But was there something shady or scandalous about the inheritance? Yes, there most definitely was, but she was not at liberty to say so. Not even to her own mother. So she simply smiled cheerfully and went in search of earbobs.
* * *
For the first time since his arrival at d’Entremont Manor, Nicholas sat at the head of the dining table, which was only proper since he was now master of the house.
On the night of the funeral, Véronique, Gabrielle, and the Montagnes joined him for a sumptuous meal of roast pork with spiced gravy, and fresh garden vegetables. Dinner was a somber affair, however, for the funeral service was not far from anyone’s thoughts, Nicholas’s especially.
He had buried another father today—one with whom he had spent a single hour. He did not know him at all, yet over the past few days he had at least read his private love letters, and had learned all there was to know about his business holdings and family history.
The steward, Monsieur Bellefontaine, had been indispensable and forthcoming in every way. He had held nothing back, even when Nicholas asked the most personal questions.
Bellefontaine revealed his admiration for Lord d’Entremont and considered him an honorable man, except when he gambled, for he lost more often than he won.
“With regards to his taking ownership of the Montagnes’ property,” Bellefontaine had said as they talked late into the night upon Nicholas’s return from Véronique’s home, “I considered it a fair winning, and while I sympathized with the ladies of the house who had lost their home, I could not feel sorry for Monsieur Montagne, who had been very foolish to wager everything he owned.” Bellefontaine slowly sipped his brandy and reflected upon recent events. “I believe it was good of Lord d’Entremont to offer Véronique a chance to earn it back. Why did she not see that? Why did she continue to despise him?”
Nicholas sighed heavily that night. “She is loyal and protective of her family,” he explained, “and felt that d’Entremont had taken advantage of a man who was clearly in his cups and in a weakened position. You cannot blame her for resenting the marquis for that. He could have refused the wager and sent Montagne home.”
Tonight—as Nicholas pondered that conversation and watched Véronique converse with her parents at the table—he was glad he had defended her to the steward, for she would be mistress of this house one day. She would require everyone’s respect.
If he decided to keep the property, that is.
Then he found himself watching the Montagnes, admiring how they seemed so at ease with one another. There were no pretentions here. They were a close-knit family.
“So tell me, Nicholas,” Madame Montagne said pleasantly as she set down her fork, “will you and Véronique be able to attend Gabrielle’s wedding to Lord Robert, or will you be traveling back to Petersbourg immediately after your own wedding?”
The mere mention of his wedding day should have put him in a foul mood, for he had never imagined himself capable of becoming a husband. In fact, he had always considered marriage a form of prison with iron shackles. This evening, however, he found himself imagining the pleasures of a wedding night to a woman he found completely irresistible as she gazed at him alluringly from across the polished mahogany table. Her cheeks were flushed in the candlelight, and her lush full bosom in that lavender gown made it impossible for him to remain focused on the question at hand.
Just as he was about to form an answer, however, the dining room doors flew open and his gaze shot toward the unexpected intruder.
Pierre Cuvier shoved a footman out of the way as he staggered the length of the room behind Madame and Monsieur Montagne.
“And here he is!” Pierre bellowed, spreading his arms wide. “The notorious Prince of Petersbourg! Eating off a dead man’s dishes as if he were lord and master here.”
Nicholas stood. “I am master here, and you, sir, were not invited to dine this evening.” Two larger footmen hurried into the room. “Show him out,” Nicholas commanded.
They moved to surround Pierre, but he swung his arms clumsily about and dropped to his knees in a fit of sobbing. “You don’t deserve any of this!” he cried. “It should have been mine!”
Véronique’s father stood up as well. “Who is this man?”
Pierre fell onto his backside on the floor, still flailing his arms about at the servants who tried to restrain him and pull him to his feet. He was a large, bullish man, however, and it was an impossible task.
“I am Pierre Cuvier. The marquis was my uncle, and I loved him like a true father all my life—which is more than this privileged royal pirate can say. You never loved him. You didn’t even know him. Why you, and not me? You are as much a bastard as I am!” Pierre was now rolling on the floor and kicking his legs at anyone who tried to touch him.
Nicholas left his place at the table to approach. “Step aside, everyone. Leave him be,” he said to the footmen. He stood over Pierre, looking down at him in such a pathetic drunken state. “Pull yourself together, man,” he firmly said. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself.” He offered his hand to help Pierre rise.
For a long moment his half cousin stared up at him with bloodshot, tear-filled eyes and mud-stained clothing. Nicholas suspected he had walked here from the mausoleum.
“I don’t need any help from you,” Pierre said as he struggled to his feet and swayed ominously. He tried to grab hold of the back of a chair to keep his balance, but fell against the table, causing the china to rattle. One glass of wine tipped over and spilled.
“You’re drunk, sir,” Nicholas said. “Allow us to show you to your room, where you can recover and collect yourself.”
Pierre sobbed wretchedly. “It’s not my room anymore. Everything belongs to you now. It’s not fair. It’s not fair.”
Véronique stood up and slowly circled around the table. Without saying a word, she carefully approached Pierre from behind and laid a hand on his shoulder.
He jumped, as if startled, and every nerve in Nicholas’s body sparked to high alert, for he would knock Pierre flat on his back again if he was foolish enough in his flummoxed state to mistreat Véronique.
“There, there, now,” she gently said.
Pierre took one look at the compassion in her eyes and steadied himself. “It’s not fair,” he sobbed again.
Véronique clasped his elbow. “You are quite right about that. Sometimes life is not fair. Perhaps we can talk about all this in the morning.”
He continued to sway while his foggy gaze perused the others in the room. They were all staring at him with concern and fear.
“Please show Monsieur Cuvier to his room,” Véronique said to a footman. “Would you like a hot supper sent up as well?” she asked Pierre directly.
“Yes, that would be very good,” he replied, seeming calmer now as he cooperated at last, and accompanied the footman out of the dining room.
Nicholas regarded his future wife with admiration, for she had set her prejudices aside and taken pity on a man who once tried to assault her sister.
Their gazes found each other’s. She lifted her chin. “He was a danger to us, and to himself, tonight. I hope he can regain his composure.”
“Well done, darling,” her mother said.
Nicholas nodded in agreement. “Yes, well done. Shall we resume our dinner, then?”
Everyone sat down in awkward silence while one footman quickly wiped up the spilled wine and another brought a fresh glass to the table to replace it.
The plates were cleared away and dessert was ushered in. They were each served chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce in sparkling crystal cups.
Feeling oddly as if everyone were staring at him, Nicholas looked up from his dessert to discover that that was not the case at all. Everyone at the table had their eyes fixed on the chocolate mousse before them. Nevertheless their silence was somehow thunderous in its intensity.
“How is your dessert, Monsieur Montagne?” Nicholas asked, needing to break the tension.
; Véronique’s father looked up. “It’s very good, sir.”
Setting down his spoon, Nicholas decided to fire the first cannon shot across the field. “Is there something you wish to ask me?”
He was very aware of Véronique clearing her throat.
“About what, sir?” his future father-in-law asked uneasily.
“About what just happened here.”
Are you suddenly rethinking your first impression of me? Do you see now that I am not the hero you thought I was? Are you worried about your daughter’s future happiness?
Monsieur Montagne also set down his spoon. “Indeed, I am curious about that man’s emotional state. Clearly he was distraught and … I am sure you are aware that many of the guests at the funeral today were curious about why d’Entremont left all this to you. What did Pierre mean when he said that you were as much a bastard as he?”
The temperature in the room seemed to rise. Nicholas picked up his linen napkin and dabbed at the perspiration on his forehead while his blood pumped heavily in his veins.
Tossing the napkin on the table and tugging at his cravat, he said in a cold and rather threatening tone, “You have a theory, I suppose.”
His future father-in-law shifted nervously in his chair. “No, sir.”
Véronique also set down her spoon. “This is ridiculous,” she said. “We are all going to be family soon. Nicholas, may I speak to you in private, please?”
He forced himself to respond courteously. “If you will excuse us,” he said as he rose from his chair and escorted his betrothed into the sitting room beyond.
She walked to the sofa, sat down, and patted the seat cushion beside her to invite him closer. He found himself instantly drawn toward her, as if she had all the answers to every question in the cosmos.
“I could see that you were uneasy,” she said as he sat down. “You haven’t decided yet what you want people to know, have you?”
He did not answer right away.
“I am sure that Gabrielle can be trusted,” Véronique continued, “but unfortunately Pierre is a blabbermouth, which may present a bit of a challenge.”
It struck Nicholas suddenly that he was fascinated with her, for she had come to his aid just now. She had intervened before he was forced to reveal the truth to her father. As her scent washed over him, he felt the calming effects of her presence in his life.
Nicholas laid his arm along the back of the sofa. “Pierre may be a blabbermouth, but he is also a drunk with very few respectable friends. No one will believe him over me, and I trust Bellefontaine and Fournier to keep the secret, at least for now.”
“You’ll probably have to offer them some sort of compensation for their silence.”
Feeling tired all of a sudden, Nicholas ran a hand through his hair. “It won’t be the first time I’ve had to pay to cover up a scandal. But what about your parents? Do they not have a right to know the truth about their daughter’s husband?”
“And the bloodline of their future grandchildren,” she added.
The mere mention of children—of Véronique giving birth to sons and daughters—caused him to stiffen. He thought of his mother suddenly, and the image he had of her in his mind—of the day they took her body away before he could say good-bye. Why hadn’t they let him see her? Was it so very bad? Was there a lot of blood? Or had his father simply wished to punish him for being a reminder of his wife’s extramarital affair?
“I don’t want your father to know,” he found himself saying firmly as he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I don’t want anyone to know.”
She touched his arm. “They won’t think any less of you. My parents judge a man by his actions, not his lineage.”
“They should judge me very poorly, then,” he replied, “for you know my reputation. Perhaps they are better off believing me to be some sort of mythical knight in shining armor.” He paused and thought about it. “And the scandal it would evoke in Petersbourg … God help us all. My brother has been sitting on the throne for less than a year, and has had to fight tooth and nail against the enemy Royalists, who do not believe our family deserves the crown. They’ll use anything to create scandals and smear our names. This could destroy the Sebastian monarchy.”
“Then you must do as you see fit,” Véronique replied. “I will support you in your decision, whatever it is, but allow me to say that my family would never betray you, not after all you have done for us. No matter what happens, you will always be a hero to them. My father will love you like a son, if only you will let him.”
Perhaps, Nicholas realized, this woman was to be the greatest challenge of his life, for she was almost too perfect. Not only had she turned the tables on him and become the seducer while he had become the prey, but she was sensible and loving and far too good for him. How would he ever live up to such standards? He could not go back to his old ways and treat her shabbily. He did not want to disappoint her family, not when—for the first time in his life—someone actually thought well of him.
For that reason, he could not reveal himself to the world as the bastard son from his mother’s adulterous affair.… If he wanted to make a change, that was not a good way to begin.
Nicholas stood. “Please make my apologies to your family,” he said. “I have business to attend to, and must bid you all good night.”
“Will we see you tomorrow?” Véronique asked, rising to her feet as well.
“I will be spending the day with Bellefontaine and the solicitor,” he said, “going over the estate books and records. Surely you will have plenty to do on your own to prepare for our upcoming nuptials. That is, of course, if you haven’t changed your mind.”
A part of him wanted her to change it.
He wanted to go home to Petersbourg and forget any of this had ever happened.
Another part of him would tear this house apart if he lost her.
“No, I have not changed my mind,” she replied, and he nodded with relief. “I can think of little else but our wedding night,” she added with a teasing smile, which was meant to put him at ease, for she understood that his sexual desire for her was the only thing that felt the least bit familiar to him.
So he did what he knew best. He responded by taking her into his arms and pressing his mouth to hers. It was a deep kiss that resulted in a return trip to the sofa and many more moments of kissing, groping, and other sensual pleasures while the rest of her family finished their desserts.
Véronique’s cheeks were flushed when she returned to the table, and Nicholas was on fire with lust as he departed from the room.
He knew then that there would be no turning back. He wanted Véronique, he needed her, and he would have her. All the rest would simply have to fall into place around them. Somehow, he would do what was required to make their problems disappear.
In that regard, when they woke the following morning, Pierre was long gone—as if he had vanished into thin air—and Nicholas wondered if God was somehow playing a part in all of this. Perhaps there was another destiny waiting to be laid out for Nicholas, now that everything he once knew was no longer his reality.
His world, and his life, had been turned completely upside down, but he still had no idea which way was up.
Chapter Nineteen
Three days later, Nicholas did the unthinkable. He stood next to a woman at the altar, slipped a ring on her finger, and declared his devoted love and fidelity until death parted them.
If not for the imminent pleasures of the marriage bed, he might very well have hesitated before saying “I do,” but as they spoke their vows, he was overwhelmingly aware of his desires—further aroused by the scent of Véronique’s perfume, the soft creamy ethereal glow of her complexion in the colored light streaming in through the stained glass windows, and the heat of her body next to him.
She was dressed in a simple gown of white silk with antique lace trimmings, and sprinklings of baby’s breath in her hair. She looked like an angel.
When
she entered the chapel on her father’s arm, any thoughts Nicholas had entertained about changing his mind and bolting back to his home country—and his former life as a libertine—evaporated like a drop of water under the full glare of the sun. His libido was pulsing with anticipation throughout the ceremony, and when at last the vicar pronounced them man and wife, he grew ever more impatient for the sun to set, for candles to be lit, and for everyone else to bloody well leave them alone for the important task of consummating their marriage.
If not for the promise of that … he might very well have bolted, because this was too bloody much for a man like him to comprehend.
* * *
The master’s chambers at d’Entremont Manor bore no resemblance whatsoever to the room where Nicholas had been held captive. That room was in essence a prison cell with comfortable pillows, luxurious fabrics, and plenty of books.
The marquis’s bedchamber, however, was located at the opposite end of the house, with breathtaking views of the English Channel as well as the stately oak tree on the hill.
The room was very grand, filled with polished, gleaming mahogany furniture that stood upon thick crimson carpets. The walls were papered bloodred and adorned with gilt-framed oil paintings of landscapes and seascapes. Tall white candles in gold-plated candelabras illuminated every corner.
The bed was cloaked in a red velvet canopy and curtains. It provided privacy and warmth in the winter months, but since it was summer—and because Nicholas’s body was already blazing with passion as he led his virgin bride into the room—he expected to be flinging the windows wide open in short order to let in a cool breeze off the water, lest the whole room burst into flames.
“Clearly this is the finest room in the house,” Véronique said as she followed him inside. “Yours now to enjoy.”
Her green eyes met his in the flickering glow of the candlelight, and he found himself enraptured by thoughts of what they would enjoy here together in the coming hours.
“Yes, it is the finest room,” he casually replied, “now that you are here.”
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