And wretched is what Duchess Camille feels living with the cruel and debauched duke. But that soon turns to desperation when she learns her lecherous husband is plotting to have her killed to make way for a more nubile and fertile companion. Knowing she cannot sit idly by and wait for death, she flees into the night, taking with her her own young lover–the stable hand Henri–and her most loyal servants. With a mind to finding refuge with Maxime, her first love who years ago ignited her sexuality, Camille and her servants take cover in brothels along the way and succumb to the physical delights on offer, sating their longings and fueling jealousies with one another. But the duke’s men are not far behind, and Camille knows they must press on, hoping against hope that the man who has every reason to turn her away will remember the fervent passion that once coursed between them….
Leçons de plaisir
Au moment de prendre la fuite, la duchesse Camille n’imaginait pas une seule seconde que ce voyage forcé jusqu’aux confins du royaume allait prendre une tournure si… excitante. Une seule chose comptait alors : fuir loin de son terrible mari, le duc Michel, décidé à se débarrasser d’elle par tous les moyens. Aussi avait-elle demandé à ses plus fidèles serviteurs de l’accompagner : Sylvie, sa servante aussi dévouée que débrouillarde, Kaspar, son garde si loyal, et Henri, le jeune palefrenier qui avait toujours eu une place particulière dans son coeur. Tous, ils avaient accepté sans hésiter, trop heureux de pouvoir servir leur maîtresse. Et ils l’avaient servie au-delà de toute attente : jusque dans ses moindres désirs… Doublant, à eux quatre, cette fuite vers la liberté de troublantes leçons de plaisir….
Die Herzogin, ihre Zofe, der Stallbursche und ihr Liebhaber
Herzogin Camille ist verzweifelt: Ihr grausamer Ehemann will sie umbringen, damit er sich eine junge, gefügige Frau suchen kann, die ihm endlich einen Erben schenkt. Statt tatenlos auf ihren Tod zu warten, entschließt Camille sich zur Flucht. Mit ihrem jungen Geliebten, dem Stallburschen Henri, und ihren ergebensten Dienern sucht sie Unterschlupf in Bordellen und gibt sich tabulosen körperlichen Freuden hin. Doch während sie noch lustvoll seufzt, sind ihnen die Männer des Herzogs bereits auf den Fersen….
The Duchess Camille’s maid, Sylvie, draped a blue silk robe over her shoulders. Camille had to restrain herself from clutching it to her bare breasts. Normally, Camille had no particular emotion about being dressed or undressed by her servants; it was too common an occurrence; but today each touch made her flinch. Sylvie’s anger made her tension worse, even when demonstrated only as a hint of roughness when tugging Camille’s long dark hair free of the robe. Sylvie hadn’t yet cleansed the splotch of Camille’s blood from the front of her simple blue gown, and her long blonde braid extruded messy wisps. It didn’t help to know Sylvie was not angry at her, but the Duke Michel.
Across the room, the midwife finished washing in a porcelain basin painted all over with flowers, the fierce jerks of her arms dripping water and imported jasmine-scented lather on carpet so thick it swallowed the feet. They were surrounded by all the luxury one could want, except for safety.
Camille didn’t dare give in to her own anger. She had denied it for so long that it had gone solid in her belly like a chunk of dirty glass. She felt sick with it, and weary down to her marrow. She would give anything to be alone for a few moments, to collect herself, but if she sent them away now, after the examination she’d just endured, she would reveal her weakness. She had already revealed her emotions once today, when the Duke had told her Lord Alphonse was dead. In her distress, she had nearly revealed his mission, the mission which had led to his death. She would keep her dignity now, and with it her secrets.
Sylvie said, “I will fetch you a glass of wine, Madame, and ice for your bruises.”
“Sit,” Camille said, unable to bear a continuation of Sylvie’s earlier pacing. She glanced towards the washbasin, carefully avoiding her reflection in the nearby full-length oval mirror, its wide frame like a tangle of golden brambles. “Mistress Annette?”
The midwife normally worked at the brothel in the town. Camille did not know where Mistress Annette lived; Sylvie always fetched her, when she was needed. But she would–had–entrusted Annette with her health and life.
Annette said, “You were not pregnant, Your Grace.”
Camille did not allow herself to show any reaction, but all the same, Sylvie rose from her chair and returned to her side. Camille asked, “Am I injured?”
Mistress Annette picked up a blue towel and dried her hands. “You are bruised,” she said, as if Camille had forgotten the reddened swelling over her jaw and cheekbone, her skin broken from the impact of the Duke’s rings. Her left shoulder ached from slamming into the silken wallpaper of his private audience room; her hip and elbow throbbed from hitting the marble floor.
Camille said, “There is no injury inside.”
“No, Your Grace.” Mistress Annette stepped within arms’ length. She said, calmly, “He will kill you one day, you know.”
Sylvie began to speak; Camille held up a hand for silence. “I could become pregnant. I am not too old.”
Mistress Annette crossed her arms across her chest. “Your Grace, I am hard put to remember you are not just any woman. Because in this matter, you are certainly as unwise as any I’ve met.”
Camille heard Sylvie catch her breath; ironic, as Sylvie was not afraid to speak her mind to her Duchess, either. “If I give the Duke an heir, he will have no need to find another Duchess.”
“His Grace has no bastards, but not for lack of trying. Not a one. If I were you, I would find another sire, and pass the child off as his.”
Mistress Annette had never stated it so boldly before. Camille shook her head in refusal. She had married Michel, a younger son, and in becoming her consort, he’d become Duke, with power over her. She could have protested her father’s order to marry Michel and run away, but she had not, foolishly fearing the duchy would suffer without her. She had spoken the vows with her own voice. Once she had done so, she had a responsibility to her marriage, and a responsibility to her duchy’s people. She had stood up to her mistake for over twenty years. A few blows should not weaken her resolve so much. Except, this time Lord Alphonse had died. He’d been killed while trying to help her, not even knowing that the message he carried to Lord Maxime betrayed his Duke. He’d been barely older than Annette or Sylvie. Sylvie might very well be next.
Camille blinked as the room slowed and settled. Sylvie was holding her arm, fingers digging painfully into her bruised muscles. Mistress Annette ducked beneath Camille’s other arm and supported her to her bed. The underside of the bed’s canopy, blue and gold like the sheets and coverlet, bore appliquid figures of men plowing fields and sowing grain, a transparent allegory to encourage the fertility of the couples who lay within. Except Michel had never taken her here; she’d always been brought to his chambers, or in later years, wherever he felt she would be uncomfortable and refuse his advances.
“He will kill you,” Annette said again, without emphasis, as if stating the sky was blue. She laid the back of her hand against Camille’s forehead, then her cheek. “Sylvie, fetch blankets.”
Nauseated, and beginning to shiver, Camille said, “I am only hungry. I did not eat while Sylvie went to find you.”
Annette tucked a pillow beneath Camille’s feet. She repeated, “He will kill you. And you know what will happen then. He will rape this duchy, and then move on to the next, just as your father did.”
Even now, Camille could not bring herself to say aloud that she had failed, and Michel had indeed won, even when it was true. She said, “You must leave the palace, before you’re found in my apartments.”
“Never fear, Your Grace. Unlike you, I have concern for my own skin.”
Sylvie returned, and spread blankets over Camille’s feet before moving upwards. “Madame, you need rest. Annette, what must I do?”
“Convince her to find someone else to get her with child,” Annette said. “And have a care that he is healthy, and looks enough like the Duke.”
Camille was no longer allowed to ride, but she could still venture out onto the palace’s high white walls and glimpse her horses from afar. Two weeks after Mistress Annette’s visit, she strolled there, her two eunuch guards trailing behind. Kaspar and Arno knew when she was not in the mood for speech; this cool spring evening, they did not even speak quietly with each other.
The breeze from outside was sharper up on the walls, and she smelled a hint of rain mingled with the grass and manure smell of the paddocks below. She slipped into an embrasure, concealing herself from anyone’s view–anyone except her eunuchs, of course–and gazed towards the stable that held her mare Guirlande, and all the others she’d spent so long cosseting, training, and schooling.
The stableboy was riding Lilas, his body seemingly immobile atop her sleek back as she danced patterns into the loose dirt of a riding ring. Four years ago, the Duke had forbidden her to ride, and since that day she had not been to the stables, nor near her horses, nor spoken to their keeper. But she had watched the boy be trained to ride, had ridden out with him, and she knew his posture and seat, even from this distance. Her Lilas was in good hands.
She wondered what he looked like now that he was closer to his man’s growth. She remembered big hands, lush eyelashes, and an engaging, open smile. He would be almost twenty now, and might have changed a great deal. It occurred to her that he was half her age. If she had borne a son in the first years of her marriage to Michel, the stableboy was the right age to be her son.
Sylvie had reminded her that the stableboy’s eyes were blue. Like the Duke’s.
Normally, she would watch until she had caught at least a glimpse of each of her horses, but this evening she turned away and strode towards her own wing of the palace. Kaspar and Arno fell in behind, following her down the turret staircase, across a square of immaculate garden that replaced the old bare defensive area, and through enormous mahogany doors. The narrow secondary corridor leading to her suite of rooms was thickly carpeted in blue and gold, an agreeable softness to her cold feet. Camille did not allow herself to slow and appreciate the softly patterned gold wallpaper, the candles muted behind colored glass, or the paintings of horses that adorned the walls. Sylvie would have dismissed the rest of the staff by now, and they would have less than an hour of privacy. They went through the outer rooms and into her bedchamber, where Sylvie waited, perched on the edge of a spindly, decorative chair that Camille had never liked. Sylvie said, “All is as you wished, Madame.” Meaning that the suite was deserted but for the four of them.
For this meeting, they all should sit, for she asked more of her servants than duty. She looked to Kaspar and indicated the empty chairs. Kaspar grinned. “Perhaps not, Your Grace. I fear it would shatter beneath my weight.” He was taller than most and twice as broad. Leather straps crisscrossed his bare, hairless torso, supporting a knife sheath that nestled between his shoulder blades. The knife’s flat grip, she knew, had been etched and inlaid with silver filigree in her own crest. A short sword was strapped to each thigh atop his blue breeches, but those hilts were unadorned, wrapped in strips of dark blue suede.
Arno, the younger of the two eunuchs, said, “I would prefer to sit on the floor, Your Grace.”
“Very well,” Camille said. She took a chair. Even seated on the floor, the eunuchs were not so far below her and Sylvie. Once all were settled comfortably, she captured each of them with her eyes, giving each a smile. It was not only for herself and her own safety that she did this, but for theirs; it was only right that she pay them this respect. Then she said, “Of the men whom Sylvie has investigated, three were superior choices in terms of health, appearance, and proximity to the palace.”
Sylvie said, “Madame, we could entice Lord Pierken from his estate; he has an interest in you.” Kaspar sent her a quelling glance, and she made a rude gesture at him.
“I fear not,” Camille said. “Remember, it’s planting season.” Also, Lord Pierken would not be content to simply impregnate her and depart. He would want something in return, more than she could give. She continued, “Of the three, Lord Gustave resembles Michel the most, physically. His temperament is not suitable, however. He is quick to take offense, and convinced of his own importance; I dare not trust him to keep this secret. And he might require a longer-term liaison and a gift of political power in exchange for his seed, which I will not give.”
Sylvie asked, “And Lord Jon-Petite?”
Camille said, reluctantly, “I fear he is too old. He has a son, but his son is nearly thirty years old, and he has no other. He is my ally in the palace, it’s true, and it would be easier to arrange meetings with him, but if he cannot serve the purpose the effort will be wasted.” She had once considered him a friend, and though she rarely saw him any more, she hated the thought of destroying their friendly relationship with her demand that he put himself in deadly danger to service her like a stallion. Also, she was not sure that Lord Jon-Petite’s scruples would allow him to betray her husband.
Sylvie said, “That leaves only the stableboy!”
Camille glanced to Kaspar, then Arno. Their expressions remained impassive. She said, calmly, “You yourself brought him to my attention as a potential candidate. He is young and healthy; he has the necessary hair and eye color, and his mother came from Michel’s homeland, so there is a superficial likeness of facial and body type. Best of all, he is loyal to me, yet will not feel entitled to interfere with my role as duchess. He is good with my horses. He is the best choice for this.”
“But–Madame–he is a boy! Nineteen years old!”
“All the more likely he’s virile, then,” Camille said. “You will bring him to me as soon as possible. His name is Henri.” She swallowed the lump forming in her throat. Who was she, to demand such a thing of him, when he’d given her nothing but loyalty? But if she did not do this, Michel would kill her, and she did not want to die.
“He will not understand the serious nature of this duty–“
“Sylvie, you will bring him to me.”
If Sylvie truly thought the boy would not serve the purpose, she would never have included him in her list. She stiffly bowed her head. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t pleased. She would obey. Later, she would see that Camille had made the wisest possible choice. She need not fear having to exchange political favors with a stableboy. And if he cared for her as he did for her horses, she did not think he could betray her.
“Kaspar and Arno,” Camille said. “This plan may fail. If it fails, and it appears my imprisonment or execution is imminent, we must flee the palace. I rely on you both, and on you, Sylvie, to secure sufficient monies and supplies for a journey of some weeks. You three will accompany me. It would be best if this activity were completely concealed from any in the palace or in the town.”
“It shall be done,” Kaspar said. “Where will we go?”
Camille said, “We shall travel to the coastal protectorate, and there beg aid of Lord Maxime. He will keep us safe. He will not have forgotten that he and I grew up together, here in the palace.”
“Lord Maxime?” Arno blurted out. “Your Grace, he would like nothing better than to make the protectorate a duchy again! What better way than to harm you?”
Camille eyed him coldly. “Harming me would change nothing. It is my husband who will not free the protectorate,” she said. “He claims it is because my father conquered it and killed Maxime’s father, and it is his duty to care for the land and its people. But the Duke wants only the protectorate’s income. Maxime will help me. Then we shall return here, and I will take what is mine.”
True, Maxime would want favors from her. He would not help her out of pure charity; for the sake of his people, he could not. For the sake of her own people, she would only give so much. But he would help her, and then…she would make sure that Michel never harmed anyone again.
To be continued….
The Duchess, Her Maid, the Groom and Their Lover by Victoria Janssen
December, 2008 from Harlequin Spice
Copyright 2008 by Victoria Janssen
Permission to reproduce text granted by Harlequin Books S.A.
Download “Camille, Henri, Maxime,” an outtake (please note this outtake is explicit).
Acknowledgments to The Duchess, Her Maid, The Groom and Their Lover:
Many thanks are due to The Nameless Workshop, for insightful critique, friendship, and endless commiseration; Charlotte, valuable commentator and supportive friend throughout; Jim Brown of LL-Publications, original publisher of the short story “Ducal Service”; Cecilia Tan, who gave the short story its first print publication; Lori Perkins, my agent, without whom this novel would not have been written; and my editor, Susan Swinwood, and all the production staff at Harlequin who made my novel into a real book.