The black curtain of night drew away as André wearily pushed the silk covers off himself and swung his feet over the side of the bed. Isadora had haunted his dreams last night, and he didn’t like it at all.
He’d been down this path before, and it only led to heartbreak. He would be a fool to traverse the same road again.
Yawning hugely, André pushed up from the bed and padded naked over to the vanity. Enough of the dawn’s light penetrated his bedchamber through the large bay windows that he was able to see his reflection.
His long blond hair draped messily around his shoulders. André dragged his fingers through it in a half-hearted attempt to bring order to it.
If only his nocturnal rest could be brought to heel as easily.
Sighing, he glanced down at the surface of the dresser. His bagwig hung on the glass stand, the base encircled by a fine layer of wig powder. It symbolised the role he presented to the rest of the world.
A member of an honourable house, a noble and a man who confined his actions to what was expected of his moral and societal upbringing.
Thierry had once accused him of hiding behind a mask. ‘You may despise my actions, André,’ he heard his brother’s voice echo from long ago. ‘But at least I am honest. You pretend to be pious when you are just as frustrated by society’s strictures.’
Lifting his eyes back to his reflection, André’s gaze fell onto his unbound hair. It shone like a bushel of wheat. Those craggy lines of his face? They were too harsh and untamed to ever be truly civilised.
Yes, that savage man with the wild blue eyes was his true form. After years of denying what Thierry had said to him that day, André now realised that some part of him did indeed hide behind a more acceptable mask which only showed what society expected of him.
His own desires that he’d kept banked in the cold light of day raged out of control under the misty world of fantasies.
There was nothing civilised about his dreams.
In them, Isadora’s topaz eyes had entrapped him, alluring as forbidden treasure to a thief. Those freckles glowed like the most curious stars against her snub nose and cheeks.
That sun-kissed mouth had parted, inviting, begging him to discover its moist depths. He’d surrendered to that sensuous demand with all the ferocity of a lunatic finally freed from his bonds.
Her nude form had been wrapped in the voluminous depths of fine silks upon his bed. He’d ripped them apart, his hands eagerly, desperately smoothing over every inch of her golden-brown body.
Stop it. You’ve been here before, remember?
André shuddered. Like a spectre from the grave, an image of his former fiancée, Mademoiselle Colette Édeline de George appeared in his mind’s eye in all its ghostly finery.
Her brilliant silvery blond hair. That clear smooth skin, as pale as calla lilies. Heavily lashed eyes so light a grey, they resembled crystals. Lips red as crushed strawberries.
When he’d first encountered Mademoiselle de George’s silver beauty, for she’d been adorned in a silver gown, André believed he had met the woman he wanted to marry.
There had been an ethereal quality to her that made her seem as if she were not of this world. That image of maidenly innocence, complete with the hesitant nature of a virgin who pulled away from his eager ardour, had worked sorcery upon his soul.
His lip curled at the reminder of his folly. He’d been so blinded by her loveliness that he’d completely missed her deceit.
André marched over to the wardrobe and unearthed a pair of brown leather breeches and an old pair of worn, but supple leather boots. Tugging on the less formal clothes he thought back to three years ago.
When he’d first met Édeline at her presentation at court, he’d turned to stone at the sight of her. Caught and held captive like a prey in the spellbinding gaze of a hunter.
Little did André know how correct he was.
Édeline wielded her beauty like a weapon for her own purposes. She wanted André to be enamoured of her because of his position and proximity to the King. For most of the aristocracy, marriage was a conduit for societal progression. André had wanted a love match with a woman who thought enough of him to remain faithful to him, just as he would to her.
Pain lanced his insides. Was that too much to ask for?
For eight months, André had lived in blissful ignorance, satisfied he had found the woman of his heart. He’d followed Édeline around like some lovesick dog, ignoring the pitying, spiteful gaze of the members of court. They’d found his devotion both humorous and ridiculous.
What did they know about it? The French court was nothing if not permissive. André had thought himself superior to the rest of them. He’d loved his fiancée while they had no idea what the word meant!
Pulling on his boots, André closed his eyes in despair at the memory of his sheer naivety.
When she’d agreed to marry him, André had eagerly begun the work to repair the schoolroom suite, anticipating the wing filled with children, toys, lessons and all the elements of domesticity.
A family of his own to love and to be loved by.
Thierry had turned away from the settling influence of home life, citing it boring and unfashionable. André had craved the stability it would lend him. Édeline had known of his ardent desire for hearth and home. She’d assured him his wishes were the same as hers.
Then came the day when his dreams had collided with the merciless, unyielding wall of reality when he’d finally discovered the truth.
Édeline didn’t want to marry him any more.
She had caught the eye of the King. Her plan all along while at court had been to usurp Madame de Pompadour, the royal mistress, from the King’s bed and place herself upon it instead.
André remembered the cold words she’d spoken to him that day. ‘It’s more advantageous for me to be the mistress of the King than to be the wife of the brother of a marquis, however influential you are at court. With you, I wouldn’t even have a title. With the King, I’d be as important as a queen.’
André’s chest heaved. Opening his eyes, he beat those memories back into their coffins, feeling nauseated. Since then, he’d kept his heart intact and his eye from falling prey to any other woman’s loveliness.
Until now.
Unbidden, the image of Dieudonné’s face buried in the curve of Isadora’s neck flashed in his head. The muscles of his stomach tautened. Dieudonné had looked so content there, wrapped in the comfort of Isadora’s arms. The boy had needed her comfort and reassurance, and she’d given him what he desired.
How gentle her hands had been as she’d caressed the boy’s cheeks, providing the maternalistic concern all young children hungered for in times of distress.
For an instant, André had longed to switch places with the child. His mind’s eye travelled to that exact spot where Dieudonné had laid his head. That nook between a woman’s heart and her mind.
Dared André admit to himself that he felt a fleeting longing to rest his head there and find...?
What? a vicious, practical thought interjected. Comfort? Peace? Neither are to be found in the arms of a woman.
André’s eyes shut in pain. That was true.
Snatching a green coat from the closet, he shoved his arms through it, taking one final look at himself. He wasn’t a young child, untried by the trials of the world. He was the new Marquis de Lyonnais, a trusted courtier of the King who had the honour and responsibility of a noble house on his shoulders.
The man that used to dream of a life of his own—
He couldn’t even finish the thought.
A rough sound escaped his throat. André had to clear his mind and there was only one tried and tested way to do that.
Fingers of rose-coloured light touched the red clay roofs of the Godier stables as André came abreast of them. His eyes scanned the structures with pride.
The House of Godier couldn’t compete with the King’s Great and Small Stables, nor had André any desire to try. Those magnificent buildings boarded well over a thousand horses and employed hundreds of stable workers for their upkeep and care. They stood as a testament to the strength of the Kingdom of France.
In a miniature achievement, André’s own stables housed close to twenty horses, and employed half a dozen men, all specially trained to keep everything in good order.
Although the sun had just crested the horizon, the stables swarmed with activity. André greeted several men as they went about their duties. Calming scents of horse sweat, hay, straw and leather mixed with that clean, earthy aroma distinctive to the caring of God’s most majestic creatures.
Ten stalls lined the stone walls on either side, almost all occupied by a member of high-pedigreed Andalusian horseflesh. Going over to the first stall, André greeted the eager stallion within.
‘Did you rest well, mon cher, or did that cruel Gaspard treat you abominably?’
‘Have I already been tried and condemned without even a hearing? Forsooth, cruel fate!’ A distant voice from the far end of the stable quipped.
Footsteps drew close. Glancing up, he saw Gaspard Boucher walking towards him, arms crossed over his chest with an amused twinkle in his eyes. A tall, lean man with deep-set eyes and winged brows, he was dressed in similar clothes to André.
Although Gaspard was the son of a butcher, Thierry and André had befriended him when they were boys although their respective stations in life would eventually separate them.
Years later, Gaspard had come to Paris to find work, and André had engaged his services as the stable master here, knowing that as a boy, Gaspard had always had a special understanding and touch for horses. André had never regretted it.
Gaspard gave André an over-exaggerated bow of deference. ‘Bonjour, Monsieur le Marquis! Are you here to help me clean out the stalls?’
André’s mouth lifted in a smile. ‘I pay you so well for the privilege, it would be a travesty to assist you.’
Gaspard sauntered over to where André stood, smoothing his hand over the animal’s strong neck as its head hung over the door. His voice lowered. ‘Then what brings you here, André?’
‘I seem to recall we were evenly matched the last time I challenged you.’
The other man shook his head in a sorrowful way, but his eyes gleamed. ‘We shall have to remedy that.’ At the same time, they both pulled away from the stall. ‘I had a feeling you would be coming here today.’
André ceased trying to understand Gaspard’s intuitiveness. ‘And you were right.’
At the other end of the stables, the staff had cleared a space, removing the heavier pieces of equipment. For the past six months, he and Gaspard had regularly sparred in a hand and foot combat style called savate. Gaspard had learned the fighting technique through his interactions with sailors before he’d come to work for the Godier estate. It was the best way André had found to clear his head. And this morning, it needed cleansing of many unwelcome thoughts, including one golden-skinned goddess in particular...
‘And it’s also true that I will best you as I have many times before.’
‘I will best you this time, Gaspard.’ André shrugged off his coat, hung it on a nail and then lifted the hem of his linen shirt, tossing it to the ground. Bare-chested, he planted his feet apart.
Gaspard’s left brow lifted into his hairline. ‘How many times do I have to tell you, André?’
André scowled. ‘What do you mean? I’m in the correct position.’
Gaspard came forward and adjusted André’s stance until he was standing evenly on both feet. ‘That’ll do.’
The man also drew his shirt off and assumed a similar position as André. ‘Now. Fight me.’
André lunged forward with a kick aimed for the stomach. Gaspard leaped back and spun around on one leg, his foot at the height of his face. André dashed to the side, darting around Gaspard, trying to land an attack, but Gaspard clipped his feet, sending him to the ground.
All the air seemed to leave André’s lungs, and he couldn’t catch his breath. Gaspard bent down, a smug look on his face. ‘Had enough, my old friend?’
André scrambled to his feet and rolled his shoulders to loosen them. ‘Never.’
‘I thought you were going to best me, André,’ Gaspard taunted after a quarter of an hour. A smirk creased his face. The man was hardly winded while André thought his heart would burst through his chest.
Then he sighed. He’d yet to master how to fight in this way. Like most men of the nobility, he largely got his exercise through fencing or hunting.
Although savate was a fighting style the lower classes indulged in, when André had first seen Gaspard sparring with one of the stable hands, he’d become interested in learning the techniques himself.
‘Don’t gloat, Gaspard,’ André complained. ‘I can’t best you today.’
‘Nor will you ever if you continue like this,’ the other man predicted.
‘Perhaps,’ André conceded morosely, suddenly feeling weariness come over his limbs. ‘It’s probably what I deserve.’
At this, Gaspard shooed the small crowd away to go back to their duties. That gave them privacy for Gaspard to take him by the shoulder. ‘What are you talking about, André? What do you mean?’
Taking a rag one of the men had given him, André wiped the sweat from his brow. ‘I should have done more to stop Thierry’s reckless behaviour,’ he said in a low voice. ‘If I had, he’d still be alive today.’
‘You don’t know that, André.’ Gaspard pursed his lips thoughtfully ‘Your brother was a good man, although reckless and undisciplined. I remember even as a lad, he had that rebellious glint in his eye and was determined to do things against the grain. But I counted him as a good friend, as I do you, André.’
Knowing their stations in life were so different, André gathered the magnitude of what Gaspard was saying. ‘As do I,’ he answered truthfully.
‘The former Marquis was a man set on his own path. Nothing you could have done would have changed his fate, I am certain of it.’
‘How can you say that with such confidence?’ André couldn’t keep that slight note of anguish out of his voice. The question had wracked his mind for the past two months, ever since Thierry’s disgraceful death resulting from seducing yet another married woman.
Gaspard’s hand fell away from his shoulder. ‘You know what they say about leading horses to water. They will either drink it or not. You can’t force them to do what they don’t want to. It’s just the same with men. We are each responsible for our own actions, my friend.’
André tossed the rag aside. ‘That seems far too simple.’
Gaspard shrugged. ‘The simplest things are often the hardest to accept. You did the best you could with your brother, André. But you mustn’t focus on the past. Your brother’s son very much needs you now, in the present.’
Dieudonné’s young face shone in his mind. It was hard being in the same room with the boy at times, seeing aspects of his brother’s face in miniature. His eyes, the shape of his face, his smile. Admittedly, André had kept his distance. It had been easier to do so when Dieudonné’s nurse had still been there because she’d kept him close to her, but now she was gone.
Just like Thierry.
He sucked in a breath. His brother may not be there any longer, but his son was. Dieudonné needed him, as Gaspard said. And he could at least try to steer the boy in the right direction. How hard could it be?
There in the middle of the stables, André tried hard to do what Gaspard urged and banish the last vestiges of his guilt over Thierry, but somehow it still lingered, digging its familiar claws into his soul as sharply as ever.
‘I hear the governess you engaged is quite beautiful,’ Gaspard said slyly.
The abrupt change in topic made André cough. ‘What did you say?’
‘Oh, don’t try and deny it.’ A devilish gleam appeared in Gaspard’s eyes. ‘The entire staff is talking about it.’
André scowled. ‘About what?’
‘The Creole governess! I’ve heard she’s more beautiful than even the King’s mistress.’
Why did the idea of the servants talking about Isadora send a strange tingle through him? André squared his shoulders. ‘Really, the staff shouldn’t indulge in such gossip.’
‘Then it’s true!’ Gaspard leaned forward and spoke in a conspiratorial tone. ‘Is her skin really like honey and are her eyes as golden as sunbeams?’
André’s teeth clenched. He’d thought as much himself when he first saw Isadora. But how dare others see the same thing! After all, she was his governess.
Your governess? Don’t you mean Dieudonné’s governess?
Inwardly snarling, he clipped out, ‘Are you waxing poetical now, Gaspard? Sunbeams, indeed!’
A knowing look came into the stable master’s eyes. ‘She must be very beautiful for you to take such notice of her after what happened with Édeline. Well, I for one heartily approve. You need someone to make you feel alive again.’
André sniffed dismissively. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You will,’ Gaspard said in a knowing voice. ‘You will.’
A faint cry penetrated the heavy blanket of sleep, forcing Isadora’s eyes open. Sometime during the night, she must have made her way back to her own bedchamber. Turning onto her back, she lay on the narrow bed, listening for whatever it was that had awakened her.
The vestiges of her dreams still held her in their grip.
Memories from home.
Her eyes closed as she tried to capture the images of Saint-Domingue. Fields of sugar cane rippling continually in the breeze. Tall banana trees with their wide, waxy leaves and curved fruit hidden in the boughs. Groves of colourful mango and peach trees in season. In her sleep, she could have sworn she heard the faint sounds of the ocean, but knew it was only her imagination.
Shaking the misty images from her mind, for what was the point of thinking of home again, Isadora sat up, trying to determine the sound of the cry.
Then, with a start, she pushed the covers away.
‘Dieudonné!’ Isadora gasped as she leaped from the bed and raced out of the door.
From the other end of the hall, she saw a man running towards her, eating up the distance rapidly. For a moment her heart thrummed all the faster in fear. She didn’t recognise him at all. The long blond hair, the unkempt appearance, and that air of wildness she sensed emanating from his person.
When he came to a halt before her, a jolt went through her body.
It was the Marquis de Lyonnais!
Before she could think of opening her mouth to say anything, he asked, ‘What is wrong with Dieudonné? What has happened?’
She gulped, ‘I—I don’t know, monsieur. I was going to check on him now.’
The Marquis pushed through the door first, giving her a second to compose herself before she rushed in after her employer.
Dieudonné lay sprawled on the floor, fat tears running down his reddened cheeks.
She and the Marquis fell on their knees next to the small boy, but it was Isadora who swept him up into her arms. ‘Dieudonné! What’s happened?’ she asked frantically in Creole. Her hands flitted all over him, checking for injuries.
‘Is he all right?’ the Marquis asked, his blue eyes fixed upon her.
Isadora said nothing as she continued her inspection, trying to balance her concern for the child with the overwhelming awareness of the man sitting only a few inches from her.
She’d come to terms with being drawn to her employer last night. Though she sensed he wasn’t unaffected by her presence, she knew there was nothing that could come from it besides a brief, scandalous liaison. Yesterday, all she had seen was the barrier of their separate stations in life.
Even without her secret lineage, the Marquis de Lyonnais was a man of the aristocracy from a long noble line of pure bloods. There wasn’t a chance he’d ever see Isadora as more than an employee. Should such an impossibility become a possibility, even then, nothing like that could ever happen in Paris. On Saint-Domingue, he’d possibly have acted as Stéphane did with her mother—willing to have her as his mistress, but never as his wife.
Isadora wouldn’t ever settle for an arrangement like that, no matter who the man was. She’d either be a wife, with all the protection that offered, or her own woman.
Yet, looking at the Marquis now, Isadora found herself trying to fight off the instinctive appeal to seeing this side of him.
The difference was like day and night. Yesterday, he was the impeccable, unapproachable Marquis. Not a piece of clothing out of place. It would have been impossible to see him as anything other than a member of the aristocracy.
Today, he was a man. An untamed, partially dressed man.
No stockings hid the strong calves, showing the defined ridge along the outer edge of his muscles. Those leather breeches moulded his thighs, showing off their lean length. The unbuttoned green coat framed the centre of his shirtless, hair-roughened chest coiled with dark blond hair that trailed down his body, disappearing into his waistband.
Shed of his aristocratic trappings, Isadora felt as if she were seeing the real person behind the title. One who wasn’t a slave to the dictates of society as the Marquis yesterday would have everyone believe.
Isadora wanted to know more about this man in front of her, the one without artifice. It wasn’t that the polished figure of the Marquis didn’t appeal to her, but the real man, this man, was hidden under the title and he was far more exciting.
Her eyes travelled upwards, seeing the strong neck with his Adam’s apple prominently displayed. That angular jaw, the firm, full lower lip below that deep-crested angel bow dip, those sharp cheekbones, that blade of a nose, and those glittering eyes staring back at her with such intensity that—
Par Dieu! I’m staring at him!
In that moment, Dieudonné clutched her around the neck and held on tight, sobbing again. Grateful to have her attention taken off her employer, Isadora turned all her focus on her charge. She rocked Dieudonné back and forth, whispering reassuring words in both Creole and French. Patting his back, she continued to comfort the child until eventually, his tears subsided.
Throughout the entire time, the Marquis sat staring at her with an inscrutable look, more than once glancing from her to the child as if trying to figure out some puzzle.
Finally, she gently tugged Dieudonné’s arms from her neck and drew back. Using her thumbs, she wiped the tears from his cheeks.
‘Are you well, mon petit?’
Dieudonné lifted a pudgy hand and placed it on her cheek. ‘Who you?’
‘Say hello to Mademoiselle de Beauchêne, Dieudonné.’
The boy turned and looked at his uncle for a moment, a childish expression of mutiny and confusion on his face. He knew some French and it was obvious he’d understood what his uncle said.
Isadora longed to intervene, to tell her employer to not order his nephew about as if he were a member of staff.
She knew the Marquis cared about Dieudonné. He wouldn’t have run into the bedchamber or stayed to see if he was all right if he didn’t. She recalled that look of concern on his face as she’d cradled the boy to her.
As both child and man stared at each other, Isadora bit back the words clamouring for release. It wasn’t her place to interfere, but she wished she could, if only to tell the Marquis that commanding Dieudonné like that certainly wasn’t going to help matters. She didn’t want Dieudonné to experience the same cold treatment she had received from Stéphane.
Her lips curled down at the sides. No, not for this young one.
She had to try to make the Marquis see his illegitimate, mixed-blood nephew was just as welcome in his house as any natural, legitimate child.
But for now, Isadora sat by, watching to see which one of these males of Godier blood would win. After a few more seconds, Dieudonné must have recognised he faced a will stronger than his own, because he finally did as his uncle had said.
‘Bonjour, Mam’selle de Bubchene.’
Isadora’s heart melted and grinned at the child’s pronunciation, sending her annoyance with the Marquis to the back of her mind.
For now.
‘Would you call me Isadora, Dieudonné?’
‘I’dora?’
She laughed. ‘That’s correct! What a smart boy you are!’
Dieudonné’s face lifted into a smile, and he clapped his hands. ‘I’dora!’
‘Are you still hurt?’ she asked.
Slowly Dieudonné nodded and lifted his left arm. Touching his left elbow, he said, ‘Here.’
Taking his elbow in her hands, she bent and placed a gentle kiss on it. ‘It will get better soon.’
Isadora wasn’t used to taking responsibility for another, but she used to play with children back on Saint-Domingue. She figured children, no matter what race or station in life, were pretty much the same all over.
With a sudden idea she gazed down at the floor with great interest. ‘Did the floor hurt you?’ Then, with exaggerated mock anger, she swatted at the hard floor. ‘Villain! Why did you hurt Dieudonné?’
The child gazed at her with huge eyes, as if she’d grown another head. Isadora bit back a smile but kept up the game, bending her head to the floor as if listening to it. ‘Dieudonné, it’s speaking to me.’
Dieudonné scowled, an almost adult look of disbelief on his face.
It took all her control to keep up the game without giving rein to her mirth. She nodded severely as she ‘listened’, making noises of agreement and disagreement. ‘Byen, byen,’ she said in Creole. Then she gasped, ‘You can’t say that to Dieudonné!’
The young boy’s expression nearly made her chuckle out loud. ‘Kisa!’ he exclaimed, staring at the floor now with a mixture of youthful suspicion and fascination.
‘Mademoiselle de Beauchêne, what are you doing?’
Startled, having momentarily forgotten he was there, Isadora lifted her head to the Marquis who was now wearing a similar expression of disbelief.
‘Monsieur Plancher hurt Dieudonné, and I am trying to make him apologise.’
‘Mademoiselle, are you mad?’
Her employer certainly looked at her as if she were. Isadora groaned. Surely the man knew a jest when he heard one! Couldn’t he tell she was trying to make Dieudonné feel better and more comfortable?
‘Dieudonné,’ she said in a whisper. ‘Shall we ask your uncle to make the floor apologise and if not, it shall be punished?’
Wonder filled the boy’s eyes as he looked at his uncle.
An expression crossed the Marquis de Lyonnais’s face that she couldn’t read. It was gone in an instant, but she wondered what it was and what had caused it.
‘Punish Monsieur Plancher?’ Dieudonné asked, pointing at the floor. ‘Tonton?’
Her employer stiffened visibly. ‘What does tonton mean?’
‘Uncle,’ she translated.
Like a man under duress, the Marquis slowly slid his gaze over to the child and then back to her, his eyes narrowing. For some reason, he suddenly jerked back as if a hot poker had threatened him. Before she could ask what was wrong, the man gulped and then he rose to his feet.
Isadora rushed to do the same, picking up Dieudonné and holding him on her hip. At the movement, the Marquis’s eyes dropped down, red suddenly slashing at his cheekbones.
Furrowing her brow, she followed his line of sight and gasped. Dieudonné had tugged at her neckline when she picked him up, pulling at the flimsy material and revealing the upper swell of her breasts.
Her face flared, but before she could adjust the chemise she’d fallen asleep in, she heard the Marquis speak.
‘When you are done seeing to the child’s needs, Mademoiselle de Beauchêne, will you join me for breakfast?’