Pretty Little Lies for the Duke's Heart
Page 1
Copyright
Copyright © 2020 by Leah Conolly
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
About Leah Conolly
Leah, or Leou as her friends call her is a South Dakota native. She describes herself as an affordable psychiatrist since she started reading books out of curiosity for the deeper exploration of the subconscious.
She later studied psychology and criminology in NY, but she returned to her hometown when the family business was at risk of closing.
Ten years later, she writes books to capture the feelings of every major life event she encountered so far. Thankfully, her romantic nature considers everything to be important resulting in immense writing activity! In her spare time, she provides online counseling for free to women in need. She considers her marriage to be a great adventure and as her husband recalls “every time we argue she comes back later with a new book based on our disagreements set in a different century!”
Table of Contents
Copyright
About Leah Conolly
Table of Contents
Pretty Little Lies for the Duke's Heart
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Epilogue
The Extended Epilogue
A Rebellious Lady for the Brokenhearted Duke-Preview
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
A Message from Leah Conolly
About Starfall Publications
Be a Part of Leah Conolly’s Family
Also by Leah Conolly
Pretty Little Lies for the Duke's Heart
Chapter 1
Charlotte closed her eyes, allowing the light spray of ocean water to mix with the salt of her tears. She had not spoken a word to her maid on the carriage ride to the docks, despite the young woman’s attempts to engage her in enthusiastic conversation.
The maid chattered away, Charlotte presumed, in an attempt to lighten her mood. She did not fault the young woman for being so joyous, or for wishing to spread her jubilance to her mistress, but no amount of effort could eradicate the cloud of doom that Charlotte felt hovering over her. She focused on her tears instead of the maid’s words and resisted the desire to ask for silence.
Charlotte understood her companion’s fascination. She knew that her maid was excited about the trip and was looking forward to seeing France. Truthfully, if the circumstances were different, Charlotte might have shared the girl’s excitement. As things were, she was unable to do so.
She thought back to the dreams that had haunted her for weeks. After each one, she had soothed herself with promises that she would find a way out of her forbidding future. She told herself that she would be able to persuade her parents to see reason, to see how much she wanted, needed, to choose her own path in life. With her parents’ goodbye kisses, it had become painfully clear that her pleas and hopes had gone unheard.
She dreaded the upcoming chapter of her life with every fiber of her being, even though it should be a happy, exciting time. What woman would not be blissfully happy to marry a French count? Charlotte knew the answer, of course. It did not change the fact that she would not be blissfully happy; she would be downright miserable.
Comte Francois was, by all appearances, a respectable man. He was quite successful in his business endeavors, had great wealth, and managed his title as Comte with elegance and renown. However, at the edges of France’s high society and within the London ton, rumors perpetually surfaced regarding the Comte. Charlotte had heard that he sometimes cheated business partners, making them believe that the percentages of revenue that came in were less than they actually were, or that they had agreed to give him a greater share of the profits.
Someone, though she could no longer recall who it was, had once told her that the great Comte regularly did business with criminals. They had said that if a person or company posed any competition, he would send ne’er-do-wells to frighten the potential competitor and remove them from his path. She had confronted her father about this speculation but had received only the vaguest and most noncommittal of answers.
Worst of all, however, was the rumor that the Comte was fond of taking lovers in secret, going so far as to seek the company of ladies of the night. Charlotte shuddered at the thought of taking such a man for a husband. Yet here she was, waiting at the docks not far from her London home for the ship that would take her to him, in accordance with the agreement her parents had made just after her sixteenth birthday, agreeing to give him her hand in marriage. Her heart was growing heavier and fuller of dread with every passing moment.
The recollections of the rumors involving the Comte were too much for Charlotte to bear. She covered her mouth with her hand, tears trickling down her fingers as she fled the ship’s docking point.
“My lady,” Ruth called, temporarily stunned by her mistress’s outburst. “Wait!”
Charlotte paid her no heed as she weaved her way through the people clustered along the pier, awaiting the ship’s arrival with notably more enthusiasm than she. She looked around, lost, and overcome with anxiety, seeking any place that she might take refuge until she could compose herself. A hand on her elbow made Charlotte start with a gasp.
“My lady,” her maid repeated, pulling her gently away from a group of people who were starting to become too interested in Charlotte’s distress. “Why do you fret?”
Charlotte embraced her maid, grateful for her companionship, as well as her friendship. She tried to steady her breaths, but they were coming fast and shallow. Her entire body was trembling, and she could not order her thoughts enough to answer. Instead, she sobbed against the maid’s shoulder and managed nothing more than a weak shake of her head.
Ruth patted her back for a moment, murmuring to her soothingly. Then she released Charlotte gently and guided her to an empty shipping crate. Once Charlotte was seated, Ruth handed her a handkerchief. She dried her eyes quickly, as Ruth positioned herself so that she shielded Charlotte from prying eyes.
“Oh, Ruth,” Charlotte whispered, still struggling to calm herself. “I cannot go through with this.”
Ruth put a hand on Charlotte’s shoulder.
“Forgive me, my lady,” Ruth said. “But perhaps it will not be so terrible. After all, France is a beautiful place.”
Charlotte rose quickly from the crate and began to pace.
“It could be the most beautiful place in the world and still feel like a cage, if I am married to a scoundrel whom I do not love,” she said, tears filling her eyes once more.
Ruth smiled sympathetically at Charlotte.
“What if the rumors you have h
eard about the Comte are all untrue?” she asked.
Charlotte sighed with exasperation, pacing faster and further.
“What if they are not?” she countered.
Ruth looked at Charlotte, her hands clasped in front of her.
“Perhaps if you talk about some of this with me, it will seem less awful,” she said, her brow furrowing at Charlotte’s increasingly agitated state.
Charlotte opened her mouth to respond to her maid, but a muffled whimper made her fall silent. She froze mid-pace and looked at Ruth.
“Did you hear that?” Charlotte asked.
Ruth nodded slowly, eyes wide.
Charlotte began walking again, slowly and quietly.
“Hello?” she called. “Is someone there?”
Ruth stepped toward Charlotte.
“It was probably a small animal, or perhaps a child,” she said.
Charlotte held up her hand, listening carefully. After several moments of silence, she turned to agree with her maid, but then the sound came again, somewhat louder than before. She spotted a stack of shipping crates not far from where she had been sitting, concealed in the shade of a large pillar.
Ruth and Charlotte exchanged looks. Was someone injured and too weak to call for help? Had they happened upon some sort of crime? Charlotte debated with herself for a moment, unsure of whether she should investigate. If someone were being attacked, the aggressor might turn on her, but she could not just turn her back on someone in need. At last she took a deep breath and straightened.
She approached the crates, with Ruth following closely. Behind the boxes, Charlotte spotted a young woman crouching, her hand over her mouth, her gray eyes wide and full of tears. Her blond hair fell in loose ringlets around her face, and Charlotte noticed a striking resemblance to herself. She held out her hand to the woman, who recoiled, seemingly frightened. Charlotte smiled warmly at her.
“Do not be afraid,” she said. “We want to help you. Come with us and tell us what is troubling you.”
The woman studied Charlotte and Ruth for a moment with the same wide, fearful eyes. Then, slowly, she rose, taking Charlotte’s hand but not meeting her gaze.
“Please,” the woman whispered in a trembling voice. “I do not want any trouble. I was merely hoping to find a scrap of discarded food, or a fallen coin or two.”
Charlotte studied the young woman for several moments, surprised. Was the woman a beggar? Her clothes, although dirty and not as new or elaborate as her own, were not worn or tattered. But why else would she be seeking food scraps and money?
The woman trembled before them, as though fearing that they might alert the other people on the docks to her presence. Charlotte slowly raised her hands and gave the woman a reassuring smile. The gestures seemed to do little to comfort the woman, and she cowered further away. Charlotte took a step back, trying to decide what to do.
She exchanged a look with Ruth, who was gazing at the woman with deep sympathy. Charlotte slowly led the woman from behind the crates towards the one she had been sitting on a few moments before. The woman complied, her head low.
“Do not worry,” Charlotte said, patting the woman’s arm. “We will not say anything about finding you here, but, please, tell us why you are here?”
Charlotte expected her to remain silent, or even to flee without another word. Instead, however, the woman took a deep breath and at last looked Charlotte in the eye.
“My father has disowned me,” she said bluntly. “He is a baron, and he was trying to force me to find a proper husband. I was already in love with a man my father considered to be worse than a peasant, and I could not comply with his wishes.” She laughed dryly as her eyes filled with tears. “I had no way of knowing that the man I loved only wanted me for my father’s fortune, or that he would vanish the moment my family disowned me.”
Charlotte stilled. She could relate to the woman’s plight, and she wondered if she might have found herself in the same position with her own father, had she not reluctantly agreed to travel to France and marry the Comte. It seemed that the woman’s feelings mirrored Charlotte’s every bit as much as her appearance did.
Suddenly, Charlotte gasped, an idea taking root in her mind before she was fully aware it was happening. She took the woman’s hands gently and gave her an enthusiastic look.
“What if I could do more for you than merely find you a bit of food or a couple of coins?” she asked.
The woman blinked at her, confused.
“I do not understand,” she said.
Charlotte knelt beside her.
“What if I could set you up with a new name, a home, a husband, and as much food as you could eat?”
The woman pulled her hands away from Charlotte, eyeing her suspiciously.
“Are you thinking of selling me to someone?” she asked.
Charlotte laughed.
“Not at all,” she said. “What I mean is, you could take my place aboard the approaching ship, travel to France, and live the life of your dreams.”
The woman continued to look at Charlotte with doubt and distrust.
“If it is a dream life,” she said slowly, “then why are you so willing to hand it to me?”
Charlotte sighed.
“Because it is not the life of my dreams,” she said quietly.
Understanding dawned on the woman’s face. She stared at Charlotte, her brow furrowed, as she mulled over the words. At last, she rose from the crate.
“Very well,” she said. “Tell me more about this dream life.”
Charlotte smiled, relieved that the woman did not think her completely mad and proceeded to explain about traveling to France to marry the Comte. The woman listened with cautious optimism, taking in Charlotte’s words.
At last, Charlotte finished filling in the woman, who appeared to be carefully considering Charlotte’s crazy proposal.
“My lady,” Ruth whispered, gripping her elbow. “I do not believe that this is a good idea.”
Charlotte excused herself and led her maid out of the woman’s earshot, as she continued contemplating what Charlotte was offering.
“It is the perfect idea,” Charlotte said, unable to contain her excitement. “The Comte only knows that I have yellow hair, gray eyes, and that I am slim. This woman matches my appearance identically in those aspects. She even has a similar face shape and bone structure. The Comte will never know the difference. I will be free of him and the life I dread in France, and I will have helped a poor woman who might otherwise die in the streets.”
Ruth shook her head.
“What of your father?” she asked. “Do you think he will be so easily fooled by some imposter pretending to be his daughter?”
Charlotte put her hands on her maid’s shoulders.
“How will Father know?” she asked. “Once he marries me off, I expect that he will not feel the need to visit for quite some time. Even if he does eventually make the trip to France, by that time it will not matter. What is done will be done, and there will be nothing anyone can do to change it.”
Ruth frowned.
“That is precisely what worries me, my lady,” she said softly.
The woman cleared her throat, approaching Charlotte and Ruth.
“Please,” Charlotte whispered. “Trust me.”
Ruth looked at Charlotte silently.
“I will do it,” the woman said bluntly.
Charlotte’s eyes widened.
“You will?” she asked.
The woman nodded.
“I highly doubt that I can board that ship looking like this,” she said, gesturing to her dirty, drab dress. “And if we are to switch identities, we should probably learn more about each other, and quickly, before the ship arrives.”
Charlotte smiled. The woman even reminded her of herself when she spoke.
“Of course,” she agreed. “My name is Charlotte Hackney, and I am twenty years old. I am the daughter of the Earl of Devon, and bride-to-be of Comte Francois. This is my ma
id, and dear friend, Ruth Bevel.”
The woman nodded, seeming to grow more excited about their plan by the moment.
“It is a pleasure to meet you both,” she said with a curtsey. “And I am Christine Becker, daughter of the Baron of Weston. I am eighteen years old, and …,” she paused and chuckled bitterly. “Well, you know the rest of my woeful tale.”
Charlotte’s heart broke for Christine. She was so timid and sensitive, and she certainly deserved better than that which life had given her thus far. She gave Christine a warm smile and returned the curtsey. Then she looked Christine over.
“We should get you out of those clothes and into mine,” Charlotte said.
The woman flushed and glanced around.
“How on earth will we switch clothes here, in front of all these people?” she whispered, incredulous.
As if on cue, the crown milling on the docks began making its way to the boarding point. Charlotte looked up and saw the ship, which had nearly reached its destination. She gasped, realizing that they only had a few more minutes if their ruse was to be successful.