CHAPTER THIRTEEN #2
“When I miss Paris, it’s mostly the small things.
The scent of rosemary outside my window, the sound of the church bells all chiming the hour at the same moment,” she recalled.
“But more than that, it’s the haunting feeling that there is this other life I could have led, if things had gone differently.
I would have been a real princess, one whose father was a true acting king. ”
Eddy’s fingers fell still. “I can’t pretend to understand what you and your family went through, being forced to flee your homeland. But I know that feeling of rootlessness, of not knowing where you belong.”
Hélène stared at him. “You’re the future king. You belong here more than anyone.”
“Yet my family would exile me, given half a chance.” Eddy said it flatly, the way he might remark upon the weather.
“Grandmother is disappointed in me. I’m not as clever as George, with his books and all his endless correspondence.
Did you know he wrote Mother a five-page letter every week while we were in the navy? ”
“I never have the patience for long letters, either,” Hélène admitted. “There are better ways to spend that time.”
“Exactly! Grandmother is always scolding me for what she calls my ‘lack of attention.’ She says that a king who can only speak English is an embarrassment. But no matter how hard I tried at Latin or German, it never stuck.”
Hélène nudged her foot playfully into his chest. “Would it help if I taught you some French?”
“It can’t hurt.” A slow smile spread over Eddy’s face. “All I’ve managed thus far is Enchanté, mademoiselle, and Vous êtes très belle.”
“An auspicious start,” Hélène teased.
“Très belle,” he repeated, his eyes lifting to meet hers.
The air in the room was suddenly heavy with significance, with anticipation.
Hélène rose to her feet and crossed the two paces to Eddy’s chair. Slowly, she lowered herself to sit on his lap—not the way a child would, with her back to his chest, but wantonly. Face to face.
Eddy held himself very still as she reached around his head to play with the curls at the nape of his neck. His eyes were like pale blue flames.
Hélène dipped her head, lowering her mouth to his.
The kiss was soft at first, surprisingly tender. Eddy’s hands resumed their quest over her body, gliding down her back to settle around her hips. Hélène made a sound of pleasure deep in her throat.
When he pulled back, a question in his gaze, she just nodded. For once, she had no words.
Eddy scooped her up in a single motion and carried her to the bed, where he deposited her atop the coverlet, stretched out alongside her, and resumed their kiss.
Afterward, when Hélène tilted her head onto his chest, she was surprised to feel Eddy momentarily tense—but then his arm folded around her, tugging her closer.
She realized that he wasn’t accustomed to this part, that most women he slept with were probably too awed to curl up next to him as if he were an ordinary man.
Princes, it would seem, were quite solitary creatures. Like the wolves that used to roam around her family’s house in Normandy.
Well, that ended now, Hélène thought, twirling a hand over the spot where his heart beat. Eddy might be experienced, but he had a thing or two to learn about intimacy. And she would be only too happy to teach him.
THE SOUND OF CHEERING INTERRUPTED the flushed heat of Hélène’s memories. That first night felt so long ago now, though it had only been six months. Six months of illicit moments, of furtive glances at crowded events, of nights that always ended too soon.
The horses stood at the starting line, prancing as the course clerk climbed up to his podium. The trumpeters played a short fanfare, and the roar of noise in the stadium fell abruptly still. The clerk lifted a red-and-yellow flag overhead—then, when the music stopped, he swung it down.
A cloud of dust exploded from behind the starting line.
Hélène heard Eddy’s shouts to her left and glanced over, amused; he was as enthusiastic as the laborers in the stands below.
The other guests in the Hardwickes’ box began to press around them, leaning on the railing in their curiosity.
Epsom Downs was a fast race, usually over in two minutes.
“Orlando!” erupted through the stands when a bay Thoroughbred tore across the finish line.
“Looks like I was right, and Sporting Life was mistaken.”
Eddy was deliberately looking away from her, the words spoken under his breath, but Hélène was far too attuned to his presence not to hear.
“I suppose I owe you, then.” She matched his casual posture.
“I’ll see you in Scotland,” he replied, unable to hide his smile.
One of the other guests came over to grab Eddy’s attention. Hélène stepped back as if they’d been talking about nothing of importance, forcing herself to glance down at the field. Already grooms were leading the sweating horses away to be curried.
That was when she saw Laurent.
He stood in the open space along the edge of the racetrack, where the cheapest tickets were sold for standing room only. It was clear that he’d been watching her. When their eyes met, he jerked his head to the side with unmistakable intent.
What was he doing here? Hélène wished she could turn aside, pretend that she hadn’t seen him, except that then Laurent might cause a scene. She had no choice but to go down and hear him out, whatever he wanted.
Hélène started toward the back of the box as if she were headed to the lavatories. No one questioned her; within moments she’d clattered down the staircase, holding the hem of her skirts to keep from tripping, and surged out into the crowds at the back of the stands.
As she’d expected, Laurent was there, waiting for her. The collar of his shirt had fallen open, revealing that his neck was sunburned. Hélène looked away.
It was strange: the version of herself that had loved him, or thought she loved him, felt so young. Seeing him again was like trying on a gown from last Season that no longer fit, constricting and itchy.
“I’m surprised to see you,” she admitted.
“The Marquis de Breteuil is thinking of buying one of the horses from today’s race. Or, failing that, of putting one of his mares to stud with the winner.”
Of course. The marquis was a notorious racing fanatic; Hélène should have seen this coming. It showed how little thought she’d given to Laurent over the past months that she hadn’t even considered the possibility of seeing him.
“Hélène,” he added—then, at her glare, quickly amended, “Your Royal Highness. May I have a moment?”
She gave a reluctant nod, allowing him to lead her in the direction of the stables. While this wasn’t ideal, it was a public enough setting not to be wholly improper, either; there was nothing wrong with a former groom showing her the stables in broad daylight.
Laurent waited until they were sheltered behind a storage shed before clearing his throat. “I’m sorry to do this here, but I don’t know when I’ll see you again.” He stared at her pleadingly. “I miss you. Letting go of you was the biggest mistake I ever made.”
Hélène felt the blood drain from her face. Taking her silence as encouragement, Laurent kept going.
“I’m sorry I didn’t run away with you last year, when you wanted to elope.
If your feelings haven’t changed…” He shocked her by reaching for her hands.
“I can’t give you everything you’re accustomed to, but I keep thinking about what you said: that all we needed was each other and a stable full of horses.
The life I’ve built in the marquis’s service is a good one. We could be happy there.”
Hélène blinked and tugged her hands away.
“Laurent, no,” she said gently.
“Why not?”
Because she was involved with someone else. And yet, even if nothing had ever happened with Eddy, Hélène knew she wouldn’t have gone back to Laurent. She couldn’t trust someone who had left her so carelessly, so callously.
“It’s too late for us, Laurent. I gave my heart into your keeping and you treated it carelessly.”
“It’s never too late.” He hesitated. “Unless you have fallen for someone else.”
Was she falling for Eddy? It was something Hélène didn’t dare admit, not even in the privacy of her own mind. Affair, relationship, liaison—she used all kinds of words to explain it to herself, everything but that single, infinitely dangerous word. Love.
Laurent must have seen the truth on her face. “This man…does he know about you and me?”
“He knows enough, but not the details.” Not who you are, Hélène didn’t need to say. Eddy was aware that there had been someone else before him, but he was too much a gentleman to probe.
Laurent let out a breath, understanding. If Hélène was involved with someone who knew she was no innocent, then either that man didn’t especially care about her—or he loved her enough not to be bothered by it.
“Who is he?”
“You can hardly expect me to tell you that.”
“I’m sorry.” Laurent braced a palm on a hay bale, tugging absently at a few strands of straw. “Well…I suppose this is goodbye.”
Hélène looked at him then: the sort of searching look that takes inventory of a person’s strengths as well as their flaws.
She and Laurent had been over for a long time, yet there was something bittersweet about hearing him say the word goodbye, as if she were closing a chapter of her past. So much had changed since they parted.
Back then she’d been such a child. What was that Bible verse?
For then I saw through a glass darkly, but now face to face.
Hélène wasn’t a child anymore; she was woman enough to look at her past, face to face, without flinching. And then to let it go.
“Goodbye, Laurent,” she said simply.
He nodded and started toward the stables.
Hélène stood there for a moment, watching him walk away, letting her heart settle back into its normal rhythm.
She hadn’t anticipated how much it would unsettle her, confronting the ghosts of her past. And yet, as she made her way back to the box where Eddy waited, she couldn’t help feeling that she was moving toward her future.