Page 101 of Echo in the Wind

The comte d’Artois introduced Joanna to the queen’s ladies and the few gentlemen who had been invited to the queen’s picnic. For the most part, the dozen men and women were all young. Only a few looked to be over thirty. Two of those, the duchesse de Polignac and the princesse de Lamballe, the comte introduced as the queen’s closest friends.

All the others were similarly of the nobility save one, who Joanna quite enjoyed. Madame Lebrun was the queen’s portraitist and, except for her unpowdered brown hair and eyes, she could have been the queen’s sister in appearance and age.

Joanna would have liked to get to know her better, but it was not to be.

She was still speaking with the artist when the comte took her arm and pulled her away. “I must show you the gardens of the Petit Trianon.”

Having consumed two glasses of champagne, Joanna was feeling lightheaded and wished she had managed to eat another canapé, but she went with him. She did want to see the gardens.

They took the path that ran by a stream leading them toward a white folly shining in the distance. In the trees, she recognized the pleasant song of the goldfinch.

The folly stood on an island, its domed roof set upon Corinthian columns circling a statue.

“What is that structure?”

“Le temple de l’Amour, so appropriate for what I have in mind.”

“And what is that, Monsieur?”

He answered with a question. “How long have you known Saintonge, my lady?”

“Several months, why?”

“Ah, yes. I recall now he told my brother he met you at a reception for Pitt.” D’Artois took her hand and pressed it to his lips. “I find you not only beautiful, Lady Joanna, but sensual and with a keen wit. Your aristocratic birth gives you the speech of a lady and the graceful carriage of a queen. Above all that, you speak français remarkably well. To the point, a perfect mistress.”

Joanna quickly retrieved her hand as her anger rose. Of course he, like the queen, would assume that she was Donet’s mistress, but should he be so cavalier as to speak of it? “What business is it of yours, Monsieur, if I choose to become a man’s mistress?”

“None at all,” he answered blithely, “unless, of course, I want you to be mine. Which I do.” His manner was easy, even gay, but behind it she sensed a serious intent.

Joanna coughed and pressed her hand to her chest. “Surely you jest! I hardly know you. We only met last night.” She would have been righteously offended for her virtue had she not given herself to Donet but, since she was his mistress in truth, she could only despise the man who would try and take her from him.

“I know all I need to,” d’Artois replied indolently. He steered her into the woods that lay next to the folly and pressed her up against the wide trunk of an oak tree. “You obviously have an affinity for Frenchmen, Mademoiselle. But why would you want to be the mistress of Saintonge, a man with a dubious past, when you could be the mistress of a prince of royal blood?”

Before she could respond, he grabbed her upper arms, pressed his body into hers and kissed her. Not a gentle kiss but a demanding possessive one. She turned her head to the side to avoid his lips and they slid to her throat. “Ah, Lady Joanna, I think I have only to make love to you and you will be mine.” Raising his head, he gazed lustily into her eyes. She burned with anger. “You need not be shy. I can feel your rising passion. I can see it in your eyes.”

She pushed at his chest with both hands, but it did little good. He was stronger and very determined. “That is not passion, sir, that is anger!”

“We will see if you feel the same once I have made love to you. There are rooms in the queen’s house in the Petit Trianon that would avail.” He tried to kiss her again, but even with her mind fogged with champagne, she was very clear about the man she loved.

She fought harder, twisting in his arms. “Let go of me! The only man I want is Jean Donet. I care not for royal blood!”

The sound of a sword sliding from a scabbard caused d’Artois to freeze. A blade touched his chin, the metal reflecting the sunlight filtering through the trees.

“Let the lady go, d’Artois, or I will be forced to speak to the king about your lack of manners for a guest of the queen.”

Donet. D’Artois blocked Joanna’s view but she thrilled at the sound of his voice. He had come!

The comte slowly lifted his chest from her and, with the point of the sword still touching his chin, turned to face a scowling Donet.

“We could duel for her, Saintonge,” said d’Artois. “You might lose. I was trained in the fencing salle of the master, Monsieur Donnatieu.”

Donet lowered his sword from d’Artois’ chin but held it ready. “I, too, was trained by Donnatieu, but since then I’ve had much practice killing men. If I were to fight you, d’Artois, it would be to the death. Alas, as you are the king’s brother, I cannot kill you. Louis might not appreciate me spilling your royal blood.”

Freed from d’Artois, Joanna ran to Donet. He wrapped his free arm around her, drawing her close. She wept into his shoulder. “I don’t think I make a very good mistress.”

“I, for one,” said d’Artois, not in the least subdued, “think you would make me a fine mistress.”

“We are leaving,” said Donet in a voice as hard as the steel in his sword. “I trust you will not again bother my lady, Monsieur.”