THE DEFIANT LADY (3 page)

He loomed over her, and she knew he anticipated an evening of selfish desire. He was rough and punishing, but Angeline did not have to work for a whole week on what she made in an hour with him. Not that anyone would pay for a battered doxy anyway.

Caldwell did not say a word as he roughly shoved her away from him and began to take off his belt. Angeline tried not to shudder in fear, but she could not help it. The beatings hurt, and she knew he liked it when she cried. She waited expectantly for what was about to happen.

Perhaps Madame Rousard would let her have a new dress, or a box of decadent chocolates if the night went well.

She quaked as he wrapped his belt around his hand and came towards her...

***

Hampshire, England

Ivy could not sleep, tossing and turning like waves in an ocean storm. She was unable to get comfortable in the fluffy feather bed in her elegant bedroom that was the size of their old Paris flat. Though the bed had soft, white satin sheets and was more decadent than anything she had ever slept on, thoughts continued to race through her troubled mind, and the rich food she consumed at dinner settled in her belly like rocks.

Ivy had always been independent and self-reliant, and asking others for aid battered her self-worth. She knew there had been no other option, but the Duchess’s steady, unwavering and hostile gaze over dinner left her anxious. Thank God her sister was asleep down the hall. At least the sisters still had each other, for Ivy did not know what she would do if Willow had not been there.

There was a light knock on her door and a moment later Willow popped her head in. “Ivy, are you asleep?”

“Come in, Willow,” Ivy answered as she pulled back the covers on her bed and moved to light the candle on the bedside table.

Willow entered the bedroom and closed the door. She quickly climbed into bed next to Ivy. “I have the softest, largest bed in the world, and yet I miss sharing our tiny bed.”

Ivy sighed. “I think it will take some time to adjust to our new life.” She wondered if she would ever be comfortable in this cold, sheltered world. She felt like a caterpillar, waiting and hoping desperately to become a butterfly, and dreaming of flying away.

“Get up,” Ivy said suddenly, throwing off the covers. She drew back the curtain to reveal a full moon. Reaching for her sash, she tied up her nightdress.

“Please do not make me,” Willow pleaded.

Ivy chuckled, but pulled Willow off the bed. “How is it you were ever going to be a ballerina? You hate to practice.”

Willow shrugged and then tied up her own nightdress. “Perhaps I have more interests than just ballet?”

Ivy looked at her and teased, “You had better not be speaking about pressing flowers into books. Come, let us begin.” The sisters began moving through dance positions almost without thought; it was so natural to them. When they finished, they clambered into Ivy’s huge upholstered bed. Ivy blew out the candle, and the girls fell asleep.

***

“How did you sleep, Ivy?” Willow asked, her blue eyes wide with sham innocence.

Ivy threw her younger sister a genuine smile and said, “Not as well as you, Willow. You can sleep anywhere.”

Willow chuckled. Even after the dance positions, Ivy had a restless night. This morning, she was tired and listless. Willow, on the other hand, seemed to have a never-ending supply of energy, no matter how little sleep she received.

They were as different in dispositions as they were in appearance. Willow looked like their mother. Tall, lithe, blonde and blue-eyed, she was incredibly sweet and feminine. Though she was talented at ballet, she had never been as committed as Ivy.

Ivy had a sharp mind, a clear intellect and incredible spirit. Her small chin jutted out just enough to show a sense of dignity. Her eyes were emerald green and her cheekbones were flawlessly high. She was small in stature and could be mistaken for fragile, but there was a core of strength about her. How else had she managed after their mother died? When she took center stage, all eyes were on her, and it was though she grew three feet in height. She commanded attention.

After breakfast, they walked down the hallway to the drawing room, Willow chattering on like a cheerful little songbird. Ivy listened with one ear as she took in her surroundings, likening the manor to a museum. It was prestigious and large and objects were to be looked at, but not touched. When they arrived at their destination, she smoothed her old blue gown to make sure she was as presentable as possible, not wishing to give the Duchess a reason to snipe at her.

 
“How are you finding your rooms?” the Duchess asked when the girls were seated. Her tone was full of standard civility, but her face was blank, betraying no lingering emotion.

“Beautiful and capacious. I have never had so much space to myself,” Willow replied earnestly. “Thank you so much.”

Willow’s pleasure did nothing to melt the Duchess’s frosty demeanor. “You are welcome.” She looked at Ivy. “And you?”

“I am settled,” Ivy clipped noncommittally.

The Duchess compressed her lips, no doubt in disapproval of Ivy’s intractable iron will. “I am having an informal ball in May to introduce you both to our neighbors. It only gives us two months to make sure you are both presentable. Come June, your official debut will commence in the splendor of London. Balls, theatre, opera…”

The Duchess rang a small brass bell to ring for tea, which was a taciturn affair much like their dinner the previous evening. Willow attempted to break the unrelenting silence a few times, but it was met with vague replies from Ivy and resentful looks from the Duchess. Willow quickly gave up and drank her tea in silence.

***

The next morning after breakfast, Madame LaRue, the Duchess’s personal modiste, arrived with two assistants, plenty of measuring tape and a sketchbook. Madame LaRue was less than five feet tall and traveled with a small platform so she could measure all her customers herself. She was of an indiscriminate age, and it was unclear whether she was thirty or fifty. Her face was unlined, except for when she smiled, and then it was as if tiny spider webs had formed at the corners of her eyes. A flurry of energy, she constantly seemed to be in two places at once.

The woman positively radiated excitement at seeing Ivy and Willow; she was overjoyed with Ivy’s coloring and Willow’s tall frame. “Two lovely sisters. You will both take London by storm!” the woman predicted.

“I am so excited!” Willow twirled in place. “I cannot wait for our new wardrobes. I feel positively shabby!”

It was hard for Ivy to maintain her stoicism when she saw her sister so happy. Though it would take weeks for their clothes to be completed, Willow’s pleasure was unrivaled.

After hours of measuring, questioning and incessant chatter from Madam LaRue, Ivy fell exhaustedly into a chair. She did not think she had the stamina, or the desire to be a lady. She looked at the Duchess and said, “Please tell me I do not have to do this again for a very, very long time.”

The Duchess’s resolute face did not change when she replied, “Not until next season.”

Ivy was unable to stifle a groan.

Willow grinned, despite the Duchess’s reserved manner, and said, “I have never had so many beautiful things all at once.”
 

“I do believe you will enjoy London,” the Duchess remarked.

“It sounds wonderful,” Willow admitted. “Though I doubt Ivy shares my sentiments.”

“Though Ivy is stunning, she reminds me of a newborn colt. It will be interesting to see if she will find her way, or fall at the first sign of difficulty.” The Duchess spoke of Ivy like she had already vacated the room.

Willow looked at the Duchess in surprise. “You think Ivy is stunning?

“She also compared me to a horse,” Ivy said dryly.

Stifling a gurgle of laughter, Willow said, “Ivy would prefer the country to the city. She has more use for a well-crafted fishing rod than ball gowns,” Willow teased. The moment she realized what she said, she closed her mouth and sent an apologetic look to her sister.

The Duchess’s mouth formed into a tight line of disdain. “You
fish
?”

Ivy was used to scrutiny. In ballet lessons, eyes were always on her. Every step she took had to be precise, her body in perfect form. Any mistake would be pointed out immediately and without hesitation. After Ivy became used to that type of close examination, she knew how to perform under pressure. She employed that skill now, glad that some part of her past could be of use in this new, strange life.

“I
used
to fish, Your Grace,” Ivy lied. “When I was younger. I do not anymore.”

The Duchess’s eyes raked over Ivy, searching for the truth. “Fishing is not ladylike. You will put your mind to learning other more useful skills now, and eventually you will have something to offer a husband.”

“Fan waving and polite conversation? Will that prove my value?” Ivy shot out sarcastically, unable to keep silent. In France, men loved women of witty intelligence, but it seemed in England that any stamp of originality was rubbed out at birth.

The Duchess lashed out in contempt, “Right now, young lady, you do not have anything to offer as a high society wife. You have no wealth, no breeding and no feminine accomplishments to your name. What man of quality would ever think to offer for you?”

Ivy’s eyes flashed dark green in anger as she rose. “I cannot change my breeding or my wealth. My mother thought it was more important to cultivate a strong mind and character than learn how to paint. One thing I do have is pride. I would not care even if you were Queen of England, I will not sit here and allow you to lecture me on circumstance.” Ivy stormed out, leaving Willow alone with the Duchess.

“Your sister has quite the temper,” the Duchess said finally.

“Yes, she does.” Willow looked at the Duchess with uncertainty.

The Duchess arched a brow. “I think she may survive London after all.”

Chapter III

Paris, France, March of 1815

“Would you like another cup of tea, dear?”

Emily smiled at her aunt and replied, “Thank you, Aunt Mildred. Another cup would be lovely.”

Even though Mildred made her home in Paris, she was still quite English at heart, and Emily loved staying with her when she visited. After all, Mildred lived in a fashionable district and in a luxurious townhouse that was decorated in vibrant colors.

“I am so glad you are here, Emily.”

“You are my favorite aunt, and I am glad I came to visit.”

Mildred patted her silver hair and said with a wink, “Especially since you are going to be a married woman soon. I will, of course, travel to England to see you wed. I cannot wait to see you married in all of London’s splendor.”

“I am excited to begin the wedding preparations.”

She did not mention to her aunt that the engagement had yet to run in
The
Times
, high society’s way of announcing betrothals, but she was confident that it would all go off without a hitch.

“You
must
speak to my modiste. She has the ability to design you the most splendid wedding gown. Every girl who sees you will want one just like it. You will be a sensation!”

Emily smiled to herself, and her mind began to wander. She would become a countess. She tried to remain humble, but it was difficult, especially when she thought of her friends back in England. Neither Mathilda nor Alyssa were engaged yet and the letters she received from them were bland, with no interesting information whatsoever. She pitied them. After all, they were not nearly as beautiful as she was, nor were their fathers as wealthy as hers. He was only a baron, but Emily had class and wealth enough to attract the Earl of Stanton. No doubt her friends would marry men of lesser titles with modest wealth.

The thought of her new dress brought her back to conversation. “I would
love
to meet your modiste, Aunt Mildred.”

***

Hampshire, England

Cy read the note from the Dowager Duchess of Cavehill, requesting a meeting immediately. Though it was vague, Cy knew the letter concerned the unresolved debt between their families. He penned a quick reply and gave it to his waiting footman.

He called at two in the afternoon, ready to inform the Duchess of his impending marriage, and to assure her that the money owed would be in her hands in less than a fortnight.

Benson, the Duchess’s butler, led Cy to an intimate salon where he admired the rich elegance of the room. When the Duchess entertained, though she had not done so in a few years, no expense was spared; the woman had immaculate taste.

The Duchess rose from her seat when Cy entered, her bearing straight and her mostly silver hair arranged into a neat bun. She was still quite young, he realized.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Stanton,” the Duchess greeted, her intelligent gaze sliding over his muscled form and height.

“It is my pleasure, Your Grace.” He sat and crossed his long legs, waiting for the Duchess to explain why she wanted him to call on her.

“I would like to speak plainly, if I may.” Cy nodded in agreement and she went on, “There is an outstanding debt incurred by your father that now rests on your shoulders. I am willing to forgo repayment in full on one condition: you marry my granddaughter.”

Cy schooled his face into a blank slate, even though his heart skipped a beat and then resumed a steady rhythm. “I did not know you had a granddaughter.”

The Duchess sighed. “I have two. My son had a Parisian mistress that he kept hidden and fathered two children with her.”

Cy’s mind reeled. It was unusual for anyone in their class to admit to skeletons in the family closet, especially to someone not considered friend or confidant.

“My eldest granddaughter, Ivy Sinclair, wrote me weeks ago asking for my assistance. She and her sister were living in Paris, training to become prima ballerinas. Not long ago, their mother died unexpectedly, and because they have no other living relatives, I sent for them.”

“How generous of you. Why are you taking me into your confidence? This is a private family matter.”