Nina Beaumont - Surrender The Heart

The Marquise de Blanchard sat on a fragile, gilt armchair as if it were a throne, the passionate hatred in her eyes belying the arrogant coolness of her features. A short, jowly man stood behind her, his hand curved on the back of the chair, his dark coloring and the embonpoint that strained his waistcoat making it obvious that he owed his appearance only to his mother.

“I thought I made it quite clear last night that I wanted nothing to do with you,” the marquise began without preamble, not even bothering to wait until the footman had closed the door behind him.

“Your effrontery in calling on me is quite staggering.” She paused. “Almost as great as your effrontery in daring to use the Blanchard name.” Contemptuously she tipped her plump chin toward the salver where his card lay.

“I regret to disappoint you, but although my birth was not sanctioned by marriage, my father adopted me. It is all quite legal. As for calling on you, it would not have been my choice to do so, madame la marquise,” Chris said, lifting one broad shoulder in a lazy shrug. “It was, however, your choice whether you choose to receive me or not”.

“You should have him thrown out on his ear, ma- man.” The lines of ill-temper around Maurice de Blanchard’s mouth deepened. “You have absolutely no reason to acknowledge him like this.”

“Do I assume correctly that this is my half brother?”

Maurice straightened as if he had been prodded with a hot poker.

“What excruciatingly bad taste to even mention that we are—that we could be related,” he corrected quickly. “But what can one expect from a man raised among savages?”

“An interesting concept.” Chris’s mouth curved in a derisive smile. “It could be worthwhile to debate which one of us was raised among savages.” Ignoring the marquise’s outraged gasp, he continued. “As far as the question of our being related is concerned, perhaps you should ask—” his cool gaze flickered briefly to the marquise “— madame votre mére if we are.”

Although she understood his implication perfectly, it was that transient look that the marquise found truly insulting. Jumping up, she advanced toward him.

“I will not endure your vulgarities any longer, monsieur.” She waved at him with a heavily beringed hand. “State your business and decamp.”

“I am here at my father’s request.”

The marquise gave a snort of a laugh. “The wretch probably wants to mend his fences, as he did after his—” her small mouth curled “—mistress died.”

Chris stiffened. “I beg to correct you. After my mother’s death, my father wanted to mend his fences with his sister. Only with his sister.”

“And whom does he want to mend fences with this time?” She laughed.

“I must disappoint you, madame la marquise,” Chris said softly. “My father died four months ago.” Grief welled up within him to clog his throat, but he kept his expression tightly controlled. This he would not share with them.

“Charles is dead?”

Chris fell absurdly touched by her stricken whisper. Words of condolence rose to his lips, but before he could speak, he saw the look in her small, black eyes sharpen.

“You said you were here at his request. Did he leave—”

“Was there a—” Maurice stepped from behind the chair.

“No.” Chris looked from the marquise to her son. Neither one showed even a perfunctory sign of grief. He could have forgiven them that, he thought After all, his father had wronged them both. But he could not forgive the gleam of cupidity in their eyes.

“That is no more than was to be expected,” the marquise snapped. “He probably didn’t have a franc to his name.” Feeling the unsteadiness of her hands, she linked them tightly to stop the hateful trembling. That one moment of hope could redeem a lifetime of humiliation tinged her next words with an extra dose of acid.

“What are you doing here then?” she demanded. “Making a collection so that you can have masses said for his black soul?”

Chris tamped down the anger that rose within him—anger not for himself, but for the gentle man who had been his father. Yes, he had had his faults. Yes, he had committed his sins. But surely he had not deserved this crude vindictiveness.

“If my father did not have a franc to his name, then it was only because he signed all his property over to me when his health began to fail,” he said, keeping his voice neutral with some effort.

Suddenly the acute instincts that had enabled him to hold his own and better in a hundred rough-and-tumble card games had him lifting his head like a wild animal scenting danger. The tension in the room had changed, intensified. There was more than simple greed here, he thought. There was the smell of a card player down to his last chips who had drawn a poor hand. There was the smell of desperation.

“He requested only,” he continued without missing a beat, “that I travel to France to inform his wife and children of his death.”

“How very generous of him,” the marquise mocked.

“No, madame la marquise, only foolish.” Suddenly Chris felt very tired. “You see, he had not given up hope that I would someday find a bond with my—” he paused “—with his legitimate children.” He shrugged. “Per-haps he hoped that his death would be that bond.”

“Bond?” Maurice shrieked. “How dare you sneak into our home with some flimsy excuse.” His fists balled, he moved forward—a prudent two steps only. “You are probably nothing but a common thief looking for a target” His voice rose still higher. “I should have you arrested.”

“You would be ill-advised if you did,” Chris said softly.

Another insult on the tip of his tongue, Maurice de Blanchard opened his mouth. But the words died on his lips as he saw the warning in his half brother’s eyes.

Chris shifted his gaze to the marquise and bowed. “I consider my errand discharged and wish you a good day.”

Odile de Blanchard stared after her husband’s bastard. Oh, how she hated Charles, she thought. For leaving her for another woman and for fathering such a beautiful creature when—her gaze brushed over Maurice—he had given her such a sorry specimen of a son.

Chris dismissed his carriage. After the oppressive heat and scent of the Hdtel de Blanchard, he needed fresh, cool air. His cape slung carelessly over his shoulders against the light October drizzle, he began to walk.

The past hour had left an ugly taste in his mouth. He had expected bitterness, but even after his meeting with the marquise the previous evening, the personal animosity that he had encountered today had surprised him. What angered him most was that he had permitted himself to be dragged down to their level of making personally insulting remarks.

Well, it couldn’t be helped, he thought. He had never been a man to whine over mistakes made. Mistakes were something to be corrected, and if that was not possible, then you just had to live with them. And the past hour belonged definitely in the latter category.

Blanking out his mind with the willpower he had honed for years like a sharp blade, he covered block after block with his long stride.

Rounding a corner, he found himself on the quay. Aware for the first time of his surroundings, he crossed the road and stood at the low stone wall. Across the gray ribbon of the Seine was the stately facade of the Louvre, to his right the Ile de la Cité, the twin towers of Notre-Dame visible over the haphazard cluster of crooked walls and roofs.

It was strange, he mused, how clearly he remembered the city from his stay here twenty years ago. Only now that he was here did he realize how precisely every impression had stayed with him.