Royal Seduction

Chapter 1

Madame Delacroix's soirée was a success. Despite the chill winter wind that whipped around the galleried mansion, the crème de la crème of St. Martinville had honored the invitations delivered by her groom. Dressed in their velvets and brocades, their satins and sarcenets, the guests had bundled into their carriages and driven to her house along the muddy tracks overhung with moss-draped trees.

It was not the beaux yeux of their hostess that brought them, Madame well knew, but the prospect of news. Though more than seventeen years had passed since the Frenchmen and women of Louisiana had become Americans, and though they had basked for as long as it lasted in the glory of republican France, there was among them a fascination with royalty. Was their fine town not known even now as La Petite Paris? And were not many of them aristocratic emigrés, or the children of such, who had fled the Terror thirty-odd years before? Quite a few could remember the rumble of the tumbrils and the flashing blade of Madame Guillotine.

To be sure, the prince lately come among them was from some Balkan kingdom one had scarcely heard of. Nonetheless, royalty was royalty. It was highly unlikely, of course, that he would put in an appearance this evening. Mon Dieu, but Madame Delacroix would have sent out criers to tell the world if such a thing were expected! Still, one could dance and eat and drink -- Madame was famous for her suppers. And perhaps there would be someone present who had seen the royal personage passing through the town, or had a servant who knew the Negro slaves at Petite Versailles, the plantation of M'sieur de la Chaise where he was staying.

The music of violin, French horn, and pianoforte was gay, the dancing sprightly, and the conversation, consisting of gossip and matters of mutual interest to the area's closely interrelated families, mild through caution, since one must be careful not to offend. The long, silk-hung room, contrived by throwing wide the doors between the grande salle and the petite salle, was warmed by a brightly burning fire at each end. The air was scented with the faint tang of woodsmoke, the medley of perfumes worn by the ladies, and the woodsy fragrance of the shining green streamers of smilax that had been used to decorate the mantels and doorways. The polished floor gleamed, reflecting the radiance of chandeliers overhead and the soft-colored gowns of the ladies. Dancers moved in and out, voices rose and fell, women smiled and men bowed.

There was one person who could not share in the pleasurable excitement. Angeline Fortin circled the floor, her finely molded lips curved in a mechanical smile. The candle glow caught the russet silk of her hair, dressed high in loose curls à la Belle, shimmered over her flawless skin, and touched the copper flecks in the depths of her gray-green eyes with mysterious, almost secretive gleams. The effect she made in her virginal white gown in the Grecian mode did not concern her. She wished fervently that she could have stayed away from this soirée.

Her attitude was stupid, her aunt, Madame de Buys, had declared. Nothing could have looked more odd or caused more comment than their absence. In addition, an appearance at Helene Delacroix's evening party was an opportunity to learn what they could of this prince before he sought them out. It was well to know your enemy.

Her aunt was right, of course, and there seemed nothing in the chatter and easy laughter around her to arouse concern. Still, Angeline could not be easy.

"You are quiet tonight, ma chère."

She glanced up with a smile in her eyes for her partner. A serious, dark-haired young man with the clipped line of a mustache above his full lips, he was the son of her hostess. "I know. You must forgive me, André. I -- I have a touch of the headache."

"Why did you not say so? We could have forgone our dance. I would have been happy just to sit with you. I am not one who must be forever entertained." As he gazed down at her, the expression in his eyes was warm with concern and there was a flush tinting his olive features.

Angeline shook her head. "I know you better," she teased. "You are so wild and dissolute, I'm sure you would think sitting out a dance the greatest bore!"

"And I am sure if I were so dissipated, you would never dance with me at all. Such a character must disgust any female of sensitivity."

"How little you know us!" she returned.

"I know you well enough, I think, or should since I have watched you from your cradle." When she did not reply beyond a smile, he went on. "Does your aunt plan to travel to New Orleans for the saison des visites this year?"

"I'm not certain. No arrangements have been made."

"It will be dull without you, even though she keeps you close. If you do not come I would rather remain at the plantation myself."

"Yes," she declared, "and watch your precious sugarcane sprout!"

"Cane is the crop of the future, mark my words. Indigo is dead, killed off by blight and--"

"Listen!" She interrupted him without compunction.

"I don't hear anything."

"I thought there were horses on the drive."

"Who would come this late? It's nearly time for the supper dance." André glanced at the windows that lined the room. There was nothing to be seen except the reflection of the dancers in the candlelight.

"I must have been mistaken," Angeline said, relaxing.

She was not. Moments later came the sound of booted feet on the gallery. The flames of two hundred candles fluttered in the draft as the door swung open. The lustre of the chandeliers that held them tinkled with crystal coolness. Heads turned. Young women drew in their breath, faltering for an instant in the steps of the quadrille before recovering. Men glanced at each other, their faces stiff. The dowagers and spinsters ranged against the wall in lace caps stopped speaking and stared. A quiet descended in which the shuffle of feet and the thin trill of music was loud.

The candlelight gleamed across Angeline's shoulders as she turned to fling a look of alarm at her aunt. Madame de Buys did not notice. The stout, dark-haired older woman sat upright, her hands clenching the delicate ivory sticks of her fan. With her prominent nose and sharp upper lip, she seemed to be perpetually sneering. Now her black gaze was fixed on the man who stood in the doorway.

Madame Delacroix's liveried majordomo stood to one side, his chest swelling with the announcement he was about to make. "His Royal Highness, Prince Rolfe of Ruthenia, Grand Duke of Auchenstein, Count Faulken, the Marquis de Villiot, Baron--"

The prince lifted a hand gloved in white doeskin and the recitation of his titles was cut short. It was a natural gesture, made with an unconscious but supreme confidence in instant obedience. He moved forward, a commanding figure with the soft gold waves of his hair sculpted to his head, wearing a uniform of shimmering white with gold-fringed epaulettes, looped and tasseled cord over one shoulder, and gold buttons securing the gilt-lace-edged cerulean bars that slashed across the broad width of his chest. The enameled jeweled cross of some order winked above his heart, and precious stones sent prism fire from the hilt of the sword that swung gently against the gold stripe of his pantaloons. Of greater than average height, he surveyed the room with detachment, though the bright turquoise of his eyes, glinting from behind thick, gold-tipped lashes, missed nothing.

Behind him appeared another man, and another, until he was flanked by an entourage of uniformed guards, five in number. In the forefront was an older, craggy-faced man with cropped gray-blond hair, a patch over one sightless eye, and the bearing of a Prussian. Behind him came another man as broad and tall as the prince himself though a little heavier in build and with a peculiar half-moon scar at the corner of his mouth. Next, a slim, rakish-looking individual with aquiline features and black hair stepped forward, followed by a set of twins with brown curls falling over their foreheads, identical hazel eyes, and the selfsame stance, left hand on the hilt of the sword and legs spread.

Like a phalanx they advanced, glittering with braid and decorations, their movements as precise as if they were on parade. It was a magnificent cadre, as out of place in Madame Delacroix's small, country ballroom as a flock of peacocks in a dovecote.

The music came to an end. The dancers halted, standing in place. Madame, the lady of the house, in rose velvet underlined from the high, empire waist in pink taffeta, rustled forward. Dropping into a deep curtsey, she said in breathless tones, "Welcome to this house -- and to Louisiana -- your Highness. You do us... great honor! If we had expected, if we had imagined--"

"I have the pleasure to address my hostess, I presume," the prince said. He took her hand, bowing over it, his firmly cut lips curving in a smile of utter charm.

"Yes -- indeed yes, Your Highness."

"M'sieur de la Chaise, who has most kindly provided a billet for my men and myself during our visit to your fine community, gave us to understand you would not be displeased if we descended upon you this evening. If he erred, if we intrude, you have only to say so and we will go away again."

"Oh no! We are delighted that you and your friends have condescended to -- to come among us. One had heard of your arrival as the guest of M'sieur de la Chaise, but it was not dreamed that you--"

"Accept my infinite gratitude, Madame," he said, inclining his golden head in obvious dismissal. "Your fair name shall be mercy."

A frown creased the woman's forehead. "As you wish, Your Highness, but I have been called Helene from birth. And now, if it pleases you, permit me to present my husband."

Amusement, warm and vibrant, flashed across the features of Prince Rolfe of Ruthenia and then was gone as he turned to M'sieur Delacroix. With only half his attention engaged by the necessary civilities, he glanced over the room once more.

Angeline had contrived to be near her aunt as the music ended. As her partner bowed and left her, she stepped to the older woman's chair. "Tante Berthe," she said, her voice low, "what are we to do?"

"Nothing," came the hissing answer. "He can know nothing of Claire coming here. He is merely casting about for a scent."

"He must be amazingly lucky to have come so close then," Angeline answered with a touch of asperity.

"He has come because he knows St. Martinville to be my Claire's birthplace, for no other reason."

"And he has come halfway around the world on the off chance she may have gone to earth here?"

"Do not be pert! Nor, Angeline, do I enjoy hearing you speak of my dear daughter, your own cousin, as if she were a hunted she-fox. I will not have it, do you hear? And smile, for the love of le bon Dieu -- he is looking this way!"

He was indeed. The amusement had vanished from the prince's face, leaving it tight and hard as he stared at Angeline. There was about him a sense of leashed power and implacable will overlaid by distinct menace. Angeline stood chilled to the core of her being, unable to look away. An instant later the prince turned aside, replying to his hostess, presenting the men that accompanied him.

Angeline took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She was not usually prey to nerves. It was the uproar of this day, and the sleepless night before, to say nothing of her aunt's snappish humor. Nothing was as it should be, nor had it been since Claire had descended upon them two nights ago, claiming to fear for her life and demanding to be hidden.

Claire of the fiery red hair and emerald eyes, her mother's greatest pride and most fierce joy. With what hopes had she been sent off to Paris three years before. She had lived with a distant cousin for a year of polishing, then at age seventeen had been launched into the haut monde. How Tante Berthe had missed her; with what transports had she read the letters telling of the balls, routs, and soirées the billet doux and the poems written to Claire's eyebrows or the whiteness of her throat. What economies had been practiced so that dearest Claire could have a new gown or fresh ribbons to pin on her great fur muff. Nothing could have equaled the joy Madame de Buys had felt at hearing of the court being paid to her daughter by the heir to the throne of one of the small but wealthy Balkan kingdoms. An invitation to visit this country had called for even greater frugality so that a wardrobe could be ordered, one suited to the prospective bride of a prince. The journey was undertaken and Claire's safe arrival reported. More than once Madame was heard to whisper over her stitchery, "Princess Claire, Princess Claire..."

Then the ecstatic letters had become fewer, saying less and less. Finally, they had stopped. After weeks of silence Claire had come in secret, looking hollow-eyed and frantic, declaring that Maximilian of Ruthenia was dead, shot to death by the same hand that had tried to kill her in what was to have appeared a suicide-murder pact. She had lain unconscious after the pistol ball had struck her, then when she had come to and found Max dead beside her, she had fled for France in the most desperate haste. There, she had sold a few of Maximilian's gifts for the money to take her to Le Havre. From that port she had taken passage home to Louisiana, fearful all the while that she was being tracked by Maximilian's fiend of a brother, a man who had become heir apparent.

Now he was here, bowing in front of Angeline even as she drew back.

"My dear," Helene Delacroix was saying, "do not run away. The prince has expressed a wish to be made known to you."

He smiled with a trace of mockery in his manner as the introductions were completed. His gaze, smooth with insolence, moved over the auburn tendril curls that clustered around her face. It dropped to the tender curves of her breasts just revealed by her gown of white muslin banded with emerald ribbon, a castoff of Claire's with cap sleeves and a full skirt falling to a demi-train. The sweet symmetry of her form left him unmoved, though he seemed enthralled by the faint tremor of her hands in their white lace mitts that reached to her shoulders.

"Do you waltz, Mademoiselle?" he inquired in a tone that set her teeth on edge.

Angeline sent a quick glance to her aunt, who gave a warning shake of her head. "I regret, Your Highness--"

"Nonsense," her hostess exclaimed. "Have I not seen you twirling over the floor this evening with my son?"

Madame de Buys bristled. "Come, Helene, if my niece is reluctant she should not be badgered."

"La, ma chère. Of all the girls here, I was certain she would be the least likely to turn awkward with shyness. What a thing it would be to refuse a prince! His request must be perceived as a royal command."

"We are not his subjects," Berthe de Buys objected.

"But he is our guest!"

"It is of no moment," the prince struck in, a glittering challenge in his blue eyes as they rested upon Angeline. "If Mademoiselle is afraid, that will be the end of it."

A flush of irritation rose to Angeline's cheekbones. "Not at all."

"In that case..." He proffered his arm as the musicians struck up once more.

What choice had she with the interested gaze of the entire room upon them? Moreover, would it not arouse his suspicions more if she were antagonistic? With her face set in uneasy hauteur she moved onto the floor beside him.

There was muscle and whipcord sinew under the sleeve upon which her fingers rested. The sword that hung at his side on fine chains was something more than a jeweled toy, and she discovered as he swept her into the dance that he was adept at keeping the swinging weapon from becoming entangled between his partner and himself.

They circled the room quite alone, an excruciating experience as the man who held her kept his gaze fixed on her face. Never could she remember being so aware of a man's hand at her waist, of the brush of his thigh against her in a turn, or the sheer male presence of a partner.

"Angeline," he said, his voice deep as he tried the syllables on his tongue. "The name matches your pose of pale and offended innocence tonight, but in my country you were better known as Claire."

She stiffened, lifting her lashes to meet his gaze. "I beg your pardon?"

"I make you my compliments -- that was well done. But I have no time and less inclination for the weaving of spells. I must speak to you."

"I think, Your Highness, that you have made a mistake," she said, a frown drawing her winged brows together. "I am not--"

"Did you think that I would not recognize you?" he cut across her words. "We have never been introduced, it's true. But I have seen you in my brother's company, riding along the avenue, sitting across the theater, a number of times."

"You appear to be speaking of my cousin Claire, Your Highness. I am said to resemble her from a distance, but I assure you I am Angeline Fortin."

Why had she not foreseen this possibility? As children, she and Claire, being much of an age, had been likened to twins. Angeline had come to live with her aunt, the wife of her mother's brother, when a fever had taken her own parents. As they grew older, Claire's coloring had become more vivid, her manner more bold. There were those who said Angeline had the look of a mirror image of Claire seen in a dim room, more muted in the autumn shading of her hair and shadowed green of her eyes with their thick fringing of dark lashes. During the years of her cousin's absence, the frequent comparisons had ceased, and Angeline had taken it for granted that the two of them would become even less alike as they grew older. And after seeing Claire, she thought that they had.

His grip on her hand tightened so that the seams of her mitts pinched her fingers. "Patience is no virtue of mine. What you choose to call yourself is nothing to me. My interest is in the knowledge you hold of my brother's death, and I swear on the moss-grown graves of my forefathers that I will not be denied it!"

At the low intensity of his voice, the odd choice and cadence of his words, a shiver ran through Angeline and she felt suddenly sorry for Claire. For herself, she knew the growing anger of frustration because he would not heed, much less believe, what she said. "If your brother is dead, I am sorry for it, but it has nothing to do with me."

It was a moment before he answered, a moment in which his face turned to iron and the light in his eyes grew more brilliant. His grip at her waist hardened so she was brought closer to him, much closer than was seemly. His lips actually brushed her temple with a fiery tingle as he spoke. "Have you any idea of the danger in which you stand? I am not Maximilian, all stiff decorum and unfailing politeness. I travel my own road, one some say will lead to damnation. Be assured that I will drag you along it with me, naked and without dignity, if needs must to achieve my purpose."

With a gasp, Angeline tried to jerk away from him, but she was held in a grip of steel. She flung him a quick upward glance and saw him smiling down at her. Memory shifted, and she recalled abruptly a letter Claire had written months before. Thinking she would one day become Maximilian's wife, she had taken an interest in his family and the country where she must live, troubling herself with his worries. At that time, they had been over the scandalous conduct of his brother, a nobleman who flaunted his common mistresses abroad, consorted with thieves and gypsies, had killed any number of men in duels, and was seldom entirely sober. His wild careering across Europe was the despair of his brother and a cause of rage for their father, the king. With seemingly no idea beyond the pleasure and excitement of the moment, Rolfe was felt to be a disgrace to his family and his country. Regardless, by force of his personality, an incredible boldness that scorned safety, and a wild and sweet penchant for the lyric phrase that amounted to poetry, he commanded the loyalty of his chosen followers and the love of his countrymen. He was hailed wherever he went, called the Golden Wolf after some symbol in his arms, something to do with a Russian grandfather, or so Claire thought, though from what she had heard of the man, she saw little reason why anyone should feel emotion of any kind for him. The most provoking thing of all had been that Prince Rolfe's popularity had been far in excess of Maximilian's, or even the present king.

Around them, the floor filled. Several of the prince's guard had prevailed upon the mothers of young ladies to allow their daughters to dance. Angeline found herself hemmed in by white uniforms. They presented a bulwark between her and the other guests, a blind to prevent anyone from getting too close a look at the treatment she was receiving. She threw a harried look to where her aunt sat. Madame de Buys was frowning, her lips pressed in a tight line, her small black eyes hard with condemnation. The next instant, the straight shoulders of a laughing, dark-haired young man blocked her view.

Angeline drew a deep breath as copper fire flashed in the depths of her gray-green eyes. "I've told you I know nothing. The fact that you don't believe me doesn't give you the right to insult me with vulgar threats!"

"It was not a threat, it was a promise."

"One you can hardly keep here in public, in a private home."

"It would be fatal," he said softly, "to put your faith in that belief."

He was so sure of himself and his ability to control the situation that she longed to flout him. He watched her with ironic appreciation for the quick rise and fall of her breasts and the rose color that bloomed on her cheekbones. "Now that we have come to an understanding, perhaps you will tell me exactly how my brother died?"

"I can tell you nothing, because I know nothing! How can I convince you I was never there?"

"You were seen leaving the house just after two in the morning, some hours after my brother must have been shot in his bed. Several long red hairs were found among the bedclothes, along with a chemise of green embroidered silk his servants identified as yours. You were there."

Angeline missed a step. Caught off balance, she stumbled against him and his arm clamped around her, pressing her to the armored hardness of his chest with his cold buttons and decorations gouging into her. She wrenched away from him in haste, lowering her lashes to conceal her confusion. "There must be some terrible mistake."

"There has been, and Maximilian made it when he allowed you to return for even one night after he had paid you off. I will admit that on closer acquaintance I find his lack of resolution more understandable."

There could be no doubt of his meaning. Claire had been Maximilian's mistress. Angeline would have liked to doubt it, but it fell so neatly into place. It explained the reticence of Claire's letters toward the last and her loss of interest in the welfare of Ruthenia, as well as a certain cynicism that Angeline had noticed while she was with her these last two days, and the odd looks she had intercepted between her cousin and her aunt.

"Distressing, is it not, to be found out?"

"If I am distressed," she grated, "it is because you have revealed to me something of Claire I would as soon not have known."

Iciness settled over his features. Through set teeth he said, "Have done, Mademoiselle. You will cooperate, or--"

"By all means," she agreed, taking him up with angry bravado. "Shall we discuss who may have wanted your brother dead? Shall we think between us, Your Royal Highness, who might have benefited most from his removal? Who might have had something to gain -- wealth, honors, high position?"

Her voice was carrying. From the corner of her eye, she saw one of his men -- the broad, sandy-haired one with the half-moon scar that quirked his mouth at the corner -- look from her to the prince in surprise. The change in the man who held her was imperceptible, and yet she was abruptly afraid as she had not been until that moment.

"I believe a private interview will be best for you, after all," he drawled.

"It would avail you nothing, even if I should consent to it, which I will not!"

"For those who dare, a woman's consent becomes unnecessary."

There was a muscle corded in his jaw, and a hard gleam in his turquoise eyes. "You wouldn't -- you couldn't--"

"No? There are no means so foul or without honor, Mademoiselle, that I will not use them to find my brother's killer, proving him no suicide, or to exonerate myself in the eyes of my father and my country of the charge that you hint at so delicately."

The music was slowing, the dance nearly over. Since she no longer struggled, his hold had loosened, allowing her to put a proper distance between them. She could sense, however, the tension, like a tempered blade bent in half, that he held in such restraint. It vibrated through her too, in a faint trembling of her fingers in his. What he would do when the music stopped she did not know, nor did she mean to find out. As the last note of the waltz faded, she wrenched herself from his grasp and whirled to flee.

He sprang after her, snatching at her wrist, his fingers closing with such force that her bones ground together. She came up short, white to the lips. She stared into the face of the man above her, impaled by the blue fire of his eyes beneath oddly slanting brows.

"You must not be in a rush to leave me," he said softly.

"I must return to my aunt. She -- everyone will think it peculiar if I do not."

"Let them think what they will," he answered with a lift of his head.

There was a movement beside her, and André was there, bowing, his dark gaze traveling from her to the man at her side. "Is anything wrong?"

"I -- I was explaining to the prince the etiquette that prevails in this provincial backwater," she answered. Rolfe of Ruthenia had lowered his arm so that the wrist he held was hidden from view by the fullness of her skirt.

"I am sure these matters are much the same everywhere." That André sensed something odd in the situation between them was plain from his tone. "On that subject I will remind you, Angeline, that the supper dance next on the program is promised to me."

"So it is." She forced a smile as she reached out to place her free hand on André's arm. "It was not necessary to remind me."

The prince could retain his hold, descending into an undignified tug-of-war that must give away his persecution of her, or he could let her go. His decision was instant. Releasing her wrist, he stepped back.

The weakness of relief swept over Angeline, the effect so intense that she did not dare try to take a step. She covered it by sending a glance of smiling coolness to the blond man. "Madame Delacroix has a daughter who sings beautifully. I understand she will be entertaining us during supper. Will you stay?"

"I think not. My men and I have intruded long enough. I trust, Mademoiselle, that we will meet again -- soon." With a nod to André, he turned on his heel and walked away.

His uniformed guards sprang to attention. The dancers leaving the floor parted as if cleaved by a sword, while the majordomo leaped to open the door. The cadre of the prince passed through the opening and was lost to sight.

"Angeline, ma chère!" Madame Delacroix said, rustling to her side. "Whatever can you have said to make him leave us in such haste?"

Angeline turned her wood-fern-green glance to where her aunt sat in brooding silence. "In truth, Madame," she answered, "I said little at all."

The remaining hours of the evening were a severe trial. At supper she was surrounded by girls exclaiming at her good fortune in being singled out by the prince, demanding to know what he had said to her, and what she replied, and wondering how she was able to retain her wits through the ordeal. In their voices there was more than one echo of the questions asked by their hostess as to why the royal gentleman, ignoring town officials and other important men and women of ancient lineage, had asked to be presented to her alone, departing after their waltz without speaking to another soul.

Angeline answered as best she could while giving away nothing of the revelations the prince had made and therefore nothing that might indicate that Claire had returned. Between the glances of suspicion-tinged curiosity cast in her direction, the sighing comments of first one girl and then another over the dashing men of his entourage who had led them into the dance, plus André's solicitous inquiries after the headache she had admitted to earlier, she was more than ready when Tante Berthe signaled her desire to leave the gathering.

Copyright © 1983 by Patricia Maxwell