Lord Deverill's Heir, Catherine Coulter [the best motivational books .TXT] 📗

broke out. I do not know her reason for traveling at such a dangerous time.” She shook her head. “You, I am certain, know the rest. Unfortunately, she became ill soon after her return to Evesham Abbey and died here in 1790.”

“You know nothing more, madame?”

“No, I’m sorry, Gervaise.” It was nice that he wanted to know more about his aunt, but surely this disappointment of his at how little she knew was a bit much. She thought about Paul. What a lovely name.

The comte sat back in his chair and drummed his slender fingertips together. He said slowly, his eyes intent on Lady Ann’s face, “It would seem that I can add to your store of knowledge. I do not wish to wound you, Lady Ann, but it seems that when your late husband came to France in 1787, his fortune was—what do you English say?—ah yes, his fortune was sadly in need of repairs. My father, Magdalaine’s elder brother, told me that the Comte de Trécassis offered the earl a huge sum of money upon the marriage. There was an additional portion of her dot that was to be paid later, upon fulfilling certain conditions.” Lady Ann was silent for a moment, her thoughts drawn back to her own huge dowry and the earl’s none-too-subtle haste in wishing to marry her. She remembered her bitter disillusion as a shy, self-conscious girl who had inadvertently overheard her betrothed blithely tell one of his friends that her dowry hadn’t been quite as plump as his mistress, but she was the daughter of a marquess, and surely that must mean something. He’d added that he hoped her virgin’s blood would not be a boring red.

It occurred to her now to wonder why the Comte de Trécassis would offer such a huge dowry for Magdalaine’s hand. After all, Magdalaine’s lineage was impeccable, the Trécassis being mixed in bloodline to the Capets. It was almost as if her dowry were some sort of bribe. Now that was odd. Why?

The comte rose and straightened his yellow-patterned waistcoat. He really was quite a handsome young man, and those dark eyes of his, well—“Do forgive me, chère madame, for taking so much of your time.” Lady Ann shook away eighteen-year-old memories and smiled. “I’m sorry, Gervaise, that I could not tell you more. But, you see”—she splayed her white hands—“Magdalaine and your family were hardly ever mentioned in my presence.” She knew it wasn’t because her husband had dearly loved his first wife. No, just look what he had done to poor Elsbeth. No, there had been no more love, no more caring for poor Magdalaine than he’d had for her.

“How true. What man would want to speak of his first wife to his current wife? Oh, Lady Ann, I neglected to tell you that I find the pearls you are wearing most elegant. As the Countess of Strafford, your jewel box must be under guard. It must be gratifying, non?”

“Thank you, Gervaise,” she said, not even hearing him for she was thinking again of Paul. She would see him in but three hours. Surely that was too long a time without him.

“Oh, the Strafford jewels,” she said, bringing her attention back to him.

“I assure you they are so paltry that the Prince Regent would not even deign to give them to Princess Caroline, whom, I understand, he holds in great dislike.”

“That is must curious, I think,” the comte said. “Most curious indeed.”

“Yes, if you say so. One wonders how such an alliance could be formed with the mutual distaste apparent in both parties.”

“Eh? Oh, yes, certainly. It is the royal way, chère madame.” He bowed over her hand, then strolled from the drawing room.

Lady Ann shook out her skirts and walked to the door. Perhaps she would wear the pink silk gown tomorrow, with its rows of tiny satin rosebuds.

Surely it was not so very bad to break the monotony of her black mourning just one time. As she mounted the stairs to her room, she thought of the rather daring expanse of white bosom revealed by the gown, and smiled wickedly. It was an Arabella smile, she thought, or at least it was an Arabella smile before she had married Justin.

Oh, dear.

Dinner that evening was set back because the smithy had been trying to shoe Squire Jamison’s black beast of a stallion and the brute had bitten his shoulder. “Poor fellow,” Dr. Branyon said with a sympathetic shake of his head, “he was furious at himself and he wanted to kill the horse. He said that damned horse would never wear a shoe again for all he cared.” Certainly his story was not all that amusing, Dr. Branyon thought as he led Lady Ann in to dinner, but nevertheless it deserved better than the strained smiles it received from the earl and Arabella. The comte had laughed in that French way of his that Dr. Branyon didn’t really appreciate. Elsbeth smiled demurely, as one would have expected her to, but not quite in her usual way.

Dr. Branyon found his eyes drawn to Elsbeth again as they entered the dining room. He had carelessly described her to Lady Ann just last week as a ‘diffident little girl, afraid at any moment that an adult would send her to her bedchamber with a slice of moldy bread and water.’ Now he was not quite so sure. There seemed to be a new self-assurance about her, her quietness borne of a kind of confidence rather than her fear of putting herself forward. It must be her inheritance from her father. She finally realized that she had value. That she’d had value to her father, a man she had undoubtedly worshiped all her life. It was a pity that it had taken a good deal of money to make her reach that conclusion.

“Come, Arabella,” Lady Ann said, “you are now the Countess of Strafford and it is now your duty to sit in the countess’s chair.” Arabella stared