The Companion - Time For Eternity Part 11

"Of that I was sure, mademoiselle. The duc he would not dare to keep me waiting." She spoiled the effect of this announcement by winking. "I know too many of his secrets."

Francoise did not like to think what secrets this woman might know about Avignon.

"And what was so important that you offended me?"

Francoise swallowed. "I ... I visited a friend who was arrested."

"In prison?" La Fanchon gasped.

Well, if she thought it not fas.h.i.+onable to visit one's friends, no matter how unfortunate they were, then she could just be offended.

"Yes. The Conciergerie, though I had to visit several prisons to find her." All her outrage left her. Madame was dead. She felt her eyes fill.

"You combed the prisons for your friend?" Madame sighed. "Well, at least I am not thrown over for less than friends.h.i.+p in the most trying of circ.u.mstances." She peered at Francoise. "I am sorry for your friend's fate."

Fate. That word again. Francoise shook her head slowly. "But is it? Is it fate, Mademoiselle Fanchon, which takes one and leaves another? And who decides? Robespierre could have chosen a hundred others to arrest."

"I don't know, child."

"Maybe no one decides," Francoise whispered. "Perhaps it is ... random." She looked up. The little lady had gone still. "We would not like to believe that, would we?"

The room froze for a moment. "No, we would not." La Fanchon's eyes were sympathetic. Then the dressmaker clapped her hands. "But who can know? In which case, all we can do is dress well. Now, a dressing gown for Mademoiselle? We have much to do." She did not wait for Annette but threw open the wardrobe and began tossing peignoirs and elegant dresses out onto the floor. "Non. Non. Definitely not." She came to the charred dress. "Quel horreur! Woman, throw this on the rag heap." The offending dress landed in Annette's arms.

"With pleasure," the maid said.

"But ... that is my only dress. Everything else I own was burned."

"So his grace intimated. Fanchon will provide." She tossed Annette a silk dressing gown.

And she whooshed out of the room, saying over her shoulder, "The yellow salon. The light is good there."

"Dear me," Francoise murmured, looking after her. "A force of nature."

Annette had the dressing gown on in no time. The maid practically shoved her out the door and hissed, "Third door on the right."

Francoise tiptoed down the hall, listening to the bustle coming from behind the half -open door to the yellow salon and feeling trapped. She should be looking for a position, not being fitted for dresses. Yet, one did need to dress well to hunt for a job. One dress? Well, two dresses. Two dresses only. Francoise pushed the door open.

The room was a hive of activity. Half a dozen a.s.sistants swarmed about, setting up a long table, opening the draperies to bathe the room in light, carrying bolts of heavy pattern cloth and stacks of fabric swatches. One set out a low platform, and another carried in a cloth dummy on a metal stand. At the center La Fanchon directed the whole like a symphony.

"Here, here." She motioned to the low platform. "Stand here."

She swept the robe off Francoise, leaving her to stand in her undergarments. No one seemed to notice her at all.

"Measurements," Fanchon called. a.s.sistants rallied round with tapes, pulling Francoise this way and that, measuring every conceivable part of her.

Francoise was merely the object here. That freed her to look around. The room was lovely, with mirrors and big windows out to the park from the first floor of the great house. It was full of lightness and promise somehow. It seemed a long time since she had been in a room like this. Some part of her was nervous. Darkness seemed more comfortable.

But she needed a dress before she could find a situation. Was that what she must do before she could leave this house? Or was it something else? Something worse? She pushed down the image of the sword in the evil leather bag.

The a.s.sistants were packing up at last, having measured every part of her, held up swatches, prepared a stuffed mannequin that matched her figure.

"I shall send over a dress until we can put together the "-here Fanchon smiled sweetly-"two day dresses you require."

Fanchon waved a hand. "My customer lost her head before she could claim it." She glanced to Francoise's look of horror. "Je m'excuse, mademoiselle. I do not guarantee a perfect fit, you understand, but you must have something on your back, and what is in the wardrobe in your room is hardly suitable."

Francoise gathered her courage. "I am not sure some of the fabrics you chose would be suitable for everyday dresses ..." She faltered under Fanchon's raised brow.

"You question Fanchon?" The little lady raised her brows.

"I should never do that, child." The baritone drawl came from the shadows in the hall.

"Your grace, what a pleasant surprise." Fanchon motioned for the a.s.sistants to close the draperies. All Francoise could think about was that he was seeing her in her chemise. She didn't reach for the dressing gown. The room dimmed. She could feel his eyes on her. Part of her was horrified at her boldness, and part of her was ... was challenging him. And she didn't know which part was which.

He sauntered into the room, his dress the height of fas.h.i.+on except that he didn't powder his hair or wear any patches. His eyes were glued to hers. They seemed to burn. Then they jerked away. "One may count on La Fanchon without reservation for her taste." His tone was insouciant, in contrast to his recent expression.

Fanchon looked from one to the other then bent to retrieve Francoise's dressing gown. "That is one thing we have in common, Avignon. I've always thought Satan probably had much better style than all those angels in that dreary white."

Francoise took the dressing gown and, as she slid into it, a blush crept up her throat. A little late, that blush.

"Alors, what are you waiting for?" Fanchon swept the a.s.sistants, who were standing as if transfixed by Avignon, out of the room. "We have much to do."

"I should like to consult with you on your way out, " Avignon murmured. He slid a glance at Francoise, who stepped off the platform so the last a.s.sistant could carry it away. Then he took Fanchon's arm and they walked out of the room. Francoise didn't like the stir of anger that took her as she watched Fanchon lay her other hand over the duc's arm and look up into his eyes.

Belatedly, it occurred to her that he had come into the room only after Mademoiselle Fanchon had ordered the draperies closed.

That was odd and ... interesting.

Nine.

Henri shook himself. It was almost as if the girl had put a spell on him. Her eyes, as she stared at him, had held both ancient wisdom and ... and innocence. Her limbs had been just as white, as finely formed as he'd imagined. And curse it all, he had been imagining. He should make her leave this house. He was in danger of courting disaster once again if she did not.

But he had come away as much to speak to La Fanchon as to escape the girl.

"Mademoiselle ..." She raised her brows in question. "Your grace?"

"At her first presentation tomorrow night, I want the world to be very certain that she is my ward-and nothing else. Do we understand each other?"

Fanchon cast down her eyes, but not before he saw the speculation in them. "But of course, your grace."

He gestured ahead and they continued walking to the staircase. "She is an innocent, and I want her to dress that way."

They reached the head of the staircase. Fanchon looked up at him. The speculation was back. "How old is she, your grace?"

Startled, Henri said, "Twenty-one, I think. Why do you ask?"

"No reason." She stared past his shoulder down the corridor. "Only, sometimes I catch a look about her ... a feeling that she is much older and more experienced. More ... world-weary. No girl of twenty-one looks like that."

He wasn't imagining it. The dressmaker saw it too.

"One strives to capture the spirit of the woman in the dress one makes for her." She tapped one finger against her lips as she thought. "Can one ignore that strange duality of innocence and experience?"

"Mademoiselle Fanchon," he said firmly. "a la jeune fille."

Fanchon seemed to come to herself. "I know. I know. It will be as you desire. And yet, would it not be a test of skill to express that complexity of character in a wardrobe?" She sighed and glanced up to Henri. "Be careful, your grace."

Henri waved a languid hand. What did she mean? "I? I am never careful, Fanchon."

She looked him over. "But I think you are. Very careful. You cultivate the bored facade. You never let any of your women near to the center of you. And you do have a center, your grace, however hard you try to conceal it. But this one ..."

He led the way down the stairs into the foyer. "This one is a charity case, nothing more. She is gently born and fallen upon hard times. I took her in with the purest of intentions."

Fanchon laughed. "If you want people to believe that, I suggest you stop looking at her as if she were a life preserver and you were a drowning man."

She did not give him a chance to retort but strode to the cl.u.s.ter of a.s.sistants at the door. Fanchon did not enter or leave by the servants' entrance. At the last moment she turned. "By the way, she has given me very strict instructions to make for her only two everyday dresses. They are what she requires to make her way in the world and she does not desire to be beholden to you for more."

"I hope you know from whom you take your orders."

"Of course." Fanchon laughed. "And I leave it to you to explain to her. Good day, your grace." Jean opened the door and the gaggle streamed into the darkening street.

He did not look at the girl that way. The woman was mad. Was she? Or was she too perceptive by half? She had seen the way the girl flashed between experience and innocence. Henri knew what experience could do to one only too well. What he could not remember was any feeling that the world held promise, the eagerness for experience that was the essence of innocence, and if one obtained that experience, its demise. And he knew for certain that he was death to all innocence. So all he had was his work, and that was like lighting a candle against the darkness in the pits of h.e.l.l.

Best he get to it then.

He glanced up the stairs. How did she get that world-weary look of experience? He thought of her life as she described it.

Growing up with an aunt who treated her well even if her father did not acknowledge her. That aunt dying and the girl cast upon her own resources. The life of a paid companion. Belonging neither among the other servants nor among those she served, no doubt dodging advances on all sides. Bleak prospects now that her friend had died.

But those experiences were only a glimpse of the horrors of the world he had seen over the centuries. And they did not begin to touch the things one did, the things one became ... Not enough to turn one so young into a cynic like he was, nor to grind down one's spirit, as the world had been grinding on his spirit for nearly five hundred years.

And yet enough so that the mere fact that she had any duality at all was remarkable. Perhaps it was her innocence that was the miracle. Oh, that he could learn to retrieve some eagerness for the world. Even his work could not give him that.

He found himself climbing the stairs again, almost against his will.

He should stay away from her. Mon Dieu, but she raised a need again in him at the mere thought of her. Why was she so different from the pathetic creature in the brothel? They were both human. By nature that made them both pathetic, doomed to die in only a few years, subject to the ravages of illness and time. He couldn't bring himself to feel any desire in the brothel. Yet even now, his loins were heavy, thinking of the girl. His t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es tightened as he strode down the hall to the yellow salon. He hesitated, then threw open the door.

The room was empty, dim.

She'd taken the opportunity to escape. Was he so fearsome?

Of course he was. He could drive a girl to suicide. He took a breath; let it out. Well, then. He'd use that image to his advantage.

It would keep her away from him. He strode out of the yellow salon and down the hall. He'd go back to his room.

And do what? Think about her? Try to ignore the erection thinking about her brought? Even now he swelled. Why did she draw him so? He found himself unable to pa.s.s her room. He hovered, indecisive, in front of her door.

d.a.m.n.

He did not knock, but opened the girl's door unannounced.

It was a good thing the sun was low in the sky. The draperies were open to the light. But the trees in the park across the street cast long shadows into the room. It was just bearable. Still, he squinted. The girl stood in front of the wardrobe. She whirled to face him, her eyes big.

"What are you doing?" It was the only thing he could think to say.

She looked puzzled. "Trying to find something to wear, your grace. Annette took away my only dress. And these others are ...

hardly suitable for afternoon."

She wore the silk dressing gown. He could see the swell of her breast where the fabric gaped. This was not helping. He pushed past her and rifled the closet.

"Wear this." He handed her a dress at random. It was some pale orange color. Fanchon would call it peach, or spring sunset or some such silly name. It was one shade away from rose. She would look well in rose. "Join me in the library in a quarter hour. For drinks." He sounded inane. What excuse could he give for his command? But then he didn't need an excuse. He was the wicked duc. She had told him so. He grimaced to think he had been afraid she would fall in love with him.

For once he wished he were as immune to emotion as he pretended. Then he 'd just seduce her as coldly as he seduced the others, have his way with her and get her out of his system. But she was under his protection. She was an innocent. Maybe. And he never seduced innocents anymore.

So he simply turned on his heel and left.

My. Whatever was the matter with him? He had looked so fierce. And he had squinted against the light in her room. There must be something wrong with him. Had he been sick? Sometimes she felt that way about light after she'd had a bad cold. She'd heard that gentlemen were sensitive to light if they had drunk too much the night before. That must be it. Avignon no doubt drank too much every night. But he had invited her to join him in the library. She still tingled from his nearness when he 'd reached past her to grab a dress from the wardrobe. This throbbing she experienced whenever she was near him was strange and yet not strange.

She wanted him. She wanted him s.e.xually.

Oh, dear. That brought images flas.h.i.+ng through her brain of him standing in the bath, nude and rising. She could practically feel how silken his skin would be against the palms of her hands if she ran them over his back. And down to his hips. And over the swell of his b.u.t.tocks, cupping them. And if she were close enough to do that, then he would be holding her against his bare chest.

Would she be naked too? Her nipples would be tickled to a luscious awareness by the hair on his chest.

How did she know that? Her nipples tightened at the thought. She felt them brush against the silk of her dressing gown.

She would not think about what else she would be able to feel against her belly if he were that close. She'd want to grasp it. Oh, mon Dieu.

"Annette!"

Annette came hurrying through the door. "Alors, but I was on my way, mademoiselle. One doesn't have to yell like a fishwife."

The girl looked around. "I pa.s.sed the devil in the hall, looking like he had just been thrown out of heaven." Annette appeared to be a devout Catholic. Francoise had no doubt the serving girl never thought about Avignon, nude and erect, or wanted to feel his erection ...

"Stop that," she muttered.

"But what, mademoiselle?" Annette wore an aggrieved expression.

"I'm only talking to myself," Francoise apologized. "Pay no heed."

Annette bustled over and took the peach dress from Francoise's hands. "No need to crumple it like that." She shook it out.

"Looks like it's never been worn."