The Bastard
Authors: Brenda Novak
THE BASTARD
By Brenda Novak
ll rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form or by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written consent of the publisher and author, Brenda Novak.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
For questions and comments about the quality of this book, please contact me at
www.brendanovak.com
.
Dear Reader:
This book has been many years in the making.
When I first started writing, I set out to become a historical romance author. I was a huge fan of Kathleen Woodiwiss, Valerie Fitzgerald, Jane Austen, Charlotte Bronte, Margaret Mitchell and Kathleen Winsor. With their fabulous stories fueling my imagination, I wrote my first manuscript, OF NOBLE BIRTH, and sold it to HarperCollins. But then HarperCollins merged with Avon and let their own romance editors go--and most of their romance authors, including me. My book hadn’t even come out yet. Fortunately, I had sold a contemporary romance to Harlequin right before this happened, so I simply segued into writing a different genre.
Now, after writing contemporary romance and romantic suspense for twelve years (I have 40 books published in those genres), I’m excited to be able to bring out this story, my second historical.
Fortunately, I’m still writing for MIRA books, as well. I will have the beginning of a brand new small town series out with them (available wherever books are sold) September 2012 called WHEN LIGHTNING STRIKES. I hope you will look for it. Until then, please visit my web site at brendanovak.com, where you can sign up for my mailing list, enter my monthly giveaways, read sample chapters and reviews and keep up on my appearances.
While you’re there, please join my efforts to fight diabetes by signing up for my online auction for diabetes research. My youngest son has this disease. In the past seven years, I’ve raised $1.4 million for research and hope to raise a lot more. The auction always opens the first of May.
I love hearing from readers so feel free to drop me an email, as well.
Happy Reading!
Brenda Novak
To Hilary Sares, a fabulous editor, a wonderful friend, a wise brainstorming partner and all-around wonderful person. Thank you for your support, expertise and enthusiasm.
Cornwall, England
February, 1794
The Baron St. Ives was an ugly little man.
Jeannette Boucher could hardly pull her gaze away. Standing next to her, perched on skinny shapeless legs, arms behind his back, abdomen swelling in front of him, he reminded her of a pelican. Three reddish chins hung low over the top of his collar while powder from a ringletted wig dusted the shoulders of his lavish gold-embroidered coat. Despite Jeannette’s own diminutive size, he barely cleared the top of her head.
“...into which holy state these two persons present come now to be joined...”
God, help me
,
Jeannette prayed as beads of nervous sweat trickled down her back. Her wedding dress was laced too tight. Dizziness almost overwhelmed her as she eyed her future husband again.
At least forty years beyond her own eighteen, Lord St. Ives looked back at her through heavy-lidded, lashless eyes. White flakes congealed in the creases of his face, contrasting with the purplish veins that burst like blossoms on his cheeks. Something occasionally twisted his lips into what a less perceptive soul might have interpreted as a smile. But not Jeannette. She was too young to be so fooled, too acquainted with happiness. She could not mistake Percival Borden for anything other than what he was: a sick old man, as unfamiliar with gaiety as she was with its opposite.
Until the Revolution, of course. The Revolution had changed everything.
Wetting her lips, Jeannette tried to draw air into her lungs. She didn’t want to swoon, dared not give away her desperation. She and her family had barely escaped war-torn France with their lives. Her parents and younger brother deserved a reprieve from the terrible hardships they had suffered. Jeannette was determined to give them that.
But she had never expected her heart to fight so tenaciously against the tether of her will. Even now, hemmed in by innumerable bodies, she was tempted to flee, to part the nuptial witnesses like the Red Sea and run for her life.
“Wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband...”
The words of the ceremony slipped in and out of her consciousness. It wasn’t until a hush fell over the church as those crowded inside strained to hear her response that she knew the vicar had asked the question that would make her the wife of a man she did not love.
For an awkward moment she could not speak. Throat dry, voice gone, she glanced at the twinkling prism created by an errant ray of sunshine that had penetrated the cloudy sky outside to filter through the stained-glass window. Dust motes danced like fairies in that light, twirling, shimmering in vibrant array.
To be so free...
Lord St. Ives’s hand tightened on hers, and Jeannette forced her gaze back to the tall, gaunt vicar. But it wasn’t until she pictured her parents’ worried expressions that she managed a weak, “I will.”
Minutes later, it was over. The baron kissed her with slack lips, clasped her fingers in his small, manicured hand, and, turning her to face the rows of pews behind them, presented his new bride to the congregation.
Faces beamed at Jeannette—strangers all, except her parents and brother, who nodded their approval while standing to watch the new couple parade down the aisle.
Jeannette heard many murmur of her youth and beauty as she passed, but more spoke of the ball awaiting them that evening at Hawthorne House. Her new husband was no small man among those in the county, his wedding no obscure event in Cornwall.
“What a joy to see you properly wed!” her mother gushed as soon as St. Ives turned away to accept the felicitations of his friends.
Jeannette was glad to stand in the warmth of the sun. At least it felt familiar, despite the intermittent rain. The church interior, beautiful in its way with an abundance of marble and stained glass, had been so cold.
Unable to think of an appropriate response to her mother’s fabricated brightness, Jeannette turned to her father.
“I am proud of you,” he whispered in their native French. “You have chosen well. Lord St. Ives may not look the handsome gallant, but he comes from some of the finest blood in all of England. Our cousin Lord Darby has assured me of that, no? And he is rich as a king. You will always be well cared for.”
Jeannette struggled to swallow the lump that swelled in her throat. “Yes, Papa.”
Her thirteen-year-old brother Henri stood watching them with a gentle, pained expression. She managed a smile when she caught his eye, but before she could speak to him, her new husband drew her toward a fancy, gilt-edged coach waiting at the head of a line of lesser conveyances. A team of four huge horses pranced while their driver, dressed in burgundy livery, held the matched beasts in check and several footmen stood at attention.
“Thank God that is over with,” St. Ives muttered.
As one of the footmen helped her inside, Jeannette wondered if her husband expected some kind of response, but she had no idea what to say to such a rude remark.
The baron climbed in behind her and took the opposite seat. “But a man must marry, eh?” He reached out and squeezed her knee, his grin a picture of eager anticipation.
Trying not to notice how his dull-gray eyes measured every detail of her body, Jeannette quelled the urge to shrink from his touch and stared out at the many guests who would soon be joining them again.
“Will you miss France overmuch?” he asked.
The carriage lurched forward, forcing her to brace herself with a hand on one side. Rain over the past several days had left the streets full of ruts and mud, making the coach sway dramatically as they began their journey.
For politeness’s sake, she wanted to say that she wouldn’t, but knew her husband would interpret it for the lie that it was. “
Oui
,” she admitted at last.
“France’s loss is my gain.” His lips curved into another of his odd smiles, revealing teeth yellowed with age and tobacco.
Jeannette’s stomach tightened into a hard knot. For a moment she wished her governess had not taught her such excellent English-she understood him only too well. Fearing she might disgrace her family yet, she made no reply.
Thankfully, her new husband said nothing more, and they rode in silence the three miles to Hawthorne House.
Lieutenant Crawford Treynor stiffened as his mother welcomed him with a kiss. Her smile looked contrived amid the elegant features of her face, an expression Treynor didn’t recognize. But then, he’d seen little of Lady Bedford over his lifetime—and wished to see even less.
Her slender fingers plucked at the braid on his uniform. “You grow more handsome every year.” Reseating herself, she picked up a gold-handled letter opener and an ivory envelope from a pile of correspondence on the table next to her. “Come, sit down.”
The drawing room where his mother received him was only half as luxurious as her husband’s home in Devonshire. Even so, it lacked little by way of creature comforts. Compared to the poverty Treynor had known as a child, this cottage, with its ornate cornices, carved mantel, and fine furniture, looked like a castle.
He followed her to the settee but remained standing, his hands clasped behind his back. He planned to stay no more than a quarter of an hour, just long enough to fulfill his duty toward the woman who had given him birth.
“How did you know I was in Plymouth?” he asked, using polite conversation to fill the abyss between them.
“Certainly not from your infrequent letters.” She placed the letter opener on top of her papers and arranged her expensive, stylish gown before looking up at him. “You send me little more than the weather or general war information. Nothing I can’t learn from reading
The Times
.”
“My apologies. Perhaps I shall do better in future,” he said, but his sense of obligation did not extend that far. Although he sometimes wished he could put the past aside, he knew he could not. The ill treatment he had received at the hands of the brawny farmer she’d paid to raise him had left too many scars.