by Leah Conolly
He was losing more and more interest every minute she spoke anyway, and he had a more important mission on his mind. He quickly wove his way through the clusters of people standing between him and Christine. But when he reached her, he paused. Should he speak to her? What would he say?
Before he could touch her shoulder, the women ceased talking, looked up at him, and blushed. This alerted Christine to his presence, and she turned around.
Duncan opened his mouth, startled and clueless as to what to say. However, just as he grasped the words, he looked into the woman’s eyes. Her deep, brown eyes.
“Yes?” she asked, seeming pleased to see him, but with no clear knowledge of his identity.
Duncan stared, feeling embarrassed. It was not Christine. His heart plummeted with disappointment. He had not realized how much he wanted this woman to be Christine, until he saw that it was not.
Relying on all the charm he could muster, he smiled brilliantly at the woman. He bowed deeply, and for a moment too long, to collect his thoughts. He fell back on the social training befitting his status.
“I beg your pardon, my lady,” he said, his tone gracious and warm. “I thought that you were someone else. I was expecting to meet someone here, and it would seem that I have made a mistake.”
The woman returned his dazzling smile. He saw that she was pretty, but her eyes were just as vacant as the woman with whom he had been speaking previously, and he knew that he would have no real interest in her.
“Not at all, my lord,” she said, giving him a deep curtsy in return. “Whomever you are looking for is a fortunate woman indeed.”
Duncan winced inwardly. He maintained his smile, determined to pretend he did not notice the woman’s flirtatious behavior.
“Well, I will not keep you from your company any longer,” he said, dipping his head. “I must find the lady whom I agreed to meet before she thinks that I am ignoring her.”
With a small wave, he walked away, heading for the balcony. Before he stepped outside, he glanced behind him.
He could see the blond woman whispering excitedly to her friends, and behind them he could see the dark-haired woman glaring at him. He lowered his gaze, doing his best to avoid eye contact with anyone, and continued out to the balcony.
As he stepped outside, he saw two women huddled together on the far side. He kept his distance, even though they were apparently engrossed in conversation and had not noticed his presence.
He breathed a small sigh of relief and took up a spot in the shadows at the other end of the balcony. He stared out at the gardens, admiring the variety of flowers and plants that spanned nearly the entirety of the back part of the estate.
He bit his lip, fighting back tears. He understood that Christine, or whatever her name was, had lied to him, but, no matter what he did and no matter what he told himself, he could not help but miss her.
Not for the first time, he found himself wondering if he had made a terrible mistake by not allowing her to explain herself. She might have been deceitful, but he was almost certain that she had been sincere about wanting to tell him the truth the night she was arrested.
He wondered if he had not let his hurt feelings make him blind to the fact that she was hurting, too, and that she could have hidden her true identity for a perfectly valid reason.
In the midst of his brooding thoughts, Duncan heard something that caught his attention. The two women on the balcony were speaking more loudly now. They seemed utterly oblivious of his presence, and he took advantage of their oversight.
“I know, can you believe it?” one of the women was saying. “Why in the world would Lady Charlotte want to do such a thing?”
“I cannot imagine,” the other woman said. “I could never pretend to be poor. It is truly baffling.”
Duncan felt his blood start to heat, and he had to resist the urge to defend Charlotte. However, his mother’s words filled his head, and he knew that he could not speak to these women, lest he draw further attention to himself and Christine.
Despite the risk, however, he wanted desperately to defend Christine, or Charlotte. Deep down, he knew that even if he had never known her true name, he had gotten to know, and had come to love, the true woman behind the deceitful façade.
Before he could say something that both he and his mother might regret, he hurried from the balcony. Rather than dance with any of the other women who were desperate to catch his attention, he made his apologies to his hosts and ran for his coach.
After such a night, he could not leave quickly enough. He would figure out an excuse for his mother, and, anyway, he had not caused enough of a scene to shame her. Anything beyond that would be her problem, and he frankly did not care. He had done what she asked by attending the ball, and he had even danced with a couple of the women, so he did not see why she would have any legitimate reason to complain.
He missed Christine, or whatever her name really was, and he was not going to lie to himself about that any longer.
Chapter 25
Three days before the Comte was due to arrive, Charlotte’s parents began at last to warm up a little.
Her mother started coming into her chambers at night and sitting with her for an hour or so, before they both retired for the evening. They even laughed and reminisced about Charlotte’s childhood, just as they had before Charlotte had left. Her father even began speaking to her during meals again.
It would have been a joyous turn of events, had it not been overshadowed by the knowledge that her parents were only warming up because the Comte would arrive soon, and they would finally have their way.
Taking what Charlotte knew would likely be her last opportunity, she stopped her mother the night before Francois was to arrive.
“Can I talk to you about something, Mother?” she asked.
Her mother patted her hand, reclaiming her seat.
“Of course, darling,” she said.
Charlotte took a deep breath. She knew she was risking a great deal, but it was eating away at her. If anyone would understand her feelings, it would surely be her mother.
“I know that what I did was wrong,” she began, gauging her mother’s reaction.
Her mother’s eyes clouded instantly, and she gave Charlotte a sad smile.
“Let us speak no more of it, darling,” she said, beginning to rise once more.
“I am very sorry for bringing it up again,” she said quickly, “and I do not wish to hurt you further. But I have been unable to stop thinking about Lord Willeton. I believe that I am in love with him, and I cannot wed the Comte and simply bury these feelings.”
Her mother’s face fell, as did Charlotte’s heart. She wished she could take back her words, because they clearly did not make her mother sympathize with her.
“Charlotte,” her mother said. “I know that you had a vision of the way you wanted your life to be, but you cannot break your promise to the Comte.”
Charlotte felt a lump form in her throat.
“But Mother, I did not make that promise,” she said.
Her mother nodded sadly.
“I understand that,” she said. “However, a woman of your status has certain obligations, both to your station and your family, and you must fulfill both. Even when it is not what you want.”
Charlotte stared at her mother in disbelief.
“So, you would see me unhappily married to an uncouth, disreputable man, for the sake of preserving my station?” she asked.
Her mother stood, and Charlotte could see the tears in her eyes.
“It is your duty,” she said softly, turning away from her daughter. “You would do well to accept it and make the best of it.”
With that, her mother quickly left the room. Charlotte stared at her hands, her last shreds of hope fading with her mother’s footsteps. Charlotte collapsed onto the bed and cried herself to sleep.
* * *
Charlotte stood with her parents the next afternoon as the Comte’s carriage pulled up in fron
t of the door.
She felt her stomach flipping, and she prayed that she could at least get through the introductions and tea without vomiting on Comte Francois.
She stood with her head high and her manner determined, but she could not bring herself to force a smile. Her mother would not meet her gaze, and her father was too focused on Francois to notice. She could not help but feel resentment bubble inside of her, as her father greeted the Comte with a smile bigger than any she had seen on his face in years.
“Welcome,” the earl said, beckoning Francois into the entryway and over to his wife and daughter. “I believe you remember my wife.”
Francois gave a bow, making the slight hunch in his back temporarily less visible. His beady eyes stayed on Charlotte as he bowed, and his stringy brown hair fell into his eyes. Charlotte thought she saw his lanky frame wobble a little as he bent, and she wondered if he had imbibed before he arrived.
“A pleasure, Lady Devon,” he said. His muddled words confirmed Charlotte’s theory, and she turned her head away, so that no one would see her bitter face.
“And this,” her father said, grasping her elbow firmly and guiding her toward Francois, “is our daughter Charlotte.”
Francois studied her for a moment with eyes that Charlotte could only describe as hungry. She felt as though she were being inspected like a slab of meat at a butcher’s shop, and her blood boiled. She curtseyed, trying to mask as much of her displeasure as she could.
“Indeed,” Francois said, taking her hand and kissing it with abnormally damp, cold lips. “She is far lovelier than the young woman I met, to be sure.”
“You are too kind,” she said, not bothering to feign any sincerity.
“Come,” the earl said, ignoring Charlotte’s behavior. “We will take tea in the drawing room.
Charlotte said little during tea, but Francois spoke enough for everyone. Even her mother seemed disillusioned, as the Comte continued to drink and loudly recount tales of both his business and personal life.
Of course, he never outright addressed any of the most damning claims, but a couple of his stories alluded to the fact that he had bedded women before her. Her father laughed along with the man, either ignoring or completely ignorant of the implications of the man’s words. Charlotte stared into her teacup, feeling more hopeless and disgusted with the Comte’s every word.
Two hours and four snifters of brandy for the Comte later, she was at last able to return to her quarters.
The Comte was getting settled into the guest room, where he would be sleeping, and her mother was planning the dinner parties that were to happen over the following days.
Charlotte still showed no emotion, but she had to stifle her displeasure at how anxious her parents seemed to celebrate marrying their daughter to such a vulgar man. Some part of her felt that she would rather leave for France the following day than have people see her with the Comte. Perhaps, however, he would continue behaving in this fashion, and her father would see him for who he really was.
Sure enough, at the dinner party the following evening, the Comte drank excessively and told even more distasteful tales than he had the previous day. Charlotte even noticed that he had changed some of the details from the stories he had told them during tea.
She also overheard a handful of people remarking on the Comte’s crude behavior, but her father took no notice. Charlotte did her best to ignore the Comte, and it worked. At one point later in the evening, as everyone mingled in the drawing room after dinner, she realized that the Comte was nowhere in sight. She looked around, curious rather than concerned.
She made her way to the door and heard a commotion just down the hallway. She peeked around the corner and saw Francois standing close to one of their servants, his hand drawn back. His face was contorted into a snarl, and the woman looked terrified. Charlotte could hardly believe her eyes, and she was rushing toward the pair before she could think.
“Excuse me,” she said. “What is happening here?”
Francois jumped back, nearly falling on his behind as he did so.
“This young lady was rude and insubordinate,” he said.
“Indeed,” Charlotte said, looking at the woman’s tear-streaked face. She smiled warmly at her and nodded, gesturing for the woman to leave, which she did with alacrity. “And so, you thought that you would implement corporal punishment, rather than report her to my parents?”
Francois smirked.
“Is that what you saw?” he asked. “Because what everyone else will believe is that I corrected a servant for forgetting her place.”
Charlotte glared at Francois.
“We shall see about that,” she said, storming off in search of her father.
When she found the earl, she led him back into the hallway, where she had left Francois. Unsurprisingly, the Comte was no longer there, and the poor servant was long gone.
“Father,” Charlotte said, looking around for any sign of the Comte. “I just witnessed the Comte preparing to strike one of the servants.”
The earl laughed.
“Charlotte,” he said. “Could you really think of no better lie than that?”
Charlotte stared blankly at her father.
“It is the truth,” she said. “I saw him myself.”
The earl’s face darkened.
“I will hear no more of this nonsense, Charlotte,” he said. “You very nearly ruined your chance to marry him. I will not allow you to sabotage this wedding again.”
With that, he turned on his heel and stormed away from his daughter. It wounded Charlotte that her father did not believe her. She could not bring herself to return to the party.
Instead, she ran outside and hid in the gardens until she heard the guests begin to leave. Then she slipped into her bedroom and locked herself inside.
* * *
In the following days, Charlotte did everything she could to avoid the Comte. She could not stomach the sight of his face, nor could she tolerate the way her father seemed completely oblivious to the man’s disgusting nature.
Two nights before they were to depart for France, Charlotte’s parents arranged for a special dinner to celebrate the end of the Comte’s visit and their impending departure.
Charlotte successfully avoided dinner that evening by claiming to be finishing packing her things. She put on her most charming smile, swallowing the bile that rose in her throat. Fortunately, her father seemed pleased and gladly excused her from dining with them.
She curtseyed formally to the Comte as she left the room, taking a few deep breaths to combat the nausea that lingered, until she was safely out of sight. Instead of going to her quarters, however, she hurried to the library and closed the door quietly.
She walked over to one of the bookcases that flanked the large, floor to ceiling window, and idly chose a book.
She wanted to escape from the nightmare that was rapidly becoming her reality, but she knew that an attempt would be an exercise in futility.
Instead, she sat with the book closed in her lap, and looked over the landscape illuminated by the setting sun.
She thought of Duncan once again, and how much she missed him, and how desperately she wished she could see him. Even though it was almost time for her to depart with the Comte, she continued to hope for an opportunity to explain everything to Duncan.
She dozed off, and, when she awoke, it was full dark outside. She walked slowly to the door of the library, hoping that her father and the Comte had already retired for the evening. She pressed her ear to the door and heard nothing but silence on the other side.
She opened the door slowly and slipped out quickly, tiptoeing up the stairs and toward her quarters. She was almost to the door when a figure brushed against her. The smell of liquor and sweat and leather told her at once who it was.
“Excuse me, Comte,” she said, cursing herself for sleeping so long in the library.
“Charlotte, ma cherie,” Francois slurred. Charlotte’s stomach flipped as
the smell of alcohol hit her in the face. Instead of stepping aside so that she could enter her room, he moved closer to her, trapping her between him and the wall. He reached up and touched her cheek, sending a chill down her spine. “Look at how beautiful you are.”
Charlotte turned her face away, trying to escape the reek of his breath. To her horror, however, he firmly grabbed her chin and turned her face up to his. Even in the dim hallway lighting, she could see how red and glassy his eyes were. He was clearly, and unsurprisingly, intoxicated.
There had not been a single night since his arrival that Francois had not imbibed to excess. She could not understand how her father did not see it, but she wished fervently, if vainly, that he would.
