He tucked the boot under his arm and opened the library door.
The Chesleigh library was the present duke’s favorite room. It was a dark chamber, somber and rich, its shadows deep and full, and it smelled always of lemon wax and old books. He looked briefly at the walls with all the inset bookshelves that soared up to twenty-five feet, the long, narrow windows covered with rich maroon velvet curtains, hung there by his father not two years before. There was a good-sized fire built up in the cavernous grate, and a single branch of candles had been lit against the coming night. Bassick, as was his way, had known he would be home soon, and had the room prepared for his comfort.
It was a masculine, very comforting room to the duke, and he felt himself begin to relax, felt the black rage, the sense of helplessness that he felt to the depths of him, begin to recede. He stripped off his gloves and greatcoat and tossed them over the back of a dark blue brocade chair, then sat down and tugged on his boot. Since this was a chore that he rarely performed by himself, he found himself cursing at his own ineptness.
A low, musical laugh came out of the gloom. He jerked around to see a woman standing at the side of the fireplace in the shadows, swathed from head to foot in a dark cloak.
“A nobleman and his boots,” she said, shaking her head. “I wonder how poor mortal men manage. I suppose I could offer to help you.” Her voice was amused.
However, she didn’t move.
Chapter 4
The duke rose swiftly to his feet, his boot, thankfully, snug where it belonged. He nearly stumbled over his feet in his haste and surprise.
“I could have killed you,” he said. “Hiding in here was a stupid thing to do.”
“Oh? How would you have dispatched me? Perhaps you would have hurled your boot at me?”
“If I’d had a gun with me, you could be lying on the carpet with a bullet in your gullet. Sometimes I do have a gun with me. Today I don’t. However, I do have my hands, and they would, doubtless, fit nicely around your neck.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’d kill me. Your very nice butler wouldn’t allow murder to be committed beneath his nose.”
“Don’t wager your dinner on that.” “He’s fascinating. If he wore a white robe, he would look like a biblical prophet.”
“He isn’t a prophet. However, he is supposed to guard the portals to my kingdom. Now, who the devil are you? How did you get in here?”
She didn’t answer, just stood there like a specter in a black cloak. Anger began to replace surprise. He’d wanted to be alone, and now this female had forced her way into his house and into his library.
Actually, he was beginning to feel ripe for murder. Then he understood. “Bassick’s head will roll for this. Damnation, the servants’ entrance is in the north wing. If you want to keep your position here at Chesleigh, you will use it in the future, not come into this part of the castle. Tell Bassick that I don’t need to interview you. Go away. Now. I want to be alone.”
“You said a great deal there and I did hear all of it, but still, I don’t quite understand. Could you please speak again? Only this time perhaps you could just reduce all your thoughts to one that is the most pertinent?” The woman had the gall to sound both amused and offended. But there was more amusement, all of it at his expense. His fingers itched to lace themselves about her neck.
He drew himself up even taller, his head cocked a certain way, his shoulders drawn back—the medieval seignior at his most intimidating—something he’d seen his grandfather do, something his father did better than any other human being, and said, all black hauteur, “I am tired of this, my girl. You will remove yourself now. I have no wish to be bothered, no matter what a wench offers. Send my butler in. The fellow has a lot to answer for.”
“This is the first time I’ve been called a wench. Are you normally so very rude, your grace? Or is it just that it’s Wednesday, and this mid-week day offends you? Or perhaps it’s the weather? I myself was delighted when the rain stopped. I was beginning to grow mold.” “Shut up, damn you.”
She shut up, contenting herself with staring at him and praying she hadn’t misjudged him.
A discordant note finally tolled in his mind. He’d been locked inside his own black soul. Damnation, the female wasn’t a serving girl, here in his library for the lord and master to interview. She was well spoken. And wasn’t there just a hint of a French accent popping up every once in a while? But it didn’t matter. She was here and she shouldn’t be here. She was in his private lair, the last place she should be. He was smoldering with impotent anger, and now, with her here, he saw a fresh goat standing right in front of him, ripe for sacrifice, so to speak, and so he let out his anger.
He advanced on her. She didn’t move, didn’t even shrink back an inch. Of course, if she had, she just might have tipped herself into the fireplace.
“You call me rude?” He was close to her shadowed face now. “Rude? You have the audacity to call me rude? How would you like me, wench, to take a birch rod to your buttocks?”
“I think, your grace,” she said slowly, stepping away, sideways, pulling the strings at the throat of her cloak, “that you have perhaps mistaken the matter. Truly, I’m not a wench.” She turned to face him fully, the light of the candle branch on the mantelpiece behind her, and drew back the hood of her cape. The duke drew up short. He felt as if someone had poked him hard in the belly with a very big fist. This wasn’t a serving girl. This certainly wasn’t a wench of any stripe.
He wasn’t quite certain what he had expected, but the young lady who faced him, her chin high, fit no image he would have conjured up. He stared at her white skin, her high cheekbones, flushed from the heat of the fireplace, and her proud, straight nose. Her hair was neither brown nor blond, but somewhere in between, a strong, opulent color, and like the rest of her, it looked to be rich and full and soft as a lamb’s fleece. She had it drawn into an ugly knot at the back of her neck. There were loose tendrils cupping her face. Very nice tendrils. She was beautiful. Not as beautiful as some women he’d seen, admired, and bedded. No, her face wouldn’t launch even a hundred ships, but, oddly, she was more than just the sum of her parts. What was she, then? That face of hers held mysteries and a richness of expression and shadows that begged to be explored and plundered. Her eyes were brown, on the dark side, which sounded plain and not at all interesting, only it wasn’t at all true of her eyes. Again, there was this richness, this hidden cache of secrets. They slanted slightly upward, an almond shape that struck a familiar chord in his mind.
This was absurd. He was staring at her as would a starving man at a feast. He’d had a feast just four days before in London. Surely Morgana was more than enough for any man, even if he’d starved for a year. Then, despite himself, he looked at her face again, watching as her wide mouth slowly curved into a smile. She showed lovely, straight white teeth.
“I hope you will soon be finished with your examination, your grace. I’m beginning to feel like a slave on the block. Shall I keep smiling?”
“Yes, you’ve got a charming smile. You’re wondering if I’m going to decide to buy you?”
He’d gotten her on that one. He saw those fascinating eyes of her widen ever so slightly. But she wasn’t a coward. Nor did she seem the least bit afraid of him. She said, with just the slightest hesitation, “I was actually wondering if perhaps you subscribed to the belief of your ducal ancestors, that every woman who came onto your acres was at your beck and call.”
“Of course,” he said.
“Of course what?”
“Naturally I subscribe to such a notion. Perhaps it’s outdated, but I have to ask myself why a woman would force her way into my private domain if she didn’t want me to see her as a bed partner.” He realized that he wasn’t being at all a gentleman, closer to being a bastard actually, not that the two were necessarily unrelated. But if his scrutiny and roughness of manner upset her, she gave no sign. She didn’t move, merely stood there, looking at him and, dammit, he wondere
d what she was thinking as she looked at him.
As she continued to be silent, he said slowly, trying to be less intimidating, “I think that it’s time for you to tell me exactly who you are, and what it is you are doing in my library.”
Those eyes of hers, their shape—why was it so familiar to him?
She found that she was examining him almost as closely as he had her. He had changed not one whit from her girl’s image of him; he still seemed as large and overpowering now as he had six years before. His dark features were more finely honed now, his face was lean and hard, but just as perfect. No, there were differences. His eyes had seen a lot more than that young man six years before. That young man had known only pleasure, had experienced only the willfulness and wildness of youth. But this man, he’d experienced a lot as he’d gained in years. He’d learned and suffered, and it showed in his eyes, on his face.
“Aren’t you going to answer me?”
“Yes, I suppose that I must.”
When he’d strode into the room, one boot tucked under his arm, Evangeline had wondered how she was going to get through this. He was in a foul mood— that was readily apparent—but she hadn’t particularly minded. What bothered her was that he didn’t have a clue who she was. That hurt, even though it would be a miracle if he had known who she was. Finally, she said, “Don’t you recognize me?”
He’d already stared at her too long. He merely shrugged. “Why are you angry? Are you perhaps a discarded mistress? It couldn’t have been too long ago because you’re very young. Yes, if I dismissed you, then I suppose you wouldn’t be pleased at my forgetting you.”
She said, her voice as cold as a block of ice, “I was never your damned mistress.”
“No? I hope not, because that would lead me to believe that you’d borne my child and were here to collect. That would be upsetting, surely you’d be willing to admit that.”
She stood stock still, words lying in shambles about her tongue. She just stood there, staring at him stupidly. “I didn’t have your child.”
“Well, I’m relieved. I don’t believe a gentleman should have bastards scattered around the county. It doesn’t speak well of him or of his family. So, we didn’t bed together, then. Who are you?”
“When last I saw you, your grace, if you had taken me to your bed, then you would have been guilty of molesting a child.”
He was still looking at her in that odd way. Now he cocked his head to one side. She was impertinent. She was, it seemed to him, testing him in some way. That was surely odd. He would outdo her; at least he would try. He flicked a nonexistent bit of lint from the arm of his jacket. “Since that is something that turns my belly, I’m pleased it wasn’t the case. Just how old are you? Still silent? Ah, a woman and her age. You never seem to begin too young with your coy protests. You could show me. I have the reputation of judging a woman’s age nearly to the very year and month of her birth by studying her breasts, her belly, her legs. Aren’t you overly warm in that thick cloak?” He watched her swallow. He’d just bet her mouth was really dry now. No one could best him, in particular this unknown girl standing here in his library.
She realized then that he was a gentleman of the first order. She opened her mouth, only to see him slash his hand in front of him and say, “Enough games. Who the devil are you?” “Yes,” she said. “I’m warm.” “Then let me help you off with that cloak. You are safe. I’ve never been drawn to rape, ma’am. Whatever virtue you still possess is quite safe with me.”
“I can’t imagine you would ever have need to resort to such a thing. Also, just think of what it would do to your name.”
“Is that some sort of backhanded compliment? No, don’t answer that.” He watched her untie the strings of her heavy wool cloak and slip it from her shoulders.
“Before you decide to examine my person, your grace, let me tell you that it could be considered a very rude thing to accord such treatment to your cousin.”
“Cousin? The devil. You say you’re my cousin? Now, that’s an impossibility.”
“You’re right. I’m not precisely your cousin. Actually, I’m your cousin-in-law. Marissa was my first cousin, my father’s niece.”
He stared at her dumbfounded. It made her feel better that finally she’d managed to halt him in his tracks. That certainly must be some feat. Then he searched her face for the likeness to Marissa.
She cocked a figurative gun at him and slowly pulled the trigger. “You do remember Marissa, don’t you?” “Don’t be impertinent,” he said absently, his eyes roving over her face. “Yes,” he said at last, “it’s the shape of your eyes, just a bit slanted, that resemble Marissa.” It was what had looked familiar to him. Marissa’s cousin. “Your name, Mademoiselle?” “De la Valette, your grace.” “My wife’s family was Beauchamps.” “Yes, it is my father’s name as well. De la Valette is my husband’s name.”
“You’re married? That’s bloody ridiculous. You don’t look married.”
“Why is that? You wondered if you’d bedded me. Surely that is all that being married means.”
“Well, not quite all. Not at all. Where is this wonderful husband of yours? Hiding in the pantry? Over there behind my desk?” “No.”
“Surely you see my dilemma. I’m quite unused to finding ladies alone in my library, ready to accost me on the minute I walk through the doors. But there’s a husband somewhere? Is he behind the wainscotting?” Suddenly it was much too much. “May I sit down, please? It’s been a very long day.”
“While you’re resting, why don’t I look behind that wing chair over there for this absent husband of yours?”
She didn’t say anything, just eased herself down on a very large leather chair near the fireplace. The flames had died down. They were a warm glow now. She smoothed the outmoded dovegray gown about her, a gown that had been expensive four years before. It was a gown that screamed that she was a lady fallen upon hard times. Houchard had laughed, pleased with himself, when she’d first worn it for him. He’d told her that his mistress had selected it for her. He’d told her that the duke, a man of vast experience, despite his limited number of years on this earth, would know exactly what she was.
The duke said finally, “All right, then. No husband. I see that the gentleman has left you high and dry. Now, I’m surrounded by faithful retainers, Madame. Would you be so kind as to tell me how you managed to be in my library without my being informed of your presence?”
“I arrived but a few moments before you, your grace. Your butler was kind enough not to make me wait in the entrance hall. I was very cold, you see, and he did not wish me to be uncomfortable.”
“So that’s what Bassick wanted to tell me. I can just hear him now: ‘Your grace, I’ve a pretty young piece bundled up in your library, waiting to see to your pleasure.’ Yes, that would have been Bassick’s style, but of course he would never intend that I—never mind that. I trust you’re now sufficiently comfortable. Would you like some tea? Brandy? Something to eat, perhaps off my best china plates?”
He was elusive, swift as quicksilver, not at all like a soft, gentle rain falling through her fingers, but more like a typhoon roaring over her, flattening her, but at the same time drawing her admiration. He was charming, undoubtedly ruthless, his sexual word play utterly inappropriate to a lady’s ears. What was he thinking, really? “No, your grace.”
He sat down on a settee opposite her. He stretched out his long legs, the cloak falling to the floor on either side of them. His boots were big and shiny black. He folded his hands over his belly. “So, when will this husband of yours make an appearance?”
“He isn’t here. I don’t know exactly where he is. He’s dead, you see. I’m a widow.”
He sat back, even more at his ease. “Aren’t you very young to be left in that saddened state, Madame?”
“No more than you, your grace. You were made a widower quite young yourself.” The words slipped smoothly from her mouth, and to her own ears, she sounded perfectly at her
ease.
“I was married older than you, and I was made a widower older than you,” he said after a moment. “Now I am twenty-eight. I daresay you haven’t yet gained your twentieth birthday.”
“I am just turned twenty last week.” She lowered her eyes, but it didn’t help. She hated this even more than she’d thought she would. “I was married when I was only seventeen. You were only twenty-two when you married Marissa, were you not? And Marissa had just gained her eighteenth year.” “You are well informed.”
“I have an excellent memory. I was at your wedding, your grace.”
“I see. So, I did remember you, a bit. Do you have children?”
She shook her head. “Have you many more questions for me? I’m getting thirsty.”
“Yes, certainly I have, but for the moment, let me reminisce. I married Marissa six and a half years ago. You would have been thirteen years old.”
“Yes. After the wedding I never saw either of you again.”
“So your husband is dead. Is your father in England?”
Safe ground, she thought, and although she hated giving the words any credence, just speaking them aloud gave them more that she imagined. It felt very strange, even terrifying, that she managed to say without hesitation, “No, he died just a short time ago. My mama, who was English, died three years ago. After Napoleon fell and the Bourbon king was returned to the throne, Papa and I returned to France. My papa was in poor health. But his passing was easy, thank God.” Actually, her papa was currently residing in Paris, in a room that was comfortable enough, for she’d seen it before she’d left to come to England. He had one servant to see to his comfort and a woman to cook for him. She’d insisted that he have all the books he wanted. Houchard had agreed, the damnable bastard. And why shouldn’t he agree? She was doing what he demanded of her. And there was a physician; she’d said she wouldn’t budge unless there was a physician available to him. She’d begged him to be calm, told him again and again that she would be all right. But, she’d thought, how could her father remain calm when she was here in England against her will? What if something happened to him?
The Deception Page 3
