by Maggie Dove
Ever since she could remember, she had loved Henri Bertrand. When they were children, he had been her only companion, her co-conspirator. Knowing that Henri had not a franc to his name, she had counted on her inheritance and her birthright to Château Beauvisage. Countless times in the past, she had imagined herself as Henri’s wife, living happily at the château. She had envisioned growing old with her gallant husband, together with a handful of little Bertrands rollicking about her. But her father’s last testament had changed all that.
Certain that Angelique would someday marry and live elsewhere, Julian Beauvisage had specified that, although the château rightfully belonged to his daughter, his widow be allowed to live in it until her dying day.
To Angelique’s horror, the rest of his estate had been divided between his wife and his daughter, and Angelique’s part had been put in trust only to be given to her at the ripe old age of thirty or until she married someone approved by Victoria. Until such time, she would be at his widow’s mercy and have to be provided for by her none-too-generous hands. Because of this wretched witch, her lifelong dreams had vanished into thin air. It was as if the old crone had conjured up a hex or incantation and had made her wonderful fantasy disappear only to be replaced with a deplorable future.
She knew Henri would be angry, even angrier than he had been last year during the D’Amaury fiasco. At that time, he had shown cunning and had given her the strength and support she had needed to combat Victoria. They had plotted and schemed, and unbeknownst to Victoria, he had gone to the widower’s house and had successfully convinced the man not to marry her.
In spite of the dire circumstances, Angelique’s mood lightened a bit when recalling what had finally clinched her freedom. Apparently, Henri’s careful mentioning of her volatile temper, her childish disposition, her stubborn streak, her lack of decorum, her wild and unruly behavior, her many irrational moods and her penchant for young, virile men had only served to make the fastidious, older gentleman slightly hesitant about the marriage.
D’Amaury had believed she was young and with patience, he would “mold her into maturity”. These “tiny obstacles” could be remedied in time. Or so he had vehemently declared to an astounded and frustrated Henri. But when Henri, before being ushered forcefully out the door by the indignant D’Amaury, had grasped at his one last straw and casually informed the widower of her tin ear and her aversion to opera, the ardent music lover had almost passed out. Not knowing of Angelique’s talent at playing the piano, the older man had instantly reconsidered his proposal and had suddenly insisted that he could not marry anyone who abhorred his only reason for living, his beloved music.
Wasting no time, D’Amaury had rushed to Château Beauvisage, and in spite of Victoria’s ire, had fully retracted his offer of matrimony.
Maybe now Henri would be able to help her again, Angelique thought wishfully, as she approached the Bertrand estate. This notion gave her a glimmer of hope, which was immediately dispelled by angry thoughts of the dreadful viscount and the even more dreadful merger. This had nothing to do with fooling a gullible and lonely old widower. This year’s engagement involved a very powerful, cunning viscount and his even more powerful father, the Earl of Windword. It was hopeless.
Angelique felt a tightness in her throat, certain that she would soon be separated from Henri and that the closeness they now shared would be reduced to bittersweet memories. She felt tears beginning to form, but she gathered her composure in time. She had shed far too many tears as a child and since her father’s funeral she had made a solemn vow never to cry again, especially where Victoria was concerned. She heard the sound of rushing waters and drew near the brook. Henri would be waiting for her in their special place, she told herself.
Anxious to see Henri, Angelique directed her horse as it treaded slowly through the winding path that led to the gazebo. She caught sight of him from afar. His curly hair glistened in the sun like shiny golden coins. His head was bent over a document, and he seemed absorbed and intent on reading it. She desperately needed him to comfort her now, as he had done so many times in the past. She craved his arms about her and wanted his gentle voice to soothe her into believing he would make the loathsome viscount disappear.
“Henri!” she called out to him.
At the sound of his name, Henri glanced up from his letter. His beautiful light brown eyes warmed instantly. “Bonjour, Gellie!” he greeted her fondly. “I have great news. I’ve decided to sail for America right away.”
“Henri, something awful has happened!” Angelique exclaimed as she jumped from her horse and rushed toward him. “Victoria has done it again. America?”
Henri stood, grabbing her to him. “Oui, America. I cannot continue to live off Alain and Giselle any longer. A few months ago, I wrote a letter to my cousins in New Orleans to see about the possibility of a future in America. A reply to my letter has finally come. Sit down. Let me read it to you.”
The sudden realization of Henri’s words sank in. “How can you leave me now?” she burst out, disentangling herself from his embrace. “I know Alain inherited your family’s fortune and the estate. But he is your brother. He would not want you to go. You mustn’t go, Henri. I need you,” she begged him. “Please don’t leave me now. Not now.”
“Hush, Gellie. Come sit down. I know I have taken my time about this, but it couldn’t be helped.”
“I’m not going to sit. I’ve terrible news!” she interrupted him.
Henri ignored her. He bent down on one knee and took her hands in his. “I know I have taken my time about this … but it couldn’t be helped.”
His voice came out in an awkward rasp. He cleared his throat and tried again, “You see I needed to know that I would be able to provide—”
“Henri, listen to me!” Angelique demanded. “This is no time for games. Get up from the ground at once! Something awful has happened.”
“Gellie, you sound upset.”
“Oui! You never mentioned to me that you wrote to your cousins. And who are these cousins anyway?” she asked, indignantly. “Just what am I to do without you, especially now when I need you the most?”
Chuckling, Henri stood up from the ground and sat beside her, taking her rigid body in his arms. “I cannot keep up with your many accusations, chérie. Since when is it a crime to correspond with cousins in America?”
Angelique did not respond. She turned her face to stare at the brook.
“Gellie, mon amour,” Henri beckoned gently, as he knelt once again by her side.
“Henri, do not mon amour me, not after you are deserting me! Go to America. See if I care,” she snapped, stubbornly keeping her gaze on the water.
“Gellie, don’t you know I would never leave you? Au contraire, my love.” Taking her hands again, he declared with bated breath, “Make me the most fortunate man of all. Marry me and go to America with me.”
Chapter Two
“Damn you, Rhourk! What the devil are you doing? Leave it.”
The Captain’s bark took Tommy by surprise. Shuddering, he dropped the compass he was holding to the floor. In silence, Tommy bent to pick it up and place it back on the Captain’s desk.
“Rhourk, leave it.”
Tommy knew better than to speak when the Captain was in this frame of mind. A furious tic pulsated violently at the Captain’s cheek, and the fierce, penetrating stare in his dark blue eyes would have frightened the devil himself. “Get the hell out, Rhourk, and shut the door behind you,” he demanded, his voice still hoarse from the rip-roaring quarrel Tommy had witnessed between him and his father earlier that morning at Windword Hall. “I said Get the hell out of my cabin!”
The first mate grimaced at the thunderous words. The Captain’s tall, powerful frame made a most formidable sight as he stood at the open window, glaring at the horizon, his raven hair blowing in the wind and teeth clamped together in outrage. The Captain was crossing the English Channel and heading for France in such a state of rage that the crew tried
desperately to stay out of his way. And he, Thomas Calum Rhourk, was no exception. He had suffered enough today under the Captain’s sharp tongue and was not going to stick around for more.
Such wrath! Must be because of the French lass, thought Tommy, as he made a quick exit from the Captain’s cabin. He still could not believe that the Captain had actually been ordered to take a bride. And a French one, no less. In England, there were plenty of bonnie lassies aching to become one of his conquests. Unlike the rest of the crew, Captain Kent had no need for brothels and fancy houses. Wherever he went, he had his share of dazzlers, recklessly throwing their favors at him and not caring who knew.
Tommy chuckled, speaking to himself as was his usual custom, “Aye, m’lord Captain, you are a wanted man, but you want no one—especially the poor French lassie your father has saddled you with.”
Tommy heard an angry expletive coming from the Captain’s cabin and scurried to the galley below.
* * * *
Lord Nicholas Kent, the future Earl of Windword, was livid. Not even the calming effect of the Channel waters before him could soothe his temper. Stunned by his father’s unyielding attitude toward the arranged marriage to the French girl, Nicholas seethed with fury as he recalled how his protests had been ignored earlier that morning.
“What do you mean you, have agreed to this marriage. What the devil is going on here, Father?”
The earl had rubbed his chin with a worried look upon his face. “Madame Montclair needs her stepdaughter’s inheritance. We cannot merge without it. I have already invested half my holdings in these foreign banks. And so has she. It’s too late. You have no other choice, my son. According to Madame Montclair, your wedding takes place in a month.”
“According to Madame Montclair? In a month?” Nicholas had first laughed and had turned to a wide-eyed Tommy Rhourk. “Rhourk, are you listening to this nonsense?” But before Tommy could respond, Nicholas had turned back to his father. “Bloody hell, is this woman crazed?”
“Nicholas, you must marry the girl,” the earl had suddenly demanded to Nicholas’s complete surprise. “We cannot merge without her funds, and the funds won’t be released unless she is married. It’s a stipulation in her father’s will. No marriage. No money. No merger. Are you willing to wait for another investor to embark on our venture? You’ve said so yourself—the time is right for international banking.”
“Why weren’t we informed of this stipulation earlier? Why now, damn it? You’ve been dealing with this woman for an entire year. She never once mentioned needing her stepdaughter’s funds to merge with us. Why can’t she marry this Angelique to someone else?” Nicholas had challenged. “Surely there must be someone in France willing to marry the chit.”
“Nicholas, you are not thinking clearly. Once Mademoiselle Beauvisage is married, her husband may decide to forego the venture and keep her money for himself. Anyway, her stepmother insists the girl is anxious to marry only you.”
“Ballocks,” Nicholas had growled skeptically.
“Don’t you curse at me, Nicholas!” the earl had blustered in rage. “And watch what you say to Madame Montclair. We’ll not have another opportunity such as this. I have already opened the office in London. I’ll lose everything.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Granted, we’ll lose a hefty sum, but ...”
His father had interrupted angrily, “Marriage means nothing to you, Nicholas. I insist you marry the girl and beget me some heirs. It is your responsibility to your title. You’ve dallied long enough.”
“That again?” Nicholas had snapped. “You can forget about the girl and your bloody heirs. I’m going to France,” he had announced, “but not to marry Mademoiselle Beauvisage. Victoria Montclair owes us an explanation, and I’m going to make damn sure I get it.” Then he predicted, “When I’m through with Madame Montclair and her stepdaughter, they’ll want no part of me. I’ll find another way to secure the monies.”
“By all means, Nicholas. If you can find another way to secure these funds … go ahead. Otherwise, I think I’m going to enjoy having the French girl for a daughter-in-law.”
The hell, you are! thought Nicholas, as he had stormed out of Windword Hall with Tommy Rhourk treading behind.
Three hours later, in his cabin, Nicholas was still trying to control his fury at Madame Montclair’s scheme and at his father’s obstinacy. How the hell had he wound up in this ridiculous predicament? He was not a man to take orders, not even from his father. And yet, here he was, on his way to the Loire.
He sat at his desk and brightened at bit, knowing how annoyed his frugal father would be with him when realizing Nicholas had used his own ship instead of booking passage on one of the numerous steamers that crossed the English Channel daily.
As his anger began to subside, Nicholas came to an interesting thought. Maybe a little vacation in France would do him good after all. Clarissa Blake would be out of his hair for an entire month.
Ah yes, Clarissa, he thought acridly, the woman he had wanted to marry—until he lost her to his brother, James, seven years ago.
Seven years! Nicholas sneered, remembering how young and impetuous he had been then, how very much infatuated.
To this day, Nicholas had never forgiven the woman for betraying him. For years, he had held her accountable for the ruin and misery she had brought his brother. But now he no longer felt anything for her—not even contempt. Although he would never forget her betrayal, the years had dulled his anger and hatred of her. His scorn had turned to indifference, his rancor to apathy, and she had become simply an irritation to him, solely an annoyance he did not want around. Her blatant flirtation and dallying, her coquettish caresses that had once driven him wild with passion, now only served to annoy him. Even her tempting body no longer roused him. The throaty, sultry voice that had once made him ache for her had turned whiny with the disappointment of his constant rejection.
Seven years ago, not wanting to share the family manor with the newly wedded couple, Nicholas had chosen to take up residence at Clearhaven, a somewhat smaller country estate he had purchased soon after his brother’s wedding. But three years later, following his brother’s death, his grieving parents had begged him to come back to live at Windword Hall. And in order to appease Lord Edmund and Lady Marguerite, Nicholas had returned to Windword. He had regretted it ever since.
Although his travels took him away for months at a time, living under the same roof with Clarissa always served to dampen his return to England. Before her marriage, the knowledge that Nicholas would never be earl and that he would only inherit the family shipping business had held no appeal for Clarissa. She had not been interested in becoming a seaman’s wife. However, due to his brother’s death, Nicholas would one day inherit everything, title and all, making him even more alluring to the avaricious young woman who dreamt of becoming a countess.
His brother’s widow had been pursuing him constantly since James’s death four years ago. Of late, it was getting increasingly difficult to avoid her. She had begun to throw herself at him without any semblance of pride. Everywhere he turned, there she was. In the hallways, in the stables, in the library ...
With clarity, Nicholas remembered that night, seven years ago, when he had gathered Clarissa in his arms and undressed her in the privacy of her room.
Earlier, at the ball, she had asked him to meet her in the garden. She had let him kiss her and had returned kiss for kiss. He had seen desire in her eyes. She had unbuttoned the front of her gown and had let him view the ripeness of her breasts. He remembered how she had gathered his hand to her breast and had closed his fingers over her dusky, hard nipple. She had delighted in his lust for her. Then, she had quickly buttoned her gown and insisted on going back inside the house, teasing him further by asking him to join her later in her room.
That night after they had made love, he had not been prepared for the awful words that had changed his life forever. Nicholas flinched as he remembered those very words. “You do k
now darling, I really do want to be your wife, but it just can’t be. Don’t you think I’d make a perfect countess?” At first when he had not understood her, she had continued, “You see, I must marry your brother, James. He will one day become Earl of Windword. But first, I owed it to myself to have you in my bed at least once.”
Bile rose up Nicholas’s throat as he recalled Clarissa laughing at his mortification. “And, darling, do not think for a minute that you have deflowered me. That happened many years ago. Your brother, James, had me last week, and I must admit when it comes to the bedroom, I have picked the wrong brother.”
Nicholas had not let her finish. With hatred in his heart, he had quickly dressed and rushed out of her bedroom. Although he had wanted nothing more, he had not been able to rush out of her life. Instead, two weeks later, he’d had to witness his own brother marry the bitch, watching in silence as she became part of his family. She had managed to seduce James into marriage only to make him the most miserable husband on the face of the earth, until a most unfortunate accident had brought him to an early death.