Wicked Loving Lies. Rosemary Rogers
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Название: Wicked Loving Lies
Автор: Rosemary Rogers
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Научная фантастика
Серия: MIRA
isbn: 9781474010603
isbn:
Thousands of candles illuminated the crystal and silver and gold surroundings and enhanced the equally brilliant gathering that thronged the many rooms of the palace. Jeweled decorations glittered on almost every male jacket, while the women sought to outshine each other with their magnificent ball gowns and sparkling gems.
Marisa was dazzled. To think that she was here and actually a part of such a grand assembly! There were diplomats and noblemen from all over the world; she had never heard so many foreign languages spoken under one roof. The walls were hung with silk in the colors of the Republic and interspersed with garlands of freshly cut flowers whose cloying scent mingled with the odors of food and the perfume worn by the women. It was a warm night and an enormous pavilion had been set up in the magnificent walled garden for dancing. The musicians were playing already. The crush was so great that Marisa began to wonder despairingly if she would ever catch sight of Philip. In the meantime Edmée kept her close to her side even though her eyes too seemed to wander sharply from one face to another.
They had passed through the reception line at last. As honored guests they were escorted by Talleyrand himself, dressed in his usual somber black, to a group of gilt chairs placed a little apart from the others on the terrace.
Immediately Josephine and Edmée were surrounded by friends and admirers, leaving Marisa a little space to look around. She saw a few faces that were familiar to her, and she bowed and smiled politely. But heavens, how conspicuous she felt! ‘It’s almost as if we were royalty,’ she thought wryly. At least Philip surely could not fail to notice her.
She was so occupied studying the crowd that she could not help the start she gave when a soft voice addressed her.
“Ah, mademoiselle, what good fortune to see you here. You look charming, as usual, and I’m your servant.”
Joseph Fouché, duke of Otranto, bowed over her unwillingly extended hand, his cold lips brushing it lightly.
Fouché. She did not, could not like him, Marisa had already decided. He reminded her of an ugly black bird of prey, hovering lazily before it struck. Always present—watching—his cold eyes hooded and unreadable. And she remembered that he was one of the original revolutionaries, a friend of Robespierre and one of those who had voted to guillotine all the “aristos” who could be rounded up. Why did she have the impression that he was always watching her? Even when he paid her meaningless compliments his cold eyes remained remote, almost assessing.
‘The Terror is over—and in any case there’s no reason why I should fear him,’ Marisa reminded herself.
Marisa wished he would leave, but he surprised and angered her by lingering, his urbane voice murmuring polite civilities all the while. She must try to remember that he was here tonight as the duke of Otranto and not in his capacity as chief of police. What a ridiculous thought; what did she have to feel guilty about? Funny—now she almost found herself wishing that Napoleon would arrive and “rescue” her!
“I wonder, mademoiselle, if I might have the honor of taking you in to supper? If you have not already promised it to someone else, that is.”
Taken aback, she could not find anything to say. Looking at her aunt for support she found that Edmée’s attention was elsewhere. Her heart sinking, Marisa saw a satisfied smile cross Fouché’s thin lips as he drew up a chair to seat himself beside her.
“I am excessively flattered and grateful that you should be kind enough to spare me a little of your time. Do you know, mademoiselle, that you are a fascinating enigma? I am sure I cannot be the only admirer to be curious about you! Yes, I must confess that I am intrigued….”
Growing hot and cold by turns, Marisa was forced to listen as his soft voice went on and on, his eyes holding her pinned in place like a helpless butterfly against a wall.
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