Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] Read Online Free PDF Page B

rule her head. The marquess paid her well and she gave what he paid for and more. One day it would end and that was how it should be.
    With Blanche soft and perfumed in his arms, Lucien passed the brief interview with his father—no, the duke—through his mind again and again. Could he not have softened it in some way? It was not news amenable to softening.
    So much now clicked into place, such as the formality of his parents' lives despite suggestions of deep feeling. Had his father never forgiven his mother? His words had been gentle this morning and yet the evidence was that they had been estranged for over twenty years. Lucien had always hoped it was just an appearance of formality and that in private they behaved otherwise.
    He did not know how he was to face either of them again.
    He understood at last the duke's attitude toward himself, why he had never been able to gain the warmth, the approval he sought. His father had chastised or commended him as appropriate but always in the impersonal manner of a guardian. He supposed, given the situation, the duke had been very good to him.
    And now he must repay that goodness. It was his duty to make this marriage—though it would feel incestuous and be a mismatched union of the highest order—and produce the male heirs to ensure the line. Then perhaps, he thought bleakly, he could shoot himself.
    Blanche was beginning to feel stiff. She stirred a little. "Would you like some wine, Lucien? Or tea?"
    He sat up with her and kissed her lightly. "Wine, please. And perhaps some food? I skipped breakfast."
    His manner was much like his normal high spirits and yet she could see the strain behind it and ached for him.
    "Of course, love," she twinkled. "After all, you pay the grocer."
    He grinned. "So I do. And also the jeweler. When I've fortified myself, I'm going to go and buy you more diamonds. Unless I can tempt you to sapphires?"
    "And ruin my act?" she protested. "The day the White Dove wears any color I'll be over and done with. I saw some pretty hair pins in the Burlington Arcade."
    "Consider them yours," he said. "You are a treasure, Blanche. You would make a man a wonderful wife."
    His mind seemed to be fixed on wives. Blanche gave him a saucy look. "Isn't it nice of me then to spread it around a bit?"
    He broke out laughing and it was as close to the carefree marquess as she could hope to get.

 
     
     
    Chapter 3

     
    The other party to all this, Miss Beth Armitage, had her mind firmly fixed on international problems by the time the de Vaux family came to her notice. March of 1815 had been made notable by the dreadful news that the Corsican Monster, Napoleon Bonaparte, had left his exile on Elba and returned to France. Now, in April, the news was no better.
    Miss Mallory's School for Ladies followed, in a modified form, the educational precepts of Emma Mallory's idol, Mary Wollstonecraft. The girls were taught a wide range of subjects, including Latin and science; they were encouraged to take vigorous daily exercise; and they were obliged to keep informed as to the affairs of the day.
    No trouble these days holding the girls' attention with the daily reading of the newspaper. Napoleon Bonaparte had been the scourge of Europe all their lives and now, when they had thought him a matter only for the history books, he was back. Many of the girls had fathers or brothers in the army, or recently sold out. The older girls, at least, understood the implications. The events were discussed with all the enthusiasm a teacher could desire.
    At first they had thought Napoleon's return to France the act of an utter madman, but the news worsened day by day. Haughty, extravagant King Louis VIII had made himself unpopular and the ex-emperor was being greeted with enthusiasm by the French people. The armies sent to oppose him were instead pledging allegiance at such a rate that Napoleon was reputed to have sent the Bourbon king a note saying, "My Good Brother, there is no need to send