French Passion by Briskin Jacqueline;

Author:Briskin, Jacqueline;
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media Romance

Chapter Ten

The Comte sat cutting the pages of a book.

Slowly he put down the ivory paper knife. His clever monkey face grew drawn and white, as if he’d suffered a mortal wound.

I imagine I faced him with the same pallor. Too much had passed between us for indifference. Not just the endless torment of solitary confinement. There were the hours I’d lain naked in his arms and his passion had often infected me. Our shared laughter. His loving me, teaching me, spoiling me. CoCo’s birth and death.

As I gazed into his black-grape eyes, a paroxysm of guilt passed through me. But why should I feel guilt? It took me less than a blink to understand.

André had accused me of not marrying him because of my lingering bondage to the older man. My vulnerability to the Comte betrayed André.

Doors closed softly behind me.

The Comte bowed. “How do you do, my dear. You’re even more lovely, et cetera, et cetera. Or shouldn’t I begin by enumerating your charms.” Though his face remained bloodless, his voice was flippant.

“What about Jean-Pierre?” I demanded.

“Ah, your impatience. I’d forgotten the impulsive streak. But how can we let this past year be without mention?” Was that a shade of anxiety in his mocking tone? “Aren’t you going to berate me for your time in the Bastille? Or did you find it a pleasant rest between lovers and regimes?”

I shivered. How could he, even with his mordant wit, joke about such misery? “It was as you wished, Comte. I longed for death.”

“If it’s any consolation, so did I.” His voice went deep. “I’ve been in hell.”

A glance of suffering linked us. I struggled against the old tie.

“I don’t pretend to understand the game you’re playing,” I said crisply. “The refurbished rooms, the maid. New clothes. And I don’t care to know. I’m here to find out about my brother.”

He held out an envelope. I tore it from his hand.

The letter, two pages long, was filled with examples of Jean-Pierre’s indifferent spelling. Unconsciously I smiled, remembering a boy escaping his nearsighted tutor’s cane. Jean-Pierre wrote that there were many émigrés, so he’d found a decent French society amid the barbarism that was London. He and his cohorts were planning means to bring France back to order. As he elaborated on these plans, I sensed his unhappiness. He was like a child whistling in the dark to keep up his courage. Each sentence resounded with lonely hopelessness.

The letter concluded:

At the moment France is a place of dire danger for one of noble blood. It would be best for you—and he you love—to emigrate. You could settle in the Americas where he owns an estate. In my letter to our guardian, I have given similar advice about emigration.

Reading, a bleakness settled over me.

“What does he say?” the Comte asked.

“He’s miserable and lonely.”

“And ashamed of running?”

“Why do you always say the worst of him? He didn’t run! He believes the King can best be served outside France.”

“Indubitably,” the Comte said in a smooth voice.

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