Her Valentine’s Secret
Beverley Oakley
Copyright © 2019 by Beverley Oakley
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Wicked Wager - Book 2
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About the Author
Chapter 1
“My love, he has come.” James’s breath chilled Lisette’s cheek, his urgent murmur forcing her to turn her head in the direction he indicated.
Lucien Monteil.
Older and more handsome than she remembered. Devastatingly so.
With a shiver of anticipation, she touched the locket concealed below the line of her bodice, and steeled herself to betray no emotion as her cousin rose from his ironic bow and melted into the sumptuously dressed crowd. James had alerted her to their quarry, yet there’d been no danger she might fail to recognize Lucien. In seven years, he’d had not changed. It was she who was now unrecognizable.
“The Vicomte de Monteil grows handsomer by the year.” The dowager to whom Lisette was speaking followed her gaze to the landing halfway up the sweeping staircase where, with one elegant hand upon the banister, the young vicomte had paused to rake the occupants of the ballroom with his cool gray eyes.
“You have met him?” With an effort, Lisette maintained her public smile—light, amused, deferential—as she went on to compliment the latest addition to their group, young Madame Pasquier, on her feathered headdress, before nodding at the flirtatious and possibly inebriated Comtesse de Silvain, who raised her champagne coupe as she passed by on the arm of an ageing British Rear Admiral.
Lord Athelton’s ballroom was bursting with French émigrés tonight. They were easy to spot amongst the English. They possessed a certain style, a sophistication and elegance in their dress and manner, though it was not that alone which set them apart. There was, too, an edge to their gaiety—those who’d chosen gaiety as their façade. A more diligent observer would have noticed in some the fragility of a smile; the haunted look in the eyes of others for whom pleasure-seeking was a recourse against the violence and blood-letting they’d so narrowly escaped. Lisette did her best to conceal such signs, but the memories of what she had lost were always with her.
It was why she was here tonight.
“Alas, a desire as yet unfulfilled,” replied the dowager with a disappointed moué, before Madame Pasquier took up the adoring refrain Lisette was weary of hearing.
“There he is talking to the Duc de Joubert. Monteil saved his life, you know. But then, of course you do.” She fanned herself rapidly as she added with a sigh, “And I see Monsieur and Madame Lafour are discreetly awaiting an opportunity for an audience. I believe he diverted the tumbrel taking them to Madame La Guillotine and put them on a boat to England. He is deserving of the gratitude he receives.”
“And the title and enormous riches he has since acquired.” Lisette tried to keep the acid from her tone before downing her champagne to hide her outrage. Monteil’s reputation as a hero of the revolution only added injury to insult, when she knew the truth of his villainy. His perfidy. She toyed with her crystal glass. “I knew him when I was still a child.” She cleared her throat, adding, “When he was penniless.”
Madame Pasquier’s eyes flashed with excitement. She tilted her head enquiringly. “Was he as handsome and noble then?”
Lisette was familiar with such signs of excitement when the vicomte’s name was mentioned. The girl’s cheeks were suddenly flushed, and her intake of breath pushed up her breasts beneath the sheer fabric of her daring Empire-line dress.
Scandalous, her own mother would have said just years before. But that was another age, another lifetime ago. The new millennium that had ushered in such fashions—“and an uneasy peace—seemed a world away from the heavy brocades and corsetry of the previous century.
Just as Lisette’s new life under her distant cousin James’s protection was a world away from the security, comfort, and wealth she’d known living with her mother and father in the ancient family chateau near Lyons.
“Was he always so handsome?” Lisette repeated the question as if weighing up her reply. “I thought so when I was thirteen.” It was still difficult to speak of the past. “He worked for my family.” Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Lucien’s progress as he wove his way amongst the knots of revelers who crowded the room.
Oh, he was good. Consummate. He’d always had a certain style, even when he’d been just a lowly bailiff learning how to manage a great estate. A surge of hatred threatened the steadiness of her hand as a passing waiter relieved her of her glass. Not for the first time, the reasons behind Lucien’s betrayal nagged at her. Jealousy, envy, greed? All seemed so alien to the man she’d known in her unformed years, and yet, why else would he have revealed the hiding “hiding place of her father whose opposition to the radical Jacobins had put him on the death list after Maximilien Robespierre had swept to power.
Lucien Monteil, who’d appeared so loyal, whom her father had grown to rely upon, respect—perhaps even love like the son he’d never had—had played turncoat. Why? The answer was as plain as the nose on her face. For personal aggrandizement—a share of the family coffers after the duc’s lands had been confiscated. One only had to look at Lucien now. The cut of his coat and diamond cufflinks were subtle, but immediately visible signs of the great wealth Lisette knew he’d acquired over the years.
Her friend responded with a gasp of envy. “Then you’d have seen him every day?” Madame Pasquier’s little ivory fan was working very hard. Indeed, the heat from two hundred revelers was becoming intense. The dowager had been beckoned over to join another group, and now the two young women were alone near the French doors that opened into the gardens, amidst a sea of silk and feathers and finely cut cloth. It was a handsome crowd Lady Athelton had gathered together for her St Valentine’s Day Ball.
Lisette nodded, and Madame Pasquier sighed. “Why, a few more years and you might have married him had not the Terror thrown our country into chaos.” She raised her eyes to the ceiling, decorated with plaster cherubs picked out in gilt. No doubt she was remembering that terrible time. Lisette remembered it every day. James made sure of that. She shuddered. The streets had literally run red with blood after the Jacobins had taken over the National Assembly, arresting twenty-nine Girondists of the rival political faction, and resorting to politically sanctioned purges and street violence to consolidate. It was Lucien, who’d warned her father of the danger he was in; who’d suggested, in fact, the very place Monsieur le Duc should hide. Then, two days after the decree for his arrest, guards acting on the orders of The Committee of Public Safety had entered the chateau and gone directly to the upper floors.
How had they known where to find Lisette’s father when his location was unknown even to the servants? Only Lucien and the family had known.
Closing her eyes at the violent memories, Lisette nodded vaguely. The guards had beaten her father horribly when he’d resisted. They’d thrown Lisette to the ground after she’d tried to protect him, while her mother screamed in the background. Less than twenty-four hours after the duc had been dragged from his home to ultimately meet his fate beneath the blade of the guillotine, Lisette’s mother had jo
ined him in the crowded prison, soon to share his fate.
Lisette swallowed. So they called her father a traitor, but he had in turn been betrayed. By Lucien Monteil, James had told her, and for reasons that had soon become apparent as Lucien was decorated with tokens of the violent regime’s regard: a title, a chateau.
“But then, it was the Terror which made him the man he is today.” Madame Pasquier’s gaze clouded. Seven years was not long enough to erase the memories. “A national hero. What a tricky hand fate does play.”
“A national hero,” Lisette repeated softly, turning her mind back to that sweet and happy time when she was on the cusp of womanhood and in love with Lucien, and the world seemed a safe and benign place. A place of heroes.
Lisette had basked in the adoration of her fond father and darling, scatterbrained mother, and gained a brother-like champion in Lucien. She’d followed him everywhere. Like a puppy mindlessly chasing affection.
Well, she had no need of affection now. Affection and love made fools out of those who had something by which others could profit. Tonight, she would show how immune she was to both as she played the most dangerous hand she’d ever had to play, and practised those skills James had always deplored but fostered in her when it was for expediency: charm and coquetry.
“He has the trust of our host, Lord Athelton, who has awarded him a handsome government sinecure,” Madame Pasquier went on, adding wistfully, “Oh look, he’s glancing in this direction. And he looks interested. Is it you he’s looking at, Lisette, or is it me? A man such as he must surely be in need of a wife.” She giggled suddenly. “Perhaps I shall win him in tonight’s loterie d'amour.”
The lottery of love. Tonight’s foolish game had every lady whispering of intrigues behind their fans, and every gentleman wondering how their words of flattery would be received.
Lisette raised one eyebrow as she glanced about the room. “I think every young lady who is not spoken for will hope the same thing. That Lucien Monteil will pick their name from the silver bowl.”
They both glanced at the figured bowl in the center of the table where most of the dishes of food had been cleared away in anticipation of the great sport which was about to begin. The bowl was apparently filled with folded pieces of paper containing the names of every guest in attendance. Lady Athelton, French by birth, had a wicked sense of entertainment as she’d declared herself the arbiter of romance for the night. Couples who were happily married could be assured their names were matched with each other; those whom her ladyship knew, or suspected, were not, would be paired up with more like-minded partners, and those who were not spoken for were in a general draw or lottery with a certain amount of collusion, no doubt, from Lady Athelton in her guise of Cupid.
The idea clearly appealed enormously to the widowed Madame Pasquier.
As for Lisette, she knew James had arranged everything; that her name was on the folded piece of paper together with Lucien’s.
A little bit of fun. That’s how Lady Athelton had described it, adding that information about each prospective lady would have been discreetly conveyed to the respective gentleman, who would then pen a letter to the other indicating his feelings. It might go no further—and in many cases, of course, would not—however, there was an unspoken understanding that leeway would be granted to those who wished to discreetly slip into the gardens or repair to a withdrawing room for a few minutes.
Madame Pasquier clapped her hands again and said decidedly, “Yes, Monteil will pick my name, and of course you will be paired with James.”
“I may not.”
Madame Pasquier looked surprised as Lisette shook her head. “James and I are not formally betrothed.”
“I thought tonight might, in fact, be the night.” Another giggle escaped Madame Pasquier as she finished her champagne. “It’s Valentine’s Day. A day, or rather, a night for love.”
And I am not in love with James. How much easier it would be if she were, thought Lisette, since she would have to marry him when tonight’s business was concluded.
So she said, reassuringly, as required, “James and I will marry, of course,” then tried to smile. “And I expect it will be soon. But as I am not yet in receipt of a formal offer, who knows what devilry will motivate Lady Athelton. Perhaps her ladyship thinks that pairing me up with someone else will force James into a bold and romantic declaration tonight, and so make her St Valentine’s Ball a great success.” She pretended to think the matter over before adding thoughtfully, “I wonder if she’s in collusion with James for just such a scenario. Or perhaps she intends to arouse James’s jealousy, so he will entertain the entire gathering by going down on bended knee with a formal proposal.” Indeed, that was the intended scenario James had told her as he’d coached her in what was required of her tonight.
After Lucien had been dealt with.
Madame Pasquier clapped her hands together. “A proposal from the man who rescued you from the slaughter! Your true knight in shining armor! I think you are right!”
“I think I might be.”
But oh, how much more dramatic it would be than that, Lisette reflected as Madame Pasquier’s response was cut short by the sudden hush that had fallen upon the crowd.
For now the men were being ushered forward and the bowl repositioned within arm’s reach.
The entertainment had begun.
Chapter 2
Lisette dropped back. The nervous energy which had informed her every move until now seemed suddenly drained away, and a great weariness had taken its place.
Yes, Lucien knew how to gain a person’s trust. And Lisette knew that to trust was to risk everything. James had put this mantra into words, and it made absolute sense of her own experience. James knew what she’d gone through. He was the only one who knew. The only one she could trust; it was why she had to marry him, her only remaining, distant relative. James had helped her when she had no one. She might not love him, but she knew what she owed him.
The gentlemen were now taking their turn to dip their hands into the bowl and to withdraw the name of their evening’s consort. Watching them, the ladies whispered to one another, the occasional nervous laughter punctuating the serious business.
While pretending to attend to Madame Pasquier, Lisette watched Lucien reach for a name, distracted momentarily by another presence at his shoulder. She shivered. Lord Radclyffe. The calculating and cynical viscount was staring directly at her with the same lustful intent she’d recognised just before he’d forced his unwanted attentions upon her at a ball James had held the previous year.
Lisette still felt shamed by the encounter. “What a pity you’re just a penniless hanger-on,” Radclyffe had muttered before he’d thrust his tongue down her throat after pushing her against the corridor wall where he’d come upon her by chance, returning from the ladies’ mending room. “Otherwise I’d have been sorely tempted to make you a formal offer. You are a tasty morsel but unfortunately this is the best you can hope for from me.” Lisette had tried to scream as he’d run his hands roughly over her but then he’d thrust her away at the sound of approaching voices.
It was the viscount’s words as much as his actions which had found fertile ground, reinforcing Lisette’s precarious standing.
Tossing her head, now, with a disdainful look at the elegantly clad Radclyffe, she quickly reordered her features and offered James a deferential nod. He held her future in his hands, and not since a rebellious tantrum she’d thrown when she’d been fourteen had she dared indicate disrespect. Three days confined to a windowless attic room with only bread and water had shown her that her cousin, ten years her senior, would never tolerate insubordination or lack of due regard.
She glanced back towards Lucien who was poring over the name of the lady with whom he’d been paired by Lady Athelton. Whether he’d recognize the writing, or whether he was already in possession of the piece of paper James had organized that he would be given, the outcome was a foregone conclusion. Soon Lisette would be
alone with Lucien. Alone with her father’s former bailiff, just as she’d dreamed would happen in so many romantic settings when she was a little girl.
He’d grown even more handsome in the intervening years, she thought, turning away quickly in case James should remark upon her momentarily unguarded expression. She scolded herself silently as a kaleidoscope of visions of James’s face appeared before her, austere and hectoring by turns; reminding her of her loyalties and whipping up her hatred. She did not want to, but she must do as he’d drilled her so many times before. With an effort, she tried to remember his instructions, but as the heat and energy of the ballroom pulsed around her, she faltered, steadying herself against the nearby plaster column as she was nearly overcome by the knowledge of what must happen now.
“Lisette! Gather your wits! Now is not the moment to lose heart and courage when we are within sight of the prize.”
She’d not seen James sidle up to her, but of course he was always hovering, watching her every move, ensuring she did not miss a step. His hiss stirred the curls at her temples; it froze the breath in her lungs. Then the panic subsided and once again she was the consummate salon guest, accepting the coupe of champagne James offered her, pretending interest in his feigned lively discourse though her body was attuned to Lucien’s every movement.
The handsome vicomte had stepped back from the table. Lady Athelton was at his shoulder, their hostess discreetly indicating Lisette, and Lucien was putting his head on one side as if he had no idea who she may be. For a split second, she locked eyes with him. He raised an eyebrow. The look indicated interest. Curiosity. Nothing more.
A little bit more of her died. He did not recognize her. He acknowledged her with a bow, before moving to a small escritoire against the wall where pen and inkpot stood in readiness.
Her Valentine's Secret (A Georgian Romance Book 2) Page 1