AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Mélisande thrust out a hand to ward him off. “You misunderstand me, Your Grace. I am not here to offer myself as a sacrificial lamb.”
His soft, malicious chuckle trailed fingers of ice down her spine.
“Did you know I visited Versailles recently?” he asked. “I wintered in France on the Crown’s business last year. A bit indecorous, the French court, but all in all still a very pleasant, very interesting experience. While I was there, I happened upon the strangest thing in the king’s private chambers: a portrait of you. I’m sure you can imagine my surprise at such an...odd happenstance.”
Mélisande’s pulse jumped, but she maintained iron control. “How very odd indeed, considering I have no memory of sitting for any portraits during my brief visit as a child. You’ll pardon my rudeness for changing the subject, but I came here to discuss the conflict between us, not French art,” she managed in a dismissive tone. He cannot possibly know...
His smile broadened and he moved closer, constricting the space between them.
Mélisande took an involuntary step backward and bumped into one of the stone benches. She should never have come out here alone.
“Oh, the woman in the painting wasn’t you,” he stated, coming closer still. “But the likeness was extraordinary. The resemblance was so striking that, at first, I simply could not tell the difference. It was only upon closer inspection that I was able to make the distinction. There were several remarkable similarities.”
Mélisande searched for a means of escape as he drew nearer. The alcove was surrounded by four-foot-high walls topped by thick hedges, and there was only one point of egress. Herrington was blocking it.
He closed in. Reaching out a single finger, he touched the little mole above her heart.
Mélisande froze like a deer at the sound of a hunter’s footsteps.
“For instance, the woman in the painting had the exact same little mark, just here,” he said, circling it, taking the opportunity to caress the swell of her breast with his knuckles. His tone then shifted, taking on a menacing singsong cadence. “The lady in the painting also had the same...unusual...eyes.” He reached up to grasp her jaw, turning her face this way and that. “The king said she was his mother. Naturally, I couldn’t help but wonder...”
With a sudden movement, he sprang forward, pinning her against the wall. His other hand reached down, slipping beneath her tunic.
Mélisande clawed at his hand. “Lord Wilmington knew my mother was with child when he married her!” she spat, her tongue loosed by rage. “He claimed me as his own! You have no right to—”
“I was right,” he breathed, eyes ablaze with triumph. “You are the daughter of the French king and his whore. The moment I saw that painting, I knew the similarity could not be coincidence. And you’ve known all along.”
An unnatural, icy calm settled over her. There was great deal more at stake here than Charlotte’s future now. Drawing herself to her full height, she found her voice at last. “What is it you really want from me, Herrington?”
The torchlight reflected eerily in his amber eyes as he cocked his head. The guttering flames cast his features into sharp angles of light and shadow, making him look demonic. “Why, the same thing I have always wanted. You, of course.”
He grinned, a vicious expression devoid of any warmth or humor. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I first saw you, my dear little impostor. You saw fit only to humiliate me, and thereafter your constant taunting turned us into bitter adversaries, but it doesn’t have to be that way between us.”
His finger traveled the line of her neck and shoulder and down her arm, raising gooseflesh. Feeling ill, Mélisande shrank from his touch, repulsed. Like a snake, he struck out and captured her wrist in a viselike grip, eliciting a gasp of pain.
“So very lovely,” he murmured as he slowly forced her hand up to his mouth and kissed the inside of her wrist.
Squirming, Mélisande tried to jerk it away, but he only gripped it tighter. Prying open her clenched fingers, Herrington kissed her open palm, flicking his tongue across the sweaty flesh.
“You can end this by becoming my wife,” he whispered. “You will, of course, pay the price for the constant torment you have visited upon me these last few years, but your penance can be a private matter, just between us. And I promise I shall not remain angry forever. Once you have paid for your sins, I shall be merciful and forgiving, the very best of husbands.”
She ceased her struggles. He was much stronger than she was, and she needed to save her energy to run at the first opportunity. “What of Charlotte?” she gasped, trying to distract him. “She thinks you’re in love with her—you’re practically engaged—it will destroy her!”
Cruelty played at the edges of his harsh laughter, and his lips curved in a crafty, unpleasant smile. “The girl is of no consequence; she was merely one means of securing your cooperation. One I no longer require.”
Mélisande’s panic subsided, a strange peace settling over her. “You, sir, belong in Bedlam,” she said with as much scorn as possible. “I will hear no more of this lunacy. I will not allow you to harm Charlotte, nor will I take her place. You will cease your pursuit of her immediately, and I never want to see your face again!” She wrenched her arm as hard as she could, but Herrington’s grip remained firm.
He dragged her closer. “You have no choice,” he hissed, his hot breath fanning her cheek as she turned away in disgust. “If you refuse me now, I’ll reveal your true lineage to the king. I will, of course, also present him with a ready solution to the nasty little problem you represent. I shall generously offer to make you my wife in order to prevent a public scandal, as well as to provide His Majesty with true English guardianship of the stolen Wilmington title and lands. He will gladly accept my offer,” he told her smugly. “I have you neatly boxed, my little French dove.”
Mélisande smiled through her fear and raised her chin defiantly. “There is one tiny, yet very important detail you seem to have forgotten,” she informed him. “I am already engaged to Lord Gravina.”
He let out a bark of laughter. “That seducer has no intention of ever marrying you, and you bloody well know it! Even if he did, the king will never allow it, now. Gravina is a foreigner, which means he cannot assume the title—even if it did rightfully belong to you. He is of no use to England. If anything, he would be an incredible liability, as his loyalty is to Rome.”
Mélisande opened her mouth to reply that no husband of hers would ever take the title anyway, but Herrington spoke over her.
“And don’t think to escape by marrying Pelham, either,” he said slyly, his eyes narrowing to golden slits. “If such even remains an option. He’s in love with that miserable little twit who belongs to me, now. He’s become a worthless, drunken fool ever since she spurned him!” He cackled in delight as Mélisande again attempted to free herself in vain. After a moment, his laughter ended abruptly, cut off as if with a sharp knife.
