CHAPTER TWELVE #4
Grace shook her head slightly, gulping air into her lungs.
After a moment, she breathed more normally, and Henri took immediate advantage in a kiss too deep for thought.
The world disappeared in a haze of cloud and it was all Grace could do to remain upon her unstable feet.
As if he felt it, Henri’s hold became firmer, supporting her against him as at last he released her mouth.
She opened her eyes to find him smiling.
“You see that I try not to make you believe some words, ma chère. I show you only, that you will not say foolish things to me again.”
Her lips quivered uncontrollably. “I never doubted your passion, Henri.”
The lean features became severe. “But you have doubted my heart.”
She met his eyes boldly now. “How could I do otherwise? You are so very handsome a man, and —”
“And you are a woman who dwells au fond de mon coeur.” His voice dropped to a murmur, soft and tender. “You understand me, Grace? I say that you live at the bottom of my heart. If not, I am a villain who takes a base advantage to make love with she to whom he owes his life.”
A trickle of real hope began to seep into Grace’s dazed mind. “Are you sure it is not pity just because I saved your life?”
Henri kissed her again, ruthlessly crushing her mouth. “This is pity, enfin?” he demanded as his lips left hers. “And this?” Kissing her once again.
Grace clutched his shoulders as her legs threatened to give way beneath her. A reluctant laugh escaped her. “I admit it does not feel like pity.”
“That is seen! Or I have been every day making a kiss with the canaille of Paris, or these unfortunate who take a ride in the tumbril, enfin! Pity, ma chère, it is not for a woman brave as you are.” He freed one of his hands, only so that he might cup her cheek, stroking his thumb across her lips in a gesture intimate beyond words.
“For my Grace, it is only admiring of who is she, and to take her for my amoureuse, for that I love her until death.”
The last vestige of doubt fled away, and Grace, touched to the heart, leaned to him for his kiss and closed her eyes.
Presently, releasing her, Henri wiped the trace of tears from her cheeks and obliged her to sit again. He refilled the wine in the glasses, brought his chair closer, and sat down, reaching for her hand.
“How shall we manage?” Grace asked as he drew her fingers to his lips. “This house is small, and —”
“It is enough, ma chère. We use only one chamber to sleep together, we eat here, and if I work, I may use the table.”
“What work will you do? Can you practise as a lawyer here?”
Henri shrugged. “Perhaps. I must learn more the English way, I think.”
“Yes, and I am sure Sir James will put you in the way of finding clients,” said Grace, becoming enthusiastic. “After all, you are the Comte de Rousselle.”
He laughed. “Ah, now it begins. I perceive that madame la comtesse finds after all a title has use.”
“Well, one would be foolish not to take advantage,” Grace defended herself. “And we will have to do something. I cannot possibly support all three of us on my little earnings.”
“Four, perhaps, if this Reuben ends to marry Jemima.”
Grace stared. “But Jemima has no intention of marrying Reuben!”
Mischief entered Henri’s face. “Ah, but Reuben he has much interest in Jemima. And I have need of him. A count he cannot be without a servant, no?”
“Henri, don’t tease! I will not have poor Jemima coerced.”
“I believe you may find Jemima is not so against Reuben as she has said,” he replied, smiling. “But it is for the future. Do not concern yourself, ma chère. If it is that I cannot be a lawyer, I can teach in French.”
Grace eyed him a trifle anxiously. “But can you be content with such a life, Henri, after the work you have been doing in Paris? It must have presented a challenge, even if the danger was very real.”
“I desire no more of this challenge, Grace. It has been enough for one lifetime. But it is to me more important to live among such people as yours here, perhaps to help them, than to be among those who have a life without work. This much I have taken from the revolution. If I must be the Comte de Rousselle, let him be a count who gives, not one who takes.”
Which sentiment so much moved Grace that she was unable for some little while to do more than build rosy dreams, having suitably rewarded the one she loved. At length Henri roused himself to question the wisdom of his remaining at Wonts until they were able to be married.
“This may take some days or weeks, Grace, for that I am born Catholic, even that in the République one does not practice. But you, I think, are Protestant. Since I am now to be in England, I must change perhaps.”
“My brother Constant can help us,” exclaimed Grace. “He is the parson hereabouts, and must know what we should do.”
“Then let us await him. But in the time between, will you accept that I live by day at Sir James, but that I come in secret at night?”
“Since my reputation is already blasted, I fail to see why you should not live here openly. However, if we must play propriety, of course I shall accept anything at all.”
Henri let go her hand and stood up. “In this case, chérie, let us waste no time. I must wait that you will be my wife in name, but in deed, I am there immédiatement.”
And Grace, surrendering to the claims of love, rose up from her parlour chair and stumped with her dot-and-carry tread, wholly unselfconscious, as Henri drew her into the hall and up the stairs to her bed.
There to stake his claim in the indomitable spirit of independence that had led her to this place, and to this time, where fate had decreed a wounded Frenchman should find her.
***