Royal 02 - Royal Passion (25 page)

She had not thought a great deal about how she was going to persuade Roderic to attend the ball of the Vicomtesse Beausire. The problem of how she was to seduce him had loomed so large that she had not been able to see beyond it. Now the difficulties were all too obvious. Despite the glib assurances of de Landes that Roderic would be supremely cooperative once she had gained his bed, she could not believe her influence was any greater than it had been before. The prince found her desirable—there could be little doubt of that after the night before—but it was ridiculous to think that he would permit her to dictate his movements.

The knowledge that she must in some way persuade Roderic to do her will, using what had passed between them, was distressing. It made her feel like a prostitute. It seemed, in fact, as if the betrayal was not of him, but of her own inner self.

The night she had shared with Roderic had been a revelation. She had not dreamed that she was capable of such abandon, such intense pleasure. The discovery was a gift, one that would be soiled if she used these newly awakened responses to ensure that she had her own way.

And yet she must. She could not escape that fact. Grandmère Helene's continued safety and health depended upon it. She must.

But how was she to bring up the subject of the ball, a ball of which she should be ignorant? What reason could she give the prince to persuade him that he should attend? How could she ensure that he would take her with him when she had no official status, was not included in the invitation? It was all very well for de Landes to speak of social occasions to which a man of position might bring his mistress, but her own impression of French society was that more discretion than that would be expected at any event attended by Louis Philippe, even of an unpredictable prince like Roderic of Ruthenia.

It made her head ache to think of it. What was she supposed to do? Would it be better to wait until some crucial moment, perhaps after making love, and speak wistfully of the brilliant social affairs she had heard of but could not remember having seen? Should she attempt to beg prettily for the honor of being escorted by a prince of the blood?

She could not do it.

Perhaps she might indicate in an oblique fashion that an outing could result in recognition, a solution to the problem of who she was? Yes, that was a possibility since it was all too true. But could she do it without blushing for the hateful necessity? Without arousing Roderic's suspicions? She doubted it.

The bell pealed at the entrance below. Mara retreated hastily along the gallery to the private rooms at the end as a housemaid hurried past and down the stone stairs to open the door to the visitor. There was a murmur of voices and the tread of feet. A few minutes later the maid came to Mara.

"It is Monsieur Balzac, Mademoiselle Chère. I told him the prince is not at home, but he insists on speaking to you. I put him in the salon."

Mara thanked the girl and, running a hand over her hair, made her way back along the gallery to the public rooms where the writer waited. A footman opened the double doors for her, and she gave him a smile before passing through. Balzac stood at the far end of the room with his back to the small fire that blazed in the fireplace. He had taken an African orange from a bowl that sat on a table nearby and stood eating it out of his hand as one might an apple, rind and all.

"Ah, mademoiselle, forgive me that I do not kiss your hand,” he said with a broad gesture and a genial smile, “but I am somewhat sticky with juice."

"Was there no fruit knife? I am sorry. I'll ring for one at once."

"No, no, I beg! There is no need. The good things in life are better for a touch of bitterness with them, a little difficulty in the consuming."

"Oh, but surely—"

"It isn't my theory alone. My friend Hugo sometimes eats the shell of the lobster as well as the meat; I myself have seen him. What jaws the man has, what teeth! Formidable.” He took another ferocious bite of his orange, crushing the seeds with gusto.

"As you like,” Mara said, moving to sit on the settee. “I am sure the prince will be sorry to miss your visit."

"A fascinating man, the prince, and a stimulating conversationalist, but you are much more attractive to look upon, mademoiselle."

It was mere politeness, and Mara did not make the mistake of thinking it anything else. She inquired after the work in progress of the author and listened with sympathy to his tales of uncooperative characters, broken nights, and leechlike publishers. Beneath the crude, rough-hewn exterior, he was, she thought, a most sensitive man. She had been reading some of his tales and had been struck by his understanding of women. She told him so.

"How kind of you. How kind. They come to me, these women that I write about, like a vision of passion in the night. Women are ruled by this passion, by love. They are not encompassed by their egos as men are, and so can transform themselves, their lives, their very bodies, with passion. It is not the things man makes that have meaning in this world, but the family that a woman creates out of this enormous love."

"How odd to hear a man say such a thing."

"All men know it, those who can see,” he said simply. “What else is marriage, but an attempt by men to harness that love for their own use, their own great need?"

"Yes,” she agreed. Then, as an idea struck her, she continued, “Monsieur Balzac, you are a man who knows Paris and its people well. Would you say that it would be permissible for the prince to take his mistress with him, say, to the ball of the Vicomtesse Beausire?"

"Why should you wish to attend such a gathering? It will be altogether boring."

"I am serious."

"Ah.” He gave a slow nod and, finishing his orange, wiped his hands on his handkerchief and moved to sit down beside her. “I regret to tell you that this is not my milieu. I have friends among the aristocracy, of course, but I do not move in those circles. You are disappointed?"

She ignored the question. “But you write about them as you have written about the poorest of Paris. You must know what is expected, what is allowed?"

"It is always true that the aristocrats extend to themselves greater freedom of action than do the bourgeoisie, the staid middle class so afraid of what people will think of them."

"That is not an answer,” she said, her gaze steady and her voice stern.

He sighed. “You are a difficult woman. Yes, I suppose the prince could take you if he wished to do so. It isn't as if you are a celebrated courtesan. He could always pass you off as a distant relative if the need arose, if it was necessary to present you to the king, for example."

"Heaven forbid,” Mara said fervently.

"That is the risk.” Balzac shrugged his massive shoulders. “But why come to me with this problem? Why should you not ask the prince?"

"I wished to know if it was possible before I troubled him."

Balzac possessed himself of her hand and raised it to his lips. “I am sure he would not consider anything you asked as a trouble, mademoiselle. How could he?"

"Easily,” she answered, her voice dry.

"You fear him?” Balzac asked, looking at her with a frown.

"No, no. But it is sometimes difficult to ask for things, especially when they are important to you. Don't you find it so?” She had said too much; she knew it the moment the words were out of her mouth. Perhaps it would not matter.

"You dislike the appearance of trading your favors for ... privileges."

"I knew you would understand,” she said, trying for an easy tone. Quickly, before he could comment further, she changed the subject.

They spoke of a number of things as the time slipped past. One by one the cadre returned, as did Juliana, looking very dashing in a riding habit that featured a
soubreveste
of black velvet with a gray cross outlined in braid on the chest in the style of the Gray and Black Musketeers of Louis XVIII. It was worn over a red jacket and with a hat made like a plumed helmet. Accompanying he were two poets whose names were lost in the hubbub and a disgruntled comte who followed her about like a dog guarding a particularly juicy bone. A short time later Roderic strolled into the room. He smiled at Mara across the room, saluting her with the glass of wine a servant placed in his hand.

Mara was just as happy that he made no attempt to come to her. She had not seen him since the early-morning hours; she had been asleep when he left her. What she would say to him when they were face to face again, she had no idea.

She felt little different inside herself after her night with him. Oh, there was some soreness here and there, but nothing of importance. It had been so natural, so right, while it was happening, not the terrible ordeal she had been led to expect by the whispers and half-overheard remarks she had accumulated since childhood, or after her experience with Dennis's clumsy groping. Regardless, she felt changed, branded in some way. Overnight she had become the mistress of the prince. Many had suspected it; now it was true. Mistress. She had never thought to be that to any man.

More guests arrived until the room scarcely seemed able to hold them all. Mara, mindful of her duties as housekeeper and hostess, saw to the refreshments and circulated through the room. Juliana also moved here and there, talking in an effortless display of royal good manners to first one and then another. Roderic did the same.

Then, as if at some magic signal, the guests began to melt away as the hour for morning visits passed. Balzac took his leave, followed by the poets and the comte. The cadre retreated to the long gallery they had claimed as their own. There was only Juliana left in the salon when Roderic dropped down on the settee beside Mara.

"I am informed,” he said,"that you desire above all things to go to the vicomtesse's ball."

She sent him a swift glance as the betraying color rose to her cheekbones. She was not ready for this, not ready at all. “I ... suppose Monsieur Balzac told you."

"Most obligingly. He seemed to think that I would be delighted to hear how best to please you."

"He was wrong naturally."

"Now why should you think so? Scribes and thieves and braying asses may sometimes speak the truth. As it happens, he was right, though I find it passing strange that I should be read a homily on the delicate nature of women and the obligation of men to see to their dearest wishes, or that I should have to hear of your desires from him.” He leaned back, stretching out his long legs and folding his hands upon his chest. “Why could you not have told me?"

"I ... had no idea if it was even possible."

"So Honoré said. The question is, why does this affair appeal?"

She made a helpless gesture. “It will be a gala event."

Juliana joined them, taking a seat with a sweep of her habit skirt. “Why should it not appeal? The king will be there and everyone else of any consequence. Besides, Chère has done nothing except slave for you since you picked her up out of a ditch on a French hillside. She must be ready for some amusement."

"It is a great pity,” Roderic said with a steady look toward his sister, “that Louis Philippe arranged the marriage of the duc de Montpensier to the Infanta Maria Luisa last year; Montpensier would have been about right for you. The comte de Paris is rather young, only seven, but he is the heir apparent, which makes up for other shortcomings. I must speak to our fathers about a match. Arvin's departure has left you in need of occupation—to keep you from interfering in what doesn't concern you."

Juliana lifted a brow. “I would take care how I mentioned marriage to Father. He might begin to look around him for a suitable princess for you."

"That Damocles sword has a coating of rust. He has had a list of possible alliances made since the day I was first presented, red-faced and squalling, by my nurse."

"You may have avoided the fate of princes, a loveless alliance, until now, but it will come to you. Like the poor little comte de Paris, you are the heir apparent."

"Your concern unmans me. Will you go so that I may speak to Chère in peace?"

"So you can persuade her that the last thing she wants is to attend a ball? No, indeed. I am of a mind for a little gaiety and music myself. You are altogether too dull here!"

"Are we, indeed?” Roderic asked, his voice soft.

Juliana sent him a look of quick alarm. “That was no challenge, I assure you! I believe Chère would benefit from an outing, and who knows? You might find someone who can identify this mystery lady for you."

"An object greatly to be wished,” her brother answered, but his voice was without expression.

"That,” Juliana said, turning to Mara, “was a capitulation, in case you did not recognize it. Now what are we to wear to this ball? We must decide at once and be off to the modiste if there is to be the least chance of having gowns made up in time."

It had been too easy. Mara had expected that she would have to use every wile that she possessed, to marshal every possible argument, even perhaps to plead. Instead, the compliance of the prince had been gained without effort. It was what she wanted, what she needed; the one thing that she must have. And yet the ease with which it had been gained left her apprehensive.

It was not like Roderic to change his mind so easily. He had not intended to honor the invitation to the ball. She could not think that he had deferred to her wishes purely for the sake of her embraces or because of the rallying comments of his sister. What, then, was his purpose?

She tried to scoff at herself, to tell herself that he had no purpose, that the image she had created of him—that of a man of diabolical mental perceptions—was no more than an illusion. It helped not at all. She could not rid herself of the suspicion that, instead of leading the prince into a trap, she herself was being enticed into yet another one.

The shopping expedition had been a success. Mara had been afraid that Juliana would insist on going to Madame Palmyre. For that reason, she had asked to be set down at Maison Gagelin first, and, once in the draper's shop, had sought out the shop assistant, Worth. She wished to consult him about the materials and colors of her gown, but most of all she wanted to expose Juliana to his views on overornamentation.