He chuckled, trailing a finger across her lips. “You resemble a femme légère, a wanton, lying there with your breasts revealed and your legs spread.”
Shame and humiliation surged through Angelina. She turned her face away, shoving the gown to her knees with one hand and tugging the bodice over her breasts with the other. She swallowed against the tears burning at the back of her throat.
How could he say that?
“Chérie?” Charles touched her cheek, forcing her to meet his eyes. “Forgive me, mon amor. I’m a selfish oaf. I promise we’ll take more time the next go round. You will see how wonderful making love can be.”
He bent and kissed her.
Someone knocked on the outer door, then rapped again, this time with more insistence.
“Ah, that must be our food.” He gave her a boyish grin as he fastened his jacket. “I hope you don’t mind. I requested an intimate dinner here rather than the noisy restaurant below.”
After helping her off the bed, he placed another tender kiss on her lips. “I love you, amoureux.”
The outer door rattled once more.
“I’ll answer that while you repair your appearance.” Whistling, he left the chamber, closing the door behind him.
Repair her appearance? She would much rather take a lengthy bath liberally dosed with scented oil. She’d been anticipating becoming a woman for weeks, and truth to tell, the unpleasant experience didn’t measure up to her naïve expectations.
Something wet trickled down Angelina’s thighs. She rushed to the bathing chamber. Dampening a cloth from the washstand pitcher, she made quick work of cleansing herself, grimacing at the blood on the linen. After removing the evidence of her virginity and Charles’s virility, she smoothed her chemise and dress, shaking the fabric until the folds fell into place.
The pearl pendant above her breasts, a wedding gift from Charles, hung askew. She straightened the necklace, and then adjusted her bodice, wincing slightly. He had certainly been exuberant in his attentions. Mama had explained what to expect, nonetheless . . .
Tidying her hair, Angelina examined her face in the looking glass. Several curly tendrils had escaped the Grecian knot atop her head. Other than rosy lips and cheeks, she didn’t appear different from the woman who had entered the chamber a few minutes ago.
Except, I am no longer an untried maid.
The next time would be more satisfying, she trusted.
As she skirted around the rumpled bed, men’s voices clashing in anger carried through the door. She hesitated, listening.
“Up to your old tricks, Pierre?” an unfamiliar, slightly French accented voice asked.
Pierre? Angelina opened pressed the latch. She stopped short at the threshold.
The man before Charles was no servant. Sporting a thin mustache, the stranger stood attired in the latest fashion. From his gleaming Hessians and cream-colored pantaloons, to his jade green coat and knotted neckcloth—from which a jeweled stickpin glistened—he exuded quality.
He was profoundly handsome. And extremely angry.
Another man loitered by the entrance. Much less refined, he grasped the handle of a gun tucked into his waistband.
She slapped a hand to her mouth in an effort to stifle the gasp that tore from her.
As one, the men’s gazes came to rest upon her.
Charles’s worried and angry, the rough fellow’s, aloof, and the handsome man’s, curious and compassionate?
“Whatever is going on?” To calm her tumultuous stomach, Angelina wrapped her arms about her waist. Charles’s face had taken on a greenish hue, and she feared he might cast up his accounts.
He opened his mouth. No sound emerged.
The mustached man shook his head disdainfully. “‘Charles?’ How unoriginal.”
He offered a neat bow. “Mademoiselle Ellsworth, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Jacques, Baron Devaux-Rousset.”
Angelina didn’t extend her hand. Instead, she tightened the grip around her middle.
Pale, his lips pressed into a thin line, Charles glowered at the Frenchman.
This man was no friend.
“My lord, did Charles not inform you? I’m Mrs. Moreau. We were married this morning. Please excuse my forwardness, but how are you acquainted with my husband? And who, pray tell, is Pierre? Him?” She pointed at the surly man who continued to toy with his weapon.
The brute smiled, a humorless twisting of his full lips.
Lord Devaux-Rousset speared Charles with an indiscernible glance before answering. “I’m his stepson, though, paradoxically, we are the same age.”
Oh, the older woman Charles married. He hadn’t mentioned she’d been a baroness or that she had children. Whyever was her son here? Boston was too far from France for Angelina to believe this was a chance encounter.
Something was too smoky by far.
She sent Charles a sidelong glance. Why didn’t he say something?
He stood seething with silent fury and glared daggers at the baron.
Angelina angled her head in deference. “Charles told me of his marriage to your mother. Please accept my condolences for your loss.”
For a moment, the baron’s composure wavered. He gaped at her before turning a steely glower on Charles.
“Vous avez dit que sa mère était morte?”
Drat, she didn’t speak French, but the baron had mentioned something about his mother’s death. That much she gleaned. Perhaps she shouldn’t have offered her sympathies. The mourning period had ended months ago. At least she thought that’s what Charles had told her.
Or, perhaps it hadn’t been that long, which explained the baron’s annoyance about the nuptials.
“Charles, are you not out of mourning?”
“Merde.” Charles stared at the floor and fisted his hands.
“There is a lady present, imbécile.” The baron eyes snapped with ire. “Hold your foul tongue.”
He turned his attention to Angelina, and his expression softened. Waving his manicured hand, he indicated the ivory and gold striped sofa beside her.
“Mademoiselle, perhaps you should have a seat, and I’ll explain.”
“Thank you, no. I’d rather stand, my lord.”
Why did he insist on calling her mademoiselle? Rather boorish of him. No, pointedly rude, truth to tell.
The baron regarded her for an extended moment. He gave a slight shrug. “As you wish.”
He turned to the brute blocking the door. “Please wait in the hallway and deter any staff. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
After perusing Charles contemptuously one final time, the baron’s henchman gave a curt nod and exited the chamber.
Lord Devaux-Rousset sighed and slapped his beaver hat against his thigh. His gaze skimmed Angelina from her hair to her shoes, taking her measure. “You are lovely. I understand Pierre’s fascination. Thank God, I arrived before he compromised you.”
Angelina frowned. Was the man daft?
“Pierre? Who is Pierre? And how, in God’s precious name, can my husband possibly compromise me?”
His voice very soft, and equally as gentle, Lord Devaux-Rousset murmured, “I sincerely regret having to tell you. The man you call husband is the well-known slave-trader, Pierre Renault.”
He leveled Charles a blistering glare. “And, I assure you, his wife, my mère, was very much alive when I left France.”
Chapter 2
This is not happening.
Clutching her stomach, Angelina struggled to breathe. Shock and disbelief rendered her speechless.
The baron and his man escorted a protesting Charles from the suite, leaving his luggage behind. Head bowed, he didn’t attempt to say farewell.
I’m not married.
Char
les deceived me.
I am despoiled.
She shook her head against the onslaught raging in her mind. The lengths to which Charles had gone—to win her hand, her affections, and he wasn’t free to marry anyone.
He claimed he loved me. How could I have been so wrong? So gullible and stupid?
Tears streamed from Angelina’s eyes. She crossed her arms, hugging her shoulders tight. Bent double and moaning, she stumbled to the sofa. Collapsing in a heap, she buried her face in a silken pillow. She sobbed until the reservoir of sorrow yielded no more tears.
Her eyes gritty and swollen, she sighed and flopped onto her back. She stared at the myriad of roses dotting the room, hating them.
Hating him.
What was she going to do?
Good God, a slave-trader. The vilest of professions.
How could she have been that mistaken about Charles? She closed her eyes against the monologue echoing in her head, a tormenting refrain in her benumbed mind.
Charles vowed he loved me. He’s married. What am I to do?
A few scant hours ago, she’d been rejoicing and thanking God for answering her prayers. And now? The foundation of her faith had crumbled. Tears threatened once more, and she threw her forearm across her eyes.
A soft tapping at the door stirred her from her misery. Moving like an old woman, Angelina opened her eyes and inched into a sitting position. Bloody wonder her bones didn’t creak in protest. She’d aged a century this day.
Except for a single thin moonbeam valiantly cutting through the shadows, darkness inhabited the chamber.
“Who—” A raspy croak emerged. She cleared her throat. “Who is it?”
“It’s Andrew, one of the porters, Mrs. Moreau. I’ve brought your dinner and a missive from Mr. Moreau.”
Charles dared yet call himself her husband?
Angelina supposed she should be grateful lest the staff learn of her humiliation and her reputation be further tarnished. Wiping her face with the palms of her hands, she stood and on leaden legs, plodded to the door. Lord, she felt ancient.
She opened the panel a crack, scarcely wide enough for the paper to be passed through.
“I don’t care for dinner, thank you. I’m not feeling well.”
She spoke the truth. She was sick to her soul. How did one recover from a blow like this? The scars wouldn’t soon heal. If ever.
After shutting and locking the door, Angelina sagged boneless against its welcoming support until the clanking and clattering of the cart faded. Sighing, she forced herself upright, and then set about lighting a few candles.
Kicking off her satin slippers, she turned the note over. She recognized Charles’s neat handwriting. He’d written her a score of poems professing his love with those precise, slanted strokes.
Meaningless words. All lies.
Once more plopping on the plush sofa, she tucked her feet beneath her and broke the letter’s seal. A brochure fluttered to the cushion. Retrieving the scrap of paper, Angelina gaped in disbelief.
“The post chaise schedule. What audacity.”
A disquieting mixture of curiosity and dread prompted her to read his letter. She unfolded the crisp paper.
Chérie Mon Amor,
Return to Salem and wait for me. You must believe me, I love you, chéri. You are mine. I promise I’ll come for you as soon as I have rectified this misfortune and . . .
Misfortune?
As if his being married was an unfortunate accident or a stroke of bad luck. Scanning the rest of the page, she muttered, “How very generous, you lying cawker.”
She crumpled the paper into a tight wad and hurled the ball across the room. The letter bounced off a cobalt Sèvres vase, jarring loose a handful of buttered-colored petals.
Charles, or rather Pierre, had paid for the suite until the end of the week. He’d also made arrangements for her trunks to be delivered to the Plaza. She was to use a pouch of coins hidden within his luggage to secure a ticket to Salem.
Oh, and would she be so kind as to have his bags sent to the lobby? The baron’s man would retrieve them.
No, to his bags.
No, to being his.
And no to waiting for him.
Nor would she return to the only home she’d ever known. She possessed more mettle than that.
Jumping to her feet, determination in her steps, Angelina marched to the secretary. Removing a piece of foolscap, she dipped the quill in ink and swiftly penned a letter to Mama and told her of Charles’s duplicity.
The time had arrived to pay Uncle Ambrose and Aunt Camille a visit.
As Angelina suspected, and prayed she would, her mother arrived two days later. Encased in Mama’s arms, her familiar gardenia perfume a cocoon of comfort, Angelina gave vent to her tears and humiliation, weeping until her sorrow was spent.
“Come, dry your eyes and have a seat.” Mama handed her a lacy handkerchief and guided Angelina to the sofa.
“You’re right not returning to Salem, Lina. The gossip would be your undoing and the twins’ too. I’ve written a letter to my sister explaining the delicacy of the situation.”
“What will you tell Lily and Iris?” Angelina dabbed her damp face.
Mama hesitated. Shoulders sagging, she breathed out a soft sigh. “The truth, I think. The twins know I hurried here at your behest.”
“The truth would be best. They’ll suspect something untoward has occurred in any event.”
Mama tenderly tucked a wisp of hair behind Angelina’s ear. “You’ll go to England for a lengthy visit. No one else will ever know your marriage was a farce.”
I know. Charles knows. The baron knows.
“Oh, my angel. I am sorry.” Though her eyes glistened, Mama attempted a brave smile. “I should have been more diligent, but you were so happy. True love, if you’re blessed enough to find it, is a treasure. I felt like that once, a very long time ago.”
A far-off look shadowed her mother’s azure eyes. She dashed at a tear slipping from the corner of one. “Mine was not meant to be, however.”
Mama schooled her features. “Lina, I’ve purchased a ticket for you on the next packet to London. Praise God, Stapleton Shipping has a ship sailing at high tide tomorrow. I managed to secure the services of a gentle-bred Englishwoman, a Mrs. Pettigrove, who agreed to act as your chaperone. She assured me she frequently travels between Boston and London and she would be most grateful for a genteel companion on the voyage.”
Patting Angelina’s cheek, her mother gave another wobbly smile. “You’ll arrive in England in early May, remain a few months—perhaps a year—and then, tragically, you’ll be widowed, and you can come home.”
A teasing glint entered her eyes. “Or, perhaps you’ll meet a charming young man or a rich handsome lord.”
“Mama, please stop.” Angelina shook her head with such fervor, several strands of hair worked loose of their pins. “I don’t want to meet anyone. I’ll never be able to trust a man again.”
She slumped against the sofa, cradling a pillow against her chest. “Mama, we . . . He . . .”
“Oh, dear.” Mama paled, and her eyes widened in comprehension. Concern etched her face. “I thought the baron arrived before . . .”
Angelina pressed her hands to her burning cheeks. “It was only once and rather quick at that.”
And uncomfortable.
Did that make a difference? Surely it must take many times to conceive. Otherwise married women would be with child continually.
“It’s not likely you’re with child. It seldom happens the first time.” Mama’s voice wavered. She closed her eyes and raised a hand to her forehead as if in pain.
Fiddling with the pillow’s silk tassels, Angelina whispered, “I’m sorry to bring this shame
on you.”
“Nonsense. You loved and trusted Charles. There is no disgrace in that.” Mama squeezed her hand. “You have done nothing to be ashamed of, dear.”
Triumph and Treasure (Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series Book 1) Page 2