Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 61
Andrew would find out about her betrothal soon, and she yearned for him to forgive her. To accept her future as she’d been forced to do.
He was a man like any other, and would move on; give his heart again to someone more worthy.
She turned into the alley behind the bookstore and hurried through the back door and into the warm shop. She hadn’t noticed the chill outside until the heat from the store hit her, warming her numb fingers and nose. A looking glass sat close to the front counter of the store, allowing the owner to glimpse around a tall bookshelf. As she made her way to the front, she noticed the proprietor was not behind the counter, so she paused to assess her appearance. As she feared, her eyes were red and slightly puffy, but her hair was as it should be, hanging perfectly about her shoulders.
With focused calm, Lorelei departed the bookstore. A chime sounded above the door, signaling her departure. She heard a faint call of farewell from the store owner as the door closed behind her, leaving her alone on the most crowded street in London.
Blending into the flow of foot traffic, she moved across the street and a few shops down.
Another bell chimed as she entered a shop, but this time, the room was sparklingly clean, with not a trace of dust on any surface.
“Ah, you must be Lady Lorelei, Lord Chastain’s intended.” A lady, gowned in the most severe of dresses, greeted her. “Please, come this way. Your mother awaits you.”
Lorelei allowed the woman to herd her through a narrow passage that opened into a large room covered in mirrors, with lace and other fabrics draped over every available surface. The mirrors reflected Lorelei’s trim waist, long neck, and cascading dark hair. She knew she was deeply pleasing to the eyes, a trait of which her father was overly proud. She dreamed of her father showing pride in her intelligence or her skill at archery, but no, he was most gratified in his daughter’s ability to turn a man’s head with the coyest of smiles or a flip of her hair.
She’d come to loathe her appearance. If it had been up to her, she’d have cut her hair from her very scalp; she’d forgo applying the coal to her eyelids to enhance her green eyes. She would dress in the thickest of cottons or burlap and live a simple life, hiding her splendor and only shining for the man she loved. That would have been enough, and at the same time, more than she could ever wish for.
Yet, she’d gone along with what her parents and her crown demanded.
And that was a choice she would be made to live with.
“Lore!” her mother exclaimed. “Wherever have you been? I have selected several gowns for myself in my boredom.”
Lorelei couldn’t help smiling at her mother. She truly hadn’t seen the woman this happy in a long time, if ever. Her mother was as vain as Lorelei hoped never to be. While she’d never been a great beauty, she had been enough to catch the eye of Lorelei’s father…and some said the King himself. Camille had told her stories of her younger escapades, helping the crown find traitors amongst their own countrymen. She’d regaled Lorelei with tales of important men who’d tell all to a pretty face after a few drinks. At the time, Lorelei had idolized her mother, dreamed of doing the very same thing—all for her country.
“Oh, Mother. I am sure you quite enjoyed yourself without me.”
But over the years, Lorelei had discovered the secrets her mother had worked hard to keep hidden. Not every mission had been a success—far from it. Camille walked with a bit of a limp that she—and Lorelei’s father—tried to hide. When Lorelei was fifteen, she’d dared ask her mother about it, thinking it could have been a fall from a horse during a daring ride across an open field to evade capture.
It was with tears in her eyes that her mother had recounted the dark tale of a night spent in a tavern on the Scottish border, and a rowdy group of Frenchmen. She’d spent nigh on a month working as a bar wench and gaining the confidences of a group of men with ties to a rebel in France. They’d seen through her disguise—possibly from the very beginning—and decided to have a spot of fun with Camille before they fled. The night had ended with her mother being thrown from a second-story landing, breaking her legs in several places. She told Lorelei that she had feared she’d never walk again, but confided that the physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional pain she’d endured.
It was only a short year later, after she’d learned to walk again, that she’d met and married Mathis Parisot de La Valette at the insistence of her crown.
Lorelei stared at her mother as she relived the story told to her so many years ago.
An odd expression crossed her mother’s face, as if she knew what Lorelei thought, and begged her to let the past be.
“Come, my daughter,” Camille spoke, a hitch in her voice. “Mrs. Despond has the finest selection of marital fabrics in all of London.”
Part of her wondered if her mother had had a wedding, or if her bliss over the occasion was due to her lack of that special day. But she’d never ask, for the pain it caused.
Instead, she turned to the shop owner. “Thank you for accommodating us on such short notice, Mrs. Despond.”
The short, rounded woman waved a hand in dismissal. “There is no bother, my dear. My family has dressed the previous four duchesses of Chastain. I’d begun to fret that young Benji would never select a wife.”
“You dressed Benji’s mother and grandmother?” She looked to Camille, whose interest had also been caught by the statement.
“Oh, no,” the woman rushed to say. “I have outfitted Benji’s distant cousins. As you most likely know, Lord Chastain, Benji’s father, inherited the title and estates after his third cousin succumbed to a sudden illness. By that time, Lord Chastain’s wife had already passed to the hereafter, God rest her soul.”
The woman bowed her head in respect. “But that is enough gossip for today. Now, what have you in mind for your special day?”
While the dressmaker and her mother debated the merits of lace over brocade, Lorelei wondered if the previous Chastain’s sudden illness had anything to do with her French counterparts. But no, her country could not have known Chastain’s father’s distant relation was a titled duke in England. It was absurd to think her crown had that much influence outside its own borders.
It made no sense to put an end to an English lord and send the keeper of the plans away from France, knowing he may very well flee the country to take up residence in the English countryside.
“What do you think?” her mother asked, holding up a bolt of the most delicate lace over a sturdy brocade. “Mrs. Despond made a very good point. Lord Chastain’s country estate might well be very chilly this time of year, and if we insist on a wedding set in the gardens, it would be essential to have a dress made of something more substantial. I am sure Chastain would never forgive me if I allowed you to catch your death of a cold before your wedding night.”
Lorelei’s stomach lurched. In the last day, she’d pushed the thought of marital relations with Lord Chastain from her mind, instead focusing on a way to find the plans so this blasted farce of a wedding never took place. Her mother’s idea to hold the ceremony at Lord Chastain’s country home had been brilliant, to say the least, and had given her a thread of hope that she might yet avoid an unpleasant union with Chastain.
“You know I trust your judgment over all others, Mother.” Lorelei moved to sit against a wall as the pair of ladies continued to argue, haggle, and toss bolts of fabric aside as they planned the perfect dress for a wedding that was anything but perfect.
Chapter 10
“Ye look might pretty, m’lady,” Isabelle whispered.
Lorelei looked up into the looking glass before her, making eye contact with her maid before smiling. “Thank you, Isabelle, but you must still call me Lorelei.”
The girl nodded and moved out of sight.
Lorelei focused back on the mirror before her—and her exquisitely gowned body.
A heavy cream brocade clung to her every curve with a mesh overlay and beaded pearls swirling in patterns about the bust and trailing down into the skirt. When she’d first seen the dress, commissioned at her mother’s behest, Lorelei had wanted to weep and tear the dress apart at the seams. She’d had to suppress her newly acquired aversion to pearls, for she would never tell the comtesse of Chastain’s actions. They reminded her of that night in Covent Gardens, choking her as severely as Chastain had that eve. She’d longed all day to shed the offensive gown, now forever a reminder of her own servitude—to her parents, to De Pez and his chosen faction, and now to Chastain.
The bottom edge of the gown was caked in mud, now dried to dirt that fell to the floor. She and Chastain had married in the gardens only hours before, followed by a feast for the servants and local gentry—segregated, of course.
There were cheers all around as the duke’s guests saluted the new Duchess Chastain. Her head still ached from the revelry of the day.
Now, she stood alone in her chambers, her maid sent to prepare her for Chastain and their wedding night. In the mirror, she stared at a woman she didn’t recognize, preparing herself for a life of uncertainty and solitude.
The worst part was that she’d agreed to every condition; she had never fought her parents’ demands that she help restore their name and status in France—and rightly so. She had been eager to help her family leave the shadows of fear and doubt, and regain a bit of the life they had known under Louis XVI…even if that meant putting their trust in a ruler who had yet to prove himself.
Lorelei may not trust De Pez, and certainly couldn’t depend on Bonaparte’s rise to power, but she’d always trusted the comte and his decisions for them.
“M’lady?” Lorelei looked over her shoulder to her maid. “Ye night shift be ready. Is there sum else ye be need’n?”
“Can you help undo my laces?”
“Oh, pardon me lapse.” Isabelle rushed over, and Lorelei turned once more to the mirror as the maid hurriedly pulled at the laces. “It was right nice be’n yur maid.”
“You say that as if you will no longer be my maid, Isabelle.” Though she would not call the girl her friend, Lorelei felt a closeness to her that she hadn’t found with another soul in London.
“I be leave’n with ye pa when he goes back to London.”
Lorelei sucked in her breath.
The maid released the ties at her back. “Oh, I be sorry for hurt’n ye.”
It wasn’t Isabelle’s hands that had cause Lorelei pain, but the maid’s words. “I am not injured. I only expected you would stay with me. I am certain my husband will pay your wage.”
“It not be that, m’lady,” Isabelle said, returning to her task. “Me beau, Tomas, is in town, and I do be missing him.”
“Oh, Isabelle.” She turned to face her maid, embracing her. “I am so happy for you.”
Lorelei had been so concerned with her own dreaded fate she hadn’t stopped to think about anyone else around her.
“Thank ye.” Isabelle pulled from Lorelei’s embrace. “But right now, ye be need’n to be ready for ye beau. I hear men be right impatient on this night.”
The moment was drawing closer, and Lorelei would soon not be able to avoid it or keep it from her mind. She hadn’t been alone with Chastain since that one night at Covent Garden, and all she’d had to show for those brief moments was a ruined dress and the loss of her beautiful pearl necklace. In its place, a gaudy red garnet ring sat heavily upon her hand.
“I do be hoping Tomas asks ta marry me,” her maid gushed. “He been working hard at his ferrier post, and saving all his coin.”
So easily, Lorelei forgot that all believed this to be her blessed day, the day she’d dreamed of her whole life. She’d married a duke, and a wealthy one at that. Yet, Lorelei had barely summoned a smile for the crowd who’d attended, and had fled the festivities shortly after their wedding feast was served—not that Chastain had noticed, for he hadn’t pulled himself away to check on his new duchess.
“You may go, Isabelle,” Lorelei said, dismissing her maid. “I can slip from my gown and don my shift. Thank you for all you have done.”
The girl looked on the verge of tears as she nodded and fled the room.
One man was noticeably missing from their festivities, though Lorelei was thankful for his absence. Surely, Chastain would have sent word to his best friend about his impending nuptials, yet he hadn’t come.
The Marquis of Drake.
She pushed the image of the marquis from her mind. Of course, he could not attend the marriage of a woman who had deceived him. Part of her had envisioned him riding into the gardens—effectively saving her from the horrid situation she’d been forced into.
But he hadn’t come.
She stiffened when a light tap sounded at the door, her dress finally falling loose about her front.
“Lore?” her mother’s voice called from across the room.
She breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the comtesse, still wearing her exquisite gown from earlier. Chastain would have entered her suite via the door connecting their dressing room, not the one leading to the hall.
“Mother.”
“My child.” Camille closed the door behind her and came to stand before her daughter. “You are so brave.”
“I do not feel at all brave, but rather helpless.” Her shoulders sagged and her dress slipped farther to the ground, leaving her in only her under-shift. “I do so hope this is all worth it.”
Her mother gave her a reassuring smile. “Has your pere ever misled us before?”
“Of course not.”
“Then let us trust him now.” Her mother took both of Lorelei’s hands in her own, looking down at the family ring Chastain had presented to her. “I promise you will not be long married, unless you choose to keep your new husband.”
Lorelei could not imagine a world in which she’d choose to be forever linked to the duke, but she knew this marriage weighed heavily on her mother, as the woman had become more and more withdrawn as the days progressed. “Maybe you are right, Mother. One never knows what their future holds,” Lorelei said to lighten the mood. “Besides, our family lives for adventure and the unknown.”
“That we do, my child.” Her mother embraced her quickly before stepping back. “But I mustn’t keep you. There are many pleasurable things about marriage…even if the man is not whom you’d intended to wed.”
Camille departed the room much as she moved through life, never disrupting anything, and with barely a sound.
For not the first time, Lorelei wished she could do the same: shed her physical form and drift on the breeze to another place—maybe even another time.
Instead, she removed her undergarments and slipped into her night shift to await the duke’s arrival at their marriage bed.
Andrew entered the front door of his country estate, a spring in his step.
“Good morning,” he called to his servant.
“Morning, my lord. The London Post arrived while you were out.”
“I trust you put it in my study?” At his butler’s nod, Andrew continued. “Very good. Please have my morning meal brought there.”
Soon he would return to London—and Lorelei. The fortnight had been up for a few days, and he expected she had returned to town, and even now awaited his call. But with distance came a bit of clarity. No man wanted to be perceived as too eager in his efforts to woo a woman. It would behoove him to take his time, give her space, and wait for her to want him as much as he longed to rush back to London, make his intentions known to the comte, and make arrangements for their wedding. It would be a grand affair, a wedding the likes of which the ton hadn’t beheld since the last royal wedding. People would come from far and wide to witness their union.
It would not happen as speedily as he’d like, for he knew Lorelei must have some family that would need to be notified, and then would require time to travel to England for the ceremony, though she claimed she had none. Hell, he’d hire a fleet of ships to get them here quicker if need be.
He settled behind his desk to review all last-minute missives from his tenants. He’d hired a crew to mend the stables, re-thatch the roof of the local parsonage, and see to the estate gardens. When he and his new bride traveled to his estate, he wanted it in perfect order, as she deserved. He’d also sent for more servants from the local village to tidy the manor, polish every wooden surface, and beat every rug. As a last-minute thought, he’d commissioned a prized artist to paint several new landscapes to adorn the walls of the morning salon and Lorelei’s suite.
It had been many years since a woman had called Drake Abbey home, and he would do all in his power to make sure his home became theirs.
Aside from the light skirts he and Benji had kept company with over the years, he hadn’t the faintest idea what a woman wanted. Would Lorelei be amicable to decorating her own rooms? Would she select bold, earthen colors or the pastel shades that were all the rage in London? He hoped she’d select deep shades befitting her exotic heritage.
Rightly, it mattered naught. His wife, the Marchioness of Drake, would have any and all she desired. If that meant knocking down his old manor and building a new estate to her personal liking, he would make that happen.
Ah, the life of a reformed rakehell.
The notion of one woman warming his bed for the rest of his existence sounded heavenly.
Setting aside the letters from his tenants and the recent correspondence from his London solicitor, Drake picked up the Post. Almost a fortnight old, he was sure the paper wouldn’t hold any important news.
A page detailed the complexities of a new public waterway believed to one day improve the quality of life amongst Londoners. The next page was filled with all the latest gossip, including recent betrothal and marriages. Matches amongst London’s elite were legendary and filled several pages.
He imagined his own wedding announcement. As if conjuring her name, he spotted Lady Lorelei Parisot de La Valette, daughter of the Comte and Comtesse of Epernon, visiting French nobility. He scanned the half-page announcement…and wanted to spit fire.
