Free Lion of Languedoc by Margaret Pemberton

a surprise when he sees how grand you look?’
    â€˜The Comte?’ Marietta asked in alarm.
    â€˜He’s waiting for you downstairs. He told me to tell you to hurry because he’s expecting the widow Sainte-Beuve at any minute, but I forgot in the excitement of dressing your hair…’
    While Marietta tried to gather her scattered wits Céleste grabbed her hand and hurried her from the room. Where, Marietta thought desperately, was Léon? How could he be so heartless as to leave her alone to explain her uninvited presence to this Comte?
    Celeste’s slippered feet ran hastily along the gallery and down the stairs and Marietta caught a glimpse of a black-wigged figure standing broad-shouldered and straight-backed beneath them, facing the fire.
    She took a deep steadying breath as she reached the bottom of the stairs and began the long walk, Céleste’s hand no longer in hers, across the acres of floor towards the imposing figure at the fireplace. She was vaguely aware of a woman sitting at the casement window but of no one else. There was no sign of Léon. She was going to have to face the Comte’s wrath alone.
    Three feet behind him she stopped and cleared her throat. ‘I believe you wanted to see me, Monsieur le Comte.’
    He turned, his mouth twitching with amusement.
    For a moment Marietta was dumbfounded, then she felt weak with relief.
    â€˜Léon! Oh Léon, I thought you were the Comte! Has he asked to see you too? Will you explain to him?’
    â€˜There’s no need to explain anything, Marietta.’
    â€˜But there is!’ At the expression on his face she faltered. He took her hand gently.
    â€˜ I am the Comte.’
    She stared at him. He stood in the centre of the ornately filled room with the unmistakable stance of one who was master. He looked devastatingly handsome in a fashionable tunic of crimson velvet edged with silver braid. The black wig was his own hair, the glossy curls falling over a collar of fine point de France lace.
    Her relief turned to anger. ‘ Then you could have told me earlier!’
    â€˜I didn’t find the need,’ Léon said easily. ‘ Did you sleep well?’
    â€˜Yes,’ she snapped, the colour still high in her cheeks.
    His face did not betray it but she knew he was laughing at her. Damnable man! There were times when she wished he had left her to her fate in the forest of Evray.
    â€˜I see that Celeste’s gown fits you perfectly.’ Dark eyes swept approvingly over her from head to foot.
    Marietta was just about to make a sharp retort when she heard the clattering of hooves and the rattle of an approaching carriage, and Léon strode swiftly away from her as if she no longer existed.
    â€˜Our visitor,’ the lady at the window said. She had been watching the heated exchange between Marietta and her son with interest. ‘We will make friends when she has gone. Céleste, perhaps you could take Marietta for something to eat while I greet Madame Sainte-Beuve?’
    Disappointedly Céleste led Marietta away, not to summon a servant from the kitchen as her aunt had indicated, but upstairs to the gallery. From there she would be able to see the reunion clearly.
    As Léon entered with his guest Marietta caught her breath. The word widow had not prepared her for a fragile vision in turquoise watered silk. Her face was a perfect oval, the skin flawless and as creamy as a magnolia petal, violet-blue eyes slumbrous beneath heavy, gold-tipped lashes. She was petite, the pale blonde hair that hung in clusters of ringlets scarcely skimming Léon’s shoulders. A slim white hand rested securely on Léon’s arm, and he was looking down at her with an expression Marietta had never been privileged to see.
    â€˜Who is she?’ she asked, dreading to hear the answer.
    â€˜Elise. The widow Sainte-Beuve. The woman Léon is to marry.’
    The blood drained from Marietta’s