Darke London Page 16

  “But, Pip, even if the doctor was called, your mother could have died anyway,” she said gently.

  “Perhaps, but at least she wouldn’t have died alone and in fear.” He dashed the heel of his hand against his moist cheeks. “Oh, Nellie, you must think me such a fool, visiting these spiritual mediums in a vain attempt to soothe my conscience.”

  “I don’t blame you for seeking some comfort.” She sighed, but aimed a glare at him. “However, I do blame you for marrying me under false pretences. You knew very well I’d never have married you if you were engaged to another woman. I know about Miss Montague.”

  Blushing furiously, he stared down at his shoes before giving her a meek sidelong look. “I don’t know if I was properly ‘engaged’ to Alice. My father and hers had an understanding between them. It wasn’t of my choosing.”

  “Oh mercies!” She threw up her hands. “Surely you could not be engaged against your will?”

  “You’ve seen how ruthless my father can be. And Alice can be just as dogged.” Pip pouted a little. “She’s a termagant. And she has the most awful freckles. Between her and Father, I felt like a nut being squeezed by two pincers, and so I…so I…”

  “So you fled London and ended up in my father’s asylum,” Nellie said with a sigh. It all made sense now. “You used me as an escape from your troubles. Well, I cannot blame you too much, for I used you in equal fashion, but even so you should have told me about your fiancée, Pip.”

  “But then you would never have eloped with me. I meant to tell you when we got to London, but our circumstances were too dire then. Plus, you were so insistent we marry as soon as possible, and of course, you were right to be concerned for your reputation. I would hate to be called a bounder for convincing you to elope with me and then refusing to marry you! That would have been most unchivalrous.”

  She exhaled in annoyance at his obtuseness. Pip had his own strange view of the world which would never concur with hers.

  He reached out and gingerly took both her hands. “But now everything is different. With my father incapacitated, I have free rein to do as I please. All the Ormond resources are at my command. If—if you wish, we could live here.”

  She could only stare at him. “You truly wish to remain married to me?”

  “Is there any alternative?”

  The resignation in his voice shouted out the truth. Even the faintness of his grasp betrayed his true feelings—he was leery of touching her. And in all honesty, she could muster no passion for him either. In her callowness, she’d dreamed up a fantasy hero and projected that image onto Pip, but he was no hero of hers, not in the past and not in the future. She was different now. She didn’t need unreal fantasies any longer. She’d already met a real hero, and he was everything she could want.

  Quietly she disentangled her hands from his. “Yes, Pip, there is an alternative. You must divorce me.”

  “Oh…” He drew in a quavering breath, relief lurking in his eyes. “Are you sure?”

  “Quite sure. We would never make each other truly happy.”

  “But what of the scandal? You would be labelled an adulterous woman.”

  She lifted her shoulders. “I care nothing for scandal, for I’ve no designs on London high society.”

  He nodded, looking both mollified and shamefaced. “But what will you do now? You cannot be thinking of returning to your father. I could make you an allowance—”

  “No, Pip. That’s very generous of you but quite unnecessary. I have…employment of my own.”

  “Ah, very well, then.” He cleared his throat and examined his shoes once more.

  “Goodbye, Pip. I will send you the address of a lawyer through which you may contact me, but I won’t visit you again. This is farewell.”

  “Oh, really? You won’t stay to tea…?” The relief behind his embarrassment was too obvious to miss.

  “I won’t put you out any longer.” She gestured towards the ceiling. “After all, you’ve an injured father to look after.”

  “That I do.”

  She found herself curious about Sir Thaddeus lying upstairs in his bed, as helpless as a newborn babe. “I suppose he’s been largely unconscious these past few days.”

  “No, quite the contrary. He’s been mostly awake.” As Pip accompanied her out of the drawing room, she caught a gleam in his eyes, a hint of an emotion she’d never detected in him before. “I find myself enjoying my little visits to my father’s sick chamber. The doctors advocate I talk to him, you see, so I relate to him everything I can think of. The poor man cannot respond, but he understands every word I say.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “Oh, he retains some movement in his left eye. It bobs this way and that whenever I chat to him.”

  “And what do you talk about?” Nellie asked, her curiosity even more piqued.

  “What I intend to do to the house, who I’ll invite to dinner, what parties I’ll be attending, all my plans for the future, really. It’s most entertaining to relate my schemes to my poor, helpless father.”

  They were at the head of the grand staircase leading down to the front door. Nellie glanced at the stairs winding up to the floor above. Somewhere up there lay Thaddeus, paralysed and mute, but perfectly cognisant of everything around him. And Pip, aware of this, was deliberately embarking on a calculated journey of retribution. Thaddeus, she was sure, would have preferred death to being at the mercy of his son. But it was none of her business now. Her life and her future lay elsewhere.

  She said her goodbyes and left the house forever. Outside, the sullen clouds overhead parted momentarily to emit a thin ray of light. She stood and lifted her head to savour the watery sunlight before it disappeared. A few passersby cast curious glances at her, but she merely smiled at them.

  On the other side of the street, Julian was waiting for her. He gazed directly at her, his black hair falling untidily around his sombre, bruised face, his lean figure carelessly elegant and beautiful, his eyes intent upon her. Her heart leaped. Never would she tire of the sight of him. Her feet skipped across the cobblestones, carrying her towards him. As she approached, she noticed a gaunt street urchin strolling away, an empty muffin tray tucked under his arm.

  “You’ve been eating muffins?” She gave Julian a teasing smile. “You’ll spoil your dinner.”

  “That depends what we’re having for dinner.” The smile he gave her in return did not quite reach his eyes. He quirked an eyebrow at her. “So?”

  She turned to her horse and patted its neck. “So, I believe Mrs. Tibbet is making roast suckling pig with parsnips.”

  “Nellie…”

  She smiled in apology. “Thaddeus is permanently incapacitated. He is paralysed from the neck down and cannot speak, but it appears his comprehension is intact.” It dawned on her that with Thaddeus forever silenced, Julian might never get the knowledge he craved. Her smile faded. “There’s not much hope of asking Thaddeus about your mother. I’m so sorry, Julian, but perhaps some of the servants would know about his sister’s governess, or there may even be some correspondence in the house. I could ask Pip—”

  “Oh no, don’t trouble yourself. I’m over that.”

  “You are? But you’ve gone to such lengths. It’s been so important to you.”

  He gazed down the street at the departing muffin boy. “I was young and headstrong, but I’ve learned my lesson. Whoever my mother was, I know she cared about me, and she left me in the best hands possible. That’s all I need to know.”

  Nellie stared at him. “You came to this conclusion while you were waiting for me?”

  “No, on the night Thaddeus was shot.” He offered her an apologetic smile. “It’s taken me a few days to adjust, but now I’m here standing outside the Ormond house, I’m convinced it’s the right decision.”

  Would she ever fathom this complex man? Ever since that eventful night he’d been preoccupied, but she’d assumed he was plotting a new strategy. It seemed incredible that he should give
up a quest he’d pursued so relentlessly. But she saw that he meant it, and her heart lifted for him.

  “I’m glad, Julian. Truly, I am.”

  “So am I.” He leaned against the iron railings. “There are far more important things to occupy my mind.”

  “Such as?”

  “Such as, what of you and Pip? How did he react to your sudden resurrection?”

  “With great shock, of course, but Pip has matured somewhat in the past few days. I think he’ll find happiness in the future.” She cast him a sidelong glance. “He suggested I live here in Mayfair with him, as I’m still married to him.”

  Julian grew rigid. His eyes glinted at her like granite. “And?” he ground out between clenched teeth.

  “I declined, much to his relief. No, Pip and I would never have been happy.” She inhaled a breath and squared her shoulders. “So, I will soon be a notorious divorcée.”

  He continued to glower at her. “You seem very cheerful at the prospect.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be? I am free to commit adultery with whomever I want.”

  His gaze sharpened. His shoulders bunched up beneath his jacket. “No, you are not. Not if I have anything to do with it.”

  At the sight of his thunderous expression, happiness came bubbling up in Nellie. She’d never felt so light-hearted, so carefree, and she knew it was because of this man she’d learned to trust and love. Safe in the knowledge of his tenderness for her, she could truly give free rein to every passion and desire she felt for him.

  Bending forward, she cupped his cheek in her gloved hand. “You’re right, Julian. You have everything and more to do with it. But will you be happy with a fallen woman?”

  “Let me demonstrate how happy I can be.”

  His eyes glowed as he put his arms around her and lowered his mouth to hers. Uncaring of the shocked passersby, he kissed her with renewed emotion, his initial gentleness melting into searing ardour that ignited all her senses. She kissed him back fervently, so drunk on the sweet perfection of the moment that when he finally lifted his head she let out a small moan of protest, only gradually becoming aware of what a spectacle they were providing.

  He pressed the pad of his thumb against her throbbing lower lip. “Come, my sweet, let’s hasten home, or we will be dining on porridge tonight.”

  She didn’t care what they dined on, but she knew how they would spend the night. They mounted their horses, and soon they were speeding back home.

  The muffin boy looked on as the gentleman and his lady cantered away down the road and disappeared around a corner. He rubbed his stomach, which was straining with the unfamiliar weight of several muffins. Tonight he’d sleep easy with all that food in his belly. He’d use some of the money that gentleman had given him to buy his urchin friends muffins too, or maybe some nice beef pies.

  He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket to reassure himself the coins were still there. As he did so, he touched something else and drew out the object. The brooch, fashioned to resemble a bee, was the prettiest thing the boy had ever seen. The gentleman had said it was made of real diamonds and rubies, that it would sell for a good sum. The boy wasn’t so sure about that. If it was valuable, why would the gentleman give it to a complete stranger, and a street urchin at that? Still, it was beautiful, and he didn’t have much beauty in his life.

  He pocketed the brooch, and as he sauntered down the street, he began to whistle a jaunty tune.

  About the Author

  Coleen Kwan has been a bookworm all her life. At school English was her favourite subject, but for some reason she decided on a career in IT. After many years of programming, she wondered what else there was in life—and discovered writing. She loves writing contemporary romance and steampunk romance.

  Coleen lives in Sydney, Australia with her partner and two children. When she isn’t writing, she enjoys avoiding housework, eating chocolate, and watching The Office.

  Contact Coleen at her website www.coleenkwan.com and sign up for her newsletter. She can also be found on Twitter www.twitter.com/ColeenKwan and on Facebook www.facebook.com/coleenkwan.authorpage.

  The worst of times, the most passionate of loves.

  The Bookseller’s Daughter

  © 2013 Pam Rosenthal

  In her family’s bookshop, Marie-Laure Vernet had adventure, romance and mystery at her fingertips. And intrigue, in the form of an enigmatic stranger as unsettlingly attractive as the scandalous books he smuggled. But he disappeared, and so did the bookshop’s meager fortunes.

  Forced to work as a scullery maid, Marie-Laure struggles to keep the china in one piece—and herself away from the aristocrats’ wandering hands. Until unexpectedly, the Duc’s estranged son comes home, and Marie-Laure once again finds herself face-to-face with the fascinating stranger.

  Joseph has braved every conceivable danger during his secret adventures outside France, but he knows no one is in greater peril than a pretty servant in the employ of his lecherous father. And the only way to protect her is to pretend to be her lover.

  Behind his bedroom door, their chaste friendship blooms into a connection more erotic than the stories in any forbidden book. But desire, even love, may not be enough to overcome the forces society has arrayed against them…

  Warning: Contains a relationship between a couple who love books almost as much as they love each other.

  Enjoy the following excerpt for The Bookseller’s Daughter:

  Provence, August 1783

  Six years before the French Revolution

  The rule at the chateau was never to hire a pretty servant. And yet there was no denying that the copper-haired girl serving tea in the library this afternoon was pretty. Clumsy too: if she continued rattling that Sèvres cup and saucer she was going to spatter hot tea all over the Vicomte’s impeccable white stockings.

  Bored with each other’s company, the family of the Duc de Carency Auvers-Raimond directed keen eyes in the girl’s direction. Sèvres was shockingly expensive; a servant who broke a piece could expect to be punished—even, or especially, a servant as pretty as this one. The cup rattled more loudly. The family waited in dreamy stillness for the shivering crash of china on the parquet floor.

  But none came; only a few faint beige drops of tea marred the Vicomte’s shins, for at the last possible moment, he’d put out a long, deft hand and rescued the cup from imminent destruction.

  “Thank you, Marianne,” he murmured.

  She managed a curtsy, lowering her eyes from his and blushing beneath the freckles scattered over her cheeks.

  Teatime finally over, she made her way back to the kitchen. A narrow escape; catastrophe barely averted. No broken china to sweep up, and—more importantly—no punishment to anticipate. The Comtesse Amélie had only glared at her. Ah well, a glare was nothing. What one had to look out for was the Comtesse’s scowl, the Gorgon-face that meant a thrashing was in order.

  She wouldn’t be hurt and she wouldn’t be fired. No servant would be fired today; there was too much work to do. All right, she told herself, she should be glad of the work then. Because her job was the main thing, wasn’t it? Her job, her salary—surely these things were more important than the fact that he had clearly forgotten he’d ever seen her before.

  Yes, of course. He was of no importance whatsoever.

  Though it rather pained her to admit that she’d recognized him the instant she’d entered the room. The set of his shoulders, the dark gleam of his eyes: she’d known him immediately. No wonder she’d stopped breathing properly; of course she’d rattled the china.

  And, she warned herself, if she continued thinking of him so…so physically, she was still in danger of dropping things—this time the whole damn tray. She hurried into the kitchen, laid down the delicate tea things, and tucked her thick curls into a cap, to protect them against soot and grease.

  Be honest, she thought. Admit the whole truth and be done with it. She winced; the appalling, humiliating fact of the matter was that since last D
ecember she hadn’t let a day go by without thinking of him.

  Thank you, Marianne.

  And thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte. Even if you don’t remember that my name is Marie-Laure and not Marianne.

  She pinned a stained apron to the front of her dress. One couldn’t expect an aristocrat to know a servant’s proper name.

  Heaps of work awaited her in the scullery. A mountain of pots to wash, a bushel of onions to peel and chop. Plenty of distraction from her troublesome thoughts. She took a heavy knife and sliced off the tip of an onion. Predictably, her eyes filled with tears. Well, of course, she scolded herself. What else could one expect, from such a strong onion?

  There would be a banquet. A chandelier of Bohemian crystal had been installed in the mirrored dining room; tomorrow evening thirty guests would feast under its light in celebration of the Vicomte’s visit.

  He’d arrived only this morning, together with his mother the Duchesse. No one among the chateau’s army of servants knew what had brought about the sudden family reunion.

  “The Duc’s illness could have taken a turn for the worse,” Jacques, the Duc’s valet, had speculated that morning at breakfast. “The doctors looked graver than usual, last time they visited.”

  “Perhaps they’re selling off some property,” someone else suggested. “That will usually bring a family out of hiding, to clamor for their share. Or perhaps it’s time to find a wife for the Vicomte Monsieur Joseph.”

  It would have to be a matter of some import, everyone agreed, to pry the Duchesse away from the convent that had been her home for the last few years.

  “Of course, the Duc was always a wretched husband, even when he had his wits about him.” Nicolas, the chateau’s general manager, prided himself on his knowledge of the family’s history. “Joked in public that the Duchesse was a prune in bed. Had a list of mistresses as long as your arm, and you couldn’t keep him away from the maids and village girls.” Which was why, now that the old man was too enfeebled to have a say in things, his daughter-in-law tried not to hire pretty servants.