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He led her up the front steps to where a young Indian abigail waited.
“You are in good hands with Bhadra,” he said and felt Miss Herwood’s arm tense.
“Allow me to show you to your room, m’lady,” Bhadra said warmly with only a hint of accent.
Miss Herwood withdrew her arm from his and followed the maid inside. Halsten watched the two women until they were out of sight. Some anxiety on the part of Miss Herwood was to be expected, but she did not lose her poise. Having observed her and knowing her history, he could not help but admire her quiet dignity in the face of life’s challenges. He wondered whether he would have her forbearance if similarly situated.
After his horse had been seen to, he went to pay his respects to the proprietress, Marguerite Follet. He was admitted into the library, where he found Madame Follet sprawled upon a settee before the fireplace, gently swaying a fan of ostrich plumes. At her feet sat a beautiful young brunette reading aloud from a book of Shakespeare sonnets. Upon seeing Halsten, Marguerite unfurled a slender arm. He crossed to her and pressed her hand to his lips.
“Has Madame taken an interest in the Bard of Avon?” he queried, amused, for despite the vast quantity of books in the room, Marguerite had never been known to read any of them.
She waved a dismissive hand. “Penelope here has a belle voix. She could read from anything and make it sound lovely.”
From the gleam in her eyes, he deduced Marguerite had other interests in Penelope beyond the young woman’s exquisite voice. She smiled at Penelope, who closed her book and politely withdrew from the room.
“She’s young,” he remarked of Penelope.
Marguerite raised her finely shaped brows. “Do you imply I am too old for her?”
“You, madame, could rival women half your years.”
Appeased, she admitted, “Penelope is twenty years younger. A jeune fille douce.”
“Have you done with men then?”
She sighed. “Not done but a trifle bored, though less now that you have arrived. Where have you been, Halsten? Has it been years since you were here last? I thought you had married. To some Viscountess.”
“She would have been shocked and, with her delicate constitution, taken ill if she knew my prurient interests.”
“Then who have you here?”
“A novice—”
Marguerite pursed her lips. “I had the Earl of Blythe here not too long ago with a novice. Fell in love and married the chit.”
“I assure you that is not my arrangement, nor my intention.”
“Are you shunning marriage?”
“Not at all, but it is incumbent that I seek a suitable match, not only for Rockwell but for Lucy. I will not diminish her prospects.”
“But you are willing to risk scandal by patronizing my chateau.”
He bowed. “My lady always was quick of wit.”
“I will not dissuade you further. Bring your novice to me that I may meet her when she has settled in.”
He kissed the hand that she held out for him and took his leave. As he closed the doors of the library behind him, he contemplated the unexpected news regarding the Earl of Blythe, a notorious rake. Blythe had a bit of a reckless streak, and Halsten doubted any woman could rein him in for long. And while Halsten and the Earl may have shared a mutual interest in the Chateau Follet, they would not share the same fate.
* * * * *
Deana had had no specific expectation of what to find upon arriving at Chateau Follet, but she did not imagine an inviting abode. Despite its moniker as the Chateau Debauchery, the dwelling was tastefully furnished, its servants pious and polite, and there was no evidence that the most wanton activities occurred within its walls.
She studied the small slender abigail, her long dark hair wound in a braid down her back. The woman had large almond shaped eyes, which she kept focused before her. Deana could discern nothing from her.
“This be your chamber, m’lady,” Bhadra said.
Deana stood stunned at the threshold. The room was breathtaking. A large bed of carved ebony comprised most of the room. The linens and plush pillows of vibrant orange and deep red with gold detailing flamed the imagination and spoke to passion. A beautiful vanity of engraved ivory and tortoiseshell with shiny brass handles, coupled with a painted chair in the Mughal tradition, was equally exquisite. The armoire with its intricate floral design and bold colors was unlike any furniture she had ever seen. An intricate jali surrounded the window, tapestries covered the walls, and above the fireplace stood a vase of peacock feathers and a large mirror framed with geometric motifs. She imagined she stood in a palace in Jodhpur or an equally exotic place.
