Bride for a Night(38)

“We shall never agree.”

“You think not?” He waited until she lifted her head to meet his somber gaze. “We are not so different, you know.”

She stilled. “What do you mean?”

He paused, as if not entirely certain he wished to explain himself. Then, with a tiny shrug, he turned his gaze toward the children still darting about the courtyard.

“My father was an artist who caught the attention of King Louis,” he revealed in a soft, rigidly controlled voice. “He was commissioned to complete several sculptures for the Tuileries gardens.”

She studied his profile, sensing his long-buried pain. “He must be very talented.”

“He was.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “He has passed?”

“When I was just a boy.” A wistful smile curled his lips. “Thankfully, I managed to salvage a few of his pieces.”

Her annoyance with Jacques was forgotten as she stepped forward and laid a comforting hand on his arm. She had been devastated by the loss of her mother at a young age. No child should have to endure such pain.

“I would love to see them.”

“Then you shall.” He turned to meet her sympathetic expression. “He would have approved of you.”

She shifted uneasily beneath his intent gaze. “What happened?”

He paused, clearly unaccustomed to sharing his past. Then he heaved a deep sigh.

“My mother had been an actress before wedding my father and she was…” His expression softened. “Exquisite.”

“That I can well believe.” His own beauty was potent.

He gave a dip of his head. “Merci, ma petite. Unfortunately, beauty can often be a curse for women.”

“A curse?”

She blinked at his odd claim. Was beauty not an essential quality for a woman? God knew that she had suffered the consequences of daring to be less than lovely.

“My father was invited by the king to visit for several weeks at Versailles,” Jacques explained. “He was, of course, delighted. An artist must depend upon the patronage of those with wealth. He hoped to acquire additional commissions.”

“Did you travel with him?”

“No, I remained at our home in Paris with my tutor, but my mother joined him at the palace.” His jaw clenched. “Within a few days she had caught the eye of the Comte de Rubell.”

Talia bit her bottom lip, a sick sensation forming in the pit of her stomach.

“Oh.”

“Being a member of nobility the Comte naturally assumed that my mother should be honored to warm his bed. He could not accept her rebuffs.”


It was, unfortunately, a too familiar story.

Women without the protection of wealth or powerful connections would always be at the mercy of unscrupulous men.

Of course, even wealth did not necessarily protect a woman from being compelled to obey the demands of an overbearing male, she grimly acknowledged.

“Did he…force her?”

Pure hatred flared through Jacques’s eyes. “That was his intention when my father arrived and stuck the bastard with his sword.”

“Good for him,” Talia said with staunch approval.

His lips twisted. “It was not a fairy tale with my father as the hero, ma petite. Although his attack caused no more than a flesh wound, he was taken to the Bastille and condemned to death.”

She sucked in a harsh breath, horrified by the story.

“Jacques, I am so sorry.”

“As am I.” He took a moment, raw emotion tightening his features before he struggled to regain command of his composure. “My father was a hardworking, decent man of honor who was killed as if he were no more than a stray dog.”