Isadora followed the Marquis de Lyonnais as they walked up the twisting flight of stairs to the nursery which was connected to the school room suite. After his words, which still rang in her head, he’d asked her if she wanted to meet the child.
Isadora had thought of questioning him, desiring to make certain he was going to engage her services, but at the last moment, she’d said nothing. It was enough he was showing her the young child who had upturned this man’s whole world.
What kind of man was the Marquis? He wasn’t too much older than her, but he carried himself in a way that revealed he shouldered much responsibility with a sense of ease that came with long experience, even though he’d only recently inherited the title. Everything about him was controlled, from his impeccable clothing to his rigid, erect posture.
Isadora always had a special intuition when it came to discerning a man’s nature. Some men were good; some were a mixture of wickedness and goodness, while there were some who were truly evil. As a child living on the sun-drenched island, she’d seen all sorts.
What emotions and thoughts were locked behind the guarded expression in his light-coloured eyes? Did he resent the young child his late brother had sired? Had the child’s mixed blood made him unsuitable for the family of this prestigious house?
So many questions and very few answers.
You don’t need to know the answers. It’s more important to secure this position.
At the mental reminder, Isadora sent every other consideration away. She was here to care for a young child. The Marquis de Lyonnais’s problems were his concern.
They had gone up two flights of stairs and then down a hallway. Painted portraits of what she presumed were ancestors of the family lined the walls. There was an assorted mixture of men who had clearly taken ecclesiastical positions—monks, friars and priests. Others bore the proud regalia of the military.
‘You appear to come from a noble line given to service.’
Stopping by a door, the Marquis de Lyonnais faced her. ‘That is true. Members of the house of Godier serve in what capacity we can. Should we offer our services to Lucifer himself, we would never go back on our oath.’
‘He would, though,’ Isadora blurted out without thinking.
‘A rather astute observation,’ the Marquis remarked with a telltale twitch. ‘I would say the house of Godier shares the same observations and have adjusted our allegiances accordingly.’
They came to a set of communicating doors. ‘Here is the school room suite,’ he announced. ‘Further along this corridor we have the family’s private quarters along with the sitting room reserved for children.’
‘Do you have any children of your own, monsieur?’
‘I do not.’
Isadora took the short answer as a sign to not enquire any further into his private life. Silence reigned between them again as the Marquis de Lyonnais pulled open the doors.
Straight away, a faint stale scent of disuse dove into Isadora’s nostrils as she perused the long corridor framed by whitewashed walls. Their heels clacked loudly on the hardwood floors as they strolled down the hallway. They passed three or four doors left ajar, revealing rooms frozen in a state of unfinished construction.
Sheets draped unseen furniture in one room, while another contained wallpaper and nothing more.
Instinctively, Isadora recognised this wing of the house as a graveyard of sorts. Bereft of the presence of children. Empty of toys, and the pleasant disarray of family life.
None of that existed here. Simply remnants of what had been.
Had been?
Isadora pursed her lips as her eyes surveyed the barren suite. That wasn’t quite what this was. A graveyard contained the memories of what once was. This was more of a vacuum of things that had never even begun.
‘Here is the nursery.’ The man beside her pushed open a door, and then stepped aside to allow her to precede him.
The nursery was drab, devoid of joy. Dull colours, and duller furniture with the dullest-looking older maid in the centre of it asleep in a chair.
Isadora’s eyes were immediately drawn to the young child sitting on the floor.
Instant sympathy swept through her as she saw herself in him.
He was a boy of exceeding handsomeness even though he was still only a small child. Skin as golden-brown as her own, rounded cheeks pitted with deep dimples and long, unruly black curls topped his bowed head. Dressed in a white ankle-length gown, he twirled a small wooden spinning top on the floor.
‘He is a beautiful boy,’ Isadora told the silent man by her side.
‘He is. Very much like his father was. Thierry had only to look at a woman before she fell to his feet, ready to capitulate everything to him. I can see his son will afflict the female population of France in just the same manner.’
Isadora, studying his profile, sensed there was more than wry humour behind his words. ‘And you, monsieur? Did women chase after you as well?’
The question left her mouth before she could consider the wisdom of asking it. The Marquis de Lyonnais drew his gaze away from the child playing, piercing Isadora again with the sharpness of his cerulean eyes. Isadora’s breath caught in her throat, and she could barely move.
‘They didn’t run away from me screaming, if that’s what you’re implying, mademoiselle.’
No, they wouldn’t. If he looked at them the way he was looking at her in this instant, he’d hold a woman captive as easily a serpent with a hare. Unlike the hare, the woman bound by his eyes wouldn’t want to move. She’d happily consent to being devoured by the Marquis.
How Isadora knew that she couldn’t explain. Her intuition of men revealed that beneath the imposing, craggy façade of his face, the Marquis de Lyonnais was a man of hidden depths and passions.
He stood at her side now, contained, but underneath she could feel how tightly restrained he was. During their interview, she’d felt the force of his presence as if it were an extra limb. Invisible to the eye but tangible in every other way.
Yes, a woman captured by the Marquis de Lyonnais would be devoured. Utterly consumed. She’d need to take extra care not to become ensnared by him...
‘Mademoiselle?’
Isadora started, realising she’d been staring at the man for several seconds. Heat flooded her face at the direction of her thoughts. ‘P-p-pardonnez-moi, monsieur. I didn’t mean to offend, nor intimate that you are in any way less—’
A puff of gruff laughter exited his mouth. ‘There is no need to assuage my feelings, mademoiselle. I am a man, not a boy.’ He nodded towards the child again. ‘When I look at him, sometimes it is difficult.’
‘Why?’
‘He reminds me of my brother so much that...it hurts.’ The last word ended on a low note, as if he didn’t want to admit that out loud.
‘Were you close?’
The Marquis de Lyonnais drew in a deep, audible breath. ‘Let me just say that my brother and I had a strained relationship. Over the years, we drifted apart, but that never stopped me from being concerned for his welfare.’
Isadora waited to see if the Marquis would say anything more, but when he continued to stand there mute, she asked, ‘What is your nephew’s name?’
‘Jean Dieudonné Godier.’
‘Dieudonné,’ Isadora repeated softly. ‘It means God-given.’
The child lifted his head from his preoccupation with the toy, and Isadora fought to keep from gasping. His eyes were an astonishing contrast of ash and indigo, like the swirling waters of a stormy ocean. Though a child, Dieudonné looked at her with an intelligence that belied his young years.
Dieudonné stood and waddled towards them, his arms outstretched with his toy and talking in the way of children who were just learning words. Isadora fell to her knees without much thought, waiting for the boy to come to her.
He smiled, showing a toothy grin, but he tripped and fell into the old woman.
With a hard snort and a raspy cough, the old woman awakened. Unaware of her audience, she scowled at the boy at her feet. ‘Worthless mongrel scum. Can’t you just sit and be quiet?’
The sudden shout startled the child and he started to cry.
Hot tears stung the corners of her eyes. How dare the Marquis de Lyonnais let a member of his staff speak to a child in that manner! He was the master and therefore, he should set the standard of behaviour he expected.
Before Isadora could do little more than shift her position, a shadow blurred across her path.
Isadora blinked, her mouth falling open.
The Marquis stood in front of the woman, blocking her from view. Isadora dashed to where they were in the centre of the room. She grabbed the child, lifting his light body against her and holding him, crooning soft, nonsensical words that all children understood.
Dieudonné whimpered and wrapped his surprisingly strong arms around her neck, clutching her with as much vigour as she was with him. A shudder seized the boy’s body and Isadora’s throat thickened with sympathy.
Whatever words the Marquis said to the old servant woman, she didn’t know. His voice had dropped to a whisper. As he spoke, the servant’s face remained blank.
He backed away and the old woman got up. Head down, she scurried out of the room.
Gripping Dieudonné tightly in her arms as he slumped against her, Isadora could remain silent no longer.
‘How could you, monsieur, allow that woman speak to a child in that manner? He has done no wrong worthy of such treatment. She only did what you allowed, monsieur, so you are to blame.’
The Marquis blinked. ‘What?’
‘Don’t pretend, monsieur. It’s apparent that you and your brother were estranged but that is no reason to allow your staff to mistreat his son.’
‘I would never—’
‘You already have!’ Isadora flung at the stunned man gaping at her. ‘That servant only felt comfortable speaking to Dieudonné like that because she knew there wouldn’t be any repercussions for her actions!’
‘Mademoiselle, if you would just—’
‘I won’t be quiet!’
Dieudonné had dug his face into the curve of her neck, and she felt his moist breathing on her skin. Something protective swelled within her and Isadora wrapped her right arm tighter around him. Her left arm now flailed about as righteous anger rifled through her.
‘If you can’t see fit to protect him from unscrupulous servants, then let us leave. We’d do better as beggars in the street than as wards under your care. If this how you feel about your nephew—Oh!’
The words cut off as the Marquis de Lyonnais took a giant step towards her and grabbed her wrist, clamping down on it in a gentle, but firm grasp. His fingers nearly circled her wrist twice, so large was his hand. Heat and lightning streaked down her arm where he touched her.
‘Release me, monsieur!’
‘Not until you listen,’ he countered. His cerulean eyes had hardened like shards of ice. ‘Now be silent, mademoiselle, and let me speak.’
She glared at him, but kept her peace as he spoke in crisp, clipped tones.
‘I would never hurt a child, least of all a child of my family’s blood. Nor would I ever tolerate abuse of a young one from any of my staff. Till that very moment, I’d no idea that Madame Cellier felt she had the right to speak to my nephew in that manner. She has been summarily dismissed from my employ.’
Isadora’s shoulders relaxed.
‘Oh, I thought—’
‘You were wrong.’ There was a bite to those words, one that raised goose bumps along her skin. His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer, blocking everything but himself from her field of vision. So close now, she felt the heat emanating from his person. Inhaled the citrusy aroma of his cologne. Towering above her like a flesh and blood idol, his shadow swallowed her and Dieudonné whole.
Those eyes glittered with a dangerous light.
Yet somehow Isadora didn’t feel threatened at all. Quite the contrary; seeing the Marquis de Lyonnais like this only confirmed what she’d thought. He was a man of restraint, but beneath it lay a reservoir of feeling. It excited her in an inexplicable way.
As if he’d read her thoughts, he pulled back, ceasing to loom over her. Deliberately, he let go of her wrist and clasped his hands behind his back.
‘Unfortunately for you, Mademoiselle de Beauchêne, my nephew will remain under my care. Despite your erroneous assertions, it pleases me that you are willing to protect him from harm. It shows a strength of character I find admirable.’
Her chest caved in with relief. He wasn’t banishing her despite her severe lack of respect for a man who she wanted to employ her.
Not that he would hire her now since she’d—
‘The position is yours should you wish to take it.’
Something burned in the centre of André’s chest as he stood there, absorbing the impact of Isadora’s fervour. It resembled the full intensity of a storm from its chaotic beginning to its peaceful end.
To his fevered imagination—for what else could his fanciful thoughts be?—she was the goddess Minerva made flesh. And what else was a woman but fury and calm?
A vibrant flush stained Isadora’s honey-hued cheeks while her topaz, brown-ringed eyes had flamed with golden fire. How fierce she looked in those moments, as if she could bring a broadsword upon his head and strike him down.
His eyes drifted to the sight of his brother’s son nestled so trustingly against the Creole woman. The sight evoked a strange sensation within André, one he hadn’t experienced before. He tried to give it a name to categorise the feeling, but it escaped recognition.
Perhaps, it was better that he didn’t know what the foreign sensation was churning inside of him. He could never do anything with it, after all.
But touching her had been a grave mistake.
André hadn’t planned it, of course. At first, all that had consumed his mind were her accusations that he’d allowed abuse of his nephew under his roof. True, a part of him felt guilty that he hadn’t seen the signs, but did she really think he would let anyone mistreat any member of his family?
Isadora’s railing had set off the need to defend himself. For some reason, André didn’t want Isadora to think badly of him. He’d thought she would hit him, not on purpose, but in the fury of her storm so he’d grabbed her wrist.
And knew instantly he shouldn’t have.
Fire coursed through his fingers at that single contact, seeping into his skin and deeper into his veins. And he, like a man driven towards the warmth of a hearth, couldn’t let go.
Though her tiny wrist could fit into his hand twice, there was a strength evident despite the delicateness of her bones. Her skin slipped against the inside of his palm, tantalising him with its softness.
He hadn’t been this close to a woman in three years, and even before then, he hadn’t exactly overindulged. He’d never had the time.
But this was different. He knew it was.
Now André stood there, hands clasped behind his back to keep her from seeing them shake. For his fingers longed to luxuriate in the texture of her skin again. The tips wanted to trace the freckles splattered over her nose and cheeks, which had become more pronounced as the blood rushed to her face.
His breath hitched in his centre of his throat. He wanted her to stay. To care for his nephew, yes, but there was something more he wanted. For himself.
Don’t be a fool, a voice in his head warned.
I fear I already am.
Rolling his shoulders back, he spoke into the tense air. ‘Well, Mademoiselle de Beauchêne. What will it be?’
The child snuggled deeper into the cradle of her arms, drawing her gaze away from him. Dieudonné had fallen asleep. A gentle smile lifted her full mouth and she caressed the boy’s cheeks.
‘We’re the same, mon petit. Neither of us can go back home.’
André frowned. What did she mean by that? She’d spoken in the same fatalistic way during their interview.
What was she running away from?
When she looked back up, her eyes impaled him. ‘I accept, Monsieur le Marquis de Lyonnais. For good or ill, I accept.’
André’s gaze lingered on the sight of the woman and child wrapped in each other, his brother’s son resting without a care in the world. Again, that elusive feeling pervaded his being. He allowed his pent-up breath to release slowly through his nostrils.
No matter what else, Isadora was going to stay.
She was going to stay.
Only through rigid control was André able to keep his face from showing just how relieved he was. ‘Bien.’
He strode over to the fireplace, and pulled the rope. ‘I know you must be decidedly weary from your journey, and I would be a cruel host and employer if I were to tax you any further.’
‘I’m well enough,’ Isadora replied, a stubborn set to her mouth. ‘I can begin straight away.’
André couldn’t help but feel, along with everything else this woman evoked, a sense of admiration. It was apparent to anyone looking at her that she was indeed on her last legs. Yet, something—pride perhaps?—was keeping her up to fight one more time.
A servant appeared in the doorway. ‘You sent for me, Monsieur le Marquis?’
André nodded towards Isadora and Dieudonné. ‘Please take the child to his room while Mademoiselle de Beauchêne and I finish our discussion.’
‘Non, Monsieur le Marquis,’ Isadora interrupted, a reproachful expression in her eyes. ‘I will stay here and acquaint myself with my charge.’
There was an underlying censure in her voice that André took exception to, and he straightened. It was one thing to show her desire to care for the child. Quite another to disregard his commands. He was her employer after all.
Without taking his eyes off Isadora, André repeated his order to the young servant girl, Jacqueline. ‘Take the child back to his room.’
Jacqueline came forward. Isadora held his gaze with her own, as if challenging him.
A battle of wills waged between them.
Whenever André had clashed with Thierry in the past, they’d fought like a lion and a hyena he’d once seen in an illustrated book. André had never been able to determine which of them was the lion and which the hyena. Regardless, the battle for dominance had raged, with Thierry determined to live his life according to his wishes and André equally determined to try and curb the worst of his brother’s reckless excesses.
Unlike his confrontations with his brother, this battle with Isadora was different. There was no frustration attached to it. The very air between them pulsed with base, instinctive wild attraction.
This was a lion and a lioness locked in challenge.
His heart thudded faster as he held her gaze, watching as the topaz eyes darkened to a dimmed gold. Her lips parted the slightest bit. Did she sense it, too? She must have done because André felt an answering call. The urge to go over to her and press his thumb to her lips and feel the pulse of blood beating against it.
A single streak of need rammed into the centre of his gut.
The shock of it jolted him like a bucket of ice water.
What was he thinking? What was he feeling? Hadn’t he been fooled by a woman before? He’d sworn he’d never allow his baser needs to be used against him again.
It didn’t matter...well...it shouldn’t matter if the woman before him was the most beautiful he’d ever seen. That she provoked him in ways that excited and titillated him. He mustn’t be swayed by her loveliness.
That would only lead to heartache.
She was only here to care for his nephew, not for him.
A voice in his head mocked, If you say it twenty times, will you mean it then?
Ignoring that hateful little voice, André watched as she relented, as he’d known she would, relinquishing the sleeping boy to Jacqueline.
When the girl had left, André stalked over to where Isadora stood. He knew he should keep a respectful distance, as was proper, but for once he ignored societal dictates and drew as close as he could.
Close enough to inhale the scent of her, something balmy and warm, stirring within him an awareness of everything about the woman that was sultry and feminine.
‘Now, let us return to my study and discuss the more mundane aspects of your new position.’
Her forehead creased. ‘Mundane, monsieur?’
‘Wages, expected duties and so forth.’
Isadora gave a quick nod, and he extended his arm to once again let her go before him. Just before she passed by, he reached out and halted her steps.
Swiftly she looked back at him. ‘What are you doing?’
Bending down, he placed his mouth as close as he could to her ear without touching it. He whispered, ‘I am your employer, Mademoiselle de Beauchêne.’
She trembled and pleasure swept through him. Dare he suppose it was because they were this close and being so very improper?
‘I am aware of that, monsieur,’ she said in a breathless way.
‘Then it will do well for you to remember that. I will not tolerate defiance of my orders. Vous comprenez.’
Her eyes gleamed, but she simply said, ‘Oui.’
Releasing her, he inclined his head to the door. ‘After you.’
She lifted her chin high and then walked out. His eyes rested on the long column of the back of her neck just before she disappeared from his sight.
André had the feeling this was simply one of many battles to come between them.
‘This is your room, mademoiselle.’
Isadora walked inside the bedchamber and studied its plain, but tasteful decor. She had everything she needed, probably more than the servant girl who had shown her the room, but it was nothing like what she had once had in Saint-Domingue.
Turning her attention back to the servant girl, she took the pale-skinned younger woman with long, narrow facial features and wide, childlike eyes. ‘What is your name?’ she asked.
‘Jacqueline,’ she answered, dipping her head in a shy manner. ‘Will that be all, mademoiselle?’
Isadora found it interesting that Jacqueline had assumed a deferential attitude towards her. Admittedly, if she were to be honest, it made her feel less out of sorts.
In Saint-Domingue, Isadora had lived a life of affluence. She’d had servants who catered to her whims, and had never once considered such a mundane thing as wages. She got whatever she wanted, and Stéphane had paid the bills, barely glancing an eye over what she purchased.
All that had changed the very day her mother died.
‘That will be all.’
The door shut behind the maid, and the last of Isadora’s reserves started to rapidly fade away. Wearily, she dragged her feet over to the narrow bed. Standing by it, she laboriously removed her garments. One by one she set each piece aside until all parts of her costume lay on a chair nearby, leaving her clad only in her knee-length thin white chemise.
Her hands shook as she removed the cap and unpinned her hair from the severe bun at the back of her neck and ruffled her long, fine-stranded thick tresses that flowed down her back to her hips.
Eyes burning from being kept open for far too long, she closed them as she finally collapsed onto the bed. Any moment now, she expected to fall into the abyss of sleep. Yet, her mind could not rest.
She thought back to the clash between herself and the Marquis de Lyonnais. Did she really think a man like him wouldn’t find her attractive? From the moment she’d entered womanhood, men had wanted her. She wasn’t unused to seeing the hot flames of desire in men’s eyes, or the way their bodies reacted to her presence.
What she hadn’t expected was her own reaction to that brief flare in his face.
Shifting uncomfortably, Isadora swallowed to moisten a suddenly dry throat. Hadn’t she known that a woman would be consumed by that man if ever he decided to pursue her? Remembering how relentlessly he’d locked her in his sights, how thoroughly controlled he was while her own restraint unravelled moment by moment, she knew she was in danger from her own emotions.
Isadora could blame her loss of control on tiredness, but she knew herself better than that.
She was drawn to the man.
A little moan escaped her mouth as she admitted this. Nearly nineteen years, surrounded by men of all races, and this marquis had managed to capture her interest in a way many men before him would have longed to.
Not that it mattered. She couldn’t allow anything more than a working relationship to develop.
After all, Isadora wasn’t who he thought she was.
Memories unfolded before her closed eyes. She was too tired and helpless to stop them.
Three months ago, her life had unequivocally spun out of control. No sooner had her mother died than she’d learned that the man she’d thought was her father wasn’t. Stéphane de Beauchêne had made it clear that his responsibility to her was over and it was time for her to learn the truth.
Isadora turned on her side, eyes still closed, but that fateful conversation played in her mind as if it had happened yesterday.
‘Who is my father then?’ she’d asked him.
Stéphane had sipped on his drink, basking in the cool air two of the workers on either side fanned in their direction as they sat on the wide porch of the main house.
‘I shall tell you, Isadora, who your father is. I’ve already written to him to tell him of your mother’s death. But I suppose there is a certain formality to this type of thing.’
‘I don’t understand you.’
‘Non? Well, I shall make it plain.’
Shooing away the workers, Stéphane waited until they were alone. Then, he stood to his feet and turned in a particular direction. Looking back, Isadora realised that he’d faced in the direction of France, but at the time, she’d just thought he was drunk.
‘Your father, Isadora de Beauchêne, is that most high, most potent and most excellent prince, Louis the Beloved, by the Grace of God, King of France and of Navarre, Most Christian Majesty.’
Her stomach clenched, then and now. Nothing could have shocked her more than to hear that.
It still shocked her.
‘You’re mad,’ she’d told him, sure that rum had overtaken his senses.
‘It’s true,’ Stéphane had replied, looking frustratingly unconcerned by the news he’d just given her. ‘You are the illegitimate, mulâtresse daughter of our sovereign king.’ He bowed to her in a mocking manner. ‘And I am the one who he entrusted with your care for as long as your mother, my mistress, lived. I also agreed to give you the protection of my name.’
The whole sordid affair came pouring out then as she’d learned the truth of her birth. Till that day, Isadora had thought she was the daughter of one of the most powerful men on Saint-Domingue. She’d held her head up, unconcerned about being Stéphane’s illegitimate child because such things meant little on the island.
Discovering her true lineage had changed all that.
Weeks later, when he had heard from a contact in Paris of this position as a governess to a prominent family in dire need, he’d sent her away to France with very few other details.
Stéphane’s voice from that last day sounded again in her head. ‘There are very few who know of your birth, Isadora. You mustn’t tell a soul. Some people will use such information for their own gains. And it can be dangerous for you. I don’t know when or indeed even if the King will contact you once you get to Paris but I have done my duty as he requested. I wash my hands of you.’
She was now a secret stain on a noble line. The child no one wanted to admit to having. Was that why, as soon as she saw Dieudonné, she’d felt such an instant affinity to him? They were the same.
Her thoughts shifted back to the Marquis. Would a man like him want to have anything to do with her if he knew who she really was? Would the desire she saw this evening turn to ash?
She sucked in a hard breath at the odd pain that struck her chest at the thought.
A sudden, uncontrollable urge sent Isadora up from the bed to the door, and down the hall to Dieudonné’s room. Going over to his small bed, Isadora peered down at his sleeping frame. He looked tiny and lost, somehow.
A sad smile lifted her mouth. They were both orphans. Her father might technically be alive, but the chances of ever meeting him were remote.
Carefully, Isadora bent and kissed Dieudonné’s forehead.
Invisible weights fell onto her eyes and her body grew heavy. Isadora couldn’t even summon enough strength to go back to her room. Taking the second blanket from the foot of his bed, Isadora lay down next to the young boy and curled herself around him.
She yawned and just as she succumbed to sleep, one question reverberated in her mind.
Would her father contact her? Or would he continue to avoid her existence as he had for nearly nineteen years?