Chapter 25
Any thoughts of Archie that were still lingering in her mind's eye were immediately banished as Lorna stood at the head of the stairs, her eyes locked on pair of beetle-black eyes which returned her gaze equally unblinking.
It took several seconds for the moment to pass, before Lorna looked between the austere figure of Louis St Juste, her transient guardian, and his companion - the young man, who had looked at her so piercingly from the end of the justice table. She blinked. Louis St Juste was a rather austere gentleman of middle age, with deep premature lines around his dark eyes and a heavily powdered wig settled rather lopsidedly on his high-boned head. She looked between them, and her heart seemed to do some aerobatic dance in her chest: the similarity was too strong than to be just coincidence… Slowly, and trying her best to remember how to be graceful, Lorna descended to meet them.
"Mlle Dubois, est-ce que je peux vous presente: mon petit frere, Baptiste St Juste." The dark eyes never wavered as the graceful figure sunk into a deep bow. Even before Lorna had dipped her own curtsy, she saw how tall he was. Small as she was, the top of her head barely breached his shoulder. As Louis spoke again he was already headed for a door to the left, leaving the two figures silent and immobile, staring at each other. "He is a confirmed revolutionary himself and will perhaps better amuse you that an old man like myself, who is infinitely distracted by matters of Marianne, our angel of the revolution. And indeed duty calls, so I shall leave you two to get better acquainted, god knows Baptiste has been enquiring of you all the way here…" Any further remarks were swallowed as the sturdy door banged behind him.
"And I can assure you any of his replies have managed to do you little justice, Mlle." He raised her hand slowly, somewhat enveloped in his, and with but a fleeting contact brought it to his lips. Not once did his eyes leave hers, and Lorna flashed him a condescending smile.
"I'm sure you try to scare me, monsieur, staring at me so. But be warned I am just as immutable in my courage as in my distaste for compliments." His lips twitched into the ghost of a smile, which didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Spoken like an aristocrat, mademoiselle." The smile froze on her features; their gazes locked in a challenge. But the moment was shattered by the rich sound of his laughter.
A ripple of firelight danced provocatively over the glistening surface of the small table that separated them, as Lorna nestled comfortably deeper into the heavy brocade of the chaise longue and brought the glass languorously to her lips. She reflected how much the richly coloured wine looked like blood as she lowered it back to the tabletop. It had been three months since she had stood alone with his mouth on her hand, and his eyes still turned so piercingly upon hers, three months of luxury and comfort…
Three months, which had seen the documents, she had been sent for, easily acquired and safely tucked into her petticoats and nothing more eventful than that. She looked across at her drinking companion. His eyes, though still unwavering from her face, had permitted themselves to lose their sharp focus and now wore the glazed appearance gained after an afternoon of indolent sunshine and an evening of slothful relaxation in the wine pewter. Holy mother, he was handsome! It had been three months of pleasure, in which he had never left her side. At first she had been convinced it was some ploy to keep her constantly watched, but soon it became evident that even if that was the case, it wasn't merely a sense of duty that kept him there.
Louis had been right in saying his little brother was a fervent revolutionary. Indeed his view of politics sometimes came close to a religious frenzy as he expounded the sins of the nobility that had oppressed his generation and himself since birth, and the extravagant reign of the monarchs. Sometimes it frightened Lorna to see the glint in his eye as he spoke of watching the King and Queen beheaded in the place de la Concorde, as though they personally had wounded him beyond clemency. He, unlike his brother, was wholly unselfish in his motives and every moment spent in the luxury of his brother's house was one of perpetual self-castigation as he looked at the follies and corruption of power. His own lodgings were sparce and his suit on close inspection was old and faintly discoloured.
And Lorna listened avidly to his speeches, debating him morally and politically until either of their arguments was heatedly beaten to the ground and he once again lapsed into a proud or disdainful silence. She had soon ceased to find his gaze disconcerting. Indeed it was refreshing to find someone who could meet her own as unflinchingly as he, as well as sharing her proud and reserved nature. As the weeks passed by in discussion, or horseback riding, or strolling, or merely sitting contentedly taciturn in each other's company, Lorna felt herself growing in sympathy of the views of the inhibited, though often impassioned, young revolutionary, and indeed of the arresting Baptiste himself.
"Josephine…" It took her wine-embraced brain a moment to realise he had spoken. She looked down and carefully began to arrange the folds of her dress, knowing how he hated to be ignored. "Josephine." His voice was a little more demanding this time, and she lay down the fabric to meet his eyes.
"Oui, Monsieur?" He sighed in exasperation.
"Josephine, do you not think it is time for you to drop off formalities? Please, it is Baptiste for you." It was strange how nice his voice sounded to her slightly dazed mind.
"Of course, I'm sorry… Baptiste." His smile was a flash of white, as he rose gracefully from his chair. He was always graceful, she noted, despite his height - almost like a dancer. She was aware of his presence beside her on the daybed a moment later and she shifted slightly in her skirts to accommodate him. She felt herself stiffen slightly at his proximity.
"I have wanted to hear you say that for a long time, Josephine. Because over the last three months I could not help feeling a strong attraction to you: you are beautiful and intelligent and witty, and you understand me. I hope I have not offended you in saying this…" It took a few moments after each word's being released for its meaning to sink in. Lorna could only stare at the floor in a state of rigid shock, as she felt his hand move to touch her cheek. Not once in all their discourse had they broached any subject sentimental, or personal. Lorna silently cursed her own incapability to read body language. She could only manage a mute shake of her head to answer him that sent the dark unruly curls of her obstinate fringe bouncing in all directions. He caught one deftly and began to absently twist it between his fingers - in response her body taunted to such as degree as it seemed as though her bones would snap under its own pressure.
He smiled again, this time so close as to send his breath over her face. The last thing she heard, before she felt the pressure of his lips bruisingly on her throat, was almost a whisper: "I love you…" Before she could think she had landed a stinging slap across his exquisite face, and felt her feet carrying her as fast as they possibly could from the room, slamming the door tight behind her.