Love Me Forever. Barbara Cartland
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back his chair, he made as if he would rise. As he did so, there came a tap at the door.
“Entrez!” the Duke called out briefly.
The door opened slowly and then, as he waited to see who might be approaching him so diffidently, a face appeared round the door and a gay voice exclaimed,
“You are alone, Monseigneur – c’est bon! I wanted you to see me first and be sure that everything is all right.”
As she spoke, Amé came into the room and closed the door. The Duke looked at her and realised that he had not been mistaken last night when he thought that she was pretty. If she had been attractive in the coach and when, disguised under her hood, he had hurried her into the inn and upstairs out of sight of the curious gaze of those who were watching his arrival, there was no doubt now, in the sunshine that streamed through the lattice-paned window of the sitting room that she was lovely beyond dispute.
Her hair, as the Duke had suspected at that first glance, when he had seen it in the light of the lantern, was that strange deep shade of Venetian red, which is rarely encountered but by artists who immortalise it on canvas. And in vivid and unexpected contrast her eyes were blue, the pale translucent blue of an English sky in summer.
Her eyelashes were dark and her eyes were so large that her tiny straight nose set between them seemed somehow lost and half-forgotten. Her lips were full and curved generously, her smile was very sweet, a little shy and yet eager with a touch of excitement in it as if within herself she was full of joy.
She was small, in fact the top of her head barely reached to the Duke’s shoulder, but there was an air of budding maturity about her so that one realised that, tiny though she was, she was no child.
Then, as she stood before the Duke, her eyes on his, her lips parted and an air of expectancy about her as she waited for his verdict, he took his eyes from her face and saw what she was asking him to approve.
Last night he had seen her with her hair tumbled about her shoulders, the dark cloak covering the straight, shapeless white robe of a novice.
This morning her hair was drawn back from her oval forehead and tied in a bow at the base of her neck. There was a fine lace cravat at her throat and she wore a page’s suit of black velvet.
The Duke raised his quizzing glass and looked her over carefully. As he said nothing, Amé could no longer wait in silence.
“Do you think I look all right?” she asked anxiously. “It is not Adrian’s best suit. I have kept that for when we arrive in Paris. It is his second best, but I think it fits me better than the one he has for grand occasions.”
“Has Adrian gone?” the Duke enquired.
“Yes indeed he left an hour ago. He was most delighted, your valet said, to be returning home.”
“And he did not see you?” the Duke asked.
“No, of course not,” Amé replied. “No one has seen me except your valet and I like him. I feel one could trust him with any secret.”
“Dalton has been with me for many years,” the Duke said. “You can be assured of his loyalty.”
“He would not betray me. But you have not yet told me, Monseigneur, what you think of me.”
The Duke smiled.
“That is a very feminine question. You make a very attractive page. Is that what you want to hear?”
“No! No!” Amé replied impatiently. “I just want to know if I look like a page. Am I well disguised? Will anyone who sees me believe me to be a boy of fifteen, your young cousin, Adrian – what was his name?”
“Court,” the Duke supplied.
“Oui – j’ai oublié, Adrian Court. It is not a very exciting name, I think.”
“I am sorry if it does not please you,” the Duke said drily. “Court happens to be my family name.”
“Melyncourt is exciting and lovely,” Amé exclaimed, “and it suits you. It is the sort of name you ought to have.”
“Thank you, I am gratified that you approve.”
“Now you are laughing at me,” Amé said quickly. “Was it wrong, what I said? I don’t quite understand.”
“No, no, it was quite right. It is just that ladies as a rule do not flatter a man quite so openly.”
Amé’s eyes opened a little wider.
“But I am not flattering you. Flattering somebody means to say things to them which you think will please them, but which are not quite true. What I say to you is the truth, the absolute truth. Is it wrong for me to say that I think you have un air distingué and that you are a very wonderful person?”
“Quite wrong, for it is not true,” the Duke said brusquely. “Let’s talk of you instead. You have taken the place of my page and therefore you must act the part completely or we shall both be in trouble before we are much older.”
“You mean I must do correctly the things a page should do?”
“I mean just that.”
“Will you tell me what they are?”
As Amé spoke, she approached the table and sat down in the chair next to the Duke.
“First of all,” the Duke said sharply, “you will not sit in my presence without my permission, you will not speak unless you are told to. If I address you and you reply, you add the words, ‘Your Grace’.”
“Yes, yes, I will remember all that.”
“You must remember as well that you are English. You must be very careful how you speak. I think that a Frenchman would not notice the little mistakes you make or the slight accent that tinges some of your words. But an English person would know at once.”
“Tiens!” Amé exclaimed and then, looking at the Duke’s face, she laughed. “I am forgetting already. You will have to be very severe with me or I shall make, how do you say it – a mistake that will let the cat out of the bag.”
She laughed at her own joke and it would have been difficult for anyone to resist the sparkle of her eyes and the lilt in her voice. Yet the Duke was frowning a little.
“I have been thinking that it would be best for you to powder your hair. Anyone who is looking for you will be told to search for red hair and blue eyes. That unusual combination would be noticeable anywhere.”
“But, of course,” Amé exclaimed, clasping her hands together. “I ought to have thought of that myself. I will run upstairs and get Dalton to powder me. It will not take long.”
The Duke drew a gold watch from his vest pocket.
“We leave in a quarter of an hour. The sooner we get away from here the better.”
Amé jumped to her feet.
Then she hesitated.
“You would not go without me, would you, Your Grace?”
There was something pathetic and wistful in the question, as if for a moment she doubted not only him but everything around her.
“I have given you my word that I will take you to Paris with me,” the Duke reassured her gravely.
The anxiety cleared away from Amé’s expression.
“Pardon, Monseigneur,” she said softly, “I don’t know why I asked you such a silly question, except that sometimes I think I must be dreaming. Yesterday I was in the Convent, angry, upset, afraid and uncertain of the future and now today I am with you, Your Grace. Everything is very different.”
“I think yesterday you were in the right place,” the Duke commented.
“No, it was not right,” Amé contradicted