Marguerite's hand rose to cover her heart, her senses wracked by the barrage of emotions that assailed her at once.
Mon Dieu, he was still impossibly perfect, his body still lean, his countenance made more distinguished by the lines of time. Even the silver hair at his temples blended beautifully with the gold-an enhancement, not a detriment.
He glanced at the maid and sent her away with a flick of his wrist. She withdrew, closing the door behind her.
He stood unmoving for several moments, studying Marguerite with the same ravenous hunger, the same need to catalog every outward change. His enduring love struck her like a blow to the chest, stealing her breath and making her heart throb in her chest.
"Mon coeur," he said, bowing. "Forgive my delay. I took great pains to ensure that I was not seen or followed."
Philippe was exquisitely dressed for riding in tan-colored breeches that hugged powerful thighs and a dark blue coat with tails. He held his hat in both hands, carried low on his middle, like a shield.
"You look well," she managed, gesturing toward a slipper chair with a shaking hand.
"A facade, I'm afraid." He sat only when she did, choosing a position directly opposite her. "You, on the other hand, are beyond ravishing. More beautiful now than when you were mine."
"I am still yours," she whispered.
"Are you happy?"
"I am not unhappy."
He nodded, understanding.
"And you?" she queried.
"I survive."
He did not live. That broke her heart and a tear fell unbidden. "Do you wish we had never met?"
"Never would I wish such a thing," he said vehemently. "You have been the one light in my life."
She felt the same and told him so with her eyes.
"How ironic," he said softly, "that I joined the secret du roi in order to give my life meaning and instead it is the thing that took away my lone joy. If only I had waited for you. How different our lives would be now."
"Your wife…"
"She died." A tinge of regret weighted his tone.
"I heard." A fall from a horse while riding. Too much tragedy in their lives. A punishment, perhaps, for their indiscretion. "You have my sincere condolences."
"You have always been sincere," he said with a fond smile curving his mouth. "She was away with a lover at the time. I like to think she was happy in the end."
"I hope she was." I wish you were. But she did not say the words. There was no help for it, and wishing for things that could not be only added to the misery.
"You have two daughters."
"Now only one. One was lost to me two years ago." Marguerite breathed deeply. "They are the reason I asked you here tonight."
Sadness shadowed his features and she knew he'd hoped she might have sent for him for a different reason. He was a wise man, he would know that such a liaison would be agonizing for both of them, and yet he could not help but want it. She understood. Part of her wished he would seduce her, as they both knew he could. Make her mindless with lust so that her conscience could not intercede.
"Whatever you need, if it is in my power to give it to you, I shall."
"My eldest daughter met a man here in Paris. Simon Quinn. Have you heard of him?"
Philippe frowned. "Not that I can recall."
"He has somehow convinced her that there is a woman here in Paris who is identical to her, as her sister was, and that she goes by the same name. Lysette."
"To what aim?"
"Money, I believe." Her fingers smoothed nervously over the muslin of her gown. "I went to him earlier and offered him whatever he required to leave and not return. He did not decline."
"I sometimes think I should be grateful to have only sons. I am not certain I would tolerate fortune hunters well."
Marguerite's stomach clenched into a knot. "This has been my only experience in regard to my daughters. I am at a loss for how to manage the business. I must protect Lynette without alienating her."
"I admire your courage in facing this man. What can I do?"
"Can you tell me more about him? What would goad him to approach my daughter? He is a wealthy man by all appearances. He also confessed to Lynette that he was once an English spy. De Grenier assists the king only on the periphery and not in any covert capacity. We reside in Poland. What would he gain by an association with my daughter?"
"Is there any possibility that he truly cares for her? If she is even half as beautiful as her mother, any man would find her irresistible."
Marguerite gifted him with a sad smile. "Thank you. But if that were the case, why concoct the tale of this woman?"
"I do not know." Philippe bent forward. "Do you know who she is? Do you have a surname?"
She hesitated a moment, her fingers twisting in her lap. "Rousseau."
He drew back as if struck. "Mon Dieu… You believe this woman is a relation of mine?"
Edward lay for a moment in the darkness, attempting to discern what had woken him. When a sob rent the still night, he leaped to his feet, abandoning the chaise he slept upon to cross the short distance to Corinne's bed.
He lit the single taper on the nightstand and sat upon the edge of the mattress, his hand reaching out to touch her burning forehead. Tears coursed from the corners of her eyes and wet the hair at her temples, and her chest heaved with gasping cries.
Another nightmare. In the past two nights, she'd had several, all resulting in quiet sobbing and pleas for mercy.
Was every night of her life like this? Were these fever dreams, or the torment of the damned?
His chest tight with sympathy for her plight, Edward dipped a clean cloth in the bowl of water by the taper and wringed out the excess liquid. With soothing strokes, he wiped at her forehead and cheeks, unable to stop the river of tears or ease her distress.
Standing, he caught up the end of the counterpane and tossed it back, baring her night rail-covered body to the chill of the evening air. She whimpered and curled into a ball.
He cursed, hating the sight of her cowering, filled with fury by the violent quivering of her lips and the fist she pressed against them in a vain attempt to stem the sounds of pain spilling from her.
His hands fisted, the water from the cloth showering to the rug by his bare feet.
Why was he not running far, far away? Corinne was so damaged he wondered if she would ever be right again. He had not slept a single hour's length of time in four days, which diminished his capability to do his job, the one thing in his life that held any meaning to him.
"No cunt, however tempting, is worth this trouble," he growled.
Her shoulders jerked in time to each of his harshly stated words and remorse filled him. Sighing, Edward returned to her. He set the cloth in the bowl, then climbed into the bed beside her. He sat up, his back to the gilded headboard, his long legs stretched out before him.
Settled comfortably, he reached for her, warding off her blows and vicious curses, confining her wrists in one of his hands and hauling her against his side.
Corinne struggled with stunning force for so slender a woman, her fear giving her unnatural strength. But Edward held fast, his jaw clenched against the occasional painful strike of kicking feet, his limbs kept carefully away from snapping teeth.
Weakened by fever, lack of breath, and sufficient sustenance, she tired quickly and soon collapsed against him, coughing and shivering.
He began to sing then, a simple song remembered from his childhood. The sound of his voice seemed to calm her. He pondered that even as he continued.
Eventually, she clung to him. Her small hands fisting in his shirt, her cheek atop his chest. She still smelled like a drunkard, but he did not care. She was a slight, sweet weight against him, her curves molding perfectly to his hardness.