by Maggie Dove
Still smiling, Victoria waved to one of the guests. “It’s not overly cool, only a lovely breeze that comes around every so often to prevent us from getting too warm.”
Justine accepted a flute of champagne, noticing how the bride and groom were making an effort to stop and chat at every table. “Victoria, don’t they make a wonderful couple? You have not bothered to say a gracious word to them on their wedding day. Indeed, you have managed to stay out of their way since the morning in the library when you almost slapped Angelique and—”
“And the insolent man dared to threaten me!” Victoria snapped, dodging a handful of children as they skittered past. Forming a circle, the children began to twirl to the violinists’ music. Her lips twisted with disapproval. “Children do not belong at adult functions. You must try the pâté, Justine. It is delicious.”
“There’s Emilio. He’s all alone. Come, we must go to him,” Justine commented, as she dragged Victoria toward the buffet table to join her husband.
The matching gold band that now branded him a married man felt tight and foreign on Nicholas’s finger as he conversed with Father Ignace and a few other guests. At his side, Angelique caught him twisting the ring and gave him a shy, dazzling smile.
“Who are the people standing beside Victoria?” Nicholas asked her.
“What people? Justine and Emilio?”
“No, the very pregnant couple who is now approaching us.”
“Oh—Alain and Giselle,” Angelique replied, smiling. “Nicholas, I would like to introduce you to two dear friends of mine, Monsieur and Madame Bertrand. I have known them—”
“Congratulations, Angelique,” the Frenchman interrupted, his voice ice cold. “Obviously, we presumed wrong. You seem quite happy on the Englishman’s arm.”
Giselle shook her head. “Angelique, we thought you cared about him—would you happen to know why he was called to Lon—”
Nicholas frowned. “If you’ll excuse me, my wife looks ill. Come darling,” he said, grabbing Angelique by the shoulders and steering her in the direction of the buffet table. “Let me get you something to eat.”
Nicholas scanned the delicacies arranged throughout the buffet table, gazing at the massive selection of hors d’oeuvres. After serving his bride a plate of food, he repeatedly filled her flute of champagne. He would not be up for explanations this evening. Knowing her temper, he did not wish for the entire château to hear the explosion once he told her the truth. There would be time enough for that tomorrow when they were at sea on their two-week honeymoon. At which time, she could scream all she wanted. No one would hear except for his crew, and the men were used to unruly, rambunctious females. Tonight, he wanted her out like a log.
“My dears, we are having such a grand time with your guests. What a charming group of people! May we join you?” asked Lady Marguerite as she and Anna sat down at their table.
“Of course!” Angelique said loudly.
Nicholas again filled Angelique’s empty flute and watched as she gulped it down with enthusiasm.
“Delicious—hiccup!” Angelique muttered, gazing at Marguerite with a vague expression on her face.
“Nicky, don’t you think she’s had enough?”
“Duchess, this is her wedding day. What is the harm in a little champagne?”
“Why does Nicholas call you duchess when you’re—hiccup—only a countess?”
Anna almost choked on a piece of cheese. Quickly recovering, she laughed wickedly. “Explain, Duchess. I’m sure Angelique will find it quite interesting.”
Marguerite raised her eyebrows at Anna, giving her a stern look. “Some other time, my dear. Angelique is not interested. It’s a very long story,” she said firmly.
“Please—hiccup—Lady Marguerite, tell me now!” Angelique insisted.
Amused, Anna enlightened, “My mother was pledged to marry a very rich duke. But she took one look at my father and they eloped, leaving the poor duke at the altar.”
Marguerite looked mortified. “Really, Anna! What will Angelique think of me? I just couldn’t help myself. Your father is a very persuasive man.”
“You must have—hiccup—hurt that poor duke terribly.” Angelique could hardly keep her eyes open as she stood suddenly. “I could never have left him at the altar!” she said passionately, pointing to Nicholas. “Never!”
“You would have, Angelique,” Anna explained. “If that duke had been any stuffier, my mother would have needed a third lung to breath.”
The three women burst into laughter, but Nicholas was not amused. Even in her sotted state, Angelique still lied to him. He wondered how she could seem so content after having been jilted by Bertrand only hours before. She could never have left him at the altar—bloody hell! Bertrand had gone and left her. Had it been her choice, the girl would be on her way to America.
* * * *
Nicholas held Angelique up as she bid farewell to the last guest. “Adieu, Madame Richell!”
Madame Richell smiled graciously. “Adieu, chérie, this was a wonderful wedding. You made such a lovely bride.”
“Why did poor Etienne not attend my wedding?” asked Angelique. “You should have brought him. He would have behaved himself. He would not have tried to kiss me, hiccup, as he did last year in the maze.”
Nicholas quickly apologized to an outraged Madame Richell. After the woman huffed into her awaiting carriage, he turned to his new bride, “I’m happy you’ll be residing in England for a while. After tonight, I seriously doubt that you will have any friends left in France.”
Angelique almost fell as she pirouetted around to meet his gaze. “Oh—there’s Louie—I must say goodbye to him. Louie, Louie, adieu, Louie! Oh, don’t turn around like that—do be careful with your toupee! Oops—just put it back on. There, now it’s a little lopsided, but it doesn’t look too bad,” Angelique instructed from afar.
“Damn it, Angelique! What the devil—”
Angelique waved farewell to the blushing Louie, who left holding his head in mortification. Then she whispered to Anna, who had joined them just in time to hear the outrageous remark, “Do not giggle. His wife, hiccup, plays him false with younger men. Poor Louie thinks that by wearing that silly rug, she will be faith—faithful.”
“Angelique, I better put you to bed before you cause more damage,” Nicholas said, taking her arm.
“Nicky, please don’t take her away,” Anna objected. “This is the most fun I’ve had in years. I think Angelique has to be the most hilarious lush I’ve ever witnessed. It’s your fault, you know. You’re the one who kept filling her glass with champagne all afternoon.”
After giving Anna a dark scowl that required no accompanying words, Nicholas collected his bride with one quick sweep and carried her upstairs to his room, where he deposited her on the bed none too gently.
Angelique did not move. Sighing, she closed her eyes the moment her head hit the pillow. Her white silk and lace negligée lay on the bed beside her.
Damn! He could not let her sleep in her wedding gown. He would have to undress her. He cursed under his breath as he carefully removed her veil, crown, brooch, earrings and wedding dress. Gritting his teeth, he unlaced the corset. He turned her over and as he looked down at Angelique in her clinging, transparent shift, his frustration mounted.
“Kiss me, monsieur. Kiss me like you did last week in the courtyard. Make me feel that way again,” Angelique mumbled dreamily.
“Make you feel what way?”
“You know … all tingling inside. Ah, Nicholas, please kiss me now. I shouldn’t have had the champagne. I’m sorry,” she purred, slowly drifting back to sleep.
Bloody hell! He was way past “tingling”.
As though she were a poisonous snake, he quickly slipped the negligée over her head, pulling it down as fast as possible. After accomplishing that, he covered her with the bed sheets all the way up to her neck.
“I’m sorry too, Angelique.”
He quickly left the room and wen
t downstairs to the library, trying to dispel the image of her sultry body before him. Fortunately the occupants of Château Beauvisage had retired to their chambers, and no one saw him as he sat alone on his wedding night, gulping down brandy after brandy, while reading Life in A Franciscan Monastery.
* * * *
Plagued by the persistent throbbing at her temple and a bitter taste in her mouth, Angelique stirred from her sleep. Moaning, she opened her eyes and winced at the sudden piercing light. She brought her head slightly forward, regretting it instantly as her stomach responded with a sharp surge. The room spun around her. Mon Dieu, I am dying, she thought, closing her eyes again, certain her forehead would explode from the unbearable pounding against her skull. She longed to drink water, lots and lots of sparkling water. Champagne!
Her eyes flew open as the previous evening started to come back to her. Again she moaned, this time in mortification as she began to recall loose, disjointed details of her behavior at the reception. Horrified, she tried to get out of the bed, but the pain in her head, and Nicholas’s strong arms, prevented her from doing so.
“Don’t,” Nicholas warned her. “Relax and lie back against me.” He held her against his hard, muscled chest and tenderly massaged her forehead with his fingers, his thumbs making tiny, soothing circles on her temples. Gently, he untangled the strand of her hair that had caught on one of his shirt buttons, and shifting her aside, his hand grabbed a glass from the nightstand. “Drink this.”
“I can’t,” Angelique protested, now fully aware of her surroundings. She noticed that Nicholas was already dressed and ready to leave for their honeymoon. As usual, she had overslept. She turned her head and refused to take the drink, certain if she consumed anything it would turn her stomach.
“Trust me,” Nicholas insisted. “I’ve been known to turn to this many a morning.”
Angelique groaned, closing her eyes and bringing her hand up to her temple. “Surely you jest. You couldn’t possibly have experienced this and survived.”
“I’ve survived more times than I care to mention. The recipe was given to me by an old Jamaican woman during my travels through the Caribbean. On mornings such as these, I remember dear old Jessamina with a great deal of gratitude. Give the potion a chance. The nausea will go away and so will your headache.”
Stubbornly, he held the glass to her mouth as she drank the cool, minty concoction that made the nausea disappear as it went down.
“Thank you,” she whispered, managing a half-smile. “Mon Dieu—your mother! I seem to remember insulting your mother at the reception. Nicholas, what will she think of me? I don’t remember much about last night … did I do anything else?”
Nicholas assured her, “You are suffering from a moral hangover. Don’t worry about my mother, Angelique. She likes you just fine. Besides, you were not the only one drinking at the reception. Your words were not meant in harm. I’m sure the guests don’t remember anything you said by now.”
Angelique fell back on the pillow with a sigh of relief. But her relief was short-lived. Last night was their wedding night—and she had been too drunk to—dear God! Never mind his mother, what must he think of her?
“Why the sudden frown?”
“It is just that—never mind,” she replied, fidgeting with the laces of her nightgown, too embarrassed to continue. What kind of a bride am I? she berated herself, sinking farther down on the pillow. She had ruined their first night together. It was supposed to be special, and she had ruined it.
“You best get ready for the voyage, Angelique. We’ve dallied long enough.” Without another word, Nicholas got up from the bed and left the room, closing the door behind him.
* * * *
Reticent by nature, the Earl of Windword relished his privacy above all else. Having been forced to take up residence at his men’s club in London for a month, he was pleased to be back where he belonged—under his own roof and catered to by his own staff.
After being greeted by Godfrey, the butler, Lord Edmund stood in the threshold and watched with satisfaction as the Kent town house, boarded up since last year’s season and uninhabited for nine months, now bustled with activity. Most of the help, with the exception of a skeleton crew left at Windword, had arrived three days ago to make certain that everything was in tiptop form for the arrival of his wife and daughter this evening.
Beaming with approval, the earl entered the front parlor. He looked into the drawing room and smiled as he noticed two maids swatting away the dust from Marguerite’s Grecian sofa. The third maid was in the process of placing two cameo-back chairs with brocade-covered seats, one at each end of the cabriole-legged Queen Anne love seat he so hated to sit on.
Scattered about the room were a number of decorative little tables, each garnished with knick-knacks collected by Marguerite over the years and quite a few other pieces purchased by preceding family members. A fourth maid carefully dusted each item, making certain to place them in the exact location the countess had previously instructed.
Indeed, this was the most splendid of days! thought Edmund. Meggie and Anna would be home tonight. The merger had finally taken place and soon the Bank of Kent would be established in all the major economic centers of the world.
Anxious to retire to his room, the earl ascended the staircase. Godfrey followed close behind, carrying the last of the valises. When he reached the top, he motioned for Godfrey to go on without him.
As he gazed at Marguerite’s portrait, her beautiful image never failed to ignite his senses. He could not get enough of the enchanting woman who had swept him off his feet many years ago. It had only been four short weeks or so since he had last seen her. Nevertheless, to Edmund it seemed a lifetime. Dear God, how he longed to feast his eyes on her, to have her in his arms tonight! Desire shot through him as he recalled the exact moment when he lost his heart to her. Marguerite held the center and focal point of all his emotions in the palm of her delicate little hand and was able to do with him what she willed. She knew it, too, he thought, chuckling, as he entered the master bedroom.
“Thank you, Godfrey. You can go now. You too, Randolph,” he said, dismissing both the butler and the valet who had begun to unpack the suitcases.
“My lord, will you not be wanting your bath?” Randolph asked.
“I bathed at the club,” Edmund replied absently, bringing to mind the way Marguerite looked the first time he had set eyes on her, on that fateful train ride to London when she had her heart set on marrying the Duke of Wallingford.
Although he had been thirty-one at the time, and quite a bit older than she, Marguerite at eighteen had set his soul afire. To this day, he had never looked at another woman. Grinning smugly, he pondered how he had managed to convince her to run away with him instead of marrying that awful duke. His grin suddenly deepened.
All it had taken was a kiss!
After removing his Norfolk jacket and placing it over a chair, the earl reclined on the bed, crossing his arms behind his head. Thinking now of the years of happiness that Marguerite had bestowed upon him, Edmund felt a sudden pang. He had wanted the same happiness for his sons, but neither had been fortunate in finding the right woman.
As luck would have it, Godfrey informed him that Clarissa Blake had arrived early that morning from Windword and had settled in her suite down the hall. Damn—the eternal thorn in his side! Her obsession with Nicholas had ruined both his sons. He somehow managed to treat the woman with polite aloofness because she was his dead son’s widow, yet he loathed her all the same, blaming her for James’s misfortune.
Although he could not bring himself to voice the awful truth, Edmund suspected that his son had actually killed himself. There was no evidence to prove it so, but he knew James’s death was no accident. James had drunk himself into a stupor and had flung himself down a flight of stairs. It still tore at his heart, recalling how his son had threatened suicide on many occasions, and no one had ever taken him seriously.
Even though it had been
almost four years since this tragic accident had befallen him and his family, the torturous sorrow still festered deep in his gut. He would never be over the death of his first-born. Every morning when he awoke, every night when he went to bed, it was there. The pain, the wretched pain! An empty, dark place filled with agony and regret.
Such promise, his son—his little, blond boy who grew to become such an ill-fated and unfortunate adult. All because of the wrong woman, the earl thought bitterly.
It was too late to help James, but he would rather rot in hell than allow Clarissa to get her claws into Nicholas. Seven years had passed since the blasted woman had chosen James over Nicholas in order to possess the title of viscountess. And the almost four years after James’s death had been a more than suitable mourning period. Clarissa Blake had been twiddling her thumbs, cunningly waiting for Nicholas to propose marriage.