Royal 02 - Royal Passion Read online

  By the time she was fifteen, she had received three offers of marriage. André was in no hurry to see her wed, however, so had sent her to a finishing school in Mobile. There she had learned a thousand rules of etiquette, but also many arts, among them the agreeable one of flirtation. Until then she had not taken much notice of her effect upon the young men of her acquaintance, but, in practicing on the brothers, cousins, and friends who came to visit her fellow students, had found a heady sense of power in her own attraction. With lighthearted pleasure and a comfortable familiarity with men that she had learned in dealing with her own father, she had tried her hand at captivating the males who brought themselves to her notice.

  When she returned to St. Martinville in the summer of 1844, the men swarmed around her like wasps to a ripening apple. Proud and indulgent, André placed no curb upon her. She did not pass the bounds of good behavior, but still she embarked on a constant round of rides, carriage drives, picnics, teas, and balls.

  Before many weeks had passed she had collected a garden of bouquets, enough sonnets to her beauty to fill a volume, and so many cones and boxes of candy that her maid had gained pounds. There were any number of young men who had possessed themselves of one of her gloves, handkerchiefs, ribbons, or flowers from her hair, and it was rumored that at least two duels had been fought over her. One man emerged with his arm supported, most romantically, in a black silk sling. She never allowed a man to do more than kiss her fingers or put his hands on her waist when she dismounted from horse or carriage; still, the whispers began to circulate that she was far too at ease with gentlemen for her own welfare, that she was running wild and would come to no good end.

  It made little difference. Even if Mara had known what was being said, she was having too much fun to consider the consequences. A year passed, two, and still she showed no indication of settling down. Finally, there came a reckoning.

  Dennis Mulholland was one of her most persistent suitors. He was something of a firebrand, a touchy young man always spoiling for a fight. He had attended Jefferson Military College in Mississippi and spoke often of going off to join the army, which was involved in the border skirmishes taking place more and more often between the United States and Mexico. That was when he was not proposing marriage. He wanted to be possessive, but Mara, uncertain that he would make a suitable husband and mistrusting his ardor, kept him at arm's length. Though he danced well and rode better, he had a tendency to bring up the subject of the duels he had fought far too often, and to brag about his progress up and down notorious Gallatin Street in New Orleans when not among his elders.

  It was a hot night in late May. Mara had planned a ball with a gold and blue color theme in the flowers and decorations, the favors, the programs, and the trimming of the ladies’ ball gowns. It was a great success, with carriages lining the drive and extending into the road. The night was sultry and hot, however, with thunder in the air. The press of people made the ballroom stifling, airless. The musicians had played a set of fast dances ending with a polka. Mara whirled through them all, and could scarcely breathe due to the exertion and the tight lacing of her corsets. She was gasping, fanning herself near a window, when Dennis suggested a stroll.

  His progress was not slow, however. He practically pulled her down the path to the summerhouse that sat wreathed in roses some distance from the main house. Once inside, he proposed yet again, though this time with greater force. The die was cast; he had joined the army and must report for duty, but before he went he wanted to make her his wife.

  She tried to distract him by making some playful rejoinder. Incensed by her failure to take him seriously, he caught her in his arms and covered her face with kisses as he held her tightly to him. Her first reaction had been surprise, but it was quickly followed by real distress as she could not catch her breath. She pushed at him, but he would not release her, only muttering thickly about her damned coquettish ways that led a man on. A moment later she lost consciousness, feinting from lack of air in exactly the same boneless manner of the whey-faced females she had always despised.

  The swoon had lasted no more than a minute or two, but when she opened her eyes she was lying on the floor and Dennis Mulholland's hand was under her skirts, groping at her thighs. He had been trying to loosen her stays, he claimed, but she did not believe him. Neither did her father, who came upon them before she could straighten her gown.

  André Delacroix had been enraged, not the least reason being because he felt himself to blame. Most girls of Mara's age were already married with families, but he had kept her near him, discouraging any man who seemed too determined. Now he swore that the scoundrel who had dared to touch his daughter, who had compromised her with such impunity, would marry her or face his pistol at twenty paces.

  Dennis was more than willing to be married; it was Mara who refused, who paced up and down alternately raging and pleading. In the end, she had her way, at least in part. There would be no wedding for the moment, but there would be a betrothal, and when Dennis returned from the war in Mexico they would be wed. She must make her mind up to it, for that was the way it would be.

  Dennis had rode away, and though he had kissed Mara good-bye, his eyes had been hollow with the knowledge that she cared not at all for him. He had been killed in his first battle.

  Everyone had been amazed at how her betrothal had subdued Mara's high spirits. Later they had watched with raised brows as she donned black for the death of her fiancé. There were those who said she was well paid for her flightiness, that she deserved to lose the man she loved, though others spoke of her Irish mother whom everyone knew had been unstable by both breeding and temperament. But as the weeks and months passed, and she grew daily paler and more withdrawn, their interest had turned to concern.

  Mara had taken little notice. Day after day she sat staring out the window, often holding in her hand the letter she had received from Dennis saying that he cared not whether he lived or died if she did not love him. Guilt and remorse were weights she carried with her, dragging her down. She accused herself of being careless and self-centered. Her own emotions had been so little involved that she had not fully understood how deeply others could feel for her, how easily they could be aroused to commit acts of which they were bitterly ashamed. If she had realized, she would have been more careful, more restrained. Such thoughts were well enough, but they had come too late.

  André, becoming alarmed at his daughter's state of mind, had sent for Mara's grandmother. Grandmère Helene had taken charge. A spritely and warmhearted woman with little regard for her increasing years, she had declared that Mara must accompany her to France. It had been ages since she had last made the voyage, and she longed to see Paris again. Too much for her? Nonsense! She was far from her dotage. They would visit relatives, attend the opera, absorb a bit of culture, but most of all they would patronize the modistes in order to banish the black and purple from Mara's wardrobe. The period of mourning was over; Mara must begin to live again.

  Roderic, watching the flicker of emotion playing with the firelight over Mara's face, made an abrupt gesture. “There is a husband who will be anxious for your return? A lover?"

  "No,” she answered, her voice tight, then added, “at least, I don't think so."

  "Ah, you don't think, but can virginity, like pregnancy, legitimacy, fidelity, prosperity, security, or liberty, be in doubt? Do you know if there is mother, father, or child waiting? Sister? Brother? Priest? Faithful maid? Lap dog? Is there no one who will mourn you if you don't return?"

  "I can't say."

  Her grandmother would not know where she was, what she was doing. Her grandmother who had brought her to Europe.

  Paris had been everything Helene had promised, a place of grace and beauty and unbounded fascination. They had stayed with a distant cousin, an elderly woman of aristocratic habits and connections if rather reduced circumstances. When Helene was not tracing exhaustively the relationship of some elusive branch of the Delacroix family with thei
r cousin, she and Mara had walked the streets of the city, crossing and recrossing the many bridges over the Seine. They had sampled the confections at the pastry shops, sipped cups of tea or coffee at the sidewalk cafés, stared at the antiques in the shops on the Left Bank, and searched out the houses where the famous and infamous had lived. They had duly visited the Louvre, strolling its endless galleries, admiring the paintings and sculpture they had only read about before, and promenaded in the gardens of the Tuileries, which were open to the public despite the fact that the Tuileries Palace was the official residence of King Louis Philippe.

  These agreeable promenades had come to a halt following a visit to the fashionable modiste, Madame Palmyre. There had been time afterward for nothing except fittings and more fittings, or else shopping excursions for bonnets and shawls, gloves and whisper-light silk corsets and stockings from the shops on the rue de Richelieu. One of Mara's favorite purchases had been made at the Maison Gagelin where an assistant with a heavy English accent and the unlikely name of Worth had taken one look at her and brought out a shawl of a clear gray wool so finely woven it could be pulled through a wedding ring. It had been made for her alone, he had declared with fervor, and in truth it had made her skin appear as fine and delicate as porcelain and turned her eyes into pools of soft mystery.

  With her wardrobe replenished, Mara and her grandmother had embarked on a round of entertainments: attending the opera, the Comédie Française; being fêted at dinners and balls kindly arranged by their hostess. It was at one of the latter that they had met Nicholas de Landes.

  De Landes was an official of the court, serving in a minor capacity in the ministry of foreign affairs, though Mara had never discovered exactly what it was that he did. Slim and dark, with a close-trimmed mustache and beard, he had had the manners and breeding of a courtier of the ancien régime, and the same meaningless smile. He had declared himself enchanted to make the acquaintance of the ladies from Louisiana, once a much valued colony of France, and offered to do everything in his power to make their stay in Paris memorable.

  Their Parisian cousin had warned them against him, saying that for all his airs he was merely of the petty bourgeoisie; his parents, the son of a notary and the daughter of a small landowner. He very much wished to rise higher; this was a known fact. Such obvious class consciousness had not impressed Mara and her grandmother. If anything, it had caused them to treat him with greater warmth, as if in compensation.

  It would have been better if they had listened to their cousin. De Landes had introduced Mara's grandmother to one or two of the discreet gaming houses hidden away in the less fashionable districts of the city. Gaming was illegal within thirty miles of the city, but there were always those who would cater to so intriguing a pastime. At first the play had been exciting because it was forbidden and Helene had won small amounts, but by degrees it became an obsession. She lost more and more. De Landes acted as her banker, extending the loan of various sums and accepting her scribbled notes of hand in lieu of payment. Each morning after a disastrous night at the card tables Helene had vowed she would never return, but when night fell she could not seem to stay away. Mara, watching her, had been anxious, but had considered Grandmère Helene a reasonable woman, one with a firm grasp on the worth of money.

  The morning had come when Nicholas de Landes had paid them a call. Though he was devastated to be forced to say such a thing to a lady, he could no longer support the gambling losses of Madame Helene Delacroix. She must repay what was owed to him with interest. He was sure there would be no difficulty since it was well known that the sugar planters of Louisiana commanded enormous wealth, and he knew that Madame's son would not fail to extend her the money, should she be temporarily embarrassed. The only question was how it was to be arranged.

  Helene had been aghast at the total of her losses. How the sum could have mounted so high without her being aware of it, she was at a loss to explain. But there it was, neatly totaled day by day, an accumulated debt in excess of one hundred thousand francs. She did not have that much, or anything near it. Nor, she knew, did André.

  The year of 1847 had seen a financial panic in the United States, and in the world, for that matter. The previous fall, a potato blight had destroyed one of the major food crops all over Europe, and unseasonably cold and wet weather had made the wheat harvest scanty. Now food was so scarce that prices had soared out of sight, and the French were calling it the Year of Dear Bread. André had been affected along with everyone else; he had, in fact, been forced to borrow against his next crop in order to find the cash to send them to Europe and to see Mara properly outfitted. With his finances already under such a strain, he would be forced to sell some portion of his holdings to meet this new debt, and that would take time.

  De Landes was in no mood to wait. He required payment immediately. If it was not forthcoming, he would take drastic action. Madame would certainly not enjoy that, he promised.

  Helene had been shocked at the ruthless mien that had been hidden under the façade of the courtier, but that was nothing compared to her agitation when he suggested in tones of implacable reason that if Helen could not find the money, her charming granddaughter might redeem her notes by doing a service for him. If Madame would permit, he would take Mademoiselle Delacroix for a short drive while he explained the matter to her.

  The suggestion that de Landes had to make was so incredible, so insulting, that Mara had stared at him in disbelief. There was a Balkan prince who was being obstructive, he said. It would benefit de Landes and those with whom he was associated if this royal gentleman were to become susceptible to influence. In order to redeem her grandmother's notes, Mara would be required to seduce the troublesome prince, to become his mistress.

  There had been a moment when she had not been able to speak, could not trust her voice, so great was her rage and indignation.

  "Stop the carriage! Set me down at once!” When he did not comply, she reached for the handle of the carriage door.

  He caught her wrist in a hard grasp, his fingers biting into her flesh. His tone smooth, but carrying a malicious undercurrent, he said, “To refuse is your prerogative, of course."

  "I do refuse!"

  "A hasty decision, and one far from wise. Before you give me your final answer, you should consider that accidents sometimes befall those who fail to pay their just gambling debts. The bones of elderly women such as your Grandmère Helene are so very fragile. Even a small mishap can have extremely painful—possibly even fatal—consequences."

  Cold fear struck Mara, taking her breath. She sank slowly back against the seat. Her heart thudded in her chest as she gazed with sick comprehension into the narrow black eyes of the man beside her. He was, she thought, taking a peculiar pleasure in her apprehension. She moistened her suddenly dry lips.

  "You are saying that if I don't do as you ask, you will harm Grandmère?"

  "Crudely put but accurate. Her safety and comfort rests in your hands, my dear Mara. You must consider well."

  It was blackmail, an ugly and sordid coercion, but it could not be fought. The authorities, as de Landes pointed out so reasonably, were unlikely to be interested in the difficulties of two American women, especially since illegal gambling was involved. And that was even if they could be brought to believe that he, in his official capacity, would offer so bizarre a proposal to a young female. She could apply to her elderly, aristocratic cousin for aid, but that lady would be no more able to prevent any accident that might happen than they were. Mara's father was far away, and she had no other male relatives who might come to her defense. It would be best if she resigned herself to the task, however unpleasant she might find it.

  After two days of agonizing indecision, Mara had been forced to concede that he was right. She had no choice except to agree to de Landes's debasing demand.

  It had not been possible to tell her grandmother what de Landes had proposed; Grandmère would have insisted on defying him and taking the risk. That could not be.
The elderly woman, well past seventy, had aged years since her confrontation with de Landes. She had never seemed old to Mara, but now, almost before her eyes, she became frail and distracted, in need of care. Mara gave her grandmother to understand that she was expected to do no more than initiate a flirtation with the prince at some public function, then lead him to a rendezvous with de Landes's superior, François Guizot, the minister of foreign affairs and a favorite of King Louis Philippe.

  Helene had fretted over the supposed assignment, but accepted the explanation at last. Affairs of state were often complicated, nearly impossible to untangle, and perhaps the favor was not so small as it seemed; indeed, it could not be since de Landes was willing to sacrifice such a sum to arrange it. She, Helene Delacroix, had little doubt that de Landes had known all along of their connection to the prince. She strongly suspected that he had enticed her into the gambling dens for exactly the end he had achieved.

  Watching the clever way de Landes had persuaded her grandmother to act as his hostess for a house party at his chateau while leaving Mara behind to complete her mission, seeing the maneuvering and changing of carriages that had led the elderly cousin with whom she and Helene were staying to believe that Mara was going to the Loire Valley with her grandmother, Mara could only agree. The detailed instructions as to what she must say and do, which she had received on the long ride to the gypsy camp, and the violent way that ride had ended, had served to reinforce the impression.

  There was no time to dwell upon what was done, however, for questions, as swift and lethal as an ambuscade of arrows, were hurtling around her.

  "From whence did your carriage come? What was its color? How many horses, outriders? What folly caused you to be expelled? Was it lack of cooperation or too much? How came such beauty to be scorned? And where then is the fury? And the hell?"

  The questions were directed with suspicion. That they were well founded did not prevent the rise of a feeling of ill-usage in Mara. “Doubtless,” she said, sending the prince a flashing glance as she acknowledged the quote that had become a saw and traced it to its source, “in the same place as the rage of heaven."