I’ll be all right.” She leaned her head against the soft wool of his jacket, shielding her face.

Overhead, the gilded ceiling, painted with legions of fantastic figures, seemed to writhe in the candlelight.

“This place disgusts me.”

“Please, don’t start talking about religion here—not tonight.”

He pulled away from her. “Listen, I have received news that could be very bad. I’m leaving, but I’ll be back to get you tonight.”

Her back stiffened as he took hold of her waist and propelled her toward a more private area.

“What’s happened?”

Guillame smiled at a blonde woman who whirled by them, lilac-scented perfume enveloping her. Not one to flirt, her brother was being very deliberate in his behavior.

“Rochambeau sent for me—perhaps to help guard the body of the king’s dead courtesan.”

Her stomach clenched. She’d heard the disgusting rumors that no sooner had the woman died than King Louis brought her sister to court, to replace his mistress.

“I’m surprised they haven’t called me sooner to do my service.”

She wasn’t.

“With Grand-mère gone, we cannot further excuse my duty.”

“But, what if something happens with us, if…” If they were found out, Guillame would take
Maman
and Suzanne to Aachen and then on to Amsterdam, where they kept money on hand. From there, they’d sail on to the colonies, where they would begin a new life.

They’d been to Amsterdam several times as a family, so that all would be familiar with the beautiful city. She swallowed and wished she could banish her anxiety. Dread began its way up her back, pinching her with spiky fingers.

“I cannot refuse his request.” Guillame’s proud voice pierced her heart.

“Nor this opportunity?” She hit her mark—pink returned to his high cheekbones.