She lifted her head. “I did see you there, but I do not remember what happened between us. It was the laudanum. We drank it by mistake. I do not even remember falling asleep. All I know is that when I woke—” There was a hint of anxiety in her eyes. “—I was not wearing my shoes.”
Nicholas could have laughed at that, for he was the sort of man who woke naked in bed in the most unlikely places, and he couldn’t tell you half the names of his naked bed partners, or their boorish husbands. When he remembered Véronique’s brilliant performance as a seductress at the masked ball, and her tempting sensual allure in the perfume-scented coach, her charming innocence today touched something unfamiliar in him—again.
What was it? What did he feel? He didn’t even know. He was confused, for he was standing under an ancient oak tree in France, where his mother had declared her eternal love for a man—a man she would be forced to give up and never see again. Not even after she gave birth to his child.
Nicholas found himself arrested on the spot. He felt disconnected from everything he knew. Everything except for Véronique. He could not take his eyes off her. She was impossibly beautiful, a golden silken flower in the dappled shade of the oak tree.
At least his physical desires were familiar.
“I did remove your shoes,” he confessed at last. “But nothing more than that, my dear, and only so that you could sleep comfortably.”
“We kissed,” she asserted. “I remember that much.”
It had been a passionate, tender kiss—one he would never forget.
“Yes,” he replied. “Certain things were done, and you would be well within your rights to blame it all on the depraved scoundrel at hand, and the opium-laced wine.”
Though it was she who had held out her arms and invited him to join her on the bed.
Véronique swallowed uneasily. “I would appreciate being able to do so, sir, if you do not object.”
“Not at all.” Instantly charmed by her answer, he looked away, back toward the house.
What the devil was happening here? Why did he care about what occurred, or how she felt about it? She was his kidnapper, for pity’s sake. It was one night on the French coast with too much wine—nothing more—and no one would ever have to know about it. Her reputation was not at stake.
“Nothing happened,” he nevertheless assured her again.
“You kept your promise, then.” She gazed up at him with relief and a veiled message that was not yet clear to him until at last, she explained. “But there was another promise you made.” He listened intently. “You said you would help me get my property back.”
She was very tenacious. He admired that.
He also admired her full lips and rosy cheeks, and how her captivating long-lashed eyes shone dazzlingly as she looked up at him.
“You completed your task,” Nicholas said. “Now d’Entremont owes you your property in return. Why do you need my help?”
“Because I don’t trust him to keep his word,” she quietly replied, glancing back at the carriage to ensure Bellefontaine was not eavesdropping. “He is putting me off, I can feel it. I tried to speak to him this morning, but he refused to see me.”
Nicholas folded his arms across his chest. “And you believe I can influence him?”
“Of course you can. You’re his son, not to mention a royal prince.”
For the briefest moment, he considered saying yes and concluding the matter on the spot, but when she inhaled deeply in suspense, and her lovely, lavish bosom rose beguilingly to the occasion, he found himself bedazzled yet again by her beauty. He wanted her in the most ungentlemanly way a man could want a woman.
He thought about her virtuous concern over waking in his bed without her shoes, and tried to be a gentleman about this, but it was no use. Old habits were not easy to break. He was a scoundrel, and she had kidnapped him, tied him up with ropes, and locked him in a room for two days. In a way, she had it coming.…
“I will do what I can,” he said, resting an open hand against the tree, “if you will do something for me in return.”
Her moist pink lips pursed, and she placed her slender gloved hand on top of her bonnet as the wind gusted over the hilltop.
“What do you want?” she asked. “I am almost afraid to ask.”
“Why? Do you believe I will try to seek revenge?”
“I am not sure. I’ve never been in a situation like this before, nor have I ever dealt with a man like you.”
Taking that as a compliment, whether or not she’d intended it to be, he moved away from the tree so that his back was turned to the barouche and said, “I will talk to d’Entremont for you today—I will even try to negotiate on your behalf—if you will come to my room again tonight for another glass of wine.”
She stared at him raptly, her eyes as green as a lush spring meadow, and lifted her face as if she wanted to be kissed.
He knew, however, that that was not what she wanted. It was something else on display here. Defiance, most likely, while he waited eagerly for her response.
A strong breeze hissed through the leafy treetops above and blew the pink ribbons of her bonnet in all directions.
“All right,” she said, leaving him speechless with shock. “I will come to your room tonight, but not until you have spoken to d’Entremont. And I will expect good news.”
Véronique turned toward the carriage. “Monsieur Bellefontaine is waiting to show you the flour mill. We should leave now.”
But he did not want to leave. He wanted to stay right here, shove her up against this thick, gnarled tree trunk, and kiss her senseless until she begged him to remove more than just her shoes.
Véronique started back to the barouche, while Nicholas lagged behind for a moment to wrestle with his desires, for it might be embarrassing for the others if he rejoined them in his current state of sexual arousal.
Oddly, the sensation of his physical desire for her eased his mind somewhat.
That part, at least, did not leave him confused.
Chapter Eleven
The tour of the estate lasted more than three hours, with a brief sojourn at the village inn for tea and a light lunch.
Nicholas listened with genuine interest to the steward’s description of the land, the crops, and the industries that were all part of the marquis’s holdings, while Véronique was quiet for most of it, making only polite conversation when the situation demanded it. She was a courteous, charming companion in the presence of Monsieur Bellefontaine, and did well at concealing her personal loathing for the marquis.
At the end of the day, as the open carriage rolled up the tree-lined drive toward the impressive mansion overlooking the English Channel, it seemed strangely familiar to him, as if he had spent his childhood here, which was not the case at all. He had never set foot in France until he was a young man, and was certain that he had never visited this part of the coast.
He could presume, however, that he had been conceived here, which was a jarring thought as the vehicle pulled to a halt in front of the wide steps.
Bellefontaine shook Nicholas’s hand and said good-bye, for he would continue on alone in the barouche to attend to a few minor estate matters. A footman hurried to open the door and stand by as Nicholas assisted Véronique onto the gravel drive and escorted her up the steps.
When they entered the front hall of black and white marble and looked up at the frescoed ceiling, he stopped for a moment, feeling rather pensive. “I have not failed to recognize the fact that all this should go to a legitimate heir,” he said. “D’Entremont had three children of his own, including a son who was evidently quite capable and responsible if he had been promoted to the level of commander in Napoléon’s Imperial Guard. Now, to die childless … No wonder the marquis feels desperate.”
Véronique strolled leisurely to the white statue of Adonis in the center of the hall. “It is, as you say, quite a legacy to leave behind. I had no idea it was so profitable. I wasn’t aware that he owned the winery. H
e probably won it a card game.” She sighed. “It makes me wonder why he felt it necessary to increase his holdings by taking my father’s property as well. How much can one family possibly enjoy, when people are starving in the streets of Paris? Is it simply greed, do you think?”
Nicholas watched her run her hand over a smooth marble column and felt a stirring of arousal as he listened to her talk.
“I don’t know the answer to that,” he said, meandering around a bust perched on a heavy gilt chest. “I shall certainly ask him about it when I see him.”
“Will you, really?” She faced Nicholas as she untied the ribbons of her bonnet and slid it off her head.
She was like some sort of golden goddess, fixated upon the one thing she wanted, the thing she was determined to reclaim at all costs. He was in a position to help her and he felt a strong urge to do so—to become her hero and protector, though it hardly seemed she needed one. She was quite capable on her own.
“Yes. I will ask him because I am curious as well,” he replied.
The butler entered the hall and approached to take Nicholas’s hat and walking stick. “Welcome back, Your Highness. His Lordship has been waiting for you. He was pleased to hear that you had joined Bellefontaine for a tour today. I believe he was quite confident that you would find it to your liking.”
Fournier almost seemed to puff out his chest as he spoke the words.
“No one could deny that it is a grand estate,” Nicholas replied, “but do not assume I am prepared to accept it or recognize him as my father. I was brought here by force, not by choice. Nothing is yet set in stone. I still may decide to press charges against him.”
The color drained from the butler’s face. “I hope in the coming days that you will feel differently, sir. All this can be yours if you want it.”
Nicholas had been raised in the royal palace of Petersbourg. He had enough money and property to serve ten lifetimes. He did not need this house or all the fine statues and works of art that it contained.
He glanced at Véronique just then and wondered what it was, exactly, that he did need. He had never felt truly happy, despite all his worldly blessings. Something had always been missing. He usually failed at most things. He even derived a perverse pleasure from stimulating the wagging tongues of the gossips and disappointing his father when he was alive.
“If you would like to speak with His Lordship now,” the butler said, “he is in the library and has been there for the past few hours, awaiting your return.”
Véronique raised an eyebrow at Nicholas. He approached her to hear what she had to say.
“He waits hours for you,” she whispered, “but is far too busy to see me. Do you now understand why I need your help?”
He nodded and offered his arm. “I do. So why don’t you come with me? I am sure the marquis will not argue.”
Fournier cleared his throat.
“Is there a problem?” Nicholas challenged.
The man bowed his head in submission. “Not at all, sir. You are welcome, of course, to do as you please.”
The butler sent a brief scowl in Véronique’s direction before he pasted on a smile and escorted them both up the wide staircase.
* * *
Outside the door to the library, Véronique marveled at the fact that Nicholas had come to her rescue in this way. Surely the marquis would not betray his legal obligations to her in front of the prince he wished to impress. He would behave honorably and sign over the deed to her father’s property right there.
Her pulse beat fast with excitement and anticipation. She had suffered terribly over the past few months, watching her mother grow ill while her father hid away in shame. But Prince Nicholas was about to change all that. She would walk into the marquis’s library on the arm of his son, who had, by some miracle, become her champion today when she certainly did not deserve his charity. Not after what she’d done to him.
But of course, he would demand his own compensation later tonight.…
She realized with some chagrin that she would pay any price to get her home back—even the price of her own virtue—and with this man, she would probably enjoy it tremendously. What did that make her?
The butler opened the double doors and announced them, then backed out of the room.
Véronique let go of Nicholas’s arm but remained at his side.
The marquis was seated in a chair facing the window. He did not turn to greet them.
Suddenly a small bird flew into the glass, tricked by the reflections of the sky, and Véronique jumped with fright at the sound of the collision. The unfortunate bird fell to the ground, stunned or more likely killed dead.
“Did you see that?” she whispered to Nicholas while resisting the urge to run to the window and look down, for perhaps the bird would need rescuing.
The marquis, however, did not react and she wondered if he was sleeping.
“Yes, I saw it,” Nicholas replied as he strode forward with concern and circled around the desk. He looked down at the marquis. “Dear God.”
Véronique rushed to his side and halted at the sight of her mortal enemy lying back in his chair, his arms splayed out on either side of him, blood dripping steadily from both his wrists into two dark pools on the oak floor.
“Go and fetch Fournier,” Nicholas commanded as he placed two fingers on d’Entremont’s neck to search for a pulse.
Her stomach turned over with horror, but she reacted quickly and hurried out the door. She reached the top of the stairs and called out over the railing: “Monsieur Fournier! Come quickly! Something has happened to the marquis!”
She heard the sound of the butler’s shoes pounding across the marble floor in the hall, felt assured of his imminent arrival, and dashed back into the library.
“Is he all right?” she asked as she hurried to Nicholas, who was seated on the windowsill with his head buried in his hands.
“Bloody hell.”
She laid a consoling hand on his shoulder and dared a closer look at the marquis. He was distressingly thin compared to the last time she had seen him. His face was stone gray. Dark circles underlined his eyes, which were closed, as if he were asleep.
“There’s no hope,” Nicholas said. “He has been dead for some time.”
She stared in disbelief at Lord d’Entremont, then peered down in a daze at the two thick pools of blood on the floor.
The butler came barging in. “What has happened?”
Nicholas’s eyes lifted. They were filled with torment. “He took a blade to his wrists.”
Fournier ran to see for himself. He looked down at His Lordship and dropped to his knees. “Oh, God, I should have come to check on him, but he told me not to bother. He seemed well today.”
Nicholas raked a hand through his hair. “Why would he do this?”
“He was in pain,” Fournier explained. “There was a growth on his spine that pressed upon his nerves. You didn’t see any of that. He didn’t want you to.”
“Yet he wanted me to see this?”
Véronique knew that Nicholas had recently buried the only father he’d ever known, King Frederick, who was poisoned by court enemies. Now he would have to bury a father he had known for less than a day.
She looked down at the marquis’s legs, which were covered by a blanket, and could not imagine the agony that would drive a man to such desperate measures, but clearly it had been unbearable for him.
She’d had no idea he was so ill.
Moving closer, she laid a hand on his forehead and brushed his hair away from his face. “Poor man,” she said. “No one deserves to suffer like that. No one.”
She turned to meet Nicholas’s tortured gaze. He reached for her hand and squeezed it. There seemed so much to say, but all she could do was move closer, wrap her arms around his shoulders, and pull him into the warmth of her embrace.
Chapter Twelve
“What will it mean for us?” Gabrielle asked as she hurried to follow Véronique across the back ter
race of the mansion. Her shoes clicked rapidly across the sunbathed flagstones. “Does the marquis’s will name Nicholas as his heir, or was that just something he was considering as a possibility? Is that why he brought Nicholas here? What if he has not yet altered the document? What if everything has been left to Pierre?”
Véronique reached the balustrade and paused there to look out over the back garden and the cherry orchard beyond. It was late in the afternoon and the wind had died down. The summer air was hot and humid, and she wiped a hand across the perspiration on her forehead.
“We will know very soon,” she replied. “Nicholas is dining with the solicitor at seven o’clock.”
“But what if it all goes to Pierre?” Gabrielle asked. “What will we do? Will Nicholas still help us?”
Véronique sighed heavily. “Why should he? We abducted him and dragged him here like a prisoner. If he learns he is not named in the will, I would not blame him for simply returning to his life in Petersbourg and forgetting any of this ever happened.”
Gabrielle grabbed hold of her arm. “We cannot let him do that. Pierre cannot have that power over us. You and I have both rejected him more than once. Think of how he will enjoy tossing us out onto the street.”
“That is not my worst fear,” Véronique confessed. “I see how he looks at you, Gabby. I believe he would use that power to force you to become his wife, or serve him in some other way.”
Gabrielle scoffed bitterly and dropped her arm to her side. “Wait until he finds out I am already carrying another man’s child. Perhaps he wouldn’t even want me then. Perhaps he would want you.”
Véronique considered that. Could she sacrifice her own happiness, and accept Pierre as a husband, if it meant her parents could keep their home?
Please, God, do not let it be so.…
She turned and sat down on the balustrade. “We are getting ahead of ourselves. Perhaps the marquis has already changed his will, and Nicholas is the heir.”
Gabrielle paced back and forth, chewing on a thumbnail. “If that is the case, then surely you can get our property back. There is something between you. It is obvious. He invited you on the tour today. He must find you appealing.”
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