Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 62
* * *
The Comte and Comtesse of Epernon
are proud to announce the marriage of
Lady Lorelei Parisot de La Valette to
the Duke of Chastain, Benjamin Davis.
* * *
As his rage receded, betrayal set in. The treachery of Chastain was expected—Andrew had also been an egocentric man. He sought his own pleasure at the expense of others; he took anything he wanted, and cared only for his own health. The fact that Benji had sat across from Andrew at White’s and professed his willingness for a truce where Lorelei was concerned galled him to no end.
But Lorelei had been different.
His hands clenched, crinkling the paper he held. With unnecessary care, Andrew shredded the thin newspaper, tearing each piece smaller and smaller to make the story illegible.
She was a woman above all others. Most debutantes must be painted and dressed to look the prize, but Lorelei was exquisite without need for assistance from others. Many girls put forth an agreeable facade bordering on dull, while Lorelei was tame in her nature, but kept her spark of rebellion just below the surface. One only needed to look a bit deeper to discover her true qualities.
She’d returned his affection, or at least had led him to believe so.
Could he be so dim? Did the pair laugh at his expense?
No, she did care for him, just as he had a deep and abiding affection for her. No woman could deceive him so thoroughly as this, he was certain.
Andrew stood, knocking his heavy wooden chair over. He needed space—air. When the chair blocked his path, he reached under the lip of his desk, and with all his strength, hauled the massive piece of furniture off the floor and flipped it over. His papers, treasured letter opener, books, and inkwell scattered across the floor. Glass shattered when the miniature painting of his parents hit the oversized bookshelf that held his most valuable books and estate ledgers.
“My lord?” a servant asked with alarm from the now-open door.
“Out! Be gone!” he shouted.
Next he bent and grabbed his gilded chair by two legs, lifting it high, and swung, making contact with the hearth behind him. The ancient wood splintered, sending slivers to every corner of the room. Looking about the room—his sanctuary when in residence—he waited for his fury to ebb. Instead, everything he looked toward was tinted red. He moved to the large portrait of his family, commissioned when he was no more than three years of age.
The frame pulled easily from the wall. Drake held the finely crafted image before him, noting the similarities between his late father and himself: hair color, height, facial expression. He turned his gaze to his mother, a saint amongst women, captured looking to her only child with adoration in her eyes.
He studied the bond between his family, so strong that even a portrait artist had been able to capture it. He’d been alone for so many years, he’d forgotten how to genuinely care for another. People used others, and he’d fallen into the habit quickly after his father was gone and others came calling, only wanting something from him. Whether it was his coin or his favor mattered little because none of them—with the exception of Chastain—had stayed long. It had been a very long time since he’d felt anything remotely resembling affection for another person…until he’d met her.
His very own temptress.
A seductress in disguise.
She’d preyed on his insecurities, assessed his needs, and exploited his kindness.
He thought back to that fateful morning. He’d been so proud to present her with the most beautiful bouquet of flowers, the blossoms no rival to her splendor. The Comte and Comtesse had kindly accepted his call, though it veered from what was proper during courtship. Did they, too, seek to make him look the fool?
And what about their time in the park—and Lorelei’s visit to him after that? He’d counted the days since then. She and Benji had had no time for a true courtship.
He could not believe that of his Lorelei. If anyone sought to harm him, it was Chastain. Another one of his games.
Andrew brought his knee up and threw the canvas painting. The wooden frame splintered as his chair had. No longer did his mother gaze on his youthful self in pride.
Throwing the ruined piece aside, he eyed the shelf that reached from floor to ceiling, packed with books, artifacts his father had collected, and years of ledgers. He took hold of one side and pulled, but the massive shelf held tight to the wall. Realizing it must be anchored, he looked to the objects adorning its shelves.
Trinkets his father had brought back to him and his mother when he’d journeyed to London for Parliament. How the previous marquis had loathed traveling and leaving behind his family, even for those brief sessions.
Andrew picked up a clay miniature of a country home and turned it over in his hands, studying the details: a holiday wreath hanging on the door, a roaring fire visible through the window, and snow covering the ground. He’d been apprehensive about touching the piece when he was young, fearful he’d drop it or damage it in some way.
Suddenly, preserving the delicate house seemed unimportant, for in his heart of hearts, he knew he’d have no son—or daughter—of his own to pass it on to, no one to cherish it after he passed. No one would ever await his return from London, counting down the days to be reunited again.
He squeezed the house between his hands and crushed it until nothing remained but dust, for that was exactly how he felt inside.
A heavy breeze would carry him far and wide, leaving pieces of him everywhere yet nowhere at the same time.
He rubbed his hands together to be rid of the powder still clinging to his skin, and small chunks bit into his soft palms. The discomfort was a welcome feeling, masking the hollowness that spread through him.
“Gunther!” he called.
“Yes, my lord?” His butler stepped into the room, most likely waiting just outside the door in case his master needed assistance.
“Ready my horse.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now,” he bellowed.
“Of course, my lord.” The man bowed, but paused before departing the room. “Shall I send Mrs. Gladys in to tidy up this room?”
As if seeing the disaster he’d created for the first time, Andrew eyed the room. “I do not care if you set the whole manor on fire. I shan’t be returning.”
“Before the holidays?” Confusion clouded his face.
“Ever.”
Chapter 11
“Just a few more days of searching. Please, Pere.” Lorelei pleaded. “There must be somewhere we haven’t looked.”
“Lorelei, your mother and I have left no stone unturned. We must return to London,” he said in French. They had been extremely cautious since their arrival. “It will give us time to search his townhouse while he is here. And I must send word to De Pez, letting him know that we still feel hopeful. I cannot risk sending the letter from here.”
They’d acted the honored family since they had journeyed to the country for Lorelei’s wedding. Every spare moment had been spent trying to avoid the dreaded day by intensively searching. Her mother had convinced Lord Chastain that a proper cleaning out and redecorating of the house was proper to prepare for a new duchess.
He’d given in to her requests, even helping his servants move furniture, but had quickly retired to his study for peace, taking the comte with him each day.
But now, they had a rare moment alone, Chastain having fled the house early and her mother being gods knew where on the estate.
“You are to leave me here? With him?”
“You are in no danger from your husband,” her father sighed. “Please, hold yourself together and remember our cause. If I find the plans, I will come for you myself, and then you will have no cause to see him ever again, if that is what you wish.”
The comte said the words as if he were giving her a choice: return to France with them, or continue on as Lady Chastain. She’d been committed to her family’s goal in London these many months, but things had changed. Now, she was required to spend her nights in the arms of a man who cared little for her or her needs.
Chastain was cordial to her, and she suspected the lack of passion between them was not one-sided. She’d stopped herself on several occasions from asking why he’d married her. What had he sought to gain from their marriage? She had no great wealth or dowry to speak of, nor had he been captivated by her beauty or intellect. If an heir were what he was after, he hadn’t shared that information, either.
Lorelei paced the library, flinging her arms wide. “What if we do not find them?”
“We will discuss that only when all other avenues have proven fruitless.”
How her father kept his composure, she would never know. It seemed every path they tried left them as empty-handed as before.
“There is still the option of you asking Chastain where they are.”
“Maybe Mother should ask,” Lorelei hissed. “She and Chastain seem to get on better than he and I.”
“You will not speak of your mother thus.” Her father stood abruptly, stopping her mid-pace. “She is not like you and I—she has been cursed with the ability to genuinely care about others.”
“You think I am incapable of that?” The words cut her deeper than any knife.
“Do not be hurt, ma fille.” He stepped before her, capturing her eyes with his own intent stare and placed his hand on her cheek. “You and I, we are much alike.”
She wanted to be nothing like the comte. With him, there was always a hidden motive behind his actions and his words. He thought only of what would benefit his own goals. Up until recently, she had been thankful they’d also included her best interests, but with her marriage to Chastain had come the realization that her father viewed her as disposable. A pawn, much as her mother ultimately was. She was bartered and sold—for nothing.
She wondered if De Pez had offered more, whether her father would have given his only daughter to him in marriage.
“Do not look at me like that,” he warned. “What we are doing is meant to save us all.”
“And if we don’t succeed? Answer me that question, Pere.”
He sighed. “Then the plan is the same: we disappear, leave our lives and identities behind.”
His plan was not well thought out and had little chance of keeping them safe for long. They’d been running for years now, living off the meager stash of coin her father had been able to hide over the years, but with their trip to London, they’d spent all they possessed—and for what? A chance to gain the favor of a man who may very well never amount to anything?
“So we will run from Chastain…and De Pez?” She almost thought it better to stay and take her chances with the duke.
The sound of an object hitting the wood floor had them both turning.
A maid stepped from the shadows, a duster in hand.
“What are you doing in here?” her father shouted at the girl in accented English. “Do you eavesdrop on our conversation?”
“Calm, Pere.” Lorelei grasped her father’s elbow to stop him from rushing across the room. “No one here knows French,” she soothed him in her native tongue.
He didn’t relax in the slightest.
“Be gone,” he yelled at the frightened maid, who dropped her duster and fled the room, the door slamming behind her.
“Pere!” Lorelei shook her head. “You must be more respectful. What if she goes to Chastain and tells him of our private conversations?”
“That would a disaster.” The comte returned to his chair. “But he is a lord, and will side with me. Servants should not eavesdrop on conversations, especially private ones. And as best I know, a man is entitled to a private word with his child.”
His words held merit, as the titled stuck close to one another. Otherwise, anarchy and rebellion took over.
“Furthermore, your mother and I will leave immediately for London. Send word when you are to return. Now go.”
“How long should I keep him here?” Her new husband had acted the caged animal as of late. “He tires of country life, and I know he would prefer to journey to town shortly.”
“As long as you can.” Crossing his legs from knee to ankle, the comte picked up his paper, signaling an end to their conversation. “We are done here.”
Her shoulders dropped, and she fled the room. When would he learn that she had just as much at stake as he—more, since Chastain could become suspicious and discover her secret at any time?
The country was lonely, and about to get more desolate. Lorelei could think of only one place on the whole estate to go for solace.
Her mother reclined in the gardens with a heavy woolen blanket around her shoulders to ward off the chill. Camille had seldom left that very spot, except to sleep, since the wedding. Whether it was because she enjoyed the serenity of the place, or that she’d given up hope, Lorelei didn’t know.
She hesitated to disturb her, for Camille had worked tirelessly preparing for Lorelei’s sham wedding: coordinating flowers, selecting the perfect dress, arranging an exquisite meal consisting of Lorelei’s favorite foods from home—all in ten days’ time. It looked to have taken everything from her. Now she sat, speaking to no one and not lifting a finger to help in their search. Lorelei couldn’t help thinking that her mother had earned this respite.
Under other circumstances, Lorelei would have agreed that the wedding had been a beautiful one, complete with striking bride and a dashing groom, married in a garden full of blooming flowers with the bright sun shining on her dark hair. Lacking had been laughter and smiles…though if the few longtime servants and country nobility had noticed, they’d said naught in front of Lorelei or her parents.
“Mother,” Lorelei called as she stepped forward. “Can I ring for more tea?”
Camille balked and shrunk further into her chair, as if hoping whoever called her would go away if she hid well enough beneath her blanket.
“Are you cold?” Lorelei set her hand on her mother’s shoulder, forcing the woman to acknowledge her. “I can also send for another blanket.”
Camille looked up, her eyes filled with a sorrow Lorelei didn’t understand. She’d aged ten years in the short time since they’d journeyed to London. Her hair was peppered with more grey then Lorelei remembered, with her mother not bothering to apply the powder used to keep it a shining black hue.
“No, thank you, my child.”
“What troubles you?”
“Troubles me?” Confusion laced her words. “I am enjoying the fresh air, that is all.”
“You have been doing such for many days now.” Her father was agreeable to letting her while her time away here in the garden all day, but Lorelei worried for her. “Would you not be more comfortable inside, before the fire?”
If they were forced to disappear once more, leaving even their names behind, she feared her mother would be distraught. The precious little time they’d spent in London had cheered her mother greatly.
The comtesse watched a butterfly flit to and fro on the breezes, ignoring Lorelei once more.
“Father says you are to prepare to return to London.” Lorelei tried another tactic to gain her full attention. “You are to leave very soon.”
“You will come, too?” The sorrow fled from her face for the first time. “It will be nice to be back in London again, even if our garden is not as magnificent as this.”
“No,” Lorelei said, dashing the hope that had returned to her mother. “But I hope to follow as soon as I can.”
“I worry about you.”
Lorelei wondered if she’d heard her correctly. “Worry about me—whatever for? You taught me well, and I am prepared for any outcome.” They’d spent many long days discussing what needed to be done to return them to the lives they once knew, though Lorelei had deviated from it at every turn—still, in no way was she prepared to accept failure and what that meant for their future.
“You are just a child.”
“But I am wise for my years, non?”
“Or too naive to comprehend the severity of our situation,” her mother said, pausing. “Or the…”
“What, Mother?” she asked when Camille didn’t continue. “We will find the plans—I have not given up yet. Is there something you have not told me?”
“Your father…” Again, her mother could not, would not, say what was troubling her. “Never mind, my child. I must hurry inside and pack now. The comte will not tarry long if he is set on departing.”
With a labored groan, Camille stood, keeping the blanket wrapped about her as she moved back to the double doors that led inside.
Her vacated chair, plush with lavender pillows, looked inviting. There was no reason for Lorelei to hurry back inside, for the dinner menu had been planned since her arrival by the housekeeper. Lorelei had never been asked to inspect the silver or been made privy to any household disputes. The life of a duchess was one of languor.
They’d agreed she would do what was expected of a new duchess days after her wedding, leaving the comte to spend his days wandering the house and the property. He looked the idle man, enjoying the fruits of his daughter’s advantageous marriage. He’d even accompanied Chastain to the local inn for a rousing night of drink and camaraderie, though the evening had been a waste when Chastain had imbibed so much that he’d fallen asleep before her father could probe him for any answers.
The servants and local gentry had been little help either, as none of them were overly familiar with the duke or his late father. Everything they learned pointed to Chastain being a man who enjoyed pleasure and leisure, entrusting his estate matters to his steward.
Not to leave any stone unturned, Lorelei had met with the steward and kept him busy with household questions while her father searched his small residence. He’d returned to the main house empty-handed and in a foul mood.
Lorelei felt something moist on her exposed hand.
