Until she was arrested by mistake.
Now she found herself beholden to the Duke and Duchess of Stonewell. But there had simply been no one else she knew to ask for help once she found herself imprisoned in the hell that was Newgate gaol.
“I am not sure whether or not you can hear me, Monique,” the soft voice of the duchess now soothed, along with the feel of another gentle caress on Monique’s brow. “But I wish to apologize to you for not having thought of your welfare or what you would do after… Well, after.” The discomfort could be heard in her voice. “But please believe you are safe here now with us, and we shall ensure no more harm befalls you.”
Monique felt the burn of tears beneath her lids, then the hot tracks of those tears as they escaped down her cheeks, knowing she did not deserve the duchess’s concern or kindness.
Because Monique harbored a secret that could shatter the other woman’s peace and happiness.
Chapter 3
Stonewell Park, Kent,
December, 1816.
“Is this not perfect, Nik?” Angelique leaned against her husband’s side, his arm about her waist, as she gazed with satisfaction at the holly-and-mistletoe-festooned hallway and wide staircase of their estate in Kent. “And by nightfall, the bedchambers will be filled by our friends, and the nursery full to bursting, not just with Joshua, but all the other children who are coming too!”
Nik smiled indulgently at his wife’s obvious excitement. “You are the one who is perfect,” he complimented gruffly before kissing her on the temple. “None of this, the decorations, the many wrapped presents for the friends who are joining us later today for the holiday, would be happening if you were not here.” He grimaced. “Left to my own devices, I would probably have secluded myself in my study and drunk copious amounts of brandy to see me through the tediousness of being alone at such a time.”
Angelique turned to wrap her arms about her husband’s waist. “You shall never be alone again while there is breath in my body.”
A vow such as that deserved that Angelique be thoroughly kissed. Something Nik was only too happy to do before he carried her up the stairs to the privacy of their bedchamber and showed her once again just how much he loved her.
It was some time later that a naked Angel roused in his arms. “Monique is healing physically but otherwise does not seem to be recovering as quickly as Dr. Andrews said she would. Do you think perhaps we should call in Dr. Easton for a second opinion?”
They had waited three days after the attack on Monique, allowing her time to recover, before traveling to their estate in Kent, where they had planned to spend the holiday. Monique had protested the need for her to accompany them, but Angel had been most insistent that she should. As Nik knew only too well, it was difficult for anyone to resist when Angel insisted on something.
He glanced down at his wife. “You are mentioning that gentleman in our bed again, Angel.”
She moved up to lean on her elbow as she smiled at him. “There is no room for any other man in our bed but you, my love.”
“I should damn well hope not.” Nik scowled as he moved up the bed to lean back against the wooden headboard. “But you are right about Monique,” he added with a frown. “I remember her as being…different. Certainly more vivacious, whereas now…”
Angel winced. “She is quiet. Too quiet. Subdued even.”
“Being wrongly arrested and then set upon in prison, all of her clothes taken from her, and then beaten so badly will have taken its toll on her spirit, love,” Nik soothed.
Angel gave a shudder. “I cannot begin to imagine what she must have suffered.”
“Nor I.” In truth, Nik did not wish to imagine it. Enough that the girl’d had the foresight to send word to them so he might take her out of that godforsaken place. He had since arranged her release with the Prince Regent himself.
Angel frowned. “You do not suppose she was involved with my mother’s treachery?” Her eyes widened in alarm. “That this might all have been planned and she might be a danger to us or Joshua?”
“I doubt anyone would deliberately bring that beating down upon themselves,” Nik dismissed.
Although he was as aware as Angel was that Monique’s absence this past year, and then her sudden reappearance in their lives, and under such circumstances they could not turn her away, would require monitoring.
Monique had been employed by his mother-in-law as a lady’s maid. Lady Jacqueline Kingston had proved to be a self-confessed traitor to her country and the Crown and had duly paid the price for it. They also believed all Lady Jacqueline’s associates had been captured and dealt with. But there was no denying that Monique’s family, at least, was French. Or that she had disappeared after his mother-in-law’s arrest a year ago.
All those things worried Nik, as they did Angel, but his conscience could not allow him to leave Monique in the hellhole that was Newgate prison. It would have been callous in the extreme to leave Monique alone in London, beaten and unable to care for herself properly, when they left for their country estate.
Which was not to say Nik was not keeping, and would continue to keep, a careful eye on Monique Dupre. His wife and son were all that mattered to him. They were his whole life, and he would not allow either of them to be taken from him, for any reason. Ever.
“No doubt she will perk up and be more like her old self once the house is full of guests and children,” Angel decided. “But I believe I shall send for Dr. Easton in any case. I should welcome his opinion.”
“As you wish, my love,” her husband murmured before claiming her lips and body for the second time this afternoon, and hopefully dispelling any lingering thoughts his wife might have regarding the handsome doctor.
“We shall be late down to dinner, Darius.” Bea, the Duchess of Wolferton, played with the slightly sweat-dampened hair on her husband’s chest as the two of them lay in bed together after their lovemaking.
“Angelique and Nik will not mind,” he dismissed, the two of them completely private in their bedchamber at Stonewell Park.
“Quinlan will scold you for the delay in dressing,” his wife teased, sharing Darius’s affection for his valet.
“Quinlan is no doubt being kept equally as busy, and in a similar manner, by Jeremy.” Darius totally approved of his valet’s relationship with their butler, Jeremy Kilby, his only regret being that the law of the land meant the two men could never openly show their love for each other. Nor could they marry, but Darius had absolutely no doubts the two men’s devotion to each other would last a lifetime. “Besides, once you had removed your gown earlier, there was no doubt as to what would happen next. I would not have believed it possible, but you are even more desirable since giving birth to our son and heir.”
Bea gave a gurgle of laughter. “There might be another reason for my present…appetite.”
Darius raised dark brows. “It is not my scintillating charm?”
“As well as your scintillating charm,” Bea murmured teasingly. “Dr. Bentham has confirmed I am with child again, Darius. I had intended waiting until Christmas morning to tell you, but I am too excited to wait— Darius!” She gave a happy squeal as he swept her up in his arms and kissed her soundly, leaving her in absolutely no doubt as to his pleasure in the anticipation of their second child.
They were very late down to dinner.
Monique felt like the outsider she was as she sat in a corner of the elegant drawing room now filled to capacity with the seven handsome and arrogant gentlemen known in Society as the Sinners, along with their beautiful wives. The rest of the house was just as full and busy with the arrival of the servants and children of all these guests.
Having once been lady’s maid to both the Duchess of Stonewell and her mother, Lady Jacqueline Kingston, Monique was very aware she was neither fish nor fowl amongst such exulted company. Currently a guest of the Stonewells, but once their servant.
Monique had initially resisted the idea of accompanying the duke and d
uchess to Stonewell Park at all, ever aware of her own responsibilities in London. But she had been too weakened at the time to fight the determination of the duchess and even less able to protest when the duke had added his stern voice to the argument.
Monique had kept to the guest bedchamber assigned for her use since their arrival in Kent three days ago, the beating she had taken in Newgate affecting her more than she was willing to admit. Besides, there was no point now in her returning to London until after the Christmas holiday; all her commissions for gowns to be ready before Christmas would have been lost to her.
Earlier today, the duchess had come to Monique’s bedchamber and insisted it was time she left that room and joined them and their guests for dinner. The other woman had even provided Monique with a very seasonal red gown to wear for the evening.
Nevertheless, Monique felt totally out of her depth in the company of the dukes and duchesses, an earl and countess, two marquises and marchionesses, and a viscount and viscountess. Not that any had attempted to make her feel uncomfortable. Indeed, everyone had gone out of their way to talk to her and include her in the celebrations.
But no matter how pretty her borrowed gown, there was no hiding the fact that Monique’s face, neck, and shoulders were still covered in numerous and different-colored bruises, along with scratches and gouges. Luckily, none of them had become infected, for which she was very grateful.
The fact that the Stonewells’ guests took care not to so much as mention any of her visible injuries, or asked how she had acquired them, told her the duke and duchess had already informed their guests of the reason for them. She—
“Might I join you?”
Monique glanced up, her breath catching in her throat as she found herself looking into a pair of compelling dark eyes so deep a brown, they appeared almost black.
Meaning that remark had been addressed to her?
She began to rise to her feet.
“Please remain seated,” the man instructed sternly. “My name is Easton,” he announced as he took occupancy of the chair beside Monique’s. “Martin Easton.”
She nodded politely. “Monique Dupre.”
“What happened to your face?”
Monique drew her breath in sharply at the directness of the question. Made all the more so by the fact she had been contemplating the handsomeness of his appearance at the time.
She knew from the way he’d had to fold his body into the chair that he must be at least a foot taller than her own five feet and two inches. She had seen at a glance that he had wide shoulders and a muscular chest in the tailored evening jacket. His waist was tapered, his thighs and legs long and muscular. He was also, Monique acknowledged with a warming of her cheeks, exceeding handsome; dark hair falling fashionably over his brow, those dark eyes, a long aquiline nose, firm lips, and a sculptured jaw.
She was unsure what his place was amongst the Stonewells’ other guests. Perhaps he was a brother to one of the Sinners’ wives.
“I am the local doctor,” he said in answer to her unasked question.
Monique felt her heart sink as she instantly questioned whether this was a chance meeting.
The duchess had commented earlier that Monique still seemed somewhat subdued and not yet herself. Monique had assured the other woman of her continued improvement, physically, at least, but she wondered now if the duchess had deliberately invited the doctor to dinner this evening after insisting Monique must join them. There was no doubting that she and the doctor were the only ones present not of the exclusive group known as the Sinners and their wives.
“Might I call on you some time tomorrow?”
Monique’s chin rose, her gaze meeting that dark one. “Why?”
“The duchess has asked that I do so.” The doctor confirmed her suspicion of his having singled her out on a professional basis rather than any personal interest in her.
Had she really thought such a handsome gentleman as Martin Easton might actually find her worth his romantic attention?
Not only were her bruises and scratches unattractive, but she was also the bastard daughter of a now deceased French seamstress. Whilst he, despite his claim of being the local doctor, was also obviously a gentleman. It was there in his aristocratic bearing and the arrogant self-confidence that, she believed, might rival that of the Duke of Stonewell himself.
Monique stood abruptly. “If you will excuse me— What are you doing?” she demanded as Martin Easton’s fingers curled about the slenderness of her wrist, preventing her from walking away.
Martin’s face was on a level with the blonde woman’s as he held her in front of him. The proximity allowed him to see where her bruises had turned into a myriad of colors, the cut to her bottom lip was still healing, as were the scratches on her throat and chest. Her bared shoulders also revealed similar discolored bruising.
The duchess had not confided how the other woman’s injuries had come about, but from the look of the ones he could see, they had been inflicted by hands either hitting, scratching, or squeezing.
When the duchess had requested Martin examine Monique Dupre, a young woman who had previously been a servant in her household, he had not known what to expect. He certainly had not thought the Frenchwoman would be so ethereally lovely.
Monique was extremely tiny, in stature as well as build. Her eyes were the clear blue of a summer sky, her nose small and uptilting at the tip. Her cheeks were slightly hollow, either from previous malnourishment or as a result of her injuries. The redness of her lips formed a perfect bow shape above a determined and pointed chin. Her fashionably styled hair was the color of ripe wheat. The red gown she wore revealed the creamy swell of her breasts, a tiny waist, and the slender curve of her hips. Her youthful appearance indicated she was at least ten years younger than his own one and thirty years.
Nevertheless, Martin felt a stirring of his cock inside his evening breeches as he continued to gaze upon her fragile beauty. “I believe I am to escort you into the dining room,” he answered her huskily, having noted the appearance of the Stonewells’ butler in the doorway.
Those blue eyes grew stormy. “I no longer have an appetite for dinner.”
“Then what do you have an appetite for?” Martin surprised himself by prompting in a husky voice only she could hear.
Color bloomed in her cheeks. “Whatever you have been told about me—”
“The duchess was most discreet, I assure you.” He knew absolutely nothing about this young woman other than her name and her past occupation as lady’s maid, and could now see for himself some of the extent of her injuries.
Temper deepened in her eyes. “And I assure you, I have no intention of allowing you to flirt with me, this evening or at any other time.”
Martin rose to his feet so that he towered over her more diminutive height and forced her to tilt her head back so that challenging blue gaze could meet his own. “I am not normally known as a flirtatious man.” Although Martin knew, despite his denial, that the hardness of his cock and his remark just now was less than professional.
Long lashes lowered. “I apologize if I misinterpreted your remark.”
Martin felt guilt tightening in his chest. “I said I am not normally known for being a flirtatious gentleman,” he said softly. “I am, however, brutally honest, to myself as well as others. It would seem, when I am in the presence of a beautiful French woman, that I can indeed be flirtatious,” he acknowledged self-derisively.
He had spent eight of the last ten years of his life training to be the physician he now was. A profession that allowed little time for anything more than brief encounters with women who expected nothing more from him than either coin or pleasure. Since taking up his practice in the town of Stonewell the previous year, even those encounters had stopped. It would not do for the local doctor to gain the reputation of having liaisons with the females in the area. He had also been far too busy to go to London this past year. As a consequence, Martin’s cock had known no touch but that o
f his own hand for that amount of time.
Was his sudden attraction to Monique a result of that lack of physical partners, or something more?
Whichever, it would certainly be inappropriate if she was to become his patient.
Monique seemed as uncertain of his motivation as Martin was as their gazes clashed and held.
She finally drew in a deep breath. “My name might be French, but otherwise, my voice must tell you I am as English as you are.”
“It is your family that is French?”
She frowned. “I had believed you, unlike some others, might be intelligent enough to realize my French name does not make me personally responsible for all that befell England during the years of war against Napoleon.”
“I am,” he confirmed tersely. “Nor was I implying such.”
“Once again, I apologize.”
His eyes narrowed on her bruised flesh. “Is your French name the reason you were beaten?”
She shrugged. “Some people do not need a reason to attack those weaker than themselves.”
“I—”
“I apologize for interrupting, but we are all going through to the dining room now?”
Martin gave a shake of his head to clear it of the woman, and the unbidden desire he felt for Monique, before turning to smile at their hostess. “We were just about to join you.” He pointedly held his arm out for Monique to rest her gloved hand upon.
A mental battle seemed to ensue as she obviously debated whether or not to give in to his unspoken command.
Finally, good manners won out, and she placed her hand lightly on Martin’s forearm before they followed the duchess through to the dining room.
Where it quickly became obvious to Martin, when Angelique Sinclair took her seat beside her husband at the table rather than at the opposite end of it, as social etiquette dictated she should, that the duke and duchess, obviously amongst close friends, felt no need to separate the couples at their dining table. Meaning that the last two empty seats, situated side by side at the middle of the long table, were meant for Martin and Monique.
Wicked Christmas (Regency Sinners 8) Page 2
