Enjoy the first chapter of TRIUMPH AND TREASURE
Highland Heather Romancing a Scot Series, Book One
Boston, Massachusetts, Late March 1818
Angelina Ellsworth—no, she was Mrs. Moreau now—cast her husband of six hours a look of adoration as he escorted her across the marble floor of the luxurious Plaza Hotel. She resisted the urge to dance a giddy jig.
She really was married.
She tried not to gawk at the immense glittering eight-foot crystal chandeliers, marble pillars and life-size, almost nude—er, make that entirely nude—statues of mythical gods and goddesses. Cherubs, their chubby feet and legs immersed in water, edged a towering fountain burbling in the center of the lobby.
“Rather dazzling, is it not, chérie?”
Her gaze flashing to Charles’s amused one, she flushed. She’d been craning her neck, staring at the trompe l'oiel ceiling depicting gods and other immortals, also bare as Norfolk dumplings. Papa would have been scandalized. Nudity, mythical gods, vulgar displays of wealth. Blasphemous.
She released a happy sigh.
And utterly splendid.
If Papa had been alive, he never would have consented to Charles courting her. Papa had been determined she marry a gentleman of his ilk. A staid, devote, boring fellow. Better yet, a man of the cloth. And with dowries the size of thimbles, Angelina and her sisters had few suitors, let alone young, debonair ones such as Charles.
Thank goodness, Mama entertained her own ideas, and after Papa’s passing, voiced and implemented them with complete disregard as to what her husband would have preferred. A romantic at heart, once Mama realized Angelina loved Charles, she consented to the match.
Angelina shook off her dreary thoughts. This was her wedding day. A rush of excitement caused her to breathe quicker.
At ten o’clock this morning, she and Charles exchanged their vows before a crowd of well-wishers. After a modest breakfast and reception at her childhood home, Endicott Hall, they’d departed Salem.
“Here’s your room key, sir.”
The skeleton key clinking on the countertop reigned in Angelina’s ruminations.
“Thank you.” Charles slipped the key into his coat pocket before taking her arm. “Is the room prepared?”
“Yes, sir. Everything is as you requested.” The clerk smiled. “May I offer my congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Moreau?”
“Thank you.” Angelina and Charles spoke simultaneously.
He patted her arm, giving her a crooked smile. Her stomach did that peculiar flip-flop it did whenever he smiled at her.
In two days, they’d sail to the Continent for a lengthy honeymoon in Italy by way of France. Prior to meeting Charles, Angelina only dared hope that perhaps someday she might visit her aunt and uncle, the Duke and Duchess of Waterford, in England. She’d never met them. Aunt Camille was her mother’s twin, and they exchanged correspondences on occasion.
Angelina cast Charles a sidelong peek as he guided her toward the curved staircase. It had been three months since this splendid man entered in her life.
If it hadn’t been for Mama’s insistence that Angelina attend the Dennison’s Christmas ball, she might never have met him. She hadn’t wanted to attend, aware her father’s cohort, horrid yellow-toothed Abraham Stockton, would be there. The paunchy man always smelt of garlic and sweat. And he was five and forty, if he was a day.
Despite Mama’s adamant refusal to allow him to call upon Angelina, he’d been trying to court her for three years, since she turned seven and ten. Mama claimed the man was dicked in the nob. Angelina suspected, had he lived, Papa would have arranged a match between her and Mr. Stockton. She shuddered at the notion.
She’d been hiding from him in a curtained alcove at the Dennison’s when a man darted into the enclosure.
Unaware Angelina huddled on a sofa tucked in the corner, he peeked between the heavy velvet panels, muttering, “A more persistent match-making maman I’ve never encountered, and four plainer, pudgier mademoiselles . . .”
Angelina erupted into laughter. “Mrs. Twiggels and the quartet, I’d wager.”
Charles spun around, peering into the shadowy nook. He chuckled, a wonderful low rumble deep in his chest. “Twiggels? Please tell me you jest.”
Yes, indeed, God had been smiling on her that evening, for Charles had arrived in Massachusetts that very day, brought to Salem on business. He was only at the ball by chance, his business associate having received an invitation and insisting Charles join him for the festivities.
Angelina swept Charles another love-filled gaze. His lips turned into a devilishly wicked smile, and the glint smoldering within his tawny eyes caused her heart to patter in anticipation.
With his black hair and high cheekbones, he cut such a dashing figure. The navy blue of his coat enhanced his unusual brandy-colored eyes and emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. Shoulders she itched to feel beneath her fingers.
Despite her gloves, her palms dampened. Angelina brushed her hands against her champagne-colored silk gauze gown, allowing herself to imagine Charles’s hands caressing her.
Soon they would be.
They’d shared several fervent kisses during their short courtship, and once betrothed, he suggested they become more intimate. Raised by her zealot father, Angelina couldn’t bring herself to sin that way. Not that she wasn’t anticipating the marriage bed. She most definitely was.
She and Charles climbed the arched risers, followed by four porters carrying their luggage. Their trunks had been sent on ahead to the ship. Charles’s hand caressed her spine. A delicious tremor spiraled outward from where his palm lingered. She suppressed a slight gasp.
Something more than curiosity stirred, making her impatient for Charles’s touches and kisses.
And he was a most skilled kisser.
A widower, forced at the tender age of twenty to marry a much older woman to save his family’s estate, in the seven years since, he’d made a fortune in commerce.
Angelina held no doubts his handsomeness availed him of many a willing bed partner, though she wasn’t supposed to know of such things. And if the Dennison’s ball was an indication, women threw themselves at him. However, he had chosen her, and it astounded her.
He vowed at least a hundred times that he’d never loved another, and that Angelina would be his until the day he died. She’d no misgivings about his affection. A man couldn’t pretend the warmth in his amber eyes or the husky timbre of his voice when he spoke of his adoration.
She pressed her fingers against the ruby and diamond ring encircling her finger.
Yes, this was real.
“Happy, mon ange?” Charles gave her waist a slight squeeze.
His angel? She smiled and nodded, releasing a contented, sigh. “Yes, blessedly and deliriously happy.”
She’d found love. Something her parent’s marriage lacked and hadn’t been altogether certain existed outside her novels.
“Here we are.” Charles’s hand rested at the curve of Angelina’s ribs, his thumb rubbing against her gown. She bit her lip to keep from giggling. He waited for the attendant to unlock their suite. The door swung open, revealing a room resplendent with roses of every imaginable shade.
Angelina stepped farther inside, then spun in a slow circle, her skirts swishing about her ankles. The heady perfume of a hundred blossoms permeated the air. She sniffed in appreciation. Surveying the chamber, she spied flowers in the adjoining bedchamber. She darted to the parted door.
After peering within, she sent a glance over her shoulder. “What in heaven’s name?”
Speaking to the porters, Charles didn’t hear her.
Untying the ribbon at her chin, she removed her bonnet. Her spencer followed. She placed both on the table beside the door, adding her reticule atop the pile. Angelina studied the bed dominating the room. A monstrous thing with carvings on the bedposts and along the canopy from which hung scarlet bed curtains, it was a blessed wonder the frame supported the oversized mattress.
She stepped closer, inspecting the engraved posts.
Oh my.
The etchings were of nude forms entwined in various acts of intimacy.
Good heavens.
Similar images of Greek and Roman gods adorned the walls and ceilings. The chamber was as wicked as Sodom and Gomorrah. For the first time since entering the dazzling hotel, she experienced a tinge of discomfit. She wandered to the bedchamber’s entrance.
Charles finished speaking to the remaining attendant and passed the young man a coin.
The porter smiled widely. “Of course, sir. Right away.”
He stepped into the corridor, then hesitated, staring at the luggage piled about the entrance. “Do you wish me to have a maid sent to unpack . . .?”
Charles shook his head. A strand of midnight hair fell across his forehead. “No, we’re here only two nights. We sail the day after tomorrow. I’m sure my wife and I can manage.”
He turned to wink at Angelina.
She grinned at him.
Incorrigible rogue.
But he was her rogue. He closed the door before crossing to her in several elongated strides. Sweeping her into his arms, he nuzzled her neck. She adored how she fit beneath his chin. At five feet eight inches, she stood taller than most woman of her acquaintance. Yet within Charles’s embrace, she felt dainty and feminine.
Angelina laughed huskily. “My goodness, why the roses?”
“For you mon ange rose. I wasn’t able to fill the room with angels, but roses, that I could arrange. I’ve imagined you naked, lying on a bed scattered with rose petals.”
Should she be shocked? For the life of her she couldn’t summon a jot of chagrin. My, she’d become scandalous since meeting Charles.
He stepped away from her, unbuttoning his cutaway coat. The gleam in his eye caused her pulse to do all manner of odd things. Surely he didn’t intend to . . .
It was most improper during the daytime. Wasn’t it? She glanced to the window, searching the horizon. The sky was enshrouded in a smoky violet-gray. Dusk had scarcely fallen.
Charles wound his arms around her once more, reining in her wayward thoughts. He kissed her like a man long starved. Curving her arms behind his neck, she returned the kiss.
He nudged his hips against her belly, his desire evident. “I simply must have you now, mon amor. I cannot wait.”
She hadn’t expected he would be quite so eager to bed her-before dinner even. It thrilled and disconcerted her simultaneously.
“Help me with the hooks, will you?” She made to turn her back, needing his assistance to unfasten the gown.
“No, that shall take too long.”
Before she knew what he was about, he scooped her into his arms. In two strides he reached the bed, then laid her upon the lush counterpane. Charles shoved her skirts to her thighs, and after fumbling with the falls of his trousers, parted her legs.
Apprehension swept her. “Charles, I’m not . . . This is so sudden, I don’t . . .”
She gasped on a cry.
“Mon Dieu,” he groaned against her neck.
Blinking back tears and biting her lip against the stinging, Angelina stared at a lurid picture on the wall. Was it supposed to hurt his much? Charles stiffened and gave a final moan before collapsing atop her.
That was it?
All the fuss was about that? Awash in disappointment and miffed at his callousness, she barely took note when he rose from the bed and fastened his trousers.
He chuckled, trailing a finger across her lips. “You resemble a wanton laying here with your breasts revealed, legs spread, and dress bunched to your hips.”
Shame and humiliation surged through Angelina. She turned her face away, shoving the dress to her knees with one hand and tugging the bodice over her breasts with the other. She swallowed against the tears burning at the back of her throat.
How could he say that?
“Chérie?” Charles cupped her cheek, forcing her to meet his eyes. “I’m sorry, mon amor. I’m a selfish oaf. I promise, you, I’ll take my time the next go round. You shall see how wonderful making love can be.”
He bent and kissed her. Someone knocked on the outer door, then rapped again, this time more insistent.
“Ah, that must be our food.” He gave her a boyish grin. “I hope you don’t mind. I requested an intimate dinner here rather than the noisy restaurant below.”
After helping her off the bed, he placed another tender kiss on her lips. “I love you, amoureux.” He buttoned his jacket, saying, “I’ll get the door while you repair your appearance.”
Whistling, he left the chamber, closing the door behind him. Repair her appearance? She would much rather take a lengthy bath liberally dozed with scented oil. She had been anticipating becoming a woman for weeks and truth to tell, it wasn’t at all what she dreamed it would be.
Something sticky trickled down her thighs.
Angelina rushed to the bathing chamber. Dampening a cloth from the pitcher of water on the washstand, she made quick work of cleansing herself, grimacing at the blood on the linen. After cleansing away the evidence of her virginity and Charles virility, she smoothed her chemise and dress, shaking the fabric until the folds fell into place.
The pearl pendant above her breasts hung askew. She straightened the necklace, and then adjusted her bodice, wincing slightly. Charles had certainly been exuberant in his attentions. Mama had explained what to expect, still . . .
Angelina examined her face in the looking glass as she tidied her hair. Several curly tendrils had escaped the Grecian knot atop her head. Other than rosy lips and cheeks, she didn’t appear different from the woman who had entered the chamber a few minutes ago.
Except, she was no longer an untried maid.
She hoped next time would be more . . . satisfying.
Making her way through the bedchamber, she hesitated. Men’s voices were raised in anger in the other room.
How strange.
“Up to your old tricks I see, Pierre,” said an unfamiliar slightly French accented voice.
Pierre? Angelina opened the door. She stopped short at the threshold.
The man before Charles was no servant. Sporting a thin mustache, the stranger stood attired in the latest fashion. From his gleaming Hessians and cream-colored pantaloons, to his jade green coat and knotted neckcloth, from which a jeweled stick pin glistened, he exuded quality.
He was profoundly handsome. And extremely angry.
Another man stood by the entrance. Much less refined, he grasped the handle of a gun tucked into his waistband. She slapped a hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the gasp that tore from her.
As one, the men’s gazes came to rest on her. Charles’s worried and angry, the rough fellow’s, aloof, and the handsome man’s, curious and compassionate?
“Charles, whatever is going on?” Angelina wrapped her arms about waist to calm her tumultuous stomach. Her husband’s face had taken on a greenish hue. She feared he might cast up his accounts. He opened his mouth to speak. No sound emerged.
The mustached man shook his head disdainfully.
“Charles? How unoriginal.” He bowed to Angelina. “Mademoiselle Ellsworth, allow me to introduce myself. I’m Jacques, Baron Devaux-Rousset.”
Angelina didn’t extend her hand. Instead, she tightened the grip around her middle. Pale, his lips pressed into a thin line, Charles glowered at the Frenchman. This man was no friend.
“My lord, did Charles not inform you? I’m Mrs. Moreau. We were married this morning. Please excuse my forwardness, but how are you acquainted with my husband, and who pray tell, is Pierre? Him?” She pointed at the surly man who continued to finger his weapon.
The brute smiled, a humorless curling of his lips.
Lord Devaux-Rousset speared Charles with an indiscernible glance before answering. “I’m his stepson, though, paradoxically, he is the same age as me.”
Oh, the older woman Charles married. He hadn’t mentioned she’d been a baroness or that she had children. Whyever was her son here? Boston was too far from France for Angelina to believe this was a chance encounter. Something was too smoky by far.
She sneaked Charles a sidelong glance. Why didn’t he say something? He stood there seething with silent fury and glared daggers at the baron.
Angelina angled her head. “Charles told me of his marriage to your mother. I’m sorry for your loss.”
For a moment, the baron’s composure wavered. He gaped at her before turning a steely glower on Charles.
“Vous avez dit que sa mère était morte?”
Drat, she didn’t speak French, but the baron had mentioned something about his mother’s death. That much she gleaned. Perhaps she shouldn’t have offered her condolences. The mourning period was over, had been for nine months. At least she thought that’s what Charles had told her.
Or, perhaps it hadn’t been that long, and that’s why the baron was annoyed.
“Charles, are you not out of mourning?”
“Merde,” Charles muttered, staring at the floor and fisting his hands.
“There is a lady present, imbécile,” the baron snapped. “Hold your foul tongue.”
He turned his attention to Angelina. His expression softened. With a wave of his manicured hand, he indicated the ivory and gold striped sofa beside her.
“Mademoiselle, perhaps you should have a seat, and I’ll explain.”
Why did he insist on calling her mademoiselle? It was rather boorish. No, it was pointedly rude. “Thank you, no. I’d rather stand, my lord.”
The baron regarded her for an extended moment. He gave a slight shrug. “As you wish.”
He turned to the brute blocking the door. “Please wait in the hallway and deter any staff. I don’t wish to be disturbed.”
After scanning Charles contemptuously one final time, the baron’s henchman gave a curt nod and exited the chamber.
Lord Devaux-Rousset sighed and slapped his beaver hat against his thigh. His gaze skimmed Angelina from her hair to her shoes, taking her measure. “You are lovely. I understand Pierre’s fascination. Thank God, I arrived before he compromised you.”
Angelina frowned. Was the man daft?
“Pierre? Who is Pierre? And how, in God’s precious name, can my husband possibly compromise me?”
His voice very soft, and equally as gentle, Lord Devaux-Rousset murmured, “I sincerely regret having to tell you. The man you call husband is the well-known slave-trader, Pierre Renault.”
He leveled Charles a blistering glare.
“And, I assure you, his wife, my maman, was very much alive when I left France.”