She was even more beautiful without the mask than he had supposed. And not as young as he had feared. She was yet unwed, but it could bring little comfort. Not when he realized last night that the mysterious duc Lady Poole had mentioned was none other than the duc de Remi.
He had learned on his last trip here that Remi was a formidable man, one renowned for his iron fist with his tenants and feared in the political arena. While some of the aristocrats supported the idea of change for the Third Estate, the duc was not among them. He rather seemed perfectly content to prosper while others starved.
Much like he seemed content to let his wife die alone at their chateau while he remained at court with Julienne.
Fairchild’s fingers curled into his palm now, and the peace of the morning seemed to burn away under the ascending sun. Some said Julienne was the duc’s mistress—a reasonable assumption on the one hand. Others insisted she was not, that he wouldn’t continue to pursue her so single-mindedly if he had already acquired what he so obviously wanted. Not that Fairchild had realized, when he first heard the gossip about the duc de Remi, that it was his Julienne of whom the court whispered.
But now he knew. Oh, now he knew. And nearly wished he could have held longer to the comfort of ignorance.
He had watched them last night at the meal. Watched the way the middle-aged duc fawned over her, the way he never let her out of his sight and snarled at any other man who dared to speak to her. Much as he had watched the way she avoided the duc’s touch whenever she could manage it, the way she moved her feet in a constant dance to evade him, all while making it look as though she were merely playing the flirt.
She wasn’t. Nay, she was rather parrying him like a swordsman, so expertly that the duc seemed oblivious to the nature of her moves. But Fairchild understood.
Unless, of course, he had merely convinced himself of what he wanted to believe.
“Bonjour, monsieur.”
Her voice brought him to his feet. It tugged a smile onto his lips. He swept off his hat and made a quick bow, noting she was dressed to ride but alone. “Bon matin, mademoiselle. Is your mother not with you?”
She waved a hand toward the palace, the sunlight tangling in her hair and rendering it gold through its alchemy. “She is but a minute behind me. Monsieur, I…” She swallowed and stepped closer. Though her face was every bit as controlled as the mask she had worn the night they met, her eyes seethed with thought and feeling. “I owe you an explanation.”
He swallowed past the dual desires to deny it and demand it as he put his hat back on. “Do you?”
She nodded and affected a pleasant expression even while her eyes bespoke sorrow. “I can only imagine what you must think of me. The presumed betrothed of a married man, one who slips away with another for a midnight stroll through the garden…”
“Arrêtez.” He barely kept himself from reaching for her hand—only the other aristocrats milling about the grounds halted him. “Please, stop speaking of yourself so. I know…” Caution stilled his tongue. Any one of the people nearby could be the duc’s ally. He didn’t dare breathe a word against him.
The turn of her lips mocked the sheen she blinked away. “It is an honor to have gained the duc’s attention. One I certainly neither expected…nor sought.”
What could he do but nod? ’Twas as he had thought. Remi had decided she would be his, and she had not been consulted on the matter. His throat constricted when he considered what the duc might have done to her had he caught her with Fairchild that night in the garden. Innocent conversation would not have looked so innocent to a jealous suitor.
Though let the man try something when he was present—let them see how the life of a coddled noble bore up against twenty years of military training.
She drew in a deep breath and moved to his side, nodding toward Versailles. “Here comes Mère.”
His hand yearned to settle on the small of her back. To guide her forward, to protect. To pull her close, to embrace.
To distract himself, he followed her gaze and spotted Lady Poole coming their way, dressed in a stylish riding habit with a crop in her hand. Though he could not yet make out her face, he suspected there would be hard lines around her mouth and eyes like the ones that had appeared yesterday. “I imagine you had an interesting discussion last night.”
“Non. There was no time.” But her tone rang now with steel. Obviously, she needed the answers to the questions he raised yesterday. Well, he would see that she got them.
Once the countess joined them with a bon matin full of false cheer, Fairchild motioned for the groom to bring out the horses he’d already asked to be readied. He helped the ladies up onto their sidesaddles and then swung onto his mount. He nodded at Lady Poole. “I defer to you, madame. Where shall we head?”