Countess So Shameless (Scandal in London)

by Liana Lefey

  He nodded, releasing her.

  Approaching her mark carefully from behind, Mélisande touched Herrington’s shoulder.

  Startled, he turned, his hawk’s eyes immediately narrowing. “If you are here to again try and dissuade me, you have come in vain—unless...” His gaze raked her costume. “Unless you agree to my terms.”

  Mélisande’s flesh crawled, but she mastered her disgust and stared him down. “I wish to speak with you privately. Might I suggest we take a brief stroll through the sculpture gardens?”

  Wordlessly, he held out his arm.

  As Mélisande picked her way through the crowd, Alessandro signaled Pelham and then casually moved to a position where, between them, they could observe all the exits leading out to the gardens and statuary.

  OF MONSTERS AND MEN

  TOGETHER, MÉLISANDE AND Herrington wended their way through the jubilant throng and out into the night. Stars pierced the darkness high above, laughter echoed from within the garden maze, and the flickering light of the torches along the pathway caused their shadows to chase each other as they passed. It would have been very romantic had it been Alessandro at her side.

  After several unsuccessful attempts to find a private corner, they at last found a small, unoccupied alcove. In it, standing between two low stone benches, a tall marble angel reached toward the heavens.

  Releasing Herrington’s arm, Mélisande moved in to explore, feigning interest in the statue as an excuse to put some distance between them. The angel wore a look of despair on its carved face; the stone tears welling in its eyes and streaming down its cheeks were exquisitely crafted.

  Her enemy cleared his throat, removing his mask.

  She followed suit and faced him. “I’ve come to make peace with you before it’s too late,” she stated, keeping her voice steady and low.

  His strange eyes mocked her. “Then you agree to my terms,” he murmured, taking a step forward.

  Mélisande thrust out a hand to ward him off. “You misunderstand me, Your Grace. I am not here to offer myself as a sacrificial lamb.”

  His soft, malicious chuckle trailed fingers of ice down her spine.

  “Did you know I visited Versailles recently?” he asked. “I wintered in France on the Crown’s business last year. A bit indecorous, the French court, but all in all still a very pleasant, very interesting experience. While I was there, I happened upon the strangest thing in the king’s private chambers: a portrait of you. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise at such an...odd happenstance.”

  Mélisande’s pulse jumped, but she maintained iron control. “How very odd indeed, considering I have no memory of sitting for any portraits during my brief visit as a child. You’ll pardon my rudeness for changing the subject, but I came here to discuss the conflict between us, not French art,” she managed in a dismissive tone. He cannot possibly know...

  His smile broadened and he moved closer, constricting the space between them.

  Mélisande took an involuntary step backward and bumped into one of the stone benches. She should never have come out here alone.

  “Oh, the woman in the painting wasn’t you,” he stated, coming closer still. “But the likeness was extraordinary. The resemblance was so striking that, at first, I simply could not tell the difference. It was only upon closer inspection that I was able to make the distinction. There were several remarkable similarities.”

  Mélisande searched for a means of escape as he drew nearer. The alcove was surrounded by four-foot-high walls topped by thick hedges, and there was only one point of egress. Herrington was blocking it.

  He closed in. Reaching out a single finger, he touched the little mole above her heart.

  Mélisande froze like a deer at the sound of a hunter’s footsteps.

  “For instance, the woman in the painting had the exact same little mark, just here,” he said, circling it, taking the opportunity to caress the swell of her breast with his knuckles. His tone then shifted, taking on a menacing singsong cadence. “The lady in the painting also had the same...unusual...eyes.” He reached up to grasp her jaw, turning her face this way and that. “The king said she was his mother. Naturally, I couldn’t help but wonder...”

  With a sudden movement, he sprang forward, pinning her against the wall. His other hand reached down, slipping beneath her tunic.

  Mélisande clawed at his hand. “Lord Wilmington knew my mother was with child when he married her!” she spat, her tongue loosed by rage. “He claimed me as his own! You have no right to—”

  “I was right,” he breathed, eyes ablaze with triumph. “You are the daughter of the French king and his whore. The moment I saw that painting, I knew the similarity could not be coincidence. And you’ve known all along.”

  An unnatural, icy calm settled over her. There was great deal more at stake here than Charlotte’s future now. Drawing herself to her full height, she found her voice at last. “What is it you really want from me, Herrington?”

  The torchlight reflected eerily in his amber eyes as he cocked his head. The guttering flames cast his features into sharp angles of light and shadow, making him look demonic. “Why, the same thing I have always wanted. You, of course.”

  He grinned, a vicious expression devoid of any warmth or humor. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I first saw you, my dear little impostor. You saw fit only to humiliate me, and thereafter your constant taunting turned us into bitter adversaries, but it doesn’t have to be that way between us.”

  His finger traveled the line of her neck and shoulder and down her arm, raising gooseflesh. Feeling ill, Mélisande shrank from his touch, repulsed. Like a snake, he struck out and captured her wrist in a viselike grip, eliciting a gasp of pain.

  “So very lovely,” he murmured as he slowly forced her hand up to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist.

  Squirming, Mélisande tried to jerk it away, but he only gripped it tighter. Prying open her clenched fingers, Herrington kissed her open palm, flicking his tongue across the sweaty flesh.

  “You can end this by becoming my wife,” he whispered. “You will, of course, pay the price for the constant torment you have visited upon me these last few years, but your penance can be a private matter, just between us. And I promise I shall not remain angry forever. Once you have paid for your sins, I shall be merciful and forgiving, the very best of husbands.”

  She ceased her struggles. He was much stronger than she was, and she needed to save her energy to run at the first opportunity. “What of Charlotte?” she gasped, trying to distract him. “She thinks you’re in love with her—you’re practically engaged—it will destroy her!”

  Cruelty played at the edges of his harsh laughter, and his lips curved in a crafty, unpleasant smile. “The girl is of no consequence; she was merely one means of securing your cooperation. One I no longer require.”

  Mélisande’s panic subsided, a strange peace settling over her. “You, sir, belong in Bedlam,” she said with as much scorn as possible. “I will hear no more of this lunacy. I will not allow you to harm Charlotte, nor will I take her place. You will cease your pursuit of her immediately, and I never want to see your face again!” She wrenched her arm as hard as she could, but Herrington’s grip remained firm.

  He dragged her closer. “You have no choice,” he hissed, his hot breath fanning her cheek as she turned away in disgust. “If you refuse me now, I’ll reveal your true lineage to the king. I will, of course, also present him with a ready solution to the nasty little problem you represent. I shall generously offer to make you my wife in order to prevent a public scandal, as well as to provide His Majesty with true English guardianship of the stolen Wilmington title and lands. He will gladly accept my offer,” he told her smugly. “I have you neatly boxed, my little French dove.”

  Mélisande smiled through her fear and raised her chin defiantly. “There is one tiny, yet very important detail you seem to have forgotten,” she informed him. “I am already engaged to Lord Gravina.”<
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  He let out a bark of laughter. “That seducer has no intention of ever marrying you, and you bloody well know it! Even if he did, the king will never allow it, now. Gravina is a foreigner, which means he cannot assume the title—even if it did rightfully belong to you. He is of no use to England. If anything, he would be an incredible liability, as his loyalty is to Rome.”

  Mélisande opened her mouth to reply that no husband of hers would ever take the title anyway, but Herrington spoke over her.

  “And don’t think to escape by marrying Pelham, either,” he said slyly, his eyes narrowing to golden slits. “If such even remains an option. He’s in love with that miserable little twit who belongs to me, now. He’s become a worthless, drunken fool ever since she spurned him!” He cackled in delight as Mélisande again attempted to free herself in vain. After a moment, his laughter ended abruptly, cut off as if with a sharp knife.

  “You should be glad I am willing to bargain, for by marrying me you will ensure that the secret of your traitorous birth will be safe. And you will eventually find your way back into my good graces—provided you are sufficiently obedient. That is my offer. More than fair, considering the circumstances, I should think.”

  The man was a beast in human guise. Mélisande could not allow him to prevail. It seemed Alessandro had been right after all. If she could make him angry enough, she might force him to expose his true nature now, publicly, before it was too late.

  “You leave me little choice,” she whispered. His gaze flared with unholy desire as she leaned in, at last giving way to the pressure on her wrist. Pressing herself firmly against him, she stretched up on her toes to whisper softly in his ear. “I will marry you when the fiery lake freezes and devil skates upon it.”

  She braced herself.

  Herrington roared with rage. Jerking her arm nearly out of its socket, he twisted her wrist and slowly forced her to her knees on the gravel, his smile ugly as she gasped in agony, tears streaming down her face.

  Gathering her breath, Mélisande shrieked and struck out at him with her free hand, aiming for his most sensitive manly parts.

  His knee rose to block the blow as he raised his hand high.

  Mélisande had only a fraction of a second to shut her eyes before the back of his hand landed across her cheek with a crack that echoed across the courtyard. Black spots swam before her vision as she reeled from the impact. As she tried to regain equilibrium, Herrington used the opportunity to grab her other wrist and yank her to her feet. His amber eyes were bright with fury and lust as he pulled her in and ground his mouth against hers. She thrashed and kicked, biting down on his lip with all her might, tasting the iron tang of blood.

  Again, Herrington roared, withdrawing to swipe a hand across his torn lip, chuckling at the dark, vitreous smear on his fingers. “Ferocious little bitch!” He grinned and lashed out with the speed of a whip to again grab her by her arms, laughing aloud at her whimper of pain as he dug his fingers deep into her flesh. He crushed her against the stone wall. “Yes, fight me!” he hissed. “Once we are wed, I will relish taming you!”

  “I will never submit to you!” she bit out, glaring at him with hatred.

  “You should be grateful for my attentions!” he rasped. “No matter. You’ll soon learn proper appreciation for my favors.”

  Mélisande let out another terrified shriek. It was suffocated by his mouth. Heaven help her, the lunatic was going to rape her right here in the king’s own garden! She tried to bite him again, but he withdrew just in time, chuckling as he again twisted her wrist until the pain caused her knees to buckle beneath her. A sweaty palm was clamped over her mouth, preventing her from screaming, while his other hand held her wrist in agony.

  Footsteps crunched around the corner, coming to a halt in a skittering of gravel.

  Herrington had only an instant’s warning before he was knocked sprawling to the ground by a powerful blow to the side of the head. When he looked up, the Duke of Gravina was standing over him.

  “Get up,” Alessandro grated, death in his smoldering, black eyes.

  “Alessandro!” Mélisande gasped in a breathless sob, rushing to his side.

  Herrington, in no hurry to rise, braced himself on one elbow. “You have no authority here,” he said, taunting him with a serpent’s smile. “This is English soil and you are a foreigner.”

  “No matter, I will still see you brought to justice!”

  Herrington grinned. “It might interest you to know that your hellcat fiancée is a foreigner as well,” he said, wiping at his lip and flinging a bloody hand in her direction. “She’s no countess—she’s nothing more than a bastard! The illegitimate get of yet another worthless foreigner!”

  “I challenge you!” Alessandro said just as Reggie and David rounded the corner, Charlotte hard on their heels.

  “And I accept,” said Herrington with a sleek look of triumph.

  Charlotte, taking in the scene and seeing the blood on Herrington’s face and hand, rushed to his side, falling to her knees. Her face contorted in a mask of cold fury. “How dare you!” she raged at Alessandro. Rising, she strode across the alcove, fists clenched.

  Mélisande backed into the shadows as she approached, shocked at the hatred in her friend’s eyes.

  “You couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?” Charlotte snapped coldly. “You have your happiness, yet you would deny me mine. You have no right!”

  “You don’t underst—”

  “I’ve heard enough of your lies!” Charlotte yelled, stepping back from Mélisande’s outstretched hand as though it were a snake. “He has tried to make peace with you for years, and you’ve done nothing but fling it back in his teeth and treat him with contempt! You made him out to be the villain when it is you who are to blame!”

  David stepped forward. “I can promise you that this man has made no attempts at peace,” he interjected. “He is using you, Charlie.”

  Charlotte’s eyes were slits of pure hatred as she walked over to stand before him, trembling with rage. “Don’t call me that anymore! Don’t even speak to me!”

  “He doesn’t love—”

  “You fornicate with women paid for their affection and dare talk of love? Do you really think you have the love and gratitude of your whores? Given a choice between performing vile acts with you for money or dying of hunger in the streets, they’ve merely chosen the lesser of two evils. Or so they think!”

  “I understand how you’ve come by your opinion of me, but if you will just hear me—”

  “Why? Why should I listen to you? Any of you?” she said with a sneer. “You’ve insulted this man for years, refusing to hear his side of things. He’s done nothing to earn your contempt, yet you’ve given him yours in full measure. And now you’ve determined me worthy of your contempt, as well.”

  “Charlotte, that isn’t so,” Mélisande interjected. “You are a sister to me—don’t be fooled by this, this deceiver! Come with me. Please. I beg you.”

  “It is you who are the fool and the deceiver!” Charlotte said, pointing a shaky finger at her. “You pretend to be my friend and call me sister, when the truth is you’ve done nothing but feed me lies! I know what you are!”

  Mélisande blanched. Had Herrington revealed his suspicions to Charlotte? Was her secret about to be shouted to the world?

  “You’ve done nothing but lie to me, Melly, as you’ve lied to everyone else,” Charlotte said. “But your time is coming. Soon, your sins will come to light and everyone will see you for what you are: a liar and a fornicator just like him.” She jerked her chin at David. “You deserve each other.”

  “Charlotte!” Reggie thundered. “That’s quite enough!”

  Mélisande saw that people had begun gathering along the path behind them, drawn to the disturbance. Their view was blocked by Reggie and David, but Charlotte’s voice had carried clearly on the night air.

  Without another word, Reggie stepped forward and clasped his hand over her mouth. She bit
him as he attempted to drag her from the alcove. Finally, he was forced to pick her up off the ground, sling her over his shoulder, and haul her away like a sack of flour. She protested, kicking and screaming curses as he pushed his way through the spectators.

  Herrington shook with silent laughter as he rose. He smiled at Mélisande, then turned to Alessandro and bowed. “Dawn. Tothill Fields.”

  “If he does not kill you, I most certainly shall,” David growled as he stepped aside to let him pass.

  Like reeds before the wind, the crowd parted for Herrington, closing ranks behind him, waiting to see what would happen next.

  Retrieving his mask from where he’d tossed it before knocking Herrington to the ground, Alessandro helped Mélisande replace hers. Then they, along with David, departed.

  A silent sea of curious eyes glittered from within the dark holes of countless masks as Mélisande passed, some beautiful, others grotesque, all unnervingly surreal in the flickering torchlight.

  The susurration of whispers following their passage made the hair on the back of her neck rise. She longed to break into a run and escape the hollow stares, but gritted her teeth and walked at a stately pace, back straight, head high.

  David rode home along with them, as Reggie had taken Charlotte home in his carriage. Once safely away, Mélisande told them everything.

  “He is a dead man,” Alessandro stated, the chill of the grave in his voice.

  “You’ll need a second,” David offered quietly.

  In the light of the lamps lining the Row, Alessandro nodded acceptance, his face unyielding.

  “I beg you not to do this,” Mélisande beseeched him. “You swore never to duel again over a woman, remember?”

  “I made no such vow,” Alessandro answered. “I merely chose not to fight good, decent men over the honor of women who, in truth, had none. This is different. That man is neither good nor decent, and you, amora, are worth fighting for.”