Chapter 1
In the large room dark with shadows, Madame Rose Clarisse de Soissons lay naked on her canopied rococo bed, propping herself on one elbow, twining her fingers through her tangled mass of auburn curls. Douglas Wyndham, Earl of Belington, had slipped from the still-warm spot beside her and begun to dress. How beautiful he looks! she thought. What other man could look half as graceful pulling on his breeches?
She stared, fascinated, unable to tear her gaze from his hard, lean, sinewy body. He was not especially tall, she mused, but just so completely masculine with that dark, thin face, trim waist, muscled shoulders, and stomach flat as the back of her hand. “You could spend the night,” she said, careful to sound as if one way or another, she really didn’t care.
He glanced over at her, taking a moment from the business of buttoning his shirt. “If I stay the night, I might wear out my welcome,” he said, his eyebrow lifting in that funny, mocking little way he had. “Damme, it’s dark in here.” He reached to light another candle.
Rose hastened to reach for the sheet and pulled it to her chin. Perdition! She heaved an inward sigh. There was a time, and not so very long ago, when she could flaunt her naked self in front of any man in the kingdom and have nothing to hide. That, however, was before her breasts, once full and firm, had begun to sag, although ever so slightly, and those ugly dimples had begun to appear, quite uninvited, on her thighs.
Not that anything showed—yet. Not that they didn’t still call her the starriest of the Cyprians, a courtesan of great fascination and allure, whose wit and vitality brought her quickly to the top of her profession. She knew she was still the most beautiful as she drove in the park each day at fashionable five, in a carriage lined in pale blue satin, with an escort of hungry gentlemen trotting beside her carriage in the hope of obtaining a winning glance or a smile.
So she was safe, at least for a while, yet she had come to deeply regret the little lie she’d told Douglas five years ago when she’d erased ten years from her life and said she was twenty-four. Now, nearing forty, she faced the inevitable truth that nature being what it was, sooner or later the truth would out. Rose felt a pang of despair, just thinking of the inevitability of it all. She had always known her days as a fille de joie were numbered. In most respects, it didn’t matter. If the truth be known, she had long since tired of being a man’s mere plaything. Not only that, thanks to her various lovers, she had plenty of money salted away.
Douglas was different, though.
Ah, how she loved him! Ah, how hopeless was her love! There were times when her heart ached with longing, especially at moments like this, when he, now dressed, moved to the foot of her bed and griped the bedpost, leaning in that nonchalant, devil-may-care manner of his, his other thumb tucked into his waistband. The easy stance pulled his superbly tailored coat back, making her think of that splendid broad chest beneath his linen shirt and carelessly tied cravat.
He smiled down at her fondly. “Was it all right?” he asked.
All right? It was marvelous, she wanted to shout. I have never had a lover as wonderful as you. She allowed him a slight smile. “You’ll do.” She lay back and patted the bed beside her. “Come sit a minute before you go.”
He complied immediately, sat beside her, took her hand in both his own and kissed it gently. He trailed his fingers down her cheek and entwined them in her hair. “So beautiful,” he murmured.
Her heart wrenched. That wasn’t love glowing in his eyes, it was kindness. “You need a wife, Douglas,” she said abruptly.
He sat back. “What brought this on?”
“You need to fall in love—get married. Ravensbrook Manor needs a mistress. How much longer will you fritter away your life in London? It’s time you had your sons.”
His face clouded. “I cannot marry. Even if I could, I would never take my bride home to Ravensbrook.” His expression hardened. “Never.”
“But from all I’ve heard, Ravensbrook Manor is a beautiful old mansion—a castle at one time, was it not?”
Here it came again, that sad, near haunted expression that crossed his face whenever he thought of home. She had often wondered why he spent most of his time in London instead of his estate. He had almost told her once, on one of those rare nights when he’d been in his cups and his tongue was loosened.
“There’s a dark cloud hanging over Ravensbrook,” he said. “The same cloud hangs over my title and my fortune. Nothing will change it. It’s been there almost since I was born.”
“But why?”
“Ravensbrook is cursed,” he told her in a suffocated whisper. “Twas a family tragedy—the most heinous of crimes, the most terrible...ah!” At that, he’d covered his face with his hands and bent forward, clearly in a state of despair.
Never had he mentioned the curse again.
* * *
After Douglas left, Rose decided she could never sleep without a bit of help. She arose, threw on her red satin pelisse, and poured herself a glass of brandy from a silver flask, a gift from one of her many wealthy admirers. Standing in front of the fireplace, she lifted her crystal goblet high.
“Here’s to you, Douglas, my dearest love,” she cried. “My unobtainable love,” she added, a catch in her voice, and tossed the brandy down her throat.
Someday Douglas would fall in love and marry, despite his vehement claims to the contrary. Despite his cynical demeanor, underneath he had too much heart—too much kindness and compassion to remain single all his life. He was bound to lose his heart to some woman. What would she be like? Young and beautiful, of course, and smart enough to keep up with this brilliant man.
Some things were never meant to be. She knew that. She accepted that. She raised her empty glass. “A toast to Douglas’s bride!” With rising anguish she hurled the glass into the fireplace and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces.
“Whoever you are, wherever you are. Oh, you fortunate girl!”
Chapter 2
Lucinda Linley sensed something was wrong.
She felt uneasy despite the bursts of merry family laughter that ebbed and flowed around the long, crowded dinner table. Twice now, when she glanced at Papa at the head and Mama at the foot, she caught furtive, worried glances passing between them.
But what could it be? This was such a joyous occasion, this celebration of the wedding of her sister, Amelia. All her six sisters were in attendance, a rare treat these days, what with four of them married and gone to new homes, and now five gone, with Amelia. In spite of the unnamed worry tugging at her, Lucinda felt a swell of happiness as she looked around the dinner table at her parents, her sisters and their husbands. There was nowhere else on earth she would rather be, she reflected, than right here in Essex County, England, in the year 1817, surrounded by her family in her comfortable home.
From across the table, her older sister Bess inquired, “So will you be next, Lucinda?” She raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Or do you plan on forever remaining single?” Bess had arrived for the wedding yesterday, accompanied by her husband, Nicolas, the humorless Earl of Cottraine, and the four rambunctious children she managed to birth in the space of six years.
“I have no idea.” Lucinda strived for an airiness she didn’t feel. Again she wondered what had happened to Bess. Her older sister used to be so gay and lively, always laughing, taken to humming happy tunes. But since her marriage, it seemed as if a heavy weight pressed upon her thin shoulders, causing her mouth to curve perpetually downward, driving her to comments that at best could be described as cutting, at worst, downright cruel.
“That’s not nice, Bess,” spoke up slender Henrietta, the youngest, in her lively, bubbling voice. “Lucinda shall marry when she finds the man she really, truly wants to mar
ry, just as I...” She paused, blushing.
“Just as you love Lord Carlton,” remarked Bess. She turned to Lucinda. “You see? Henrietta cannot possibly become betrothed until you take your proper turn and find a husband. If you don’t, our poor sister shall expire of unrequited love.”
“Oh, it’s requited, all right,” protested Henrietta. “Just wait ‘til Lucinda gets married, then you’ll see. Given the proper dowry, Lord Carlton will propose in a second, and I—”
“Henrietta, we shall discuss that later,” interrupted Papa, sounding uncharacteristically blunt. Lucinda was surprised. Occasionally her father was fond of making a great show of gruffness, lamenting the fates that had presented him with seven daughters and not one son. But everyone knew his protestations were nothing more than sheer pretense. Papa was a quiet, peaceful man who had never raised his voice for any reason that she could recall. He loved his daughters dearly and was inordinately proud of each one. Lucinda could not imagine what had made him sound so cross.
From the foot of the table, her mother spoke up. “Of course you will be the next bride, Lucinda,” she said with her usual wise smile. “You’ve been skipped enough. The next wedding shall positively be yours.”
“High time,” scoffed Bess. To all, she remarked, “She’s begged off too many times, do you not agree?” Amidst scattered laughter, she went on, “Lucinda’s twenty-six, for heaven’s sake. Of a certainty, our dear sister will be a wrinkled old ape leader if she keeps booting her suitors out the door.”
Lucinda suppressed a touch of anger. The usual defenses arranged themselves in her head. She opened her mouth to explain why she, the second of seven daughters, was now the only one left unmarried with the exception of the youngest, Henrietta. She caught herself. Why should she explain? What crime had she committed, other than to refuse every suitor who had asked for her hand? Some weren’t all that bad, she reflected, but she simply hadn’t cared enough to marry any of them. A few were oafs, including this latest. With unease she thought of the Reverend Lucius Whittlesby, the newest candidate for marriage whom her parents were trying—subtly, they thought—to push upon her. According to both Papa and Mama, the Reverend was “most extremely suitable.” Their enthusiasm rather surprised her, considering Whittlesby was untitled, a second son, and not even wealthy in his own right. He possessed a barely adequate income, having been given the living of the parish on his father’s estate. Worse, although he oozed piety, he would not know a bible verse from a bawdy verse, and left all sermons and other church duties to his overworked curate.
Were her parents that desperate?
“Ahem!” said Papa, laying down his knife and fork in that deliberate manner of his that suggested he was about to make some significant pronouncement. “I hardly think our pretty Lucinda could ever be called an ape leader.” He cast an affectionate glance in her direction, making her feel warm and good again. “Lucinda has thus far chosen not to marry of her own free will.” He chuckled. “It most certainly has not been for lack of suitors.”
“Sheer stubbornness,” commented Bess, not altogether kindly.
“Not at all, sister,” cried Catherine, the third daughter, also the most quiet and gentle, who sat next to her young husband, Robert. She placed a loving hand on her husband’s arm and asked, “Do you remember how much we wanted to get married? And how Lucinda, who in the scheme of things was supposed to be next, said go ahead, she could wait?” She turned grateful eyes toward her sister. “It was an act from the kindness of your heart, and I shall always be grateful.”
“It was nothing,” Lucinda murmured, feeling her old, secret guilt. She had always known she must marry some day but was in no rush. In fact, she would have welcomed any excuse to put off a marriage of convenience to someone she did not love. She had insisted upon stepping aside again when Emily, the fourth daughter, wanted to marry, then for Diana, the fifth, and today, the sixth daughter, Amelia. But lately, much to her increasing disquietude, she had the feeling time was running out. Patient though her parents were, she suspected they’d had their fill of her excuses and would soon declare they would hear no more of them.
Bess’s husband, the humorless earl, cleared his throat. It was a gesture that made Lucinda inwardly cringe because it always meant he was about to pontificate in his dull, heavy fashion. “I most greatly admire you, sir,” he began, addressing Papa, “‘tis not an easy task, marrying off seven daughters, finding husbands worthy of them, and, of course, providing dowries that would be deemed suitable.”
To Lucinda’s surprise, a shadow crossed the features of Papa’s usually pleasant face. “I thank you, sir,” he replied, “although bear in mind I have married off only the five. Lucinda shall be next. Then Henrietta...” Oddly, Papa broke off his sentence and in an obvious effort to change the subject, signaled the butler for more dessert.
Later, after dinner, guests arrived for the evening’s festivities, among them the Reverend Lucius Whittlesby. Lucinda managed to ignore him until, later in the evening, she felt a tap on her shoulder and reluctantly turned. There stood the pompous vicar, his more-than-ample girth attired in somber black. “Quite a joyous occasion, is it not, Miss Linley? I shall say a special thanks in my prayers tonight.”
“How kind of you.” Looking into the vicar’s small, close-set eyes, Lucinda had to struggle not to show her dislike. She could not abide a man whose nearly every sentence held a reminder of his piety.
The vicar’s eyes swept over her, resting a fraction of a moment too long on the low-cut bodice of her blue gossamer satin dinner gown. “Miss Linley, you look quite handsome tonight,” he pronounced, a lustful gleam in his eye. “I liken your hair to—”
“You are most kind, sir,” she interrupted hastily. She had already heard the vicar’s trite recitations concerning the handsomeness of her tall, willowy figure, as well as the loveliness of her shining cloud of chestnut hair, her eyes which he likened to two large, limpid pools of velvet brown, her rosy, cherub lips, and her “perky little nose.”
“I fancied you’d want to be one of the first to hear my exciting news,” the Reverend continued. “I was offered the living at Severnson. I was indecisive at first, not wanting to leave my current, most pleasant surroundings”—he lifted a significant eyebrow, indicating ‘pleasant surroundings’ might well refer to present company—” but the Lord offered his guidance, and I decided to accept.” He sighed, a touch dramatically, his two chins jiggling slightly. “I shall be alone, of course, as I have been ever since my dear wife went to her heavenly reward.”
“Such a tragic loss,” said Lucinda, thinking to herself the vicar was far from alone. His wife died giving birth to their sixth child, leaving five small children behind, as well as the new baby. “At least you have your little ones to give you solace in your time of grief,” Lucinda murmured with a beatific smile.
The vicar regarded her with a meaningful look in his eye. “My poor children have been motherless long enough. I must confess, lately I have been looking for a wife. That most fortunate young woman, whoever she might be, will not only inherit a ready-made family, she shall no doubt provide a few more children of her own.” He eyed a plate of bonbons, popped one into his mouth, and chewed with delight. “Hmm...delicious.” While licking his fingertips, he allowed his gaze to fall to Lucinda’s hips, regarding the area thoughtfully, as if he was assessing her capacity for carrying a child. If he could, he would no doubt measure.
“Nothing like a large family to fulfill a man, eh?” Whittlesby awarded her a toothy grin. “Lots of sons.”
“Indeed.” Lucinda felt her heart grow cold.
“I feel ‘tis my solemn duty to produce a large family—a dozen or so children, at the very least. My way of serving God, so to speak.”
“How admirable, Reverend Whittlesby.” She wondered how many wives he would wear out and send to an early grave before he achieved his noble goal. She picked up the candy bowl. “Do have another bon-bon.”
I cannot marry this man,
she thought as she smiled up at him. But on the other hand, if her parents had their way, she must marry someone, and soon. So perhaps...? Whittlesby was not a bad sort, just dull and excessively pious and self righteous. A least she could never imagine he would be mean or cruel, not like Bess’s—
Lucinda stopped her thought, feeling guilt. She looked across the room to where her eldest sister and her husband sat, unsmiling. The Earl was a thinish, mirthless man with a grim slit of a mouth. She had never liked him, and had often wondered how Bess could have married him. But then, who was she to criticize when she, too, could soon be marrying a man she didn’t love, let alone like?
* * *
Later, after the guests were gone, Lucinda found her father alone at his desk in his study. She slipped in, shut the door, and inquired, “Papa, is something wrong? Tonight I noticed you and Mama seemed uneasy.”
Papa looked up and smiled. “I thought you might stop by. Do sit down. You’ve had little time for me what with all your sisters home. I fear I’ve been neglected.”
“Not so,” Lucinda exclaimed in feigned surprise, “you know very well you have seven daughters who adore you and clamor for your time. How could you possibly even remember me with all your daughters here, under one roof for a change?”
A gentle smile crossed her father’s face. “Who else goes riding with me nearly every morning? Who else shares a love for ancient history? Who else accompanies me into the woods to watch the birds? You are special to me, Lucinda.”
She was perfectly attuned to his meaning. Much as he loved his other daughters, she knew she held a special place in his heart. She also knew that as a man who eschewed partiality, her father would never come closer than this to admitting she was his favorite.
He held a special place in her heart, too. Lucinda gazed at her father’s stooped shoulders, his kindly, care-worn face, his hair, long since turned gray. He was only a baron, not so very wealthy, yet he had managed by dint of hard work and careful managing of his small estate to produce a handsome dowry for each daughter. “I am so proud to have you as my father.”
The Selfless Sister Page 1
