Destiny's Kiss Read online

  Destiny’s Kiss

  A Novel

  Jo Ann Ferguson

  Dear Romance Reader,

  Welcome to a world of breathtaking passion and never-ending romance.

  Welcome to Precious Gem Romances.

  It is our pleasure to present Precious Gem Romances, a wonderful new line of romance books by some of America’s best-loved authors. Let these thrilling historical and contemporary romances sweep you away to far-off times and places in stories that will dazzle your senses and melt your heart.

  Sparkling with joy, laughter, and love, each Precious Gem Romance glows with all the passion and excitement you expect from the very best in romance. Offered at a great affordable price, these books are an irresistible value—and an essential addition to your romance collection. Tender love stories you will want to read again and again, Precious Gem Romances are books you will treasure forever.

  Look for fabulous new Precious Gem Romances each month—available only at Wal*Mart.

  Lynn Brown, Publisher

  For Elayne and Yves,

  dear friends who are living their own

  happy-ever-after ending. May it never end.

  Prologue

  Spring, 1789

  Music spilled into the garden. Magical music played on the harps of angels. Sweet music. Luscious to the ear and tempting to the feet. Music from violins enticing the bored to set aside their ennui for the night.

  Light flowed into the garden. Light from a thousand lanterns strung on walls inlaid with gold and mirrored to reflect the glow.

  Voices whispered in the garden. Soft, feminine voices. Deeper ones offering delights far from the lanterns.

  Hidden, a girl sat. Her toes moved as she was caught up in the splendid melodies. She dared do no more, for to be here tonight was forbidden.

  Not that she had planned to disobey, but the music had crept into her sleep and lured her to the pavilion where powdered beauties danced with their dandies. She did not care about the difference between the cloth of gold they wore and her own ragged gown. Nothing existed for her but the music.

  Swaying to the rhythm, she dreamed of dancing. Not the sedate minuets and reels, but the dance of a soul freed from bonds of servitude and drudgery.

  With a sigh, she rose. She must return to bed, so she could rise before the sun to work in the kitchen. There, the only sound would be the clang of wooden spoons on iron pots. The melodies in her heart would die once again.

  This magic was not meant for her, but she refused to relinquish it. Letting the violins tempt her, she whirled in the shadows, then hurried toward the door which should not have been left unlocked. She flitted from shadowed rosebush to shadowed rosebush. When a hand grasped her arm, the music shattered.

  She tried to pull away. To be discovered here would mean a whipping … or worse.

  The man laughed, his wine-scented breath striking her. Gripping her hair, he pulled her mouth toward his.

  Her broken nails raked his face. He cursed and shoved her toward the ground. Trying to roll to her feet, she cried out when he seized her shoulders and pinned her to the damp earth.

  “Where are you, mm ami?” a jovial voice asked.

  The man growled drunkenly, then stood.

  Looking up, she saw another man. Good humor filled her rescuer’s voice. “Mon ami, why do you loiter with a serving lass when a fair lady awaits you?”

  “Who?”

  “A lady in a white silk domino.” Her rescuer chuckled as her attacker rushed away. Holding out his hand, he brought her to her feet. “You should be more careful where you dance, bright sprite. You can never guess whom you might attract with such a pretty show.”

  She pulled away, seeking the shadows. If the tall man did not see her face, he could not tell Madame. Broad-shouldered, he wore a silver coat, which glistened in the faint light, over breeches of pale silk and white stockings. She was grateful her earth brown dress masked her.

  “Who are you, bright sprite?” His warm voice, which was slightly husky, rumbled through her.

  She shook her head. To speak was to invite punishment.

  His hands caught her shoulders. “Do not fear me.”

  In her horror, her eyes widened. Although she could not see his face for the domino he wore, she knew his voice’s self-assured arrogance. Shaking her head, she tried to pull away.

  “Are you frightened? No need.” Untying the cloth around his head, he urged. “Here. Take my domino, bright sprite. Then you need not worry about my breaking your enchantment.”

  She wanted to refuse, but dared not anger him. If she played his sport, he might tire of it and return to the pavilion. Her hands were unsteady as she reached for the silk that was as black as his hair.

  With a laugh, he slipped the cloth around her head and tied it. His fingers lingered on her hair, and she gasped at the unsettling sensation flowing through her.

  “So untouched you must be, bright sprite,” he whispered. “I give you a gift. Now you must give me one in return.” When she shook her head, he laughed. “But that is the way of the magic folk who lurk beneath rosebushes.”

  She reached for the cloth. She had to leave now.

  His broad hands caught hers again, pulling her to him as, gently, his mouth brushed hers. Surprising fire leaped along her, burning hottest where his firm body touched her.

  When he released her, he whispered, “Begone, bright sprite, before a man who has no lady to please him decides you shall.” His fingers curved along her cheek. “’Tis my misfortune tonight that I have another waiting, for the sweetness of unsampled pleasure is on your lips.”

  She gasped when he spun her toward the back of the garden and struck her sharply on the buttocks. His chuckle followed her as she fled, tearing off the domino. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw him returning to his friends. She was sure he already had forgotten the kiss he had seared into her lips. As he had forgotten her.

  But she would never forget him.

  One

  Summer, 1793

  Until Death do us part.

  Philippe de Villeneuve’s hand fisted on the banister of the marble staircase curving up toward the private chambers in the Fortiers’ country house. He had never spoken those words to Charmaine Fortier, but death was coming between them.

  Not Charmaine’s death, but his, if fortune continued to turn its back on him as it had his brother. Curse the guillotine and the fanatics who wielded it. Curses upon the one who had betrayed his brother. That man would learn the price of treachery was death at the hands of the newest Vicomte de Villeneuve.

  He climbed the stairs, his every muscle tight with rage, and went along the hallway. Pausing to look at a painting of the countryside, he frowned. No doubt everything within Château de Villeneuve was stolen or ruined. The rabble had no appreciation for beauty.

  Philippe rapped on a door. It was curved and painted white and gilt. Charmaine liked everything to be as pale as her skin and as golden as her hair.

  He brushed past the lass who opened the door and went to greet his dear Charmaine. Splendid in silk déshabillé that could not lessen the opulent glory of her hair, Charmaine Fortier was the goddess he worshiped. He had from the moment he first saw her, even though she had been betrothed to Thibault Fortier, whom she had married two months later. Such a wondrous woman deserved better than an old husband who could not satisfy her. Philippe had been happy to do so when he could spare time from his family’s lands a half-dozen leagues from here.

  So many times he had entered this round antechamber, but he seldom noted the pastoral scene painted along the walls or the gold-covered benches ringing the room. He thought only of reaching the door to the inner chamber where pleasure was undeniable and undenied.

  Taking Charm
aine’s hand, he knelt next to the chaise on which she sat and pressed his lips to her perfumed palm.

  “Ah, Philippe, mom cher,” Charmaine murmured in her breathy voice. “How sweet of you to spare me from the boredom of an empty afternoon! So long it has been, my dearest love.”

  “Forgive me, but I have had no time to ride here, ma coeur.” Sitting beside her, he fought to keep his voice even. “Nor may I linger, for I am on my way to Paris to do what I must for Lucien.”

  “Your brother always makes a mess of everything.”

  “Made a mess of everything.”

  Her pale-blue eyes widened. “Lucien is dead?”

  “Executed as an enemy of this Revolution. He—”

  The door from the inner chamber opened, pushed aside by a slender hand. Dark hair framed the face peeking around it. “He is gone, Madame. He was not seen by Monsieur de Villeneuve.”

  “Vicomte de Villeneuve,” Charmaine snapped. “Remember that, girl. Now, begone.”

  “And whom was I not to see?” Philippe asked quietly.

  The young woman recoiled, staring at him in horror with wide, brown eyes. When she pressed her hands to her lips, he turned to Charmaine, who was coming to her feet.

  “Begone, you fool,” Charmaine snapped, “for the vicomte has no interest in hearing the gardener has finished delivering the plants I ordered.”

  “Of course, Madame,” the young woman said.

  Philippe chuckled as he noted the warm tint of a flush along the serving lass’s cheek. As she closed the door, he said, “Such enthusiasm your servants have to do your bidding, ma coeur.”

  “She is a fool!” Her voice remained sharp. “I took her from the kitchens when one of my servants ran away to marry a man as silly as she. I endeavor to give her a chance to better herself, but she has no wit.”

  “You are kind to offer her the opportunity.”

  Charmaine clasped his hands, drawing them to her breasts. “Mon cher, Thibault will not return until the morrow. Surely you need not rush away.”

  Even as his body responded eagerly, he shook his head. “I must go without delay to Paris.”

  “Paris?” She shuddered, brushing against him.

  Mayhap he could delay his journey to sample anew what was waiting for him in her grand bed with its silver curtains.… Impossible! Even an hour might cost him his vengeance.

  “Tell me, Philippe”—her lips grazed his cheek before teasing his ear—“is it as bad in Paris as rumored?”

  “Worse than you can know.” He stepped away while he still could resist her full lips. If matters were different, he could savor them. A pulse of pain surged through him. The duty was his alone, because he alone survived of the name de Villeneuve. “The horde controls the streets, I am told. They have turned upon each other when they do not have other prey. I would be foolhardy to enter Paris without some sign I have accepted the mob’s rule.”

  She touched the tricolor ribbons he had pinned to his coat. “You wear their emblem proudly.”

  “Not proudly. I simply wear it.” He curved his fingers along her cheek. “’Tis not enough, ma coeur. I need an outward symbol that I have embraced the lunacy they profess.”

  “What kind of symbol?”

  He went to the door to her bedchamber. Putting his hand on the gold knob, he said, “The lie must serve me until I delight in seeing Lucien’s betrayer dead at my feet.”

  “Philippe!” She picked up a befeathered fan and wafted it. “What do you plan?”

  “To marry.”

  “Marry? Who?” She flung her arms around his shoulders. “Mon, cher, what have I done to make you turn from me? Only last summer, you told me that if anything happened to you, you would entrust me to watch over Lucien, so he would be a good guardian of Château de Villeneuve. Now …” She spun away. “And now you toss me aside to wed another.”

  He brought her to face him. “Charmaine, I marry only for pretense.”

  “Pretense?” She wiped her eyes.

  “It is well known that I now possess the title of vicomte. That alone is enough to sentence me to death.” He combed his fingers through her tawny hair. As he drew it back, he saw the unmistakable bruise of a deep kiss on her neck. His eyes narrowed.

  Charmaine turned her head and pushed her hair back into place. “Even Thibault thinks occasionally of love.”

  “You said he was gone.”

  “He left this morning.” She fluttered the fan again. “Philippe, he is my husband.” Not giving him a chance to retort, she went on. “What I wish to know is who will be your wife.”

  “That is up to you.”

  “To me?” She lowered the fan.

  Philippe laughed tightly. “Heed me, ma coeur, and do not tell me I am crazy, for I fear the only way to fight the insanity gripping France is to be as mad.”

  Lirienne heard the voices from the antechamber and closed her eyes. How dare Madame make her a part of the lies she spun, like a spider securing its prey, about her lovers! Monsieur—no, Vicomte de Villeneuve—was nothing like Madame’s other lovers. Even though he had said little to Lirienne, he had not emphasized those words with a blow.

  She rushed past the bed and through the huge bedchamber. Her next task would be to replace the sheets so Madame’s husband or next visitor would not suspect she had been entertaining another man. No one dared to call Madame the whore she was.

  As Lirienne went to the balcony overlooking the gardens, the marble floor was cool, although the day was hot. She gripped the iron rail which was as intricate as the lace on Madame’s favorite wrapper and took a deep breath of the rose-scented breeze.

  How could the vicomte be so deceived by Madame? In the three days Lirienne had been in these chambers, Madame had entertained two other lovers. Lirienne guessed they meant little to Madame, for she spoke endlessly of her special lover. Yet, if the vicomte was so special, why did she welcome other men to her bed?

  Lirienne leaned forward and settled her chin on her palm. Staring at the stables, she sighed. She had loved helping Papa there, or Maman at her sewing. Even when she had been sent to work in the kitchens, she had found time to visit her parents. Now she must await Madame here, save when Madame was with a lover. Then Lirienne must stand in the antechamber, not sitting on the benches or on the floor.

  Yawning, she rubbed her eyes, then moaned as she touched the bruise left by Madame’s fist. Madame had been furious when a bottle of perfume broke this morning. Even though Lirienne had been halfway across the chamber, Madame had blamed her and struck her viciously.

  “Girl?”

  Lirienne spun. She had not heard anyone enter. Vicomte de Villeneuve’s crystal blue gaze shifted icily over her. It offered no compassion for the punishment ahead of her for being discovered enjoying the view.

  Recalling herself, she said, “Madame is not here, Vicomte. If you wish—” She gulped when she saw Madame behind him.

  Madame motioned for Lirienne to come inside. Before she could move, the vicomte caught her arm. She winced as his fingers closed around it, but remained silent. If the vicomte’s broad hand struck her, she would suffer more than a ringing skull and a bruise.

  His face could have been carved of the same marble as the columns. His unadorned tan coat stretched across his broad shoulders. Since the first time she had seen him, Lirienne had not been able to forget this handsome man.

  Finding her voice, she whispered, “If you wish me to leave, mon seigneur, I shall.”

  Madame said, “This is insane, mon cher. Your brother was a weak-minded fool. Do not be the same.”

  “I shall not,” he answered in a low voice that reverberated through Lirienne, “for I have no interest in sacrificing my head to the Republic.” His intense gaze captured Lirienne’s eyes. He squared his shoulders as if facing an unpalatable task. “Charmaine, I think this young woman and I should have some privacy.”

  “If you continue with this mad plan—”

  He smiled. “I shall succeed.”

 
; “Philippe, you must—”

  With a low chuckle, he pushed Lirienne away. He tugged Madame to him. He kissed her with a passion that begged Lirienne to close her eyes and turn away. She did not dare. She watched as the two bodies seemed to meld into one.

  Madame whispered, “I trust that was not a farewell kiss, mon amour.”

  “Saying good-bye to you is something I never shall do.”

  Lirienne clenched the drapes, fear coiling within her like a serpent. This was all wrong. The vicomte wished to enjoy Madame in the mirrored bed where Madame had welcomed another lover less than an hour before, the very lover who had fled moments before the vicomte arrived. Yet he was sending Madame away so he could speak to Lirienne. Speak to her of what? What had she done that was so appalling Madame had turned her punishment over to him?

  Lirienne’s hand rose to cradle her aching cheek. She said nothing as he watched Madame close the door.

  “You shall never change,” he murmured, and Lirienne knew he was not speaking to her. “You think only of your pleasures. Mayhap we are not so alike, after all.” All amusement left his voice as he turned to her. “Sit.”

  She chose the nearest bench, although Madame forbade the servants from using the furniture meant only for their betters. When she looked up, she wondered if he had grown to twice his impressive height. His head seemed to brush the blue and indigo ceiling paintings.

  “Do you know who I am?” He folded his arms, and she sensed he was uneasy. She could not guess why, but suspected she would find out soon.

  “Yes.” Under other circumstances, she might have laughed. How many nights had her dreams been haunted by his face? Then he had been smiling as his mouth neared hers. His hands had been strong, but as gentle as a mother’s.

  “Name!”

  “Excuse me, mon seigneur?” She flushed as his question shattered her silly fantasies. “’Tis Lirienne Gautier.”

  He cursed under his breath. “No! Tell me my name.”

  “Philippe de Villeneuve. Vicomte de Vi—”

  “Enough. At least, you have more wit than the previous girl. She never seemed able to recall as much as my name.” He began to pace.