Read Her Favoured Captain Online
Authors: Francine Howarth
Her Favoured Captain (12 page)
“Damn Frenchmen are fools, utter fools.
Always killing each other over some woman or other, and where’s the sense in
that?”
“I think if ever a man proved willing to
duel for my love, he might well win my favour.”
“Ha, just like a woman to desire two men
fighting over her.” He winced, grabbed at his leg. “I’m done for, Diamond girl,
I’ve done my distance for today.” He managed to maintain his balance as they
swirled about. They then began the slow trek back toward the house. “So. This
Frenchy
.
Are you fond of him, or am I to presume more between the pair of you?”
“You must not say
Frenchy
in front of
mother, for Leohne and I have her blood gushing through our veins.”
He chuckled. “Dear sister, I am well aware
of your French connection, and I love your mother dearly as I loved my own. I,
on the other hand, English to the very bone and shall not seek a French gal for
a wife as did my widower father.”
She laughed. “So
parti pris
, dear
brother, I think you would regret those words if ever you set eyes upon Angelica.
As for her brother, the count, I hardly know him. It is Angelica that I am fond
of. In her last letter she asked if I might consider a return visit to France.
And further more, I have with the Queen’s grace, invitation to stay at
Versailles for all of a month. There is to be a grand masque in October. Can
you imagine what fun that will be?”
“Good God,” exclaimed Charles. “The Queen
has sanctioned your presence at Versailles?” He glanced her way, his face a
picture of delight. “Well fancy that. My sister invited to the French court by
none other than Marie Antoinette, Queen of France.” He laughed, and
affectionately squeezed her hand. “Then you must go, for I will not be accused
of having denied you the pleasure of seeing
your
heart’s desire.”
“Heart’s desire?”
“Count what’s his name.”
“Oh him.” she said, heart skipping at the
very thought of once again letting her eyes fall upon Francois De Boviere,
Count of Saint Mont Marche. “It is not him I will be going to see.”
Charles chuckled. “A likely story, and I now
understand why you were so happy for Richard to escort Leohne for a
constitutional around the lake. Be warned, though, it may not deter Richard’s
affections for you.”
“If I am away
for a month, Leohne’s affections toward Richard I feel sure will win him over.”
“Ah, so you
are
attracted to this
French count of yours.”
“I liked him well enough when introduced,
and Angelica speaks fondly of him. It was but a brief encounter and I cannot
say that I know him sufficient to consider my heart taken by him.”
“I wager it is,” said Charles, head inclined
enough to catch a glimpse of second flush to her cheeks. “Hide all you like
behind your fan, but I know you Diamond girl, know you too well.”
“Well, to some extent you are right,” she
said, as they reached the terrace. “I did think him rather handsome when he
took my hand, and can you believe it, placed his lips on my cheeks. A proper
kiss to each cheek.”
“The Devil, be damned.” He swung his
stiffened leg in order to ascend the steps before them. “Blasted
Frenchy,
and
taking liberties with my sister.”
She assisted in his ascent by allowing him
to lean heavily on her shoulder. “Charles, be reasonable. A greeting such as
his happens to be quite normal in France.”
Her brother grunted in disapproval. “Would
you have Richard kiss you in like manner?”
“He would not. Though I suspect he does when
in France.”
“Men are supposed to show respect for women.
Dash it all, Diamond girl. A mere bow of head to a young
miss
is
sufficient recognition to her presence. And of course, odd kiss of hand to a
married woman of close connection.”
“Customs do change, Charles. After all, in
times past, only courtiers kissed the hand of a monarch, and as you said, men
now kiss the hand of married women and of widows.”
“Hmm,” he grunted again, then winced and
grappled with his leg. “Damn cramps.”
“Am I to assume permission for a return to
France is no longer granted?”
“You shall go, but I will ask Richard to
keep an eye on you.”
“You cannot mean to ask Richard to be my
escort.”
“He gave me to understand he is to go to
France next month and I don’t suppose he will mind your travelling with him,”
declared Charles, whilst negotiating the glass doors from terrace to drawing
room. “He can at least see you safely delivered to Versailles.”
“And then?”
“Well, once there you will have Angelica for
company.”
She helped him settle in his favoured chair
overlooking the terrace and lake. “And Richard?”
“He has business in Paris, Lyon and then
Bruges.”
So, she would be at Versailles without
Richard. How grand. How delightful. She settled in the seat beside her brother;
Francois’ glittering dark eyes coming to mind. Versailles. Angelica.
Francois. Oh, if only it was possible to
depart tomorrow.
“There you are. I quite thought you all in
the music room.” Rustle of silk implied great haste, her mother upon them so
quick Charles barely managed to raise his rump from seat. “Sit down, dear boy.”
Charles fell back to chair. “What ails, dear
lady? You have the look of news most important.”
“Viscount Somerton. I must speak with him.”
Her mother glanced about them. “Please tell me Leohne has
not
imposed
herself upon him.”
“Not in the least,” said Charles, a broad
grin. “Blame Diamonta, for it was her idea to foist Leohne upon Richard.” He
inclined his head toward the lake. “They will return fairly soon, I shouldn’t
wonder.”
“I did not foist her on to Richard, I merely
suggested they go ahead while I assisted in Charles’ exercise.”
How beautiful her mother was, when
suspecting intrigue afoot.
Chloetilde
de la Roche, a daughter of France who married below her station for love.
Though none of them knew for sure if that was the case, for the Hon Charles
Whitaker senior, although a widower of means and minor title and rather
handsome and distinguished, nonetheless a good deal older than her mother, and
sadly deceased. Yet her mother loved Charles junior as though her very own son,
and would no doubt be enraptured to know her eldest daughter had eyes for a
handsome young French count.
She mused her mother’s stance by the open
doors her interest centred beyond the terrace, her gown of black and purple
stripes quite regal
“Does it matter if
Leohne has her heart set at Richard?”
Her mother grimaced but momentary, a smile
slow to face, no doubt her dark brown eyes cast to the lakeside path visible
here and there between trees. “I had thought
your
heart, Richard’s,” she
said, absent in tone.
“I am fond of him, it is true.”
“Ha,” blustered Charles. “Diamonta has her
heart set on a . . .” He faltered, Diamonta held his gaze to prevent utterance
of
Frenchy
. He gathered himself. “A count, and son of France.”
“Is this true?” Her mother glanced her way,
eyebrow raised. “What is the name of this count?”
“It is Angelica’s brother, and
. . .”
“Ah, I see. A most unsuitable choice.” came
forth as unaccountable dismissal of Angelica’s brother.
Stunned and confused she could not muster
words, words to extract explanation of her mother’s disregard for Francois. “I
hardly know him,” her defence. “I’ve met him once only. No, twice to be exact,
but we did not speak on that occasion. ”
“Just as well,” her mother’s curt response.
“Good, I see them, now.”
To some extent sense of relief at Leohne and Richard’s reappearance
swept over her, for her mother would not press further on Francois and the way
in which they had met, nor the time and place of their meeting. How glad she
was to have refrained from telling her brother or sister
all
that had
happened on her last venture to France. Perhaps there were things best kept
secret, after all.
~
~
~
It
is England, September 1818, and the Hon Mrs. Napier views the Earl of Kilder as
a most desirable suitor for her daughter’s hand in marriage. Forced to engage
with the extremely handsome and charming earl, a darker side to his nature is
revealed and Christina despises his very presence. Worse, her twin brother
cavorts with the earl in unmentionable pursuits, and is equally bent on seeing
her married to his favoured friend. Luckily, with the return of the 11
th
Dragoons from France, their eldest brother’s homecoming affords Christina brief
respite from the earl’s overt attentions.
So too, the
man Christina admires above all others has returned to the Netherwood Estate. A
chance meeting and lingering eye contact with her heart’s desire stirs
rebellion within her. Her mother impervious to an act of wilful subterfuge
insists Christina will marry the earl, but Christina indulges in secret
liaisons with the man of her dreams. With deception retribution must follow and
a cruel price is to be paid when Robert Lord Devonish is recalled to duty, the
regiment bound for India. What will become of her now there is no one to save
her from the earl’s clutches?
~
~
The fire in the grate had
become pitiful due to neglect of two people engrossed in respective books.
There was barely a glimmer of red ember and not a wisp of smoke from fresh
loaded coals. Christina shivered whilst her father lit another spill and again
slid it beneath a log topping the coals. “Well my dearest girl, Napoleon seems
content on St Helena, and I of mind we shall soon hear news of Julian’s return
to home shores.”
“In his last letter he did refer to Bonaparte. Something about
how much easier to ensure he cannot escape this time, as happened on Elba.“
She glanced away from the fire to see her father delighting in
the flicker of flame from the tip of yet another spill. Several had already
wasted in attempt to spark a fire beneath a slightly damp log. She suspected a
fine cigar had come to mind.
“I do not mind if you choose to smoke. I rather like the smell
of a good cigar.”
His face wrinkled into a smile, the spill quickly cast to the
fire. “And suffer the wrath of your mother at this time of afternoon? I think
not, though may partake of a little indulgence after dinner. It is, after all,
the anniversary of our victory march into Paris.”
“Wellington’s victory,” she chided, a smile, “and it’s September
father, not July.”
“Fair comment. Belated anniversary will do me.” He chuckled. “I
doubt Wellington had any hand in the fighting at Waterloo, whereas young
Devonish will have been in the thick of it alongside Julian.”
Her heart rate soared, for Lord Devonish rarely entered in to
conversation at Erdly Grange and mere mention of his name had this awful effect
upon her. “Strange how we rent this house and grounds from his lordship and
barely refer to him, yet he and Julian are of the same regiment.”
Her father glanced at her this time, an inquisitive expression
as he reached for another spill from the spill holder. “Where your mother leads
we follow, and at present anything and every thing to do with the Earl of
Kilder has her full attention.”
“Christina . . .
Christina
,” came
plaintiff call from her mother. Momentary silence descended, and then, “Oh
dear, where is that girl now?”
“In here,” she called, loud and unladylike,
though her father’s expression that of amusement rather than shock horror. “I’m
in the library . . . with father.”
Their moment of sharing the delight of
spills flaring on hot coals in the hearth was now lost, and the log no more
inclined to burst into flame than before. Her father rose from his seat to
accommodate her mother in the manner expected of a gentleman. She could not
fault her father where manners were concerned, and she too slid from her seat:
the spill pot left in front of the fire and damning evidence of their wicked
pursuit.
Her mother bustled through the doorway face
flushed and out of breath despite her trim figure and good legs. “Giles, a
letter, a letter from Julian, she said, waving the thing before him. Sensing
air of guilt about the pair of them her pale blue eyes instantly alighted on
the spill pot but not a word of rebuke. “It is from Julian, is it not, though I
fear his handwriting has suffered somewhat since we last heard from him.”