“Your mother was a beautiful woman…” he said. “But you are even moreso.”
Brielle seemed to hardly hear him, absorbed as she was in the painting. “Grandfather said this was commissioned on the eve of her firstfête. Soon after that she met my father.Mamanwas happy here in France, but she was happiest with him.”
“Theirs was a love match, then.”
“Blessedly so.” She turned back to him. “I wish you could have met them. They would have been very fond of you.”
“For rescuing their daughter as you say.”
“For being the selfless, noble soul that you are.”
“I am far from perfect,mon cher.”
She touched the canvas, running a finger along the yellow of her mother’s gown that seemed more silk than oil paint. “Grandfather wants me to have my portrait painted so that it hangs opposite her.”
Bleu looked over his shoulder to the far end of the room and saw a bare damask wall.
“He’s already commissioned Maurice-Quentin de La Tour for the task.”
“Task?” He fisted his hands harder. “More privilege.”
She turned toward him, her hands clasped at her sashed waist. “Will you sit for a miniature, one I can keep in my bodice or pocket? To remember our time here?”
The request seemed bittersweet. “I’ll have no trouble remembering our time here. But I do have trouble sitting still.” His resistance died when she smiled at him again. “But for you…”
“Merci.Monsieur de La Tour will arrive after thefête.” She pulled a tiny, gold timepiece from her pocket, a gift from thecomte.
Watching her, he thought of life before France. Of boundless, unfettered time. Freedom.
“The dancing master is coming soon.” She looked at him again, expectant. “Will you be there?”
“Only if we avoid the minuet.”
“We shall. I’m much more fond of the gavotte and allemande and cotillion.”
“Don’t forget thebourréwe stepped along the Rivanna.”
“I shan’t.” Her gaze grew almost starry again. “Everything about that night seems gilded to me.”
“Thisis gilded.” He looked about the salon and wondered about the ballroom he’d not seen yet. Wondered, too, if he’d have a chance to partner with her again. An onslaught of suitors were about to descend. He felt it to his marrow.
She touched his sleeve. “Promise me a dance like last time.”
He focused on the portrait rather than her. “If one is open,oui.”
“It will be open, I promise.”
He looked at her again. Her rose cologne encircled him, making him want to remove the pearl comb that had nearly slipped free of her coiffure and bury his face in her unbound hair, every mahogany-gold strand. A far cry from the braided maid he’d rescued. He was having trouble reconciling the woman she’d been to the one she was becoming. The Brielle of old felt within his reach, the other an impossibility. A dream.
He’d brought her here. Only now did he realize the plan had been more his than hers. He believed she belonged in France, the place of her heritage. Only his love for her hadn’t ebbed, only surged. He not only loved her, he was willing to die for her. He’d never cared for anyone so much nor had he reckoned with the cost of releasing her.
Non, imbécile. Fight!
The urge came unbidden and soul deep. Fight for what might be lost, for what was fleeting. For a home across the sea and a loving woman who kept him there. For their future, their children, their legacy. A knifelike anguish twisted inside him. His heart beat so hard surely she heard it.
As if sensing his inner struggle, she reached up and touched his cheek. The scar that marred his brow to his jawline was no longer an angry crimson but faded by time. Years had passed since he’d fought and lost Acadie. In another decade would he recall this very moment with the same aching, irreversible wrench? If he didn’t fight for her—for what they had—the scar to his heart would be far worse.
He took a deep breath and covered her fingers with his own. “Brielle…”
