After Midnight by Liz Carlyle

Author:Liz Carlyle [Carlyle, Liz]
Language: fra
Format: epub
Tags: Historical
Publisher: Pocket
Published: 2010-12-06T23:00:00+00:00

Three

The Betrothal Kiss

Lady Sharpe’s tidy breakfast parlor was heavy with an awful silence. The three occupants had long since given up any pretense of eating, or of even drinking so much as a cup of coffee. Indeed, Lord Rothewell had already smashed one of Lady Sharpe’s delicate Sèvres teacups to bits, crushing it like an eggshell in his massive fist.

He now roamed around the room like a caged lion, alternately dragging one hand through his hair and pounding his fist on whatever piece of furniture he happened to be passing by.

“Stop it, Kieran,” his sister ordered. “Stop, and show me your palm. Have you cut it?”

“To hell with my palm,” he growled. “To hell with everything.”

“Oh, Kieran!” Lady Sharpe quite literally wrung her hands. “Oh, I never dreamt! I am so sorry! And to think—beneath my very roof!”

“This is not your fault, Pamela.” Xanthia caught Lady Sharpe by the arm. “It is Martinique’s fault, at least in part, for she says so. I cannot imagine…dear God, I really cannot think what made her do such a thing!”

Rothewell stopped pacing, and pinned the ladies with his harsh, golden glower. “Her mother made her do it,” he gritted. “Good God, Zee, how many times must we have this discussion? Can you not see it? The girl is the very image of Annemarie.”

“Annemarie was hardly the femme fatale you wish to think her,” said Xanthia angrily. “But no matter. What’s to be done about it now, Kieran? Would you marry the girl off to a scoundrel? And is he to have no punishment whatsoever?”

“Oh, I shall deal with St. Vrain,” Rothewell snapped. “Damn it all, I wish Luke yet lived. Then he would have to deal with this bloody mess he has got us into.”

“We all wish Luke were alive,” snapped his sister. “But he is not, therefore—”

The slam of the door cut her off. “No, he is not,” said Martinique, her voice decidedly bitter. “And no one rues that fact more than I. But a dead man can hardly be blamed for my ill judgment. And if my step-father has so burdened you with me, Rothewell, by all means, unburden yourself forthwith. Indeed, I wish you would.”

Xanthia flew across the room to her. “Martinique, for God’s sake, be still!”

But tears were streaming down Martinique’s face now. “You hate me, do you not, Rothewell?” she whispered. “And you hated my mother, too. You were ashamed of her. Ashamed of her skin, ashamed of what she had been—and you are ashamed that I am a sangmêlé.”

“Be still, damn you!” Rothewell’s voice was grim. “You know nothing of my feelings. Nothing, damn it, do you hear me?”

“Well, rid yourself of me! But do not do it by forcing me on some poor devil who has done nothing more than warm my bed—and at my insistence, too.”

“I’ve had quite enough of this.” Rothewell stalked across the room toward her. “You’ll keep a civil tongue in your mouth, miss.”

Xanthia slipped strategically between them. “She has not been uncivil,” she said curtly.

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