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OF LOVE AND SACRIFICE
MÉLISANDE WATCHED HIS expression transform to one of shocked disbelief.
“I have no cause for shame,” she continued with quiet dignity. “I did not choose the circumstances of my birth. While it is true that my mother was the French king’s mistress, Papa met and fell in love with her before she knew she was to bear the king’s child. When she revealed her condition to Louis, he decided to make arrangements for her. Knowing that Papa was taken with her, he told him of her situation and asked him if he wanted to marry her. Papa agreed.”
“Why in heaven’s name would Wilmington do such a thing?” George asked, incredulous.
Mélisande blushed. “Because of an accident in his youth, Papa was unable to sire a child. He needed an heir. The fact that his bride was already with child was a happy solution to his problem.”
Profound silence followed her revelation.
After a moment, Mélisande came forward and fell to her knees before him. “Your Majesty, I did not meet the man who sired me until I was fourteen. Until then, I had no knowledge that I was anything other than the English daughter of an English earl. When Louis heard about Papa’s impending visit, he requested that he bring his family along—in order to see me, if only once. He surprised us all by offering to acknowledge me. I declined out of love for Papa. Spencer Compton was and always will be the father of my heart.”
George came forward and placed a gentle hand on her bowed head. “Wilmington was my friend. When he asked me to be your godfather, I was honored and shared in his joy. I did not believe Herrington.” He shook his head, his sadness evident. “I was prepared to dismiss his claims and consider the matter closed. Why did you not simply deny it?”
“Because I’m tired of living in fear,” Mélisande told him. “Herrington discovered the truth and told you. God only knows whom else he might have told before he died. It matters not, in any case. What matters is that I made my choice long ago. As far as I’m concerned, I am Mélisande Esmée Compton, the daughter of an English earl, not a French king.”
“I’m afraid others will not see it that way,” said George. “If Herrington did indeed expose your secret, which I suspect he has, the peerage will be beating down my door demanding that you be stripped of your title and lands, perhaps even imprisoned for fraud.”
Mélisande’s face hardened. “You have known me since the day I was born. You cannot possibly question my loyalty.”
“No, I do not,” he said. “But the fact remains that you are a Bourbon and we are about to be at war with France. If you were of any other lineage, I could gladly overlook it. As it stands, however, I have no choice but to act. It is a matter of perceptions, and I cannot be seen to put personal desires above England’s needs.”
“So, because of politics, you will punish me for an accident of birth over which I had no control?” she asked bitterly.
“It is not my desire to ‘punish’ you, Melly. You must understand that my hands are tied. I cannot risk losing the confidence and support of the peerage.” He let out a long sigh. “Much as I dislike acknowledging it, Herrington actually made a suggestion that would provide a way to salvage this situation and prevent your losing everything. We can arrange for you to marry an Englishman so that your children will have a legitimate, English claim to the earldom, which I will bestow upon your husband.”
The blood whistled in Mélisande’s ears as she processed this. She had no choice. Her engagement to Alessandro was a sham, anyway, a foolish fantasy that was now over. He was leaving England. Quashing the impulse to rage and weep, she instead focused on keeping her spine straight.
“Whom would you have me marry?” she inquired, unable to keep her voice from trembling. She dared not look at Alessandro’s face lest she break down.
“You were once engaged to Pelham, here,” said the king. “Why not simply reinstate the arrangement?”
“Because he is in love with someone else, and I will not have him,” Mélisande replied firmly.
“Since when is love a concern in matters of marriage?” George said dismissively. After a moment’s pause, he looked to Alessandro and raised a brow.
Taking the cue, Alessandro stepped forth. “It is a concern when it involves me, Your Majesty. Let it not be forgotten that Lady Wilmington is already engaged to be married to me. If your intent is to withdraw the blessing you bestowed upon me regarding our union, I fear I must strongly object.”
Mélisande whirled to face him. “What blessing?”
“This man requested permission to marry you several months ago,” George answered.
She stared at Alessandro, unbelieving. “But I thought—”
He took up her hand, the one bearing his ring. “Our engagement stands, if you will have me. For five years I searched for you, Mélisande. And now that I have found you, I do not want to lose you again. I love you.”
It shone from his warm cinnamon eyes, naked and powerful, and her heart beat faster, causing her shoulder to throb. She ignored the pain.
He wants to marry me!
A cloud passed over her joy. “But I’m illegitimate,” she blurted, terrified he might reconsider. He was, after all, a duke in his own country.
Alessandro laughed, drawing her close. “I care nothing for the blood in your veins, amora. You could be a milliner’s daughter and still I would marry you. I have seen the painting in the French king’s chamber, as well as his—your birthmarks, for I also attended Louis at his morning dress and saw the mark upon his hip.”
George cleared his throat. “Am I to understand that you have already consummated your relationship with this man?” he inquired lightly.
Alessandro flashed her a knowing smile.
