that he was enjoying himself.
“Has anyone ever accused you of being enchanting?” he asked.
She thought about that for a moment. “No, but I have oft been called exasperating.”
The beautiful room reverberated with the sound of his laughter. “Your frank honesty is a bit unsettling for a Frenchman, for we are accustomed to the evasive techniques employed in the salons.”
“I am sorry if I came across as unrefined, but asking if I had been called enchanting, well it made me sound quite antique, like some fairy, tripping half naked across the moors, with long, unkempt hair, or an ancient hag peppered with magic straight from the charmed forests of Celtic history, long before the sacking of Delphi.”
This time, she was certain his boisterous laughter could be heard all the way to Paris.
“I would like to offer you more champagne, but I dare not spoil the sharpness of your wit that is so evident tonight. To what do I owe the pleasure of it?”
“You might say, it stems from pure relief, for I have no worries that I must say or behave in a certain way that would influence you to accept me as a pupil.”
He saw immediately that she thought she had said the wrong thing, for his face took a sudden serious turn.
“And yet, your wit and your humor have managed to extract from me that which your serious persuasion could not.”
“Well, Monsieur le Comte, it is your fault for plying me with champagne, so now you must…”
Suddenly, his words penetrated her consciousness like the abrupt blast of a north wind sweeping across Sutherland. “Monsieur le Comte, if this is your idea of a jest…”
“My lovely little Scot, I have never had a more serious moment in my entire life.”
“Then you will…”
“Take you as a pupil, and may the good God above grant that I should not wake up in the morning with a headache and a heart full of regret for the words I uttered this night.”
“Monsieur le Comte, I doubt that is possible, for you have yet to finish your first glass of wine.”
“Lady Kenna, allow an old man the opportunity to blame something other than the weakness of his own fortitude.”
“You are not old, Monsieur le Comte.”
“I have recently passed my sixtieth year, Lady Kenna. And now, let us sit down, for I have seen Gaston pacing the hallway beyond our door, fretting thatthe lamb will not be eaten at the peak moment of its perfection.”
Gaston must have been pleased for the lamb was, as the comte promised, at the “peak moment of its perfection,” and once the meal was over, the comte invited her to share a glass of port in the Salon Rose.
As she entered the room, she paused beneath a wall of ancestral portraits. “I do not see your portrait, Monsieur le Comte. Will it hang here one day?”
“I am trying to resist the supernatural soliciting that I feel each time I pass by. I rather think it is bad enough to be condemned to tolerate the stares from faces of the past, without feeling compelled to perpetuate the images. Have you ever noticed there is always something wrong with the mouth? They are endlessly the same, either seriously grim, or a smirk.”
“Except perhaps, for Mona Lisa.” She studied one portrait in particular. “This must be your father, for I see a strong resemblance. There is much continuity in the Roman nose.”
“Yes, I come from a long line of highly unattractive people.”
She smiled at that comment, and proceeded to study the painting of the woman next to his father. Was it his mother? With an elegant dress, jewelry and a gold chat-elaine, she was certainly a lady of quality. And the ring was obviously her wedding ring, considering it was on her right index finger. She decided it was his mother, for the clue was in the crystalline blue eyes. “Your mother was beautiful.”
He stopped next to her and studied the portrait, almostas if it were the first time he had looked at it. She knew then that he had been very close to this woman. “My mother always
“Has anyone ever accused you of being enchanting?” he asked.
She thought about that for a moment. “No, but I have oft been called exasperating.”
The beautiful room reverberated with the sound of his laughter. “Your frank honesty is a bit unsettling for a Frenchman, for we are accustomed to the evasive techniques employed in the salons.”
“I am sorry if I came across as unrefined, but asking if I had been called enchanting, well it made me sound quite antique, like some fairy, tripping half naked across the moors, with long, unkempt hair, or an ancient hag peppered with magic straight from the charmed forests of Celtic history, long before the sacking of Delphi.”
This time, she was certain his boisterous laughter could be heard all the way to Paris.
“I would like to offer you more champagne, but I dare not spoil the sharpness of your wit that is so evident tonight. To what do I owe the pleasure of it?”
“You might say, it stems from pure relief, for I have no worries that I must say or behave in a certain way that would influence you to accept me as a pupil.”
He saw immediately that she thought she had said the wrong thing, for his face took a sudden serious turn.
“And yet, your wit and your humor have managed to extract from me that which your serious persuasion could not.”
“Well, Monsieur le Comte, it is your fault for plying me with champagne, so now you must…”
Suddenly, his words penetrated her consciousness like the abrupt blast of a north wind sweeping across Sutherland. “Monsieur le Comte, if this is your idea of a jest…”
“My lovely little Scot, I have never had a more serious moment in my entire life.”
“Then you will…”
“Take you as a pupil, and may the good God above grant that I should not wake up in the morning with a headache and a heart full of regret for the words I uttered this night.”
“Monsieur le Comte, I doubt that is possible, for you have yet to finish your first glass of wine.”
“Lady Kenna, allow an old man the opportunity to blame something other than the weakness of his own fortitude.”
“You are not old, Monsieur le Comte.”
“I have recently passed my sixtieth year, Lady Kenna. And now, let us sit down, for I have seen Gaston pacing the hallway beyond our door, fretting thatthe lamb will not be eaten at the peak moment of its perfection.”
Gaston must have been pleased for the lamb was, as the comte promised, at the “peak moment of its perfection,” and once the meal was over, the comte invited her to share a glass of port in the Salon Rose.
As she entered the room, she paused beneath a wall of ancestral portraits. “I do not see your portrait, Monsieur le Comte. Will it hang here one day?”
“I am trying to resist the supernatural soliciting that I feel each time I pass by. I rather think it is bad enough to be condemned to tolerate the stares from faces of the past, without feeling compelled to perpetuate the images. Have you ever noticed there is always something wrong with the mouth? They are endlessly the same, either seriously grim, or a smirk.”
“Except perhaps, for Mona Lisa.” She studied one portrait in particular. “This must be your father, for I see a strong resemblance. There is much continuity in the Roman nose.”
“Yes, I come from a long line of highly unattractive people.”
She smiled at that comment, and proceeded to study the painting of the woman next to his father. Was it his mother? With an elegant dress, jewelry and a gold chat-elaine, she was certainly a lady of quality. And the ring was obviously her wedding ring, considering it was on her right index finger. She decided it was his mother, for the clue was in the crystalline blue eyes. “Your mother was beautiful.”
He stopped next to her and studied the portrait, almostas if it were the first time he had looked at it. She knew then that he had been very close to this woman. “My mother always
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