America's First Daughter: A Novel(63)

Picturing such a scene, it was easy to imagine how passions might become inflamed. The king and his soldiers could slaughter the people’s representatives. The reformers might die in a single clash of new principles and ancient tradition. Their bravery became quite clear, and I wondered if they might’ve even deliberately taken this stand knowing their deaths might come to pass. Would they, in their fervor, speak of my father’s authorship of their new constitution?

Finally, a sense of alarm shivered down my spine. “Where is Papa now?”

“On his way. We came in different coaches because we feared unrest in the city might spill over and block the roads. I ran the last bit because I had to see for myself that you were safe. And what do I find but you traipsing toward danger!”

He’d come . . . for me? Hugging myself against the chill of the rain, I shook my head. “I only wanted to find you. I’ve been wanting to speak to you most desperately. . . .” I trailed off because, given what he’d just told me, my romantic longing sounded suddenly petty even to my own sixteen-year-old ears.

Nevertheless, his expression softened and he stepped closer. “No doubt, you’ve felt quite abandoned in recent days. What do you wish to speak about so desperately?”

My gaze flickered away. “I beg you to forget it, entirely. I see now that it’s a trifling matter.”

He yanked his soaked neck cloth open from where it had tightened. “Miss Jefferson, is my present state of agitation not enough to convince you that nothing is a trifling matter to me when it concerns you?”

I’d rehearsed what I’d say, how I’d get answers in the most subtle ways. But now that he was waiting so expectantly and standing so close, my heart pounded and I blurted, “You went to Saint-Germain.”

He nodded. “Yes. After being gone for eight months, I wanted to look in on—”

“The Belle of Saint-Germain,” I interrupted, the heat of jealousy burning my cheeks. “You professed love to me, but you went to see her.”

The reproach was so plain that he couldn’t mistake it. Still, he seemed untroubled. “Indeed. She’s a dear friend and I’d not seen her in nearly a year.”

His words were entirely reasonable, but I couldn’t quell my hurt feelings. “Do you claim your relations with her entirely innocent?”

“They are now.”

My mouth fell agape because in making this admission, he’d skillfully denied me an opportunity to ask more without resorting to indelicacy. Then he made matters worse by meeting my eyes directly. “Ask me, Patsy. Go on. If it troubles you, ask me.”

I could do nothing but stammer. “Were you, was she—”

“You don’t have to find the polite words. Not with me.”

The indecent question burst out of me. “Was she your lover?”

“Yes.” He didn’t even have the grace to wince. “I’ve protected her identity because she’s married now, and they have together two young sons. But I don’t want you turning little mysteries into great obstacles between us, so you may as well know that her name is Lilite Royer.”

I didn’t care what her name was! Only that she’d known, intimately, the man I loved. That stabbed at a place inside me I wasn’t even fully aware existed. Still, this knowledge wasn’t enough. I cringed to hear myself interrogate him. “And what of your duchess? They say you’re infatuated with her.”

His smile disconcerted me. “Along with every other man in Paris. But the beautiful Rosalie is too good and dutiful to betray her marriage bed. Even if she could, it wouldn’t be for an infatuation. She’d never have a man who cannot offer his heart . . . and I cannot, for I’ve given my heart to you. I love you, Patsy.”

The whole world stopped. The smell of the carriage house disappeared. The sound of the rain faded. The humidity of the air was no more. The whole world narrowed to the two of us and his declaration. He loved me. His answer was delectably sweet, but instead of letting it melt away like chocolate on my tongue, I breathlessly demanded, “Why do you love me, if you do. . . .”

“If I love you?” He snorted. “By God, have I taught you to suspect me or is it simply your nature? Of course, that nature is how you won my heart. Ferreting out spies. Stealing letters not meant for your eyes. Prying into facts no other girl would dare. You’re like me. Skulking about in the shadow of great moments and great men, doing for them what they cannot do for themselves. Your father doesn’t understand what a champion he has in you, but I do. I’ve said it before; hiding beneath all that flimsy lace beats the heart of an Amazon. And that is why I love you.”

This answer nearly swept my knees out from under me. “Oh, Mr. Short—”

“William.” He cupped my cheek. “Call me William.”

The touch of his damp hand, fiery against my cold cheek, made me forget we were quarreling. “William,” I whispered, testing it on my tongue for the first time, and tingling with delight. Then I tried it in French. “Guillaume.”

His eyes softened as he stroked a damp thumb over my cheekbone. “Patsy, I’ll never lie to you, because you cannot love me if you don’t know me truly. I’m guilty of indiscretions you’ve guessed and some you haven’t. There have been women before you, but on my honor, if you become my wife, there will be none after.”