Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [85]
Wasting no time, he slid adroitly onto the other chair, lifting my feet into his lap. He clasped my silk-stockinged toes fervently against his crotch.
“Ah, ma petite! Such delicacy! Your beauty distracts me!”
I thought it must, if he was under the delusion that my feet were particularly delicate. Raising one to his lips, he nibbled at my toes.
“C’est un cochon qui vit dans la ville, c’est un cochon qui vit…”
I jerked my foot from his grasp and stood up hastily, rather impeded by my voluminous petticoats.
“Speaking of cochons who live in the city,” I said, rather nervously, “I don’t think my husband would be at all pleased to find you here.”
“Your husband? Pah!” He dismissed Jamie with an airy wave of the hand. “He will be occupied for some time, I am sure. And while the cat’s away.…come to me, ma petite souris; let me hear you squeak a bit.”
Presumably intending to fortify himself for the fray, the Vicomte produced an enameled snuffbox from his pocket, deftly sprinkled a line of dark grains along the back of his hand, and wiped it delicately against his nostrils.
He took a deep breath, eyes glistening in anticipation, then jerked his head as the curtain was suddenly thrust aside with a jangling of brass rings. His aim distracted by the intrusion, the Vicomte sneezed directly into my bosom with considerable vigor.
I shrieked.
“You disgusting man!” I said, and walloped him across the face with my closed fan.
The Vicomte staggered back, eyes watering. He tripped over my size-nine shoes, which lay on the floor, and fell headfirst into the arms of Jamie, who was standing in the doorway.
* * *
“Well, you did attract a certain amount of notice,” I said at last.
“Bah,” he said. “The salaud’s lucky I didna tear off his head and make him swallow it.”
“Well, that would have provided an interesting spectacle,” I agreed dryly. “Sousing him in the fountain was nearly as good, though.”
He looked up, his frown replaced with a reluctant grin.
“Aye, well. I didna drown the man, after all.”
“I trust the Vicomte appreciates your restraint.”
He snorted again. He was standing in the center of a sitting room, part of a small appartement in the palace, to which the King, once he had stopped laughing, had assigned us, insisting that we should not undertake the return journey to Paris tonight.
“After all, mon chevalier,” he had said, eyeing Jamie’s large, dripping form on the terrace, “we should dislike exceedingly for you to take a chill. I feel sure that the Court would be deprived of a great deal of entertainment in such a case, and Madame would never forgive me. Would you, sweetheart?” He reached out and pinched Madame de La Tourelle playfully on one nipple.
His mistress looked mildly annoyed, but smiled obediently. I noticed, though, that once the King’s attention had been distracted, it was Jamie on whom her gaze lingered. Well, he was impressive, I had to admit, standing dripping in the torchlight with his clothes plastered to his body. That didn’t mean I liked her doing it.
He peeled his wet shirt off and dropped it in a sodden heap. He looked even better without it.
“As for you,” he said, eyeing me in a sinister manner, “did I not tell ye to stay away from those alcoves?”
“Yes. But aside from that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you enjoy the play?” I asked politely.
“What?” He stared at me as though I had lost my mind on the spot.
“Never mind; it’s a bit out of your frame of reference. I only meant, did you meet anyone useful before you came to defend your marital rights?”
He rubbed his hair vigorously with a towel plucked from the washstand. “Oh, aye. I played a game of chess with Monsieur Duverney. Beat him, too, and made him angry.”
“Oh, that sounds promising. And who’s Monsieur Duverney?”
He tossed me the towel, grinning. “The French Minister of Finance, Sassenach.”
“Oh. And