When Angels Fall

by Meagan Mckinney

  “I believe in marriage, my lord.”

  “I see.” The marquis thought on this for a while.

  “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “Would you be surprised to find that I share that same sentiment?”

  “What sentiment, my lord?”

  “That I believe in marriage too.”

  “No, my lord. I would believe it.” Mrs. Myers lowered her head. “Your mother’s situation still pains you, if only you would admit it.”

  Tramore stiffened at the housekeeper’s frankness. “That’s enough, Mrs. Myers. You go too far.”

  Though she should have been chastened by the marquis’s reply, the housekeeper instead burst out with another unwanted opinion. “Perhaps you’re right, Lord Ivan, but I’ve known you all your life and I remember when your mother died. And I’ve seen how tough and silent a little boy becomes when he finds he has no other home but the streets.” When she was finished, she watched for the marquis’s reaction.

  “I see,” Tramore uttered with difficulty.

  The housekeeper finally looked chastised. “Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered. She then looked around the room to see if he needed anything. “Would you like the girl to bring more coal for the fire, or will that be all?”

  “No, you may go.” He shot her one last disapproving look, then turned away.

  “Thank you, sir.” Mrs. Myers made her way to the door, but before she exited, she paused and looked as if she wanted to speak.

  “Is there something you’ve forgotten?” Tramore acknowledged her.

  “Aye, my lord. ’Tis not been my place to say such things . . . but if I may, you’re not a bad man. That’s what I tell everyone. You’re not a bad man and I hope someday you’ll find a ladylove who can convince you of that.” Suddenly, as if she remembered what such an outburst could cost her, she brought herself upright and said, “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  “Don’t be absurd.” The marquis’s face was so tight from unexpressed emotion it looked as if it were hewn from marble.

  “If I may be excused?”

  “Of course.”

  The silence in the room was leaden and Mrs. Myers’s brow cleared considerably when she was finally able to close the door behind her.

  But in the library, the marquis’s brow furrowed more deeply. Something was on his mind. He ran his knuckles down his scar, but only twice. Then he stood and strode out the door himself.

  He went up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He passed the second floor where the chambermaids were already setting his apartments to rights for the evening. He passed the third floor where most of the house servants had their rooms. Yet he didn’t stop until he was in the enormous fourth-floor attic. He discreetly pulled the attic door closed behind him.

  Tramore looked around, his only light from a candle he had picked up from the servants’ landing. It didn’t take him long to find the path he sought. Through a maze created of tattered French chairs, rotting Elizabethan chests, and fractured gilt mirrors—an entire history of the old owner—he followed his own previous footprints in the dust to reach the article he wanted. It was a huge canvas; the top rail of its frame easily met with Tramore’s chin. A great linen lay over it, and when he snatched it off, a cloud of dust sent the candlelight shimmering over the portrait of an exquisitely beautiful woman.

  She was young, but not so young as to be unaware of her effect upon people, particularly those of the opposite sex. Her eyes were eloquently expressive. They were crystalline blue and heavily lashed, but it was not coyness they held, never that, for her expression was much too artless. Rather it seemed as if they held a promise, or a secret that even she had yet to discover fully, much less practice upon the world around her. But someday when she did understand this secret she would bring men to their knees.

  But not the eleventh marquis.

  He stood before her, his features taut in the sputtering candlelight. The inscrutable expression on his face was as close to hate as it was to love, as close to joy as it was to pain.

  Slowly he reached out his forefinger and began tracing the girl’s firm, sweetly curved jawline. His finger moved higher to her nose, which was slightly haughty yet also gamine. His thumb brushed her flaxen-haired temple and he traced one silvery blond curl to the level of her lips, where his forefinger once more took up its quest. His last touch was upon the rose-petal curve of her lower lip, and as if this were almost too much for him, he closed his eyes.

  “Lissa,” he uttered in a tight voice. His eyes flew open but he was held captive, marveling at the girl’s femininity. For she was as vulnerable in it as she was made powerful by it.

  He bent down and wiped the dust off the brass plaque on the frame’s bottom rail. The fair-haired girl’s name was engraved upon it in heavy ornate script. It said:Miss Elizabeth Victorine Alcester of Nodding Knoll 1850 .

  He straightened and gave the portrait one last glittering stare. Then, as if he were fully aware of his own madness, Tramore tipped back his dark head and laughed. He ended this strange self-indulgence by violently whipping the linen covering back over the portrait. He left the attic without a backward glance.

  Some time later that evening the gold-painted calèche from Fanny Kimbel’s pulled up in front of the marquis’s door. A fine mist had begun to fall just after eight o’clock, but as Fanny always saw to it, her girls were well shielded from the weather. When this particular beauty emerged from the leather-upholstered, satin-hung interior, all she had to do was pull her fox mantle a little bit closer to keep warm. The trip to the door was only a few steps, and soon she was inside the well-lit hall, being attended to by the marquis’s majordomo.

  Upstairs the marquis was waiting in his apartments. Attired for the evening in a black cutaway and trousers, Tramore looked the quintessential peer, rich and disciplined. A deep-blue silk cravat tied around his wing collar broke some of the severity of his dress, as did a matching blue foulard waistcoat that showed along the edges of his coat.

  He waited in the anteroom, nursing a small brandy and lounging in an old-fashioned wing chair. When he heard the footfall of visitors, his head turned to the door.

  Mrs. Kimbel’s most expensive girl entered Tramore’s apartments with a sweep of crinoline and perfume. Roseanne was a gorgeous creature, from her perfectly set glossy brown ringlets to her costly white satin slippers. Her powder-blue watered silk gown made her a vision of elegance. Its bodice was alluring yet tasteful, the waist tiny yet not artificial.

  “My name is Roseanne, my lord. Mrs. Kimbel said you had need of companionship.” Roseanne tilted her head to the marquis. Tramore’s mouth lifted in an arrogant half-grin and he stood to greet her. With one look from him, Biddles, the majordomo, immediately closed the door and left them in private.

  “I hope the weather didn’t make your journey too tedious.” Tramore put down his drink.

  “Nothing could be tedious this evening, my lord.” Roseanne’s gray eyes narrowed. She was obviously pleased with Tramore’s dark good looks, and even more so with his lean, broad-shouldered figure.

  The marquis also stared assessingly at her. But his eyes were more dispassionate; the gleam of lust lent them their only sparkle. “Fanny has excellent taste,” he finally commented.

  “Mrs. Kimbel was determined to send a girl who would please you.” Roseanne walked up to him and put a finger to his finely hewn lips. “And I shall.”

  Tramore looked away, desire and, yet, disinterest etched on his Adonis-like face.

  Unhappy with his sudden aloofness, Roseanne then kissed him. She stood on her tiptoes, placed her soft hands on either side of his rigid face, and pulled him down to her lips. Though Tramore was just barely cooperating, it was still a most intimate kiss. Afterward, at least Roseanne looked quite hungry for more. The marquis only stared at her, his eyes heavy-lidded yet watchful.

  She whispered, “There’s no need for you to be so distant, my lord. Not on a rainy night such as this. I promise
you, it will be far better to let me keep you warm than to go to your cold bed alone.”

  He looked down. Roseanne was already unbuttoning his waistcoat. Her hands then worked beneath his cravat to unfasten his shirt. A warm palm slid beneath the linen and massaged his hard, hair-covered chest.

  “You’re a greedy little one, aren’t you?” he stated flatly. Tramore placed his hand over hers and made her stop. He did not, however, remove it.

  “As you should be, love.” She licked her soft, full lips. “Fanny said she hasn’t sent over a girl in months, my lord. Months . . .” She whispered hotly, “Has it truly been that long? My God, what a raging bull you will be . . .”

  She watched him. Tramore just looked on, as if he were actually trying to divorce himself from her charms. The heat in his eyes was the only thing that told her he was not altogether successful.

  She began whispering again.

  “Do you know that I begged Fanny to be the one to come tonight? Rachel who was here three months ago has never forgotten her night with you, my lord. She still murmurs that it was exquisite.” She repeated breathlessly, “Exquisite.”

  Tramore’s gaze left hers and wandered down to her bosom where several mahogany curls rested in teasing disarray. He picked up one curl and rubbed it between his strong fingers.

  Watching, Roseanne smiled slyly. Her cold lover was beginning to thaw.

  “My lord, I dressed my hair just for you. Does it please you?”

  Tramore smiled cynically.

  “It’s scented, my lord. I rinse my hair in rosewater. Here, put it to your nose.” She guided the hand that held the curl to his nose. After a moment she sighed. “Does that not please you?”

  “It does.” He dropped the curl.

  “So you like my hair?” Roseanne would have continued, but she found the marquis beginning to unhook the back of her dress. When she looked up again, he caught her mouth in a fierce, impatient kiss. Though her attire was quite complicated, it did come off, piece by tortuous piece. And she gasped with pleasure every time Tramore’s hands came closer and closer to her skin.

  Soon they were both naked on the marquis’s splendid full-tester bed. A crackling fire in the hearth kept them warm, but still Roseanne shivered, for she felt a delicious chill run down her spine as her hands roamed the marquis’s hard, muscular body. In a moment of playfulness, she pinched one of Tramore’s flat nipples. She wanted to see him smile, and when one corner of his mouth turned up in a grin, she was so ecstatic that her hand involuntarily went to touch his cheek, the one that was scarred.

  He caught her hand in midair. His grip was iron-hard.

  “What is it, my lord?” she whispered fearfully, seeing the light die out of his black eyes.

  “Don’t.”

  “If I cannot touch you there, then where?”

  “Here,” he groaned, guiding her hand downward.

  “I see,” she said softly, wrapping her hand around him. She presented him with a coy, mysterious smile for she knew flirtation was her art, but she was bewildered by his reaction. Even though they were entwined in a most intimate embrace, the marquis now seemed impossibly distant and utterly unreachable. With only one intent apparent on his features, he kissed her. Though his tongue stole the breath from her soul, Roseanne suddenly had the awful feeling that the notorious Lord Powerscourt was wretchedly disappointed that it was she beneath his hands and not some other woman.

  PART ONE

  We should doubt whether the woman who is indifferent to her own appearance be a woman at all. At all events, she must either be a hardened character, or an immense heiress, or a first-rate beauty—or think herself one.

  HONORÉ DE BALZAC

  The Quarterly Review,March 1847

  CHAPTER ONE

  If she had to wear the puce-colored spencer one more time, she would weep. Lissa Alcester turned her azure eyes toward the odious jacket-bodice that was now laid out on her bed. She reached for it, but then pulled her hand back as if she actually dreaded putting the garment on.

  Once it had been extraordinarily fine. Fashioned out of a costly French bombazine, the jacket’s workmanship had been exquisite. But it had been given to her in the days when words like “costly” and “exquisite” had no real meaning to her. When luxury had so dominated her life, she had hardly noticed it, never imagining she would one day be without it.

  Now Lissa could hardly remember when the spencer had been made. But she suspected it had been a long time ago, for she wryly noted the many let-out seams where the bustline had had to be increased. She noted also the frayed collar and the black machine-made lace that had been tacked to it to hide its wear. To further the insult, the spencer’s sleeves were too short and the waist, while still fitting well, rode up in the back, and she was constantly forced to reach around and check that her cotton chemise was not peeking out.

  Lissa turned away in despair. Her thoughts brightened a bit, however, when she thought of the reason why she and Evvie were going out that morning. Great-aunt Sophie’s post had most likely arrived at Bishop’s Mercantile. And perhaps this month, like so many months before when they’d been in need of something, they would receive just a bit extra. Enough for a new spencer, she mused.

  “Lissa! Come see! Have I got it on right?” She heard her sister’s voice call up from the parlor. Without further deliberation, Lissa pulled the worn spencer over her chemise and buttoned its horn buttons down to the tip of its pointed front. Then she made her way down the narrow stairway of the cottage.

  Lissa’s younger sister, Evelyn Grace, was sitting on a well-worn blue sofa before the stone hearth. When Lissa entered the room, she smiled softly at her. Evvie looked up, but her gaze never quite found her. It was obvious she was blind, but Evvie’s eyelids didn’t droop, nor did her head tilt back at every sound like those born with no sight. Her tragedy had struck after her girlhood and that was why her eyes were now opened wide, sparkling with anticipation, searching for something she would never see.

  “Oh, Evvie, it looks marvelous!” Lissa sat down next to her on the sofa and studied her sister’s handiwork. Evvie had placed a small violet-covered bonnet most artfully atop her brunette head. Her dark, lustrous hair had already been coiled and pinned, then neatly tucked into a matching black snood.

  “They’re wearing them a little bit back this year, I believe.” Lissa studied her a moment longer, then pushed the bonnet back a half inch toward her nape. With that, the small curled brim smartly framed Evvie’s pretty oval face.

  “Oh, Lissa, we shouldn’t have bought it . . . but do I look—?”

  “Gorgeous! You look gorgeous! And it was worth every tuppence.” Lissa squeezed Evvie’s fingers. She did look gorgeous. Her only wish was that her sister could be able to see for herself in the mirror.

  “It was quite dear in price,” Evvie mentioned.

  “Nonsense,” Lissa told her. “Besides, I have a feeling Great-aunt Sophie is going to be especially generous this month. We’ll do just fine.”

  “Oh, I hope so. You need some things too, Lissa.” Evvie frowned while she put on her gloves. “Are you wearing . . . the spencer?” she asked, as if that were the most horrifying thought in the world.

  Lissa laughed. “Yes, but I’m sure I’ll be getting a new one soon.” Not wanting to make Evvie feel any more guilty about the new bonnet, she hastily changed the subject. “Where do you suppose she is right now?”

  “Who?”

  “Great-aunt Sophie.” Lissa pulled on her own black leather gloves. Her expression turned dreamy. “Will the solicitor say she’s traveling down the Nile? Or sippingcaféau lait in a Parisian café? Oh, what adventures she must have! I wish we’d met her or at least heard about her before Mother and Father . . .” She paused. How she hated to mentionthat . “Passed on,” she finished.

  “You think about Aunt Sophie a lot, don’t you?”

  Lissa met Evvie’s sightless eyes. “Not that much,” she managed.

  “Why don’t we write her
solicitor again and ask him if she might be free to visit us this winter?”

  Lissa shook her head and handed Evvie her shawl. “We’ve done that a hundred times, and you know it. Sophie has never answered any of our letters. I suppose she must feel the time she has left is precious, and that’s why she’s been off all these years seeing the world.”

  “But wouldn’t it be grand if she’d visit us. Just once!” Evvie exclaimed, flipping the points of her shawl across her arms. “She must have some fondness for us. After all, she has sent the pension.”

  “Yes, she has sent the pension. But I don’t imagine she’ll ever make a trip to boring little Nodding Knoll. If she were to come, I’d ask instead to meet her in London.” Lissa’s cheeks suddenly flamed with excitement. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if she took us traveling with her?”

  “Traveling? Where would we go?”

  “We could go pig-sticking in India or ride a gondola in Venice or—”

  “Or be anywhere instead of living spinsterish lives in Nodding Knoll,” Evvie finished sheepishly. “I wish Sophie would come and at least take you away, Lissa. You deserve it, you know, what with all the sacrifices you’ve made for George and me.”

  Sobering, Lissa picked up her reticule. “I’m not a spinster, Evvie. I’m only twenty-one.”

  “And I’m only nineteen and yet, I daresay, I live a spinsterish life. It must be worse for you.”

  “No, it’s not worse for me. I like our life here. In some ways it’s much better than when we lived at Alcester House.”

  “I suppose. But things are so difficult for you sometimes. And I wish so much that I could do something, but there’s nothing—”

  “You do everything. You keep George and me going.” With that truth unleashed, Lissa led her sister out the door. She was not going to let Evvie bemoan the fact that they both were still unmarried. Besides, she felt guilty enough for all that had happened in the past, and she didn’t want Evvie to feel guilty too. Her blindness wasn’t the cause of their spinsterhood anyway. Everyone knew it was The Scandal.