“Do you never look in your mirror? Your eyes are full of mystery, seeming to hold a knowledge as old as Eve.”
“Am I to be judged by my eyes? How unkind of you. And you’ve thought thus of me from the very first? But Eve herself was virtuous before the Fall.”
He seemed to be wrestling with his emotions. At length, he took her hand in his, clasped it tightly in his firm grip. “If that is so, Marie-Rouge, you’re to be prized more than ever. Let me speak to your father.”
She gaped, surprised by the suddenness of his proposal. “Marriage?”
He smiled. “I scarcely think, from all I’ve heard, that I should care to ask your father’s advice on the playing of cards! Yes. Marriage.”
Now the moment had come, why did she hesitate? It was unexpected, but what she’d been hoping for. “Sans-Souci is not a…a fine château,” she stammered. “I’m scarcely a rich prize.”
“No man could want more. My land is good, my holdings are as fine as any in this realm. I can marry to please myself.”
She thought: He never spoke of love. It shouldn’t matter to her, in view of her own feelings toward a good marriage. Still… “ Would I please you?” she asked softly.
His eyes glittered with passion; he kissed her hard, his mouth devouring hers. It took her a moment to catch her breath. “I want to possess you,” he growled. “To know that you’re mine alone! Give me your answer. Let me speak to your father!”
“I—I don’t know…” What was the matter with her? Hadn’t his kiss moved her, made her yearn for more?
“Is there another man who claims your heart?” he rasped.
She hesitated, wondering whether it was a sudden flash of jealousy she’d seen in his eyes. “Of course not, Arsène. But…it’s so soon. We scarcely know each other. It’s hardly a week! How can we decide so soon?”
“From the moment I saw you, I swore to have you. Long before we met. If marriage is the way to win you, to claim your virtue, then I want you in marriage. It’s as simple as that.”
She was torn with conflicting emotions. “Give me a day or two. Time to think. Ask me again on Thursday.”
He stood up and put on his coat. “I’ll not be here on Thursday. I have business in Paris. I leave tomorrow.” He snapped his fingers impatiently, signaling his servant to begin gathering up the picnic. It was clear he was angry. Or hurt.
“When do you return?”
“When it suits me.” His voice was like ice.
“Surely you’ll be here for Monseigneur’s fête?” She held out her hands to him; with some reluctance he helped her to her feet.
“Perhaps.”
She put a gentle hand on his arm. He was scarcely to blame because she was filled with sudden misgivings! “Arsène, I beg you. Don’t be angry. Only give me time to look into my heart. I know the answer will be what you wish to hear. My father says I’m too sensible, too practical. I must weigh every decision, explore my heart fully.”
“I speak of passion. You speak of practicality,” he sneered. “It’s not very flattering.” He gestured toward the château. “Unless you insist otherwise, I’ll not escort you to your rooms.”
Conscience-stricken at the pain she was causing him, she tried to be reassuring. “When you return from Paris,” she said softly, “you may speak to my father.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I shall. Perhaps not.” He turned on his heel and strode away across the lawn, his back rigid with injured pride.
She bit her lip, cursing her own indecision, half tempted to run after him and fling herself into his arms.
Tintin was bubbling with happiness when she returned, heavy-hearted, to their rooms. His pursuit of the widow was going well. At sight of his dear face, wreathed in smiles, Rouge shook off her gloom. She perched on his bed, smiling in pleasure, as François helped him dress for the evening. He was extolling the virtues of his lover
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