Apollo shook his head, his hair falling into his eyes. “He probably just had the wrong room. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, though she could not guess at the betrayal he must be feeling. She and her father had never seen eye to eye, but he’d never tried to murder her.
“It’s nothing,” he dismissed. “He won’t try it again once there’s an heir between him and the rest of it.”
Charlotte rested her head on his shoulder. “Is he the reason all this happened?” she asked, unsure how to put it delicately. “Did you become earl to stop him?”
“He was not the reason, but the catalyst.” He turned to face her, his eyes almost gray in the dawn. “I suppose I should give you that explanation now.”
She was desperately curious, but she would not press him. “Only if you’d like to.”
He stood and pulled a cheroot from a case on the desk and lit it on the embers in the hearth. He sat down at the table beneath the window and smoked. Charlotte leaned on her side over the mound of blankets and watched him, ready to listen to anything he wished to confide.
“You guessed my name was Artemis,” he began. “It hasn’t been for some time. Pol was my brother. We were twins. I couldn’t understand why I had been born into the body of a girl when I had the heart and soul of a man. I hated my life and I wanted his. Not to replace him, of course—I loved my brother—but I wanted to live a life that matched the way I felt on the inside. My mother hoped I would grow into a lady, but it wasn’t right. It wasn’t me. It was not only that I despised gowns and fancied girls; it was more than that. I felt that God had made some mistake. I knew I was a man. You think I’m mad.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Not at all. Please go on.”
He exhaled a stream of smoke. “When my family died, I blamed myself. I thought by wishing to be Pol, I had willed it to happen somehow. I was inconsolable. My grandmother took me in and managed the estate until I came of age, but Miles’s father would have received it immediately if they had known it was me who’d survived instead of Pol. It started out innocently enough. She told them Pol had survived and was recovering as a way to buy us some time to decide what to do next. Miles’s father was a scoundrel, and he’d have turned us out, made the orphanage into a workhouse, and sold the school for scrap. It was my idea to become my brother.
“My grandmother was reluctant at first, but she knew how Roderick had turned out and I believe she always had some guilt for giving birth to him.” His smirk had more than a little sadness behind it. “The Archambaults came up for the funeral, and when they saw me in my brother’s suit, they offered their assistance. It would seem changing one’s sex is more common in France.” He shrugged. “My grandmother acquiesced, and while she took over the estate, I went with the Archambaults to ‘recover’ in Paris. They cut my hair and found me a discrete tailor, and Alexandre and his brothers taught me how to be a gentleman. I returned a year later to resume my responsibilities, and Uncle Roderick was none the wiser. He never paid us any mind as children, and he did not recognize me. I have been Apollo ever since, and I will be for the rest of my life. I had always wanted my brother’s life, and now I am living it.” He stubbed out the cheroot. “I’d trade everything to bring them back.”
Charlotte sat up, moved beyond words. She reached out to embrace him, and he pulled her onto his lap, stroking her hair absently.
“What must you think of me?” he whispered more to himself than to her.
She rested her forehead against his. “I think you’re very brave and good. I think you’re beautiful, and I am most fortunate to have you.”
He frowned, running a fingertip along her jaw. “How could you be? I am neither a man nor a woman. I do not belong anywhere at all.”
“You’re neither a man nor a woman,” she agreed. “You’re something better, something more, and you belong with me.”
“I love you, Charlotte.”
There was gratitude in his kiss, and she returned it with love, overjoyed to have found a home at last. For all of the appearance of being opposites, they were both of them misfits who had found their matches in each other. If Apollo was unconcerned about society’s reception of his wife, she would not concern herself with it, either. He was hers, and she would love him enough to make up for everybody else.
“I love you, too.”
A sharp knock sounded at the door, and the maid bustled in with a tray of chocolate. Catching Charlotte and Apollo thus entangled in the chair, she shrieked and almost dropped the chocolate. She set it on the table and stammered an apology, “I-I beg your pardon, Lord Somerton, Miss Halfpenny. A letter arrived for you by special courier and I thought to bring it up right away. It seemed most urgent.”
Charlotte climbed off of his lap with some reluctance and Apollo rose to receive the letter. “It’s quite all right, Elizabeth. Thank you for bringing it.”
Once she had gone, he popped the missive open with a letter opener. He grinned as he read it.
“What is it?” Charlotte asked, hoping she knew the answer.
“It’s our special license. How would you like to get married today?”
Epilogue
Charlotte’s hands shook as she clutched the hastily gathered bouquet of irises and clematis. The local chapel was freezing and she was positive her lips were as blue as her pelisse. She tried to ignore the cold and focused instead on Apollo standing beside her, a man of her very own who loved her for what she was. As his gaze met hers, she was sure she saw a glimmer of tears in his eyes. He had said she’d brought him to tears on more than one occasion, but this had to be her favorite.
Her eyes widened as he slipped a gold band embellished with a cluster of rubies on her finger. She hadn’t realized he’d brought one, and it was gorgeous. He held it there as he said his vows. “With this Ring, I thee wed, with my body, I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow. In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
With a kiss, it was over. They signed the papers and exited the church to a shower of rice and cheers from the Duchess of Haverford’s guests and local villagers. Cedrica hugged Charlotte before Apollo helped her into the carriage that would take them back to Hollystone Hall for the remainder of the party. Charlotte waved to well-wishers as the horses pulled the carriage through village.
When there was no one else to be seen, Apollo put his arm around her and kissed her cheek. Her face had begun to hurt from smiling so much, but there was nothing to be done for that. She kissed her husband joyfully, resolved not to let silly things like sore cheeks or an unsettled stomach ruin her day.
“It was so kind of Her Grace to arrange all of this for us so quickly,” Charlotte said. “I hope we haven’t too badly disrupted their plans.”
“Not at all. She was rather excited when I asked if she would mind. She’s offered us the old coach house for our honeymoon.”
“Coach house?” Charlotte asked. “Won’t the coaches need it?”
He shrugged. “They’ve built a new one, and this one has been converted into a cottage of sorts. It’s on the other side of the garden, so it will be quite private.”
She stretched her arm across his waist. “I like the sound of that.”
“You’re very saucy, Lady Somerton.” He grinned.
Lady Somerton. Who would have thought she’d end up as anything other than a tart? Now she was a countess and happy as could be, and she hadn’t even had to change herself to do it.
She raised an eyebrow. “Saucy? Why, Lord Somerton, you don’t know the half of it.”
About Jessica Cale
Jessica Cale is the award-winning author of the historical romance series, The Southwark Saga. Originally from Minnesota, she earned her BA in History and MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Wales while climbing castles and photographing mines for history magazines. She kidnapped (“married”) her very own British prince (close enough) and is enjoying her happily ever after
with him in North Carolina. She is an RWA member and the editor of Dirty, Sexy History.
Website: http://www.dirtysexyhistory.com
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/authorjessicacale
Twitter: https://twitter.com/@JessicaCale
Pinterest: https://www.pinterest.com/rainbowcarnage
Other Books by Jessica Cale
Tyburn
A harlot and a highwayman fight for survival in Restoration London. She’s looking for her father, but she’ll settle for revenge. When the gallows call, Nick and Sally will find out if love is really stronger than death.
* * *
Virtue’s Lady
Lady Jane Ramsey flees a life of wealth and privilege when she falls for carpenter Mark Virtue. She’ll face poverty, long working hours, and violence in the crime-ridden slum of Southwark if that’s what it takes to prove to Mark—and to herself—that she’s stronger than she looks.
* * *
The Long Way Home
Employed as lady’s companion, painfully shy barmaid Alice Henshawe finds herself in Versailles at the height of the Affair of the Poisons. Accidentally married to soldier Jack Sharpe, they must trust each other if they are to discover the murderer in their midst.
A Suitable Husband
Chapter 3
It began with a set of ice molds.
Marcel planned a spectacular centerpiece for the second remove at tomorrow night’s dinner—Italian creams made with eggs, rich cream, and a variety of fruits and other flavors molded into flower shapes, frozen, and then presented on a mountainous tower of ice, itself with pillars and platforms molded into fantasy shapes.
The Italian creams were made and stored in the estate’s ice house. He sent an assistant to fetch the box containing the carved wooden mold for the tower. “Open it,” he commanded. “Check that you have the correct box. The one I require has dolphin shapes to support the first tier.”
But the assistant returned empty handed. “Monsieur, I cannot find the box with the dolphins.”
He knew straight away of course, and a visit to Madame Pearce’s kitchen soon confirmed it. The encroaching woman had taken the mold and intended to use the larger shapes for a salmon aspic!
Marcel tried to be reasonable. He really did. He could fill the molds with water this evening, and they would be set hard when the time came for setting up the display tomorrow. But Madame Pearce refused to consider it. Her salmon aspic was also for tomorrow and must remain in the molds until just before serving, or it would lose sharpness and definition.
“Then choose another set of molds, Madame,” he suggested. “A set that is not a foundation piece of an entire tower.”
The woman smirked. “You find something else. I got these ones first. That is what you said yesterday, Moosewer, when you refused to give up the waffle iron.”
They had both wanted the waffle iron with the flower impression, but the mansion’s shelves held three others equally pretty. He had found only one tower mold, and Madame Pearce did not even plan to make a tower! She could use any one of dozens of molds and make as lovely an aspic.
Marcel explained this to her, slowly, using simple words.
“You don’t need to look down your long French nose at me, Moosewer,” Madame Pearce told him. “I know I could use else, just like you could of yesterday. And I don’t want to. Just like you yesterday.”
He had promised Mademoiselle Grenford not to shout at Madame Pearce and not to swear at her in French. Or English. He had promised. He turned on his heel and marched away before he strangled the stubborn woman.
“Good riddance,” Madame yelled after him.
Marcel went straight upstairs to the mademoiselle. At this time of day, she would be in the little sitting room where she and the other ladies of her committee had their meetings.
Once he left the service stairs for the main hallway, he set a bland look on his face and walked with determination. He passed several guests who ignored his existence, as he had expected. Servants should not be seen unless wanted, and therefore they would not see him.
Now. Around this corner and the fourth door on the right. Or was it the third?
He slowed, uncertainly. The third door was slightly ajar, and he could hear women’s voices. Not the little mouse’s, but those of the two ladies who were also helping to manage the house party.
“Lady Stanton is a difficult woman.” That was the pretty young widow, Lady de Courtenay.
“Lady Stanton is a cold-hearted bitch.” Lady Sophia Belvoir, the goddaughter of the duchess.
Marcel smiled a little. Who knew a lady would use such words? Deserved, undoubtedly. Even he, keeping though he did to his own domain, had heard stories of maids reduced to tears and footmen to helpless rage by the lady they named.
But the next words sobered him instantly.
“Do not cry, Cedrica. You are doing wonderfully well, and the duchess knows it. Lady Stanton will receive no support there.”
Cedrica? That cold-hearted bitch had upset his mademoiselle?
“I agree with Grace, Cedrica. Aunt Eleanor shall give one of her deadly little set-downs, and I should dearly like to see it. Here. Dry your eyes, darling. It shall all be well, you will see.”
Then the mademoiselle’s voice sounded, trembling with unshed tears. “You are right. I know you are. I do not know why I allowed her to upset me so. Only I am so tired of stupid conflict. This gentleman does not want to share a room with his wife. That one has kept every guest in his wing awake with his snoring. This lady cannot have the same breakfast as that one, and another must be served the identical tray, right down to the color of the inlay. And as for the war between the kitchens! I swear, if I have to referee one more battle over who has first use of the lemon zester, I shall scream.”
Really? She was not enjoying their little dramas as much as the two combatants? Marcel frowned and shot a glance both ways down the hallway to make sure he was not observed as he leaned closer. The two other ladies were making soothing noises and offering to take up the mademoiselle’s duties while she rested.
“No, no. Aunt Eleanor would be so disappointed in me. Besides, you have your own tangles to straighten. Making sure that Lady Stanton and her cronies are not in a position to bully Miss Baumann, that Lord Trevor is dissuaded from taking out a gun, since he cannot see beyond the end of his arm and refuses to wear glasses, and that Lady Marchand can only cheat at cards with those who know her little ways.”
The three ladies laughed together, Mademoiselle’s chuckle still a little watery.
Her voice was forlorn when she added, “It was the other that hurt most, you know, because it is true.”
More soothing noises, which she rejected.
“No. I am not a fool. I know that I have dwindled into an old maid. Well, look at me. Plain ordinary Cedrica Grenford. A useful person to have on a committee, but not one man has ever looked at me twice nor is likely to. I know Aunt Eleanor thinks dressing me up like a fashion doll and sending me in to talk to all these lords will turn me into a… a swan. But I am just a plain barnyard hen when you come down to it.”
Lady de Courtenay disagreed. “Oh, but surely Lord Hythe—”
Another heart-wrenching chuckle. “See, his sister is shaking her head. And you are right, Sophia. Hythe is polite to everyone, and kind to me because I was at school with Felicity. He treats me as a lady, which is nice of him when I am, as Lady Stanton so kindly pointed out, merely hanging onto gentility by the charity of Her Grace.”
“Oh, Cedrica…” That was both ladies.
Marcel’s response to Lady Stanton’s cruel words would have been much more forceful.
“He does not look at me and see a woman. No one does.”
Lady Sophia spoke decisively. “You are blue-devilled, my dear. Who knows whether any of us will meet a man who can see past our elderly exteriors to the treasures we all are? If we do not, you and I shall be old maids together.”
“Yes,” Lady de Courtenay agreed.
“Perhaps we should set up house together. Certainly Sophia and I have no more wish to live forever on the sufferance of our brothers than you do on the Haverfords’. Who needs men, after all? Selfish, conceited creatures, always jumping to conclusions.”
This time, Mademoiselle Grenford’s laugh was more genuine.
Lady Sophia said, “Rest for an hour. Read a book. I will order a pot of tea and some cakes, and Grace and I shall deal with anything that arises.” Her voice was coming closer.
Swiftly, before she could open the door and find him listening, Marcel retreated down the hall and around the corner, all the way back downstairs, thinking furiously.
First, he must order a tray set with the most delicate of cups, the finest tea, and some of the little cakes from the test batch he had made that morning, in preparation for the real challenge of Christmas Day’s dinner. Each was a work of art with its own sugar flower, and it had not escaped his notice that his mademoiselle liked them.
Then, while his assistants made the tray, he must make peace. This war must end. If that meant giving Madame Pearce her way on the tower, then so be it. He could not be part of causing pain to his mademoiselle.
His! How foolish he was. He was a chef. She was an aristo, of a family with a duke, despite her humble words. Yet un chien regarde bien un évêque. A dog can take a good look at a bishop. The English proverb was similar. A cat may look at a king. What would Mademoiselle Grenford think if she knew Marcel saw her as a woman, as she put it?
Perhaps bread to go with the cakes? Bread sliced thinly and buttered by his own hand and topped by some of Madame’s conserve. A peace offering from them both.
Determined, he gave his orders to his kitchen and braved the kitchen of Madame Pearce. An odd quest, but would not a knight dare anything, brave any danger, undergo any humiliation, for the lady he must adore from afar?
Holly and Hopeful Hearts Page 26
