Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

éTIENNE

October 17, 1765

Chateau de Champs-sur-Marne

I flipped the pages of my book idly, unable to focus. My thoughts returned to Daphne and the expectant look on her face—the unmistakable desire I'd seen there. It had thrown me. She may not believe what I was telling her about the plague and the people of France, she may not believe I was innocent of involvement in Jeanne's murder, she may not trust me or my motives in the slightest—but I could sense that she was attracted to me.

It shouldn't excite me as much as it did.

Feeling like a caged animal, I threw the book onto the bed and paced my makeshift room. I was sorely tempted to work my way through the dozens of wines lining the walls, but I figured that would be a temporary solution at best. At worst, I'd get drunk enough to become senseless again, and I didn't want a repeat of whatever transgressions I'd managed while poisoned.

I sighed. Perhaps a different book. Knowing it was after midnight, I listened carefully for the sounds of the household, not wanting to startle some unsuspecting housemaid. After I was certain the rest of the chateau was abed, I crept out from the wine cellar and padded silently through the halls. I hadn't bothered with a candle—my unfortunate supernatural condition afforded me the ability to see well enough in the dark.

When I located the library, I was surprised to see a thin ray of light beneath the door. I knocked softly, and Daphne's voice sounded from within.

"Yes?"

I went in. She sat at a large desk, bent over a pile of papers. Her hair fell over her shoulder in a thick, golden braid and I glimpsed her white nightdress beneath her loose dressing gown. After a moment, she looked up, her eyebrows arching in bewilderment.

"étienne! What are you doing out of bed? Are you well?" She stood to approach, but paused, suddenly embarrassed by her appearance. She tied the belt of her dressing gown around her and fidgeted with the knot. I'd never seen her look so unguarded—vulnerable, even. It was disturbingly appealing.

I grinned. "Forgive me for startling you. I thought everyone would be asleep by now. I merely came to find something new to read."

She nodded but did not sit back down. She gestured at the walls lined with books.

"You won't find a better selection of books anywhere—save, perhaps, Versailles. My father was a great collector and lover of the written word. Michel was, too. Help yourself," she said, turning back to her letters.

I strode over to the wall opposite her, nearest to the fireplace, and perused distractedly. "What about you?" I asked.

The light scratching of her pen stopped.

"What about me?"

"Do you share the same interests as your father and brother?"

The scratching resumed, then paused again. She sighed.

"I like books," she said evasively.

"The only books my father collected were about history, weaponry, and military strategy," I said. "I never appreciated them, but I had little else to read. My mother snuck some romances into our collection—which I enjoyed more than the lessons on combat—but not by much."

"What do you like to read?" Daphne asked.

"Adventures. Travel, art, music, culture. Essentially everything that my father despised," I replied, with more than a touch of bitterness.

She was next to me now, leaning against one of the high-backed chairs that faced the fireplace.

"He was a soldier," she said quietly, more observation than question.

"A highly-decorated general. A war hero, even," I replied, thinking back to the distant memories—and pain. "His last campaign was the battle at Dettingen in the war of Austrian succession. He was betrayed by two of his comrades, which led to his defeat. In the king's fury, my father was stripped of his title and most of our holdings. I'm sure you heard the rumors of our family's disgrace. Vicomte no longer. He died years later, broken and impoverished."

"I'm sorry," Daphne said, laying a hand on my arm. "I'd heard some of the gossip, but I didn't know the story. It was unjust for the king to punish your father so harshly—especially if it was the result of a betrayal."

"It matters little now. Louis knew exactly which strings to pull to coerce me into emissary service. My ancestral estate and holdings have been returned to me, at least. I don't care about the title. I shan't be having an issue to pass it on to, anyway." Frustrated and resentful, I turned from the bookshelves and sat heavily in one of the armchairs before the fire. It needled me, if I let it—the inability to sire an heir. In my boyhood, when I was to inherit a title and the responsibilities attached to it, my father worked tirelessly to drill a sense of duty and honor into my head. Even when I rebelled as a young man, I knew that I'd return to the fold eventually. Find a wealthy, well-connected wife—hopefully pretty—and get her with child after child. We would enjoy family holidays in the country and seasons in Paris; try not to squander the fortune my father had carefully amassed and invested; I'd find some way to serve France, whether on the battlefield or in court. "Honor, duty, and responsibility, son. That's your lot in life. Do not waste it."

And I almost had—but I was trying to make up for it now.

Daphne went to a sideboard, poured two generous glasses of cognac, and sat in the other armchair. She handed me a glass, which I took gratefully. I'd wanted company, but I hadn't expected to spill my life story. I swirled the cognac in the glass, unexpectedly self-conscious.

"Is that a…vampire problem?" she inquired awkwardly.

I nodded. "Hard to sire heirs when your body functions as a walking corpse. Did you and the duc never?—"

"No," she cut in. "After a few months of marriage, I refused him. I would not consent to carry his bloodline." At this, she drank a sizable swallow of cognac. Her cheeks turned a fetching shade of pink.

"Was he—" I floundered for the right words, but she interrupted me again with an acerbic smile.

"He wasn't called le Duc Dépravé for nothing," she said.

Things started to fall into place, then—rumors I'd heard about the brutal, predatory aristocrat. I hadn't realized le Duc Dépravé was Daphne's husband. Horror filled me in a way I hadn't experienced in some years. The thought of her suffering the abuse of such a man made me see red. My fangs lengthened impulsively, and my muscles bunched, preparing to attack some unseen threat. Without warning, the cognac glass exploded in my hand.

"Merde, " I swore. Daphne jumped up, grabbing a cloth and a pitcher of water from a nearby table. She reached for my hand—tentatively. "I'm not going to bite," I chuckled. My fangs retracted. Daphne eyed me cautiously and started wiping the blood from my palm.

An uncomfortable silence settled between us.

"I heard from The Order," she blurted.

I arched a brow. "Good news or bad?"

"Both, or neither, depending on your perspective," she said. "They seem open to considering your innocence in Jeanne's murder, but they require proof. They've allowed me some time, but no resources, to settle the matter."

"How magnanimous of them," I drawled. She'd finished cleaning my hand and was using a clean scrap of cloth to bind it. Her movements were firm, but tender.

"There's more," she said, gingerly picking up shards of glass from the floor. "I had a letter from Charlotte. It sounds like many of the nobles are relocating to the palace. I fear things are escalating. The aristocrats are worried."

This wasn't exactly surprising, but certainly more concerning.

"What will The Order do?" I wondered.

Daphne went to her desk to throw the broken glass and bloody rags away.

"I don't know," she admitted. "I don't know about all of their plans, and I'm afraid if I don't find Jeanne's killer and bring them proof soon, they'll kick me out and I'll know even less."

I agreed. "We must hurry. I'm well enough to carry on. I'll send a message to some of my contacts in Paris and let them know we'll be in the city tomorrow night. We'll start with the ring."

Some relief shone in Daphne's face.

"That would be best," she said. "I'm eager to see this through and move on with my life."

"As am I," I said. I stood to leave and she followed me to the door. "Tomorrow night, we'll need to play the parts of intimidating aristocrats. Prepare accordingly."

Daphne rolled her eyes. "I think I can manage that."

"I'll do what I can to keep you safe, but you should remain on your guard."

"I don't need you to keep me safe, étienne," she snapped.

"Perhaps not," I conceded. "But I will try, all the same. Should things go awry, I mean."

We were standing at the threshold of the library, the dark hallway yawning behind me. Daphne appeared at a loss for words and stood at the door, hesitating. The tightness around her mouth relaxed and she mumbled a soft, "Thank you."

"I'll say goodnight, then," I said.

"Goodnight, étienne."

I didn't go. I waited a beat—taking in the flickering candlelight on her golden hair, the worn linen of her nightdress, the perfume of cognac, blood, and orange blossoms. Here, in this quiet moment past midnight, I felt an alien sense of comfort. It was unlike the plush rooms at Versailles, unlike my own chateau, even—with its haunting memories and ghosts of failure. It filled me with a painful longing—a hollow ache in my chest that I knew would linger long after Daphne's orange blossom scent had faded.

Her eyes dropped to my lips, then, and her tongue darted out to lick her bottom lip. My restraint evaporated in an instant. Unable to stop myself, I pulled her to me and covered her lips with mine. Slanting my mouth over hers, I slid my tongue along the seam of her lips—a silent plea for her to open up to me. Almost straightaway, she melted into the kiss. When she opened her mouth and sighed, the sweetness of it overtook me, and I knew I was lost.

God help me—what have I done?