Countess So Shameless (Scandal in London)

by Liana Lefey

  Shock struck her squarely in the chest as, without preamble, he pushed back the hood of her calèche and calmly proceeded to untie the ribbons holding her cape closed.

  It turned to outrage as his eyes fell to her exposed décolletage, drawn to the shallow swell of her left breast.

  Straightening to her full height, she silently dared him to accost her person again.

  At her mutinous glare, Louis’s lips quirked in a smile. “I can see you’ve raised no coward,” he said to her parents. “Good. Such courage befits her blood.”

  Reaching out, he laid a single, gentle fingertip on the tiny, dark mole marking the spot below which pounded Mélisande’s heart.

  Sucking in a breath, she jerked back and prepared to vent her spleen.

  “It is as I said,” Isabelle rushed, her cutting off. “She bears la marque de la coeur. And the other, as well, on her hip.”

  Mélisande flicked a startled glance at her, but her mother’s eyes remained downcast and unreadable. When she looked back to the king, she saw that he still gazed at her, a queer look in his eyes.

  “You have not told her anything?” he asked, seeming unable to take his eyes off her.

  Mélisande’s already racing heart began to beat an uneven tattoo in her chest. Something here was terribly, terribly wrong...

  “We thought it best to wait until she was older,” replied Isabelle.

  “Then it is time she knew the truth.”

  Mélisande’s stomach dropped, and the world around her took on a surreal, dreamlike quality. The conversation she’d overheard that morning suddenly made sense as she looked at the man before her, recognizing with merciless acuity the similarities between their features.

  In the blink of an eye, the unthinkable became the undeniable.

  Turning to her mother, she watched the blood drain from her face. Her head shook ever so slightly, her blue eyes silently pleading, begging forgiveness.

  “Ma fille—” Isabelle began.

  “Je ne suis pas aveugle, Maman! I have eyes—and ears,” Mélisande snapped. “I heard you and Papa this morning. Now it all makes sense.” Taking a deep breath, she turned from her mother to address the king of France—her father. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Your Majesty.” Her voice was calm and steady, as though someone else were speaking with her mouth. “I hope I give you no offense by saying that although you are my father, the man who raised me shall always hold that place in my heart.”

  She turned to her darling papa, who had come to stand behind her. His face was pale and drawn, but his eyes shone with love and gratitude.

  Louis appeared not in the least offended by the rejection. “I would have claimed you as my own and you would have known me as your father, but I loved your mother too much to let her live the life of a courtesan raising a royal bastard.” He turned to Isabelle. “She deserved better than I could give her here.”

  His words buzzed in her ears as if from a great distance. She just stared at him, stunned. “I only wanted her happiness,” the monarch continued. “Wilmington was quite amenable when I approached him regarding the matter. He was already in love with your mother.” His knowing gaze slid over to her papa. “He agreed to care for her and raise you as his own, should she consent to the arrangement. It was divine providence.”

  Isabelle moved forward. “What I did, I did for both of us, Mélisande.” Her voice was choked with emotion, and bright tears slid down her cheeks. “I knew if I bore you here, there would be only heartache for us both in years to come. I could not remain a courtesan forever, and I had to think of your happiness as well as my own.”

  “My happiness?”

  “You needed a father. I had, purely by chance, befriended your papa during his visit here. I became quite fond of his company. Enough so that when Louis offered to arrange a marriage, I chose him.” Fresh tears fell as she shook her head. “I very quickly grew to love him,” she continued, her voice steadying as she regained her composure. “And he has been everything I could have wished for in a father for you.”

  Numbness enclosed Mélisande’s heart, inuring her to what she knew should have been debilitating pain, and she was grateful for it.

  Louis appraised her with a wistful smile. “You have my mother’s eyes,” he said, brushing her cheek with the knuckles of one hand. “The mark above your heart is hers, as well,” he added. “It is something we share, you and I, for I also bear it.”

  At his words, a peculiar emotion stirred within Mélisande’s breast. I am the daughter of a king. Whether or not she was legitimate was of no consequence—blood was blood. A strange urge came over her, an urge to laugh hysterically and sob all at once. It took every scrap of her self-control not to give in to it and collapse into a gibbering fool.

  Her eyes met the king’s, and in that moment she saw into him. His face held an expression of unexpected tenderness and fierce pride. Straightening her spine, she squared her shoulders, again raising her chin.

  Louis nodded almost imperceptibly in approval. “Would that you had been born under different circumstances,” he said with evident regret. “Had I been unencumbered when I met your mother, I would have married her.” He glanced at Isabelle. “But since that was impossible, it was better for you that your lineage remain hidden. As a result, you had a safe, happy childhood, something I could not have guaranteed here.

  “No one knows you are mine,” he said, “and my heart wishes that it remain so for your sake. However, I cannot deny the advantages of recognizing you—for us both. Therefore, I give you a choice.”

  He paused, again flicking a glance at Isabelle, whose face was beginning to register confusion. “Should you wish to remain here in Versailles, I will acknowledge you,” he offered. “You will be given a title and I will arrange for a suitable marriage.”

  Stunned, Mélisande looked to her mother and found her astonishment mirrored.

  Louis, however, was not quite finished.

  “It would not be easy for you at first,” he warned, his light tone belying the seriousness of his words, “but you would adjust quickly. You have courage, and your mother has boasted to me of your intelligence many times. I believe you would be an asset to my court. The choice is yours.”

  The sheer magnitude of the offer floored her. To live as the daughter of a king! The temptation to accept without hesitation was great, but the burdens that would come with such a change in status might be more than she cared to endure.

  She was no fool; there was no relationship between herself and this king other than blood. The moment she turned fifteen, she’d be married off to whomever he wished to favor, a pawn to be sacrificed for his gain. Regardless of her illegitimacy, her hand would be a high honor to bestow on a man, an extremely useful means of ensuring his fealty and strengthening his loyalty to the crown.

  She would be wealthy, titled, and live a life of pleasure and ease.

  And she’d be far from home and without family—her real family.

  Maman would never agree to stay. And...

  Turning, she looked to her papa, seeing the fear in his eyes, the sadness. Even though it would break his heart, she knew he would allow her to choose for herself.

  “I choose to return to England,” she answered, her voice steady and firm. “I appreciate what you have offered me, but I do not belong here.” Her mother’s shoulders relaxed, and she heard her papa’s breath release.

  Louis’s face was resigned, if a little disappointed. “I would have done my best to make you happy here, but I understand. This has not been easy for you,” he added gently, looking over Mélisande’s shoulder at the man who had raised his daughter, then at Isabelle, his first love. “For any of you.”

  Pulling a small, wooden cylinder from his pocket, he proffered it to Mélisande. “I wish you to have this,” he said, placing it in her palm. “It was your grandmother’s when she was a girl. Now it is yours.”

  Mélisande looked down at the little cylindrical box for a moment, hesitant t
o see what was inside it, yet curious. Twisting the top, she pulled until it came off with a soft pop. Inside the chamber nestled a delicate gold ring set with a large blood ruby cut whimsically in the shape of a heart and flanked by two bright diamonds. It was beautiful.

  “There is an inscription,” the king murmured, reaching out to pluck the jewel from its bed. He read aloud: “ ‘T’es mon coeur.’ It was a gift from her father on her thirteenth birthday, and now it is a gift from your father to you.”

  You are my heart. Her eyes began to sting again. Papa’s mother had died when she was an infant and she’d never know her. Now she’d lost another grandmother without ever having known her, either. And her real father was a stranger, someone she would also never get to know. She looked at the ring in his hand and considered what it represented: a heritage she could never openly claim, a secret that would burn in her heart forever. The scarlet stone flickered at her, its shape and color ironically appropriate.

  Gently, Louis slid the ring onto the third finger of her right hand. “I would have been proud to claim you as my own before all, daughter,” he told her with regret, kissing her cold cheeks. “But if you must leave, then I wish you joy.”

  Unable to look up for the twisting pain in her chest, Mélisande could only nod in silent acknowledgment of his high compliment. Her entire life was a lie, a house built on the shifting sand of a falsehood that had been laid down before she was even born. Who am I?

  Louis nodded to Isabelle. “You may take her back to her chambers. Wilmington will remain, and we will discuss the matter of Charles Stuart. Come back once she is settled, if you wish, Belle,” he added softly. “You know I have ever valued your opinion in all matters.”

  The manner of Louis’s speech shook Mélisande to the core. It was the same way her parents spoke to each other when in private. Warm, familiar, completely trusting—intimate. To hear another man speaking to her mother that way was a shock, even though she knew now that Maman and he had once been...

  She could not even think it without feeling ill. How horrible her poor papa must feel! Her gaze flicked to his face, but she could read nothing there.

  “Take her up, Isabelle,” Wilmington commanded. Nothing in his voice or demeanor betrayed emotional unrest, but when he turned to Mélisande, his eyes were filled with tenderness for the child he’d raised as his own. “We’ll talk later, poppet. I know you have many questions, including those about David, but they will have to wait.”

  Desperate to flee this place, Mélisande nodded. Stepping away from her mother’s light hold, she again faced the king. “Again, I thank you, Your Majesty, for both your kind offer and your gift.” She looked down at the ring, the stone glittering like a drop of bright blood against her pale skin. Blood of my blood. A queen once wore this ring. My grandmother. “I pray your reign is long, prosperous, and peaceful, and I bid you fond farewell.”

  Taking her hand, Louis pressed it between his own. “Go with God’s blessing, my child. And though you must never speak of it, never forget you are a Bourbon.”

  His eyes were fierce and hard as he stared into her and spoke these last words. Something intangible passed between them, and again her heart leapt with a strange sense of pride. She’d always been proud to be a Compton, but this was somewhat else.

  I am the daughter of a king.

  The fact kept repeating in her thoughts as her mind turned it over and over, examining it from all angles. Though she had no way of knowing how it would affect her in years to come—if it would even make a difference at all, now that she’d chosen to return to her life in England—she knew her place in the world had just been forever altered.

  Dipping one final curtsy, she quickly but calmly walked to the door, opened it, and swept through with her head held high.

  After a moment’s stunned hesitation, her mother followed, but Mélisande’s longer legs and faster pace quickly outstripped her. Dignity would not permit Maman to run after anyone in public, not even her own daughter; thus, all she required was to get out of sight and then find an adequate hiding place.

  Passing into the Hall of Mirrors, Mélisande plunged into the milling throng. In her haste, she’d forgotten the calèche, and people stared at the newcomer in curiosity as she passed.

  Out. I must get out!

  The wide doors leading to the palace gardens tempted her not at all. She wanted to be alone, and the gardens here would afford her no privacy whatsoever. Too many people frolicked along the paths and hid in the manicured groves—and it was the first place Maman would look for her.

  No, she knew exactly where to go to avoid capture.

  Rounding a corner, Mélisande slipped down a servants’ corridor she’d found in a previous exploration. Ducking in, she took a number of turns that eventually dead-ended at a door. Filled with trepidation, she paused, listening for the sound of voices. Hearing nothing, she opened it a crack and peeked out into a deserted hall.

  There, through the windows, she saw solitude. Across a lush green lawn nestled a little wood that was, like everything else here, an artificial construct. No matter. It was unlikely to be inhabited, and that was all that was important.

  The moment fresh air hit her face, Mélisande’s feet began moving faster and faster. By the time she reached the edge of the wood, her breath came in great gulps and the landscape swam before her. Blinded by rage and grief, she ran beneath the shade of the trees at full tilt.

  INNOCENCE MEETS WITH A MISHAP

  THE IMPACT KNOCKED him sprawling to the ground. Alessandro let out a grunt of pain with what little breath was left him as he broke his assailant’s fall. Bracing her hands on his chest, the girl clumsily propped herself up.

  “You!” Her expression was one of acute dismay.

  Considering he’d just likely saved her from smashing into a tree, it was a bit unflattering to be looked upon with such horror. He gazed up at her with interest. Most young ladies regarded him with at least a modicum of admiration, if not downright lust.

  “Dio,” he uttered in a reverent whisper, taking in her face. The woman atop him had wide eyes so deep a green beneath the sweep of her dark lashes that they put him in mind of a shaded wood.

  And the rest of her was just as delightful. From his vantage point he could see almost the entire expanse of her glorious décolletage. The faint, pink blush of areolae peeked just above the edge of her neckline as her breasts strained against the fabric of her gown. Slowly, his gaze traveled from those creamy swells to the curve of her long, white neck. His arms tightened involuntarily around her tiny waist as he gazed into her fabulous eyes once more.

  Eyes shimmering with tears.

  He could not bear to see a woman weep. It didn’t hurt that she was by far the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Or hands. The feel of her was pure heaven.

  “I believe you have the advantage of me, mademoiselle,” he breathed, reverting to French.

  The girl only continued to stare at him with saucer eyes. It was gratifying to see he was having an effect on her, but her silence did nothing to satisfy his curiosity.

  Patience.

  He waited, and as they lay there panting together, the trepidation in her eyes slowly ebbed away, replaced by something else. Something infinitely more dangerous. Slowly, he stretched up toward her.

  Their lips very nearly touched, mouths hovering less than a breath away from each other, when, squeaking in dismay, she shoved against his chest with all her might, staggering back to catch herself on a tree.

  Slowly, he rose and dusted off his rump, looking ruefully at his once-pristine cream silk jacket with its embroidered violets. Ah, well. Straightening his coat and cravat, he came to stand before her. “Alessandro Vicino Orsini at your service,” he announced, sketching his most elegant bow.

  The apparition curtsied, a dark curl escaping its confines to fall across one eye. “Lady Mélisande...d’Orleans.”

  Taking the hand she offered, Alessandro brushed it with his lips. The gentle touc
h of his mouth on her bare flesh caused her to flinch and her cheeks to pink. With a half smile, he released her. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle d’Orleans. Please accept my humble apology for being so inconveniently placed in your path.”

  “The fault was mine entirely. I was not looking ahead as I should,” she replied, seeming embarrassed.

  “Is there someone pursuing you?” He looked about, as if expecting her assailant to leap out from behind one of the trees.

  She shook her head, looking down. “No, my lord.”

  “Then, if I may ask”—he hesitated, torn between wishing to be polite and showing concern—“if you were not fleeing pursuit, then what cause for such haste?”

  “It is of no importance.”

  Reaching out, he removed a forgotten tear from her cheek. “A woman’s tears are never a trivial matter. Tell me, what were you running away from, tesoro?”

  A silent debate played across her delicate features, and Alessandro held his breath. Slowly, her shoulders relaxed. He smiled. Curiosity was the undoing of every female he’d ever encountered.

  “I simply wished to be alone.”

  He sauntered a little closer, and her eyes whipped up, instantly wary. Leaning back against a tree trunk, he arched a brow. “Is that all? You were in such distress that I thought perhaps you’d caught your lover in flagrante delicto with another. Although I cannot imagine the fool who would do such a thing,” he added, looking her up and down with bold admiration.

  “It is a matter I do not wish to discuss with a stranger,” she replied, her tone firm in spite of the little smile now quirking her lips.

  He took the point. “Ah. Then, since I’m not permitted to lend a sympathetic ear, may I at least offer you the solace of my excellent company, mademoiselle? In the hope that you will soon consider me a friend rather than a stranger.”

  The look with which she favored him as he offered his arm was much the same as one might give a Gypsy horse trader offering a “bargain.”