Chapter Eighteen

“Who is Louvois?”

He had appeared at her side halfway through the village and had remained with her, matching her step for step. They had left the last of the houses behind them and now they were climbing the hill to the road that would lead them back to the chateau. In all this time, he had not said a word, and now he asked about Louvois? Marguerite shook her head. The ridiculous things men decided to pounce on.

There was no need for Lord Edward to concern himself with Louvois. “He is no one of any importance,” she said.

He caught hold of her arm to halt her and then turned her to face him. “Your correspondent said that Louvois’ influence frightened people. Who is he? Some sort of criminal?”

A wild desire to laugh seized her. “If only he could hear that! How I would love to see his face when he hears that you suspect he is a criminal. A street thug, perhaps?”

But Louvois was no laughing matter, not for people like her. “No,” she said, “he is not a criminal. Rather, an aristocrat. He is the comte de Louvois, a wealthy and powerful man who wields considerable influence in Parisian society.”

Lord Edward looked puzzled. “What has he to do with you? Why should he wish to make Paris difficult for you?”

She shrugged. She was tired, so tired of Louvois and the problems he had caused. Why not tell Lord Edward? Perhaps it would help him understand what nonsense his talk of marriage was.

Louvois had made no secret of his interest in her, after all. Half of Paris knew of it—and that was probably why he had been so difficult. He was annoyed when he did not get what he wanted. Worse, he must have been embarrassed when people realized he did not get what he wanted, and that—naturally—made him even more vicious.

But she did not want to look at Lord Edward while she told him. The way he spoke of the world—he was a naïve innocent. How could he understand how Louvois made her feel soiled just by looking at her? The way his touch filled her with disgust?

She turned to look off to the side before she spoke. “Louvois decided that he wanted to have me for his mistress, and he considers himself entitled to have whatever he wants, whenever he wants it. For a while, Papa managed to discourage him, telling him I was too young, making excuses. But after Papa died, we found ourselves in financial difficulties. Everything was in chaos, banks had failed, records had been lost. The building with our attorney’s office had been burned to the ground. Everything was in ashes.”

He reached out for her, but she shrugged him away before continuing. She was not asking for comfort. “The comte renewed his attentions, assuming that under the circumstances, I would be grateful for his protection. When I turned him down again, he was…he was furious. He said he would make it impossible for me to find any work in Paris. No concert engagements anywhere. And his patronage was important to the theaters. All at once, there was nothing for me, not even work as an accompanist.”

“What?”

The look of outrage on Lord Edward’s face almost made up for the humiliation of Louvois’ pursuit. It comforted her enough to enable her to manage at least a twisted smile.

“You will understand that the invitation from the vicomte to come here to Morvan was very welcome. It provided a refuge precisely when we needed one. But this is a respite, not a solution.”

“Forget about that. I want to know about this blackguard of a count. Who the devil is he and where can I find him?”

She could not quite identify her feelings at the moment. Amazement, perhaps, at his anger. It was ridiculous of him to react this way, of course. He had not even known her when Louvois threatened her. Many people thought that she was a fool to turn the comte down. He was, after all, a wealthy and powerful man. But to have Lord Edward champion her this way—even Papa had felt obliged to be circumspect in his discouragement.

And his assumption that he could actually do something, that he did not feel powerless. That was what it was to be an aristocrat, then. How strange it must be to think yourself so safe and protected as all that. How strange to be one of the powerful and never need to fear them.

“It is over, my lord.” She put a hand on his arm. “Do not distress yourself. It is all in the past now.”

There was a look of icy determination on his face. He grasped her by the shoulders as if to shake her. “Never,” he said, “never again will anyone offer you such an insult.”

She tried to smile. “Many would have said it was no insult at all, that it might even be considered a compliment.”

His face softened as he looked at her. “I never said there are no fools in the world. Both you and I know that it was a gross insult, a demeaning slander. I will never allow such a thing to happen again.”

“My lord…” Before she could say any more, he put a finger to her lips. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t want to.

“Hush now.” He cradled her face in his hands and covered her mouth with his. He did not embrace her. Only his hands on her face touched her, his hands and his lips.

This was not the passion of that earlier kiss. It was not the wild firestorm that had swept over them. This kiss was gentle, tender, soft and full of promises—promises of something lasting. His lips were warm, and she melted beneath their warmth.

Her head was swimming. She knew she should not surrender, yet she could not help it. It was foolish to believe in tender promises, but she wanted so badly to believe, to trust. She lifted her hands to push him away, but somehow they ended up clinging to his coat. Had she not been clinging to him, her knees might have given way beneath her.

When they came apart, they looked at each other, trading silent questions.

He put his arm around her shoulders and turned with her to resume their journey. “It’s getting chilly. We’ll talk later.”

It was chilly, especially once they reached the crest of the hill and began the walk down to the causeway. Here there were no trees to break the wind. The low sun was disappearing into the clouds and offered only a gray light. His arm around her shoulders sheltered her in a way that meant far more than the warmth it provided.

Whether the road was long or short, she could not have said. She walked as if in a dream, aware of nothing so much as the man beside her. Aware, but bewildered. His nearness promised safety, permanence, to say nothing of pleasure. She could not forget the whirlwind that had swept her up in that earlier kiss. She could so easily surrender herself to him. She could so easily fall in love with him.

He was a hundred times more dangerous to her than any Louvois could ever be.

So lost in her worries was she that it was only when his arm fell from her shoulders that she realized they had reached the chateau. The door closed behind them, and he stood there, looking down at her and fingering the brooch at the collar of her cloak.

“More than an heirloom, I think,” he said. “A talisman?”

She nodded.

He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “May it keep you safe when I am not here to do so.”