Countess So Shameless (Scandal in London)

by Liana Lefey

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Liana LeFey

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612185378

  ISBN-10: 1612185371

  To my wonderful husband/hero, for giving me wings and encouraging me to aim for the stars.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks go out to:

  My parents, for their unwavering love and support and for providing the perfect example of true romance.

  Sonia Lara, for being the most amazing beta reader (and friend!) on the planet.

  Kim Frasier, for handing me my very first romance novel when we were fourteen—and for all the others that soon followed.

  Sherry Thomas, for taking the time to mentor and encourage a scared newbie.

  My fabulous agent, Barbara, for her enormous leap of faith with the girl whose “dream house” was a little stone cottage. Thank God for her sense of humor!

  Lindsay Guzzardo and Krista Stroever of Montlake/Amazon, for their incredible patience and willingness to help me crest that steep learning curve and whip this story into shape.

  My ARWA chapter mates, for sharing their priceless knowledge as well as their relentless enthusiasm.

  Montlake/Amazon, for giving me my big break.

  Thanks for believing in me. Y’all rock!

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Glossary of Terms & Phrases

  Sneak Peek: To Wed in Scandal

  About the Author

  IGNORANCE IS BLISS

  Versailles, late 1744

  SHAMELESS ROUÉ, INDEED. Maman was right about him.

  From her concealed vantage point, Mélisande observed as Lord Alessandro Orsini, Emissary of the Holy Roman Empire, cast his spell over yet another swarm of females. Raucous laughter erupted from the man, causing heads to turn.

  Her lip curled at the wave of feminine coos and titters that followed. Their display rivaled anything she’d witnessed to date. If the silly creatures batted their lashes any harder, the resulting windstorm would send the object of their affection flying across the ballroom.

  Edging a bit closer to get a better view, Mélisande shook her head. Why did they adore him so? He wasn’t at all handsome. Not like Monsieur Falloure, who caused an unbidden sigh to escape her (and every other female between the ages of twelve and the hereafter) every time she laid eyes on him.

  No. Tall and whip thin, Orsini was all angles and planes. His overly large dark eyes and longish nose were topped by a mop of common, perpetually untidy, brown hair. His lips were rather on the thin side, too—although to be fair, he did have a very broad, altogether quite appealing smile. It was his one redeeming feature, this glittering grin. It lit his whole face, miraculously rearranging his features into something not necessarily handsome but...interesting.

  Another wicked chuckle burst forth from the man. Arching a suggestive brow, he leaned over to whisper into an eager ear. Seconds later, a cascade of giggles issued forth from the listener’s rouged lips, her painted fan snapping up to both conceal and cool the deep flush now staining her cheeks. Orsini offered his arm, and the girl’s chin lifted a fraction, her eyes gleaming with triumph—she’d just become queen bee.

  “Merde,” Mélisande whispered, shaking her head. She’d never seen anything like it. The girl was practically panting, and they’d met only an hour ago.

  She quashed a chuckle as her gaze shifted to the abandoned hive, where the new favorite’s contemporaries looked on with narrowed eyes. The fools wouldn’t have to wait long. Thus far, the longest affaire had lasted four days. He danced out of every trap they laid with all the skill of a fox evading a pack of hounds.

  It was the perfect analogy. He was very like a fox, clever and quick, the chasing of chickens his chief pleasure in life. Stifling more laughter, Mélisande decided then and there to privately refer to him as Le Renard.

  Her mother had nearly suffered an apoplectic fit upon learning of the man’s presence at court. “C’est un vrai coureur de jupons, ma fille. Ne pas aller près de lui!” she’d admonished, promising all manner of consequences should she be caught within twenty paces of the cheerful lifter of skirts.

  Which had, of course, only spurred her curiosity. She had become Orsini’s shadow, and when he was not present, she lurked at the edges of his retinue. By remaining inconspicuous, she’d managed to overhear several very interesting conversations during which his former amours described in great detail (and with great relish) his skill in the bedchamber.

  It was a fascinating education in the art of debauchery.

  Most astounding was the discovery that the majority of his erstwhile lovers continued to regard him with fondness and affection despite having been left behind. She’d even witnessed some offering him blatant invitations to revisit their romantic relationship. One might expect a cast-off lover to bitterly mourn the end of an affaire or become spiteful, but certainly not to exhibit such amiable, not to mention shameless, behavior. It was beyond comprehension.

  Slinking from her hiding place, Mélisande again followed his progress, mindful to stay in the periphery. He cut a dashing figure this evening, resplendent in a mint silk waistcoat trimmed with silver embroidery, jewels, and a fortune in fine lace. So opulent was his dress that had he been better groomed and less careless in his manner, he would have made a perfect dandy. But his untamed curls, mischievous eyes, and impish grin instead turned him into a perfect rogue.

  Orsini was now regaling his admirers with yet another tale—of debauchery, no doubt. Flouting her mother’s warning, Mélisande wandered over, staying toward the back. A little thrill of excitement mingled with trepidation ran through her, to be this close to the proverbial forbidden fruit.

  Suddenly, the orator paused. “D’Alembert!”

  Mélisande turned in the direction of his shout. Seeing no one, she spun back around to see mint silk and jeweled buttons. With dread in her heart, she slowly looked up to see Le Renard’s warm, brown eyes staring back at her, full of wry amusement. A muffled giggle sounded to her left, and she felt the heat of a flush rising in her cheeks as she realized they were all looking at her.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle. Je m’excuse,” he said, bowing. Sidestepping her, he whisked away to catch up with his friend.

  Gone.

  Speechless, Mélisande stared after him, her shoulders tingling from where he’d touched her. A slow rush of warmth spread throughout her body, fever-like, causing
her to wonder briefly if she was taking ill. Irritation quickly chased away the odd sensation. The man had hardly paused! He might have run into a—a footstool rather than a person.

  Disappointment pierced her. Part of her wished he’d been more solicitous after his careless blunder, despite the fact that such notice would only spell trouble for her. Sighing, she trudged back to the safety of the gallery to watch in silence.

  The ball was a lovely display. Skirts swirled elegantly as the ladies danced the quadrille, their jewels glittering like star fire in soft, golden light cast from the chandeliers high above. Through it all, Le Renard made his way from flower to flower, charming all and sundry. He even paired with La Marquise de Pompadour, who laughed in delight several times during their dance.

  With all her young heart, Mélisande wished herself part of the goings-on below. But she dared not. On good faith, Maman and Papa had allowed her to attend tonight’s festivities, but as a spectator only. She’d given her word that she would not attract attention to herself in any way, and to break their trust would not only disappoint them but result in the further restriction of her already limited freedom.

  “It is time she was told.”

  Mélisande awakened to hear Maman and Papa talking softly on the other side of their chambers. It was quite chilly, so she opted to remain snuggled under the warm blankets a bit longer.

  A cup clinked against a saucer, the noise seeming overly loud in the quiet room.

  “Are you certain it’s necessary?” her father asked. “Would it not be better to simply let things remain as they are?”

  “She must be made aware—for her own safety,” replied her mother. “And then we will leave Versailles and never return.”

  The china clinked again, and Isabelle d’Orleans Compton, Countess of Wilmington, released a sigh of frustration. “She should not be here. Mais, Louis a insisté,” she grated, her voice laced with bitterness. “Fool that I am, I could not refuse him, despite the danger.”

  Mélisande was now fully awake.

  Her father’s voice was gentle but firm. “Relax, Belle. We return to England in a few days. And in a couple of years she’ll marry Newcastle’s heir, uniting our families and lands, and none of this will matter.”

  Marry David? Mélisande could barely refrain from leaping up in protest. David was all but a brother to her. The very idea that they would consider him for a match was absurd!

  “England is not far enough away to prevent a disaster, and nor will her marriage stop it, if matters here worsen—Spencer, we must tell her,” her mother snapped. “The evidence is plain if one knows what to look for. If the wrong sort takes notice, all the lies we’ve so carefully planted will be for nothing.”

  A chair scraped back, the sound followed by footsteps. Back and forth they came and went, pacing the far side of the room.

  “We cannot protect her forever,” Isabelle persisted. “Things here are getting...complicated.”

  The pacing stopped.

  Burning with curiosity, Mélisande strained to hear her mother.

  “No matter how Louis ignores it, there is deep unrest here. If there is a rebellion while France is fighting a war—and I fully expect him to declare war on England, now that he has agreed to shelter Charles Stuart—the members of this court will grasp at any straw for their own gain. Mélisande would provide a most convenient means to an end. She must be on guard against treachery. It could mean her life. I hate this as much as you, Spencer, but it must be done.”

  Her father sighed, at once sounding frustrated and resigned. “When?”

  “He has arranged a private audience this afternoon. You do not have to be present. I would certainly understand if—”

  “No,” he cut in. “She’ll need both of us when she learns the truth.”

  Dread gripped Mélisande’s heart. Her mind focused on maintaining the semblance of slumber, on holding her tongue and remaining motionless. She waited while her mother summoned Marie, waited until the noises in the room gradually changed to the normal sounds of morning preparations.

  After a suitable amount of time had elapsed, Mélisande inhaled and stirred, stretching.

  “Bonjour, ma fille. Today is a very important day. You are to be presented to His Majesty,” her mother announced. “You must make a good impression—the best impression!” Snapping her fingers for Marie, she began pulling gowns from the wardrobe.

  “Why should the king wish to see me?” Mélisande asked, sliding a leg out from beneath the covers. Easing her foot down to the floor, she winced at the contact. It was like ice, in spite of the roaring fire in the hearth.

  As her mother’s hands stilled momentarily in their task, Mélisande noted their trembling. That, more than anything she’d heard this morning, caused her gut to twist with fear. Not even Uncle George in a tearing rage gave her maman pause.

  “I’ve told you of my youth here,” Isabelle replied, smoothing the wrinkles out of the fabric in her hands. “The king and I are old friends, and I have written of you many times. Now, he wishes to meet you in person. It is a great honor,” she finished, picking up a corset and loosening the ties with nervous little jerks. “Now, come. Your hair must be washed and restyled.” She frowned, lifting a dull, lifeless hank that had worked loose from Mélisande’s braid. “You cannot meet the king like this.”

  “Maman, you made me wear the wig and powder last night, remember? And that hideous gown!”

  “Oui,” Isabelle clipped. “It, and the gown, was appropriate for the occasion. Now, it is not.” She raised a delicate brow, quelling further protest. “Marie,” she called, “heat the water. And get out the green calèche.”

  As the little maid rushed to comply, Isabelle shook out a deep green silk brocade manteau trimmed with gold wire and picked with gold and amber Venetian glass beads. Laying it aside, she then held up and examined a matching stomacher so heavily ornamented the underlying cloth could hardly be seen. Maman would look like a queen dressed in it. Leaving it on the bed, her mother went to pour some fragrance into the washbasin.

  Knowing she had nothing nearly as grand, Mélisande went and looked over the few adult dresses they’d brought along for her to wear. She selected a pale blue silk ensemble with a modest neckline. It was rather plain when compared to the green gown, but at least it wasn’t ugly—unlike the monstrosity she’d worn last night. The graduated row of gossamer bows down the front was a nice touch, reminding her of Madam de Pompadour’s gown the night before.

  “You will not be wearing any of those,” her mother announced from across the room. “You will wear this.”

  Mélisande’s eyes widened with incredulity as she looked at the green gown. “But, Maman, you and Papa said you did not wish me to attract attention.”

  Her mother pinched the bridge of her nose, screwing her eyes shut for a moment. “Mélisande, this is the king. You must look your very best. And Papa and I will be with you every moment,” she reassured. “Come, the water is ready and we must hurry if your hair is to be finished in time.”

  Together the women washed and dried Mélisande’s long, dark hair, rubbing it with a silk cloth until the soft tresses shone. It was like finest bistre ink, so dark a brown as to appear nearly black. Then came the braiding, coiling, and curling.

  While they worked, Mélisande ate a cold breakfast of bread and fruit. When her coiffure was finished, her mother carefully placed some jeweled pins among the curls. A silk wrapper was tied over the arrangement to preserve their work while they lightly dusted her face with powder. Then on went stockings, garters, stays, panniers, petticoats, jupe, stomacher, and manteau. Les engageantes were added to the cuffs of the tight, elbow-length sleeves—five layers of creamy, diaphanous lace.

  Her mother clasped a thick gold chain about her neck, from which was suspended the d’Orleans crest worked in gold and rubies. The silk wrapper was removed from her coiffure, and Marie buckled on her high-heeled shoes and daubed expensive parfum on her wrists and throat.

&
nbsp; When Mélisande looked in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself.

  Isabelle quickly finished her own toilette, having already styled her hair in a simple chignon with a few loose curls about her lovely face. As they prepared to leave, she and Marie carefully draped the calèche over Mélisande’s shoulders, pulling the wired hood up and over to cast her face into deep shadow.

  Ladies often wore such garments in order to conceal their identities; people would merely assume she was on her way to a rendezvous. Still, Isabelle was concerned. The less people saw, the better. It was one thing for her daughter to appear as a young girl or to have her heavily disguised so as to be unrecognizable, as she’d been last night, but to have her look like an adult was quite different, given the circumstances.

  The couple flanked their daughter as they wended their way through the palace.

  “Keep your head bowed,” her mother reminded her in a low whisper. “Only when we are in the presence of the king are you to raise your eyes, and only when I tell you.”

  The guards admitted them into the outer receiving room to join the others who cooled their heels awaiting the king’s leisure. They did not have to wait long.

  Mélisande followed them in, her stomach in knots. She kept her head bowed while the king dismissed his servants and guards, seeing only the passing of shoes and stockinged legs. At last, the door closed.

  “Isabelle, Wilmington,” a deep voice greeted them softly.

  A rustling of silk.

  “You need never bow to me, Belle.”

  Mélisande raised her head just enough to see a heavily beringed hand take Isabelle’s fingers and raise her up. The same voice addressed her papa, and the three of them conversed for a few moments. Finally, a pair of jewel-encrusted shoes came to rest in front of her.

  “This is the child?”

  “Yes, your majesty,” replied her mother. “I am honored to present my daughter, Mademoiselle Mélisande Esmée d’Orleans Compton. Mélisande, you may now raise your eyes.”

  Trembling, Mélisande did as told. Standing before her was His Majesty, Louis XV, King of France. Though she’d faced royalty many times before, for some reason, this man’s presence filled her with both awe and trepidation.