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IGNORANCE IS BLISS
Versailles, late 1744
SHAMELESS ROUÉ, INDEED. Maman was right about him.
From her concealed vantage point, Mélisande observed as Lord Alessandro Orsini, Emissary of the Holy Roman Empire, cast his spell over yet another swarm of females. Raucous laughter erupted from the man, causing heads to turn.
Her lip curled at the wave of feminine coos and titters that followed. Their display rivaled anything she’d witnessed to date. If the silly creatures batted their lashes any harder, the resulting windstorm would send the object of their affection flying across the ballroom.
Edging a bit closer to get a better view, Mélisande shook her head. Why did they adore him so? He wasn’t at all handsome. Not like Monsieur Falloure, who caused an unbidden sigh to escape her (and every other female between the ages of twelve and the hereafter) every time she laid eyes on him.
No. Tall and whip thin, Orsini was all angles and planes. His overly large dark eyes and longish nose were topped by a mop of common, perpetually untidy, brown hair. His lips were rather on the thin side, too—although to be fair, he did have a very broad, altogether quite appealing smile. It was his one redeeming feature, this glittering grin. It lit his whole face, miraculously rearranging his features into something not necessarily handsome but...interesting.
Another wicked chuckle burst forth from the man. Arching a suggestive brow, he leaned over to whisper into an eager ear. Seconds later, a cascade of giggles issued forth from the listener’s rouged lips, her painted fan snapping up to both conceal and cool the deep flush now staining her cheeks. Orsini offered his arm, and the girl’s chin lifted a fraction, her eyes gleaming with triumph—she’d just become queen bee.
“Merde,” Mélisande whispered, shaking her head. She’d never seen anything like it. The girl was practically panting, and they’d met only an hour ago.
She quashed a chuckle as her gaze shifted to the abandoned hive, where the new favorite’s contemporaries looked on with narrowed eyes. The fools wouldn’t have to wait long. Thus far, the longest affaire had lasted four days. He danced out of every trap they laid with all the skill of a fox evading a pack of hounds.
It was the perfect analogy. He was very like a fox, clever and quick, the chasing of chickens his chief pleasure in life. Stifling more laughter, Mélisande decided then and there to privately refer to him as Le Renard.
Her mother had nearly suffered an apoplectic fit upon learning of the man’s presence at court. “C’est un vrai coureur de jupons, ma fille. Ne pas aller près de lui!” she’d admonished, promising all manner of consequences should she be caught within twenty paces of the cheerful lifter of skirts.
Which had, of course, only spurred her curiosity. She had become Orsini’s shadow, and when he was not present, she lurked at the edges of his retinue. By remaining inconspicuous, she’d managed to overhear several very interesting conversations during which his former amours described in great detail (and with great relish) his skill in the bedchamber.
It was a fascinating education in the art of debauchery.
Most astounding was the discovery that the majority of his erstwhile lovers continued to regard him with fondness and affection despite having been left behind. She’d even witnessed some offering him blatant invitations to revisit their romantic relationship. One might expect a cast-off lover to bitterly mourn the end of an affaire or become spiteful, but certainly not to exhibit such amiable, not to mention shameless, behavior. It was beyond comprehension.
Slinking from her hiding place, Mélisande again followed his progress, mindful to stay in the periphery. He cut a dashing figure this evening, resplendent in a mint silk waistcoat trimmed with silver embroidery, jewels, and a fortune in fine lace. So opulent was his dress that had he been better groomed and less careless in his manner, he would have made a perfect dandy. But his untamed curls, mischievous eyes, and impish grin instead turned him into a perfect rogue.
Orsini was now regaling his admirers with yet another tale—of debauchery, no doubt. Flouting her mother’s warning, Mélisande wandered over, staying toward the back. A little thrill of excitement mingled with trepidation ran through her, to be this close to the proverbial forbidden fruit.
Suddenly, the orator paused. “D’Alembert!”
Mélisande turned in the direction of his shout. Seeing no one, she spun back around to see mint silk and jeweled buttons. With dread in her heart, she slowly looked up to see Le Renard’s warm, brown eyes staring back at her, full of wry amusement. A muffled giggle sounded to her left, and she felt the heat of a flush rising in her cheeks as she realized they were all looking at her.
“Pardon, mademoiselle. Je m’excuse,” he said, bowing. Sidestepping her, he whisked away to catch up with his friend.
Gone.
Speechless, Mélisande stared after him, her shoulders tingling from where he’d touched her. A slow rush of warmth spread throughout her body, fever-like, causing
her to wonder briefly if she was taking ill. Irritation quickly chased away the odd sensation. The man had hardly paused! He might have run into a—a footstool rather than a person.
Disappointment pierced her. Part of her wished he’d been more solicitous after his careless blunder, despite the fact that such notice would only spell trouble for her. Sighing, she trudged back to the safety of the gallery to watch in silence.
The ball was a lovely display. Skirts swirled elegantly as the ladies danced the quadrille, their jewels glittering like star fire in soft, golden light cast from the chandeliers high above. Through it all, Le Renard made his way from flower to flower, charming all and sundry. He even paired with La Marquise de Pompadour, who laughed in delight several times during their dance.
With all her young heart, Mélisande wished herself part of the goings-on below. But she dared not. On good faith, Maman and Papa had allowed her to attend tonight’s festivities, but as a spectator only. She’d given her word that she would not attract attention to herself in any way, and to break their trust would not only disappoint them but result in the further restriction of her already limited freedom.
“It is time she was told.”
Mélisande awakened to hear Maman and Papa talking softly on the other side of their chambers. It was quite chilly, so she opted to remain snuggled under the warm blankets a bit longer.
A cup clinked against a saucer, the noise seeming overly loud in the quiet room.
“Are you certain it’s necessary?” her father asked. “Would it not be better to simply let things remain as they are?”
“She must be made aware—for her own safety,” replied her mother. “And then we will leave Versailles and never return.”
The china clinked again, and Isabelle d’Orleans Compton, Countess of Wilmington, released a sigh of frustration. “She should not be here. Mais, Louis a insisté,” she grated, her voice laced with bitterness. “Fool that I am, I could not refuse him, despite the danger.”
Mélisande was now fully awake.
Her father’s voice was gentle but firm. “Relax, Belle. We return to England in a few days. And in a couple of years she’ll marry Newcastle’s heir, uniting our families and lands, and none of this will matter.”
Marry David? Mélisande could barely refrain from leaping up in protest. David was all but a brother to her. The very idea that they would consider him for a match was absurd!
“England is not far enough away to prevent a disaster, and nor will her marriage stop it, if matters here worsen—Spencer, we must tell her,” her mother snapped. “The evidence is plain if one knows what to look for. If the wrong sort takes notice, all the lies we’ve so carefully planted will be for nothing.”
A chair scraped back, the sound followed by footsteps. Back and forth they came and went, pacing the far side of the room.
“We cannot protect her forever,” Isabelle persisted. “Things here are getting...complicated.”
The pacing stopped.
