by Maggie Dove
After their one and only night together, Nicholas had never taken Clarissa to his bed again, but the memory of that night had turned him aloof and uncaring, strictly preferring the attentions of experienced women who demanded nothing but mutual pleasure in return. And when thinking of those poor, unfortunate fellows whose charming wives he had thoroughly enjoyed, Nicholas had vowed he’d never be cuckolded. He’d quickly made up his mind never to take a wife, warding off situations that would in any way force him into matrimony.
He had avoided sweet young virgins to an unusual extent, thus circumventing all ruinous entanglements or unfortunate peccadilloes that could have been misinterpreted by a furious guardian.
As his ship came into harbor, Nicholas stood and walked to the window. He recalled the horrified look on Clarissa’s face earlier that morning when she had accosted them on their way out, and Rhourk had nonchalantly mentioned the forthcoming wedding to the Beauvisage chit in France.
In the glass of the porthole, Nicholas’s hard, chiseled features softened with gratification, and his reflection smiled back at him. That moment was worth all the hours he was going to spend ridding himself of Angelique Beauvisage.
* * * *
The coachman, sent by Madame Montclair to meet the viscount at the station and bring him to the château, was soon discovering that his lordship had a terrible case of the grumps.
Relishing his beloved Loire, the amicable Frenchman, in his broken English, took great pleasure in pointing out every detail, no matter how small or insignificant, not caring that the Englishman had temporarily closed his eyes in what seemed like mounting frustration. In spite of the disparagement in which his stories were received and the brusque demeanor of the dark figure riding in back, the coachman continued to spurt out unsolicited information.
When he informed the malcontent nobleman that they were taking a secondary route and were headed northwest toward the location of Château Beauvisage, the viscount simply grunted his acknowledgment. Then, when he pointed out the beautiful terraced gardens and symmetrical rows of orange trees that stood before a sixteenth-century castle as they jounced by, the grouch sulked deeper into his seat and said nothing.
The coachman by now was convinced that something had assuredly been lost in the English translation of his own thoughts—that his heavy French accent had not allowed the Englishman to understand or grasp the meaning of his words. No one could be this rude or unaffected by the beauty of the French countryside. Thus, before describing yet another famous château, he decided to assure himself that the grumpy passenger spoke his native language. “Excusez moi, Lord Kent. Vous parlez Français, n’est pas?”
When the irate nobleman answered with a curt “Oui”, the coachman enthusiastically continued his chatty narration, switching to his native French.
After a grueling day of traveling on French terrain, sleeping in a comfortless country inn the night before, and being confined to yet another shaky coach ride for most of the morning, the viscount was not able to contain his irritation any longer.
“How much further?” he asked flatly. Before the coachman could answer, Kent demanded the man keep his mouth shut for the rest of the journey.
When the coach finally approached Château Beauvisage, the splendorous elegance and idyllic, rustic atmosphere of the French manor house was completely lost to the viscount. He barely noticed the majestic gardens with their tidily kept maze or the charming, multi-shaped little fountains located everywhere on the premises. His eyes lazily passed over the peaceful stream that led up to the main house, casually dismissing the pair of white swans that graced its waters.
Suddenly he sat upright. “Who is she? Who’s the girl?”
“Pardon, monsieur?” the driver asked, confused.
The horse and rider had passed the carriage so rapidly that the coachman, who had been looking in the opposite direction, had not seen the vision that had finally captured the viscount’s attention. Turned around and at the edge of his seat, he was staring at silken locks of long golden hair and shapely feminine buttocks that bounced up and down on the seat of a horse galloping at a high speed. It all happened in a flash, but Nicholas had gotten a glimpse and wanted to see more, much more.
“Bloody hell, you’ve been a fountain of information for the past three and a half hours, and now you’re closed-mouthed. Damn it, you’ll tell me who she is. Is she Mademoiselle Beauvisage?”
The driver halted the coach. “Monsieur, I have been called a … how do you say … chatterbox? And I have been instructed to keep my mouth shut for the rest of the journey, oui? I honestly do not know, m’lord. I did not see anyone. The sun was in my eyes.”
Before Nicholas could describe her to him, the coachman stepped out of the coach and reached for the viscount’s luggage, placing it before the arched doorway that led to the château. He clanked the iron doorknob against the door several times, and shortly thereafter, the heavy wooden door was opened by a butler.
“We’ve been expecting you, Lord Kent. Michel, take the suitcases to the blue room,” ordered the butler. He led Nicholas through a hallway filled with Beauvisage family portraits framed in ornate wooden moldings and colorful tapestries that lined the walls.
After being in the château for approximately five minutes, Nicholas realized that Angelique Beauvisage was accustomed to grand luxury. He sneered, suddenly recalling the multitude of spoiled heiresses he’d had the misfortune of knowing in England. He had hoped that this French girl would be different, an ingénue he could manipulate into breaking off their engagement.
Since it was no longer the custom to force marriage upon one’s children, his idea of Angelique had been of a woman without suitors. A plain, uncomely spinster without prospects, one who would jump at the opportunity of marriage to anyone. He would find the chit a suitor, a husband who would overlook her many faults, and who would be willing to invest in their venture. Was she the enchanting vision he had seen earlier on the horse? Now he wished he had paid closer attention to what his father had tried to tell him about her.
Nicholas followed the butler up the marbled staircase and proceeded to enter what the butler called “the blue room”.
The room had a military look about it. The furniture consisted of plain and artless cedar pieces. A bust of a famous French general stood in a corner, and two golden swords were hanging crisscrossed upon a wall. A tapestry depicting the Napoleonic Wars hung along the length of the opposite wall. After the ornate opulence he had just witnessed, this room was surprisingly unpretentious, and Nicholas momentarily enjoyed its well-worn simplicity. Tired from his travels, he suddenly wished to get the day’s unpleasant events over with as quickly as possible. He glanced at the comfortable bed before him and longed to rest his head on its feathered pillow. But that would have to wait.
The butler informed him that Madame Montclair and the rest of the family were waiting for him in the main drawing room. As he entered the drawing room, Nicholas noticed his future in-laws staring quite intently upon his person.
Nicholas smiled politely as he regarded the two women in the room. For a fleeting moment, he hoped his father had not completely lost his senses. The shorter one emanated kindness, but one look at the taller, more imposing matron made his blood curdle. Surely neither of them could be his fiancée? They were both older than his own mother. He frowned, searching the room for a glimpse of his betrothed, thinking it strange Angelique was not there to greet him.
Crossing the room with smooth, easy strides, he extended his hand in salutation. “Nicholas Kent.”
With a smile pressed taut upon her slightly wrinkled features, the tall middle-aged woman stepped up to greet him, reminding him of Chimera, the mythological Greek female monster with a goat’s body, a serpent’s tail and a lion’s head vomiting flames. Nicholas winced unintentionally as the woman took his outstretched hand, feeling strangely scorched by the evil emanating from her.
“Enchanté, Lord Kent. I am Victoria Montclair. What a pleasure to
finally meet you! You do not know how we have waited for this day. I, myself, have been most anxious. And now that you are finally here, I am at a loss for words.”
With reserved casualness, Nicholas shook her hand firmly. The woman repelled him. He could not explain it. Seldom had he felt such animosity for someone he had just set eyes on.
“I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, madame,” he said curtly.
Her flowing gray skirt swept the polished floorboards as Victoria turned around to face her two sons. She smiled, while gesturing grandly in the direction of the Montclair brothers. “Please let me introduce my sons, Pierre and Jean-Claude.” A look of hostility was evident in her predatory eagle eyes as she added with distaste, “… and Angelique’s Aunt Matilde.”
After shaking hands and introducing himself to the aunt and the brothers, Nicholas asked Victoria, “Where is Mademoiselle Angelique?”
“Angelique has gone riding. But do not worry, my lord. You’ll meet her soon enough,” Victoria replied.
“Madame, we need to discuss Angelique’s inheritance and her father’s will. Why wasn’t I informed of it earlier?” Nicholas asked.
“Now, my dear viscount, you are tired. The valet has prepared a bath for you. If you choose, you can retire to your room. I want to discuss this matter in full with you later on this evening, or better yet, tomorrow, when you’ve had a chance to recover from your journey.”
“As you wish,” Nicholas consented. He was in no mood to argue with the woman and a bath would do him good. He excused himself and strode to the door.
* * * *
Victoria stared after him as he left the drawing room. She had imagined him to be much older, and thinking it inconsequential at the time, she had not bothered to ask the earl for his son’s age. It had not mattered to her one way or the other. Until now. Now she wished him to be old and repugnant to the senses.
Wearing fawn colored britches that accentuated his long, muscular legs and a tweed jacket, the viscount exuded strength and power. Yet there was a cool elegance about him, quite unusual for a man of his impressive size. He carried himself with effortless confidence. Known to be equally at ease in rowdy English ports, as well as in the suffocating, elaborate salons of the haughty aristocracy, Kent’s mere presence inspired respect.
Gazing at his back, Victoria felt anger boil deep inside of her. At that moment, she almost wanted out of the merger. She should have known. This Nicholas Kent was the rage in London. However, she had secretly hoped and had persuaded herself into thinking that he was solely coveted for his title and fortune, that wealth and social stature were the only justification for his popularity with the opposite sex. Now, recalling his penetrating dark blue eyes, the sensual lips that framed a dashing smile and his overall chilling good looks, Victoria knew this was not the case and was certain the man had been the inspiration for many a young girl’s fantasy.
She had never intended to have Angelique wed such a man.
* * * *
The intoxicating scent of roses, mingled with the essence of gardenia, jasmine and various other blossoms, engulfed Angelique in the courtyard. She stood wrapped in Henri’s arms, basking in the wisdom of their decision. They were going to marry, and no one, not even Victoria Montclair, was going to stop them.
“Angelique, I’ve wasted no time securing passage for us to America. I’ve wired my cousins in New Orleans of our impending arrival.”
“Oh, this is wonderful news!” Angelique exclaimed. “I only wish we didn’t have to wait an entire month to elope.”
Henri bent his head to look into her eyes and said huskily, “Chérie, you are much too precious for me to lose.” Kneeling before her and placing one hand over his heart, he added with what she realized was great affectation, “I shall defend you from ruin. I will come to blows with the viscount, if I must. Mon Dieu, I will even take on Victoria. Bring in the evil hag.”
Angelique burst into laughter. “Oh dear, I fear Victoria will be the greater adversary. Our viscount, I’m afraid, lacks backbone. Imagine allowing his father to force him into this marriage. Speaking of Victoria, it is late. I must leave now.”
Henri heaved a dejected sigh before he raised himself from the ground. “Do not go inside so quickly, mon amour. Tonight is made for love.”
“Do stop teasing,” Angelique said giggling playfully. “I must go inside. My family will wonder where I am. It is late and I’ve been gone all day.” She tried to push him away, but Henri would not let her go.
Nuzzling her neck, he spoke tenderly, “They must know you’re with me. And who’s teasing?” He took hold of her and began to nibble her earlobe. “Ah, chérie, I cannot wait until we are married. Then I can make love to you all night.”
“Stop—please stop!” Angelique exclaimed with a hoot of laughter. “You are tickling me. And do not look at me that way—it’s a bit unnerving.”
Resembling a chastised child, Henri frowned with disappointment. “Gellie, why is it that each time I speak of romance, each time I bring up the subject of our—never mind,” he grumbled under his breath. “I’m sorry. I did not mean to scare you.”
Angelique smiled. “I could never be scared of you.” She slipped from his grasp and playfully whirled around him, laughing wildly as Henri tried to catch her. Gasping for breath, she managed to utter, “What if Victoria discovers us out here?”
Henri put his hand to his mouth in mock horror, and a chuckle escaped his lips. “The last thing we need is that old witch conjuring up her ugly spells,” he replied, taking her in his arms again.
“How could she?” Angelique asked. “How could she possibly think I would marry that horrid Englishman without a fight? I only wish I could see Victoria’s face when she discovers we’ve sailed for America.” She touched Henri’s cheek endearingly and lifted an affectionate gaze to him. “Thank you,” she said fervently.
Henri looked amazed at her touching display of emotion. “Whatever for, Gellie?”
“For saving me. I would rather die than marry the old goat,” she blurted. “I can picture him now,” she surmised with a mischievous chuckle. “Old and paunchy, and stuffy, too. Why, I bet he even wears spectacles for his failing vision. I’ll just wager he carries a cane and suffers from the gout. He’s probably so old he finds it difficult to recall his own age.”
Laughter erupted from Henri’s chest. “Exactly how old is this viscount of yours, Gellie?”
Angelique sobered. “I do not know how old he is. However, my brothers did say they have heard his name mentioned many times in the past. The man is known throughout Europe for his—oh, I don’t know what he’s famous for — but if he’s been around this long, well, I tend to think he must be ancient. And, I also heard he has a sordid reputation with the ladies,” she said, shuddering. “I do not care, nor choose, to involve myself with Victoria’s business dealings. No venture so great can force me to marry this lecherous old viscount.”
“Gellie, it will never happen. I won’t allow it.”
“I know,” Angelique responded. “This is why I’m so grateful to you. The thought of marrying that Englishman makes me shiver with disgust.”
“Did you honestly believe that I would allow you to marry a stuffy old English earl, Gellie?”
Angelique laughed harder, declaring, “He’s not an earl. He’s a viscount—and a libertine at that.”
Smiling at one another, they sat down on a stone bench. Henri put his arm around her and proceeded to go over their plans just one more time. “Chérie, we must be very careful. No one must know we intend to elope.”
“I know. We have gone through this a dozen times. I truly must go inside now,” Angelique protested, but Henri insisted. He recounted, once again, how he had secured passage for the both of them on a ship called the Seagull and how, in a month’s time, they would run off in the middle of the night and set sail for America.
“When we arrive in New Orleans, we shall be married right away, Gellie. And do not worry, ma petite. My c
ousins will provide dwelling for us. A month is ample time for them to secure employment for me.”
* * * *
Nicholas was tired from his journey, but he was much too incensed to sleep. Angelique’s foolhardy bantering and ridicule of him had brought him to a state of indignation. After tossing and turning for approximately an entire hour, his rage had not subsided.
Earlier in the courtyard, the couple had been so absorbed in discussing their future that they had not noticed Nicholas standing in the shadows. Not trusting what he would do if he listened to any more of their insults to his person, or their ridiculous machinations, he had decided it was best to leave.
He had spent the entire day in a mood which alternated between curious anticipation and total consternation, waiting for his betrothed to appear. He had toured the château first with Victoria, then with Tante Mattie and finally with each of the Montclair brothers. With the patience of a saint, he had feigned interest every time as if each guide had been his first. Amused, he had played along because he sensed the family was embarrassed by the absence of his fiancée; they were trying their best to be hospitable to compensate for her rudeness. However, once the evening meal was served and Mademoiselle Beauvisage had still not made her presence known, Nicholas was no longer amused. He no longer cared that she did not know of his arrival. What kind of girl disappeared from her home all day and evening? The girl obviously did not conform to the accepted standards of propriety or good taste.