Read Online BLUE BAYOU ~ Book I (historical): Fleur de Lis by Parris Afton Bonds - Free Book Online
Authors: Parris Afton Bonds
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contralto that charmed all near enough to hear.
Her cool beauty attracted attention in a court where beauty was mandatory. Only Philippe knew that her aloofness was a facade. Having been ra ised in the provinces, she had been unprepared for the unrestraint and sophistication of court. When dealing with the unfamiliar or when uncertain, she became increasingly cool and distant. She was clever by half, an attribute of which he sometimes despaired, but how could he fail to be enchanted by her?
Natalie tilted her head to one side, allowing his lips access to the depression created by her collarbone.
“Philippe,” she breathed.
“ Oui, chérie ?”
“I am with child.”
Her voice was so low, lower than usual, that at first he thought he had not understood her. One look into the clear depths of her eyes convinced him otherwise. His fingers tightened on her shoulders, pearly and bare. “ Corbleu !” he gasped, then broke out in delighted laughter. “When?”
Though twenty, with more than three years spent at the most licentious court in Europe, a blush managed to deepen her adroit application of rouge. “I think August.”
He drew her upright from the cushioned stool and held her against him. “I can’t believe my good fortune, Natalie! I have always known I was born beneath a lucky star.”
She tilted her head, eyeing him beguilingly from beneath the heavy fringe of lashes. “Must we go tonight, Philippe?”
He chuckled. “ Oui ! How else shall I so rapidly spread the good news? My uncle must be the first to know!”
A double line of coaches, all loaded with guests, turned the broad rue de Richelieu leading to the Palais Royal into a river of light. Outside the home of the regent of France, the roof was covered with candles and the marble fountains flowed with wine.
The masked ball was by invitat ion only, yet, if the usual number were issued, a woman could depend on her dress being torn by the crush. At the last ball, several people had actually died of heat or cold or fatigue or asphyxiation—or at least so went the gossip of Paris.
Arm in arm, Philippe and Natalie entered the main ballroom. Outside it might be winter, but inside spring had blossomed. The walls of pink marble and trellis work were filled with vine leaves, bunches of grapes, and flowers. Real palm trees, trunks garlanded with roses, flanked buffets draped with pink velvet fringed in gold. Everywhere one looked there were pictures and statues of the royal family.
Upon their entrance, those closest to the couple turned to stare. The new arrivals might be wearing demimasks, but they were immediately recognized as the Golden Couple. Only a dolt would not have heard of the enviable pair.
Both were blessed with that white-gold shade of hair that powder could never duplicate. Philippe accepted his beautifully chiseled features and ivory skin with complacency. He had long been Paris’s—no, France’s—most eligible bachelor until his marriage. That night Natalie thought he was particularly handsome in a coat of pale blue satin damasked within the bounds of good taste. Behind the matching demimask, his brown eyes caressed her with warm passion.
She counted herself more than merely fortunate to have married him. He was literally her paladin. Originally one of the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne’s court, a paladin had come to represent a heroic champion, a knight—and Philippe had been her knight since the afternoon he had ridden up to the Poissy Convent with his entourage of aristocratic ladies and their partners, noblemen of the court.
She had been gathering apples that had dropped from the branches outside the convent walls with Sister Beatrice. It had been impossible not to stare at the handsome Philippe, nor to be unaware of the tittering and sneers of the court ladies. Indignation had simmered in her. Why should she shrink? Was not her father of the noblesse campagnarde ? Was she not a Mortemart on her mother’s
Her cool beauty attracted attention in a court where beauty was mandatory. Only Philippe knew that her aloofness was a facade. Having been ra ised in the provinces, she had been unprepared for the unrestraint and sophistication of court. When dealing with the unfamiliar or when uncertain, she became increasingly cool and distant. She was clever by half, an attribute of which he sometimes despaired, but how could he fail to be enchanted by her?
Natalie tilted her head to one side, allowing his lips access to the depression created by her collarbone.
“Philippe,” she breathed.
“ Oui, chérie ?”
“I am with child.”
Her voice was so low, lower than usual, that at first he thought he had not understood her. One look into the clear depths of her eyes convinced him otherwise. His fingers tightened on her shoulders, pearly and bare. “ Corbleu !” he gasped, then broke out in delighted laughter. “When?”
Though twenty, with more than three years spent at the most licentious court in Europe, a blush managed to deepen her adroit application of rouge. “I think August.”
He drew her upright from the cushioned stool and held her against him. “I can’t believe my good fortune, Natalie! I have always known I was born beneath a lucky star.”
She tilted her head, eyeing him beguilingly from beneath the heavy fringe of lashes. “Must we go tonight, Philippe?”
He chuckled. “ Oui ! How else shall I so rapidly spread the good news? My uncle must be the first to know!”
A double line of coaches, all loaded with guests, turned the broad rue de Richelieu leading to the Palais Royal into a river of light. Outside the home of the regent of France, the roof was covered with candles and the marble fountains flowed with wine.
The masked ball was by invitat ion only, yet, if the usual number were issued, a woman could depend on her dress being torn by the crush. At the last ball, several people had actually died of heat or cold or fatigue or asphyxiation—or at least so went the gossip of Paris.
Arm in arm, Philippe and Natalie entered the main ballroom. Outside it might be winter, but inside spring had blossomed. The walls of pink marble and trellis work were filled with vine leaves, bunches of grapes, and flowers. Real palm trees, trunks garlanded with roses, flanked buffets draped with pink velvet fringed in gold. Everywhere one looked there were pictures and statues of the royal family.
Upon their entrance, those closest to the couple turned to stare. The new arrivals might be wearing demimasks, but they were immediately recognized as the Golden Couple. Only a dolt would not have heard of the enviable pair.
Both were blessed with that white-gold shade of hair that powder could never duplicate. Philippe accepted his beautifully chiseled features and ivory skin with complacency. He had long been Paris’s—no, France’s—most eligible bachelor until his marriage. That night Natalie thought he was particularly handsome in a coat of pale blue satin damasked within the bounds of good taste. Behind the matching demimask, his brown eyes caressed her with warm passion.
She counted herself more than merely fortunate to have married him. He was literally her paladin. Originally one of the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne’s court, a paladin had come to represent a heroic champion, a knight—and Philippe had been her knight since the afternoon he had ridden up to the Poissy Convent with his entourage of aristocratic ladies and their partners, noblemen of the court.
She had been gathering apples that had dropped from the branches outside the convent walls with Sister Beatrice. It had been impossible not to stare at the handsome Philippe, nor to be unaware of the tittering and sneers of the court ladies. Indignation had simmered in her. Why should she shrink? Was not her father of the noblesse campagnarde ? Was she not a Mortemart on her mother’s
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