Realizing she could not spend the dinner beneath the table, she sat back up, holding her napkin before her face and keeping herself angled toward her end of the table. Her heart raced. What was she to do? She could not keep her napkin at her face the entire dinner. This was dreadful! She had to find a way to leave.
“I forgot my—my—something—in my chambers,” she murmured as she rose.
She would not be able to excuse herself to the hostess but hoped Madame Follet would forgive her later. Alastair sat across the table near the other end. If she turned to her right and went through the set of doors nearest to her, he would not glimpse her face.
Holding the napkin in front of her still, she made for the egress—and walked straight into a maid carrying a tureen of gravy. The contents splashed down the front of Mildred’s gown.
“Oh, miss, I’m terribly sorry!” the maid cried.
“Miss Abbey!” Lord Devon cried, coming to her aid.
One of the other gentlemen had approached to help with picking up the tureen.
“I’m quite all right,” Mildred mumbled, conscious that half the table had risen to look her way. She reached down for the napkin she had dropped.
Lord Devon took her elbow. “Are you certain—”
“Yes, yes, I am fine,” she assured him before stepping into a puddle of gravy in her haste to flee.
Once outside the dining hall, she hurried down the corridor, but her legs had begun to shake with violence. She slipped into an empty but lighted parlor. Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and sank to the floor.
It was Alastair. She knew his voice, and Madame had called him by name. She was not at all surprised that he would be known to Madame, but how was it he should be here the very same evening as her? And what was she to do now that he was?
CHAPTER FIVE
THE ENTICING TEMPTRESS sitting beside him at the table batted her long lashes and gave him a demure smile. She had shiny crimson curls, and as Alastair had never bedded a redhead before, he was intrigued. Her name was Miss Annabelle Hollingsworth.
But a commotion at the other end of the table drew his attention. He glimpsed a dark-haired woman with gravy down the front of her gown. Her full form looked familiar, as did her gown. At her side was the Viscount Devon, of whom he was not fond, but she resisted the man’s aid and hurried from him. She reached down to retrieve a napkin, which she oddly held to her face instead of using it to wipe her dress.
Her right hand tugged at her pearls as she spoke to Lord Devon…
It could not be.
Alastair rose to his feet to take a better look, but she had hurried away. He turned to Marguerite. “Who was that?”
“A new guest,” Madame replied. “She arrived here but a few hours ago. You will have the chance to meet her after dinner when we have the pairing.”
But an odd ache shot through his legs. He had the sensation whenever a situation was not right. He would have to assure himself that the woman was not whom he thought. He excused himself and proceeded after the woman. In the corridor, however, he saw no signs of her. Likely, she had returned to her chambers to cleanse her gown. He would have to make further inquiries of Marguerite.
Then he noticed the spots of gravy upon the floor. Following the trail, he found it stopped at the closed doors of a parlor. He heard a rustle from inside and opened the doors. Scanning the room, he saw no one, but he was certain he had heard movement. The windows were closed, so the sound had come from inside the room.
He almost dared not utter the name, for fear that doing so might bring about the reality he dreaded. Nevertheless, he tried it.
“Millie.”
Silence.
Hoping he was wrong but determined not to rest till he had set his concerns at ease, he walked about the room. He stepped around a sofa and discovered a female form, curled like a mouse upon the floor, hiding behind the furniture, her derriere propped high up in the air.
“Millie!”
She started and scrambled around. She rose slowly, keeping her gaze averted.
“What the devil do you do here?” he demanded, astounded.
“I—I was looking for my, er—”
“Not here in the room. Here. The château.”
“Oh, well…” She had an inspiration and met his gaze. “What do you do here?”
“I will have none of your impudence, my girl. Why are you here?”
Her chin tilted up as she attempted as much dignity as she could while covered in gravy. “That is no affair of yours.”
He drew in a sharp breath. “How is it not my affair?”
“Because it is not! And since when do you concern yourself with others?”
A muscle rippled along his jaw. He supposed it did not matter what her answer might be. He would have to see to her departure. The Château Follet was no place for her. He had made a promise to his aunt, and though he had thought he might fulfill her wish by taking a mild interest in one of his young nephews, she would be devastated if he did not rescue his cousin, whom he knew Katherine to be partial to.
“How did you come here?” he asked. “Are you here with someone?”
“I am here alone,” she said. “Now if you would kindly step aside, I should like to return to my chambers and divest myself of this gravy.”
But he blocked her path. “That does not suffice. You say you are here alone, but how did you arrive?”
“By horse and carriage.”
He was torn between appreciating her ready retort and a desire to wring her neck. This was not the Millie he knew. Why was she behaving with such insolence?
He narrowed his eyes. “Your parents would not permit their only daughter to travel alone. Who brought you here?”
There was a stubborn set to her jaw, and it was clear she concealed something. His mind raced through the possibilities. He had not noticed Haversham’s presence and doubted the man was the sort of fellow Marguerite would invite to her château. Alastair considered Millie’s set of friends, but as much as they liked to flirt with danger, they were too naïve. Who else among Millie’s acquaintances could possibly…
No. It could not be. Yet who else would know of Château Follet?
He pressed his lips together. “Katherine.”
Millie’s face fell.
“Did you think me so dull-witted that I would not guess? Where is she?” he asked.
“She left to stay with a friend and will return on the morrow.”
He suppressed an oath. Setting aside his disbelief that his aunt would do such a thing as introduce Millie to the Château Debauchery, he fixed his mind to how he was going to take Millie away. He had not come by carriage but by horseback. He would have to borrow Marguerite’s carriage. He silently cursed. He had been looking forward to his stay at the château for some time, and instead of spending his nights with the beautiful redhead who had caught his interest, he would be chaperoning his gravy-adorned cousin away.
“We start the festivities after dinner. How naughty of you two to depart the dinner table—and without a by-your-leave.”
They both turned to see Marguerite at the threshold. Looking radiant in a gown that appeared to cling to her slim frame, she sauntered toward them.
Millie flushed and lowered her eyes. “Forgive the impoliteness, Madame Follet.”
“Marguerite, I have need of your carriage,” he said.
The hostess raised her perfectly arched brows. “My carriage? You are not leaving?”
“I fear we must.”
“’We?’”
“Miss Abbott and I. Tonight.”
Millie looked up. “I made no mention of leaving.”
He turned to her. “You are certainly not staying.”
“Lady Katherine expects to fetch me from here tomorrow.”
“I will sort the matter out with my aunt when I see her.”
He still could not believe what Katherine had done. What was she thinking?
“Mon dieu,” Marguerite excl
aimed. “I do not understand. Why must anyone leave? You are both of you but arrived.”
He spoke before Millie could respond. “This is no place for a respectable young woman—your pardon, Marguerite—and one who is betrothed!”
Marguerite looked at Millie, whose countenance crumbled. “It is true,” she admitted. “I own it is most unseemly—”
“La, my dear! Betrothed, married, or widowed, it matters not,” Marguerite said cheerfully. She turned back to him. “I am surprised you, of all people, care.”
“Miss Abbott is my cousin!” he replied.
“Ah, now I understand. You do not wish a scandal in the d’Aubigne family.”
“She is not a d’Aubigne, and I don’t bl—care much about scandals.”
Millie interjected, “Especially as you have committed more than your fair share of them.”
He looked sharply to her before returning to Marguerite. “She will ruin herself if she stays here. No dowry in the world could save her then. Even that Haversham will not have her, I vow.”
“And I should not despair at such an outcome,” Millie murmured.
He looked once more to her. This was not the Millie Abbott he knew, and he had deemed himself an accurate judge of character.
Marguerite glanced between them. “But how kind of you, Andre, to care so much for the reputation of your cousin. I would not have thought you capable of such tenderness.”
He was very near to uttering an oath before two members of the gentle sex. Marguerite had never vexed him before, but he did not like that his consternation seemed to amuse her.
“Your carriage, if you please, Marguerite,” he said.
“I have no wish to leave,” Millie objected.
“She has no wish to leave,” Marguerite echoed.
“It doesn’t matter. I am taking her to safety,” he responded, ignoring Millie’s indignant gasp. “It is not that I do not esteem you, Marguerite, but you are more inclined to trust than not. And I do not trust all your guests. Especially the Viscount Devon.”
“He seemed a most agreeable man to me,” Millie said.
His friend and frequent guest of the château, the Baron Rockwell, had warned of Lord Devon. The Viscount had a keen though subtly expressed interest in virgins.
“The more a man charms you, the less you can trust him,” he told Millie.
“I suppose you would know a rogue better than anyone.”
He blinked, taken aback once more. Was she acting this way because she was cross at him for not intervening in her engagement?
“I take it you must be close cousins,” Marguerite said, “for you quarrel as easily as an old married couple.”
Millie appeared chastened. “Forgive me, Madame Follet. I fear I have given you a poor sampling of my manners. Your pardon as well, cousin. I should be flattered that you wish to preserve my honor. I ought not have responded as I did to your highhandedness. Perhaps it is best I depart.”
At last Millie had come to her senses, he thought.
But Marguerite objected. “No, no! I will not see it happen. You, my dear, will change your attire. I will send Bhadra to assist you. You, Andre, will return to the dining room and finish your dinner. It is settled. The both of you will enjoy your time here as you had initially intended.”
“Settled?” he echoed. “Nothing is settled.”
“It is. Your aunt entrusted Miss Abbott to me with the expectation that she will have a marvelous time, and I will see it done.”
She took Millie by the arm and began to guide her toward the door.
“Do you mean to say you are refusing my request for the use of your carriage?”
“C'est cela.”
He stopped her. “Marguerite, pray be reasonable. You do Miss Abbott no favors by permitting her to stay.”
“Andre, she is my guest, not yours. Your aunt—”
“Katherine is far too enamored with this place and in want of discretion.”
Marguerite arched her slender brows. “Andre, this is most unlike you. And because we are good friends, I will dare to say that I find your position rather selfish.”
She astounded him. She deemed him selfish when he was willing to sacrifice his long-awaited weekend at the château to protect his cousin?
His look of vexation did not daunt Marguerite. She continued, “Oui. You have partaken readily of the pleasures here but would deny the opportunity to another?”
He tried a different approach. “I ask you, as a friend, I beg of you to see the soundness of my actions.”
“Your aunt is my friend as well, and I am loath to disappoint her.”
They had all lost reason, he decided. All three women. Women he had hitherto thought sensible—especially Millie.
“I do not mean to disparage you or the château, Marguerite,” he said, unrelenting, “but it is not worth the risk for Miss Abbott.”
“Sir, you presume too much on my behalf,” Millie said.
Marguerite put a gentle hand upon his arm. “It is trés amusing to see you fret in the manner of an old woman, but I assure you that all will be well.”
His vexation trapped all words. If she were not the hostess, he would have a few choice words for her.
Marguerite turned to escort Millie from the room, but he stopped them. Addressing Millie, he said, “Do not be a fool. I am willing to chaperone you home, but I may not be so generously inclined later.”
She straightened. “I thank you for your kind offer, Alastair, but it is not necessary.”
His nostrils flared. The chit should be grateful for his selfless gesture!
“Stop such idiocy, Millie. You do not fully comprehend what transpires here.”
“I have been well informed by both your aunt and Madame Follet.”
“And the wiser course would be for you to reconsider!”
“How is it the wiser course for me but not for you?” she cried.
“Are you truly asking such a daft question? I had thought you more sensible than that.”
She flushed with indignation. “I intended to draw attention to your hypocrisy with my question.”
“It is not my hypocrisy but that of society’s. The consequences fall much more harshly upon the female sex.”
“But here at Château Follet, the sexes are equal,” declared Marguerite. “It is a quality you appreciate, mon chéri, and benefit from.”
“But how will Millie benefit?”
“In the same manner you do, but of course.”
“That is different.”
“How?”
Why were these women asking such ridiculous question? Did they truly require him to state the obvious?
“Certain ruin awaits her if she is discovered.”
“That has yet to happen with a guest.”
“She won’t like it here.”
Millie breathed in sharply. “Surely that is for me to determine.”
“I assure you this is no place for you. My dear aunt has not been here in some time and forgets the nature of the acts here would appall you.”
“I am not easily frightened or appalled.”
“Millie, don’t be a dolt.”
“I object to your condescension, sir!”
“It is for your own good. You know no one here. What man do you expect will pair with you?”
He saw her eyes widen and regretted the harshness of his words, but it was warranted if he was to talk sense into her.
She looked ready to attack him or cry, possibly both. “You think no one will desire me?”
“That is not what I said.”
“It is what you meant!”
He fumed because her accusation was not entirely untrue. “The men here—their expectations are different.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “If I am not selected, then I will take pleasure in watching others.”
Her response stunned him into silence.
“Andre, I protest,” Marguerite intervened. “Miss Abbott has a right to be here as much as you do
, and I dare say, if you do not leave her be, I shall have to ask you to leave.”
Astonished, he allowed Marguerite to usher Millie out the room. He released the oath he had been withholding. He was tempted to take the Follet carriage, with or without consent. He cursed again. Without a carriage, he could not transport Millie from the château. He could put her on his horse, but their progress would be slow, if not treacherous at night. It was no way for a lady to travel.
He would simply have to convince Marguerite or Millie that it was wrong for her to stay.
Good God, what was Katherine thinking letting Millie stay at the Château Follet? Alone. And how had Millie consented to such a thing? Did she realize what transpired here? Perhaps if she did, she would more readily depart with him.
He had always known Millie to be a sensible young woman. She was not frivolous, did not play the sort of games in which others of her sex engaged, and spoke with refreshing candor and maturity. For her to risk her honor in such a fashion was unlike her. If she were discovered, she would be ruined. Her family would be ruined.
Damnation. He ought not care. If she chose to be reckless and foolish, it ought to be none of his affair. Birthday wishes be damned. He had come to enjoy himself, to indulge in wicked carnality. As the Marquess of Alastair, he could afford to do as he pleased. Millie had not that luxury.
CHAPTER SIX
SEATED AT THE vanity in only her shift and stays, Mildred did not know whether to laugh or cry. She must have looked a ridiculous sight to Alastair with her gravy-soaked dress. After all that effort to escape the dining hall, he had found her, on hands and knees, hiding behind a sofa. How sadly undignified! She shook her head. The whimsical hand of Fate could not have contrived a more aggravating, unsettling coincidence. Yet, despite the disconcerting appearance of her cousin, she would rather see her time at the château through. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, to indulge her most wanton cravings, to allow those urges the light of day before they were condemned to darkness for the remainder of time.
But could such a thing come to pass now that Alastair was here?
His overbearing manner had riled her, yet she regretted having been so impertinent with him. His intentions were honorable. Nevertheless, she could not help but deem him hypocritical. He, of all people, should applaud a woman coming to Château Follet. That she should be his cousin ought have no bearing on the matter.
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