The Deception (Baron 3)

He sighed, seeming not to notice her shift, and replied in French, “Even if they are with their husbands, they feel compelled to flirt with me. It’s very distressing. I simply don’t understand, Evangeline. I do nothing untoward to bring them to me.”

She laughed, unable not to. “Oh, bother, Papa. I have never seen you distressed in my life. You adore the attention. And you know very well that all you have to do to bring the ladies to your side is to simply look straight ahead with no expression at all on your face. You could probably be drooling, and they would still come to you.

“Now, tell me. Did you speak only about your philosophers when the dozen ladies told you how very handsome you are?”

He said with great severity, “Naturally. I spoke tonight of Rousseau. A dunderhead, but his ideas give one some pause, in a manner of speaking. Not much, really, but he is French. Thus one must pay him some attention, occasionally.”

She couldn’t stop laughing. Her father merely looked at her, his handsome head slightly tilted to the side, a mannerism they shared. When she finally wiped her eyes, she said, “You are the best papa in the whole world. I love you. Please don’t ever change.”

“Your mother, bless her sweet heart, was the only one who tried to change me.”

Evangeline, still chuckling, said, “My mother simply tried to pry something out of her husband other than ramblings of a metaphysical nature. Now, I am given to understand that it is a wife’s duty to gather her husband’s attention to herself and not let him ramble off too often seeking answers to unanswerable questions.”

“You mock me, my girl, but since you are so very dear to me, I will forgive you.” He sat back in the chair, set his hands on his knees, and continued after a moment. “You did not enjoy yourself this evening, ma fille. You were surrounded by all the young people, all the young gentlemen admired you greatly, and you danced every dance. I only managed to snag one with you. And my dear Henri was gratifyingly attentive.”

“There is nothing gratifying about Henri. He is more persistent than a hungry gull, and more stubborn than our goat, Dorcas, in Kent, and his hands are sometimes damp. If he would just realize that there are other things in this vast world besides his hor

ses, trying to feel my bottom, the income from his rents, and the prospect of adding me to his possessions, perhaps I could remain in his company for more than five minutes without wanting to smack him.”

“You said a lot there, Evangeline, but naturally all I heard is that he is trying to seduce you. Your bottom? Oh, dear, I suppose I will have to speak to the boy.”

“He is no boy. He is twenty-six.” “Oui, but that is very young for a man. It has always been evident that boys take longer to ripen than girls. It is unfortunate, but it is evidently God’s plan. Henri is perhaps a bit foolish, but he will mature as he gains years. Henri is high in his family’s favor. He now manages the family estate whilst his uncle spends all his time with King Louis in Paris. This will mature Henri, that is what his uncle told me.

“And, my dear child, you are nearly twenty years old. It’s long past time for you to take a husband. You have been ripe enough for two years now. Yes, a husband is just what you need. I’ve been too selfish.” “No, I’ve been the selfish one. Why would I wish to marry, Papa, when I have you?”

“You have never been in love,” he said, a magnificent frown furrowing his brow and making his beautiful gray eyes glitter with humor. “You would never think to say such a stupid thing if you had.”

She was dead serious now, leaning toward him, her hair falling over her shoulder. “I cannot see that marriage is such a wonderful thing. All the ladies who swoon over you, what of their husbands? What of love with them? It seems to me that marriage is simply a way for a lady to go from her father’s house to her husband’s house; the only difference is that with her husband she’s expected—indeed, it’s demanded of her that she produce children and obey her husband’s every whim. I don’t think so, Papa.”

Monsieur de Beauchamps just shook his head. She was stubborn, his daughter, just like her dear mother, Claudia, who’d dug in her English heels more times than he could begin to remember. That brought a thought. Could it be that Evangeline was even more stubborn than her lovely mother had been? Could it be that she was as stubborn as her great-aunt Marthe? He must take a firm hand; he didn’t like it, but it was his duty. He had to sound unutterably serious. “My child, you must be set onto the proper road in your thinking. Love isn’t necessary for a successful marriage.”

“You weren’t in love with Mama?”

“Oh, yes, but as I said, it isn’t necessary. A similarity of thought, of values, of philosophies, that is what is necessary. A certain respect for each other. Nothing more.”

“I never heard Mama agree with you on anything, yet I heard the two of you laughing many times when you were alone in your bedchamber. I used to listen with my ear pressed against the door when I was young. Bessie, one of the maids, caught me, and told me never, ever to do that again. And then she blushed fiery red.” Evangeline laughed at her father’s own rise in color. “It’s all right, Papa. As you said, I’m nearly twenty years old, old enough to know a bit about what happens between a husband and wife. But as I said, as far as I know, neither of you ever agreed on anything, even down to what you had for dinner. Mama hated sauces, and you hated to see a piece of meat naked.

“Mutual respect? I don’t want a marriage like that, Papa. Besides, Henri is so very un-Eng—” She stopped cold.

“Ah,” said her father.

She gave him a smile that was on the sheepish side. She fanned her hands in front of her. “The truth is, many times words fail me when I speak of Henri.”

“Perhaps you would wish to say that poor Henri is so very un-English?” Monsieur de Beauchamps regarded his daughter from beautiful deep gray eyes. He felt a surge of concern. He knew with perfect clarity in that moment that his daughter would never find contentment in his country. But she would try to pretend, for him. No, he was wrong. He was tired. She would come around. Hadn’t he finally given in and assumed contentment for England? He’d spent more years there than she had lived.

“Papa, I’m sorry, truly, but I would rather depart this earth a withered spinster than marry Henri Moreau. Then there are Etienne Dedardes and Andre Lafay—they’re oily, Papa, yes, that’s exactly what they are. Their eyes don’t meet yours when they’re speaking to you. Oh, I don’t know, they’re nice, I suppose, but they’re just not to my liking. And their politics, surely they shouldn’t speak of the king as they do.” Then she gave a sublimely Gallic shrug, most unlike, he thought with a fleeting smile, her English mother.

“There has been so much change, Evangeline. Louis has not behaved as he ought since his return to France. As much as I deplore it, I understand that many Frenchmen feel betrayed by his stupidity, his excesses, his lack of understanding of the situation here.”

“I don’t see that the common folk can lay claim to the high road. They themselves are so cursed petty toward each other. And they have the gall to mock the English, who saved them. I must tell you it makes me quite angry.” She shut her mouth, rubbing her palm over her forehead. “I’m sorry, Papa. I’m tired, that’s it. My tongue doesn’t always obey my brain when I’m tired. I’m a witch. Forgive me.”

Monsieur de Beauchamps rose and walked to his daughter. He lifted her out of her chair. He looked into her brown eyes, Claudia’s eyes, full and wide and so deep, a philosopher could find the meaning of some truths in them. He patted her shoulder and kissed her lightly, in his ritual manner, on both cheeks.

“You are beautiful, Evangeline. You are more beautiful on the inside than you are on the outside.” “I’m a pea hen and you know it. Compared to you, I’m not even a pea.”

He merely smiled, lightly rubbing his knuckles over her chin. “You are also too used to the stolid English. They are, I suppose, a comforting race, if one doesn’t mind being perpetually fatigued by their heavy meals and boring conversation.”

“So what you love about me is merely my French half? Surely, Mama never bored anyone.”