Chapitre Quarante-Deux

La Valse du Printemps

Leon

Drawing from that velvet bag had seemed like such a simple thing to do. Nothing about Micaedon's little game appeared at all suspicious.

Until he found himself staring at Beatrice, who held the number 17 in her hand, just as he did.

It wasn't just the prospect of dancing with Beatrice that filled his heart with dread. It was the realization that this was most assuredly no accident. Someone had set this up, which meant that someone either knew or suspected their affair and were trying to expose it. His stomach dropped, and he felt a great invisible hand trying to force him down to the floor.

How much did they know? Did they know about the kiss? And how much more had they assumed about this relationship?

Leon forced a grin and crossed the room to Beatrice. He could feel a stranger's accusing eyes watching his every step, but he couldn't tell who it was who scrutinized him so. He dare not look around the room, lest he appear even more suspicious.

He took Beatrice's hand and kissed it, immediately reminded again of her intoxicating perfume. "Shall we dance, Mother?"

Their eyes met, and Leon's heart jumped. There was that look on her face, both scared and willing, a look Leon sometimes wondered if he gave her in turn.

"I would love to," she said.

Even the simple way she pronounced the word "love" was both painful and exhilarating. Deep down, he could never truly deny that he longed to hear her speak of her love for him. What a glorious and terrible day that would be, and he would throw aside all sense and confess to her his own love.

But this was not one of the fairy tales he'd heard as a child, neither was this an opera wherein forbidden love found favor with the fates. This was Salia, where a scandal like this could ruin even a powerful family like the Renarts.

He took her hand in his and rested his other on the curve of her hip. Once they had joined the others on the dance floor the music started again.

Of all songs! Damn them!

The band played La Valse du Printemps, the romantic overture from the opera Les Jeunes Amoureux, a play so risqué that the Church had it banned after only three performances. Though, if one knew where to go in Senon, one could still see actors perform it.

Leon had tried to fight the blush on his face, but memory of that opera had pushed him over the edge, and he could swear that his cheeks had caught fire for how much it burned.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

The song was romantic and exciting, but to Leon it was a funeral dirge.

Should I look away from Beatrice? No, if they see me avoiding her gaze they'll know.

His eyes met Beatrice's again.

Oh, that enchanting face! Those piercing eyes that seemed to see parts of him that no one else could. It took him most of a minute to realize that he'd stopped breathing.

He let out a breath and looked away from Beatrice. His eyes caught his father's face. Lucien stared at the two of them with a furrowed brow. Did he know? Had he figured it out just now, or had Fitzroy discovered their secret and told him?

What would he say about such a betrayal? What would he do now that he knew that his wife and his son had become so enamored? Would he be furious or heart-broken?

Leon's stomach churned, and he looked away from his father.

Then he caught the gazes of many more of Micaedon's guests. All of them seemed to be silently accusing the two of them. Others gave merely puzzled glances.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

Leon lifted Beatrice, hiding his face from the other dancers, only to realize as he lowered her again that her torso was brushing his cheek and her chest caressed his brow.

When her feet reached the ground the two of them found themselves face to face once again, but this time they were dangerously close.

Last time we were this close...

Leon tried not to think about it, but how could he possibly get those thoughts out of his head? How could he forget the way her lips felt, how they tasted? How could he forget her soft moans as he physically expressed his passion for her? Avoiding her eyes did not help, for he found his eyes drawn first to her red lips, then down to her chest, which heaved with every breath.

Curiosity fought to conquer his mind. A wicked need to know her body threatened to possess his soul and force his hands to do its will. It was as if he were fighting a demon with sheer willpower, and no means to exorcise the spirit.

His hands trembled on Beatrice's hips.

The thought that anyone on the dance floor could see this obvious sign of guilt made him shake even more. No matter how hard he tried to steady himself he couldn't stop the tremors.

The room seemed to be shifting every time he looked away from Beatrice. The floor tilted, and the walls expanded, contracted, and even twisted. When had the music changed from major to minor key? When had the excited smiles of every dancer on the floor turned to sneers and satisfied smirks?

If every masquerade was secretly a battle when had Leon begun to lose that battle?

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

And when would this infernal song end?

The events after the music finally stopped were all a blur. He and Beatrice separated, bowed to each other, and walked away awkwardly.

Leon wasn't sure when the party had ended. The next thing he remembered was the taciturn carriage ride that night, all the way back to a small cabin Lucien had bought, close to the former Forbin estate.

He remembered the pitying looks Andre and Cecile had given him and Beatrice as they stepped out of the carriage and into the cabin.

And he certainly recalled that moment where Lucien placed his hands on his and Beatrice's shoulders and said, "We must speak privately."

When Leon was just a boy he had once stolen a toy from a shop in Senon which his father had refused to buy him. The tone with which Lucien addressed Leon and Beatrice now was not so different from the one he'd used when he called him into his study for a chance to confess his crime.

Leon and Beatrice followed Lucien into the trophy room, where the heads of various animals killed on hunts lined the walls, wolf and bear rugs covered the floor, and fox pelts draped over the chairs.

Once they were all inside, Lucien locked the door and dug through a box on the desk for his pipe. "Please, have a seat, both of you," he said.

Leon looked at the chairs, looked at Beatrice, and said, "I think we'd prefer to stand."

Lucien finally found his pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. "If you wish." He sat in his chair and crossed his legs, then lit a match and pressed the flame to the dried leaves.

Leon swallowed hard, anticipating what his father was preparing to say as he took a deep breath of the smoke he so often used to calm his nerves.

Lucien's mouth opened, and a white cloud inched its way out. The smoke fell back upon his face, brushed his eyelids, and danced as it met the draft from the wall behind him. "My son, is there something you wish to tell me?"

Leon thought back to the day he was called into his father's study to confess to stealing. He remembered that his father had only become truly cross with him once he lied about it. His knuckles stung like they had when he'd gotten the switch.

He took a deep breath and said, "Yes, there is, Father." He bit his lip hard, trying to think of the best way to phrase this. Was there any way that he could possibly voice these words which would not sound horrible? "I... I love Beatrice."

Beatrice gasped at the words. This was certainly not how Leon imagined her learning that his feelings for her were not a mere infatuation.

"I see." Lucien sighed a deliberate plume, which billowed from the corner of his mouth. "I assume that you mean to say you are in love with your mother?"

Leon clenched his fists. "She's not my mother, and you know it!"

Had he crossed the line, snapping like that? Was his father about to fly into a rage?

Lucien chuckled. "I'm sorry, you're right. That wasn't entirely fair, but," his voice dropped, "please, answer the question. Do you mean that you are in love with Beatrice?"

"I..." Leon sighed and nodded. "Yes. I'm in love with Beatrice." He looked over at her, seeing a mix of joy and terror in her eyes. "I have been for a long time now."

Lucien nodded and twisted the end of his beard. "And, Beatrice, my sweet wife," he said, in an unreadable tone, "how do you feel about this?"

Leon looked over to her, trying to silently warn her against lying. Lucien wasn't asking questions to which he didn't already know the answers. He rarely did that.

Beatrice looked back and forth between Leon and Lucien, then finally said, "I'm in love with him too, but I know... I know we can never be..."

Lucien groaned and took another puff from his pipe. "So, that's how it is. I see."

Was Leon about to be sent away? Was Beatrice? Would his father seek to marry off Leon as soon as possible?

Lucien coughed out some of the white smoke and shook his head. The moment of silence that followed seemed to Leon to go on for years. He anticipated this judge's sentence with far more dread even than when he was being tried for Corina's murder.

Lucien continued, "This is my fault, really. My doing. After Marion's death and the appropriate mourning period I sought another wife. I could have had my pick of any number of wealthy widows closer to my own age, but I chose a beautiful young woman from house Roche because I wanted a protégé."

Lucien raised the pipe to his lips again, but then set it down on the desk with a knock and a sigh. His eyes found Beatrice's, in spite of her attempts to avoid them. "It occurred to me that since you were less than a year older than Leon that you and he might make a better match, but, fool that I was, I thought of Leon as only a boy, and furthermore thought of the favor I could garner from my peers if I took such a beautiful wife for myself."

He stood from his chair and grasped both of their shoulders. "The truth is, I've suspected this for a long time. Fitzroy told me about your little rendezvous in the hedge maze. Were there nothing to it, you would not have been so embarrassed when he interrupted." Leon braced himself for Lucien's retribution, but he saw only love in those eyes and a smile on his lips. "It's only natural, really, that these feelings would come to the surface. I don't blame you for a moment, except for the fact that you've not been as careful as I would have liked."

"You're not angry with us?" Beatrice asked.

Lucien stepped back and began to pace the room. "How can I be? Beatrice, understand that I care about you very deeply, as I care for all of my family, but the only woman I have ever truly loved was Leon's mother. Haven't we both always known what this was? A marriage of convenience from the start. You're a beautiful young woman, Leon is a handsome young man, and both of you have many great qualities. It's only natural that such feelings would build up."

Leon breathed a sigh of relief. "I was so certain you'd be furious."

"I can't hold you responsible for the feelings in your heart," said Lucien, rolling his eyes. "You can't help the way you feel, you can only control the way you act, and I know you. All those years you admired Magnus under false pretenses; what was it you admired most about him again? His honor? Well, you've proven yourself far more honorable than he even pretended to be time and again, my boy! I know you haven't let these feelings overtake you, and for that you deserve applause!"

Leon felt his gut sink, desperately clinging to his heart to keep from plunging into the abyss.

Lucien continued, still pacing the room, "We just have to work on teaching you both how to better hide your feelings. It has to be more than just resisting the temptation to... well, you know... touch each other. We have to--"

"There's something I have to confess..." said Leon. Every instinct within him screamed for him to be silent, as did Beatrice's eyes, but if he held this secret in after all he'd just heard it would surely eat him alive. He clenched his teeth and breathed deep through his nostrils, preparing himself for what he was about to say.

"Another confession?" Lucien said, with a raised eyebrow "Then, spit it out, son! Let's come to a full understanding of what we're dealing with so we can work it out together."

Leon sighed, looked down at the floor, and said, "I kissed Beatrice. No... not on the cheek, not a quick peck... a passionate, loving kiss... and I don't regret it. Not for a second."

A moment of silence followed Leon's statement. For a few seconds, Leon dared not look up at his father. But, as time went on, he slowly brought his eyes up to Lucien's face.

Slap!

Leon nearly stumbled over as Lucien's palm collided with his cheek. He might very well have fallen had Lucien's other hand not struck his other cheek a moment later, pushing him right into a third slap.

"Stupid!" Lucien hissed. "How could you do something so stupid!" He slapped Leon's face over and over as he shrunk back into the corner of the room. "How could you do this? I taught you better than that!"