The Duke's Defiant Cinderella
Yazar
Parker J. Cole
Okur
17,7K
Bölüm
17
Chapter One
Ivy rippled in gentle waves along the stone wall of the enclosed potager. The waxy leaves brushed against the bowed-down, mob-capped head of the servant girl. She sat huddled in the corner, her shoulders shaking, her cries muffled and her sorrow palpable.
Bastien St Clare, Marquis de Velay, stood a mere foot away from the girl. He called out softly, ‘Lilas?’
The servant’s head jerked up. Her eyes widened, showing him they were the colour of dew-tipped lilacs. Tears trickled down cheeks almost as dark as his own.
‘Monsieur le Marquis!’ Hastily she wiped the moisture from her eyes and scrambled to her feet. ‘Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.’ She gave a quick curtsy. ‘I did not see you there.’
The pleasure of seeing her warred with his concern for her distress. ‘Lilas, why are you crying? Is there something I can do?’
Her mouth opened as if she was about to tell him. He leaned forward a little, waiting for her reply. Then wariness appeared in her eyes, and she closed it once more.
‘It’s nothing, monsieur.’
Alarm riddled every part of his body. For the first time since he’d known her Lilas was holding secrets back from him.
This would not do.
‘Lilas, you know you can tell me what’s wrong.’
‘Can I?’ An incredulous tone lined her words.
His eyebrows drew together in the centre of his forehead. ‘What do you mean by that?’ The words came out harsher than he’d planned.
‘Pardonnez-moi, monsieur.’ She stepped back and curtsied. ‘I have forgotten my place.’
Bastien raised his eyebrows. ‘I must have struck my head on the gate before I arrived. You’ve never acted like a servant with me before when we are alone.’
Her eyes flared like twin flames. ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, monsieur.’
The tension that had gripped his shoulders was released in a single motion. At least he knew the real Lilas was still there under that ill-suiting servitude.
It still begged the question: Why was she acting like this? Master’s son and servant they might be, but he had always come to her aid over the years. He’d always protected her whenever the servants of his father’s house had mistreated her for some perceived slight.
‘I am not leaving until you tell me what is wrong, Lilas.’
‘I can’t do that, monsieur.’ Her high voice sent any pretence of submission to the winds. ‘Can’t you see that?’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t,’ he answered quietly.
Her eyes fastened on some invisible object. ‘It has nothing to do with you.’ Her teeth sank into the corner of her bottom lip. ‘At least, I don’t believe it has.’
Bastien moved until he stood in front of her, capturing her gaze. ‘You’re talking about mysteries, Lilas. What is it? What has happened?’
She took in a deep breath. ‘The Duc de Languedoc has summoned me. I am to go to his study within a half hour.’
Bastien took a step back. ‘Père? What would Père want with you?’
An unnatural stillness came over her. ‘You do not know?’
He gave an ungentlemanly snort. ‘My father doesn’t see fit to make me aware of his plans, Lilas. He simply ensures I obey them.’ His hard voice softened slightly. ‘I understand how you are feeling.’
‘Do you? What could you know about it?’
Bastien’s chest expanded. ‘More than you think.’
At the scoffing sound she made, he lowered his brows over his eyes. ‘You doubt my words? Do you think we are so different?’
‘Aren’t we, Monsieur le Marquis?’
Mockery and cynicism tinged the use of his formal title. A strained silence followed.
Then Bastien chuckled, shaking his head. ‘This is why I have always liked you.’
Lilas’s mouth fell open. ‘Monsieur...?’
‘I have known you for the past ten years. You obey not because you must, but because you choose to.’ He drew nearer, standing in front of her. ‘Do you think I have forgotten the fille des cendres with the ash-smudged cheeks ma mère introduced to the household?’ Without conscious thought, he lifted his finger and trailed it along the side of her face.
Lilas gave a violent jolt, but she didn’t move away. Her startled eyes lifted to his, their depths filled with inquisitiveness. An arc of awareness went through him. This was the first time that he had ever touched her. It felt as natural as breathing.
Was her skin really this soft and warm? Or was it simply the newness of this interaction? Unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of his dark finger against her brown skin, he continued to stroke her lightly.
‘That same fille des cendres used those ashes to create beautiful works of art.’
He reached out and gripped her wrists. Those clear eyes met his own. Her tears ceased, and she regained her usual witty and headstrong disposition. The pads of his thumbs discovered the hint of flesh along the insides of her wrists not quite covered up by her sleeves.
His eyes roamed over her. ‘Never hide from me, Lilas. Not your secrets or yourself.’
Lilas’s head tilted to one side. ‘Can I ever really do such a thing with you, monsieur?’
‘I don’t intend either of us to find out.’
Her lips curved into a smile. ‘How wicked you are.’
‘I am,’ he agreed.
His thumb moved in a circle along the skin of her inner wrist. It was just as soft there as it was along her temple. Seeing Lilas like this, touching her like this, only added to his ever-changing discovery of her.
Theirs had been a curious relationship ever since she’d been employed in his family’s service when he was ten and two years of age. Had she been a woman of nobility, this...friendship between them would never have developed. But over the years, he’d been thankful for its existence.
The starched uniform rested upon her person in an ill fashion. Lilas lacked the carriage of a submissive servant. When they’d first met, her thin, starved eight-year-old frame had stood erect, and her violet-hued eyes had boldly met his. That little square chin had been thrust out even as it had trembled.
Through the years she’d performed her duties admirably, but within the depths of her dark violet gaze flamed tongues of rebellion. Maybe that infernal boldness was what drew him to champion her cause whenever he could. Such inherent fire deserved a free rein, even if she was a servant.
Today, something about her brought him a perception unknown before. What it was, he didn’t know, but touching her had opened his eyes to her as a woman.
Her attire left everything to the imagination, but he noticed for the first time her unblemished brown skin, that delicate retroussé nose with its narrow nostrils, and the plump, brownish-pink mouth with its upper lip slightly fuller than her lower one.
Bastien shook his head, trying to rid himself of those thoughts. Lilas was a servant in his father’s house. Bastien had never seen her or any of the others who served his family as objects for conquest.
He wasn’t going to do so now either.
Bastien unclasped his hold from her wrists, feeling bereft once more. ‘Tell me what is on your mind, Lilas? Why were you crying?’
She rubbed at her wrist. His stomach knotted in an odd way. Was she trying to smooth away the sensation of his touch?
‘I believe I know the reason why I’ve been summoned.’
Drawing his gaze away from her hands, he asked, ‘And what is that?’
‘I believe your father is going to dismiss me.’
‘Dismiss you?’
Bastien’s disbelieving voice eased the weight on Lilas’s heart. His reaction showed he had nothing to do with her suspicions. Which only left one possibility. The cook, Madame Fournier, had gone to the Duc de Languedoc yet again.
‘I believe so.’
‘Why?’
‘I think Madame Fournier must have complained about me.’
‘I’ll have her thrown into the streets,’ he snarled through gritted teeth.
Despite the future swirling before her like a dark mist, Lilas felt her heart lighten further. For a few horrible hours she’d believed Bastien had something to do with the summons to his father’s study. She should have known better.
‘It would do little good. The Duc de Languedoc is lord here. His word is final. Perhaps this is the best way.’
‘Why do you say that?’ He lowered his brows over his golden eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
Lilas said nothing, spellbound. Bastien St Clare’s golden gaze was filled with something she’d never seen before. Once or twice, her sorrow at the mistreatment she’d received from the other servants had sent her fleeing into his arms, seeking the kind of comfort an older brother could provide. But she couldn’t ignore that he’d touched her like this for the first time since they’d known each other.
As she’d grown up, Lilas had often been reminded of their positions in life. Though he might defend her like one, Bastien St Clare was not her brother. He was her master’s son. A man she must obey. When she’d come to terms with this, she’d ceased seeking out his comfort.
Today was different.
His gaze hadn’t been at all brother-like.
But Lilas didn’t want to believe Bastien had looked at her as if he were aware of her as someone other than the cinder girl he usually protected.
‘Lilas, what do you mean?’ he repeated.
‘I have no desire to excel at my duties of washing vegetables, monsieur.’
‘Oh?’
‘Ever since my arrival from the orphanage I have cleaned your home, washed your clothes and served your meals. In all things I’ve shown deference and humility. I have been careful to be a servant who serves a proud and prestigious house.’
He made a sound in his throat. ‘And?’
‘No matter what I do, it’s never enough. I am still only the mulâtresse foundling.’
‘Your life could have been worse,’ he said, not unkindly.
‘I am grateful I escaped a more dismal future,’ she agreed with a nod. If the Duchesse de Languedoc hadn’t taken pity on her that day when she’d come to do her good works at the orphanage, who knew what trials she would have suffered?
‘Many children die in the orphanage long before they reach eight years of age. The nuns were not cruel, but neither were they overly attached to me.’
Frequently accompanied by starvation, sickness and poverty, Lilas had known she had something within her that had kept her from succumbing to the same fate as hundreds of orphans before her. Her burning desire for more had refused to be doused. Instead, it had bloomed into a full-fledged fire.
That unquenchable fire still smouldered within her.
‘I will always be thankful that the Duchesse de Languedoc took me away from that place. But should I fall to my knees and thank St Martha that I have become accomplished at making beds? Washing clothes? Do I pray to the Virgin that I might attain Madame Fournier’s position as cook in the household and thus wreak vengeance upon her?’
He caught her wrist again. ‘Is that what you want? Tell me, and I’ll have her thrown out this instant.’
A part of her knew that if she were to truly demand the cook’s dismissal Bastien would see to it post-haste.
He increased the slight pressure of his thumb on her inner wrist. Every part of her became riveted to the spot, making the hairs on her skin rise and brush the underside of the material of her clothes. It made her itch in an inexplicable way she couldn’t understand. An itch demanding to be scratched and stroked at the same time.
‘I don’t want that,’ she said truthfully. She really should pull her hand away... ‘Madame Fournier and all those who disdain me only see a servant who has gained favour with the master’s son. They believe I presume to be above my station.’ The flames inside her leapt as she finally expressed what she’d never before dared to say aloud. ‘They don’t realise I am above their station.’
Swiftly, she lifted her eyes to Bastien’s. There was no mockery or disdain in his gaze. His thumb circled around the distended vein and an involuntary shiver took hold of her.
‘Are you?’ he murmured.
‘They are content to be servants for the rest of their lives. I am not. That is why dismissal from the Duc may be a blessing from the Virgin herself.’
Silence reigned once more. She felt the heat of Bastien’s hooded gaze as surely as his thumb that rested on her.
Without warning, he released her. She gasped at the sudden loss. The sun darted behind the clouds. A gust of wind ripped at her clothes, cooling her as if the removal of his touch had ushered in an odd chill.
Shaking her head at the idea, she listened as he spoke. ‘I understand your plight. Do you think that among the nobility one such as I is truly accepted?’
Lilas frowned. ‘You are the son of a duc who himself comes from a long line of noble descendants, monsieur.’
A hard edge tinged his words. ‘My uncle, the Comte de Clareville, says my father destroyed generations of noble blood when he married my mother. In his eyes, my father not only wedded a commoner, but one with a different heritage—which my uncle could not tolerate.’
The bulge in the centre of his throat bobbed.
‘Que Dieu repose son âme.’
His sombre words dampened the mood like drops of invisible rain. Wanting to send away the melancholy of his mother’s passing two years ago, Lilas reached out and touched his arm in sympathy. It flexed under her fingers. ‘Oui, monsieur. May God rest her soul.’
His eyes drifted deliberately to her hand on his arm. She jerked it away.
He frowned. ‘If you are dismissed, what will you do?’
Would he laugh at her decision? Of course not. She trusted Bastien as she did no one else. Abandoned by her parents, ignored by her religious caretakers and ostracised by the other servants, she had no cause to put her faith in humanity.
Gazing out at the rows of box hedges that enclosed many plots of herbs, vegetables and fruits, she rested her eyes on a fruit tree studded with budding new life.
‘I’ll capture the dawn and hold still the night.’
‘You mean you will pursue your art?’
A feeling of wild abandon crept over her. ‘I’m not a woman when I paint. Or even a person.’
When she painted, that infernal fire within her abated for as long as she became at one with her work. It was the only time she felt free.
‘What are you, then?’ he asked softly.
‘I am wielded by my art. When I paint, I obey its will. It never restricts me. When I leave, my life will be my own. I’ll have no master to obey.’
‘Have I been such a terrible lord, Lilas?’
She shook her head. ‘You have been my master’s son and my friend.’
‘Whatever happens you must hone your skill. Become an artist in your own right.’
‘How? I am hardly likely to gain an apprenticeship.’
‘I will do what I can to ensure that you do.’ His golden eyes were unwavering in their regard. ‘I will not abandon you, Lilas.’
‘Why are you doing this? I am no one.’
‘Have I ever treated you as if you are no one?’
‘Never.’
He stepped closer to her. ‘Have I ever looked at you as if you are no one?’
He gripped her hand once more and rubbed his thumb along the back of it. Her eyes almost drifted shut at the pleasure. She could easily get used to that.
‘You have the softest skin,’ Bastien murmured. ‘Why have I just discovered this on the day you are leaving? I could have—’
‘Pardonne moi, Mademoiselle Villemarette.’
They jumped and turned, seeing a bland-faced manservant behind them. If he saw their clasped hands, he gave no sign.
She tried to tug her hand away, but Bastien clamped down on it. When he refused to let go, she swallowed to moisten a dry throat. ‘Oui, monsieur?’
‘The Duc de Languedoc wishes to see you now.’
Her heart fell to her feet. She opened her mouth but Bastien interjected.
‘Mademoiselle Villemarette will be there soon.’
The manservant gave a deliberate cough. ‘The Duc de Languedoc has expressed the urgency of his request.’
‘You’ve delivered your message. Now go,’ Bastien dismissed him with a curt nod.
The manservant bowed and left.
‘I won’t let anything happen to you, Lilas.’
His golden eyes stared down into hers with a throbbing intensity. She felt something stir between them. Reminiscent of a fledgling bird flapping its new wings. Cautious, so very cautious, and yet still eager.
Lilas tried again to pull away, but he said, ‘Don’t move.’
She stilled. ‘Monsieur...?’
‘I said, don’t move.’
His voice slid along her spine. Her mind blanked as his head bent. A fine trembling racked her body as his face came closer.
Mon Dieu, was he going to kiss her?
Her eyes shifted to his mouth, seeing its fullness. What would it be like to feel his lips upon hers?
Just as her eyes fluttered closed, he angled his mouth over to the side of her head. His lips brushed the ruffled flap of her mob-cap, skidded along her temple and against the cusp of her ear. She barely suppressed a shudder as he spoke.
‘You will be a brilliant artist, Lilas. I will not accept less from you. I expect to have the wedding portrait of my future wife and myself painted only by you, for an exorbitant fee.’
Her chest caved in and her eyes smarted. Of course he hadn’t planned on kissing her. She choked on an unsteady laugh and shoved away the nonsense of a half-formed wispy dream. ‘Monsieur, I shall do my best to diminish your fortune.’
Bastien let go of her. ‘Come. We must meet my father now.’
An imp of mischief prompted her to say, ‘I’m not the one who delayed us.’
Angry bees buzzed in Lilas’s brain. They dug their stingers into her mind with an unbearable tenacity. She could barely believe the words she was hearing. This could not be real.
Clearing her throat, she squeezed her upper arms. ‘My father...is coming here?’
‘Oui, mademoiselle.’ The Duc de Languedoc spoke in soft tones, at odds with his military bearing. ‘I know it must come as a shock to you, but I’ve received a message from your father, who is my dear friend. His name is Louis Moreau, the Comte de la Baux. He is coming here to see you within a few days.’
‘Incroyable...’ she breathed, and collapsed onto the plush ottoman.
A father. She had a father!
Her mind whirled with the knowledge. Glancing up at Bastien, she saw her shock mirrored in his eyes. And something else...but she was too befuddled to think about what it was. All she could think was that she wasn’t an orphan after all. She had a father and...
‘What about my mother?’
The Duc de Languedoc shook his head. ‘It’s all rather puzzling, Mademoiselle Moreau.’
Lilas started. How quickly the Duc de Languedoc had used her new name. The nuns at the orphanage had given her the name Villemarette. That wasn’t her name. Not any more.
She cleared her mind to continue listening to the Duc de Languedoc as he said, ‘Your mother died in childbirth, and we thought her child had died, too.’
With an intent regard just like his son’s, the Duc de Languedoc sat on the settee across from her.
‘Your mother’s name was Atalyia. She was a beautiful woman whom your father loved very much. Her death was a bitter loss to the Comte de la Baux, but in time he married a widow with a son, who are also most eager to make your acquaintance.’
Lilas shuddered. A family. She had a family! A father, a stepmother and stepbrother. It was almost too much to bear. Despite the wave of euphoria washing through her, torrential rains of curiosity still assaulted her. So many questions that they threatened to drown her.
‘Monsieur le Duc, how did I end up at the orphanage? Why did—?’
‘Unfortunately, my dear, I do not have any of the answers to your questions. Your father, from his letter, is just as perplexed by the turn of events as you are. All I know is that he recently received a letter from an unnamed source telling him you had resided at the orphanage near here since you were a baby. When he investigated further, he discovered to his great relief that you were here. I know the Comte de la Baux very well, and I can assure you he will not rest until he unearths all the circumstances behind your disappearance eighteen years ago.’
Too many emotions crowded in on her. A family, a father, the mystery of her birth and her disappearance... How could she make sense of it all?
Did she need to make sense of it right this instant? No. For now, she would push everything else to the back of her mind and focus on the most important aspect—she was going to meet her family!
Dazed, she looked at Bastien again. He still stared at her, but his shock had passed and the expression on his face baffled her anew. Instead of looking pleased for her good fortune, she sensed he was full of consternation. His silence bore a heavy air.
But why?
‘I’ll tell you what I can, Mademoiselle Moreau, and when your father arrives he can hopefully answer some of your other questions.’
‘When will he be here?’
‘Within a fortnight—if not sooner.’
A fortnight. Fourteen days until she could meet the man who’d sired her.
‘Forgive my impertinence, Monsieur le Duc, but please... Tell me what you know about my family.’
She was like a sponge desperate for moisture! This new knowledge of who she was...she wanted every drop of it.
A faraway gaze entered the Duc de Languedoc’s eyes. ‘We—that is Louis, myself and my wife, Carmen—had travelled to Colonie de Saint-Domingue to visit Carmen’s family and were on our way back to France.’
‘The Duchesse de Languedoc?’
‘My goddess...’ the Duc breathed in a reverent tone. ‘She was a free woman whom I had met there while I was visiting a friend’s plantation. My eyes had never seen such beauty until I gazed into hers...’
His voice trailed off, and it was a few moments before he started to speak again.
‘We were on our way home when a freakish storm suddenly struck. The waves tore our small vessel into pieces and the few crew members who had sailed with us were killed.’
‘How awful!’
‘It was.’ His mouth tightened at the corners. ‘I was terrified I would lose my wife of less than two years, but a Maroon boat came to our aid and took us to their island.
‘When we landed, we were dragged from the boat and surrounded by Maroon Guards. I was certain they were going to kill us, but Carmen threw herself upon me, protecting me with her body.’ His throat bobbed. ‘I will always believe her presence was what saved us. The Maroons had no reason to trust white men—their hatred of the British was strong, even though the conflict between them was over. She spoke a few words of their language, and whatever she said gave them pause. They tied us up—even my wife—and led us deep into the mountains of the island.’
The Duc de Languedoc continued, telling Lilas of how the Maroons had imprisoned them all, except for his wife, who had been sent before the Queen Nanny of the Maroons, their leader and a powerful obeah woman. Through her talking with Carmen, she had learned that he and Louis weren’t British, but French.
‘Several times I thought we would be killed. During that time Atalyia, your mother, came to where we were held prisoner and tended to Louis, who had suffered injury from being shipwrecked. Throughout those weeks the bond between them grew, even though I could see the disapproval of the other Maroon people.’
The Duc cut a look at her.
‘But Atalyia was a blood descendant of the Queen Nanny, and as such had a certain sway with the people. I believe that’s what kept us alive. By the time Louis had healed, the suspicion against us had waned—thanks to Atalyia—and we were given a vessel to set sail once more. When we left, Atalyia came with us, and soon after we returned to France she became Louis’s wife.’
Lilas’s breath shuddered out of her. Listening to the story, she couldn’t believe it. Hearing about her mother and father meeting each other just whetted her appetite for more. She wanted to know about her mother’s people, her father’s people—and more. So much more!
Warmth flushed her face as she glanced at Bastien again.
Bastien shook his head. ‘And we thought you were going to be dismissed.’
‘Dismissed? Hardly that. In fact, there’s something else I need to tell you both. I’m sure Louis wouldn’t mind my saying this.’ A pleased smile creased his face. ‘Lilas is your betrothed, Bastien.’
Bastien stared at his father. ‘What did you say?’ The words came out hoarsely. ‘I didn’t quite—’
‘Mademoiselle Lilas Moreau...’ his father nodded to the stone-still figure, sitting there ‘...is your betrothed, mon fils.’
Blood pounded against his temples. Bastien couldn’t prevent his voice from going up an octave. ‘When did this happen?’
His father gave him a sidelong glance. The soft, understanding expression he had shown to Lilas as he’d told her parents’ story had vanished. ‘Some time ago.’
‘When, exactly?’ he snapped.
‘When you were small.’ His father relented. ‘We wanted a marriage to combine our houses. When we discovered Atalyia was with child we penned a contract that said in the event of a daughter’s birth we would bring you two together.’
Bastien seethed behind his clenched teeth. The Duc’s overbearing ways had caused more rifts between father and son than all of France’s wars.
Though he loved his father as any son would, the Duc had always kept a tight rein on Bastien’s actions, making sure he never crossed the line into indecency or impropriety. Due to his mixed blood, Bastien had always had to behave better, work harder and remain above reproach.
But didn’t he have the right to live his life as he chose? Must he always be so conscious of his station and status as the mulâtre son of a duc?
‘Why would you do this without my consent, Father?’
His father’s gaze hardened. ‘I don’t need your consent. You are my son, and you’ll do as you’re told.’
‘I am not horseflesh for you to breed.’
The Duc folded his arms. ‘Mon fils, Louis was like a brother to me as we were growing up—closer even than my own siblings. What better way to solidify our friendship than through marriage?’
Bastien had no desire to marry, although he knew he must eventually. The agony of his mother’s death had caused him and his father to drift apart. Château de Velay had become a mausoleum, and Bastien longed to escape its sorrowful confines.
After several months of discussion his father had finally agreed to allow him to travel on what the British nobility called a ‘Grand Tour’. Besides travelling to areas of interest in his home country, he wanted to go elsewhere in Europe too. Due to his father’s tightly fisted grip, Bastien had barely stepped outside the borders of France!
‘You gave me permission to leave for my Grand Tour.’
‘Bastien, you cannot leave now.’
His fists curled. ‘You cannot dictate my whole life this way, Père.’
His father blew out a frustrated breath. ‘Don’t you understand, mon fils? We had both taken women who were not noble Frenchwomen as our wives. To some in society, I had married a common woman of a supposedly inferior race.’
‘Like my uncle?’ Years of listening to the Comte de Clareville’s vitriolic opinion of his mixed blood sounded in Bastien’s mind.
His father gave a careless shrug. ‘Ignore that idiot.’
Bastien’s lips thinned. It was his father’s answer to everything. Just ignore it.
‘Had I wanted your mother for my mistress,’ his father was saying, with venom, ‘and sired a dozen bâtards from her womb, no one would have objected. But I did the unthinkable and gave her the humble honour of my name.’
The Duc had loved his wife with a fierce intensity. So much so that even now, after two years, the pangs of Carmen’s death still pierced him like a thousand needles.
His father slashed the air with his hand. ‘Society couldn’t understand why I would marry her—’ Philippe’s voice broke. ‘But I did marry her, and likewise Louis married Atalyia, and it brought us closer together than ever before. We wanted a marriage between our children to be the ultimate seal on our friendship, but we thought the chance lost for ever. Now, through a miracle, it is possible once more—and you want to deny us our dearest wish?’
‘Père, I will choose my own wife.’
A few seconds passed before his father gathered himself, and then he nodded towards Lilas, his composure intact once more. ‘You already have one.’
Bastien’s fist clenched and shook. ‘You married a woman of your own choosing. Why can’t I?’
‘Monsieur le Duc?’
Lilas’s tiny voice broke through the argument. The Duc glared at Bastien, but directed his words to Lilas. ‘Mademoiselle Moreau?’
‘May I speak with Monsieur le Marquis in private?’
The Duc’s chest expanded. ‘Bien sûr. Perhaps when I come back I will hear good news and I will finally have the opportunity to share with Louis the joining of our houses.’
His father walked out the room, leaving them in silence.
Bastien blew out a breath as his gaze landed on Lilas. She looked the same, yet the knowledge of her lineage had already altered her demeanour. A new confidence sat upon her shoulders.
Rare was the day a servant discovered she was the daughter of a comte, with wealth and status attached to her name. And, pleased for her good fortune though he was, a part of him grew wary. Suddenly she wasn’t below him in station any more.
Bastien sighed. ‘Lilas, you must believe me—I did not know about this.’
Lilas’s eyes were dark as an indigo sky. ‘There is a silver lining, monsieur. I will have to depend on you for my refinement and introduction into society.’
The open vulnerability in her eyes frightened him in a way he hadn’t expected. She looked as if he were Solomon himself, able to solve the problem of their predicament.
But did she see it as a predicament?
He shook his head. ‘Lilas, I am confident of your successful entry into society, but I won’t be there to see it.’
Colour leached from her face. ‘You won’t?’
‘No one dictates my future. Least of all my father.’
He pulled back a chair and sat down before her. This close, he found himself unable to look away. Lilas wasn’t an uncomely girl. Far from it. Thoughts of those moments in the potager, touching her warm soft skin and being beset by a powerful urge to kiss her, flooded his mind.
Lilas possessed the kind of beauty that would only grow as she matured. In time, given her new circumstances, she would rival the most sought-after women in Paris with just a look from her uncommon violet eyes.
If his father hadn’t been so interfering, maybe...
But no, Lilas was his father’s choice, and not his own. It was just another way to control him and he would not bow down.
‘We have shared many confidences over the years, haven’t we?’ he asked.
She nodded.
‘The reason I asked my father for permission to make a Grand Tour, as the English do, is because what I want above all else is to experience life for myself. Along with my freedom. And I also aim to tempt a highborn lady of breeding to marry me.’
A fleeting look crossed Lilas’s face. ‘With what?’
Bastien laughed. ‘With what? You wound me, Lilas. Surely you can tell? I’m surprised you even have to ask.’
Some women had no compunction about his mixed blood ancestry. He was particular about whom he bedded, but he’d had his share of liaisons.
Lilas’s eyes roved over him in a leisurely fashion. No stranger to feminine interest, he saw her eyes gleam as she studied him. He wasn’t sure why this hint of womanly appreciation from her should make his throat dry. Nor why the fact that Lilas was no longer unattainable and in fact was a potential match for him should send the most damnable sensation of...something coursing through him.
‘And I must do this before I am forced to marry you.’
‘Forced?’
He dragged his fingers through his hair. ‘Don’t you see, Lilas? My father has controlled my life for far too long. Now he wants me to marry the woman he’s chosen for me. Am I so inept that I need my father to lead me to the marriage bed?’
Her throat worked up and down. ‘Is marrying me so terrible a fate, then, monsieur?’
‘Marrying you isn’t a part of my plan, Lilas.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘When I marry, I need a highborn woman with an impeccable reputation. Not one who used to be a servant girl.’
As soon as he spoke he wanted to pluck the blunt words from the air and stuff them back down his throat.
Lilas flinched as if he’d struck her.
‘Servant girl?’ she repeated slowly. ‘You lied in the potager, then? I thought you...’ Her voice trailed away.
A muscle leapt in his jaw. ‘No secrets between us, remember?’
Moisture filled her eyes. ‘I thought you cared about me.’
Something twisted in his chest.
A hidden truth pierced through the barrier he was trying so hard to maintain.
Bastien inhaled a deep breath. He did care about Lilas. In what way, he wasn’t sure—he’d never delved deeply enough into his own feelings. If he had, he’d have had to acknowledge something he wasn’t ready for.
‘I do care, Lilas,’ he replied measuredly.
Even though she hadn’t moved, it was as if an invisible chasm separated them. She blinked, and the sheen in her eyes disappeared. ‘There is nothing to explain, Monsieur le Marquis. I am still not good enough for you.’
‘Lilas, please try to understand.’
The chasm grew wider. He could practically see the abyss appearing between them.
‘I do. All too well.’
‘Lilas—’
She held up her hand, her face blank. ‘I trusted you, Bastien.’
His mouth fell open. She’d never called him by his name. The familiarity stroked a tingling sensation down his back.
She stood. ‘If there is some way to break the contract, rest assured I will find it.’ She turned and headed for the door.
He had to stop her and tell her...
What?
Lilas gripped the door handle and stood there for a long moment. Then she looked over her shoulder at him.
The pain in her violet eyes scorched his brain like fire.
‘I never want to see you again. Adieu, Monsieur le Marquis.’
Bastien knew he’d hurt her beyond all repair.
He bowed in farewell, his stomach churning. ‘As you wish, mademoiselle. Adieu.’
