A/N: This story follows "The Company of Men" and "Idle Pursuits," and is the final two-part part of this Francis/Nardin diversion that quite got away from me. It references events in episode 1.15, "The Darkness." May it please.
Indulgences
Lord Castleroy was the last person Francis expected to find sharing in Philipe's debauchery, when he walked in on the two of them in the library. Yet there Castleroy was on the settee, the top clasps of his doublet undone, and looking up at the count who loomed before him with an expression of enrapt enthusiasm in his eyes. . . .
Until Philipe moved to the side, and Francis could clearly see that it was only a book he had left in the lord's hand.
"Ah, Prince Francis!" Castleroy said, brightening when he saw the dauphin standing in the doorway. "Please, come in and join us. We were just trying to find some light topic of conversation to distract us from our dismal performances this First Light. Not that I would want to burden you with the troubles of a perpetual bachelor. . . ."
Philipe shot Francis a knowing smile at that comment, stifling a laugh—clearly, it said, not everyone present particularly minded their bachelorhood—but Francis pretended for Castleroy's sake he had not seen it.
He said to the man, "I am very sorry to hear about your dinner with Lady Greer. Though it might not seem to count for much, given my current circumstances, I know how it feels to have one's best offer rejected, despite knowing with all your heart how right it is." Even if Francis wasn't sure Mary's lady-in-waiting would agree that marrying a man twice her age was her idea of right. Nevertheless, "You have my sympathy."
Castleroy thanked him for that. "If what it takes to make me realize she's beyond my reach is a humiliation as sounding as that which I received the other night, I guess I had better learn my lesson from it. But alas, I've always been too stubborn to know what's good for me. I cannot stop thinking of her still.
"Thankfully, Count Nardin," he said with a glance up at Philipe, "has found just the book to distract me in your father's library. You don't mind if I borrow it for a little while?"
"Somehow," Philipe said while Francis gave Castleroy his consent, "I get the impression the prince would like to speak to me alone."
Francis hadn't said a word to indicate it, but it would be just like Philipe to guess his wishes unspoken. His light blue eyes held Francis's across the room, and Francis was grateful if all Castleroy could read from that scrutinizing gaze was that whatever it was they wished to discuss, it was of a sensitive, private nature.
He hurried to excuse himself from the room, thanking them both again for the loan of the book.
And when the door was shut behind him, Francis raised his brow at Philipe. "Lord Castleroy, now?"
"Normally I'd say it wasn't what it looked like," Philipe said, "but this time it's exactly what it looked like: two men having a riveting exchange about the pepper plant and where one might find it."
"And for a moment I actually thought he had sought you out looking to forget a certain auburn-haired young lady who rejected his advances."
That earned Francis a chuckle. "Unless the young lady in question is particularly hirsute above the neck for her sex, I doubt I would be any sort of consolation. Though I appreciate your high esteem of my ability to make a man forget his former cares."
But Philipe sobered, and stretched himself out on the settee Lord Castleroy had so recently abandoned.
"I suppose you already know Lady Lola has turned down my offer of marriage," he drawled, as if the answer were of little consequence to him. Though, Francis noticed, he watched the prince's expression carefully as he spoke.
Francis was determined to reveal nothing. "I hadn't heard anything final, but I can't say it isn't for the best. For both of you."
"I have to disagree. I liked the girl. Quite a bit, actually, which rather surprised me. Our minds are very much alike, hers and mine, and I am sure our domestic life together would have been filled with wonderfully witty conversation. I even felt that we could grow to love each other. In time."
Francis could hardly believe Philipe's audacity. "You know that isn't true. Not in the ways that really matter, anyway. You might grow to love her, but never desire her. If you had half as much respect for Lola as you claim, then you would have done well not to lead her on with unrealistic expectations."
It wasn't so much the first part of that observation that Philipe took exception to, as the last part of it. He had kept his expectations perfectly realistic, he said, and he would wager Lola had too. "The truth is, she couldn't do much better socially than to marry me. She could have given me children, and, with my inheritance secure, I would have shown her the continent, granted her anything her heart desired—"
"Except you."
That gave Philipe pause, but only for a beat. "I'm sure somewhere in Europe there would have been at least one man who could make her happy in whatever capacity I wasn't able. Or woman, for that matter. It would have made no difference to me, so long as she was content and discreet. Perhaps that could have even been a possibility for us both. I trust she would have been practical enough to recognize that the benefits of our arrangement outweighed its deficiencies.
"But now the two of us are blessedly unattached again," Philipe said with ample sarcasm, "and I with time to find someone else as ideal as Lady Lola—which will not be easy—ticking away from me. The only way she could have been more ideal is if she were already with child!"
He laughed at that. And though perhaps he meant nothing insulting by it, Francis couldn't help feeling stung that the young woman Philipe was speaking of so crudely, as if he were lamenting a breeding mare he had failed to acquire, was a dear friend. If for no other reason than that, Francis told himself, he had made the right decision for Lola, and shut his mind to the doubt that had only now, since speaking to Philipe again, begun to resurface.
"Well!" Philipe said in a rush of a sigh as he stood, startling Francis from his thoughts. "Since I've already come all this way, I certainly don't intend to leave empty-handed. First Light has come and gone, and as it's highly unlikely I'll be going home with an engagement now, I believe you owe me for my trouble, Francis."
"I owe you?" An uneasy chuckle. "Mary invited you to this little meet-and-greet—completely without my knowledge, I might add." If it had been up to Francis, he would have told Philipe outright not to come.
"And you expect me to believe you had nothing to do with Lady Lola's sudden change of heart?"
Well, it would not have served any purpose to deny it. "I thought she should know what she would be agreeing to," Francis said, meeting the other's gaze brazenly. "She doesn't know everything, I didn't go babbling about your . . . preferences. I at least did you that kindness. But I thought she could do better. Find someone who could love her as a husband should."
"You could have given her the truth of it and let her make up her own mind. I would have at least understood the reason for her rejection then."
True, Francis supposed he could have done that. . . .
"Unless you have some other reason to care about Lady Lola's happiness so much. Some reason to keep her close to court?"
Francis was sure his face must have turned bright pink. It might have been idle speculation on Philipe's part, but the truth of it was hard to deny. And he resented that the count had struck so close to the mark. "I'm not sure I like what you're implying. And so what if I do care whether Lola is happy in her marriage, as one friend would care about another? I am not the type of man to play match-maker with mistakes I made before I was wed just so they'll go away and leave me with a clean conscience."
"And am I supposed to be flattered or offended that you rank me among your mistakes?"
"Ha! As if anything offends you—"
"You were certainly in a hurry to make that mistake again the last time we met. After you were wed."
Heart leaping, Francis's gaze flickered to the door, all of a sudden just wanting to make sure it was completely closed, and that no one had heard Philipe's mention of his infidelity. But he deserved that, he supposed. Even now there was something about Philipe's charismatic character that drew Francis in toward him. If anything, it seemed a shame to him that the count's talents as a lover were wasted on men, having some knowledge now of what Philipe's future bride, whoever she should be, would be missing.
But that didn't mean he didn't want to get rid of the count as soon as possible. "What do you want?"
Until then, Philipe had been steadily closing the distance between them, and Francis had been content to let him. Nor did he pull away when Philipe hooked an arm round his waist, though Francis knew he should have found the will power to do so.
The words uttered huskily against his ear sent a rush of blood straight to his loins: "I think you know."
"Fine."
All this time, Francis could have tried anything to throw Philipe off his guard, and that was all it took? The count looked at him when he pulled back as if he couldn't trust his own ears. "Really. No blackmail, no bargaining. You agree to my demands, just like that?"
"Why not?" Francis was trying his damnedest to be nonchalant about the whole matter, as he went over to the settee and threw himself on it. But he could feel his limbs start to tremble with the anticipation of Philipe's touch despite himself, like a drunkard too long without a drink finding a full goblet within reach. "I certainly enjoy myself when I'm with you—"
"It must be difficult for you to admit that."
"—and I never have to do a thing, for a pleasant change of pace. Come on, then," Francis said, since Philipe was taking his time. Enjoying being thought of as an indulgence, no doubt. "Let's get this over with."
"Well, don't you know just how to set the mood," Philipe said with a weary sigh that Francis was sure was manufactured. "Mary's 'indisposed' again, I take it?"
"I don't see how that's any of your business." But Francis didn't deny it.
"You have to stop using that excuse to justify coming to me for release. God will strike you down for it."
"Now, I know you don't believe that." It was all Francis could do to make himself sound disinterested, for the moment Philipe's lips attacked the sensitive bit below where his ear and jaw met, Francis's true feelings about the matter came out, in a long sigh.
It was the forcefulness of the count he craved, Francis decided, a dominant will that few had the temerity to assert on the dauphin due to his station. Though he couldn't honestly say his fencing practice sessions with Bash aroused him, they certainly warmed the blood in a way that was as carnal as sex, as thrilling. Between their duel of words and the strong grip he had on Francis's doublet, Philipe aroused a fierce competitiveness in Francis by his very nature; but whatever their disagreements, it was the infallibility of the count's touch that made this giving in feel so illicit, so wrong it was right. The scratch of Philipe's beard against his throat drew a shiver up Francis's spine. He let his eyes fall closed, and let his head fall to the cushion.
Philipe's leg came to rest between his, and Francis didn't care how wanton or desperate it made him look in the other's eyes. He wanted what he wanted, and if he had to arch under Philipe and grind against him to get it any faster, he would. Francis's efforts were rewarded not long after, with the count's long fingers deftly untying his breeches. It certainly didn't help that Philipe's tongue found Francis's ear at the same time as his hand found Francis's cock. Francis swallowed hard to smother a moan. Unlike both times before, these weren't private quarters, and any misconstrued noise might be enough to bring unwanted attention. Yet another reason to have this over and done with with all possible haste.
So Francis could have cursed when Philipe removed that hand—and his mouth, for that matter—long enough to free himself from his own breeches. But Francis could not fault him for it for long. The friction of his member, gliding like warm velvet against Francis's own, was heavenly in the blasphemy of its symmetry. Francis couldn't help himself.
He hooked his leg around Philipe's, as if that could somehow draw him closer than he already was, and he reached for the count, grabbing a fistful of the hair at the back of his head, and seizing those lips for himself in a wide-open kiss before he really knew what he was doing. Just needing the warm, wet kneading of another mouth against his, and Philipe's was more than willing, more than capable of drowning Francis's moans in its depths.
It was no god that struck Francis down for being unfaithful. It was the creaking of the door, and a surprised feminine gasp a second later: "Oh! My God, I'm so sorry—"
Even if a part of his brain recognized the voice, the rest of Francis paid it no attention until that voice spoke his name. Which, of course, by then was too late.
"Mary!"
A curse on his tongue, he sat up too suddenly, and felt Philipe's chin connect with his forehead. By the sound of it, of the two of them, it hurt the count more.
But Francis had his own pressing concerns. Like tucking himself back into his breeches before Mary could see just how much he had been enjoying himself, and all but tripping over his feet to get to her or the door—whichever came first. He swore "This isn't what it looks like!"
"Really?" Mary said as he chose the door, leaning it shut behind her. Clearly, she wasn't going to buy a bit of it. And, following her gaze to his fly, whose ties were still undone, Francis wouldn't have believed himself much either. "What is it, then?"
"All right." He raked a hand uneasily through his tousled hair. "It's exactly what it looks like. But if you give me a chance to explain—"
"What is there to explain!" Despite Francis's warily eyeing the door, Mary did not take the hint to lower her voice. Not that he could blame her for that. "I thought we agreed there would be no more secrets between us, Francis, and all this time you've been . . ." She did lower her voice then. "Dallying with Count Nardin, of all people?" She gestured to the man in question, who was trying to recompose himself with as much nonchalance as possible while licking at a swelling lip. "Behind my back?"
"It hasn't been 'all this time,'" said Francis. "It only happened once before—and it was a moment of weakness on my part. I'm not proud of it."
He should have known better than to think a lie would make his situation any better, particularly one he hadn't thought out. "And when was that?" But it seemed Mary could already guess the answer. As far as she knew, they had only crossed paths with Philipe on one other occasion. "On our honeymoon? Francis, how could you—"
"Now, that wasn't what I was going to say. I met him before you did. While I was in Paris—before we were married, when I thought that I had lost you for good, Mary!"
But Mary had already put the pieces together and could not be convinced otherwise. She had to laugh at the simplicity of it. That idea Francis had had for her to use her finger inside him was all too timely now that she looked back on it. And she should have known that he was holding something back when he tried to warn her about Philipe Nardin. She knew that guilty look of Francis's well enough by now.
"But it meant nothing to me—"
"As if that makes it any better," Mary said. "You profaned our marriage bed, Francis! You made a mockery of our vows to one another, and you made a fool of me, letting someone else—some other man touch you. Is that why you suggested we try something different? Were you trying to tell me I wasn't enough for you?"
"Not at all," Francis said, frantic for her to stop lest she somehow stumble on the truth. "You're everything to me, Mary. Honestly! But, you see, that's why—"
"Why you think I'll just roll over and forgive you for it? Because at least you didn't bring some other woman into our bed? If that's what you believe, then you're sorely missing the point. Did we not just have this conversation about keeping secrets from one another, and all the while you've been hiding this one who know's where—"
"It isn't his fault," Francis said, seeing Philipe was trying his best to blend into the décor.
Though after the words were out, he wasn't sure how they were supposed to make anything better. On the contrary, Francis might have had more luck if he'd said at the outset the count was trying to take advantage of him. But it was too late to try that tact now.
"You shouldn't have invited him to First Light in the first place," Francis said instead. "If you had talked it over with me beforehand, as we had agreed you would, before rushing to play match-maker and meddle in everyone's affairs without knowing the circumstances, we wouldn't be here right now because this," he gestured between himself and Philipe and the library as a whole, "would not have happened!"
The silence that followed hung in the room like a sudden frost. Even Philipe, with his little experience in such matters, knew Francis's had been a fatal choice of words.
He got to his feet with a hasty "I should really give you two some privacy—"
"I rather think you should stay," Mary said before he could take more than a few steps, and said it with a dead calm that made the count stop in his tracks. "After all, this concerns you, too."
It was that calm that worried Francis as well, for he could read nothing from it that would tell him what to say next. "Look, Mary," he tried, "I understand you're upset—"
"Oh, I'm not upset," Mary said. "I'm furious. But I don't see what good yelling about it any further is going to do. What's done is done."
That this was a betrayal of her trust and their promises to one another, Mary had no doubt. And that alone was something she could not see herself forgiving any time soon, as it was not something she could merely decide to let go of. It wormed its way under the skin, festering, spreading doubt, if she allowed herself to wallow in it. Even worse was Francis's attempt to blame her for the opportunity to commit his indiscretions. As though Mary were supposed to somehow guess the count's persuasions from Francis's sarcastic comments and brow waggles alone.
Yet when he insisted being unfaithful with Philipe Nardin was somehow different than being with Lola or Olivia, or any other woman, Mary did have to admit one truth to herself: Catching her husband writhing against the count had not aroused the same level of jealousy in her as just being in the same room with one of Francis's past lovers, or even watching him share a kind word or two with them. That in no way made up for the graver sin of deception, but it had to be considered. Perhaps the reason was simply that Francis lacked the same emotional attachment to Philipe Nardin. Mary was fairly certain that it was not Philipe's heart, nor even his mind that drew Francis to him. Nor, to Mary's knowledge, had Francis ever shown particular interest in the body of any other man, though she realized there might still be many things she did not yet know about her husband where his interests were concerned.
And if Philipe had indeed put that idea in Francis's mind, that idea to try something more adventurous in bed, then Mary supposed she rather had the count to thank for that particularly interesting night of their honeymoon. Francis had certainly enjoyed the feel of Mary's touch inside him—
Her touch, she reminded herself. She had in her fingertip the power to drive Francis to a state of mindless satisfaction, and she was certain his fascination with the count was purely selfish. It had to be. She had to know that she had not lost Francis's interest yet. And with that, a plan began to form in her mind.
"But perhaps there is a way you can make this up to me."
Francis let out the breath he had been holding. "Of course," he said, not caring how subservient it made him seem before a witness. "You don't know how relieved I am to hear you—"
"I haven't yet said what all it entails." While Francis stared at her in dread anticipation of what she might say next, it was Philipe Mary fixed her gaze upon. "Since the matter at hand involves your inability to quit your fascination with Count Nardin, I propose he be our guest for one night, so you can get your fill of him and put him out of your mind once and for all."
"Absolutely not," Francis said, stepping toward her. "You're perfectly within your rights to want to get back at me for what I've done, but there I must draw the line, Mary. I won't stand to watch another man touch you!"
But Mary only laughed at that. And, by the cautious smile slowly returning to the count's lips, it seemed he already understood quite well what she was proposing.
"Well, Philipe won't be touching me," she told Francis sweetly, "so you have nothing to worry about in that regard. I won't disagree that he's an attractive man, but I have about as much interest in him as I believe he has in me. I think you'll be happy to note he'll be touching you, Francis, since you seem to enjoy that so much."
Francis could only stare in disbelief at the look of understanding that passed between his wife and Philipe. Could it be they had been in on this together all along? That in coming here tonight he had stumbled into a trap the two had already laid?
No. Impossible. If Mary had known about Francis's previous tryst with the count, he would have met the full force of her fury about it before now. She certainly could not have faked that outrage so well. But how quickly the two of them put aside their differences to conspire against him—
Francis had to laugh. "You cannot ask me—" he began, but Mary would have none of it.
"But I'm not asking you, Francis. You gave up your right to have a say in this decision the moment you took your fiddle out of your britches for someone else to play with. Now," she moved on, while Francis caught himself checking at her words that said instrument was safely tucked away, "if the count decides he'd rather not participate in your penance, then I guess I'll just have to find some other way of making you suffer. But I leave that matter up to him."
Francis followed her patient gaze back to Philipe, who looked a mite less eager to bolt from the room now that he had had a moment to mull the offer over. Say you won't accept, Francis urged him silently, please say you can't.
But as though he had received that message loud and clear, as though answering with the precise intent of prolonging Francis's suffering, Philipe smiled his assured smile, and said, "When would you like me?"
"Why not make it exactly one week from tonight?" Mary said to him. "I will have a letter of summons sent to your quarters when you're wanted."
That decided, she excused herself, with a cool "Good evening" and one last glare in Francis's direction which guaranteed that, wherever he slept tonight, it would not be in her bed.
