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“Everyone loved him. He was a good man, a genuinely good man. He tried to do what was right. He tried to be fair and just. He was no tyrant as Murat and Robespierre have made him out to be. He was a man like any other, and he loved France. He loved his people. He would have done anything for them, and in the end he died for them.”
“They killed him, you mean.”
The marquis—she supposed she should think of him as Laurent, considering they were practically lying in bed together. Somehow they had both wiggled down so that they were all but prone, she under the sheets and he on top.
“He chose death. There were so many times he might have ordered the army or his own soldiers, the Swiss Guard, to fire on the people of France. He could have ended this revolution with violence and bloodshed and untold horrors. He chose peace whenever he could.”
Honoria stared at the candlelight flickering on the ceiling. “In England they say he was weak and indecisive.”
“I saw that side of him too, but I prefer to remember his love for his people. He was like a father who wants the best for his children.”
Only these children had not repaid him with kindness.
“Now I suppose you will tell me the queen looks at France like a mother.”
“No.” He lifted his arms and settled his hands behind his head. “She is the braver and the stronger of the two. She would have made a formidable king. Had Marie Antoinette been the sovereign, thisrevolutionwould have been but a footnote in French history.”
“Too bad France does not allow women to rule.”
He turned his head to look at her. “I have always said as much.”
She could not tell if he was serious or not. When she lifted the wineglass to her lips, she discovered the wine was gone.
“More?” he asked.
“No.”
“Shall we both close our eyes for a moment? When you are ready, I will leave you to dress.”
“Very well.” She sank down deeper into the bedclothes, her eyes heavy. Closing them, she fell into a dreamless sleep infused with warmth and the scents of oranges and sandalwood.
Seventeen
Laurent woke with awoman in his arms. He’d woken thus many times before. It was a pleasant, familiar feeling. His cock had taken note of the softness of her skin and the scent of lavender in her hair. Laurent burrowed his nose into that silky hair, his hand skimming down to caress what he assumed was the curve of her hip.
She was dressed, but he could correct that oversight quickly enough. He was dressed too, which was odd because he did not usually sleep in his clothing.
