Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 60
King Louis XV had hoped removal of the plans would stop attacks by their own countrymen, but when Lord Chastain’s father had been gifted the title of duke and endowed with great lands and wealth by King George III, her country feared he’d sold the plans to England. Many suspected Chastain had been given the title by the English specifically to gain control of the plans, but the claim had never been substantiated, nor had any siege been successful. That simple fact was enough to keep King Louis XVI from storming England and taking back what belonged to him.
Finally, the comte spoke. “You have done us proud, my daughter.”
“I will not marry that man, Pere!” she shouted. “There are other ways to gain what we seek.”
Her father stopped before the hearth, his back to her, but his voice filled the room. “You will do as I say.”
She flinched at the conviction in his words.
“Please,” she begged. “Do not—”
“Lore, you will listen to your father.” Camille spoke timidly from her chair. “Besides, he is a nice enough man.”
“Nice enough?” she asked. They didn’t know him as she did; they hadn’t seen the ugly side of him that she had.
“He favors my tea.” For all her mother’s bravado, she did act the weeping woman on many occasions.
“Is the urgency so great that I must marry him so soon?” she asked. “I do not understand.”
“Of course, I hope it does not actually come to be,” her father scoffed.
“Then why even go along with the charade?”
“How else are we to gain entrance to his house?” her father asked. “You both can make a social visit to his London home without anyone thinking it improper. Mayhap with the excuse of selecting new draperies or some such nonsense. While there, you may search.”
Her father rambled on and on about the new accessibility her sham of a betrothal would afford them, yet all she thought of was herself and her future. Any hope of staying in London, maybe pursuing the marquis, was gone. A woman was usually blamed when a betrothal was called off, no matter who had shied from the union.
Lorelei would be ruined, her reputation tarnished beyond repair, and the scandal would likely follow her back to France. De Pez, and most certainly Bonaparte, cared naught about that simple fact.
“When will you be able to call at Chastain’s London home?” the comte asked.
“I do—”
“Oh, it will be a few days, at the least,” her mother cut her off. “We must start preparations for a dress and the wedding: flowers, food and drink, the perfect place. Do you think Lord Chastain will allow us the use of his funds?”
“Wait.” Lorelei held up her hand, and her father halted in mid-pace. “I thought you said the wedding would not actually happen.”
“We must be prepared for any way this may proceed. What if he keeps the plans at his country estate…or, as our people fear, he’s sold the plans to the English? It will be your responsibility to find them and return them to France.”
“And what am I to do once we are married?” The idea of spending the rest of her life with him was a fate worse than death. “I cannot—”
Lorelei had much more to worry about than her reputation and suitability for a future marriage—now she feared actually having to marry the rakehell, Chastain…and sharing his wedding bed.
“Ma fille.” Her father hadn’t used the term in many years. Now he stood before her, determined. “Once we have the plans, we will disappear back to France, and the Comte and Comtesse of Epernon will cease to exist.”
And when the comte disappeared, so would Lorelei. Which would mean saying goodbye to Andrew for good.
Chapter 9
Andrew stared, unseeing, at the papers spread across his desk: tenant disputes, repairs needed, and land acquisitions. Part of him was content to be back to some semblance of normalcy. He took great care in his day-to-day tasks, spending increasing time and energy on what used to be matters he insisted should be handled by his stewards and solicitor.
Anything to keep his hands and mind occupied. Otherwise, he would surely talk himself into taking action. He would seek Lady Lorelei out, persuade her to see him as an honorable match, and likely request an audience with the comte.
Why couldn’t he do just that?
Simple: she’d given him no indication that she sought his attention, nor that of any man.
All the flowers, carriage rides, and dances would not stop her from rejecting him. The thought of confessing his tender feelings for her—feelings he hadn’t had time to process, nor come to terms with—sent waves of unease through him. He’d never bothered himself with a woman in the long term, besides the few courtesans he’d favored enough to keep close for a fortnight or two, but this… This draw to Lorelei was unexplainable, and it took much to push thoughts of her away.
But every time he managed an hour without thinking about her, Andrew suddenly felt her in his arms, smelled her floral scent, and remembered her pounding fists on his torso, arms, and neck.
Something he didn’t quite understand had come over her at that moment in the park—something she hadn’t seen fit to explain. It was far more than the overwhelming sense of hysteria, or the aftershocks of realizing she was safe and unharmed.
As if on cue, female voices floated into his study where the door stood slightly ajar.
The words were spoken so hurriedly he could not understand what was being said, though if the matter needed his attention, Mrs. Bee or his butler would call for him.
Andrew departed his desk as the voices continued. He stepped lightly to his study door and peeked through the crack. Unfortunately, Mrs. Bee’s sturdy frame blocked the guest from view, which stood to reason if the person was unwanted and uninvited.
“…I do not care if you contest your immediate relation to our good King George III.” Mrs. Bee’s voice rose in frustration. “I will ask once more, please leave your calling card, and I will give it to the marquis when he is not otherwise occupied.”
His butler cowered against the wall to the left of the front door.
Andrew wanted to chuckle at the frightened look his longtime servant turned in his direction. He silently pleaded for Andrew to intervene, but knew he’d face Bee’s wrath if he were to speak his request.
“I have told you, I do not possess calling cards.”
The desperation in the girl’s words made the voice all but unrecognizable to him, yet drew him across the foyer, closer to the commotion.
“Mrs. Bee,” Andrew said. “Can I be of help?”
“Oh, my lord.” Flustered, Bee turned to face him, bringing her hand to her chest. “I have everything under control. I was only—”
“Lady Lorelei?” He took in her slimming pale gown. “Do come in. Is everything as it should be?”
Not for the first time, Andrew had the nagging feeling that his thoughts had conjured her up to stand before him.
“I only wanted…” She let her words trail off and glanced nervously between Mrs. Bee and his butler as both listened to every word.
Andrew cleared his throat, bringing his servants’ attention to him. “If you will excuse us.” Stepping forward, he took Lorelei’s elbow. “If you will be so kind as to join me in my drawing room, we may speak privately.”
“My lord?” Mrs. Bee asked when he made to walk from the room, leaving both servants open-mouthed in his wake. Besides Benji and the occasional chit sent by Madame Sasha, Andrew rarely had guests. No respectable woman had crossed his threshold in recent memory. “Shall I prepare tea?”
“I will ring if tea is required.” Truth be told, he had no clue what a lady required during a social call. Besides bringing her flowers, Andrew hadn’t called on anyone socially—that didn’t include intimate relations—in longer than he could remember.
With the door closed, he turned to her, drinking in the sight of her. “You look well.”
Any other words eluded him. He’d wanted to be near her so much since she’d left him in the park. Nothing he said could fully capture everything he wanted to say and do.
Her eyes wide, she stared back at him, silent.
He hadn’t any idea why she’d come, but she appeared ready to flee, much as she had after their near-miss at the park.
He expected her to apologize, maybe even give some semblance of an explanation.
“Andrew…” His name on her lips was so sweet to his ears, yet also the saddest thing he’d heard of late. “I am sorry if I disturbed you.”
“Any time with you is never a disturbance. Please, sit.”
“I do not have much time.”
He wanted to tell her he’d take one minute or an hour, it mattered only that she was here with him now. But something troubled her.
“Tell me, Lorelei. Is something amiss?”
“Nothing, I swear.” She sighed. “I only needed to see you, to tell you—”
“You owe me no explanation.” At her confused expression, Andrew continued. “I know you were unnerved after the accident, shaking from the closeness of everything.” He rattled off excuse after excuse, giving her a way out—letting her know he did not question nor judge her actions.
In the blink of an eye, she took the few steps forward and was in his arms. Every concern and question left him then, replaced by Lorelei’s warmth as his arms surrounded her. It no longer matter what ailed her, or if she were upset; as long he held her close, he vowed that nothing would hurt her again.
For a brief moment, she was the girl he’d seen in the shadows outside that ball, whose shoulders had shaken as she’d cried silently. But she pulled back before he was ready to let her go and looked to him.
Andrew took in Lorelei’s lovely face, and all he could think was how he’d worried about her. In fact, he’d had his horse readied on three separate occasions since the near-tragedy in the park. When she’d fled from him that day, he’d known she was still dazed from shock. He’d followed her at a distance to make sure she arrived safety home—which was a good thing because she’d never sent word to him.
And so he’d fretted over her.
“You are truly divine, my lady.” Andrew let his fingers roam up and down the length of Lorelei’s arm, pausing every few inches to caress the bare, heated skin. How he longed to touch his lips to the very spot he explored. The inner elbow was a most delicate, sensitive place. If one suckled just right, it was very possible to send a woman into a fit of passion.
“Your lordship,” Lorelei whispered, but all he heard was, More. I want more.
“We have been over this, my sweet. My Christian name will do. Andrew.”
“Andrew, I must—”
He could no longer contain himself. Fingers, once caressing her arm, now moved to her cheek, her neck, and pulled her face to his, stopping her words. Ever so gently, his hand moved into her dark hair, which hung in perfect English curls about her shoulders. So close he could taste her breath, he slowed to enjoy the feel of her silken strands running through his hands.
He ached to have her naked, her hair covering his chest—and her emerald eyes smoldering after a passionate bout of lovemaking. Their legs entwined as they rested, preparing themselves to sate their thirst once more.
“Andrew, truly, I must go,” she pleaded, yet had never divulged why she’d come to him in the first place.
Her words brought him back to the present: his morning drawing room, not long past the cresting of the sun overhead, and him clad in his riding pants and boots.
And she, in the most pristine of pastel pinks, a walking dress completely at odds with her exotic looks. No woman with her amount of appeal should be covered in anything less than the finest silks of the richest hues. Deep red, green, and blue would befit her dark complexion and raven hair. If they married—no, when they married—he would outfit her in nothing less than the finest the Orient had to offer.
“No, you mustn’t,” he argued. “Stay here with me. For eternity.” He had no idea what had come over him since he’d met Lady Lorelei. If he didn’t know better, he’d say she was born of gypsy blood and had cast a spell upon his heart.
She pulled from his grasp, looking him in the eyes. “You know I cannot.”
“No, I do not know that.” He felt empty without her, and pulled her close once more. “I will call on your father this very afternoon, ask for your hand—and it will be done.”
The draw to her had only increased since their time in the park—possibly due to how close she’d come to losing her life.
“We have only met recently. That would be highly forward of you,” she pleaded. “Please, I must go. My mother is waiting.”
“Let her wait.”
She laughed. One would expect a deep, sensual tone, but the sound was a sweet melody, light and refreshing. “I fear my mother is not a patient woman.”
“Then allow me to call my carriage round to deliver you with all haste,” he said. “I do not want to anger your mother before she has a chance to know my intentions.”
“You will do well to stay on her good side. So I must go.” She stood, smoothing her dress. “My maid awaits me in your stables.”
“No, you will not walk.” His protest was met with another of her coy smiles.
“Oh, but I will walk. Just as I arrived here, so shall I return.”
“When will I see you again?” He had to know. “Will you be at the Sharden’s ball this evening?”
“I do not believe so.”
“The musicale tomorrow afternoon at Lady Turlington’s?”
“I am not much for instruments.”
“Then when?” He knew he sounded the petulant child, wanting his way and no other. “I will send word to them both to issue you and your family an invitation, if that is the problem.”
“You mustn’t.” The fright in her voice told him not to push her further. London was a small town, and he would see her again, though it might not be today or tomorrow.
“Please, know I am very serious, and my affection for you—while sudden—is very pure.”
“I can see that.” She glanced over her shoulder at the closed door.
“No one can hear us. I assure you my servants are most discreet.”
“I am not worried about gossip,” she confided. “I care for you, too. Neither of us knows what the future holds. Just remember I do reciprocate your affection, though, it may be some time before we can see each other again.”
His heart soared at her words, and plummeted just as quickly. “Your words sound like the sweetest of goodbyes.”
“My family is leaving town for a holiday in the country soon. I am unsure of when we will return to town. So, I am not saying goodbye forever, but I am saying goodbye for now.”
“Will you write?”
Again, she laughed. “I shan’t be gone that long, your lordship.”
“Tell me you will not forget about me.”
“However can I forget about the most dashing Englishman I’ve had the pleasure of meeting?” she teased. “I fear I should be worried that your memories of me will fade as quickly as the setting sun.”
“Then I shall move somewhere where the sun never sets.”
But to him, her remembrance of their brief time together meant much, for it was just that: brief. He only hoped it was not forgettable, as well.
“I must go. Farewell, Andrew.”
He was helpless to do anything more than watch her walk through the door, hear her footsteps as she departed his house, and dream of a time when he would never, ever let her walk away from him again.
Lorelei swept the tears from her cheeks as she rounded the corner on to St. Martin Lane. She’d lied to Andrew, something she hadn’t wanted to do. She’d left her carriage a few blocks away on Bond Street when she’d slipped out the back door of a bookstore and made her way to the marquis’ home.
She’d gone on a whim, to say goodbye. To reassure herself that if things worked favorably for her in the future, then maybe, just maybe, she could return to him…and beg his forgiveness.
He looked at her as no one ever had before. Up until this meeting, she had doubted the depth of his feelings for her, hoping his words of love had sprung from a place of vulnerability and shock after they’d nearly been run down by that buggy, though her maid had told her later that Andrew had followed at a distance until he was assured she’d returned home safely.
Not once today did she pull away from him when he touched her, nor did she flinch when he set his lips upon her cheek. She’d wanted to give herself to him—washing away the filth that Chastain’s touches had left on her skin—but he would not have it.
No matter what happened, she was certain honorable men existed.
The Marquis of Drake—Andrew—was proof of that.
Not all men were of her father’s ilk. Not all men took advantage of her as De Pez and Lord Chastain desired.
That knowledge comforted her. While the marquis was not meant to be hers, another would likely catch his attention and capture his heart, though he denied the possibility. A woman without secrets or motives. A woman without higher allegiances than to her husband and children. She wished for it to be so, as much as she feared one day a woman would come and claim his heart, erasing Lorelei from his memory.
Though not of her choice or making, Lorelei’s allegiance belonged to the Comte and Comtesse of Epernon. Her parents, Mathis and Camille Parisot de La Valette, had sold her fidelity to the next man they suspected would have great wealth and influence, Napoleon Bonaparte.
She was Lady Lorelei Parisot de La Valette of French birth. Daughter to a pair of faithful spies granted a meaningless vanity title that had been given by her country, only to be stripped away after King Louis XVI’s sudden demise. Since that day, her family had been virtual fugitives, moving from small town to even smaller village, never staying too long for fear someone would recognize them and alert the dictatorship of their location.
Lorelei kept her head down as she walked to hide her red, swollen eyes, and took solace in the fact that she’d told Andrew how she felt and knew he returned her ardor. They were fated to be as Romeo and Juliet, two lovers never meant to be, though the future did not turn out as hoped for those young lovers.
