The Whispered Kiss

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “I have no feelings!” Valor shouted, slamming his own fists on the table. “No feelings save hatred and loathing toward the man who stole my life from me three years past.”

  “Then that is your choice, milord,” Godfrey said, straightening his posture. “But I tell you only this—perhaps this merchant stole your life from you, as you put it, three years past. Yet it is you who chooses not to reclaim it now.”

  With a click of his heels, Godfrey turned and walked away. Yet he was not wholly despairing, for never before had the Lord of Roanan allowed any person to address him in such a manner. Anticipation rose in him, for he felt Valor Lionhardt weakening, and he knew—the beauty of, and in, Coquette de Bellamont Lionhardt was profound. His hope was renewed that beauty would vanquish the beast.

  True Intent

  Coquette indeed did as Valor instructed: she wrote to her sister as well as her father. To Elise she wrote of the beauty of the gardens and of her hopes in seeing her again one day. She did not overly praise her husband as she had done before, yet she did not speak too harshly of him, for she had no desire to upset Elise. Still, in writing to her father she professed unhappiness, wove false tales of abuse at her husband’s hand, and pleaded for his compassion and help. Valor, of course, insisted upon reviewing the letters.

  “Your letter to you sister is as it should be—trivial,” he told her. “And the one to your father…you have told him I am a beast of a husband—cruel, unfeeling, violent.”

  “It is what you wanted me to tell him,” Coquette reminded.

  “Yes. And it will at last prove to you the shallow nature of your father’s character, for I would wager all I own that he will give little thought or concern to what you have written to him.”

  “You’re wrong, sire,” she said. Still, she wondered. Was Valor about to be proven exact in his thinking?

  Coquette posted the letters to Elise and her father and then waited—waited for response. Yet in the course of ten days, none came, and she began to further wonder if Valor were correct in his entire assumption of her father’s character. Though she was loath to believe her father would be indifferent to her unhappy situation, she could not discount the fact he had sent her to wed a stranger in the first of it.

  Valor had all but curtly ignored Coquette in the days since their quarrel the night Elise’s last letter had arrived. Light conversation at dinner was nearly the only attention she received from him, and she found herself nearly mad with wanting more—more conversation with him, more of his attention! An argument, a ride out to Roanan, or especially a night spent near him with one or the other of them falling prey to Victoria’s tonic was far preferable to his nearly ignoring her. She found she was agitated, unhappy—far more than she had been since her arrival—and she knew not how to proceed.

  She would write again to her father, beg for his support. It was the only venue left to her—provoke Valor in order to receive his attentions. Thus she found herself in Valor’s study one afternoon in search of parchment and ink.

  Finding the inkwell on Valor’s desk empty, she went to a small adjoining room meant for the storage of parchments, inks, and other correspondence necessities. While she was in the storage room, she heard the hum of voices. One was Godfrey’s, the other Valor’s, and they were near upon the study. Suddenly she was unsettled, nervous about being found in Valor’s study. Perhaps it was sheer excitement at the sound of his voice; perhaps it was fear of vexing him by entering his study without his knowledge. Whatever the reason, Coquette found herself pulling the storage room door nearly fully closed behind her as Valor and Godfrey entered the room.

  Struggling to keep her breathing steady, her body motionless, lest she be discovered, Coquette waited, hoping they would fulfill whatever their purpose was and promptly leave.

  “Oh, Dickerson is a good man, Godfrey,” Valor said. “Still, I loathe his dinner parties, and I am unsettled in subjecting Coquette to such gossip.”

  “I understand, milord,” Godfrey said. “But as you say, Lord Dickerson is a good man.”

  “And what is being said, Godfrey? What talk?” Valor asked then.

  Coquette’s hands trembled, apprehension rinsing over her. If he found her there, if he became aware of her presence, her eavesdropping—still she could not reveal herself now. She was trapped—trapped with her curiosity at its peak.

  “It is said you do not deserve her, milord,” Godfrey answered.

  Coquette startled as Valor’s laughter filled the room then.

  “That I do not deserve her?” Valor repeated. “Is this the talk you speak of? What news is this, Godfrey? ’Tis nothing more than veritable truth.” He laughed again, saying, “I do not deserve her. For once the gossip is more than gossip. For once there is legitimacy to the talk of Roanan.”

  Coquette smiled in the darkness of her hiding place. To hear Valor refer to himself as unworthy of her—it was proof he admired her in some regard. Was it not?

  “You are a good man, sire,” Godfrey said.

  “Am I?” Valor said.

  The defeat, the doubt in his voice, caused Coquette to desire to see the expression of his face. Carefully she peeked through the small crack of the slightly open door, watching as he ran his hand through his soft brown mane. Would that her fingers could feel of its softness. Her heart fluttered at the thought.

  “Yes, sire,” Godfrey confirmed.

  “If it were true, and it is not,” Valor began, “then it would take a greater man than I, even it would take an extraordinary man, to deserve her…even for all her misplaced loyalty. And I, being only a good man, am truly undeserving.” He inhaled deeply and straightened to his full height once more. “What more talk is there?” he asked. “I want to hear it, Godfrey. Tell me of the scandalous gossip of the Lord of Roanan. Scandalous fabrication is far more interesting than truth, as you well know.”

  “Very well, sire,” Godfrey continued. “They say you kept her sequestered a week upon your marriage, milord.”

  “A week,” Valor said, nodding. His eyebrows raised in approval. “Then I am a good man. What then? How many children born this month with mothers claiming I am the father?”

  “Only one, sire,” Godfrey answered.

  “Only one?” Valor asked. “Hmm…what was it last month…three? I shall have to play the better virile villain when next I am in town.”

  “It appears so, milord,” Godfrey said.

  Coquette frowned. Could it be as it appeared? Was Valor indeed the target for such malicious slander as this? He had told her of such gossip the day they had ridden out together for Roanan. Yet she had been disbelieving, for everyone seemed so gracious. Yet for Godfrey to remain so calm in appearance when discussing such matters—certainly, Godfrey was ever stoic, yet this instance was different—and for Godfrey to discuss such matters so unaffected, it was if the subject of gossip, the full measure of its falsehood, were commonplace between them.

  “Is there anything else?” Valor asked. “Anything more I should know before the loathsome gathering at Dickerson’s two nights hence?”

  Godfrey put a fisted hand to his mouth, clearing his throat. “You will put milady aside in favor of a mistress in no less than one month.”

  Coquette’s eyes widened. How could he endure such gossip? And then the thought struck her—how could she? Further, her fear and anxiety entered into it all. What if he did put her off in favor of a mistress? What if he already had? Perhaps it was the reason for his nearly ignoring her of late. Tears sprung to her eyes, her stomach tightening into knots. Yet she clung to her knowledge, her familiarity with the depths of his soul. He was not like unto his father; Valor was honorable. She knew it.

  “One month, is it?” he asked. “What little faith these people put in me.”

  Coquette was somewhat relieved, but somehow only mildly.

  “It is their way, sire. It is what entertains them—speculation concerning the lives of titled men and noble women,” Godfrey explained. “It is as I always t
ell you, sire…do not dwell on such idle and malevolent gossip. It does you no good service.”

  Valor nodded, running his hand through his hair with frustration once more. “And yet, pray tell me, Godfrey…what is said of Coquette? What is said of milady?” he asked.

  Coquette’s heart began to hammer with rising angst. She had to concentrate to steady her breathing. In all the horrid things she’d heard Godfrey reveal to Valor, she’d feared most the gossips’ assault of her.

  “As I said before, you are not deserving of her,” Godfrey answered.

  “But this I already know,” Valor told him.

  “She is proclaimed a great beauty, milord—your match in favor of feature and face. She is hailed as kind and gentle…in these your opposite,” Godfrey began.

  “And there is the truth again,” Valor said.

  Coquette’s heart fluttered once more at his veiled compliment.

  “Odd, is it not? The manner in which they all judge her so perfectly when she has been to Roanan but once. Go on.”

  “Among the men, she is admired. And by one or two…well, sire…it is said you should be at the ready to defend her honor.”

  “Who?” Valor exclaimed. It seemed he erupted to fury in the instant. “Who would dare to imply…to threaten her in such a manner? Who would dare to cross me thus?”

  “This I do not know, sire. Only that it has been said,” Godfrey explained.

  Coquette felt a chill as icy fingers seemed travel up her spine. To this line of conversation, she suddenly did not wish to be privy.

  “Our gender does us no good credit at times,” Valor grumbled. “So driven by desire, so ignorant and weak of mind.” He slammed one powerful fist onto the top of the desk near which he stood. “Let me hear one word of who would dare to speak such things of her, and I will slit his throat without pause or remorse!”

  “Yes, milord,” Godfrey said.

  “Enough gossip, Godfrey,” Valor said then. “You warn against its ill effect on me. I am always regretful at not heeding your advice.”

  Through the slight crack in the door, Coquette could see Valor rummaging through a stack of parchments on his desk.

  “Here, Godfrey,” he said, handing a parchment to Godfrey. “These then. Send these to his miserable self, and let us be done with him.”

  They left the room then, and Coquette paused before leaving the small storage room. She was thankful it had not been a full inkwell they had come in search of, as she had.

  Mistresses? Talk of Valor having to defend her honor? Coquette was not pleased by the subjects of conversation between Godfrey and Valor. Still, some things did cause a tiny flicker of gladness to burn in her bosom—Valor’s talk of his being unworthy of her, of his not deserving her, and confirming her beauty. Perhaps he did not despise her as thoroughly as he wanted her to believe.

  The tiny flicker in her heart began to burn brighter. She would champion him. Yes! She would! As they attended Lord Dickerson’s dinner, she would prove to the gossips of Roanan that Lord Lionhardt had no need of a mistress and that no man would dare to impose upon Lady Lionhardt in any regard.

  Cautiously, she left Valor’s study, determined to capture his attention at Lord Dickerson’s dinner, if only for a few short hours. She smiled, thinking of the stunning emerald gown Valor had acquired for her to wear to the affair. She would find a way to be beautiful. She would! For him. No one in attendance at Lord Dickerson’s dinner would have cause to believe malicious gossip. And though Coquette yet felt anxious at Valor’s seeming lack of interest in her, she was determined he would not be able to ignore her at Lord Dickerson’s.

  Drawing upon all the memories of her sisters’ vanity, Coquette endeavored to believe she could be beautiful—beautiful enough to capture the attention of the Lord of Roanan and thereby anyone else at Lord Dickerson’s table.

  

  “For milady, sire,” Godfrey said, entering the dining room bearing a small silver tray.

  Coquette’s heart leapt at the sight of two letters lying on the silver tray. Surely they would be from her father or Elise—both perhaps.

  Exhaling deeply, Valor nodded, indicating Godfrey should give the letters to Coquette. He frowned at Coquette as he watched her retrieve the letters Godfrey offered.

  “Well?” he nearly growled. “What news of Bostchelan to spoil our dinner this evening?”

  Coquette looked at him. She could feel her eyes burning with triumph. Now he would see. He would see how much her father cared for her, for she recognized her father’s hand on the first letter. Now Valor would admit her father cared more for her than he gave due. Still, something in her heart trembled. Somehow she still feared Valor was correct in his estimation of her father’s character.

  “I have no wish to spoil your dinner, sire,” she told him. “I will read the letters when we have finished and you have retired.”

  “You will read them now,” Valor said, setting aside his fork.

  “As you wish, milord,” Coquette said. “Of the two, there is one in Elise’s hand and one in father’s. Which do you wish me to read first?”

  “Begin with your sister’s,” he said. “I suspect hers to give you false hope.”

  “And you wish to see my hope in my family crushed,” she said.

  He did not respond, yet his eyes narrowed, his frown deepening.

  An odd sensation of foreboding rose within him, and Valor frowned. He was certain Coquette’s father would further abandon her, and he was suddenly loath to see her hopes vanquished. For a moment he considered snatching the letters from her, thereby sparing her further hurt and disappointment. Yet she must know. Coquette must know the true nature of her father. Perhaps then such a beast as sat sharing an evening meal with her would not seem so vile.

  Still, as he watched her break the seal of the first letter, such thick anxiety rose in him as to cause him to feel somewhat feverish. He reached up, loosening his silk cravat, attempting to appear unaffected.

  “My darling Coquette, Elise begins,” Coquette began. “Such goings on! You would not believe the excitement over Inez and Henry’s impending marriage. The entire household is in utter chaos! The dressmaker is frantic over the need for more fittings for Inez’s wedding gown, as well as the gowns for Dominique and I. Father’s tailor is quite excitable as well, not to mention the cooks! Oh, and you should hear of the plans for the flowers, Coquette. How I wish you could attend to see us in all our finery! How I long to see your face again, to see your smile and know you are happy. Perhaps if you may not come to us, I may come to you one day. Do you think your Lord of Roanan would allow me a visit to see you? Perhaps after the occasion of Inez’s wedding I may visit. Still, it looks to me as if Dominique will shortly follow in Inez’s footsteps soon. Her old French merchant is quite entirely taken with her, and Father expects a request for Dominique’s hand any day. Oh, but he is terribly old, Coquette. Nearly as old as Father! Can you imagine? For my sake, I hope to be married to a dashing young man the likes of your Lord of Roanan…not to some moth-ridden friend of Father’s.”

  Coquette paused when she heard Valor chuckle. She looked up from the letter to see him grinning, obviously amused. “I remember Elise was always rather amusing in her honesty,” he said.

  “Yes,” Coquette agreed. “She does not choose her words all too carefully.” He nodded, and Coquette smiled, pleased at Elise’s letter having brought him some trifle of happiness.

  “Father’s ships have set out once more,” Coquette continued, “though I cannot fathom how Father came by such large and magnificent ships, and he did not ever tell us what became of the others. We have not seen them since his return. Perhaps the old ships were sold as payment for the new ones. Still, the ships will no doubt return heaping with treasure. It should please Inez and Dominique. Still, for me, I am beginning to wonder which part of me will win over in the end…for there are two parts of me, battling so fiercely within my bosom I can hardly endure. One part, I call it my head, tells me
to enjoy Father’s wealth, to bask in the glory of things and vanity. Yet my other part—and it is my heart, I think—my other part longs for simplicity of a kind, love, and, in truth, escape. Often I think of you there with your handsome Lord of Roanan and wish I too could leave Bostchelan. In truth, I envy you…as I envy John Billings for quitting Father for his own endeavors. He has quickly become quite the admired stable owner. However he came by the means to—”

  Coquette stopped, gasped, and looked up to Valor. He only glanced away from her and to the unfinished meal before him. Billings! She had forgotten all about the purse Godfrey had given Billings the day he had driven her from Bostchelan to Roanan. Yet now, sitting near to Valor, she remembered it. Likewise she remembered Valor having told her years before of his admiration for Billings, of his wish for Billings to be able to make his own way. Valor had provided the means of Billings’s escape—his escape from servitude to independence. Something in her heart leapt with joy, for was it not a sort of proving, an evidence that Valor still lingered within the beast?

  “Read on, then,” he said, “for we have yet your father’s letter to hear.”

  “You had Godfrey give him a purse,” Coquette said. “The day I arrived…Godfrey handed Billings a purse and said he should use the contents for his own good pursuits—his own stables.”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” Valor said, sighing heavily and rubbing at his temples with one hand. “What of it? Read on.”

  Another memory, another realization washed over her then. “It was why Billings was encouraged in leaving me. He knew…he knew it was you who would have me. He seemed so relieved all at once. I thought it odd in that moment, but I had not thought on it again. Too much else—”

  “John Billings was a good man…once a good friend to me,” Valor said. “He deserves his own way. Now read on, for I grow tired and must away to bed soon.”

  The warmth glowing in Coquette’s bosom was delicious! Yet she knew Valor would speak no more of his giving Billings his way. She decided to be joyous in the knowledge; spoken or unspoken, the kindness and concern toward Billings came from Valor’s warm heart, not the beast’s cold one.