Chapter 2
Five years later, at the estate of Lord Garrison, late summer, 1804
Philippe de Bellechasse lounged against the summerhouse in the cool morning, sipping a cup of unexpectedly good coffee. He’d invited himself to Lord Garrison’s house party to make sure Gloriana Warren didn’t marry the insufferable Earl of Hythwick. It had proven a thankless task, but this purgatory was almost over.
Usually, Philippe respected collectors of antiques for both their knowledge and their care for the lovely old items they owned. Hythwick valued his antiques—all his possessions—for their worth in money and prestige, but nothing more. He was conceited and obsessed with propriety, yet rude to all he deemed his inferiors. He boasted relentlessly about his prowess in the hunt. To sum it up: he was thoroughly unpleasant and boring as well. Gloriana would be miserable with such a man.
Unfortunately, Philippe’s presence had only made Gloriana more stubbornly in favor of the earl. Philippe would happily have abducted Hythwick and tossed him off a cliff if necessary—thereby doing the world a favor—but the situation had resolved itself without his interference. The earl had announced that he couldn’t ally himself with the scandalous Warren family and intended to leave today.
Which left Gloriana disappointed and angry, but evidently determined to butter up the earl until the last possible moment. She had moved her offensive ex-suitor to the Dower House, which she had occupied since her brother’s marriage, to be cared for by her own servants while she remained at Garrison House. Why, for God’s sake? Now that he didn’t intend to marry her, she shouldn’t care what the earl said and did.
Speak of the devil! Gloriana emerged from Garrison House and made her way through the rose garden, looking pensive and lovely from this distance. Her auburn hair escaped the confines of her bonnet, and her figure was graceful and charming in a muslin gown. Her bearing was regal, like the queen she’d been named after. She stopped to sniff the flowers, gazed out upon the lake, and took a deep breath, as if she were pleased with life and the beautiful day.
When she spotted him, her posture changed. Rigid and glowering, she marched across the lawn to the summerhouse. “What do you think you’re doing here?”
Savoring the coffee. Enjoying the summer morning until you came along. “Reliving pleasant memories.” He chuckled.
She blushed a delightful pink, but the flush was one of fury. She raised her hand as if to slap him but seemingly thought better of it, for she lowered her arm and stalked past him into the summerhouse. She grabbed a sketchbook from one of the shelves and marched back out without another word.
And headed toward the Dower House.
“You’re wasting your time,” Philippe said. “He won’t change his mind.”
“He is my guest.” She tossed the words disdainfully over her shoulder. “I owe him certain courtesies.”
Philippe followed. “You owe him nothing.”
“An aristocrat puts courtesy above all else,” she proclaimed. That sounded like one of her long-dead mother’s absurd dictums. By this standard, few true aristocrats existed.
“Then why did you consider marrying him?” Philippe quipped.
She tossed her head, for this was unanswerable. Hythwick was known for his bad manners, but they both knew her pronouncement was aimed at Philippe. Since that disastrous night five years ago, she had taken every opportunity to express her disdain for his revolutionary views—the very views she had lauded during their brief infatuation. He didn’t give a tinker’s damn whether she agreed with liberty, equality, and fraternity. He cared greatly that she’d proven to be such a hypocrite. That he’d been so taken in.
She had shown herself to be not only brazen and manipulative, but also imperious, intolerant, and as much of as snob as her mother. In choosing Queen Elizabeth’s sobriquet for her daughter’s name, old Lady Garrison had been inspired—or perhaps merely successful at duplicating her own faults.
He still clenched deep inside when he recalled his first meeting with Gloriana after that night at the summerhouse. It was at a ball in London, and she’d said to her friends with a derisive laugh, “Here comes the fool who believes the scum of the earth are our equals!”
Judging by her desire to marry Hythwick, she was downright stupid as well. Philippe certainly didn’t love her anymore, to the extent that he wondered what he’d seen in her five years ago. However, seemingly he retained a degree of concern for her—God only knew why—or he wouldn’t have come to Garrison House, nor would he follow her now. If she’d chosen a decent man, he would have kept away and wished her well with a great deal of relief.
But she hadn’t, and Philippe feared for her again. Over the past few days, he’d seen a hungry look in the earl’s eyes when they rested upon her.
Or maybe that was Philippe’s imagination, seeing as he’d wanted Gloriana himself, in the most carnal way, since the very day they’d met.
He didn’t want her much anymore—even his cock seemed convinced of that—but he hadn’t forgotten, and he understood Hythwick’s desire all too well. Sacrebleu! What if the earl thought better of his decision and proposed to her?
“He’s not a good man,” Philippe said now. “He cares for no one but himself. He would have made you miserable.”
“This from you? Go away!” She stormed off, nose in the air, and he let her go. In what way could she possibly compare Hythwick with him? They were about the same age—thirty years—and similar in social status, but quite different in physical appearance. Philippe was dark-haired, tall, and well-proportioned, and without being vain, knew full well that he was a good-looking man. Hythwick was fair and shorter, with bony legs and the beginnings of a paunch. But what mattered most was that Philippe was a man of principle, while Hythwick most certainly was not.
Philippe shrugged it off as irrelevant. He’d lost his respect for Gloriana’s judgment years ago. He watched her go, and all at once he knew what she meant to do: to use her woman’s wiles to persuade the earl to change his mind. She might even try to compromise herself, forcing him to marry her. She’d certainly done her best to trap Philippe years ago.
Philippe waited until she disappeared from view and then hastened after her.
~ ~ ~
Affecting haughtiness may result in a permanent crick in the neck.
Mama’s dictum, were she alive to comment, would have been quite different—something to the effect that a haughty manner sets an aristocrat apart from the rabble. Regardless of either Mama’s version or her own, Gloriana maintained her rigid posture as she walked away. Philippe always won their confrontations, not because he was right, but because he remained calm, with that patronizing French smirk on his handsome French face.
Oh, he thought he knew exactly what she was suffering. So would the whole of society once they heard the Earl of Hythwick hadn’t come up to scratch, but that didn’t matter, as long as Philippe didn’t know the real Gloriana. She felt his eyes on her, and his penetrating intelligence analyzing her. He was a clever man—one reason she’d fallen in love with him—but he couldn’t possibly be that clever. No one understood the convoluted maze that was Gloriana Warren’s mind.
Therefore, he didn’t know. He didn’t.
What a pity she didn’t have eyes in the back of her head. Did he continue to watch her? More likely he had turned away now, indifferent.
Five years after their disastrous infatuation, she shouldn’t care. So, she didn’t. Thank heavens he hadn’t gone into the summerhouse and browsed through her sketchbook. It contained drawings of Philippe, not just from years ago, but also from this house party where she’d lurked, sketching him whilst he was unaware. Sketching was her solace, but if he ever saw those drawings, it would become her greatest mortification instead.
She entered the Dower House by way of the kitchen garden, greeted the housekeeper and footman, and went in search of Elspeth. She found that longsuffering woman carrying a tray down the stairs and motioned her into the drawing room.
“How is Lord Hythwick?” she asked. “And why are you doing a housemaid’s work?”
“I volunteered, as no one wishes to serve him, not even his own valet.” Elspeth set the tray, which held an empty chocolate cup, a loaf of sugar, and a pair of nippers, on a table. “Three times he sent the chocolate back, complaining it was not sweet enough, too sweet, and too cold.”
“I’m sorry I foisted him onto you,” Gloriana said. “I didn’t feel I had a choice. He upset everyone yesterday, and it was my fault he had come to Lancashire in the first place.”
“All I can say, Miss Glow, is that I’m right glad you’re not about to marry him.”
Gloriana giggled. “So am I.” What a relief to be frank. She’d had to conceal her true intentions from everyone, even her maid—a good thing, because her plan, if she could call it that, had been stupid from start to finish. She’d been so thrilled and so sure of success when Philippe had come north and wangled an invitation to Garrison House, but evidently, that had nothing to do with her. Philippe de Bellechasse didn’t love her, so he didn’t care if she married someone else.
Elspeth bent a severe gaze upon her mistress. “You never did intend to wed Lord Hythwick, did you?”
“No, of course not. I just wanted to see if he would come up to scratch.” That wasn’t the whole story, but she didn’t intend to confess the rest—although she wouldn’t be surprised if Elspeth guessed.
“It’s not my place to say so, but you’ll catch cold one day with such shenanigans.”
“He would have come up to scratch if it weren’t for my cousin Daisy.” Thank God for her dear, disreputable Daisy, who’d appeared out of the blue with her fiancé, Sir Julian Kerr.
Lord Hythwick had already been dithering about whether to ally himself with the scandalous Warren family. He wanted Gloriana with a rather appalling passion, but learning that she and her brother still considered Daisy a member of the family had tipped the balance in her disfavor. “She couldn’t have arrived at a better time, for now it doesn’t even appear to be my fault that he cried off.” She rolled her eyes at Elspeth’s frown. “Daisy doesn’t mind. She’s used to being shunned, and she’s happy to have played a part in discouraging him.”
Not that Daisy had really been playing a part. She’d just been her forthright, unashamed self—not a sham like Gloriana.
Whose years of acting and downright hypocrisy had taken her absolutely nowhere.
Elspeth straightened the sleeves of Gloriana’s gown. “That’s as may be, Miss Glow, but—”
“Enough,” Gloriana said. “What’s done is done.” Now people would see her as defeated—a forlorn, rejected spinster. Not the outcome she’d hoped for, but not far from the truth. She would have to remain that way, for she couldn’t marry another man while she still loved Philippe.
If only she hadn’t made that sacred vow five long years ago.
If people knew about that vow, they would say it was folly. But sacred was sacred. She had vowed to love him forever, and in that one way she intended to remain firm.
“Does his lordship still mean to leave today?” she asked.
“I sincerely hope so,” Elspeth said. “There is nothing amiss with him but a bruise on his chin where Sir Julian hit him, a few scratches from the rose bushes, and another bruise or two on his bottom.”
“And some humiliation.” Gloriana didn’t try to suppress a grin.
“I did not see his bottom myself, needless to say, but Mr. Turner, his lordship’s valet, confided in me last night. Indiscreet of him, perhaps, but he dislikes his master and needed a sympathetic ear.” The maid paused. “He warned me that his lordship may gossip to your discredit.”
Gloriana hunched a shoulder. “Lord Hythwick knows I have male relatives entirely ready to punish him if he slanders me.” She could only hope not to be a complete and utter laughingstock in London . . .
Oh, what did she care? The only outcome that truly mattered would never happen.
“His lordship insisted on being shown around the house this morning whilst waiting for the second, third, and fourth attempts at the perfect cup of chocolate,” Elspeth said, “and spent the entire time comparing this house unfavorably with one of his lesser estates.” She wrinkled her nose and then added fair-mindedly, “He did admire some of the antiquities.”
Hardly surprising. Hythwick was a notable collector, as had been her father, the previous Lord Garrison, when he wasn’t drunk or ailing due to his excesses related to food, drink, and loose women. Her brother didn’t care much for antiquities, so he let Gloriana keep whichever articles she treasured most in the Dower House.
“He expressed interest in the Book of Hours,” Elspeth said. “I informed him that you keep it in your private rooms, and he must ask you if he wishes to see it.”
Should she offer him a look to appease him? No, let him ask. Beg. Grovel. She chuckled at the thought. Hythwick was incapable of groveling, and in this one way she sympathized. She was just as proud in her own way, although nothing like the way people assumed.
She found Lord Hythwick in the corridor not far from his bedchamber, gazing at a painting of two hounds. Since it was an inferior piece of work, done by one of her ancestors who’d fancied himself an artist, she wondered why he seemed so intent.
“Good morning, my lord. How do you do?” She curtsied, noting with surprise that he was in stockinged feet. How strange that he would leave his bedchamber incompletely attired.
He swiveled and bowed. “As well as can be expected.” He wasn’t attractive at the best of times, but with a substantial swelling on his chin, he looked even worse. She wondered about the bruises on his posterior and suppressed a giggle.
“I beg your pardon for emerging without my shoes,” he said, “but my valet stupidly failed to polish the pair I wish to wear.”
“Think nothing of it, my lord,” she said graciously, tempted to roll her eyes.
“I deeply regret the circumstance which forces me to depart today,” he said.
Polite as it sounded, this was actually an insult, seeing as the circumstance was his prejudice against her scandalous family. And yet . . . the warm expression in his eyes startled her. Surely, he wasn’t about to change his mind and propose!
“I too regret it,” she said, “but I cannot turn my back on my family.”
His nostrils curled in disapproval. “Your maid showed me the various antiquities Lord Garrison houses here. If I might ask a favor before I leave?”
“Of course,” she said, determined to remain polite. “What is it?”
“The Book of Hours. I understand it to be thirteenth century, and would be most gratified if you would let me have a look.”
“I should be delighted. I keep it in my bedchamber, as it provides me with great religious comfort.” She wondered if he believed this. She never gave the slightest outward sign that she was a religious woman, when actually she was quite frighteningly so—at least about that sacred vow.
She trod down the passage toward her chamber, and he followed, his footsteps soft on the runner. What a contrast to his usual stomping gait! Generally, he liked to make a lot of noise to demonstrate his importance.
She opened the bedchamber door. “I’ll just be a moment.”
He shoved her into the room and slammed the door behind him. “You’ll be as long as I bloody well like,” he said.
~ ~ ~
A rosy-cheeked maid, perhaps a few years older than Gloriana, opened the door to Phillippe’s knock. They had never met, but he knew by the widening of her eyes that she recognized him. “Good day, Monsooer, er, my lord.”
He smiled at her. English servants often had difficulty settling on a form of address for him. “Sir will do just fine. I spied Miss Warren on her way over here and thought I might take this opportunity to see her antiquities.”
“With pleasure, sir. I showed Lord Hythwick around this morning, all but the Book of Hours, which Miss Warren keeps in her private rooms. That, of course, had to wait for her permission.”
“Perhaps Lord Hythwick and I might view it together.”
“I expect so. Do kindly wait in the drawing room, sir, and I shall see if—”
From above came the slam of a door, followed by a thud.
And a muffled scream.
“What in heaven’s name?” the maid cried.
Dread seized him. “Where is Miss Warren’s bedchamber?” Philippe took the stairs two at a time. He’d stopped short of imagining complete infamy on Hythwick’s part.
She followed. “Second on the left, sir, but surely . . . Miss Gloriana never slams doors. Perhaps the footman dropped something.”
He reached the landing.
Far behind him, the maid muttered, “But the footman is below at the moment . . .”
An indignant cry came from behind the bedroom door. “Get your hands off me, you dastard!”
“Ouch!” grunted Hythwick. “Shut up and stay still, or I’ll knock you senseless.”
“I will kill you for this!” Gloriana shrieked.
Philippe opened the door and stalked in. “No, I’ll kill him,” he said.
~ ~ ~
Thank God, thank God, Gloriana thought in dazed relief.
Philippe de Bellechasse plucked Lord Hythwick by his collar, swung him around, and punched him in the face. She scrambled up, pushing down her skirts. Lord Hythwick had shoved them up and started groping her. How disgusting. She got out of the way, knocking over a chair in her haste.
Hythwick swayed, and Philippe plowed in with another punch, this one to the gut, and then kneed his crotch. The earl squealed in agony and slumped to the carpet.
Elspeth appeared in the doorway, hands clasped to her heaving breast. “Oh, my dear Lord, I never thought to see such a thing.”
“He tried to violate me,” Gloriana cried furiously.
Elspeth took her anger for distress and put her arm around Gloriana. “Are you unhurt, Miss Glow? What a mercy that Monsooer arrived just at this moment.”
“Yes indeed,” Gloriana snarled, “for if Hythwick had succeeded in his foul deed, I would have fetched my pistol and shot him dead.” All Warren women were taught how to handle a gun in case of highwaymen.
“After which you would have been obliged to flee the country and never return,” Elspeth chided.
“For ridding the world of a blackguard?” She wanted to kill him anyway.
Philippe prodded the moaning man with a booted foot. The earl’s nose was bleeding all over the carpet. “Send for Lord Garrison immediately.”
“That’s not necessary,” Gloriana began, but the fury on Philippe’s face struck her dumb.
Elspeth let go of her and curtsied. “Yes, sir, but I can’t leave Miss Gloriana at such a moment.”
“Miss Warren is perfectly safe with me,” Philippe said.
“Truly, I’m fine,” Gloriana said, surprised her voice didn’t shake. Inside, she was a quivering mess. “Do as he says, Elspeth, and ask the earl’s valet to mop him up and send him on his way.”
Elspeth curtsied again and left. Embarrassment and gratitude warred for predominance within Gloriana. She would never have believed smooth, cultured Philippe capable of such violence. Such rage.
Perhaps her plan hadn’t been so foolish after all. Perhaps . . . perhaps he still loved her. At that heady thought, she raised her eyes. “Thank you, Philippe.” She hadn’t addressed him by his Christian name in years. “I was taken by surprise.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he said sarcastically. “Thought you could compromise yourself with that rat, eh?”
“What? No, I was merely about to show him—”
“A taste of the delights he might anticipate after the wedding?”
What? “The Book of Hours,” she retorted, indicating it on her bedside table with a sweep of the hand. “He asked to see it. How was I to know he would force his way in and attack me?”
A flicker of doubt appeared in Philippe’s eyes. He strode over to the table, picked up the book, and leafed through it, taking his time. Transfixed with anguished love, she watched him, wishing, wishing . . .
“A truly extraordinary book,” he said at last, and finally turned to her, his eyes cold. “If you’re telling me the truth—which I take leave to doubt—you should have known better than to return to this house without male escort. You should have known better than to let Hythwick near your bedchamber. Did you never notice the heat in his eyes when he gazed at you?”
She felt her cheeks heat with shame, of all stupid emotions. So unfair, because it wasn’t her fault Hythwick was a lecher. She had flirted with many men, hoping to make Philippe jealous, but not with Hythwick. She had never, ever led him on in any way. She hadn’t even invited him to Garrison House, not truly. He’d invited himself—in public, at a ball—so she’d had no choice but to agree to it.
Miserably, she remembered a day when Philippe’s eyes had shone with desire. No longer. So much for her foolish hope that he still cared. All his gaze revealed now was disgust.
“Once, long ago, I thought I loved you, Gloriana, but you have proven yourself the embodiment of everything I despise—intolerance, bigotry, and every kind of folly.”
Ah, he didn’t know her at all—and yet she deserved every word of what he said. She’d put on an act for years, pretending to be someone she wasn’t, publicly and vehemently denouncing his principles—the principles she believed in too—to get back at him. To show him . . . what?
She had indeed proven herself a fool—just not the sort he believed her to be.
She realized he was still holding the book, so she took it back. She almost grabbed it, but it was old and precious, so she forced her hands to gentleness.
And her voice to scorn. “You never loved me. And I never loved you, either.”
Revulsion washed over her, this time at herself. So much for her sacred vow! Blindly, tears in her eyes, she stumbled past Hythwick to the bookshelf and hid the beautiful book behind a row of novels. She wouldn’t read it anymore. The very thought of it reproached her. She dashed the tears from her eyes, took a deep breath, and turned.
On the floor between them, the Earl of Hythwick had rolled onto his side, facing her. His half-closed eyes gleamed with rage. She glared right back. That was easy to do. Whereas meeting Philippe’s cold gaze? Unbearable.
The earl’s valet bustled in, and she raised her eyes, mistress of herself once more. “Kindly prepare your master for immediate departure,” she ordered in her most imperious voice. “I shall send to the stables to have his coach brought round.”
“Very good, miss.” The valet helped Hythwick to his feet and guided him from the room, more blood dripping onto the carpet. Philippe followed as far as the doorway, where he remained, leaning against the jamb.
“You may leave as well,” she snapped.
“Non.” He folded his arms, a stubborn jut to his chin. “Not until your brother arrives.”
“I’m no longer in danger,” she said. “I don’t need you here.”
He didn’t move.
“Damn you,” she said. “I don’t want you here.”
“Quel dommage.” What a pity. She was used to his sarcasm, the weapon he’d used for years to counter her verbal attacks, but it stung all the same. A lock of dark hair fell over his brow. His eyes were hard, indifferent, and utterly determined.
She considered trying to shut the door in his face but decided against it. As usual, she wouldn’t win. “I hope I never see you again.”
“The feeling is mutual, believe me.”
She marched past him into the passageway, but she couldn’t resist getting the last word. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough.”
Strangely, this sneered riposte hardly disturbed her at all, because this time he was wrong.
She turned to go down and spied Elspeth hesitating at the foot of the stairs, carrying a jug of water. Gloriana glanced back, to see Lord Hythwick’s valet hovering in the doorway of his lordship’s bedchamber.
“Come on then, bring up the water,” she said testily. “He has already destroyed one carpet. I’d rather he didn’t ruin another.” She stomped down to the first landing and slipped into the water closet. Philippe couldn’t follow her there.
She shoved the bolt across, locking herself safely inside.
And locking him out of her heart forever.
~ ~ ~
Elspeth fought back tears—not for herself, but for Mr. Turner, Lord Hythwick’s valet. He was such a wonderful man, so big and strong, so polite and good-looking and stoic—stoicism being the prime requirement in a servant of the despicable earl.
It wasn’t enough when one’s master had almost committed rape. After meeting her eyes for a second when she reached the foot of the stairs, he had turned his face away.
Slowly, she mounted the stairs, wondering what to say. I’m so sorry seemed inadequate. How dreadful to be in service to such a man could be seen as either pitying or disapproving, she wasn’t sure which. What she really wanted to say was Mr. Turner, you are a delightful, hard-working, self-sacrificing man, and I shall love you forever.
She wouldn’t dare say any such thing. She’d met him before at a London tavern where she went from time to time with other servants, but they’d never spoken until this horrid house party. Then, he had actually confided in her last night!
This must mean he felt a degree of closeness to her—as she did to him.
It wasn’t just friendship, either. He had walked her back to Garrison House in the warm summer darkness, and as for that kiss goodnight . . .
By the time she’d gone to bed, she knew she’d fallen in love. But even if she were a forward sort of woman, which she wasn’t, this was not the moment for such a declaration. She knew nothing of his prospects, but they probably weren’t much better than hers. And although she hoped she would love him forever, she wasn’t about to make a holy vow or anything of the sort.
Elspeth passed the water closet with her stupidly stubborn Gloriana inside it, and nodded her thanks at the marquis, who leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, looking exhausted and sad.
At last she reached Mr. Turner. He was frowning down at the runner as if checking for bloodstains.
“Don’t worry about that old runner,” she said. “It needs replacing.”
He nodded but didn’t raise his eyes. Everything she would have liked to say deserted her. “Here’s some water and a couple of rags. I’ve to clean the carpet in my mistress’s bedchamber first, but I’ll come and help shortly.”
He looked up long enough to take the jug, but evaded her gaze. “Thank you kindly, but it’s not necessary, Miss Morrison.”
“Truly, I don’t mind. I’m sure you have enough to do concerning your master, and—”
He interrupted, his voice cold. “I’ll take care of it.”
Was that chagrin in his eyes? She understood all too well being mortified by one’s employer’s behavior. She hurried downstairs, intending to fetch another jug of water and more rags, hoping to encounter him again, but the door to the water closet opened as she passed by. “Forget the carpet,” Gloriana hissed. “I’ll have it burned.” The door slammed shut again.
Such folly, as the carpet in her bedchamber was a pretty little Axminster worth a small fortune. Still, she dared not disobey Gloriana in this mood. She would just have to scrub all the harder later and perhaps never succeed in removing all the blood.
She found she didn’t much care. For a man, Mr. Turner had very speaking eyes. She was certain he found her attractive. More important, he’d seemed to like her very much last night. His appreciative gaze, the warmth in his voice, the earnest way he spoke, that heady goodnight kiss . . .
None of which had prepared her for his stony expression just now.
Before long, Gloriana emerged from the water closet, and the marquis followed her down the stairs, keeping several steps behind. Elspeth accompanied her mistress to the kitchen, where the cook and housekeeper fussed over her and fed her tea with rock sugar. Elspeth served the marquis whisky in the drawing room, and then bustled back and forth, pretending to be busy, longing for a friendly word or a significant glance from the man she loved.
Mr. Turner, on the other hand, truly was busy, tending to his master, packing his belongings, and carrying them downstairs. He didn’t look her way, and he said not a word until he went out the door for the last time. “Farewell, Miss Morrison,” he said with a curt nod. He might as well have added the word forever.
Elspeth wasn’t the sort to cry herself to sleep, but she made an exception that night.