“It would appear so, Tony. I thank you for your warning. I am indeed committed to my course now, aren’t I?”
He nodded, and then he said gallantly, “I envy the duc his ‘conquest’, Arabella.”
She colored, and men she asked him the question that she had wanted to ask him since they had met. “Why are you not married, Tony?”
“I was,” he said. “She was a Breton lady. We met at the Duke of Brittany’s court when I was with King Henry in his youth. We were wed but a few months when she sickened and died of a fever. Few remember her, or that I was ever wed. Since then there has been no one. As I serve the king in this rather odd manner, I dare not take a wife, for it would make me vulnerable. In a service such as this, Arabella, one cannot be vulnerable, as you well know. A wife would complicate my life, for living in France as I do, she would probably be French. How could I keep the life she could not share with me secret from her? It would be nearly impossible. I am safer without a wife and children to fret me.
“As a younger son, I have nothing in England. No lands, no monies. The king has promised me, however, that when my effectiveness here in France comes to an end, he will see that I have an estate on which to retire. Only then will I remarry and have children.”
She understood. Had not Henry Tudor used her little Margaret against her? “I pray I can gain valuable information from the duc, Tony. I so long to go home again! My wee Margaret will have grown greatly these past months. I miss her so much!”
“What if you fall in love with the duc, my dear?” he asked her. “It is possible that it could happen, you know. I believe that even now you like him, although perhaps you have not considered it. When passion becomes an added ingredient to your relationship, who knows what will happen?”
“I do not believe that love will ever enter into my association with Adrian Morlaix,” Arabella told Tony. “He simply desires me—my body, really. I, in turn, desire information from him that he might not otherwise divulge except in pillow talk.”
“But he does not know that, my dear,” Lord Varden said.
“I, however, do,” Arabella responded wisely. “I dare not allow myself to love again, Tony. Love, I have found, makes one heart-sore.”
“Aye,” he agreed, “it does, but to be without love, my dear, gives far greater pain, I believe. When my Jeanne-Marie was alive, I ached in the hours that we were apart. My life, it seemed, was only full and perfect when we were together. Her love encased me with a warmth of feeling the like of which I have not known since. When she first died, I felt as if I had died, and when I realized I had not, I cursed the fates that had left me to walk this earth without her. To be forced to live when Jeanne-Marie was not here to share my life gave me more anguish than the pain of a few hours separation, for in those few hours there was always the knowledge that I would see her again. I no longer have that certainty, and, naturally, the pain has dulled over the years. It has never left me, mind you, and, of course, I have my many happy memories. Ahh, Arabella, I would be in love again, but alas I dare not at this time either! If your heart responds to Adrian Morlaix’s heart, do not deny yourself that joy! Is not life, my dear, for living to the fullest?”
Joy? Love, a joy?Love had always been more sorrow than joy, Arabella thought to herself. Her mother had loved Jasper Keane, and having suffered bitterly for it, was finally forced to give her life up in a final tribute to love. She herself had loved Tavis Stewart, and though he claimed to love her, he had treated her like a child rather than as a wife. A toy to be cuddled and kissed, but certainly not taken seriously. The only good thing to have come of such a love was her wee Margaret, from whom she was now separated. No, she was never going to allow herself to be taken in by love again!
She would think on her rendezvous at Twelfth Night with Adrian Morlaix. What would she wear? Her costume must be a mixture of demureness and seduction, and she would wear nothing beneath it but a sheer, silk camisia.Ivory velvet!Her gown would be of ivory velvet to complement her pale gold hair, to hint at virtue, a virtue he would enjoy despoiling, and which she would allow him to despoil before the night was out. Arabella shook her head at her thoughts. How hard and calculating she had become, she considered, but were she not, she realized, this could all destroy her.
Ivory velvet.Trimmed in gold threads and seed pearls. An underskirt of gold brocade. And her hair. She would not wear it as she usually did, in a crown of braids atop her head which gave her added height. Her hair on Twelfth Night would be dressed with silk ribbons and seed pearls which would be intertwined into one long and large fat braid. He would, like all men, seek to undo her hair, and she should make it as easy for him as possible. And she would wear no jewelry. That would give a further impression of simplicity, as would her plain burgundy-colored velvet cloak with its hood trimmed in rich marten.
She bathed carefully on Twelfth Night, instructing Lona to perfume the warm water with her favorite white heather fragrance. Her long hair had earlier been washed.
“‘Tis a wonder you don’t catch your death of cold with all the bathing you do,” grumbled Lona. “So much water can’t be healthy, my lady, but then I suppose I should be used to your little crochets by now, shouldn’t I?”
“And I used to your constant chattering,” teased her mistress.
“Chattering?”Lona’s tone was suddenly aggrieved. “Just because I worry aloud over your eccentric ways is no cause to say I chatter, my lady!”
Arabella laughed and soothed her servant and friend. “Dearest Lona, I but tease you because I love you,” she said.
“Well now,” said Lona, “that puts a different complexion on things, don’t it?” She helped her mistress from the tub, and having dried and perfumed her, wrapped her snugly in a warmed towel. Fetching the silk camisia, she noted, “You ought to wear something warmer than this tonight, my lady. ‘Tis bitter out, and that’s certain.”
“‘Twill spoil the line of my gown,” Arabella said casually, but Lona raised her eyebrows questioningly, causing her lady to continue warningly, “I will hear no more about it, Lona.”
Lona nodded, not in the least offended. She had learned what she needed to know in just those few words. Fetching the ivory velvet bodice and the two skirts, she helped Arabella to dress. Next Lona sat Arabella down, carefully arranging her skirts that they might not wrinkle, and braided Arabella’s thick, pale gold hair, carefully weaving in the strands of delicate pearls and silk ribbons as she did so. “There,” she said when she had finally finished, “‘tis as good a job as any, my lady, if I do say so. You look beautiful.”
Arabella was wearing dainty slippers upon her feet, but because of the snowy ground, Lona fitted her mistress with heavy clogs for outdoors over the little velvetsollerets. Helping her lady into the coach, Lona wrapped a heavy fur rug about her knees and placed flannel-wrapped hot bricks about her feet. Though the journey to the duc’s Hotel de Lambour was a short one, the January night was bitterly cold, and few if any Parisians were out and about.
“Put the horses in the duc’s stables and then find shelter for yourselves in his kitchens,” Arabella instructed the six men who had accompanied her when they had reached their destination. “I will call for you when I am ready to return home.”
Allowing the duc’s servants to remove the bricks from about her feet and help her from the carriage, Arabella hurried into the mansion.
“Ma Belle! Welcome,” Adrian Morlaix said, coming forward to greet her. He kissed her hand lingeringly as a servant took her cape.
She lifted her eyebrows questioningly. “Have I mistaken your invitation, my lord? Have I come on perhaps the wrong night?” The house was quite silent, and his garb—a fur-trimmed velvet brocade gown in his favorite scarlet—quite casual. “Did you not invite me to a Twelfth Night fete,monseigneur?”
“I did,” he said, “and I hope you will forgive me my little deception,ma Belle, but you are to be my only guest,” he told her.
“Monseigneur!”Arabella pretended shocked surprise. “You are very wicked! I fear that you will ruin my reputation. Please send for my coach. I really should not stay under the circumstances.”
“Will you not stay just a little while,ma Belle? I would give you your gift. Would you not like it? A few minutes cannot damage your spotless reputation,chérie,” he said softly, and Arabella allowed herself to be cajoled even as he led her up the hotel’s flight of marble stairs to a small salon where a bright fire burned merrily.
