St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

by Susan Carroll

  Ah, Madeline. She could almost hear her brother Jeremy's voice, torn between amusement and vexation. You ever must speak your mind. That is because you think that you have all the answers, that you know everything.

  No, Jemmy, she mused sadly. Not anymore. Coming to Castle Leger had proved a rough education for her.

  She now realized how little she did know about other people. About being married, about being a wife… about being in love.

  In love? Now, where had a crazed notion like that come from? She couldn't possibly be imagining she was falling in love with Anatole St. Leger. A man whose dark nature she barely knew and didn't begin to comprehend.

  That would be as unreasonable as… as fancying oneself in love with a portrait.

  "Madame?"

  Rochencoeur's voice broke in on her reflections, reminding her of his presence. Madeline turned away from the windows and was chagrined to realize how she had been neglecting her guest.

  The Frenchman had lowered himself into the chair.

  "Perhaps I could stay for the visit brief," he said.

  "Wonderful," Madeline murmured, though she now regretted that she had not allowed Yves to go when she'd had the chance. She needed to be alone with these new and disturbing thoughts about Anatole.

  But she settled on the sofa opposite, determined to play the gracious hostess. It had been a little easier last night. Monsieur Rochencoeur had been more voluble then.

  Today he, too, seemed pensive, as though wanting to speak but not quite able to make up his mind to do so.

  At last he stretched in his chair and said, "I trust I shall not seem too forward madame, but I should very much like to make you the present of my own."

  He reached beneath his frock coat and produced a slender volume, which he laid upon the tea table between them. When Madeline only stared at it, he urged, "Go on. Please to take it."

  Madeline lifted the book and held it in her hands. It was exquisitely tooled in blue leather and gilt lettering, a French translation of the story of Electra and Orestes, the Greek drama of two children seeking revenge for the murder of their father.

  The pages were well worn and had been lovingly pored over.

  "Monsieur," Madeline said. "This must be one of your most treasured books. I cannot accept this."

  "Non, non." He refused to take the volume when she tried to hand it back. "It was a gift to me from my dear patroness, and now you must have it. Like the Comtesse Sobrennie, you, too, are a lady with a great appreciation for the fine writing and the philosophes. It is rare, as rare as your kindness." His lips curled in a bitter smile. "And I have known far too little of that in my life."

  Madeline did not doubt that, especially if Yves made a habit of choosing his friends from men of such stamp as Roman St. Leger. She felt awkward accepting the book, but she did so, murmuring her thanks.

  While she studied the flyleaf, she became uncomfortably aware of Yves examining her, an unexpected shrewdness surfacing in the man's doll-like eyes.

  "Forgive me, madame. But I cannot help remarking. You appear a little depressed today," he said. "The distressing events of last eve perhaps—"

  "Oh, no," Madeline disclaimed quickly, unwilling to discuss her humiliation at that supper party, even with someone as sympathetic as Yves. "I am only a little tired, that is all and—and suffering from a touch of—of homesickness."

  She forced a smile as she flung out the first excuse for her melancholy that she could think of. But she was a little ashamed to realize she had given very few thoughts to any of her family these past days. Ever since she'd first set foot out of that carriage, her world had been dominated by one person, one man. Anatole St. Leger.

  It amazed her to discover how swiftly she had grown accustomed to his presence during the last week. The heavy tramp of his boots through the hall, the deep boom of his voice, the manly aroma of his pipe.

  It was absurd. The man had only vanished for one morning, and yet she was missing him desperately.

  She shoved the realization to the back of her mind, and tried to concentrate on what her visitor was saying.

  "It is only natural that you should pine for your family back in London." Yves sighed. "I, too, know the pain of parting from a loved one."

  "You are thinking of your son," Madeline said, glad to have the conversation deflected from herself.

  "Oui, mon petit Raphael. It will be the long time before I see him again."

  "Surely your schools in France have holidays?"

  "Mais I am not permitted to return to France, to go near my son again until the task I have undertaken for la Comtesse Sobrennie is finished."

  "You mean your commission to find the countess an English husband?"

  Again, Yves nodded, a cloudy light filtering through his eyes. "Sometimes I think I should not be doing this, that I should go back to France before I set into motion that which can only end tragically. Perhaps I was wrong to choose Roman St. Leger. He is more cold and ruthless than I first perceived. But la comtesse, she is now determined."

  "You'll pardon my saying so," Madeline said gently, "but this patroness of yours also sounds a little cold and ruthless. Keeping you parted from your son this way until you have done her bidding."

  "If she is hard, the world has made her so. La Comtesse Sobrennie is—" Yves hesitated, clearly choosing his words with care "—a most determined woman. She has a great and generous heart, but she can be without mercy to those who stand in the way of what she wants."

  He leaned forward in his chair, bending closer to Madeline in his earnestness. "I hope you will always remember that, my learned young friend. There is so much in this world of cruelty and despair that you do not know."

  Yves's eyes glittered with an unnerving intensity, almost as though he were trying to warn her of something. Madeline tried to study his face, see past that absurd application of white powder and rouge, and she suddenly realized the truth.

  Yves must be in love with this coldhearted countess himself. That was why he was so willing to do anything for her, even sacrifice being with his beloved son. The poor foolish man.

  She laid her hand over his in a comforting gesture. "If you truly fear you are doing something wrong by forwarding this match between your countess and Roman, you should refuse. Advise her that she should not come here to wed him."

  "It is already too late for that. But not too late for you."

  "For me? What—what do you mean?"

  Yves clutched at her fingers. "I do not believe your desolation is caused by the sickness of home, as you say. It is caused by your own husband. I have seen with my own eyes how he treats you, so hard and cruel."

  "Monsieur! I know you must have received a dreadful first impression of Anatole, but I assure you that beneath his fierce exterior, he can be very gentle and—"

  "Ah, bah! He is a St. Leger. They are all of a strangeness, these tall brutish men. I hear the tales of their history, much tragedy and sorrow for those miserables whose lives they touch." Yves's grip on her hand tightened, almost to the point of being painful.

  "You should leave this place. There is no happiness for you here. Go home to your family, cherie. Go back to London."

  Madeline gaped at him, shocked by such passionate and astonishing advice. But before she could even think of what to reply, the door to the parlor thundered open, and Anatole's wide shoulders filled the entryway.

  Madeline leapt up with a glad cry, but her joy at seeing him home, safe, swiftly faded in horror at his appearance. He looked like some barbaric warrior, limping home from a battle he'd lost, mud spattering his boots and breeches, his shirt plastered to his chest, his damp hair matted to the granite planes of his face.

  She thought the storm had ended last night, but she saw with dismay that Anatole had carried it home in his eyes.

  An ominous silence descended as he stalked into the room. He slammed the door closed behind him with a resounding crack. Recovering from his shock, Yves bolted to his feet.

&n
bsp; "M-monsieur St. Leger. I—"

  "What the devil do you think you're doing here?" Anatole said.

  Madeline moved hastily to insinuate herself between the two men. "My lord, Monsieur Rochencoeur has merely been kind enough to call."

  But Anatole ignored her. Shoving past her, he stalked Yves across the room. The Frenchman backed away until he stumbled against the pianoforte, his hand crashing down on the keys with a jarring clang.

  "Milord," Yves said. "I but came to deliver to madame the roses and the apology. From mon amie Roman."

  Anatole's arm shot forward, and Madeline cried out, fearing he meant to seize Rochencoeur by the throat. But Anatole reached past him, snatching up the vase of flowers instead. Turning, he smashed the roses into the empty hearth, shattering the crystal with such force, both Madeline and Yves leapt back.

  "There!" Anatole said, towering over the cringing Yves. "The roses are delivered. Now, get out."

  Yves inched past Anatole toward the door. But despite the fact he was trembling, he paused long enough to bow over Madeline's hand.

  "You will be all right, madame?"

  "Yes—yes, of course, monsieur."

  "Then, I will leave you. But you will remember all that I have said to you?" He dropped his voice to add, "I shall be only too happy to help you escape from this place. If you need my help, you will find me staying in the small cottage at Lost Land."

  Madeline nodded, only anxious for the Frenchman to be gone before he did indeed provoke Anatole to murder.

  Rochencoeur favored Anatole with a cold bow, then exited from the room with a remarkable degree of dignity for a man who was visibly shaken. The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Madeline alone with her husband.

  She turned to face Anatole, quivering with indignation. She'd waited and worried her heart out over this man all morning. She'd even leapt to defend him when Yves had accused him of being a brute, and what must Anatole do but mortify her further by confirming the Frenchman's bad opinion.

  "Sir! Your conduct is abominable," she said. "You terrified that poor man half to death."

  "He's lucky I didn't break his neck. What the devil did he mean—that you should remember what he said? What's that fop been saying to you?"

  "Monsieur Rochencoeur was expressing his concern for my welfare. It seems he fears that I am wed to some great barbarian who is likely to beat me. Though I cannot imagine where he could have gotten such a notion. Can you?" Madeline inquired too sweetly.

  "The bloody impertinent fool. And was that his cursed excuse for holding your hand?"

  "He only took my hand after I reached for his."

  Anatole's eyes flared, and as he stormed toward her, Madeline thought she must be mad. This was like taunting the St. Leger dragon.

  But she stood her ground, even though her chin all but brushed the wall of his chest. She raised her head to glare defiantly up at him.

  "Monsieur Yves was feeling a—a bit distressed," she said. "And I only sought to be kind to him. Our hands touching was an innocent gesture. Certainly no reason for you to go snarling after him like a jealous lover!"

  Anatole's face washed dull red at her accusation, but surprisingly, he made no attempt to deny it.

  "I thought I made my wishes plain enough to you, madam," he said. "You are to have no contact with my cousin Roman."

  "It was not Roman who came calling, but Monsieur Rochencoeur."

  "It is all the same. That French dolt is Roman's creature, and I won't have him under my roof."

  "Then, you should have stayed home to forbid him yourself!"

  Anatole's hands jerked upward as though he would shake her. He clenched his fists instead, turning aside, delivering a savage kick to the chair where Yves had sat. "Why would you want to waste your time with that painted fool?"

  "Monsieur Rochencoeur may be a trifle foolish, but he is one thing you are not, sir, and that is a gentleman."

  Anatole flinched as though he'd been struck. "Maybe it was not the Frenchman's company you wanted so much as Roman's bloody roses and love note. Perhaps the next time my back is turned, I'll have you running off for a tryst with my cursed cousin."

  Madeline gasped at the sheer injustice of such an accusation.

  "I have no interest in your cousin or Monsieur Yves. I only received him because—because—"

  "Because why?"

  Madeline swallowed hard, but for once the turbulence of her emotions overruled her pride.

  "Because you left me alone," she cried. "Vanishing without a word. Worrying me nigh ill. I was lonely and—and distressed. I only wanted some company. I—I—"

  She faltered, feeling the tears start to burn her eyes. A silly habit she had indulged too often of late. Blinking furiously, she forced herself to continue.

  "I just wanted a friend. Someone to talk to. Someone to share things with. That is all I have ever desired." Her voice broke on the last word, and she felt several salty droplets escape to splash down her cheeks.

  "Damn!" She swore in self-disgust, groping for her handkerchief, which as usual she could not find.

  Anatole regarded her fiercely for a moment before demanding, "Then, share it with me."

  "What?" She sniffed, more concerned with halting the flood of her treacherous tears.

  "Whatever you were sharing with that Frenchman. Share it with me!"

  He glanced around, his gaze falling on the leather-bound volume Yves had given her. "Was it this book? Is that what the two of you were talking about?"

  Madeline cried out in protest as Anatole snatched up the volume, alarmed that in his anger, he might end by ripping the book in two.

  Tensing, she took a step forward, intending to rescue the slender book from his large, rough hands, but he cracked it open, studying the pages with hard concentration. He had not got much further than the flyleaf when his mouth tightened.

  "It's in God-cursed French! I can't read such blasted stuff."

  He flung the book down to the carpet with a savage oath and spun away from her. Madeline wasted no time in retrieving the precious volume, preparing to bolt for the peace and security of her bedchamber. Perhaps even farther, Yves's strange advice echoing through her head.

  … Leave this place. There is no happiness for you here. Go home to your family, cherie___

  Perhaps not such strange advice after all, perhaps only the warning her own reason had attempted to give her all along.

  Rustling to the door, Madeline stole a cautious glance over her shoulder, fearing Anatole might cut off her retreat. But he had stalked over to the windows and stared blindly out, his shoulders slumped, his posture one of total defeat.

  She tilted her head to observe, him with confusion. It didn't astonish her to discover he couldn't read French. But it was surprising that it seemed to matter to him so much, that he would even have made the attempt.

  He did it for you, her heart whispered.

  Impossible! Anatole had never shown anything but contempt for her interests. Why, all this past week he—

  She frowned as a host of images from the past few days crowded into her mind. Anatole walking stiffly beside her through the garden, although he hated flowers. Anatole ordering the fire in the library lit, although it was the last place he wanted her to be. Anatole taking tea with her, balancing a cup and saucer in his huge hands, looking as uncomfortable as any man could.

  Dear heavens! Was it possible? Could he, after his own gruff fashion, have been trying to please her? And she had been too stupid, too blind to see it. Even last night…

  Her hand dropped away from the doorknob. Setting the book aside, she drifted closer to him. The sunlight streaming through the window was merciless, revealing every weary line of his hawklike profile, every vulnerability Anatole hid behind his granite facade. Wherever he'd run off to last night, it had done him little good. He'd found no more rest than she had.

  He stared out the window, so lost in his thoughts, Madeline believed him unaware of her presence unti
l he muttered in a voice thickened by pure exhaustion, "I am sorry, my dear. But it seems a hopeless business, does it not? You and I ever sharing anything."

  Only moments ago Madeline would have been tempted to agree with him. But she was no longer so sure.

  She settled herself beside him at the window, her sleeve bare inches from brushing up against his.

  "I could teach you to read French," she offered.

  "I fear I'm too stupid to learn."

  "Oh, no, my lord. I'm sure you could learn anything you set your mind to."

  He said nothing, merely cast her a doubtful glance that somehow went straight to her heart.

  "Why do you hate them so?" she asked.

  His brow arched in surprise. "Roman and his ridiculous friend? I would have thought that obvious—"

  "No, I mean my books. Any books. Your own papa appears to have been a great scholar. Surely he must have encouraged you to read with him."

  "The only thing my father ever encouraged me to do was keep my distance. He used his books to shut out the world. Especially me."

  He turned his face back to the window, and Madeline fully expected him to retreat into one of his dark silences. But for once he seemed too worn down to maintain such dragonlike guard over his memories.

  He dragged one hand across his eyes in a tired gesture and said, "After my mother's death, my father shut himself up in the library with his grief. He would scarce receive anyone, not even other members of the family. Except, of course, Roman."

  "Roman!"

  "Aye." Anatole's mouth twisted bitterly. "Both of my parents were very fond of my cousin, seeing in him the son they would rather have had. Handsome, clever, so blasted charming. Even when my father lay dying, it was Roman he sent for, Roman he wanted."

  "Oh," Madeline said, thinking that explained so much, the enmity that simmered between Anatole and Roman, Anatole's scowling humor every time she wished to disappear into the library. Yet she was left with the feeling that part of the story still remained untold, bound up in the tragic marriage of Anatole's parents. Cecily St. Leger, the bride according to the family legend, who should never have been. Dying so young, mourned by her husband apparently to the point of madness.