Time for Eternity by Susan Squires

whatever it was. Was she afraid she would succumb to the wicked duc’s wiles? A sense of urgency and dread crept over her that was almost overwhelming. Tonight. She ’d get through tonight, do what she must, and then be away.
    Because a man so attractive, so dangerous somehow, could break her heart in the worst possible way if she let him.
    Where were these thoughts coming from? Françoise shook her head to clear it.
    She might have had a schoolgirl’s crush, but she was in no danger of actually falling in love with Monsieur le Duc. He was nobility of the first consequence, just the type who always looked down on her, and wild to a fault, irresponsible. He lived his life as though there were no Terror, no slow dying of the hope that the ideals of the Revolution would save man from himself. He didn ’t use his influence to push France back into the right course. He cared for no one, not even the prime articles he mounted as his mistresses. Françoise may have daydreamed about the handsome devil next door worshipping at her feet, but in the cold light of reality, the devil was much more stubborn and despicable than her daydreams. Not someone she could care for.
    And not someone who would have the slightest interest in a dull and virtuous girl, of no birth, whose looks were well enough but who was not a beauty, inexperienced and unfashionably dressed. He must be positively laughing at her fear that he would take advantage of her virtue.
    She sighed. In some way that was … depressing. But … in another way it was a relief. What interest would he have in her?
    Which made his offer of sanctuary most puzzling. But one she need not fear to take advantage of for a few hours.
    She looked up and found him watching her. She realized she had been staring at the Aubusson carpet. She sat down again in the wing chair. “Very well. I accept your kind offer.”
    “I am never kind.” The duc unfolded himself from the chair and pulled the bell rope.
    Gaston materialized as though from thin air. “Your grace?”
    “Show Mademoiselle …” He realized he did not know her name and looked to her.
    “Suchet,” she supplied.
    “Ah, yes. Show Mademoiselle Suchet to a suitable room so she may refresh herself before dinner. A room off the west hall, Gaston, if you please.” He gave Gaston a sharp glance. “I suppose you could not procure a female attendant upon short notice?”
    Gaston showed not the slightest dismay at this odd command. In fact he looked confident and … pleased. “Of course I can, your grace.”
    “Ahhh. Not something beyond your powers.” His grace seemed disappointed.
    “No, your grace.” Gaston bowed. “If Mademoiselle will come with me …”
    How would he pass her off as his ward when his servants knew he was ignorant of even her name, she had no idea. Perhaps they were forced to discretion through fear.
    “And Gaston, see that Fanchon is here tomorrow afternoon for fittings for the girl.”
    Gaston blanched.
    “Ahhh. Finally a task worthy of your talents, I see.” Avignon turned away as though they didn’t exist and downed his brandy in a single gulp.
    Françoise followed the stiff-backed majordomo out the door. He stopped and whispered to the young footman who had let them in. The handsome lad with a red queue of hair, unpowdered like his master’s, nodded and scurried to the back of the house.
    Gaston bowed, his face neutral. “Mademoiselle?” Then he turned and walked sedately up the grand staircase. Françoise followed. She had no choices here. She was about to become, at least for tonight, the Duc d’Avignon’s ward. May God protect her soul.
    Henri Foucault, Duc d’Avignon, stared at the closed door. What the hell was he thinking? She was an innocent, for God’s sake.
    And that was a recipe for disaster. She’d fall in love with him. They always did. Attractive as she was, he didn ’t dally with innocents. He looked up at the painting over the fireplace, an old hunting scene. Fifteenth