Chapter Four

“An English lord. Lord Edward Tremaine.” Delphine smiled happily as she twirled around in the small sitting room she shared with her cousin. “He is handsome, is he not? He has blue eyes, like mine. A bit darker, perhaps, but that is good.”

“He has the eyes of an innocent,” Marguerite said. “The eyes of one who has been sheltered all his life and has never had to look on the reality of the world.”

“You should not talk so.” Delphine paused before a mirror to take an admiring look at her smile. “It makes you sound bitter.”

Marguerite held her tongue. What, after all, could she say? Denial would be pointless.

“But he is handsome,” Delphine continued. “His hair is dark and thick, and he is tall enough. Not elegant as a Frenchman would be, though he could doubtless be taught. Of course, it will be only an English title I have when I marry him. Lady Tremaine.” She shrugged. “It does not sound too bad.”

Leaning back in her chair, Marguerite closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. She had promised Maman, and she would keep her promise. But it was not easy. She was so tired of having to rein in Delphine, of trying to keep the girl calm. So tired of trying to make her behave sensibly. So tired. “You are not going to marry him, Delphine,” she said gently.

“Why not? I could if I chose to.” She smiled smugly. “He is almost in love with me already. He could not take his eyes from me. Even you must have seen that.”

Of course Marguerite had seen. Delphine was enchantingly pretty, and men always fell under her spell at first.

“You know…” Marguerite sighed. No, Delphine did not know. She did not understand. She would never understand. Another tack was necessary. “He is not really an English lord.”

“But of course he is. Antoine introduced us. He is Lord Edward Tremaine.”

“That is just a courtesy title. He is a younger son. His father is a marquess, but he has an older brother who will inherit the title.”

“He is a younger son?” Delphine could not keep the disappointment from her voice. “How do you know this?”

“Tante Héloise spoke with his valet.”

Delphine sniffed. “Servants’ gossip.”

“Not gossip. Information.”

A distressed frown crossed Delphine’s face, but she quickly recovered. “No matter. An older brother might die.”

Marguerite inhaled sharply. Delphine must not be allowed to think that way. She tried to speak, but could not immediately find the right words.

Delphine waved aside the unspoken protest. “But it is true. One never knows what the future may hold.”

That was only too true, but Marguerite strove to keep her tone calm. “No, Delphine, no. You must not think that way. There may be a dozen older brothers, and they may all have sons of their own. You do not want to think of him. After all, he is an Englishman, and you are French.”

Delphine tilted her head and looked thoughtful. “Yes, that is true. I am of the true nobility, la noblesse ancienne. I would not want to contract a mésalliance. My situation is not like yours.”

Marguerite steeled herself for what was coming.

“I do not understand why you rejected the comte de Louvois.” Delphine smiled slyly. “I know he is no longer young, but his lineage is impeccable.”

Marguerite’s head was throbbing. Rubbing her temples was useless. She wanted only to lie down in a dark room and wrap herself in silence, but she could not. Not yet. “You know he was not offering marriage.” Just remembering the comte, his full lips and cold eyes, evaluating her, as if balancing the price he was willing to pay and the price she might accept, made the bile rise in her throat.

“Of course not. Given your parents, you could hardly expect that.” Delphine moved a lamp to the table in front of the mirror, She had picked up a shawl and viewed herself in different poses, draping it in slightly varied folds. “Still, an alliance with a comte, even without marriage, would move you into higher circles, though not the highest.”

Had the girl absolutely no concept of what she was talking about? Marguerite wanted to scream, but forced the words through clenched jaws instead. “He thought I would have no choice after Papa died. No matter that I disliked him, that I had told him so—I think my dislike pleased him in some way.” She would never be able to make Delphine understand how the very sight of him revolted her. The thought of those fat fingers touching her made her skin crawl.

Delphine sniffed. “At least you would no longer have embarrassed me by performing in public.”

Marguerite turned away. There was no way to explain, no way that Delphine would comprehend. If the invitation from the vicomte, the invitation to come here, had not appeared, what would she have done? What could she have done? She had been desperate. Delphine, Tante Héloise, Horace—they were all her responsibility now.

This unexpected invitation had offered a respite, but that was all it was—a respite. It solved none of her problems. Dread settled in the pit of her stomach as it did whenever she thought about the future.

What was she going to do?