Part 2 (1/2)

”No? I hope not, because that would lead me to believe that you'd borne my child and were here to collect. That would be upsetting, surely you'd be willing to admit that.”

She stood stock still, words lying in shambles about her tongue. She just stood there, staring at him stupidly. ”I didn't have your child.”

”Well, I'm relieved. I don't believe a gentleman should have b.a.s.t.a.r.ds scattered around the county. It doesn't speak well of him or of his family. So, we didn't bed together, then. Who are you?”

”When last I saw you, your grace, if you had taken me to your bed, then you would have been guilty of molesting a child.”

He was still looking at her in that odd way. Now he c.o.c.ked his head to one side. She was impertinent. She was, it seemed to him, testing him in some way. That was surely odd. He would outdo her; at least he would try. He flicked a nonexistent bit of lint from the arm of his jacket. ”Since that is something that turns my belly, I'm pleased it wasn't the case. Just how old are you? Still silent? Ah, a woman and her age. You never seem to begin too young with your coy protests. You could show me. I have the reputation of judging a woman's age nearly to the very year and month of her birth by studying her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her belly, her legs. Aren't you overly warm in that thick cloak?” He watched her swallow. He'd just bet her mouth was really dry now. No one could best him, in particular this unknown girl standing here in his library.

She realized then that he was a gentleman of the first order. She opened her mouth, only to see him slash his hand in front of him and say, ”Enough games. Who the devil are you?” ”Yes,” she said. ”I'm warm.” ”Then let me help you off with that cloak. You are safe. I've never been drawn to rape, ma'am. Whatever virtue you still possess is quite safe with me.”

”I can't imagine you would ever have need to resort to such a thing. Also, just think of what it would do to your name.”

”Is that some sort of backhanded compliment? No, don't answer that.” He watched her untie the strings of her heavy wool cloak and slip it from her shoulders.

”Before you decide to examine my person, your grace, let me tell you that it could be considered a very rude thing to accord such treatment to your cousin.”

”Cousin? The devil. You say you're my cousin? Now, that's an impossibility.”

”You're right. I'm not precisely your cousin. Actually, I'm your cousin-in-law. Marissa was my first cousin, my father's niece.”

He stared at her dumbfounded. It made her feel better that finally she'd managed to halt him in his tracks. That certainly must be some feat. Then he searched her face for the likeness to Marissa.

She c.o.c.ked a figurative gun at him and slowly pulled the trigger. ”You do remember Marissa, don't you?” ”Don't be impertinent,” he said absently, his eyes roving over her face. ”Yes,” he said at last, ”it's the shape of your eyes, just a bit slanted, that resemble Marissa.” It was what had looked familiar to him. Marissa's cousin. ”Your name, Mademoiselle?” ”De la Valette, your grace.” ”My wife's family was Beauchamps.” ”Yes, it is my father's name as well. De la Valette is my husband's name.”

”You're married? That's b.l.o.o.d.y ridiculous. You don't look married.”

”Why is that? You wondered if you'd bedded me. Surely that is all that being married means.”

”Well, not quite all. Not at all. Where is this wonderful husband of yours? Hiding in the pantry? Over there behind my desk?” ”No.”

”Surely you see my dilemma. I'm quite unused to finding ladies alone in my library, ready to accost me on the minute I walk through the doors. But there's a husband somewhere? Is he behind the wainscotting?” Suddenly it was much too much. ”May I sit down, please? It's been a very long day.”

”While you're resting, why don't I look behind that wing chair over there for this absent husband of yours?”

She didn't say anything, just eased herself down on a very large leather chair near the fireplace. The flames had died down. They were a warm glow now. She smoothed the outmoded dovegray gown about her, a gown that had been expensive four years before. It was a gown that screamed that she was a lady fallen upon hard times. Houchard had laughed, pleased with himself, when she'd first worn it for him. He'd told her that his mistress had selected it for her. He'd told her that the duke, a man of vast experience, despite his limited number of years on this earth, would know exactly what she was.

The duke said finally, ”All right, then. No husband. I see that the gentleman has left you high and dry. Now, I'm surrounded by faithful retainers, Madame. Would you be so kind as to tell me how you managed to be in my library without my being informed of your presence?”

”I arrived but a few moments before you, your grace. Your butler was kind enough not to make me wait in the entrance hall. I was very cold, you see, and he did not wish me to be uncomfortable.”

”So that's what Ba.s.sick wanted to tell me. I can just hear him now: 'Your grace, I've a pretty young piece bundled up in your library, waiting to see to your pleasure.' Yes, that would have been Ba.s.sick's style, but of course he would never intend that I-never mind that. I trust you're now sufficiently comfortable. Would you like some tea? Brandy? Something to eat, perhaps off my best china plates?”

He was elusive, swift as quicksilver, not at all like a soft, gentle rain falling through her fingers, but more like a typhoon roaring over her, flattening her, but at the same time drawing her admiration. He was charming, undoubtedly ruthless, his s.e.xual word play utterly inappropriate to a lady's ears. What was he thinking, really? ”No, your grace.”

He sat down on a settee opposite her. He stretched out his long legs, the cloak falling to the floor on either side of them. His boots were big and s.h.i.+ny black. He folded his hands over his belly. ”So, when will this husband of yours make an appearance?”

”He isn't here. I don't know exactly where he is. He's dead, you see. I'm a widow.”

He sat back, even more at his ease. ”Aren't you very young to be left in that saddened state, Madame?”

”No more than you, your grace. You were made a widower quite young yourself.” The words slipped smoothly from her mouth, and to her own ears, she sounded perfectly at her ease.

”I was married older than you, and I was made a widower older than you,” he said after a moment. ”Now I am twenty-eight. I daresay you haven't yet gained your twentieth birthday.”

”I am just turned twenty last week.” She lowered her eyes, but it didn't help. She hated this even more than she'd thought she would. ”I was married when I was only seventeen. You were only twenty-two when you married Marissa, were you not? And Marissa had just gained her eighteenth year.” ”You are well informed.”

”I have an excellent memory. I was at your wedding, your grace.”

”I see. So, I did remember you, a bit. Do you have children?”

She shook her head. ”Have you many more questions for me? I'm getting thirsty.”

”Yes, certainly I have, but for the moment, let me reminisce. I married Marissa six and a half years ago. You would have been thirteen years old.”

”Yes. After the wedding I never saw either of you again.”

”So your husband is dead. Is your father in England?”

Safe ground, she thought, and although she hated giving the words any credence, just speaking them aloud gave them more that she imagined. It felt very strange, even terrifying, that she managed to say without hesitation, ”No, he died just a short time ago. My mama, who was English, died three years ago. After Napoleon fell and the Bourbon king was returned to the throne, Papa and I returned to France. My papa was in poor health. But his pa.s.sing was easy, thank G.o.d.” Actually, her papa was currently residing in Paris, in a room that was comfortable enough, for she'd seen it before she'd left to come to England. He had one servant to see to his comfort and a woman to cook for him. She'd insisted that he have all the books he wanted. Houchard had agreed, the d.a.m.nable b.a.s.t.a.r.d. And why shouldn't he agree? She was doing what he demanded of her. And there was a physician; she'd said she wouldn't budge unless there was a physician available to him. She'd begged him to be calm, told him again and again that she would be all right. But, she'd thought, how could her father remain calm when she was here in England against her will? What if something happened to him?

”I'm very sorry. The loss of parents is difficult. My own father died last year. I loved him dearly. I'm sorry.”

”Thank you,” she said, and lowered her eyes so he wouldn't see the lie in them. She had a sudden memory of his father, a beautiful man with charming manners, tall and straight as a post, darker even than his son. ”I'm sorry about your father. I remember him. He was very kind to me.”

He nodded, then sat back and eyed her, wis.h.i.+ng she wasn't so pale, that her father hadn't died, for he knew what a difficult thing that was. ”Yes, that makes sense.” He balanced his elbows on the padded arms and tapped his fingertips thoughtfully together. ”Marissa's father, as well as your own, was an emigre. Marissa's father also hated Napoleon, as did, I a.s.sume, your father. He wouldn't ever go back until Napoleon was out of power. Actually, Marissa's father still resides in London, quite content with his adopted country. Does your uncle know that you're here?”

”No. He didn't even know that Papa and I had returned to France. We have no further ties to his family, or to yours.”

”Did your husband die in England, Madame? Was he also an emigre?”

She knew he would ask. She knew because Houchard had known he would, and had asked her question after question until she was clear and smooth in her answers. Still, she felt a stab of nausea low in her stomach. The lies would stack up, higher and higher until she wouldn't be able to see beyond them. ”He did, your grace. Like my father, he was also an emigre. I just realized that I'm now thirsty, your grace. May I have a cup of tea, before I leave?”

He rose and walked to the wall, and pulled the bell cord. Without saying anything more, he left her sitting alone in the library.

Now, this was certainly strange, she thought, rising to warm her hands in front of the fire. Where had he gone?

Chapter 5.

Ten minutes later, he reappeared, carrying a large tray himself. No servant accompanied him. ”Am I so disreputable a visitor that you don't wish your servants even to see me? Are you afraid that they'll gossip about you, alone with a young woman who shouldn't be here in the first place?”

He grinned at her. It was devastating. In that instant she knew that he wasn't just a very wickedly handsome man; he was also a man of infinite charm, if he chose to be charming, and he appeared to wish it now. All that charm was in that grin of his. Even for a strong woman that grin could be a killing blow.

”How did you know? Ah, perhaps you've already heard my servants talking. Yes, I'm quite in the habit of entertaining young ladies in my den of iniquity.” He set the tray down, then expertly poured both of them a cup of tea. ”No fluid retort to that? I don't blame you. That was quite a detour into idiocy, Madame. Now, do try one of Cook's lemon tarts. I don't want to unleash you just yet on my people. Actually, I don't want them to see you until I know what I'm going to be doing for you. I cannot imagine that you just came to Chesleigh Castle on an afternoon lark.

”Yes, do try one of the lemon tarts. You're on the thin side, even though your endowments look quite sufficient, at least from my perspective. Now that you've got your mouth full, do tell me about your husband. Was he an emigre? Did you meet him here in England?”