Julienne wanted to argue the point about her betrothal, but she dared not. Instead, she prayed that as he studied her face, he would see it wasn’t so simple. That she wasn’t so despicable as to wander in a garden with one man while betrothed to another.
Yet she was. For surely a woman despicable enough to let a man court her while still married could easily cross that other line, could she not?
Take me away, Father in heaven. Show me how to escape from this guilt.
The comte nodded at her mother’s pronouncement and retreated a step. From his stoic countenance she couldn’t determine anything of his thoughts. He smiled, but it failed to light his eyes again. “The duc is blessed indeed to have won the hand of so fetching a mademoiselle. And doubly blessed to be gaining such a lovely mother.”
There, again, that je ne sais quoi in his speech. What was it that felt odd? The timbre? Perhaps it was nothing—a result of being more often in Ushant than at Versailles. A regional difference. Perhaps…
Mère laughed, her posture relaxing a bit. “You are a charmer, monsieur. I cannot understand why you say you are not often at court. You would surely be a favorite.”
Ah, oui. One dimpled grin and surely all Julienne’s friends would fall over themselves for his attention. Her stomach went tight as she imagined Marie and Georgette fluttering lashes and fans his way. Not that she had any right or reason to begrudge them his regard. He was not for her. She dare not encourage any other man, and besides…this one, she had already decided, hid something. And until she could determine what, wisdom dictated she stay far from him.
Wisdom did not always make the most beguiling companion.
The comte chuckled and looked around the grotto. Was he imagining it in moonlight? Picturing himself on this very bench beside her? “I confess I prefer the quiet of country life. Though I am quite fond of this particular niche in the gardens.”
Again it was a struggle to draw in a breath.
Her mother hummed a bit as she looked around. “I never cared overmuch for it, though it has of late become Julienne’s favorite spot as well.”
His gaze arrowed into her again, and she felt heat creep up her neck and into her cheeks. The smile he gave her was lopsided. “Has it?”
“Something we have in common, monsieur.” Her lips tugged up even as her mind spun, recalling all the other things they had discovered they had in common that night. Their opinions on Mozart’s Don Giovanni, on the writings of Rousseau and Montesquieu and Pascal. Their thoughts on the fledgling United States, on faith. On everything.
Mère stood and urged Julienne up too with a hand under her elbow. “We will let you enjoy it. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, monsieur, but please excuse us. We have an engagement pending with the duc.”
“Certainly. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.” He bowed again.
Julienne couldn’t have explained, had anyone asked, why she so wanted to pull away from her mother. Why she wanted to reach out so she might brush his hand as they walked past. She mustn’t—she didn’t. But she wanted to. And the moment they swept past him, the sun seemed to dim.
Her mother’s fingers tightened on her arm. No doubt once they were out of hearing, a lecture would be forthcoming. Yet another hushed reminder that they could not possibly cross the duc.
“Oh, madame?”
Mère halted. They were nearer him now than when they had been seated, only a step beyond him. Close enough to reach out and touch. Though her mother pasted on a smile, Julienne still felt her impatience in the fingers on her arm. “Oui?”
The comte’s smile had gone cool. Almost.…hard. Some might even call it calculating. “I bring you greetings from your husband.”
Julienne would have dismissed the statement as confusion on his part had her mother not gone deathly pale. “Pardon? You must have mistaken me for someone else after all, monsieur. Le comte de Rouen has long been deceased.”
He positioned his hat back on his head. “Yes,” he said—in English. English! That was the accent! “But the Earl of Poole is still quite well.”
Whatever in the world? “Mère?”
“Hush, Julienne.” Her mother’s fingers dug even deeper into Julienne’s arm, and her voice was low as a secret. Her gaze hadn’t left the comte’s face. “I cannot think what you mean, young man.” Yet her words, too, were in English.
His eyes softened again, though they barely flicked to Julienne before focusing on her mother. “We both know you do, Lady Poole. Please, hear me out. Your husband wants to see you. And his daughter.”
For a long moment, the words seemed to hover outside Julienne. They made no sense, and not only because they were in a tongue she rarely used at Versailles. How could her mother possibly have married someone else before her père? Who was this other daughter?