Time for Eternity (17 page)

“Well, none of them are, really, since you had them made for your mistresses. And I’m not your mistress.”

He swallowed. “Well. Fanchon said she would send over something more suitable.”

“Perhaps I should have waited.” She was enjoying this. She had herself well in hand now.

He motioned her to a wing chair. This was her favorite of the rooms at number sixteen. Cozy and masculine. It smelled of old leather and furniture polish, and the duc’s subtle scent of cinnamon with that sweet undertone. She sat and he handed her a glass.

“Ratafia again?” She shrugged. “I prefer a good brandy.” She suppressed her surprise. Ladies did not drink brandy. Had she even ever had brandy?

He drew back the proffered drink, studying her. “Where did you learn to drink brandy?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” And she didn’t.

He went to the desk where a tray held two decanters and poured her out a brandy to match his own. She took it with what she hoped looked like a practiced hand and sipped.

It was all she could do not to choke. The stuff burned like fire. She could feel it sliding all the way down to her stomach. She pressed her lips together firmly. His eyes were laughing at her. He didn ’t think she had ever had brandy in her life. Which she hadn’t. “This is good,” she said. Then added, “Aged twenty years, I’d say, in new French oak.” Where had that come from? “Is it made by the Rémy Martin family?”

His eyes widened ever so slightly. She counted it a victory. “You are a puzzle box of extraordinary complexity, Mademoiselle Suchet.”

Perhaps even to herself these days. She changed the subject. “Do you dine in before you set out for your clubs tonight?”

He lounged over to the mantel of the fireplace, and put one foot on the cold andiron, one elbow on the marble mantelpiece. “I think I shall eschew gambling tonight. Last night Robespierre appeared at one of the clubs I frequent and arrested the owner. He seemed very interested in the disappearance of Madame LaFleur from his prison.”

“Oh, no.” This was her fault. “I have gotten you in trouble.”

He looked at her strangely. “I hardly think you care about that.”

She didn’t. And yet she did. She felt herself blushing. It was to keep her from badgering him that he had saved Madame. And it had come to nothing in the end. She felt a weight descend upon her shoulders.

“Well, Robespierre can sniff about all he wants,” Avignon went on. “He daren’t touch me. I’m too important to his friends.”

“Because of the …” She lowered her voice. “Smuggling.”

“Just so.” He tossed back his glass of brandy. “Still, I think I shall keep a lower profile in the next week.”

She took another sip of her brandy. This time it didn’t burn so badly. One might say it was … a warming feeling. She heaved a breath. Avignon’s eyes never left her face, but she knew he was acutely aware of her bosom. “Do you believe in fate?” she asked.

Again he looked taken aback. She would not have been able to identify that expression two days ago, but right now she felt as if she had known him a long time. “Individual fate or collective fate?”

She raised her brows. “Is there a difference?”

“Yes.” He sipped his drink. “Man is brutish, greedy, cruel, and unable to moderate his impulses for the greater good. Societies always crumble. We are witnessing that in France.” He glanced over to her. “So I believe there is a collective fate.”

That sounded so grim. But when she searched for some example to confound him, she faltered. Greece? Conquered and disintegrated from a grand achievement to a simple agricultural society under the thumb of the Ottoman Empire. Rome? Fallen into debauchery and sacked by the Goths. The Holy Roman Empire? Not a shining example. European states? Centuries of petty bickering for supremacy.

“Wise girl.” She actually saw one corner of his mouth curve up.

“What about individual fate?”

His expression softened. He thought he knew why she asked that. “Ahhh. That is harder. I want to believe you can change an individual’s fate. Is it enough that I want to believe it?”

“Maybe Madame was destined to die—if she didn’t die at the guillotine her heart had to give out. Or what if she wouldn’t have been guillotined at all, and I caused her death by badgering you to rescue her?” But some part of her said that Madame had been doomed.

He didn’t answer either question. “The real question is—how will we act when we don’t know that answer? Because we won’t know it. We can’t.”

She sipped her brandy. He was the one who was wise. There was only one answer to his question. “We’ll keep trying to change bad things. What else can we do?”

He didn’t make fun of her. There was no smile, even in his eyes. In fact, they were looking inward. “Exactly,” he said softly.

“What else can we do?”

In some strange way, that made her feel better, whether about Madame’s death or her own future, she wasn’t sure. And the duc was not what she had thought him. She had been in love with the picture of him as a bad but infinitely attractive man. And he was.

But he was more. She was feeling quite relaxed now, warm, almost … comforted. If she had known brandy could make you feel that way, she would have started drinking it sooner.

She rose and put her hand on his shoulder. The feel of the thick muscle under his coat was shocking. His energy seemed to rush all around her, making her feel alive, aware of each part of her body in a way that was suddenly uncomfortable. She shouldn’t have done that. “Thank you,” she murmured. But she didn’t take her hand away. She was playing with fire. Somewhere inside she knew it was dangerous to her in ways she could not comprehend. Maybe it was the brandy. Or maybe she was tired of being frightened.

She was feeling rebellious about what she should or shouldn’t do. Her hand moved over his shoulder.

“Don’t thank me.” Henri frowned. He wished she wouldn’t touch him like that. It sent blood rushing to his damned cock, and his balls were almost painful. And then he saw it in her eyes, the wanting. He ’d been wrong about her. She wasn’t going to be one of those silly girls who fell in love with him. But she wanted him sexually. There had been many of those women as well … the ones who didn’t love him, but just wanted their pleasure of him. Was she so hardened as to be one of those? He didn’t think so. She still seemed frightened of what she was creating here. Or maybe he just didn’t want to think she was so callous. There was only one way to find out. He shouldn’t. He didn’t want to.

But he did anyway.

He lowered his head to hers. Her eyes got big. She knew what was going to happen. She wasn’t an innocent, after all. Was she?

He didn’t know. She had needed comforting just now, and he had given her what truth he could. And now her eyes said she wanted a different truth from him, even though it frightened her. Her lips parted. He had never seen lips just like those. Full, soft -

looking …

God help him, he was going to kiss her.

Françoise felt what was almost pain between her legs. She was swollen and wet and it felt as if her pelvis were being slowly pulled open. That should have been unpleasant but it wasn’t. It made her realize she was a void at the center that wanted nothing so much as to be filled.

He lowered his head. She parted her lips. He slid one arm behind her back and pulled her to him. His body was hard beneath the satin and she could feel the rigid swell between his legs. His lips were soft as they brushed over hers. His tongue —welcome intruder—skimmed over the inside of her lips. She captured it and sucked, gently, then touched his with her own. How intimate!

She’d never felt anything like it. And yet she had. Maybe it was the inborn knowledge of a woman, but she knew exactly what pleasures lay ahead, and what to do to bring them on, even though some part of her warned her against it. She nibbled his lip and was rewarded with a growl of growing desire. She wanted this and what would follow, no matter the consequence.

A knock sounded discreetly at the library door.

Françoise started and Avignon pulled away. “What is it?” he barked.

The door cracked open and Jean slid in apologetically. “A … female to see you, your grace.” He presented a card on a silver salver.

Françoise smoothed her dress and wondered whether Jean could tell that she had been kissing Avignon. She still felt almost faint.

Who knew that a kiss could be such a powerful force that it seemed to shake you, inside and out?

Avignon strode over and snatched up the card. He glanced to Françoise. “I’ll see her in the green salon.”

“Very good, your grace.” Jean bowed and was gone.

Françoise pursed her lips. After a kiss, he could just go directly to entertaining one of his paramours? She felt small and insignificant. The kiss hadn’t meant anything to him. It had meant too much to her. She had thought she had hold of herself. She didn’t.

“Bring Mademoiselle Suchet a bowl of summer fruit, Jean.” He glanced again to Françoise. “I shan’t be long.”

And he was gone. She was likely to be here for at least an hour, dancing attendance on him while he … he made love to the next in line of his liaisons.

She was totally disgusted with herself. But she had nowhere else to go. She scanned the shelves for a book. At least she’d show him that she didn’t care how long he took to return.

Marta Croûte paced the salon of number sixteen, a nervous energy enveloping her. Foucault. She might have known it was him.

The fellow dripped disdain. Sinfully good-looking. And he knew it. He’d use that to get innocent young girls with child. She knew his kind. Only too well. A shudder of revulsion rippled through her and her empty womb. They thought the rules did not apply to them. And in truth, for most of Marta’s life, they hadn’t applied to the aristocracy. They did as they pleased no matter who they hurt. Foucault was just that kind. But no more. Now they were getting back their own. And she would enjoy grinding that handsome face under her thumb.

Look at this place. Probably furnished from his estates before the committee could take them in the name of the citizens. It was a strange mixture of old and new. The painting over the mantel was dark with age, a bucolic scene with a river. If it had been her room, she would have replaced it instantly. But the clock on the mantel was the latest innovation. It had a gold mechanism clearly visible under its glass case. The draperies were new, but the furniture was heavy, from before Louis XIV. And here … she went to the mantel and fingered the porcelain figurine of two little boys and a dog. Probably cost an arm and a leg. Someone else ’s limbs, not Foucault’s of course. The innocent faces of the little boys … she touched the cold porcelain. Not real. Not real children. Not the kind that would suckle at your breasts and laugh when they brought you frogs from the river. She wanted to smash it.

But that wasn’t done.

So she’d have to smash Foucault instead.

Henri opened the door to the green salon to find Madame Croûte turning over in her hands a figurine of two shepherd boys and their dog. The room was closed to the fading sunlight, lit by chandeliers and candelabra.

She glanced up at his entrance. Her gray eyes were cold and acquisitive. “You probably paid more for this than my family made in a year.”

Henri bowed. “My apologies, Madame Croûte.” He was not going to justify himself to this harpy. He glanced to her clothing. Of course she wore red and blue, the Revolution’s colors. But the red was too orange for her complexion. She would have been better off with cherry. And she had chosen the rougher, peasant style of fichu, which could only make a woman ’s figure look lumpy, no matter that it was the height of fashion. “May I offer you refreshment?”

She shook her head without thanking him for the offer and put the figurine back in its place on the marble mantel. Her hand trembled slightly.

“How may I be of service to so illustrious a member of the new guard?”

She didn’t answer, just walked around the room, feeling the heavy brocade of the draperies, trailing her hand over the carved wood of the chair backs. “I’ve never been inside a house on the Place Royale. I wonder that you live at such an unfashionable address.”

Henri remained impassive.

“Perhaps we should change its name now the king and his whore of a wife are dead. ” She took up a clock whose golden mechanism was visible behind the glass case, clicking away. “The Revolution changes all, Citizen. We can remake even the landscape in our own image.”

“You can change the name of a park.” What was she getting at and why did she come to a bachelor’s house, alone? He felt the sun set as his kind always did. But then, of course, rules of the old society wouldn’t apply to Madame Croûte in her view.

“Oh, more than that. We changed the name of another square to the Place de Revolution.”

Henri smiled grimly. “I see what you mean. Madame Guillotine sits there. And she changes everything, doesn’t she?”

“Exactly.” She arranged herself on a settee. “It was really very altruistic of Monsieur Guillotine to invent a way to execute criminals that is so humane. Hanging was so unreliable and sometimes took so long. And of course one really cannot trust an executioner’s axe. The blow may be insufficient, or go awry. But the guillotine is so … trustworthy.”

Henri chuffed a bitter laugh. “He did mean it as a kindness, delusion as that was. But any new invention can be put to ill use.”

She looked up at him. Her gray eyes were flat. “Do you despise us?”

Henri walked to the delicate table that held one of his snuffboxes and picked it up. “No more than I despise most of humankind.

Does that insult you?”

Madame Croûte looked at him with speculation in her eyes. “You certainly meant it that way.” Her eyes hardened again. “Do you know why I am here?”

He raised his brows. “A social call?”

Madame Croûte looked smug. She folded her hands. Her knuckles were large. She had done work in her life. “Let us say a warning. I have many friends among the citizenry, and perhaps some little influence,” she said.

“So I have been given to understand.”

“My friends are able to ferret out those who do not hold the Revolution in their hearts.”