Caught in Scandal's Storm. Helen Dickson

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СКАЧАТЬ had made quite an impression on her. The loss of such a magnificent suitor would have made any woman resentful of an aunt who was determined on his removal from her life. Alice was of the opinion that, if for no other purpose than to make Roberta happy, Lady Marchington had been justified.

      ‘But what of you?’ Roberta asked. ‘I would not ask, Alice, but I fear I must. I’m so glad your brother sent you to live with my aunt and me, but you must miss Paris.’

      Alice drew up her slender shoulders in a small, distressed shrug, not wishing to recall the events that had made her leave her brother’s house, the shame she had brought on William’s good name. Now that she was in England, she was keenly aware that her memory of those weeks was best put behind her for the sake of her own peace and well-being. ‘It wasn’t Paris I had an aversion to, Roberta, only the man I was supposed to marry.’

      ‘You jilted him. But if you did not love him, then you have nothing to reproach yourself for.’

      Despite Roberta’s charitable words, Alice realised she was still feeling the effects of the nightmare of what she had done. A fleeting frown touched her smooth visage as a memory stirred in her mind of the self-satisfied smirk Philippe had worn that first time he had taken her to bed. It was almost as if she had become a possession he could flaunt to lord it over others. The day had come when she had told him she would not marry him and walked away. She had never loved him and had soon come to despise him, so she knew he could not break her heart.

      William’s wrath had been terrible at first. ‘How could you?’ he had berated. ‘Have you no shame? No remorse? You’re a disgrace to this family and especially to the memory of our dear mother.’

      Alice had closed her ears at that point. She wished he hadn’t mentioned their mother. That had been unfair of him. Alice couldn’t really remember her—she had been just four years old when she died of a weakness of the lungs. All she knew of her was what she had gleaned from William and she had taken his memories to herself. She might not have known her mother long, but she felt sure she would have listened to Alice, that she would have understood and taken her side.

      But when William’s wrath had subsided, for the first time Alice had seen sadness rather than anger. ‘What happened to you would be shocking and tragic even if no one in the world knew of it but me,’ he had said. Alice saw that her brother was sincere in this and the realisation had thrown her off balance. It was true that William’s pride was wounded, but that was not all. He genuinely feared for her welfare. Alice was sorry she had hurt him, which had added to her disgrace.

      And then London. She was sent to London to live with Lady Marchington and to learn some wifely skills and, presumably, the sense that her brother set such store by. She had told herself it was for the best. She had to trust William to have her best interests at heart. On saying farewell, he had looked mortally wounded. Alice had felt regret like a sudden pain. It gave her no satisfaction to see her brother’s distress. But then his expression had changed. ‘Don’t worry,’ he had said. ‘The matter will be dealt with. I’ll take care of everything.’ There had been a hardness in his voice that had made her uneasy. But, encased in her own misery, she had thought no more about it.

      It was when she had been in London for two weeks and received a letter from William’s wife that she realised there was a side to William she did not know. She shuddered, not wishing to dwell on the contents of that letter just now—of how her brother, defending her honour, had fought a duel to the death with Philippe. She kept the guilt and shame locked away, and there it would remain until, coward that she was, she could face what had happened.

      ‘I suppose there are many who would say running away never solved anything,’ Roberta said, breaking into Alice’s reverie.

      ‘It is a fresh start, Roberta.’

      ‘A happy one, I hope. Whatever people say I, for one, am glad you’re here. So now I insist that you forget all about him and begin by enjoying my betrothal party.’

      Alice no longer lived in dread of seeing Philippe again, but nor was she able to relax. She was suspended in a past for which she felt a deep shame and hated to think about, and a future she could not bear to contemplate.

      Although she had not been raped by Philippe it had still been an assault—she had been so young and innocent, and what he had done had had life-changing repercussions. She was no longer the happy, carefree girl she once was and she mourned the loss of her innocence. Her heart had been badly damaged and she felt so tainted that she had lost her faith in love. Romantic love was just a silly dream. Feeling insecure in herself, she did not feel capable of having a successful relationship after all that she had endured, nor did she imagine that she could ever be truly happy again, or make someone else happy.

      With Roberta hard on her heels Alice hurried along the landing and passed through her chamber doors. She began to unfasten her dress. ‘I’m surprised Lady Marchington agreed to allow me across her threshold—although I suppose William’s wife being the daughter of her closest friend had something to do with that.’ What she said was perfectly true. Lady Marchington had taken her in as a favour to William’s wife, Anne, but also to act as companion to Roberta. Alice was in no doubt that as soon as Roberta wed Viscount Pemberton, Lady Marchington would lose no time in securing a match for her. Although, she thought bitterly, she could not hope for as fine a catch as Roberta. Anyone would do as long as Lady Marchington got her off her hands.

      Seeing her fingers struggling with the buttons, Roberta went to her. ‘Here, let me.’ After a moment she asked, ‘What was he like—Philippe? Was he handsome?’

      Alice’s gaze hardened as her heart had hardened when she had decided not to marry him. ‘Oh, yes, he was handsome. It was a matter of fact rather than opinion. But it was his handsome looks that annoyed me. They added to his air of arrogance and his self-belief. Confidence was not lacking in that particular male either. It never occurred to him that he would not get what he wanted.’

      Roberta helped her off with her gown and draped it over a chair for Alice’s maid to attend to later. ‘But he must have attracted you for you to agree to marry him.’

      ‘Perhaps a little—in the beginning. Philippe Duplay, the Comte de St Antoine, was the kind of man women dream of—a man to whisper words like little pearls into their ear. Weak men would give their souls to be like him, to be as tall and fair as him, to possess those laughing blue eyes—witty and gay—and to ride and dance like him. But strip away those pretty words and fine titles, and what is left? Arrogance, a blackguard—a roué, a gamester.’ She spoke with such bitterness that Roberta looked at her with a questioning eye.

      ‘You speak of him as if he were dead, Alice.’

      Alice stiffened and looked at her hard. ‘He is, Roberta. Philippe is dead. And now, if you don’t mind, I do not wish to discuss him further.’

      Turning away from the shocked expression her revelation had caused, Alice moved to the window and watched the snowflakes flutter down. Roberta disappeared into her dressing room to compose her thoughts and to select a suitable gown to wear for her meeting with Lady Marchington.

      Alice thought of William, with whom she had lived for most of her life in a village close to Paris. When she had reached eighteen, William had only one ambition and that was for his sister to marry—and to marry well. William was wealthy in his own right and would offer a substantial dowry. Suitors came and went, leaving Alice feeling like an animal at the local market. It was finally decided that she would wed Philippe Duplay, Comte de St Antoine, who had long been enamoured of her.

      But from the start Alice had felt out of her depth. The scale СКАЧАТЬ