by DeVa Gantt
“Perhaps,” Frederic offered, walking over to her. When she wouldn’t meet his gaze, he placed a finger under her chin and forced her to look at him. “I would say it’s more a matter of wounded pride.”
“I wish it were so simple,” she murmured.
“Do you love my son, Charmaine?” he asked.
She knew he meant John. “I love John deeply.”
“Good, because he needs that love, and I believe he loves you just as much. He has had many hard knocks in his life, but because of you, his future looks very bright. This marriage has made me very happy today.”
John was highly agitated to find them together. It was apparent Charmaine had been crying. “What is this all about?”
She went to him in relief. “Paul and I had words. Your father intervened.”
John’s eyes darkened, but he said nothing. After Frederic bade them goodnight, he put an arm around her and led her back to his room. Once there, she reveled in a soothing bath, leaning her head back against the rim of the tub and closing her burning eyes. Perhaps the water would wash away Paul’s bitter remarks.
John left her to tuck the twins into bed, but returned long before she was finished. He sat on the rim of the tub. Embarrassed, she sank modestly into the water to conceal her breasts. But he wasn’t looking at her, his thoughtful gaze cast beyond the room. “Will you tell me what Paul said to you? I know you were crying.”
She closed her eyes and whispered, “It was terrible. I knew it would be.”
“I’m sorry, my Charm,” he said. “I had hoped to spare you his wrath. When he disappeared today, I thought you were safe.”
“If it hadn’t been today, it would have been tomorrow,” she said, though she knew Paul had cornered her in the hope of sabotaging her wedding night.
“Did he hurt you?”
“Only with his words, but I hurt him, too. John—what he said doesn’t matter. I don’t want it to come between the two of you.”
“It matters to me,” John replied heatedly. “We must understand each other if this marriage is to be a success. What did he say?”
She studied him, then plunged ahead. “He called me a fool— said you could never love me as he could—that your heart would always belong to … ”
“Colette,” he supplied.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Damn him,” John swore, but to Charmaine’s chagrin, he did not deny the assertion. She looked at him with tear-filled eyes, and John read her pain. “You don’t believe that, do you? Charmaine, you can’t possibly believe that.”
“I don’t think I do,” she choked out. “I don’t want to.”
“Charmaine, I love you, and only you. Colette is dead. Yes, I loved her, but I had resigned myself to a life without her before I came back last August. Still, the love I shared with her has made me a better man, one who understands what is valuable in life. I’m not about to lose you now that I know you love me in return.”
“Is it true you told Paul to marry me before you left for Virginia?” she asked, dreading the answer.
John regarded her pensively. “I suggested he marry you before Pierre died, when I knew I had to leave. I had feelings for you, but I was afraid—afraid I’d only hurt the children if I stayed—afraid I’d hurt you. When Pierre died, all those fears were confirmed. I left because I had interfered in everyone’s lives: my father’s life, Paul’s life, the twins’, yours, and most important, Pierre’s, and the consequences were devastating. I didn’t want to live that way any longer, to do the very things my father did to me, be the hypocrite.”
“Then why did you come back?”
“I came back because a friend persuaded me. I came back because I missed my sisters, because I missed you.”
“Would you have returned without an invitation?” she asked apprehensively.
“I would have stayed away,” he confessed. “As I said, I didn’t want to interfere. I missed you, Charmaine, but I didn’t realize I loved you until I walked up to the house a week ago and saw you standing there. I was amazed Paul hadn’t married you yet. I was happy he hadn’t married you.”
“And you didn’t interfere last night?”
“When I took you to the ball, yes, I interfered,” he replied. “I was angry at Paul—the way he was treating you. He had six months, Charmaine, six months with you all to himself, and still, he threw away his opportunity to have you!”
“And after the ball?”
“You came to me, Charmaine. I asked you if you were sure before we even started. So, you tell me—did I interfere?”
“No,” she murmured, the color rising to her cheeks again.
His eyes searched hers, then he asked, “And you, Charmaine, did you come to my room last night because you saw Paul with Anne?”
She was astonished, uncertain if he were serious. “Self-assured John Duvoisin needs to ask me that?” she teased, but when his eyes remained earnest, she realized he was as vulnerable as she. “No,” she answered honestly, “I wasn’t upset. I came to you because I love you, John. I suppose I realized it when Paul proposed, but I didn’t know how to tell him, or how to tell you. I was frightened to tell you. When I watched Paul and Anne go off to the boathouse, everything became clear. Paul’s walking away didn’t matter. But I would have been heartbroken if you walked away. I don’t want you to ever leave me again. I love you, John.”
His heart expanded jubilantly, and he leaned forward to kiss her.
“One more thing,” she interrupted, forefinger to his lips.
“Yes?”
“Do you really have a mistress in New York?”
His brow lifted innocently, but his smile turned raffish. “Not anymore.”
The water was growing cold, and she shivered. “Come,” he coaxed, “it is time you were about your bath.”
He rolled up his sleeves and lathered the sponge. When she leaned forward to take it from him, he held it out of her reach, chuckling when she blushed. He lifted a shapely leg out of the water and washed her ankle, her calf, then her thigh. He started on the other leg, and she could feel her tension falling away. He moved behind her and pressed the sponge to her back, massaging it over her shoulders, down one arm and up the other, a soothing caress. He nudged her forward and washed her back. She felt his lips on her neck, then on her shoulder, sending a shiver of pleasure down her spine. He discarded the sponge, and his hands traveled down her arms, moving to her breasts, cupping them, brushing his thumbs over her nipples and coaxing them erect with desire. Charmaine groaned and closed her eyes to overwhelming, burning passion. His hands traced over her belly and stroked the inside of her thighs.
When she could stand it no longer, she pushed up from the tub and stepped out of the water. John grabbed the towel off the armchair and, coming from behind, draped it over her shoulders. She was shaking uncontrollably, but not from the cold. He dried every inch of her slowly, then turned her around so she faced him. Using the towel, he pulled her naked body to him, dropping it as he encircled her in his arms and kissed her. His hands roamed freely, finding her womanhood, where ever so lightly, his fingers stroked and teased until she was moist with anticipation. Her loins pulsed with desire, and when he drew away, she looked up at him and pleaded, “Don’t stop.”
He quickly stripped off his own clothing and led her to the bed, pressing her gently into the soft mattress as he rolled on top of her.
“I do love you, Charmaine,” he affirmed in a husky voice.
“I know you do.” She smiled, relishing the ecstasy of being in his arms, yet certain his lovemaking couldn’t be better than the night before. She was thrilled to learn she was wrong.
Monday, April 9, 1838
When they awoke the next morning, they were still in each other’s embrace. Much later, they rose and John stripped the clean linen off the bed, revealing the stained sheet beneath.
“Let them think what they will,” he stated with a wry smile.
“I’d prefer no one see that,” Charm
aine stated anxiously.
“Then the gossips in this house will have reason to whisper, my Charm. You are my wife, and I want them to treat you with respect.” With that, he opened the door and glanced up and down the hall. No one was about. He took the clean sheet with him, depositing it in the laundry service room.
When he returned, she smiled warmly at him. “John?”
“Yes?”
“I didn’t thank you for all you did yesterday: the way you treated me, your concern, our wedding, attending Mass and your beautiful announcement afterward.” Her eyes welled, and her voice grew raspy. “You never cease to amaze me. The day was perfect in every way, and I shall cherish it always.”
He inhaled contentedly, his happiness compelling her to say more. “Only your lovemaking surpassed it.”
His expression turned wicked, lips curling deviously. “I told you long ago I’d not let your first ride end in failure—that I’d go to great lengths to ensure its success. We’ve given new meaning to Passion Sunday!”
They arrived at the dining room in time to watch a gratified George chastise an indignant Anne London. “I’m afraid you’ll have to pack your own trunks. I won’t permit my future wife to do so for the likes of you. It would be far below her rank in society.” Anne marched away in a fulminating huff.
John chuckled. “Well, George, she hates all three of us now.” He pointed to himself, George, then Paul’s empty seat. “Shooed, booed, and screwed.”
When they had finished eating, John gave Charmaine a quick peck on the cheek and headed toward the study, where he knew he’d find his brother. As he closed the door behind him, Paul lifted his eyes from the paperwork on the desk.
“We need to talk, Paul.”
Paul pushed back in his chair and folded his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”
“I want you to leave Charmaine alone,” John stated directly.
“Do you now?”
John didn’t respond.
Annoyed, Paul added, “In other words, the game is over, and you’ve won. Is that it, John?”
“It hasn’t been a game for a very long time. Maybe if you had realized that, Charmaine would be your wife right now instead of mine. However, she is my wife, and you will respect her as such. So, no more cornering her when she’s alone, no more making her feel she wronged you when, in fact, it was the other way around.”
Paul snorted. “What I said to Charmaine was between the two of us.”
“No, Paul, you hurt her with your accusations, accusations that included me, and I won’t allow it to happen again. I realize you were upset, but you’ve had your say, and there won’t be a repeat performance.”
“Aren’t you a fine one to talk?” Paul roared. “When Father married Colette, you couldn’t keep from tormenting her—even on the night the twins were born!”
“Colette has nothing to do with this,” John stated softly, controlling the anger his brother was desperately trying to incite. “And if you think you can shake Charmaine’s feelings for me by throwing Colette in her face, you’re wrong. She knows Colette is in the past— that my love belongs to her alone.”
“You’re awfully sure of that, John. But I’ll be right here when your ‘love’ fails her.”
Agatha studied the portrait of Colette Duvoisin. Over the past week, many who entered the manor marveled over its opulence. Amongst its palatial splendors, this one item, this exquisite painting, rendered each and every guest momentarily speechless. She recalled their open admiration—the comments, the questions. Oh my, isn’t she breathtaking! Who is she? Once again, the bile rose in Agatha’s throat. She had forced a stiff smile, then uttered Colette’s name nonchalantly, unprepared for the final insult: the astonished eyes, the perceptible nod that measured the third wife against the second in the space of one awkward moment. She would never suffer such humiliation again!
Agatha confronted her adversary—the woman who taunted her, even in death. You frivolous little whore … the father and the son! Why do men always fall for trollops like you? The blue eyes stared back, so lifelike, they condemned her from the lofty perch upon the wall. Condemn all you like, but this is the last time you will harass me. Like the wife, it was time for the painting to go.
She rang for Travis Thornfield. “I want that canvas removed,” she stated blandly, her arm sweeping upward in a dismissive gesture, “immediately.”
The butler hesitated. The portrait had hung in the foyer for nearly a decade, serenely greeting those who entered the mansion, and he knew how ferocious Frederic could be in all matters concerning the Mistress Colette.
“Immediately!” Agatha shrieked. “I said immediately!”
Frederic had come abreast of the upper staircase and heard the strident command. “What is this?” he seethed as he labored downward.
“Why, Frederic,” Agatha replied bracingly, “this painting should have been removed a long time ago. After all—”
“Leave it alone!” he barked over his shoulder to Travis as he grabbed hold of Agatha’s arm and marched her into the study.
Paul and John were there, but before Frederic could ask them to leave, Agatha pulled free of his grasp and allied herself with her son. “Tell your father I am the mistress of this manor.”
Paul scowled and looked away.
“Agatha,” Frederic began, “I have made a grave mistake.”
Oddly, she seemed placated, but when he continued, she grew horrified.
“A year ago, I thought to right the wrong I perpetrated against you long ago, but I have only made a sad situation worse. Had I married you when Paul was a baby, things might have been different. However, we are two very different people now. I cannot continue with this ruse.”
“Ruse? You call our marriage a ruse?”
“Agatha, I told you Saturday night—I don’t love you. I have directed Edward Richecourt to draw up the documents required to—”
But she didn’t allow him to finish, her long-contained agony erupting. “Now let me tell you something! You ruined my life! I loved you! I gave you everything! You proposed to me! We were betrothed! And then, oh God, you took Elizabeth instead—first to your bed and then to the altar! How could you do that to me? How could you turn your back on me when you knew I was carrying your child? How? ”
Paul paled, and John surmised Frederic hadn’t told him the entire story.
“Do you know how it felt to have my baby ripped from my arms because he was a bastard—because I had shamed my parents—” she accused, genuine tears streaming down her face “—how it felt to be called a whore because I had loved you? And Elizabeth, your precious Elizabeth, she knew my heart was breaking, but she stole you anyway. I hope she’s rotting in hell!”
“Enough!” Frederic roared, his eyes glassy. “Any pain you endured was my doing, not Elizabeth’s.”
She abruptly composed herself, wiping away the moisture with the back of her hand. “That’s right, Frederic, you excuse her, but I know what she did. She was the whore, for she did not have your vow when she went to your bed.”
“Damn it woman!”
“I’m already damned,” she pronounced proudly, chin raised. “You remember the money you threw at me?” When his brow gathered in confusion, she continued. “You said it would provide financial security for my child. You do remember, don’t you? Tell Paul you remember!” She looked directly at her son. “Your father didn’t intend to raise you as his own. He thought to buy me off — abandon us in England so he would never have to look at us—at you.” She turned back to her husband. “I took that money, Frederic, and I invested it.”
“Invested it?”
“I used it to bribe some men. They did not refuse my hefty purse.”
Frederic felt the blood drain from his limbs. “What are you saying?”
“I can inflict pain, too.” Her eyes turned maniacal. “I took great pleasure in knowing Elizabeth was raped over and over again. Those ruffians were only too glad to take your money. If only it coul
d have purchased her life as well!”
Frederic descended on her in a deranged fury, his hands around her neck before anyone could react. Paul shouted, then grabbed hold of his arms, John, Agatha. It was all they could do to tear them apart, Frederic’s burst of strength dissipating the moment he was disengaged. He slumped into a chair and buried his head in his hands. Agatha collapsed into the sofa, sobbing pitifully.
“I’m sorry, Frederic, but I love you!”
“Get out! Get out, damn you, and never come back!”
“But, Frederic, I’m your wife!”
“Not anymore!” he snarled, his face set in stone, her future inexorable.
“But, Frederic! I love you!” she implored. “Truly I do!” When she got nowhere, she turned pleading eyes on Paul. “I only did it for you … ”
With great pity, Paul went to her. He knew his father would not change his mind and resentment consumed him. Placing an arm around his mother, he coaxed her up. “Come with me. You’ll be comfortable on Espoir.”
“But I’m the mistress of this manor,” she objected, her expression strangely blank. “Frederic needs me here. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. He’ll realize his mistake and … ” Her words trailed off as Paul ushered her from the room.
John shook his head and sat opposite his father. “Are you all right?” he asked, amazed he felt sympathy for the man.
“Dear God,” Frederic groaned. “I’ve made such a mess of things.”
“From the deepest desires often come the deadliest hate,” John murmured.
“She has every right to hate me.”
“And my mother as well,” John said, suddenly understanding why Agatha had despised him all these years.
“No, Elizabeth didn’t do any of those things,” Frederic insisted. “I was enamored of your mother just as my affair with Agatha began. Elizabeth had no idea we had been intimate until after she and I were lovers.” Frederic bowed his head again. “But for Agatha to have wanted her dead—to have hired those men to … ” His words fell away under the weight of the incomprehensible, the realization he’d seriously underestimated Agatha and her pernicious animosity. “She fostered more evil than you can imagine, John. For the first ten years of your life, I thought you were born of that vile crime against your mother, and I believed the rapes caused her death. Blackford convinced me of it. I suppose he was avenging Agatha.”