Countess So Shameless (Scandal in London)

by Liana Lefey

  “Now is not the time for pleasantries.” His father’s chin quivered for a moment as he paused to draw a shaky breath. “I have brought you here because Pietro has died.”

  The blood drained from Alessandro’s face with an abruptness that matched his father’s announcement. “How?” was the only word he could get past the constriction in his throat.

  “He was thrown from his horse while riding. They brought him to me still alive, but...”

  Alessandro watched as his father seemed to sag beneath the weight of the unspoken words. The same crushing weight bore down on his own heart. “Father, I—”

  “His wife was with child, and we had hoped...but the boy was stillborn. Thus, you are now my heir,” the duke pronounced bitterly, his voice cracking. “I know you’ve never coveted your brother’s place and that you view any responsibility an onerous burden, but in this, you have no choice. Neither of us does. Be it for good or for ill, you are my successor now.”

  The grizzled old man appraised his elaborately decorated garments with open disgust. “I expect you to don proper mourning at once, at least while you are here. What you do when you leave here is beyond my control, but in this house, you will behave with proper decorum and respect.”

  “Of course, Father.” An odd sensation spread slowly across Alessandro’s skin, like cold fingers trailing over it. Does he not think that I grieve, too?

  “I will allow you to stay for a time to comfort your mother, for it was at her request you were summoned. Had it not been for her, I would have simply informed you of Pietro’s passing in the letter and bid you remain in Petersburg until it became necessary to bring you home to assume your duties.”

  As though he couldn’t bear the sight of him any longer, his father bent his silvered head, focusing instead on the ledger before him. “It is out of care for her that I have held my tongue about your degeneracy abroad and kept it from my superiors. See to it that you bring no disgrace upon yourself while you are in this house, for if you cause her even a moment’s additional pain through your lack of self-control, I will strip you of your allowance and have you excommunicated.”

  “I would never deliberately—”

  “You already have,” his father cut in, looking up.

  Alessandro flinched beneath his piercing gaze, feeling just as he had when, as a boy, he’d been caught fondling one of the housemaids.

  “When I was forced to send you away, it cut her to the heart,” the old man muttered through his teeth. “Pietro as well, for he loved you also and did not wish to be parted from you. You abandoned them when you abandoned your honor. I tell you now, if I could have prevented you from ever having been born, I would have done so and saved them that pain.”

  Concealing his hurt, Alessandro kept a neutral face. He deserved this. He’d never been the son or brother he should have been. Always it’d been Pietro who had shouldered the burden for them both. And now he is gone.

  “I now find myself in the untenable position of having you as my heir,” his father continued, the chill creeping back into his voice as he closed the tome with a thump. “Whether it be Fate or God that has commanded it, this is our lot, though neither of us desires it.”

  Standing, the Duke of Gravina crossed to the window and looked out at the gentle, vine-covered hills that had belonged to his family for generations. Alessandro marked how stooped his once-strong shoulders were, how frail he now looked. It struck him that with Pietro’s death, his father’s pride and vitality had been stripped. He was a toothless old lion still trying to roar as if he were dangerous.

  The fear Alessandro had once felt in his father’s presence drained away, replaced by pity. Unfortunately, it did nothing to dispel the old pain, the thought of what might have been had the old bastard spared a little tenderness for his second son.

  “From this point forward, I expect you to at least act as though you are worthy of your family’s great name—and of the love your mother holds for you,” his father went on, “though God knows you are undeserving of it in every way. It is her grace that has saved you from my wrath these many years, and it is her grace that has brought you here now. She would drown in her grief, were it not for the prospect of seeing you. Leave me now. Go to her, and be of some use to me by bringing her joy.”

  It was as though a door had shut between them.

  Heart stinging from fresh wounds dealt atop old scars he’d wrongly thought healed, Alessandro left. A shiver ran down his neck as he paused before Pietro’s portrait hanging on the wall above the entrance to the great hall. He stared into his brother’s eyes, emotions swelling in his chest until he felt it would burst. The artist had captured him in an appropriately pensive moment, his expression most solemn indeed, as befitted the heir to the dukedom.

  The loss of Pietro was a pain as keen as any blade that had ever parted his flesh. All the talks they’d never had because he’d been sent away in disgrace. Now they would never have them. All the joys they’d never shared, all the grief. The past was lost, and now the future would never be.

  Why did you have to die? Why did you have to leave him with only me, the son he never wanted?

  He would never receive an answer.

  “Alessandro.”

  Turning, he beheld his mother, the Lady Sophia Orsini, Duchess of Gravina. Though she was still beautiful and looked far younger than her nearly sixty years, sadness had put its stamp upon her. A sadness he now shared. He moved into her outstretched arms.

  “Mama. I’m so sorry it took me so long to come back. If only I’d been here, perhaps I could have—”

  “No, Alessandro,” she interrupted. “You would have been with him, but you could not have prevented his death. It was God’s will that he should join Him in heaven.” She smoothed back a wayward lock of his hair. “I take it you’ve already been to see your father,” she said with a faint smile, linking her arm with his and steering him away from Pietro’s portrait.

  “Yes.”

  Her sharp eyes assessed him. “Worry not, my son. You will make a fine duke, when the time comes.”

  “Father does not share your opinion. He would rather have someone else, anyone else, follow him.”

  “Give him time, Alessandro. You have changed, and he does not know you anymore.”

  “He did not know me before, and he never wanted to,” Alessandro muttered. “What makes you think he will wish to do so now? He will never see me as anything but a failure, no matter how much time passes.”

  “I do not believe that to be true. He will soon see that you have grown and matured into a worthy man,” his mother insisted. Her eyes were filled with hope. “He will soften, once his own pain has eased.”

  Alessandro doubted it. If the pain he was experiencing now was any indication, he wouldn’t expect such a miracle anytime soon. If ever. Pietro...

  “Come. Let me show you the new roses in my garden,” she told him, changing the subject. “Much has changed since you were last here.”

  Indeed.

  “Another ghastly proposal,” Mélisande grumbled, crumpling the parchment and tossing it aside. Men had flocked to her when she debuted. The combination of her fortune and beauty had assured instant success, and before her first Season was half over, she’d received proposals from more than a dozen ardent admirers.

  She’d accepted none.

  “Surely there must be at least one man in the world who pleases you, cherie,” her mother commented, eyeing with disappointment the wadded missive on the floor.

  Turning away, Mélisande allowed herself a wistful smile. There had been one. But he’d probably married by now. The thought evoked a wave of melancholy. Stop it, she told herself. There was no sense pining over what could never have been in the first place. She’d find someone like him, someone who made her feel the way he had. Eventually.

  And when she did, she’d marry him.

  “I’m certain he exists, Maman. Until he appears, I will keep waiting.”

  “Do not wait too lo
ng. Each year passes more quickly than the one before, and old age can be most unkind to an unmarried woman,” her mother muttered, shooting a pointed glance at her.

  Early that autumn, the earl was stricken with a debilitating paralysis in his legs. It spread with alarming swiftness, mystifying the physicians who were called in one after another. Though they examined him and did their best, nothing could prevent the inevitable. Three weeks later, Lord Spencer Compton, Earl of Wilmington, died peacefully in his sleep, leaving his widow to hold his lands in trust until Mélisande married.

  “It is too soon—even if I wanted to, Maman, I cannot!” an appalled Mélisande objected upon discovering her mother making plans to attend the London Season.

  “You will,” Isabelle insisted. “It is imperative that you marry soon, Mélisande, and you will never find a husband here. You must go to London.”

  “You wish me to seek a husband while in mourning? I’ll be ostracized!”

  Her mother’s lips compressed. “The king is aware of our situation, Mélisande. The land needs a lord. George’s blessing will protect us from censure. I know it is hard, ma fille. I also have no desire for London, but we simply cannot afford to miss a Season.”

  “Given my fortune, I could be as old as Methuselah and have warts on my nose, and still they would pursue me,” Mélisande groused. “One year will hardly matter.”

  But it would. Though she hid it well, Isabelle’s health was failing, and Mélisande knew it. The ache she evinced upon drawing more than shallow breath told her that time was growing perilously short.

  “When your father realized he was dying, he requested that I do this, and I shall respect his wishes. You will go to London, and that is final.”

  And so, albeit unwillingly, Mélisande donned the muted mauve and grey of half mourning and went. Drifting among her peers, she neither smiled nor cried, feeling little save the empty hole in her heart and the bitterness of disappointment regarding her would-be suitors.

  A reunion with her other childhood friend, Reginald Stanton III, finally drew her out of her darkness. Back at last from the Grand Tour, Reggie’s return to Society caused despair among her admirers, but the easy familiarity engendered by their long association soothed Mélisande’s sore heart.

  As it had been when they were children, she, David, and Reggie once more became an inseparable trio. David cheerfully provided her entrée into his set, which included some of the most influential people in England—politicians, musicians, writers, artists, scientists, and philosophers. Many of these same individuals also exhibited an alarming lack of propriety, according to her mother.

  This, more than anything, pleased Mélisande.

  Thanks to her new friends, she discovered a natural aptitude for gaming. Not long after, she began spending less time dancing at balls and more time whiling away the hours playing chess and Bragg. It was her small way of rebelling against being trotted out on display when all she wanted was to go home.

  And, as long as she behaved herself, Maman could not really object, either; for if it was of the utmost importance that she marry, then her new pastime did more by far to keep her in the company of eligible gentlemen than any amount of dancing.

  The parlors where she now held court were filled with talk of politics and intrigue, art, science, music, and literature, all of which served to challenge and satisfy her sharp young mind. During those blissful hours, Mélisande not only forgot her sadness, but learned to win with grace and laugh at defeat.

  In short order, she began to garner a certain celebrity of her own. Acquaintances began bringing visitors to meet the unconventional young woman; thus, she befriended many men of renown, including the famed chess master Philip Stamma and the American scientist Mr. Benjamin Franklin, among many others.

  Everywhere Mélisande went she caused a stir; people began referring to her as not only “original” but “eccentric”—a dangerous term for an unwed woman. But despite her growing reputation for strangeness, she remained one of the most sought-after heiresses in England.

  To her mother’s despair, however, not a single spousal candidate passed muster. The Season closed without a wedding.

  Isabelle’s health deteriorated rapidly that winter. As it had been with her husband, doctors were brought in one after another and every possible remedy was tried, but none could cure her malady. The first true cold snap was without mercy, and by the time the snow ended, her constant coughing had stopped as well.

  Mélisande would never forget that long night. She had stayed with her mother, listening to the soft, terrifying bubbling as her chest rose and fell with each shallow breath.

  Awakening in the early dawn, Maman had smiled at her and squeezed her hand. “I was wrong,” she had announced, her voice thin and weary, her eyes glazed with a pain that went far deeper than her chest. “I loved him more than I knew. I only wish I had told him before it was too late.”

  “I’m sure he knew, Maman,” Mélisande had reassured her. “Now rest, and don’t concern yourself with such things.”

  No matter what her mother had said about not being in love with her husband, her true feelings had become evident during his last days. Watching her care for him tenderly night and day, Mélisande had seen her hold on to each moment with a ferocity that defied death to take him from her side. Her mother had fought the battle along with him, and as he’d faded, so had she.

  “I am so very tired, cherie,” Maman had whispered, pausing to take a sip from the cup her daughter held to her lips. “I wish I could stay and watch over you, but such is not my fate. I pray you find as good a husband as my Spencer. A man who will care for you the way he did for me. You must marry, Mélisande.”

  “I will, Maman. I promise. Now rest, please.” Mélisande’s heart had broken all over again for what was lost, and for all that would be lost with her mother’s passing. Unable to bear thoughts of a future without her mother, her mind had retreated into the immediate, focusing only on what was needed at that moment.

  Is she warm enough?

  Make sure her lips are kept moist.

  Listen for the next breath.

  Everything else would come in its own time, far sooner than she wanted.

  Half an hour later, her mother’s blue eyes had opened wide, looking through Mélisande to fix upon some distant point. A radiant smile had lit her pale, drawn features, making her beautiful once more as she released her last, trembling breath in an exhalation of joy.

  “Chèr ami...”

  The bitter cold of winter held England in its icy grip as Mélisande arrived at Kensington House in answer to the royal summons. After settling in her chambers, she wandered the grounds she knew so well from summers spent here with her parents, wondering what would become of her.

  The fact that George happened to be her godfather would not prevent him from using her to his advantage. The Jacobites had been subdued, but Charles still stirred the pot from his exile in France. The earldom was just waiting to be bestowed upon some lucky courtier whose loyalty he wanted to secure. The most she could hope for was a decent man with a tolerable disposition. She prayed he would elevate a man of lower rank so she would at least be able to remain in her home. Papa had always taken care of their farmers, laborers, and household servants. Hopefully, she’d be allowed to continue the tradition in his stead.

  But who would His Majesty name as her husband-to-be? She prayed it wouldn’t be Beaufort. Though he had a great deal of influence at court and had expressed keen interest in her, the man was an utter lackwit.

  And definitely not Lord Herrington. She shuddered with distaste. She’d sooner marry Beaufort’s favorite hound than that horrid brute.

  The next morning, she received the summons.

  George smiled at her with visible pleasure as she sank into a deep curtsy. “Who is this vision I see before me? Where is the mischief-making imp who used to run my halls? It’s good to see you again, Melly. I only wish the circumstances were different.”

  Loo
king down, Mélisande blinked away the stinging in her eyes, surprised to find herself capable of producing any more tears. “I would have arrived sooner, Your Majesty, but the weather did not permit it.”

  “Entirely understandable,” he said, waving away her apology. “As it is, I disliked disturbing you so soon, but there is important business to be addressed, and it must be done quickly. I shall come right to the point. You are aware your father had no male heirs, of course. After his death, your mother held everything in his stead at my behest, in the hope that you would marry and the title be given to your husband and his heirs through you.”

  Steeling herself, Mélisande closed her eyes and nodded.

  “In her final correspondence, your mother made a request regarding the issue of your marital state, or rather the lack thereof,” George announced. “We have chosen to honor this request, in memory of our long friendship with your family.”

  The subtle shift in his manner of speech was not lost on Mélisande. It was as she’d feared. He was no longer acting as her “Uncle George” or her godfather; he was her king. And he hadn’t arranged her marriage—her mother had. By his hand, Maman would enforce her will from the grave, knowing that though her daughter had defied her in life, she could not disobey the king’s command.

  David would be wroth.

  “Isabelle asked that we not arrange a marriage for you,” George continued, the corner of his mouth lifting in a knowing smile.

  Mélisande’s heart leapt from the pit of her stomach to lodge squarely in her throat. “She did?”

  “Indeed. She was most adamant that you be allowed to select your own husband,” he stated. “She also made us aware that you assisted Wilmington a great deal in the oversight of the estate during the last two years of his life, and that after his death you managed the business of the earldom almost entirely yourself. Is it true you dismissed your steward for thievery?”

  Still bewildered, she nodded. If he isn’t marrying me off, then why have I been summoned to court? “Yes, Your Majesty,” she answered. “After Papa died, I grew suspicious when the cost of certain items sharply increased, but when I asked the steward about it, he told me it was no business of mine. I inquired of the merchants shortly thereafter and discovered his dishonesty. I would have brought him to justice, but he learned of my inquiries and escaped before I could have him detained.”