by Maggie Dove
Angel of Windword
He definitely will have his way with me and my place will be in his bed!
Mon Dieu! A guttural sound escaped her lips when she recalled her own words. She was not certain whether she was more distressed at having thrown those awful words at her stepmother or the dreadful possibility that Nicholas had actually overheard them.
Attempting to sound nonchalant, she stammered Victoria’s original question to him, “H-how long had you been standing there, monsieur? Did you...did you hear anything?” she asked in a faint whisper, her voice cracking with embarrassment.
“Hear what, my love?’ he asked innocuously.
“Monsieur, how long had you been standing there?” she repeated with mounting dread. Then gazing at him, she suddenly wished she had not asked. His dark, blue eyes sparkled with complete understanding as he stood casually against the doorjamb, strong arms folded across his chest, a devil of a smile beginning to form on his face.
“How long, monsieur…?”
Nicholas did not wait for her to finish. Without another word, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard on the lips. Then, just as suddenly, he let go of her, allowing her to fall back against the doorpost.
“Long enough to know I’m going to enjoy those willful ways of yours. Not to mention putting you in that bed of mine.”
Angel of Windword © 2009 by Maggie Dove
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Cover Art © 2009 by Amanda Kelsey
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eBook ISBN: 978-1-926704-65-4
Print ISBN: 978-1-926704-73-9
First eBook Edition * October 2009
First Print Edition * October 2009
Printed in The United States of America.
Angel of Windword
Maggie Dove
Prologue
England
November, 1898
She clutched her cloak tightly to her chest as she waited for him at the front gate. Squinting against the blinding rainfall, relief overtook her when she finally recognized the tall, draped figure of a man making his way toward her. “James, at last! You’ve been gone all evening,” she yelled over the howling wind.
The stench of liquor gripped her violently, offending her nostrils, as he rushed past her. “You’ve been drinking,” she accused him, her hand rubbing the aching shoulder he had so brusquely bumped against. Convinced that her words were dulled by the tempest, she pleaded after his retreating form, “James, please wait for me!”
James did not reply. He continued his pendulous walk toward the looming estate.
The sudden sound of thunder made her tremble as she quickly followed him into one of the many cottages located on the premises.
Once inside, her clothes soaked, she dragged herself down the narrow wooden stairs and stood at the entrance of the wine cellar. She pushed open the creaky old door and stumbled in.
“Silly woman, why must you wait for me in the rain?” James demanded as he uncorked a bottle of expensive Bordeaux and proceeded to have a drink. He handed her the bottle. “You look like hell. Here, you little nuisance, drink some of this. Maybe it will make you bearable.”
She ignored his cruel words. “I’ve been waiting for you all night,” she said, trying to catch her breath. “I waited outside for you. I did not want the family to overhear our conversation.”
James quickly guzzled more of the warm liquid, using the back of his hand to wipe off a few red drops from the side of his mouth. “And what could you possibly have to say to me at this late hour? Never mind.” He laughed wickedly. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say, my dear.”
“Hand me the wine,” she spat out. “I’ve probably caught my death waiting for you in this storm. I cannot bear to look at you like this … consumed with yourself, so bent on self-destruction.”
He whirled around, throwing the bottle against the wall, chortling as the glass shattered and fell to the floor. “There’s your wine. You’re welcome to it.” Suddenly serious, he stumbled toward her. “Happy now?”
“I am with child,” she announced. “You are the father. If you love me …”
Pie-eyed, James hiccupped. “Did you say love you, my dear? I’m not certain I even fancy you anymore.”
He began to laugh, taking two steps forward, almost tipping over, and then catching himself in a circular motion. “It matters little whether or not you find yourself with child. You’re all the same,” he rattled on, “faithless, deceiving bitches. I must have been insane to bed you. Filthy slut … seducing the viscount, while lusting after the sailor.”
She stood stunned. How had he known?
James spat in her face. “Get out, whore, and take your future bastard with you!”
She flinched, wiping the spittle from her face. “You are a vicious and vulgar man, James Kent,” she retorted. “The liquor does not excuse your cruelty. Nicholas would never treat me this way.”
At this, James scoffed. “My brother hardly knows you exist anymore. I, on the other hand, have accommodated you for years.”
“My fantasies of Nicholas are much more pleasing than your slobbery attempts at lovemaking,” she finally admitted, her voice cold and devoid of feeling.
She walked out of the room with James trailing behind her and heard him bellow after her, “Why, you uppity little bitch—putting on airs of superiority, are you? Enjoy your fantasies, my dear. It is all you’ll ever have.”
Refusing to listen to any more of his insults, she stormed up the steps and watched as he made his way up. “I wish it were his child, not yours.”
James’s glossy eyes tried to focus on her form. He rambled furiously, “Nicky is much too scrupulous a man to dwell in the gutter, my dear. He would never have fathered your child.”
She stared down at him with contempt then smiled provocatively, pulling up her skirts. “You like what you see, don’t you?” Goading him, she licked her lips suggestively, enticing him to her. “You are not so scrupulous, are you, Jamie? You thrive in the filthy gutter. That’s it. Come to me. You know you still want me.”
“You slut,” he growled at her, but she knew her words aroused him. In spite of his inebriated state, she saw his tongue slide over his lips in preparation for her lusty kiss.
“Your slut,” she purred, smiling sweetly.
James reached for her just as she knew he would. Before James knew what was happening, she kicked him hard in the stomach, pushing him down the stairs to the cold stone flooring below. His look of surprise, followed by absolute horror as he tumbled back, both exhilarated and repelled her, causing her to burst into hysterical laughter.
A moment later, she was not laughing anymore. Pointing a finger at the crumpled body that lay in a pool of blood at the bottom of the stairs, she rubbed her belly and caressed her unborn child. “Sleep soundly, my sweet Jamie. Sleep sound
ly.”
Her tender words spoken so coldly, so calculatingly, and the demented, morbid laughter that rang in the darkness were the last human sounds James Kent would ever hear.
Chapter One
France
April, 1902
Angelique Beauvisage stormed into the library, her riding boots tracking mud across the priceless Aubusson carpet that had been in the family for years. A sharp, hissing sound split the air as she swished down her whip and lashed her fury across her stepbrother’s desk.
“I hate her,” she cried, “I really hate her!”
Pierre Montclair’s mouth opened in disbelief. “What has gotten into you? Look at what you’ve done to the carpet! Damn,” he cursed suddenly, as he squatted to rescue the cigar that had fallen from his lips to the rug. “And now I’ve managed to burn a hole through it. Maman will be furious!”
“I do not care about her precious carpet,” Angelique retorted.
Pierre and Jean-Claude Montclair exchanged incredulous looks. “Well,” Jean-Claude piped in, “I wouldn’t be so cavalier, Angelique. You know what Maman is capable of.”
“I’m not afraid of her. And do not look at me that way,” Angelique said stubbornly. “I will not obey her, and I don’t care if she knows it.”
“Oui, but you must not anger her,” Pierre warned.
“I’ve never cowered before her. I’m not going to start now. I love Henri. Victoria cannot force me to marry another against my will.”
“Angelique, Maman can be relentless. It is her wish that you marry Kent in order to combine our fortunes,” Pierre uttered sadly. “She insists you marry the viscount. If we could change her mind, we would. You have to believe us.”
“I can no longer rely on your support, that is what I believe.”
Jean-Claude objected, “Angelique, do not say such a thing.”
“And you,” Angelique pointed an accusing finger at Jean-Claude. “You say you love me, but instead you bend to her will. I don’t care about your precious Maman. I won’t marry that … that … Englishman!”
Without another word, she stomped her foot and marched out of the room, slamming the door behind her with such force that the portrait of her late grandfather, André Beauvisage, shook on the wall and almost fell to the floor.
Jean-Claude Montclair turned to his brother, looking amazed by the anger he had just witnessed in their stepsister’s scorching green eyes. “Ouch!” he said, chuckling. “Tell me, dear brother, do you think she is ready for marriage?”
Pierre sat back at his desk. His burly shoulders slumped in dejection. He picked up his cigar and, once again, attempted to light it. “Jean-Claude, I hate to see her upset. In the past, we’ve sought to buffer her from Maman’s occasional wrath.”
Jean-Claude’s brows lifted in amusement. “Occasional?” he teased. “I suppose by occasional you mean on a daily basis?”
Pierre ignored his brother’s jest. “We have always managed to compensate for our mother’s lack of affection toward Angelique. We’ve continuously indulged the girl, knowing we could deny her nothing.”
“We’ve tried our best, Pierre. Though, I must say, it has not been easy. Angelique has given us plenty of headaches where Maman is concerned.”
Pierre admitted, “Oui, that is certainly true. But I would gladly endure, once again, her countless faux pas and childish blunders, rather than have to surrender her to that infamous English viscount.” He winced at the thought of Nicholas Kent, a man to whom he had never been introduced, but whose reputation throughout Europe was notorious. Why, the viscount’s affairs of recent years had become legendary. This was not the man he had envisioned for his little stepsister.
Jean-Claude’s expression turned sullen as he sat on the leather chaise lounge. Returning to his pipe, he held it firmly while stuffing tobacco into its wooden bowl-shaped end. Holding a match to it, he puffed repeatedly in an effort to get it to ignite. He extinguished the flaming match with a quick shake of his wrist and puffed some more, allowing the smoke to filter out his nostrils. Coughing, he finally spoke in a barely audible rasp, “I agree, Pierre. It’s also tearing me apart to see Angelique like this. However, I’m beginning to believe this marriage will ultimately benefit her.”
Pierre jumped from his seat, almost dropping his cigar again on the carpet. “How can you say such a thing?” he demanded. “You can’t actually mean you want her to marry the man!”
“Listen to me, Pierre. I have fought for Angelique from the very first moment I was told of this preposterous engagement. But the viscount is a man of wealth and power, a man respected by many. You must admit, Pierre, everything we’ve uncovered about the man is not all bad. So he likes the women and the gaming tables? So he enjoys a good brawl occasionally? So he’s a bit of a rogue?”
“A bit of a rogue?” Pierre shouted incredulously. “You make it sound as if the man deserves a medal for his philandering.”
“Exactement!” Jean-Claude yelled back. “The man works excessively hard, he deserves a little recreation. In two years’ time, his shipping business has tripled his father’s assets. It is said that he is hardly ever in England; spends his time traveling the world, investing in lucrative acquisitions. The man is a wizard at finance. And furthermore …”
“Don’t sing his praises to me, dear brother,” Pierre interrupted. “I am well informed of the man’s notoriety. Do you honestly want our stepsister married to such a man? They say he needs no one, that he’s cold and cruel. His treatment of women leaves much to be desired. He takes pleasure and discards them as easily as …”
“I am aware of all that,” Jean-Claude replied. “But you know Maman will never choose anyone suitable for Angelique. I do not find it so awful that she marry a rich viscount, and not just any viscount, mind you. This viscount, dear brother, will one day become the Earl of Windword and will make Angelique his countess.”
“We have never placed such importance on titles, Jean-Claude. I fail to see the point.”
“The point is that Angelique can do worse. Pierre, have you forgotten last year when Maman wanted to marry her off to the widower D’Amaury? For God’s sake, the man could be her father. His daughter, Marieanne, is just about Angelique’s age.”
“I’m beginning to see what you mean, Jean-Claude. I wonder what other prospects Maman has in mind for Angelique if this marriage doesn’t take place.”
“We know only too well nothing will give Maman greater pleasure than to punish the poor girl. And what better punishment than to marry her off to someone totally ill-suited? Oui, Pierre, Angelique must marry Kent,” Jean-Claude insisted firmly. “Maman will make our sister miserable if she stays here.”
Pierre kept silent. He knew Victoria Montclair had always been jealous of Angelique. His stepsister, with her late mother’s legendary sparkling green eyes and long blond hair, was a constant thorn in Victoria’s side, a breathing reminder of Julian Beauvisage’s passion for his first wife, Lorraine.
“Our mother could never compete for Julian’s love when it came to his only daughter,” Pierre grudgingly admitted. “Now that Julian is gone, maybe this marriage could be somewhat of a blessing for Angelique. God knows, she deserves some happiness.”
Jean-Claude nodded in agreement. “She’ll be happy in England, Pierre. We’ll never forgive ourselves if she isn’t. I hope Kent can appreciate her.”
“He had better appreciate her,” Pierre declared fervently.
Jean-Claude cracked a grin. “I say, dear brother, what more can that scoundrel of an Englishman want? The girl is absolute perfection,” he teased, his mouth still twisted in dry amusement.
“Oui, she’s an exceptional prospect, and will make him a wonderful viscountess,” Pierre agreed heartily.
“Oui,” parroted Jean-Claude. “I repeat, what more can that rogue viscount want?” he asked, choking in his own laughter.
Pierre scowled. “I fail to see the humor, Jean-Claude. Can you contain your laughter long enough to answer one questi
on for me?”
“Oui, I think I can,” Jean-Claude said, sobering at his brother’s reprimand.
“Very well, then. Do you believe this Kent of Windword will be able to handle her? God knows, we haven’t been able to. I’m a bit concerned about her volatile temper. Kent has no inkling.”
Once again chuckling in devilment, Jean-Claude interrupted with applause. “Bien! I hope she drives him mad. After all, dear brother, it is only fair. If he’s going to take her from us, he might as well take the good with the bad. I’m glad to say she will not make it easy for him … not easy at all!”
