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Alessandro held her in his arms as she wept. “Tomorrow morning, I will have satisfaction and make certain the bastard never strikes another woman again.”
A message arrived. Reggie had taken Charlotte to the house and requested that David delay his return until he could either make her see reason or arrange for other lodgings. The girl was hysterical and refused to calm herself.
“She was right,” David muttered. “How could I speak to her of love? Look at the way I’ve lived my life.”
Mélisande took pity on him. “Stay,” she offered, blotting her eyes and gathering her composure. “And you as well,” she told Alessandro firmly. “Please. I do not feel safe here alone with that animal on the loose,” she said for the benefit of the servants.
Wordlessly, David nodded.
Later that night, she tried to persuade Alessandro to retract his challenge, with the reasoning that revenge against Herrington wasn’t worth the risk of death. There had to be another solution.
Alessandro refused. “The man dared to lay violent hands upon you. How can I not demand satisfaction? I could never show my face in public otherwise.” He paused, caressing her hair. “Come, let us make the most of what is left of this night.”
She pushed his hands away for the first time since they had become intimate. “I will not be distracted!”
“Amora, do not deny me now,” he whispered, kissing away her objections.
He made love to her with tender skill, slowly building the fire between them. With adoring hands and lips, he erased one by one each of the hurts Herrington had inflicted upon her, replacing the memory of pain with fresh delight. The inexorable pull of desire dragged her toward release, and when the conflagration at last engulfed Mélisande, she welcomed its healing ecstasy.
“My heart!” he whispered, kissing her tears away. With a shudder, he buried himself within her and gave way before the storm.
With desperation born of both love and fear of loss, Mélisande clung to him. This man was part of her very soul. He could not, must not die!
As they lay drifting back to earth, utter peace filled Alessandro. His breathing grew deep and even, his mind clearing of everything but this moment. He remained so for hours, hovering just at the edge of slumber, savoring the quiet of the predawn hours.
Just as he was beginning to contemplate getting up and leaving for his own bed before the servants awakened, he heard a whisper.
“I love you,” Mélisande breathed.
Knowing she thought him asleep, he remained unmoving, a tender smile spreading across his face. At last. Elation mingled with dread. He’d faced death a dozen times, each with a fatalistic attitude. This time, however, he fervently prayed he survived.
DOUBLE DECEPTION
ANNOYANCE FILLED GEORGE. This was supposed to be a night of revelry, damn it all! Matters of state could wait until tomorrow. Late tomorrow. He waved the messenger away, returning his attention to his mistress.
Upon receiving a second urgent message, one stating that it was a vital matter affecting England’s security, however, he agreed to receive Lord Herrington. After all, he was a trusted counselor to the throne. If he said it was of vital importance, then it must be serious.
Herrington entered the private chamber, bowing and scraping. All in a rush, he proceeded to explain how he’d stumbled upon a Jacobite plot involving the Countess of Wilmington during his last diplomatic visit to France. Evidence of the lady’s true ancestry had been discovered: a portrait of the king’s mother that had looked exactly like Lady Wilmington, right down to the mark on her breast—the same mark borne by the Bourbon king. She was his get, brought up by a Frenchwoman who’d surely instilled French Catholic loyalties in her child. She could only be a Jacobite spy.
George kept his expression placid. He’d known Melly her entire life. She’d been born in Kensington House, and he’d seen firsthand Wilmington’s excitement at her arrival. His had certainly not been the reaction of a man greeting a cuckoo.
His thoughts ranged back to that day. It had been a little over seven months after Isabelle had first arrived. At the time, he’d thought nothing of it. But if Melly was the French king’s bastard...
Did she know it? Had Wilmington known? He gestured at Herrington’s face. “How did you come by your wound?”
Herrington looked him directly in the eye. “I inquired of the lady regarding the matter, seeking only to ascertain whether or not she was aware of her lineage, and I’m afraid she took it rather badly. She became violent,” he said, touching his lip with a look of chagrin. “She knew, Your Majesty. It is the only possible explanation for such a reaction.”
George chuckled drily. “In the midst of a public celebration, you informed a woman that you believe her to be illegitimate. Her less than favorable response seems quite reasonable to me.”
Frustration flickered across Herrington’s face. “Your Majesty, even if she turns out not to be a Jacobite spy, the fact that an English title has passed into her hands by subterfuge cannot be overlooked by your beneficence, especially given her lineage.”
George could not help but snort at the preposterous idea. “What can she possibly do?”
Herrington drew himself up importantly. “I assure you her ladyship is quite aware of her origins, Your Majesty—and that puts her loyalty in question. One also cannot help but note how frequently she associates with foreigners like Philipp Stamma and Friedrich Kesselman—both Papists. And now she is in league with that Gravina fellow, of whom we know very little, save that he is an Emissary of Rome and welcome in Versailles. It all seems rather suspicious to me, Your Majesty. You must admit it is not inconceivable that she could be spying for the rebels, gathering and passing along sensitive information to her contacts.”
“I see. And where is your supposed spy now?” George inquired.
Herrington shrugged. “I know not. She fled the palace after striking me. She could be anywhere by morning, Your Majesty.”
