How like a lamb to the slaughter her silly cousin had gone, full of the illusion of romance, believing her fiancé’s ardour too intense to wait.
Elvira rose wildly to her feet.
“Why did you allow the subterfuge to continue to the point where your valet and my cousin fell in love?” she cried accusingly. “Why did you not put an end to the charade sooner?”
The Prince leaned his forehead on his hand.
“At the beginning, I did not intend it to carry on for more than a few days,” he said in a low voice. “But I – I found myself falling in love with someone other than my intended. Someone whom I began to wish might love me in return, for myself alone, and not for my rank and title.”
The Prince paused and raised weary eyes to gaze on Elvira.
“How bitter it was to discover that this other girl was to become as dazzled by the image of Princehood as Delphine Baseheart. How bitter to see her falling in love with a man who was so beneath her.
“Only when she had no other option did she deign to accept the hand of a man she believed to be a mere servant. And accept him then she did, although her heart lay elsewhere.”
Elvira let out a sob of anger, as much with herself as with him.
“Sir, I ceased to be enamoured of – the man I believed to be the Prince, when I discovered his true nature. As to the man who now stands before me – how dare he accuse me of a base passion, when he so played with my emotions as to let me believe he had married me for a bag of gold – when he allowed me to believe he did not so much as desire my little finger, but humiliated me time after time by amusing himself with every servant girl he encountered!”
The Prince rose to face her, his eyes flashing.
“By Heaven, you do me wrong, madam!”
“I do not, sir, I am married to a mountebank, a deceiver!”
The Prince’s expression grew cold as a glacier.
“As to that, madam, let me reassure you. Since the name I gave to the Priest, Serge Lacombe, is not my real name, you are not in fact married to me at all. You are free to leave whenever you like.”
Elvira gasped in fury.
“Not married? Why then I shall leave, sir. I shall leave tonight. And I pray that we shall never, never meet again!”
She spun on her heels and ran from the room, in her flight almost knocking over the footman who stood on duty outside.
CHAPTER TEN
Wracked with sobs, Elvira tore at her dress, trying to rip it off. She could not reach the hooks and at last relinquished the attempt.
The dress hanging loose and her shoulder exposed, Elvira dragged her carpet bag from the armoire and began to throw in her clothes that Beth had packed for her.
She would not take anything that Prince Charles de Courel had provided for his wife.
Wife! Ha! A fresh wave of anger shook her frame.
She had left England, come to a foreign country, all in the belief that she was at least securely married!
What had the Prince intended should happen when they reached his Palace – that she should be kept like a bird in a gilded cage, until such time as he chose to ravish her against her will? Like a – like a concubine?
She would leave this tyrant and his Kingdom immediately.
She tried not to think of where she would go once the Palace gates were closed behind her. She knew no one, she did not speak the language and had no idea of where exactly she was in France. All she could think of was that she must flee.
She wondered where Delphine and the valet were at this moment. In some wretched hostelry in England, living on bread and ale? Or would Serge bring his hapless bride to France, where he might at least find some employment?
He would certainly not dare to come to Courel. The Prince would never admit him now.
Tying the handles of the carpet bag together, she threw it on a chair and looked round for her cloak.
The door opened and Madame Gossec entered.
She took in the scene at a glance.
“Vous – go, madame?” she asked calmly.
“Yes – oui – I go.”
Elvira and Madame Gossec regarded each other.
“But – ze storm,” cautioned Madame Gossec softly.
“Storm?”
Elvira turned her gaze to the windows. Now she heard it, a banging of shutters, a rattle of hail on glass. From the chimney came a low insistent moan.
Madame Gossec glided forward and took the carpet bag from the chair.
“Madame go – demain. Oui?”
“D-demain?” echoed Elvira. “Tomorrow?”
It would indeed be foolhardy to leave in such a storm and she knew it. Defeated, she sank down onto the bed.
Madame Gossec patted her bare shoulder.
“Voulez-vous quelques chose a manger, Madame?”
Elvira dimly recognised the question to be about food. She gave a nod.
Madame Gossec obviously knew she had not eaten. No doubt news of the quarrel between the Prince and his supposed wife had travelled round the Palace like wildfire.
Madame Gossec departed and Elvira curled up on the bed, drawing the quilt over her legs. She lay miserably staring at the fire, tears glistening on her cheeks, tendrils of hair trailing over her forehead. Her eyelids fluttered, closed, opened again, then closed.
When Madame Gossec re-entered with a tray of milk and brioches, she found Elvira in an exhausted sleep. Drawing the quilt gently over her shoulders, she tiptoed out.
The night wore on as the wind raged outside, ripping large boughs from trees, sending loose objects skittering, upending the wooden drinking trough in the stable yard.
Still Elvira slept on.
The wind died down as midnight struck, though rain still fell in torrents, swelling the streams and gushing from the gutters.
Elvira woke with a sudden start as the doors of her room were thrown violently open, hitting the wall on each side with a great clamour.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes, half dazzled by the light that suddenly streamed from a candelabrum held aloft.
“W-who is it?” she asked fearfully.
“It is I,” came the reply and the Prince stepped forward. His features were set, firm and determined. She shrank back in terror.
Had he come to assert his manhood – take her as she imagined he might, as the pure spoil of his venture in England?
“Get up,” he commanded.
This was not what Elvira had expected.
“G-get up?”
“Yes. And take this. It is a chilly night.”
He tossed a purple velvet cape onto the bed.
Elvira stared at it as if mesmerised. What did he mean by all this? Why should she rise and put on this garment, when it was long past midnight?
With an exclamation of impatience, he reached for her with his free hand and half dragged her from the bed.
“Sir – sir – you are hurting me!” she cried.
He released his grip and stood back, candelabrum held high.
“My apologies,” he said, but curtly. In the fluttering candlelight his eyes took in her dishevelled state, the half torn dress hanging low and exposing her bare shoulder.
His gaze was so unmistakably full of desire that Elvira was alarmed. Quickly she wrapped the velvet cape about her to hide her semi-nakedness.
“W-what do you intend?” she enquired tremulously.
The Prince gave a cold laugh.
“This, madam. Since I have been paid to take you, take you I will.”
“T-take me?”
“As wife,” he snapped. “Now come at once. Madame Gossec and the Priest await.”
“And if I refuse?” screamed Elvira.
The Prince grasped her face with his free hand.
“Don’t be a fool,” he hissed. “You have been seen with me in so many places, passed so many nights on the road as my wife. You must marry me or be ruined. And ruin you I would not.”
Her mind in a whirl, all resistance fled and Elvira follo
wed him from the room.
Since he had declared that he would not ruin her, he must have always intended to marry her, waiting until the moment when he might reveal his identity, as well as the moment when she had the least opportunity to refuse – such as now, far from home and in his power.
For the first time she saw his refusal to share her bed at various inns for what it was – an honourable desire not to take advantage of her when they were not in fact married as she had believed.
She realised that Madame Gossec had been sent by the Prince to ensure that she did not leave. In the interim, while she slept, he had hastily summoned a Priest.
He was determined to marry her and hopefully thus prevent her departure.
Her head began to swim as she realised that he wanted her and had always wanted her!
Once again a midnight wedding and once again she had neither bridesmaids nor matron of honour. There was no Beth to minister to her, but she must be married with hair awry and eyes heavy with sleep – as before she had no wedding gown, but only a torn gown and velvet cape.
Yet Elvira’s tread was lighter on this occasion, her heart less heavy.
Madame Gossec, eyes brimming, handed Elvira a fresh bouquet, obviously picked by lantern while the storm raged. She took it gratefully and lowered her head to drink in its sweet, rain-drenched scent.
Father Leduc, roused from his bed at midnight, his cassock damp and his hair dripping after his gallop through the storm, seemed nevertheless in good humour as they advanced along the aisle. He beamed as they knelt before him.
Elvira softly repeated Father Leduc’s words, the same words she had uttered only a few days before but in another country, another life.
The Prince produced two rings, one for himself and one for Elvira. Each was of pure gold, inscribed with the Courel crest.
It seemed but an instant before she and the Prince were pronounced man and wife.
This time, when the husband kissed his bride, his lips fiercely met hers.
So long did he kiss her and so deeply that she felt she would faint.
She heard a groan deep in his throat and knew that this was his desire for a long time. His coldness had been assumed, an air of authority he deemed necessary to make her obey him.
“Now I have you forever,” he whispered in her ear.
Madame Gossec clapped as at last they drew apart.
The Priest gave his blessing and made to depart, anxious to return to his warm bed, but Madame Gossec insisted he take some refreshment in the kitchen. When she added that there was a fine venison stew and a bottle of brandy waiting, Father Leduc was convinced.
Seizing her hand the Prince led Elvira upstairs to the dining room.
She gasped when the doors were thrown open.
A wedding breakfast had been organised. Flowers in profusion adorned the table, which was covered in an ivory lace cloth from end to end. Champagne stood in glittering silver ice-buckets.
As Elvira advanced, a group of musicians struck up the wedding march.
The Prince indicated her place at the table. On her plate sat a parcel, wrapped in Chinese silk and tied with an white ribbon.
She opened it with trembling fingers. Inside lay a ruby and diamond necklace of such rare beauty that she reeled.
“It belonged to my mother,” the Prince told her.
“She was English, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“So when you – as Serge – told Lord Baseheart that the Prince had been brought up in England, you meant yourself?”
“I did. My French father, the late Prince de Courel’s brother, died young. My mother remained in France, but sent me to school in England and I only returned to France for the holidays.”
Elvira lifted the necklace from its box.
“May I?” said the Prince softly, taking it from her.
Knowing what he intended, Elvira let the cape slither from her shoulders and the Prince delicately laid the necklace around her swan-like neck and fastened the clasp.
“Beautiful,” he breathed as he stepped away to admire his handiwork. He moved to a chair at the other end of the table and raised his glass.
“To my bride!”
Elvira raised her own glass, surveying the Prince over the rim. He was her husband now and she was his real wife.
A few hours earlier she had hated him. Now she could barely repress a thrill of anticipated pleasure at the thought that he would, at last, make her his wife in more than name only.
At the idea of lying in his arms, yielding herself utterly to his desire, a blush suffused her cheeks.
The doors flew open and two bewigged footmen appeared, carrying a large plate on which lay a suckling pig. Other servants appeared with plates of asparagus, steaming artichoke, foie gras, as well as bowls of candied fruit and glasses of sherbet.
Elvira was hungry and fell to with relish and the Prince smiled at her from the other end of the table.
“I am so glad you are enjoying your wedding breakfast, my darling.”
Elvira gestured at the groaning table.
“There is so much. It is every bit as lavish as –” Her words died away and the Prince finished for her,
“ – as a supper at Lord Baseheart’s?”
Elvira nodded,
“My uncle certainly thought he was not wealthy enough and was convinced I must marry money,” mused the Prince. “But in fact, the Courel estate is rich enough to support a very grand life, if one manages it well. You shall not go without, dearest creature. Your wish is my command.”
Elvira’s head swam with sudden happiness.
“Then may I –”
“Yes?”
“May I send for Beth? And may I invite – Aunt Willis to stay?”
The Prince let out a laugh of delight.
“Granted! You might have asked for anything – gowns of silk, emeralds, tiaras – but you ask for Aunt Willis and Beth! This is why I love you so much, Elvira. ”
“When Lord Baseheart offered to sell you for a hundred guineas, I accepted because I felt I could not leave such a precious darling as you in their clutches any longer. I did not reveal my identity until we had arrived here, because I hoped you would begin to care for me for myself alone.
“I hope that tonight you will at last accept my love. I hope that no other man’s name – will be in your mind – as I make you mine.”
Elvira dropped her fork in dismay.
Despite her denial hours earlier, he still believed she loved the impostor Prince. Now she had discovered he was the Prince, how could she ever convince him that she at last loved him?
She rose, determined to cry out that the man she thought she had loved, the man who was in fact the real Serge had never been farther from her thoughts than now.
Before she could open her lips, however, a great peel rang out through the Palace.
The Prince froze, his face grown pale, as if he sensed imminent disaster.
“It appears we have guests,” he muttered in low troubled tones.
The peel rang out again. There was the sound of hurrying footsteps, doors thrown wide, voices.
The Prince rose and leaned his hands on the table, waiting.
The doors to the supper room flew apart. Turning to see who was there, Elvira sank down in horror.
There on the threshold stood two wretched figures, a man and a woman.
Their clothes were bedraggled, their hair sopping wet and their faces bloodless with fatigue.
The woman’s dress trailed behind her, torn and spattered with mud. Leaning on her companion’s elbow, she turned her dull eyes on Elvira and gave a start.
“C-c-cousin!” she stammered.
Elvira’s hand flew to her mouth.
There before her stood Delphine, so cast down in form and feature that she would not even have been recognised by her own father!
*
The Prince’s eyes were trained like a hawk on Delphine’s companion, who was of course none other than th
e hapless Serge.
“This I have been expecting,” the Prince murmured, almost to himself. “I had hoped, though, that it would not be tonight.”
His tone was so imbued with despair that Elvira turned wondering eyes on him.
“Sir?”
The Prince did not seem to hear. His head dropped for a moment onto his breast. Elvira saw his fist clench at his side, just as it had that night of the ball.
“What chance did I have but tonight?” he mumbled.
In an instant she understood.
He had hoped that tonight with his embrace and taking her body to his, he would drive out the last vestige of feeling for the man she had once thought was the Prince.
He was afraid that the sight of the valet Serge, the impostor Prince, would rekindle Elvira’s old love.
Her eyes flew to the figure of Serge. He looked so abject, so ragged, how could the Prince possibly imagine she might desire him?
Perhaps he feared she might take pity on him and pity was so perilously close to love her husband feared he might lose her before he had possessed her.
“Monsieur,” whimpered Serge plaintively.
The Prince recovered his poise. He straightened and beckoned him forward.
Serge, loosening Delphine’s hold on him, stepped forward unsteadily and spoke in low urgent tones. His hand gripped his stomach in such a way that Elvira realised he was begging for food.
The Prince listened with a stony expression.
“What shall I do, Elvira?” the Prince asked suddenly. “Shall I invite our guests to sit down – with us, or shall I turn them away?”
Delphine, hearing these words, sank with a piteous cry to the floor. Immediately, Elvira rushed forward.
“They must stay,” she called over her shoulder, as she helped her cousin back onto her feet.
“You hear that, Serge?” The Prince’s voice was dark and Elvira turned in dismay. “My wife wishes you to be our guests.”
Delphine, clinging to Elvira, looked up into her face.
“W-wife?”
The Prince gave a bitter laugh as he resumed his seat.
“Yes, wife.”
Serge was looking hopefully from the Prince to Delphine. Now he brightened as the Prince offered him a place at the table and he beckoned to Delphine, who limped forward, her hand on Elvira’s shoulder.
A Perfect Way to Heaven Page 13