The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Coquette giggled and fancied it felt good to do so. “Yes,” she said. “He bought several pieces from the shop yesterday. He has always been fond of confection and candy—ever since I can remember. Why, even when we were in Bostchelan,” Coquette giggled again, thoroughly amused by the memory washing over her. “I remember once when Father brought me chocolate he’d purchased from a French chocolatier, I thought Valor would eat himself to sickness with it! He had not had it much, you see—for his father was ever so strict and…” Coquette gasped, realizing what she had revealed. She looked to Victoria to find her smiling, a triumphant expression on her face.

  “There is more to this business with you and your father than his lordship has told us,” Victoria said. “Godfrey and I knew as much…though we know not what it all means.”

  “He must not know I have said anything, Victoria! Please!” Coquette begged, tears brimming in her eyes. “I do not know why he keeps the past so carefully guarded in himself. I suppose hate and bitterness have forged such a pride he cannot tolerate it ever happened. Oh! I have said too much! I have said far too much!”

  Panic began to overwhelm Coquette. If Valor were to discover she had revealed the secret of their past together, what anger would it evoke in him?

  Instantly, Victoria was kneeling beside the tub. Taking one of Coquette’s hands in her own, she said, “I would do nothing to cause you pain, milady. Nor would I harm milord. He has been ever good to me—to everyone in this house. I owe him loyalty beyond comprehension, but I am loath to see him so unhappy. And, milady…it is worse since first your father came and then you. Why? Why is it his bitterness is fed with you here?”

  She was helpless—trapped! She could not very well leap from the tub of scented water and run naked across the room to gather herself a towel. She wondered for a moment if indeed Victoria had intentionally trapped her. She knew she had. She thought then of the nutmegged milk and how she could remember only brief moments after having drunk of it. Still, she sensed the woman’s intentions were not malevolent.

  Valor’s unhappiness had increased since his reunion with her father. Victoria had only been worried for her master. Beast though he was, it was plain then to Coquette that Valor was good to his household. How else would he have earned such loyalty?

  “You have tricked me into this, Victoria,” Coquette said.

  “I have, milady,” Victoria admitted. “And you may dismiss me from my position at once. As Lady of Roanan you may, but I beg you, first enlighten me where his lordship is concerned. Help me to see why darkness resides in him where I know once there was light.”

  “How do you know there was light once?” Coquette asked. “Perhaps he has always been cruel, unfeeling, and hateful.”

  “There is a light in his eyes when he looks at you, milady. I have only seen it once before…when first he came here,” Victoria explained. “Three years ago, when first he arrived to claim his uncle’s title, his eyes burned with something residual, something other than hate and bitterness. I watched it slowly disappear, until I was certain it was gone forever. And it might have been but for the morning…your first morning at Roanan Manor—the morning you fainted in the stables. He thundered into the house with you in his arms, and the light was there—fiery, passionate, fearful—and I wondered how you could have lit his eyes so quickly with such emotion. I was…I was…Godfrey told me milord had known your father. I knew of his great hatred of him, of his desire for revenge. But revenge for what, I wondered. And now…now you talk of candy and chocolate, and you call him Valor in the same sentence. Send me away if you must, milady, but I beg you, reveal the reasons for milord’s hatred of your father and the light in his eyes when he looks upon you.”

  Coquette sniffled and brushed the tears from her cheeks. She knew then Victoria loved Valor—loved him as any mother ever loved a son. She could only imagine the agony the woman experienced in watching Valor transform into the beast he had become.

  “I will not send you away, Victoria,” Coquette said, “for if Valor is capable of love…it would be to love you as his own mother.”

  Victoria brushed tears from her own cheeks. “He was not always the heartless beast he appears to be now, was he, milady?”

  “No. He was not,” Coquette whispered through her tears. “I knew him long before he was Lord of Roanan…when he was Valor Lionhardt, only son of Lord Alfred Lionhardt of Bostchelan. Once he was as handsome of spirit as he is of face and body. Once he…once he loved me…enough to ask my father for my hand.”

  “What?” Victoria gasped. Her eyes widened with astonishment. “And…and your father refused,” she breathed as realization washed over her. “Pray, tell me more. I beg of you.”

  Coquette paused, fearful of revealing the full length of the past to Victoria. Valor had kept his past a secret, unspoken, and she was certain it was not for her to reveal. Yet it was her past as well, and she was Lady of Roanan. Why should she keep silent of her own past if she wished to tell the tale? Still, she knew he would be enraged to find she had revealed such secrets.

  “You may trust me to be your confidant, milady,” Victoria assured her. “I would see no harm come to you by way of your own words.”

  Coquette turned to Victoria, smiling as she read the woman’s earnest expression. Still, she paused a moment, somehow unwilling to relive the pain of memory herself.

  “We were young lovers once,” Coquette whispered, “innocents, and Valor Lionhardt was everything to me.”

  “I bid you go on, milady,” Victoria pleaded.

  “He began to court me when I was sixteen,” Coquette continued. She felt as if her very spirit were being freed from some sort of bondage. Before she could stop herself, reconsider what and how much she was telling Victoria, she had begun. “From the first moment I saw him, he was the only man I ever wanted to see again—the only man I ever wanted to belong to. Such the young gentleman—so attentive, thoughtful, filled with wit and humor. He was everything I had ever dreamed, and for two years he courted me patiently, proving himself to my father. Valor’s father was a titled man in his own right, with enormous wealth and position. Yet Lord Lionhardt was the worst in moral character. It was said Valor’s mother died of a broken heart—humiliated to literal death by her husband’s blatant infidelity. But Valor was not his father. Valor had followed his mother’s lead and was strong, faithful, pure of heart, and kind. Still, my own father judged the son by Lord Lionhardt’s deeds, and when Valor came to him asking for my hand, my father emphatically refused. He accused Valor of being of the same fabric as Lord Lionhardt—said he was destined to be so. I stood at the door to my father’s study, unable to comprehend why my father would refuse Valor. He had courted me for two years, Victoria!”

  Coquette took Victoria’s hand in her own as all the pain of the incident flooded her body and mind once more. “Yet my father did refuse. I…I was astonished. I could not think my ears had heard what they had heard. Valor fairly flew at my father, shouting, accusing him of being low in character and unworthy to judge Valor or his own father. He left the room where my father had refused him, and I was there—in the entry of the house—I was there, astonished to silence, heartbroken, and confused. Valor came to me. He said, ‘We will not listen to your father’s will. We will away at once.’ And I wanted to go with him. Oh, how desperately I wanted to go with him! Yet my father had refused, and I was undone. I could not think with clarity in those moments, and when I did not instantly speak, Valor left me. He stormed from the house. I was heartbroken.”

  “Oh, milady!” Victoria breathed. “Milady! What devastation this brought to you both. I see it now. You could not disobey—”

  “But I did!” Coquette cried in a whisper. “Though Valor knew not of it—knows not of it even yet. Within the hour that same day, I arrived at Lord Lionhardt’s door. I had taken the time to prepare a small valise, only a few possessions—my mother’s likeness, a few personal necessities—and yet when I arrived at the manor house of his fath
er, Valor was vanished! No one knew where he had gone. No one. I begged his father to tell me, yet he knew not. At least he knew not that day, and he was dead shortly thereafter—run through by his mistress’s husband. And I knew not how to search for Valor. Undoubtedly my father would not have helped. Likewise, I was certain he would no longer want me. I was certain he thought I would never defy my father and thereby had given me up—and he had.”

  “Oh, milady,” Victoria breathed, brushing tears from her cheeks. “What sad circumstance found milord here those three years ago. And none of us were the wiser. And you, milady, how did you endure?”

  Coquette brushed the tears from her face and forced a smile. “I…I…I lived on. What more can one do when all is lost? Simply sit down and die? Though I admit the thought seemed preferable to the pain of losing Valor. Yet I had my family—my father, my sisters. And Valor’s memory in my heart and mind.” She smiled at Victoria, who sat clinging to the lip of the tub, weeping beside her. “So you see, Victoria,” she began, “it is revenge that finds me here. Revenge and fate—Valor’s revenge against my father and my fate for having paused that day without my father’s study.”

  “Oh, milady,” Victoria repeated. Her empathy was obvious in her tears and painstricken expression.

  “You should have laid eyes on him then, Victoria,” Coquette said. She smiled at her own memory. “Always smiling, ever the gentleman, kind to every worthy soul he met.”

  “None of the brute beast was in him then?” Victoria asked.

  “Oh, he was brute enough when occasion demanded,” Coquette admitted. “He had no patience for those who showed any disrespect to women, especially me.” Coquette shook her head, smiling. “I remember the day he put a fist to Henry Weatherby’s nose—broke it—simply because Henry had taken my arm without permission.” She brushed more tears from her cheek with the back of her hand. “And he dealt with other miscreants harshly enough, I suppose. But the hate driving him now was absent. And I think…I endeavor to believe he loved me then.”

  “He loves you still, milady,” Victoria told her. “If only you knew…knew his…knew his great respect for you, milady.”

  “Respect? When he barks at me at the slightest provocation? When his eyes burn ash into mine?” Coquette asked. She shook her head. “No. No. He owns no respect for me, and he can never love me. I…I broke his heart, and it hardened to stone. I know that now. The past cannot be mended, and I can only endeavor to give something back to him. I can only endeavor to bear an heir as he asked me to—in gratitude for his not taking my father’s life.”

  “Gratitude for not taking your father’s life?” Victoria repeated. “What do you speak of, milady?”

  “I speak of the rose my father stole from Valor’s garden,” Coquette said, lowering her voice. “Surely you know of it.”

  “I do. But an heir? In exchange for your father’s life?” Victoria asked.

  “I have said too much, Victoria,” Coquette whispered. Already she had revealed Valor’s deepest secrets to his housemistress. She could risk no more disloyalty to him. “Please do not press me further. I beg you.”

  “But, milady—” Victoria began.

  “And I further beg you,” Coquette interrupted, “please let me count you as my true friend, Victoria. Please do not trick and deceive me again as you did today. I…I cannot endure not having an ally.”

  Victoria let her head fall forward. Her guilt was heavy, even if it came at the master’s bidding. Valor Lionhardt, beast he had become, owned ever her love. As her own son she loved him, and she would no longer stand in watching him suffer—no longer watch his lady suffer.

  “The playwright said, ‘It is a tangled web we weave, when we play at deception,’” she whispered. “And I will deceive you no longer where my part in milord’s web is concerned.”

  “What do you mean?” Coquette asked.

  But Victoria only smiled, placing one warm palm against Coquette’s cheek.

  “You need respite, milady,” she said, rising to her feet. “I will leave you to your bath and your garden walk.” She paused before leaving and added, “And do not worry, milady. What has passed between us will be held safely and silently in my heart.”

  “Thank you, Victoria,” Coquette said.

  “Milady,” Victoria bid her and left.

  Sitting back in the tub, Coquette closed her eyes and inhaled deeply the faint scent of sweetened vanilla. The warm water did seem to soothe her. Still, she wondered, was it the bath or the purging of her secrets to Victoria?

  How comforted she was to know of Victoria’s loyalty and love for Valor. How good was Victoria to see beyond the beast to Valor’s soul—rather to the soul that had been his. She thought of Valor, of the peaceful countenance of his sleeping form as she had seen him only a short time before. Surely, as he slept so soundly, anyone might be able to imagine beyond the beast to his having as much beauty of spirit as he did of face and form.

  She opened her eyes, thinking again on the nutmegged milk, pondering the feelings of her body and mind each time she had drunk of it. She thought of Victoria’s promise to never deceive her in any way again—thought of the woman’s references to Valor’s weaving a tangle of web. Had Valor endeavored to weave such a web—demanded Victoria mix something other than nutmeg into her milk? Certainly, she knew physicians and apothecaries had such knowledge of herbs and remedies to make such a potion as to put a person deep into sleep. Her own mother had taken such a tonic on occasion just before her death, when the pain in her body had often kept her from a good night’s rest.

  Coquette frowned, certain then Valor had forced Victoria into tainting the warm milk with something other than mere nutmeg. Still, it made no sense. Why would he put her to sleep, render her unconscious, thereby utterly useless if his only desire in marrying her was vengeance on her father and producing his heir? Her head began to ache with thinking, and yet one thought more came to her. When next he offered her a chalice of Victoria’s nutmegged milk, she would refuse it. What then she knew not. Still, come what circumstances may, she would not drink the tainted milk again.

  

  “You’ve received another letter from Bostchelan,” Valor said. They sat together, Valor and Coquette, in quiet finishing of the evening meal. He tossed a letter to the table before her. “It is from your dearest father, I think.”

  Coquette retrieved the letter from the table. Her father’s hand was indeed on the front of it.

  “Read it then,” Valor demanded.

  “Aloud?” Coquette asked, remembering the tantrum the last letter she had read to him caused.

  “Yes, aloud,” he said. “Let us hear what your dear father has to tell you of late.”

  With trembling fingers, Coquette broke the seal of the letter, unfolding the parchment.

  “My dearest Coquette,” she began.

  “Well, you are his dearest,” Valor mumbled. “We well know that.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, Coquette continued, “Inez is betrothed! This day! And to none other than Henry Weatherby. Though your sisters may already have written to you, I thought you would like to read it from my own hand. They are to be wed come October, and Inez has asked that you attend. How grand it would be to have the Lord and Lady of Roanan attend such an occasion in Bostchelan.” Coquette paused, frowning. The Lord of Roanan had threatened her father’s very life, yet Inez requested his presence at her wedding?

  “Apparently, he has forgotten that I wished to kill him,” Valor said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at her.

  “There is yet more,” Coquette mumbled. “Dominique has a suitor as well! A French merchant…a friend of my own. I have known him for years, and you must but guess at his specialty…tapestries! Will not Dominique be happy with such a man for a husband? Our newly increased wealth has presented many venues of success and happiness for your sisters. It is only I wish you were near to us to enjoy it. Yet you have wealth beyond imagine there in Roanan, so I am content to know you are cared
for. We think of you often, dearest Coquette, and are happy in the knowledge you are living in great comfort and position. Lovingly, Father.”

  “I told him I would treat you badly,” Valor said then. “I boldly told him I would…and yet he writes of his happiness in knowing you are comfortable.”

  “Will we attend my sister’s wedding?” Coquette asked, horrified by his repeated revelation and yet determined not to confirm her feelings to him. In those moments she indeed remembered his telling her after Inez’s letter—remembered his telling her of his promise to her father to treat her badly.

  “Even still, you want to return to Bostchelan?” Valor asked. “They have all but forgotten your sacrifice on their behalf.”

  “But they are yet my family, and I love them,” she said. “Perhaps this is how my father endures knowing that I came to you for the sake of his own life. Perhaps lightheartedness is his sanity.” Yet even as the words passed through her lips, she did not believe them.

  “I will never let you return to Bostchelan!” Valor shouted. “You belong here now. You belong to me! You must forget your asinine father and insipid sisters. You are Lady Lionhardt, and Roanan is your home.”

  His outrage did not startle or frighten her. It was expected because of his way of thinking. “May I…may I write in response to the letters from my father and sister?” Coquette asked, folding the letter and placing it in her lap.

  “If you wish,” Valor said, rubbing at his temples with one hand. Quickly looking at her, he added, “Though you will not tell your father or sisters you arrived at Roanan Manor to find me. That I will not allow.”

  “Why not?” she asked. “Revenge…is that not your purpose? Why not salt the wound then? The threat of death to my father, his sacrifice of a daughter…and in the end to the man he thought unworthy of her? It seems to me you would want him to know.”