“You’re excited, that’s all. Sixteen or nineteen, Autumn, this is your first foray into real society,” Jasmine responded.
They were warmly welcomed at the chateau by the comte and his widowed sisters.
“Tonight,” Philippe de Saville said, “we shall be just family.”
When they entered the Great Hall of the chateau that evening, however, there was a handsome young man who Jasmine did not recognize as any member of the comte’s immediate family.
“Oh! Oh! Here they are now,” Gaby de Belfort twittered nervously. “Autumn, cherie, do come and meet my late husband’s nephew. This is Pierre Etienne St. Mihiel, the Duc de Belfort.” She reached out and drew Autumn forward. “Etienne, this is Lady Autumn Rose Leslie, my cousine’s child. I have told you about the Duchess of Glenkirk.”
The duke bowed over Autumn’s outstretched hand, his cool lips just touching the skin. “Mademoiselle,” he said, and then he looked up at her. A lock of his blond hair fell over his forehead and his brown eyes scanned her with open interest.
“M’sieu le duc,” Autumn replied. He was really quite handsome, but she could sense that he knew it.
“And this is Autumn’s mama,” Gaby pattered on.
The Duc de Belfort greeted the Duchess of Glenkirk.
Jasmine nodded pleasantly at the young man. She wondered how much depth there was to him. “My cousine has mentioned you in passing, monsigneur,” she told him.
“I can but hope she spoke well of me, madame la duchesse,” he replied.
“How could she not?” Jasmine said, and then she turned away to speak with Madame St. Omer.
“I like your gown,” the duke said to Autumn. “It’s the exact color of the fine burgundy I make.” His eyes appeared to struggle to see beyond her neckline, which was low enough to tempt but not low enough to reveal.
“Merci,” she replied. “Is your burgundy as good a wine as they make here at Archambault? I have drunk Archambault wine all my life. My father would have no other vintage at Glenkirk.”
He smiled. “You will judge yourself one day soon, mademoiselle. In the spring I hope you and your mama will visit Chateau Reve. Do you ride? You must, of course. Perhaps we could ride tomorrow if the weather is pleasant,” the duke suggested to her.
“You are staying at Archambault, monsigneur?” Autumn asked him.
“Yes,” he replied.
A footman was at their side, offering them silver goblets of wine.
“He is handsome,” Jasmine said to her daughter later that night, as they sat before a fire in their apartment. “Gaby absolutely adores him. She says his chateau is simply gorgeous.”
“He says he will ask us to visit in the spring,” Autumn told her mother. “He is nice, but I suspect he knows he is.”
“My cousine asked him to come early so he might gain an advantage with you. I think she may have miscalculated, ma bébé.”
“I don’t know what’s the matter with me, Mama?” Autumn said with a deep sigh. “When you met Papa, were you so disinterested? When did you know he was the one for you?”
“When I met your father, my stepsister, Sybilla, had decided she was going to be the next Countess of Glenkirk, for your father was not a duke then. But Jemmie didn’t want Sibby, and I was to marry Rowan Lindley. After I was widowed, and after Charlie was born, your father finally got around to trying to court me. He had always held a certain fascination for me. The spark was there; I just did not allow it to burst into flame. By the time I was your age, Autumn, I had had two husbands and two children.” She patted her daughter’s hand. “I know it seems the entire emphasis of our coming to France is on finding you a husband, ma bébé, but if no man takes your fancy, you must not marry just for the sake of marrying. You must be happy, Autumn, and if being unwed makes you happy, then so be it!”
“Oh, Mama! I like the gentlemen well enough. I just can’t seem to find one I like enough that I don’t want to lose him. In all my life I have only met one man who intrigued me enough that I wanted to know him better, but he was unsuitable,” Autumn told her mother.
Now Jasmine was fascinated. She had never before heard her daughter mention any gentleman who attracted her. “Who is this gentleman, ma bébé and where did you meet him?” she gently inquired.
“I met him here in the forest one day,” Autumn explained. “I expect he was a poacher, though he denied it. I have no idea what his name is, or who he is. He said he was a thief, and when I asked him what he stole, Mama, he said the oddest thing. He said he stole hearts.”
Jasmine laughed softly. “I think I should certainly be fascinated by such a gentleman, Autumn,” she told her daughter. “A man that clever is unlikely to have been either a thief or a poacher. I wonder who he was. Well, if he is a gentleman, you shall undoubtedly see him, for your Uncle Philippe has invited every family of stature and wealth in the entire region for a great party he is giving on Twelfth Night. In the meantime you shall have to make do with St. Mihiel. You could practice flirting with him, ma petite.”
“Mama! Girls today do not put on such affectations,” Autumn said. “Perhaps when you were young, but no longer.”
“When I was young,” her mother replied, “girls were not allowed the privilege of choosing their husbands for love, and most today are not either. In my day, ma petite, your parents chose your husband, and that was the end of it. You wed their choice, and lived with it. Perhaps if you cannot make up your mind, Autumn, I should simply choose the man I think the best mate for you, and we’ll be done with it. You haven’t the faintest idea of what girls do today, but I will wager flirting is still very much part of courtship.”
“I think it’s silly,” Autumn said frankly.
“You will catch more gentlemen with honey, ma petite, than you will with sour wine,” Jasmine advised.
On Christmas Day they were joined by Guy Claude d’Auray, the Comte de Montroi, a charming young man with dancing blue eyes and light brown hair filled with golden highlights. He made Autumn laugh, and he quite obviously irritated Etienne St. Mihiel. She was finally beginning to enjoy herself. She had never had young men pay her such attention, for she had lived a very protected life at Glenkirk. It had been a life that had suited her quite well. It was fun, however, to have Etienne and Guy paying her court, vying for her complete attention, arguing over who would dance with her next. One day she found herself giggling and tapping the arm of one of her swains teasingly with her feather fan.
“You are flirting, ma fille,” her mother murmured softly.
“Mon Dieu, I am!” Autumn said, surprised. But then she turned her concentration back to her duke and her count.
“Only one more to come,” Antoinette St. Omer said softly, watching Autumn as she danced with the duke.
“If he comes,” the comte remarked dryly. “You know how independent Sebastian is, and he has an abhorrence of virgins besides.”
“Well, he had best get over that if d’Auriville is to have an heir one day,” Madame St. Omer replied sharply. “Proper brides are virgins, Philippe. I do not know where Sebastian d’Oleron gets such odd notions. He is hardly in the first flush of youth and will soon be too old to sire an heir. Such a charming man, but so stubborn.”
The Comte de Saville’s Twelfth Night fête was to feature dancing and a midnight banquet. The guests were to come in costume, and there would be a masque performed by a troupe of traveling players invited for the occasion.
“I am coming as the sun,” Autumn