by Susan Stoker
“I don’t understand. I did precisely what Society demands. I married well!” Heloise paused, wringing her hands as her gaze darted to her husband, who looked on from his chair with love and support.
“That is not enough for some,” Alfred said softly. “I don’t care, my love. Let them think what they must. They are the ones trapped by their own stupid rules.”
Heloise’s light brown curls swung against her neck as she resumed pacing. “Stupid indeed. What are we to do now?” She stopped again and fixed her anguished gaze on her husband.
A strident fury rose in Mirabelle. She and Heloise had done what they must to survive, and that Heloise had risen from their awful circumstances and found not just love, but respectability and security was a testament to her determination—and her warm heart.
Alfred shifted in his chair, the light from the sconce on the wall glinting off the thinning patch of hair atop his head. Six years older than Heloise’s twenty-five, he’d never been married and had fallen deeply in love with his mistress. So in love that he’d married her. “We’ll remove to the country,” he said.
Heloise sank onto the settee beside Mirabelle, her shoulders drooping in defeat. “But we just returned from Nottinghamshire yesterday.”
“I thought you liked it there,” Alfred noted, his brows shooting up.
“I loved it,” Heloise said softly. She turned her head toward Mirabelle. “Truly, I’ve never felt more at home. It reminds me of how Mama used to describe our house in France.”
They’d been born in the countryside, not that either of them remembered it. Heloise had been three and Mirabelle just a babe when they’d emigrated to England with their mother and her maid. Their father, a chevalier, had been killed in the revolution.
“I look forward to visiting it someday,” Mirabelle said, despite never feeling a pull toward France or the countryside or anything else their mother had talked about. Probably because Mirabelle didn’t remember her. She’d died when Mirabelle was three, and they’d been raised by Nadine, their mother’s maid, who’d cared for them in their cramped but cozy lodgings near Compton Street in Soho.
“You are welcome to come with us now,” Alfred said. He’d generously offered to bring Mirabelle into their household so that she would no longer have to be a paramour. Mirabelle had followed her sister into the same profession after Nadine’s death. The choice between seamstress and courtesan was easy when one considered the opportunities available to the latter. A seamstress’s life might be more reliable, but it was long, hard work for little pay.
Furthermore, Mirabelle wasn’t particularly skilled with a needle. Not like Nadine had been.
Mirabelle gave her brother-in-law an appreciative smile. “Thank you, but I can’t see myself living anywhere but London.” It was the only home she’d ever known. Indeed, she’d never even lived outside Soho.
“I do hope you’ll come visit,” Heloise said. “Particularly since it looks as though we’ll be living there permanently.”
Mirabelle took her sister’s hand in a fierce grip. “I’m so sorry. But listen to your husband. In the end, it doesn’t matter what these people think of you. Go to Nottinghamshire where you will be happy. Promise me you’ll be happy.” She needed Heloise to do that. One of them had to be.
“I promise.” Heloise leaned her head toward Mirabelle and whispered, “And you will be too.”
Heloise’s disappointment and ire stayed with Mirabelle long after she and Alfred left. Anger still simmered when her lover strode into the parlor. Mirabelle stood at the window and spared him only a brief glance.
“You’re upset.” Lucien moved to the cabinet where she kept her wine and spirits. He brought her a glass of sherry. “What’s the trouble?”
Mirabelle turned from the window and snatched the glass from him, nearly sloshing sherry over the side. “Your bloody Society. Nasty vipers, the lot of them.”
“Agreed.” He slipped his arm around her waist. His familiar touch, warm and steady, did nothing to soothe her.
She sipped her sherry and walked away from his embrace. His silence prompted her to turn. He stood in the same place, his brow furrowed beneath the wave of dark hair crowning his forehead. With his exceptional height, broad shoulders, and nearly black, piercing gaze, he presented an intimidating figure and a commanding presence. He was also sin incarnate.
Lucien wasn’t her first protector, but he was by far the best, and not just because of his skills in the bedchamber. He was considerate, caring, and, most importantly, he treated her like an equal person whose thoughts and opinions mattered to him.
Pushing out a breath, Mirabelle strolled to her favorite chair near the hearth. Orange coals burned, radiating a warmth that didn’t permeate her exterior. “My sister and her husband visited earlier. They were given the cut direct at Hyde Park today.”
A colorful epithet darted from Lucien’s mouth. Mirabelle stared at his lips a moment—they were far more beautiful than a man deserved, lush and soft, almost feminine, except the sharp edge of his jaw and angular lines of his cheekbones kept them from being so. She was going to miss feeling them on her body.
She lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. “I want you to go.”
He strode toward her, stopping a foot or so away. “Let me stay. I’ll help you forget about Society’s nonsense.”
Gripping her sherry glass, Mirabelle hardened her gaze. “Is it nonsense when it’s my sister’s very life? She did precisely as she should—she married one of you. She elevated herself to a position of respectability.”
His jaw clenched. “Not all of Society are like the harridans in the park.”
“Far more of the ton are like them than like you.” She sipped her sherry, but it did nothing to alleviate her irritation.
“Which is why you choose to spend your time with me.” His tempting lips curled into a satisfied smile. He moved forward, lessening the space between them.
Mirabelle skirted him and walked back to the window. “I spend my time with you because that’s what you pay me for.” She heard his intake of breath but didn’t turn. Instead, she stared out the window and fixed on the lamp across the street.
“That’s all I am to you?”
She knew he cared for her, as much as a protector could care for the woman who warmed his bed but with whom he would never share a lasting relationship. Perhaps not never. Heloise had found that one-in-a-million gentleman who’d truly fallen in love with her. He’d seen the woman beneath the courtesan, the vulnerable girl who’d been forced from her home and scraped to survive in a foreign land.
While Lucien saw those things too, it was different. He didn’t love her. Nor did Mirabelle love him. She did like him, though.
Pivoting halfway from the window, she glanced in his direction. “You are more than that. A friend, I hope. But that is all. I don’t want this life anymore.”
She’d been considering it for a while now, but hadn’t realized she’d made the decision until the words tumbled forth. Heloise’s experience today had starkly illustrated what would happen in the very best of circumstances.
“You want to break things off with me?”
“Yes, and I don’t wish to engage in an arrangement with another gentleman again. Ever. I am tired of living on the fringe, of wondering if I should have stayed a poor seamstress and tried to work my way into a finer shop in Mayfair.”
“I’ve seen your attempts at embroidery, Belle. I can’t see you as a modiste.” The humor in Lucien’s tone should have made her smile, but she was just…cold.
“Just because I can’t sew doesn’t mean I can’t manage others who do.”
He laughed, and the sound was the first thing that had given her a modicum of comfort besides the sherry. “That I can imagine. You are a managing sort. Indeed, I could see you in charge of a grand house with an army of servants and a half dozen children.”
She pursed her lips at him. “Please tell me that isn’t a proposal. It was extremely unromantic.�
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He came toward her, but stopped after a few steps. “May I approach?” He eyed her with hesitation and perhaps a ray of hope.
“You may.”
When he was close, but not too close, he took her free hand, clasping it gently between his thumb and fingers. “I would never deign to offer for your hand. I am not worthy.”
She let out a most unladylike snort. “Your father would say I am not worthy.”
“True, but he has exceptionally poor taste.” Lucien flashed a smile, then pressed a kiss to her hand before letting her go. “If you aren’t to continue in this life, as you put it, what do you plan to do?”
“I’m considering my options.” She had absolutely no idea. It was both terrifying and exhilarating. She had a bit of money saved, but not enough to open her own modiste shop.
He arched a dark brow, the glow of hope in his gaze brightening. “Would you consider a separation gift from me that would see you settled wherever and however you’d like?”
“Absolutely not. You should know me better than that. I don’t take charity.”
“I’d say you earned it.”
“That isn’t much better. You’ve already compensated me more extravagantly than most women in my trade can expect.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I can afford it.”
Mirabelle let out a low grunt and stalked away from him again. “Oh, just go. You’re no better than them, tossing around your importance and your wealth. I don’t need either of those things. I’ll provide for myself, thank you, just as I have always done.”
“Your pride is a marvelous thing. Please don’t let it get the better of you.”
She swung around to face him, and this time, sherry did crest over the side of the glass and splash her fingers. “Spoken like a man who doesn’t understand the meaning of privilege or what it means not to have any. Please go. I’ll be gone from here within the week.”
He frowned, the muscles in his jaw working. “Belle.”
“Please go.” She turned her back on him, her body thrumming with an inner turmoil that she now realized had been building for some time.
She knew Lucien had left—the air in a room always changed with his presence, or lack thereof. Closing her eyes briefly, she exhaled.
Then she wondered just what in the hell she was going to do.
3
“Good afternoon, brother.” Lady Cassandra Westbrook swanned into the entrance hall just after Lucien stepped inside. Her dark hair was swept into the latest style, and her warm brown eyes assessed him with a precision that never failed to unnerve him. She was too smart—smarter than all of them by far.
He glanced up toward the first floor. “What, were you watching for my arrival from your sitting room?”
“I was looking out the window, yes. And of course I would come down to see you. I know you won’t linger after your meeting with Father.”
No, he would not. He hated these summonses with a fiery passion. “You’ll see me Friday morning for our usual ride.”
“True.” She frowned in the direction of their father’s study. “How I wish I could be invited to one of your interviews.”
Lucien chuckled. “No, you don’t, trust me.”
“It will never happen anyway. I am not a son.” She said the last word with a deep, pretentious tone that was clearly to mimic their father. As Lucien started to turn, she added, “Pale yellow isn’t much of a statement. I rather prefer the chartreuse.”
Long ago, Lucien had discovered how much their father despised any deviation from conservative attire. Wearing a non-white cravat in the duke’s presence was a small act of rebellion, but one Lucien would cling to as long as he drew breath. He smiled at his sister. “Then I shall be certain to wear it next time.”
A few moments later, he walked into his father’s large study with its dark, towering bookcases and heavy, midnight-blue draperies cloaking the bank of windows that looked out to Grosvenor Square.
“Yellow, really?” Lucien’s older brother, Constantine, stood near the hearth, over which hung an awful portrait of their father with a half dozen hunting dogs. The duke gripped his gun and held a dead fox by the scruff.
Lucien gaped at the painting, ignoring Con’s jibe. “Is this what he had commissioned?”
“Apparently.” The single word curled with disgust.
“At least we share an opinion on the repulsiveness of that…piece.” They typically didn’t agree on much of anything. Lucien moved to stand near the windows, his gaze drifting to his coach waiting for him to escape at the earliest possible opportunity.
“Good, you’re both here.” The duke strode into the study and went straight to his massive desk, which sat opposite the windows. He paused before taking his chair and frowned at Lucien’s cravat.
Lucien quashed a satisfied smirk.
The duke sat, his almost entirely gray head tipping toward the hunting portrait. “I see you’re observing the new painting. Magnificent, isn’t it?”
Exchanging a dubious look with his brother, Lucien didn’t respond, while Con said, “Quite.”
While Lucien and his father were dark-eyed and dark-haired—the duke’s hair had once been sable—Con was a lighter version of them. With tawny brown hair and green-brown eyes, he’d inherited their mother’s classic bone structure. He was also quieter, as she had been, leaving Lucien and the duke to butt heads.
“Is that why you invited us today?” Lucien walked to a chair and sat down, extending his legs out in front of him. “To fawn over your portrait?” He kept his gaze fixed on the duke.
“No. Aldington didn’t tell you the purpose?” The duke used Con’s courtesy title. As a young boy, Lucien had found it too long and cumbersome to say, so he’d called his brother Con. Their sister Cass had done the same thing.
Con, dressed impeccably in somber colors and a pristinely white cravat, briefly massaged the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t. Lucien only just arrived, Father.” Exhaling, Con pivoted to face his brother. “I’m to be wed.” His gaze flicked to their father, ever seeking his approval. That right there told Lucien everything, that Con was doing his duty and nothing more.
Lucien wished that surprised him. Instead, it just made him sad. “Your joy is wonderfully evident,” he cracked. “Who is the lucky lady?”
“Lady Sabrina Kidd.” Con didn’t even sound enthused.
“Bloody hell, man, can’t you muster a modicum of emotion?” Lucien asked.
Con scowled at him. “I’m very much looking forward to marrying her. She’ll make an excellent duchess. At some point in the future.”
Yes, that was all that mattered, that Con choose someone worthy of being a duchess. Emotion—love, passion, even like—had nothing to do with it. “Do you even realize you’re frowning?” Lucien asked.
Con repositioned his body toward their father once more so that Lucien could only see him in profile. It was still evident, however, that Con was making an effort to at least look…not pained.
Poor Lady Sabrina.
Lucien had met her. Hell, he may have even danced with her at one point. He tried to summon Lady Sabrina in her mind. She was blonde, perhaps? A bit taller than average? Honestly, he couldn’t recall her. He fixed Con with a probing stare. “What is it about her that provoked you to marriage?”
Again, Con darted a look toward their father, and it was all Lucien could do not to grab his brother by the shoulders and shake him until something inside him gave way. “She’s demure and kind, excellent at the pianoforte.” He paused, and Lucien folded his arms expectantly. “She, ah, likes dogs,” Con added. “And she’s the daughter of the Viscount Tarleton.”
“Oh, well, that seals it, then.” Lucien uncrossed his arms and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. If his brother were to wed, Lucien wanted him to do it because he wanted to, not because their father had demanded it. But Con had always bowed to their father’s wishes. As the duke said—and Con parroted—it was the duty of the heir to do as he must, not as he c
hose. Lucien should have done more to push his brother into some semblance of freedom. The man should have at least chosen his own bloody wife. Alas, here they were. “My deepest congratulations for your wedded bliss.” Lucien stood, grateful for the short interview.
“Sit.” The duke leveled his signature commanding stare at Lucien. Though he was no longer intimidated by his father, Lucien always chose the path of least resistance with him. So he sat back down.
Father clasped his hands atop his desk. “Now that Aldington is to wed, you will need to do the same.”
“Someday, I shall.” It was nowhere in any of Lucien’s current plans nor would it be.
“Not someday. Soon. I won’t force you.” As if he could. “My hope is that you will do so by the end of next Season. If you’d like a list of acceptable young ladies, including those who are not yet out but will be next year, I’ll provide one.” What was it with fathers and bride lists?
Lucien summoned a placid expression. “Is that what you did for Con?” He sent a pitying look toward his brother. “I’m sure I can manage.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. I would prefer to have input into your choice, but I daresay you won’t allow me that fatherly duty.” He sniffed in a weak attempt at appearing offended.
It wasn’t a bloody duty to meddle in your son’s, especially your second son’s, marital affairs.
“No, I will not. It isn’t your duty to choose my wife, or Con’s.” Lucien glared toward his brother. “Dammit, Con, why do you let him control everything?”
Con’s answering stare was frigid. “I don’t. You seem to think I don’t make decisions for myself, but I do. Just because you don’t agree with them doesn’t mean they’re wrong. For a younger brother, you are annoyingly meddlesome.”
Stung, Lucien sat back in his chair and blew out a breath. Was he no better than their father, trying to manage Con? Was Lucien’s irritation at Con’s impending marriage to do with Con at all, or was it due to the fact that their father’s focus would now shift completely to Lucien? The pressure to wed would be applied most vociferously.