“It could be a coincidence, Anne,” Lord Cassell said, his gaze searching Rosalind’s face. “It’s been almost thirty years since you saw your sister. Perhaps you exaggerate the resemblance.”
Perhaps, but Stephen could see a likeness between Rosalind and the countess, who was of similar build, and whose hair was a blend of silver and tawny light brown.
His hand tightened on Rosalind’s shoulder as he answered for her. “My wife remembers very little before her adoption. But she did recall a child’s handkerchief embroidered with flowers, and the initial M and a stylized lion in opposite corners.”
“The lion from the St. Cyr arms! My mother embroidered two handkerchiefs like that for Sophia’s baby.” Tears in her eyes, Lady Cassell extended her hand. “My dear girl, you are my niece. Mrs. Standish must have saved you and brought you home to England. Marguerite—”
Rosalind’s stillness shattered. “Don’t call me that!”
“Why not?” Stephen asked quietly.
As the music built to a crescendo, Rosalind stood and began moving about the room anxiously. “When we ran away, the soldiers came after us. I…I was warned to never say my real name. Never.”
“Were you running away from the Palais du Lac?” Lady Cassell asked. “That was your family’s home outside of Paris. It was a huge palace built of white stone, with towers and a lake with swans.”
“Swans. Oh, God, I remember the swans. I loved feeding them.” Rosalind stopped in her tracks as if she’d been struck. Then she bent her head and pressed her fingers to the middle of her forehead. “I…I remember running up to the nursery to find Standy. I was screaming, and she slapped my face to stop me. She said I mustn’t make a sound. Yet she was crying. I’d never seen her cry.”
Lady Cassell said hesitantly, “What happened to make you scream? Were the soldiers hurting people?”
Not answering the questions, Rosalind said tightly, “Standy took me down the back stairs. It was dusk. There were servants’ cloaks by the back door. She took two. We went by the lake as we were leaving. The soldiers had shot the swans, and the bodies were floating in the water.” Rosalind drew a shuddering breath. “We ran and ran until my side hurt and I couldn’t run anymore. But we could still hear men shouting, so Standy picked me up and carried me. She said again that I mustn’t tell anyone my real name. I must be very, very good so no one would notice us on the way home to England. B-but she couldn’t stop crying.”
“The girl must have seen other horrible sights, Anne,” Lord Cassell said in a voice so low that Rosalind couldn’t hear the words. “Don’t ask her more.”
Silently agreeing, Stephen went to Rosalind and put his arm around her rigid shoulders. Then he guided her to a sofa and sat beside her. She hid her face against his chest and began to weep with utter desolation.
“I wonder exactly what happened to Sophia and Philippe,” the countess murmured, her face gray.
“Something swift and terrible,” her husband said grimly. “We can be grateful for the swiftness, at least.”
Stephen held Rosalind close, wondering what other horrors were still locked in her mind. No wonder she’d fled from a uniformed guard who looked like a soldier on the London quay. No wonder she had become so good at detaching from pain, and had made herself into a perfect adoptive daughter, a perfect wife.
He’d accepted her generous nature willingly because it made everything so easy for him. Gad, he was selfish for not looking more closely at the hints of pain he’d seen in her whenever the subject of her origins came up. He should buy the Fitzgeralds every damned theater in London in gratitude for what they’d done for Rosalind. Not only for the fact of the adoption but for the constant love that had healed many, if not all, of her emotional wounds.
In the salon there was a burst of applause as the harpsichord piece ended. The applause faded, and a new selection began, the fluid notes incongruously happy.
Rosalind’s sobs began to abate. Stephen placed his handkerchief in her hand and said softly, “Shall I take you home, my dear?”
“Not quite yet.” She sat up and blew her nose. Her expression was stark, but her eyes calm. “I’m sorry, Lady Cassell. I wish I could remember more.”
“My dear girl, I should apologize to you for bringing up such ghastly memories.” Her aunt gave her a crooked smile. “We have found you, and that is a great blessing.”
Gently Stephen brushed the damp strands of Rosalind’s hair back from her face. “So Rosalind is the Countess du Lac. Does she have many relatives on the French side of her family?”
“Some cousins, I believe.” Lord Cassell’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Now that Bonaparte is gone and the French king is back on the throne, your wife is probably a considerable heiress.”
Perhaps. But Stephen doubted that there was enough money in the whole of France to compensate Rosalind for what she had endured.
Chapter 27
For years Rosalind had wondered who might have been waiting in London for a little girl who had never completed her journey, but she had never imagined that someone like the aristocratic Lady Cassell would be her own mother’s sister. “Please tell me about your family, Lady Cassell,” she asked her newfound aunt. “Or rather, my family.”
“Call me Aunt Anne,” the countess said, looking grateful to turn from past to present. “There’s my younger brother, Lord Westley, and his wife and four children. The family seat is in Leicestershire. Roger and I have two sons and a daughter, and three grandchildren, too. Our seat is in Suffolk.” She patted her husband’s knee absently, a display of intimacy that would ordinarily never have been made in public. “Lots of cousins. And of course my mother, the dowager Lady Westley. She lives in Richmond, and her health is very delicate. You must visit her very soon, Marguerite.”
“I’m Rosalind,” she said vehemently, feeling sharp revulsion at the French name, “That is what I’ve been called most of my life, and I do not wish to change.”
“As you wish, my dear,” her aunt said peaceably. “Now tell me about the people who adopted you. Fitzgerald, I believe Ashburton said. Is that the noble Irish family?”
“My parents are strolling players,” Rosalind said bluntly. “I was raised in the theater, traveling the West Midlands circuit.”
“Oh, my,” Lady Cassell said rather faintly. “I’d heard rumors, but…Well, I’m sure the Fitzgeralds must be very good sorts of people.”
“They are my family, Lady Cassell.” Hearing the defensive note in her voice, Rosalind continued more mildly, “When I recover from the shock, I shall be very glad to have found you. I’ve often wondered about my kin. But it was Thomas and Maria who raised me, for no other reason than the goodness of their hearts.”
“I’m proud to have them as family,” Stephen interjected.
“Then I shall be, too.” Lady Cassell leaned forward in her chair. “It will mean so much to my mother to know that Sophia’s daughter is alive. Tomorrow I shall go tell Mama myself so that she will not be overcome by the news. Will you come to Richmond the next day? I’d like to invite my children and my brother’s family as well.”
Rosalind looked to Stephen, feeling incapable of a decision. His hand tightened protectively as he said, “We’ll be there, but please keep the gathering small.”
She was relieved that he understood without having to be told. Heavens, she had a grandmother. Aunts, uncles, cousins, family seats. It was more than Rosalind could absorb. She whispered, “Can we go home now, Stephen?”
“Of course.” He helped her to her feet. To their hosts, he said, “Please excuse us. Rosalind needs to rest. Let me know the time and place in Richmond.”
Lady Cassell nodded, then rose and approached Rosalind. “My little sister was very dear to me,” she said softly. “I can’t tell you how glad I am that part of her has survived in you.” She gave Rosalind a light kiss on the cheek, her lips warm.
Rosalind managed a smile in return but was too numb for anything more. Later she would probably be gla
d for what had happened tonight, but not yet.
Not yet.
Mercifully Stephen maintained silence as he summoned the carriage, took Rosalind home, and efficiently stripped off all her clothing. After removing his own garments, he snuffed the candles and slid into the bed beside her. She burrowed into his embrace, finding a primal comfort in the touch of his skin against hers.
Holding her close, he murmured, “How do you feel?”
Groping for an honest answer helped focus her chaotic thoughts. “Stunned. Hollow. Who am I? I’m not really Rosalind Fitzgerald, but Marguerite St. Cyr died many years ago.”
“But you are most certainly the Duchess of Ashburton.” His warm hand drifted down her spine. “And my wife.”
How lucky she was to have him. The terror of being hunted still clung to her like a bad dream, but in Stephen’s arms, she was safe. She wondered briefly what other memories were locked in her mind, then determinedly shut the thought away. “What an extraordinary coincidence to meet my aunt as I did.”
“Not really,” he said matter-of-factly. “If you were not of aristocratic birth, you would not have had to flee France. Given your strong resemblance to your mother, being identified was only a matter of time once you entered fashionable society.”
And she had decided to do that because of the child she carried. Her hand went to her stomach. Very soon, enough time would have passed that she would be able to tell Stephen. An ironic thought struck her. “If I’m really a French countess, you didn’t make such a bad match after all. That’s almost amusing.”
“I knew that I’d made a good marriage long before tonight.” He caressed her from shoulders to hips with a gentle, undemanding hand. “I hope that knowing your origins will cure your belief that you are unworthy to be my wife. That idea was always nonsense, you know.”
Mere knowledge of her parentage would not instantly overcome the effect of the snubs and sneers she’d endured as an actress. But it was a start. She smiled faintly into the darkness. “A countess in my own right. It will take time to become accustomed. What will my family…?” She stopped, then said, “What will the Fitzgeralds think?”
“They’re still your family, little rose,” he said quietly. “You’re fortunate to have several families now. The one of your birth. The one of your adoption. The one of your marriage.”
Her new status should make her more acceptable to the Kenyons. A cheering thought. Would Claudia relent? Rosalind sighed. That was too much to hope for.
Misinterpreting her sigh, Stephen said, “It must be hard to discover who your parents are and at the same time know that they must have died violently. But it happened many years ago.” He pressed a kiss against her temple. “Your parents are at peace now. It’s right for you to mourn, but the best memorial you can make for them is your own life and happiness.”
She knew he was right. Yet in the darkness, the raw pain of her new memories merged with the knowledge of Stephen’s imminent demise into an unendurable whole. She wrapped her arms around him. He was warm and powerful and very much alive. But he was too thin, his ribs distinct, hard ridges against her breasts. How much longer would they have?
She could not speak of that, but neither could she prevent herself from the aching whisper, “I don’t want to be alone.”
He kissed the pulse in her throat, his mouth gentle and familiar. “I can’t be with you always. But I’m with you now.” His lips moved to hers, soothing, not demanding.
She recognized that he was weaving a cocoon of protection around her, using the primitive power of touch to reach her in ways that words never could. Merciful heaven, what would she do without him?
Her mouth opened under his in a silent plea for comfort. Tomorrow, God willing, she would be stronger. But tonight she needed him with shameless desperation.
Understanding, he deepened his kisses and caresses, no longer her protector but her lover. The slow heat of passion began to warm the chill in her bones. The past faded, not forgotten, but decently dimmed by the urgency of growing desire.
From the beginning their bodies had recognized each other as perfect mates. Tonight he used his intimate knowledge of her like a virtuoso musician playing a cherished instrument, creating an exquisitely sensual song that built by slow degrees into a crescendo of need.
And when her breath became swift and harsh, he filled her emptiness, possessing her with a fierce tenderness so profound that she could almost believe it was love. The joining of their bodies began to heal the newly slashed wounds in her spirit. Stephen, her husband. The father of her child. Her beloved.
The eternal dance ended in a climax that was long and deep, suffusing every fiber of her being with warmth. Ah, God, how many more times would she hold him like this, sharing the madness of fulfillment and the peace that followed? How often would she taste the salt tang of his skin and feel the rough power of his passion?
She suppressed tears as ragged breathing slowed and tense bodies softened into a gentle embrace. Sufficient unto the day were the evils thereof. For now, when she needed Stephen so desperately, he was here.
“Sleep well, little Marguerite,” he murmured.
The words should have been soothing, but instead they sliced through her contentment into another level of buried memories. She heard the same words spoken by an old Englishwoman, voice hushed as woman and child took refuge in a barn. Images began racing through her mind, scalding like lava. “Merciful heaven,” she gasped, horror-struck. “I…I can see now how my parents died.”
“You were there?” Stephen said sharply. His arms tightened around her.
She nodded, her whole body chilling. “The soldiers came, filthy brutes carrying wine bottles. They burst into the drawing room, where Mama and Papa were having coffee after dinner. I should have been in the nursery, but I was hiding in the minstrel’s gallery with my doll Minette. I did that often.”
“What did the soldiers want?” he asked, his voice quiet and steady.
She twisted restlessly within his embrace. “They…they said it would be Madame Guillotine for all aristos. Papa protested, saying he’d always been a friend to the Revolution, but a soldier hit him and he fell. Mama screamed and tried to go to him, but the soldiers caught her. One said, ‘Trés belle aristo putain.’ They began to laugh.
“Another said, ‘Why waste such a one on Madame Guillotine when we can do for her here?’” Rosalind’s heart was pounding with a harsh, driving beat that drowned out the world and isolated her with her memories. “They…they threw my mother to the floor and began ripping at her clothing.”
Stephen sucked in his breath. “How damnable that you were there to see such a thing!”
The horror that had been trapped inside Rosalind for so many years rushed out in staccato bursts. “The soldiers had forgotten Papa. He stumbled up and went to a table. He’d put a gun in the drawer because he was concerned about the street riots. He took it out and said…” She began writhing frantically, like a caged animal. “He said, ‘May God forgive me, Sophie.’ Then…then…”
Her voice broke and she could not speak until Stephen whispered, “Don’t be afraid, my darling. No matter what happened then, you’re safe now.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, wanting to block out the scene burned on her brain. “He…he shot Mama in the heart,” she said in an agonized voice. “The gun was loud, so loud, and the smoke hurt my eyes. I didn’t really understand, even when she went limp and stopped resisting. Her face was…peaceful. But the soldiers were furious. One yelled, ‘This swine killed the whore before we could have her.’”
Rosalind drew a shuddering breath. “The soldier pulled out his sword and…and he cut my father’s throat.”
Stephen swore under his breath again, then cradled her head against him, his warm body a shelter against the terror inside her own mind.
Dimly aware that she could not have remembered all this if she didn’t feel so safe with Stephen, she whispered, “There was blood everywhere. Rivers of blood.
I started to scream. The leader looked up and saw me and shouted, ‘The aristo child is called Marguerite. Bring her to me. She’ll do in her mother’s place.’ Two soldiers began looking for the way up to the gallery. One of them called, ‘Here we come, Marguerite.’ There was something so horrible in his voice….”
She took another shuddering breath. “I ran and found Standy, and…and you know the rest.” She was clinging to Stephen so hard that she could feel the hammering of his heart, or perhaps it was hers.
“It’s a terrible tale, little rose,” Stephen said, his soft voice a balm. “My heart breaks for the fact that you witnessed it. Yet—it was over quickly. Your father had the courage and resolution to save your mother from unspeakable suffering.” He caressed the damp tangle of her hair. “He must have loved her very, very much.”
Rosalind thought about the swift and terrible decision her father had been forced to make. “Not only did he spare her, but he also earned a quick end for himself,” she said unsteadily.
“Your father was a brave man,” Stephen murmured. “I don’t know if I would have had the courage to pull the trigger.”
“You doubt your courage when you face death every day with composure and dignity?” she asked softly. “You’re the bravest man I’ve ever known.”
“Not the bravest, but one of the luckiest.” He kissed her temple. “To think that of all the places in England where I might have wandered, I found you.”
His tenderness was even greater than during their earlier lovemaking. Slowly she began to relax. “I’m glad that I remembered,” she said, thinking aloud and surprised by her own feelings of relief. “My whole life I’ve known there were monsters hiding in the darkest corners of my mind. Now I know what they are.”
One Perfect Rose Page 28