The Reluctant Countess, page 1
Dedication
For every woman who fell in love with a
scoundrel like Hippolyte Charles
(including Empress Joséphine)
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Epilogue
Second Epilogue
An Author’s Note about Fiction and Truth—and Love
About the Author
Also by Eloisa James
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
A cottage on the outskirts of Fontainebleau, France
1807
At the age of sixteen, Lady Yasmin Régnier prided herself on her courage. After all, hadn’t she made her debut before the entire French court?
Yasmin had curtsied before the empress, disregarded the curled lips, ignored the giggles. She had held her head high and smiled at everyone who met her eyes. They all knew that her mother was Emperor Napoleon’s mistress, but Yasmin held her ground.
But now?
The unease she felt when she woke alone, her husband nowhere to be seen, her personal maid not answering her call, was turning into panic. She started trembling, not only because the cottage was bitterly cold.
She walked slowly down the wooden staircase from her bedchamber, knowing from the echoing sound of her steps that Mon Repose, the darling house where her husband brought her after their elopement, was empty. Where was the friendly housekeeper, Mrs. Bernard? Where was the cook, Mrs. Recappé? Her personal maid, Desirée?
More to the point, where was her beloved and loving husband, Hippolyte? Her hand tightened on the railing. Something had happened, something terrible. Even if Hippolyte had returned to Fontainebleau, he wouldn’t have left her alone.
Dread clenching in her stomach, she walked into the drawing room. The chamber was small for a lady, hardly large enough for its grand pianoforte, but Hippolyte had assured her that the cottage was merely a place to enjoy their honeymoon, their voyage de noces, while staying within reach of the palace. After all, their elopement would be a huge shock to her parents and the court. Soon they would move into their own manoir, suitable for the daughter of a duc.
But first, Hippolyte had to use his charm to smooth the way for the announcement of their marriage. Yasmin had faith he would succeed. He had a special relationship with Empress Joséphine: anyone could tell that.
She wrapped her arms around her bosom. Without Desirée, she couldn’t lace her corset and her breasts were on the point of falling from her gown. The cottage was chilly and getting chillier by the moment.
The drawing room fireplace was empty. Even if she carried wood from the shed, how would she start a fire? Her maid woke the coals in the morning, or lit the fire with a spill from the stove. She went to the kitchen, but it was still, quiet, and empty, the stove cold to the touch.
Glancing out the front window, she saw that snow had fallen, perhaps three fingers high. No footprints or tracks could be seen. Hippolyte must have left in the middle of the night, taking the others with him. Somewhere in the distance, bells were ringing. But all she could see around the cottage were tall trees, soaring dizzily toward a patch of gray sky.
Where was she?
With a jolt of horror, she realized that she didn’t know. She had escaped her family home, running into Hippolyte’s carriage and his arms. He had kissed her passionately all the way to a small chapel, where a cheerful abbé had married them.
After that, back in the carriage, Hippolyte had pulled her to him. She had no idea how much time passed, how far they’d traveled. By the time the carriage stopped, they were burning with desire. He kept laughing and kissing her, even when introducing her to the servants.
Now they were all gone.
It felt like a horrid fairy tale. Perhaps a cackling witch would stroll in the door.
Just as that notion presented itself, she heard carriage wheels crunching on snow. With a little cry, she ran to the entry. Hippolyte had come for her. She stopped and composed herself.
She was Madame Charles now.
Hippolyte had said she had new dignity. He had said—
The door flung open, and a man walked in, his fur-lined cape billowing behind him, his face set in lines of rage and disapproval.
Yasmin dropped into a low curtsy. “Votre Grâce.”
“I knew your mother was an intrigante when I married her,” her father snarled, advancing a few steps. “An élégante, to call a spade a spade. The daughter of a duke mad enough to sell herself for a small emerald.”
Fury poured down Yasmin’s spine. “You disrespect ma mère!” But she stopped there. Could she say aloud that her father owed his title to her mother’s affaire with Napoleon—which began with that emerald?
No.
“I knew who your mother was when I married her,” the duc said, ignoring her exclamation. “In truth, who could say ‘Non’ to an emperor? God knows your mother was only one of a string of women. I expected more of my daughter. What an imbécile I am!” He jerked his head toward the door. “Vite! I don’t want my horses to take a chill.”
Yasmin’s mind reeled. “How did you find me? But no, I cannot come with you. I am married!”
His lip curled. “You’re disgraced, not married. For God’s sake, Yasmin, did no one ever tell you that Hippolyte Charles is a fortune hunter?”
Yasmin’s mouth fell open. “No.” The word squeaked from her throat.
“The truth is widely known.”
“No one will gossip with me,” Yasmin said numbly. “Because of . . . of Maman.”
She thought a trace of sympathy softened her father’s face. “Your so-called husband came to the house and informed us that he’d ‘had’ you for a week, and that you believed yourself a wife.”
A sob tore out of Yasmin’s chest. “No!”
“He will marry you in truth only if we hand over the Cassan estate. We certainly will not relinquish the estate that your mother earned from the emperor.” The duc gave the word “earned” sardonic emphasis.
“Hippolyte loves me!” Yasmin cried. “This can’t be true!”
Her father gave a bark of laughter. “I blame your mother for not watching you more closely.”
A sob pressed on the back of her throat. “It can’t be! But what—what will I do?”
“You will come home. If you’re with babe, I promise you this: I’ll force that reprobate to marry you and put a dagger in his back within minutes of the ceremony.”
Her darling, handsome Hippolyte. “No!”
“It’s in the hands of God. I don’t suppose he used a condom?”
Yasmin had no idea what her father was referring to. Tears were pouring down her face, her heart smashed into a thousand pieces.
In future years, she always had trouble remembering the next few months. Yasmin had believed every whispered compliment and deceitful promise that Hippolyte had given her. Without him, the world was airless and dark.
She prayed for a baby, to have something of his, and when her courses began, her heart broke again. Her stomach and her bones and her heart were hollow and empty. Aching.
Every day, the gossip columns detailed Hippolyte’s antics at court; he was Empress Joséphine’s favorite, with his luxurious black mustaches and exquisite sense of fashion.
And every time Yasmin thought about him, a stone landed in her stomach. Her false marriage taught her a great deal about cruelty and degradation, and she learned more on the rare occasions when she ventured out of the house accompanied by her mother. No one dared snub a duchesse, but their savage comments about Yasmin’s lack of virtue were always audible.
Somewhat to her own surprise, she kept living, broken heart or no.
It took time, a whole year, but Yasmin decided that she was not a lesser person for being tricked. Hippolyte was. She had only been foolish for falling in love. For tumbling into his embrace with such joy.
After two years, she returned to court, head held high. By then, the stone had moved from her stomach to her heart, and she felt safe from further danger. Not for her, the tempests of emotion that followed love.
Her first evening back in the palace, Hippolyte Charles sauntered up to her and kissed her hand. “Such an exquisite angel could make a man such as I contemplate marriage.” The horrid man smirked at her.
She gave her laugh an edge of mockery, knowing that the court was listening with fascination. “Then allow an angel, monsieur, to assure you that Heaven is unlikely to be your fin
Chapter One
Nine Years Later
26, Clarges Street
Lord Wilbraham Boodle’s Annual Ball
March 23, 1816
For over a decade, Giles Renwick, Earl of Lilford, had watched with distaste as acquaintances succumbed to lustful impulses that cast their lives into chaos, if not catastrophe. At the age of thirty-two, he prided himself on a private life as disciplined as his estate. He had never made a fool of himself over a woman.
Until now.
Lady Yasmin Régnier was ineligible for his attentions in every way: not as a wife, nor yet a mistress—she was a lady!—nor even as a friend, since they vehemently disliked each other.
Yet here he was, blood pounding as he waited for the first waltz, which she had promised to him. Meanwhile the lady was romping through a country dance with Edwin Turing.
All polite society knew she’d turned down Turing’s marriage proposal, along with those of at least eight others. Wasn’t it Shakespeare’s Juliet who described Romeo as a bird with a string around his leg?
Other ladies dispatched rejected suitors to woo other women. Lady Yasmin blithely kept her wooers on a string, thirsty for a smile or a waltz. It was profoundly irritating to count himself among them—and scant relief that no one in London realized that he was so . . . enchanted?
Was “en-lusted” a word?
No matter his obsession, Giles could never ask her to be his countess. Lady Yasmin’s gowns were cut too low, and her skirts were dampened to cling to admittedly lovely thighs. She loved to gossip—and giggle. She smiled and flirted with everyone from new babies to elderly men with a foot in the grave. It was rumored that she carried a small flask of brandy to balls, claiming to hate lemonade.
She wasn’t dignified, or polite, or even truly British, given her French upbringing. Not to mention the fact that her mother had been one of Napoleon’s mistresses, a fact Yasmin made no effort to hide.
One of her silliest suitors had written a sonnet claiming her hair was the color of cowslips and her eyes as violet as twilight. To Giles’s mind, her beauty didn’t matter, though he appreciated her low bodices as much as the next man. What caught him was her laugh, the way she shared joy so freely.
Yet asking her to be his wife was unthinkable.
Full stop.
He allowed himself to dance with her once an evening, always the first waltz. Thereafter, he courted proper, eligible ladies, forcing himself to avoid Lady Yasmin. Telling himself that he was searching for an appropriate countess, as demanded by custom and tradition.
When the first waltz was finally announced, Giles made his way to her side, bowing and kissing her gloved hand. His whole body relaxed as his arm closed around her, and they moved into the dance.
With a start, he realized that she had burst into speech.
Then again, when wasn’t she chattering?
“Your sister is dancing with Lord Pepper,” Lady Yasmin told him with an expectant glance.
“Yes?”
“It wouldn’t be a terrible match on paper, but you mustn’t ignore his penchant for the racetrack. He must find a wife with a large dowry.”
If there was one thing Giles loathed, it was gossip. Tittle-tattle of this sort had shattered his family and led to his father’s death, though Lady Yasmin would be unaware of that as she grew up in France.
He was the very last person to rebuff anyone on the basis of idle chatter.
“You’re giving me that hateful look again,” she observed. “I thought perhaps you reserved it for me, but I saw you glowering at Fitz earlier.”
Fitz—or the Honorable Fitzgibbon-Foley—was an irritating beetle of a man. The fact that the betting book at White’s had identified Fitz as an excellent candidate to win Lady Yasmin’s hand in marriage had no bearing on his opinion.
“I prefer to judge a man on his merits, rather than idle gossip,” Giles said. “I think a great deal of Lord Pepper.” Not that he knew more of the younger man than vague memories from Eton. Pepper hadn’t taken up his seat in the House of Lords, which meant that Giles paid him no attention.
“You are responsible for your sister’s welfare,” Lady Yasmin retorted, as she floated through the dance. “You have chosen to escort her to events yourself, rather than place her in the hands of a reliable chaperone, which means that you must pay attention to such details.”
It was entirely predictable to find irritation seeping into his veins; it happened whenever they engaged in conversation.
“What gentleman doesn’t attend the races at Doncaster and Ascot?” Giles inquired, raising an eyebrow. “No one would question Pepper’s place in society.”
Lady Yasmin’s brows were perfect arches even when she scowled. Giles had a mad impulse to trace them with a finger. A finger that would drop down to touch the sweet flush on her cheek and then caress her lips.
Presumably, those lips were inherited from her French father, because no Englishwoman had lips that plush, let alone tipped up into a near-constant smile.
She wasn’t smiling now. “Are you referring to those who question my place in fashionable circles?”
“I—”
“True, my mother’s position as one of the emperor’s dearest friends precludes her rejoining English society, had she longed for such delight.” Lady Yasmin’s ironic tone made her mother’s feelings clear. “But my grandfather, the Duke of Portbellow, assures me near daily that the English do not visit the sins of parents upon their children. My mother gave me one of Napoleon’s hats, and my grandfather perched it on a skeleton he keeps in the drawing room. He considers the family connection, as it were, a jest.”
“You are indubitably a lady,” Giles stated. “I meant that blather about the racetrack is no reason to discount a suitor for my sister’s hand before the man has even proposed.”
“So you don’t care that your younger sister is dancing with a hardened gambler?” she inquired now. “I would, were she my sister. But were she my sister, she would have a chaperone.”
“Lydia doesn’t want a chaperone,” Giles said.
She wasn’t attending. “I’m not sure I had that right. ‘Were she my sister’? That’s right, isn’t it? Because Lady Lydia couldn’t possibly be my sister. ‘I would, was she my sister’? No, that definitely doesn’t work.”
“Your English is improving,” Giles said. Instantly, he felt like a condescending ass, because her command of the language was excellent.
Lady Yasmin didn’t take offense. “I wish you’d tell my grandfather as much. His Grace corrected me twice at breakfast this morning.” She rolled her eyes. “If only he could hear me now, using the subjunctive like an Oxford don.”
They were nearing the bottom of the ballroom, so Giles drew her closer and began turning in circles. Lady Yasmin kept talking, effortlessly following his lead. “My point is that it’s natural for your sister to refuse a chaperone.”
“Why?”
Her mouth tightened. “I suppose you think I’m getting too high for my nut, Lord Lilford. But I know young women.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by a reference to your nut.” Giles took a deep breath, fighting off the fact that his cock responded to her scent as if . . . He wasn’t any good at metaphors. Perhaps all the blood in his body had drained from his head.
Lady Yasmin gave him an impish smile, and he instinctively drew her closer once again. “American slang,” she told him. “Getting too high for your nut means that you are overreaching.”
Giles cleared his throat. “The phrase applies only to male overreachers.”
“His nut,” Lady Yasmin said. “Like a—” She broke off, her brows drawing together again. “Not a reference to a squirrel hiding his treasure in a tree?”
“No,” Giles said. “I believe we’re talking about male anatomy.” Not that he had ever discussed male anatomy with a young lady before.
“Bollocks!” she said, with an enchanting giggle.
Giles swallowed hard. The woman he was holding in his arms was a lady. Her mother’s situation didn’t mean . . . Though Lady Yasmin clearly wasn’t chaste in the strictest sense . . . His thoughts fogged with a bout of pure lust.
“I find the differences between English and American usage fascinating,” Lady Yasmin said. “But I keep tripping over naughty words. English is littered with them, far more so than French.”
