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Chapter One
France
Late autumn, 1821
The country house party had been a mistake, Zoë Benoî t thought as she said her good nights and went in search of her bedchamber.
She had accepted the invitation, thinking there would be picnics, day trips, rides in the country and so on. It was, after all, what she understood people did at house parties.
Not this group. The guests were predominantly elderly people, and all they seemed to do was to sit and gossip, play cards, eat and snooze. So far the only exercise the ladies had taken was to stroll in the gardens or down to the lake, where they watched the gentlemen fishing-which was all they did, apart from eat, drink, play cards and shoot. It was most frustrating.
As for the handful of younger members of the party, she had very little in common with them. The girls were pleasant enough, but all they talked of was fashion-which was interesting enough-and gossip about people she didn't know.
And the three young gentlemen? They were cronies of Monsieur Etienne, the son and heir-and the less said about him the better.
The only reason she'd accepted the invitation was that she was sure she'd finally have the opportunity to visit her mother's former home, which was about twenty miles away, or perhaps twenty kilometres-the new French system of measuring everything in decimals was confusing people chopped and changed from one system to the other. But it was not too far away, she was sure.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her. Blast. She knew who it would be. She quickened her pace.
Behind her, Etienne, the spoiled, indulged, and deeply irritating heir of Baron Treffier, quickened his pace. She could hear him puffing.
Zoë 's temper was at breaking point. Five days she'd been at the Treffiers' country house party, and Etienne had spent four and a half of them in hot and unwelcome pursuit of her. And not for the purpose of marriage, either-he was already betrothed to the unfortunate young woman who'd sat through the house party pretending she hadn't noticed her fiancé 's appalling behavior.
Had Zoë been in her position, she would not for a moment have put up with it. Not that she would have accepted him in the first place, fortune or not.
She was fed up with Etienne's importunities, his sly, suggestive remarks and his even more infuriating surreptitious touches and squeezes, not to mention the persistent and unsubtle invitations to his bed.
And no matter how often and how firmly-even bluntly-she'd repudiated his advances, his self-consequence was so inflated that he took every rebuff as encouragement.
His parents must have known what he was like, but they'd done nothing, seeming to think it was natural for their beloved son to behave like a randy goat toward an invited guest. To him, all females were fair game.
Hurrying along, she turned a corner and found herself in a dark, deserted corridor that ended in a wall. Curses. A dead end. She'd been heading to her bedchamber, intending to lock herself in, but the old châ teau was such a rabbit warren of corridors, in her haste she'd taken a wrong turn.
The puffing came closer.
Very well then, it was time to make a stand.
Taking a deep breath, she turned and faced him. He bustled toward her, red-faced and breathing hard. Even in the dim light she could see his triumphant leering grin. "So, mon petit chou, you wait for me."
Zoë might speak French like a native, but she was English enough to dislike being likened to a vegetable, especially by this pig of a man. "Monsieur Etienne, I am not your little cabbage. I am not even your chou de Bruxelles!"
He giggled. "Ah, so witty, ma belle."
"I am not your belle, either. I am your 'touch me again and you will regret it' guest!"
"Ah, such fire, such passion, cherie. Je't'adore."
He hurried over to her, and she put up her hands to prevent the embrace that was clearly coming. "Monsieur Etienne-"
But before she could say a thing, he grabbed her outstretched hands and shoved them above her head. She struggled to free herself, but though he was shorter than her, to her fury, he was stronger. He pushed her hands together, gripping them in one hand, and shoved her hard against the wall.
"How dare you," she began, but seeing his mouth aiming wetly for hers, she jerked her head aside, and he slobbered on her neck instead.
He pressed her hard against the wall, holding her immobile with his body. His aroused body. She shuddered.
"Oui, ma belle, I am hot for you too," he muttered, and with his free hand he clawed at her skirts, dragging them up, muttering excited obscenities.
She could scream for help, Zoë thought, but in this part of the châ teau there was no telling whether anyone would even hear her, let alone come to help. Monsieur Etienne was indulged by all. No, she knew what to do. She'd never actually done it before, but if ever there was the time . . .
"I'm warning you," she said.
He giggled with glee and rubbed himself excitedly against her. A cool draft against her legs told Zoë her skirts had reached her thighs. Which gave her much greater ease of movement.
She took a deep breath and jammed her knee as hard as she could between his legs.
With a shriek, Monsieur Etienne released her and collapsed like a failed soufflé , rolling on the floor, moaning and wheezing.
She shook out her skirts, dusted her hands and said, "I said no, Monsieur Etienne, and I meant it." She stepped over his writhing body and walked away, leaving Monsieur Etienne in a crumpled heap, swearing and gasping out feeble threats.
Vile, disgusting, horrid little man.
She found the correct corridor, stepped into her bedchamber and locked the door behind her. She leaned against it, wishing it had a bolt as well, and realized she was shaking.
So much for being a lady. Three years of lessons in proper deportment down the drain.
One small difficulty and she'd reverted right back to the girl who'd grown up in the back streets of London. But what else could she do? She'd seen him bothering the other young ladies, and yet all they did was blush and move away and bleat at him, hoping he would stop.
Which he'd done once he'd spotted Zoë .
She poured herself a glass of water from the jug on the washstand and drank it down. She sat at the dressing table, removed her jewelry, pulled the pins from her hair and contemplated her reflection. Her hands were still shaking.
She'd done it now.
There would be a scandal. And she knew who would be blamed.
She kicked off her shoes, sat on the high bed and considered her options.
She couldn't stay here now. The house party was far from over-there were at least five days left to go-but she would have to leave. First thing in the morning for preference. She had no intention of staying to deal with the fuss that would erupt once Etienne informed his parents of what she'd done.
Though, would he tell them what she'd done, or would he keep quiet about it, too mortified to admit to defeat by a woman? She wasn't sure.
He'd deserved it, and more, but if he did make it public, he'd probably claim she'd attacked him for no good reason. The scandal might even reach Paris. Certainly it would deeply embarrass and upset Madame DuPlessis, her chaperone, who'd made it possible for her to attend the house party when Lucy, the friend and mentor with whom she'd been living the last three years, had been unable to travel.
It was regrettable-the motherly Madame DuPlessis had been very kind to her, and even if there were no scandal, Zoë had no doubt the good lady would be upset at Zoë 's abrupt departure-but what else could she do?
She made up her mind. Whether the despicable Etienne told his parents or not, Zoë would leave first thing in the morning. She'd really only attended because of the locality, and after what had just happened, she doubted any of the guests would be willing to drive her anywhere.
She found some writing paper and ink in the little desk in her room and sat down to write some notes. At first she planned to tell both her chaperone and her hosts that she'd been called away urgently on family business and would apologize for the inconvenience.
But the moment she picked up the pen, she decided no, she would not make things easy for her hosts. They must know of their son's unsavory habits, and yet they'd done nothing to curb them. She was a guest in their home and they owed her protection at the very least.
She dashed off a letter, which she hoped would leave them squirming with embarrassment. She described in detail the disgraceful way Etienne had behaved throughout the visit and what he'd just attempted. She'd added that she'd been forced to defend herself, but had her guardian been present, Etienne would be facing a duel. Not that she had a guardian, but they didn't know that.
Having expended a good deal of satisfying vitriol to the baron and baroness, her note to Madame DuPlessis was much shorter and more matter-of-fact. The kindly lady had been a delightfully lax chaperone, but Etienne's behavior wasn't her fault, so Zoë merely thanked her for her kindness and explained that Monsieur Etienne's behavior had made any continuation here impossible. She added that she would catch the diligence to Paris, which was why she was leaving so early, and hoped it would not be too much trouble for Madame DuPlessis to convey the remainder of her baggage back to Paris when she returned.
It was a pity she wouldn't get to see her mother's former home, but she could see no alternative but to return to Paris. She'd never learned to ride, and besides, she could hardly compound her disgrace by stealing a horse.
Feeling calmer, she rang the bell to summon the maid she'd been assigned to help her out of her dress, then began a letter to Lucy and her husband, Gerald.
A few moments later there came a soft knock on her door. She stiffened, then realized Etienne was incapable of knocking softly. It would be Marie, the young maid assigned to her for the length of her stay at the châ teau.
"Entrez," she called, then recollecting that she'd locked the door, she rose and unlocked it.
"Your hot water, mademoiselle," the maid murmured, and placed a large jug of steaming water on the washstand. "Shall I help you disrobe?"
"Yes, please, and perhaps you could-" Zoë broke off as the girl turned and the candlelight fell fully on her face. "Marie," she exclaimed. "What happened?"
The maid's eyes were red-rimmed and there was a nasty bruise on her face. Half her face was quite swollen and there was a cut on her cheekbone.
Marie dropped her gaze in shame. "It's nothing, mademoiselle."
"It's not nothing at all. Tell me who did this to you."
Marie lifted a hopeless shoulder and shook her head. "Shall I help you undress, mademoiselle?"
Zoë eyed the cut on her cheekbone. Made by a signet ring, she thought, a signet ring she'd seen very recently on a pudgy aristocratic finger. "Monsieur Etienne." It wasn't a question.
Marie nodded.
Zoë muttered something under her breath. "You resisted him?"
Marie nodded again, and a choked sob broke her tenuous composure. "I am dismissed, mademoiselle. As soon as I have finished with you here tonight, I must leave."
Zoë frowned. "Tonight? But it's dark. Where will you go? Do you have family nearby?"
Marie shook her head. "No family, mademoiselle. I am an orphan."
"So what will you do?"
Marie's eyes filled with tears again. She gave a hopeless shrug.
"Well, let's see to that nasty cut, first. I have some very good ointment that my sister made." Zoë fetched the little case filled with Clarissa's products and pulled out a small jar. "This will help." She soaked a clean cloth with the warm water Marie had brought and gently cleaned the girl's face, then smoothed the ointment carefully over the cut and the bruise.
"Oh, that feels nice," the girl said.
"My sister is very clever."
"Thank you, mademoiselle. You are very kind. Now, I must leave or the housekeeper will be angry."
"Nonsense! You can't go out into the night with nowhere to go! It's, it's inhumane. Anything could happen to you," Zoë said.
"But I must, mademoiselle. I was told to be gone as soon as I had completed my duties."
"But what would you do?"
Marie said in a hopeless voice, "Walk to the village, I suppose, and try to find another position."
Walk to the village?
Without a character reference, Marie would have no hope, Zoë thought. And walking that distance at night? It was not to be thought of.
"You're not going anywhere," Zoë told her. "Certainly not out into the night with nowhere to go! Would you work for me?"
"For you, mademoiselle, of course." Marie brightened. "You mean it?"
Zoë nodded. The maid's plan to walk to the village had given her an idea. She eyed the maid thoughtfully. "We're about the same size, aren't we?"
Marie looked puzzled. "Oui, mademoiselle," she said cautiously.
"Good. Take off your dress."
"My dress?" Marie didn't move.
Zoë laughed at her expression. "It's all right, we're going to swap clothes, that's all."
"Swap clothes? Mine for . . . yours?" Marie said incredulously.
"Yes. Here." Zoë tossed her the plainest of her dresses, still much finer than anything Marie would own, and one of her fine lawn chemises.
Marie stared at the garments. "Such fine fabric . . . But mademoiselle, this chemise has lace on it."
"Has it? I suppose so." Most of her underclothes were trimmed with lace.
"Never have I ever worn real lace."
Zoë smiled. "Good. There's a first time for everything. Put these on, please, and pass me your clothes."
With a bemused expression, Marie took off her dress. When it came to her chemise, she hesitated and shook her head. "It's not fitting, mademoiselle."
Seeing the garment, Zoë understood. It was clean enough, but worn thin and so often mended it was almost entirely made of patches. It reminded Zoë of the underclothes she'd worn in the years before Clarissa Studley had found and claimed her as a sister. Zoë 's life had changed dramatically as a result, but she would never forget the life she'd had before.
"It's perfect," she said briskly. "Exactly what I want. Now, help me off with this gown."
Hinweis: Dieser Artikel kann nur an eine deutsche Lieferadresse ausgeliefert werden.
France
Late autumn, 1821
The country house party had been a mistake, Zoë Benoî t thought as she said her good nights and went in search of her bedchamber.
She had accepted the invitation, thinking there would be picnics, day trips, rides in the country and so on. It was, after all, what she understood people did at house parties.
Not this group. The guests were predominantly elderly people, and all they seemed to do was to sit and gossip, play cards, eat and snooze. So far the only exercise the ladies had taken was to stroll in the gardens or down to the lake, where they watched the gentlemen fishing-which was all they did, apart from eat, drink, play cards and shoot. It was most frustrating.
As for the handful of younger members of the party, she had very little in common with them. The girls were pleasant enough, but all they talked of was fashion-which was interesting enough-and gossip about people she didn't know.
And the three young gentlemen? They were cronies of Monsieur Etienne, the son and heir-and the less said about him the better.
The only reason she'd accepted the invitation was that she was sure she'd finally have the opportunity to visit her mother's former home, which was about twenty miles away, or perhaps twenty kilometres-the new French system of measuring everything in decimals was confusing people chopped and changed from one system to the other. But it was not too far away, she was sure.
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs behind her. Blast. She knew who it would be. She quickened her pace.
Behind her, Etienne, the spoiled, indulged, and deeply irritating heir of Baron Treffier, quickened his pace. She could hear him puffing.
Zoë 's temper was at breaking point. Five days she'd been at the Treffiers' country house party, and Etienne had spent four and a half of them in hot and unwelcome pursuit of her. And not for the purpose of marriage, either-he was already betrothed to the unfortunate young woman who'd sat through the house party pretending she hadn't noticed her fiancé 's appalling behavior.
Had Zoë been in her position, she would not for a moment have put up with it. Not that she would have accepted him in the first place, fortune or not.
She was fed up with Etienne's importunities, his sly, suggestive remarks and his even more infuriating surreptitious touches and squeezes, not to mention the persistent and unsubtle invitations to his bed.
And no matter how often and how firmly-even bluntly-she'd repudiated his advances, his self-consequence was so inflated that he took every rebuff as encouragement.
His parents must have known what he was like, but they'd done nothing, seeming to think it was natural for their beloved son to behave like a randy goat toward an invited guest. To him, all females were fair game.
Hurrying along, she turned a corner and found herself in a dark, deserted corridor that ended in a wall. Curses. A dead end. She'd been heading to her bedchamber, intending to lock herself in, but the old châ teau was such a rabbit warren of corridors, in her haste she'd taken a wrong turn.
The puffing came closer.
Very well then, it was time to make a stand.
Taking a deep breath, she turned and faced him. He bustled toward her, red-faced and breathing hard. Even in the dim light she could see his triumphant leering grin. "So, mon petit chou, you wait for me."
Zoë might speak French like a native, but she was English enough to dislike being likened to a vegetable, especially by this pig of a man. "Monsieur Etienne, I am not your little cabbage. I am not even your chou de Bruxelles!"
He giggled. "Ah, so witty, ma belle."
"I am not your belle, either. I am your 'touch me again and you will regret it' guest!"
"Ah, such fire, such passion, cherie. Je't'adore."
He hurried over to her, and she put up her hands to prevent the embrace that was clearly coming. "Monsieur Etienne-"
But before she could say a thing, he grabbed her outstretched hands and shoved them above her head. She struggled to free herself, but though he was shorter than her, to her fury, he was stronger. He pushed her hands together, gripping them in one hand, and shoved her hard against the wall.
"How dare you," she began, but seeing his mouth aiming wetly for hers, she jerked her head aside, and he slobbered on her neck instead.
He pressed her hard against the wall, holding her immobile with his body. His aroused body. She shuddered.
"Oui, ma belle, I am hot for you too," he muttered, and with his free hand he clawed at her skirts, dragging them up, muttering excited obscenities.
She could scream for help, Zoë thought, but in this part of the châ teau there was no telling whether anyone would even hear her, let alone come to help. Monsieur Etienne was indulged by all. No, she knew what to do. She'd never actually done it before, but if ever there was the time . . .
"I'm warning you," she said.
He giggled with glee and rubbed himself excitedly against her. A cool draft against her legs told Zoë her skirts had reached her thighs. Which gave her much greater ease of movement.
She took a deep breath and jammed her knee as hard as she could between his legs.
With a shriek, Monsieur Etienne released her and collapsed like a failed soufflé , rolling on the floor, moaning and wheezing.
She shook out her skirts, dusted her hands and said, "I said no, Monsieur Etienne, and I meant it." She stepped over his writhing body and walked away, leaving Monsieur Etienne in a crumpled heap, swearing and gasping out feeble threats.
Vile, disgusting, horrid little man.
She found the correct corridor, stepped into her bedchamber and locked the door behind her. She leaned against it, wishing it had a bolt as well, and realized she was shaking.
So much for being a lady. Three years of lessons in proper deportment down the drain.
One small difficulty and she'd reverted right back to the girl who'd grown up in the back streets of London. But what else could she do? She'd seen him bothering the other young ladies, and yet all they did was blush and move away and bleat at him, hoping he would stop.
Which he'd done once he'd spotted Zoë .
She poured herself a glass of water from the jug on the washstand and drank it down. She sat at the dressing table, removed her jewelry, pulled the pins from her hair and contemplated her reflection. Her hands were still shaking.
She'd done it now.
There would be a scandal. And she knew who would be blamed.
She kicked off her shoes, sat on the high bed and considered her options.
She couldn't stay here now. The house party was far from over-there were at least five days left to go-but she would have to leave. First thing in the morning for preference. She had no intention of staying to deal with the fuss that would erupt once Etienne informed his parents of what she'd done.
Though, would he tell them what she'd done, or would he keep quiet about it, too mortified to admit to defeat by a woman? She wasn't sure.
He'd deserved it, and more, but if he did make it public, he'd probably claim she'd attacked him for no good reason. The scandal might even reach Paris. Certainly it would deeply embarrass and upset Madame DuPlessis, her chaperone, who'd made it possible for her to attend the house party when Lucy, the friend and mentor with whom she'd been living the last three years, had been unable to travel.
It was regrettable-the motherly Madame DuPlessis had been very kind to her, and even if there were no scandal, Zoë had no doubt the good lady would be upset at Zoë 's abrupt departure-but what else could she do?
She made up her mind. Whether the despicable Etienne told his parents or not, Zoë would leave first thing in the morning. She'd really only attended because of the locality, and after what had just happened, she doubted any of the guests would be willing to drive her anywhere.
She found some writing paper and ink in the little desk in her room and sat down to write some notes. At first she planned to tell both her chaperone and her hosts that she'd been called away urgently on family business and would apologize for the inconvenience.
But the moment she picked up the pen, she decided no, she would not make things easy for her hosts. They must know of their son's unsavory habits, and yet they'd done nothing to curb them. She was a guest in their home and they owed her protection at the very least.
She dashed off a letter, which she hoped would leave them squirming with embarrassment. She described in detail the disgraceful way Etienne had behaved throughout the visit and what he'd just attempted. She'd added that she'd been forced to defend herself, but had her guardian been present, Etienne would be facing a duel. Not that she had a guardian, but they didn't know that.
Having expended a good deal of satisfying vitriol to the baron and baroness, her note to Madame DuPlessis was much shorter and more matter-of-fact. The kindly lady had been a delightfully lax chaperone, but Etienne's behavior wasn't her fault, so Zoë merely thanked her for her kindness and explained that Monsieur Etienne's behavior had made any continuation here impossible. She added that she would catch the diligence to Paris, which was why she was leaving so early, and hoped it would not be too much trouble for Madame DuPlessis to convey the remainder of her baggage back to Paris when she returned.
It was a pity she wouldn't get to see her mother's former home, but she could see no alternative but to return to Paris. She'd never learned to ride, and besides, she could hardly compound her disgrace by stealing a horse.
Feeling calmer, she rang the bell to summon the maid she'd been assigned to help her out of her dress, then began a letter to Lucy and her husband, Gerald.
A few moments later there came a soft knock on her door. She stiffened, then realized Etienne was incapable of knocking softly. It would be Marie, the young maid assigned to her for the length of her stay at the châ teau.
"Entrez," she called, then recollecting that she'd locked the door, she rose and unlocked it.
"Your hot water, mademoiselle," the maid murmured, and placed a large jug of steaming water on the washstand. "Shall I help you disrobe?"
"Yes, please, and perhaps you could-" Zoë broke off as the girl turned and the candlelight fell fully on her face. "Marie," she exclaimed. "What happened?"
The maid's eyes were red-rimmed and there was a nasty bruise on her face. Half her face was quite swollen and there was a cut on her cheekbone.
Marie dropped her gaze in shame. "It's nothing, mademoiselle."
"It's not nothing at all. Tell me who did this to you."
Marie lifted a hopeless shoulder and shook her head. "Shall I help you undress, mademoiselle?"
Zoë eyed the cut on her cheekbone. Made by a signet ring, she thought, a signet ring she'd seen very recently on a pudgy aristocratic finger. "Monsieur Etienne." It wasn't a question.
Marie nodded.
Zoë muttered something under her breath. "You resisted him?"
Marie nodded again, and a choked sob broke her tenuous composure. "I am dismissed, mademoiselle. As soon as I have finished with you here tonight, I must leave."
Zoë frowned. "Tonight? But it's dark. Where will you go? Do you have family nearby?"
Marie shook her head. "No family, mademoiselle. I am an orphan."
"So what will you do?"
Marie's eyes filled with tears again. She gave a hopeless shrug.
"Well, let's see to that nasty cut, first. I have some very good ointment that my sister made." Zoë fetched the little case filled with Clarissa's products and pulled out a small jar. "This will help." She soaked a clean cloth with the warm water Marie had brought and gently cleaned the girl's face, then smoothed the ointment carefully over the cut and the bruise.
"Oh, that feels nice," the girl said.
"My sister is very clever."
"Thank you, mademoiselle. You are very kind. Now, I must leave or the housekeeper will be angry."
"Nonsense! You can't go out into the night with nowhere to go! It's, it's inhumane. Anything could happen to you," Zoë said.
"But I must, mademoiselle. I was told to be gone as soon as I had completed my duties."
"But what would you do?"
Marie said in a hopeless voice, "Walk to the village, I suppose, and try to find another position."
Walk to the village?
Without a character reference, Marie would have no hope, Zoë thought. And walking that distance at night? It was not to be thought of.
"You're not going anywhere," Zoë told her. "Certainly not out into the night with nowhere to go! Would you work for me?"
"For you, mademoiselle, of course." Marie brightened. "You mean it?"
Zoë nodded. The maid's plan to walk to the village had given her an idea. She eyed the maid thoughtfully. "We're about the same size, aren't we?"
Marie looked puzzled. "Oui, mademoiselle," she said cautiously.
"Good. Take off your dress."
"My dress?" Marie didn't move.
Zoë laughed at her expression. "It's all right, we're going to swap clothes, that's all."
"Swap clothes? Mine for . . . yours?" Marie said incredulously.
"Yes. Here." Zoë tossed her the plainest of her dresses, still much finer than anything Marie would own, and one of her fine lawn chemises.
Marie stared at the garments. "Such fine fabric . . . But mademoiselle, this chemise has lace on it."
"Has it? I suppose so." Most of her underclothes were trimmed with lace.
"Never have I ever worn real lace."
Zoë smiled. "Good. There's a first time for everything. Put these on, please, and pass me your clothes."
With a bemused expression, Marie took off her dress. When it came to her chemise, she hesitated and shook her head. "It's not fitting, mademoiselle."
Seeing the garment, Zoë understood. It was clean enough, but worn thin and so often mended it was almost entirely made of patches. It reminded Zoë of the underclothes she'd worn in the years before Clarissa Studley had found and claimed her as a sister. Zoë 's life had changed dramatically as a result, but she would never forget the life she'd had before.
"It's perfect," she said briskly. "Exactly what I want. Now, help me off with this gown."
Hinweis: Dieser Artikel kann nur an eine deutsche Lieferadresse ausgeliefert werden.