Sweet Bravado

by Alicia Meadowes

Genres: Family Life; Marriage & Divorce; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

It was not a marriage made in heaven. It was a union decreed in her will by Aunt Sophie. She planned to end the feud between two branches of her family by naming joint heirs. Valentin Vicount Ardsmore, and Nicole Harcourt, daughter of his disgraced uncle and a French ballet dancer, would inherit Aunt Sophie's fortune only if they married each other.

Release date: October 14, 2009

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 303

Sample

“Damn!” The angry Viscount of Ardsmore strode across the room to pour himself another glass of port. “A nice homecoming this
has turned out to be.” He turned his blazing blue eyes on his mother who was seated across the room from him. “First a funeral
and now this blasted will. I still can’t believe Aunt Sophie did this.”


“That old woman must have been senile,” Lady Elea-nore fumed.

“Nasty business,” Perry Harcourt sympathized.

“Sylvie Moreau!” Lady Eleanore exclaimed bitterly. “That ballet dancer has had the last laugh after all.”

The Viscount stared at her thoughtfully. “That is hardly to the point, madame., It is the daughter who concerns me, not the
mother.”


“But the daughter of a ballet dancer,” his mother protested.


“What are you going to do, Val?” Perry asked.

“Marry her,” the Viscount replied curtly. “Do I have a choice?” He looked from his mother to his brother, mocking their dismay.
“Unless the lot of us decides to take up residence in Newgate.” He laughed at the horrified expressions on their faces.


“Bad as that?” Perry questioned.

“Worse. You know the Harcourt talent for spending money as well as I do,” Valentin drawled. “One might say Aunt Sophie has
come to the rescue despite her damnable scheming. The old girl’s fortune is going to save our spendthrift skins.” The Viscount
cast a bold glance toward his mother and winked slyly at Perry. “I have some rather pressing… er… expenses that can no longer
be staved off with my infinite charm,” he said, mocking himself.


“Know what you mean, old man. The Von Hoffman woman was flaunting some pretty fancy emeralds at Vauxhall…”

“Mind your tongue, you young blockhead!” the Viscount snapped at his hapless brother, who flushed a deep scarlet. “Will you
never learn discretion?”


“My son.” Lady Eleanore came to him clutching at his arm. “I know the sacrifices you are making.”

“Spare me the speeches, madame. We have much to discuss, since I return to France in the morning. First we must instruct Dilworth
to find the girl, then—”


“I say, Val,” the heedless Perry interrupted. “Don’t mean to throw in a damper or anything, but just suppose Nicole won’t
have you?”


“What!” Lady Eleanore cried. “Your brother, the Viscount
of Ardsmore, and that little French nobody!‘She would not dare refuse!”


“And there you have it, Perry. A marriage made in heaven.” Valentin Harcourt laughed sarcastically, then raised the port and
downed it.




“C’est barbare! Our wits shall be jolted from our brain-box before we reach Paris in this tumbril of a coach,” exclaimed the agitated little
Frenchwoman accompanying the young girl beside her.


“Come, now, madame. Do not give in to your fears,” the young woman responded in an effort to keep up her spirits. “You will
cast us both into such glooms that we will be quite undone. Let us consider my good fortune. It is not every day that a pauper
such as myself is turned into an heiress overnight.”


“Hélas, mon petit chpu. That is what troubles me most about this mad adventure. This marriage with that English devil! He will eat you alive, that
one. I remember him at your dear papa’s funeral. So arrogant. And those wild blue eyes like Satan…”


“Madame!” The sharp command silenced further babble from her companion but stirred up a veritable storm of unrest in the girl’s
breast. She schooled her facial muscles into a mask of calm repose, but the frantic thoughts leaping wildly in her mind could
not be subdued.


Nicole Harcourt had met her frightening cousin Valentin, the Viscount of Ardsmore, only a few times during her childhood.
She was thirteen years old the last time she saw him. Almost eleven years had passed since her father’s funeral, and yet the
memory of Valentin Harcourt remained vivid in her mind. It was those fiery blue eyes that haunted her dreams and seemed to
watch her haughtily through the accumulated fantasies of her adolescent years that she recalled most of all. Now she was on
her way to meet Lady Eleanore, the Viscount’s mother, to make the arrangements to marry him. Could it be true? She—the wife
of that blond god she had worshipped in the secrecy of her heart all these years?


The presence of an inheritance had come as a shock. Aunt Sophie had remembered Nicole and made her, as well as Valentin, the
joint heirs to her vast riches. Only four months ago Mr. Dilworth, a solicitor representing the Ardsmore interests had arrived
at the small cottage in Beauvais where Nicole lived with Madame Lafitte and informed them of the will. Until Mr. Dilworth’s
arrival, Nicole’s had been a life of quiet anonymity since the death of her mother three years before. Mr. Dilworth explained
to the girl the incredible stipulation of her great-aunt Sophie’s will; that Nicole must marry his lordship, Valentin Harcourt,
Viscount of Ardsmore, or the inheritance would be lost to the entire family. This was Aunt Sophie’s last attempt to reunite
the two branches of the Harcourt family.


Eleven years ago Aunt Sophie came to France searching out her favorite nephew, Rupert Harcourt, Nicole’s
father. Aunt Sophie was determined to see her nephew reconciled to the Harcourt family, but her plans unravelled with the
untimely death of Nicole’s father.


His death left Nicole and her mother in difficult financial, straits, and almost completely isolated. They were alone in the
world, except for a sister on her mother’s side whose tie to them had never been strong. Nicole’s aunt, Lorette Beauchamp,
and her son, Phillippe, came to the funeral merely out of duty but offered little comfort to the lonely pair. In fact, Phillippe
had snickered as the priest intoned prayers for the dead. It was Madame Lafitte who was their one rock of support throughout
the trial of Rupert’s death and burial.


Reluctantly, Sophie had supplied a small pension for Rupert’s widow, Sylvie Harcourt, and requested that Nicole be allowed
to return to London with her and be raised in a manner suitable to a child of aristocratic lineage. But, unbeknownst to Nicole,
Sylvie had spitefully declined. She refused to let the Harcourts have any further opportunity to dominate her affairs, even
though it meant denying Nicole her place in English society. Sylvie could never forgive nor forget her frigid reception by
the Harcourt family. When Rupert presented Sylvie Moreau, former ballet dancer from the Opéra de Paris, as his wife to that
arrogant dynasty, they closed ranks in frozen hauteur. He had committed the unpardonable. Rupert, to his chagrin, found he
was unable to disguise the vulgar ambition of his lovely dancer-bride and force her down the unwilling throats of the English
ton. He eventually retreated from London to eke out a ramshackle existence in pursuit of faro and chemin-de-fer. In 1803, with
a temporary cessation of hostilities between England and France, Rupert took Sylvie and Nicole to the Continent where he continued
his unstable quest of Lady Luck.


Although Nicole’s father had cut himself off from the
family, he nevertheless communicated with Aunt Sophie. He refused all efforts on her part to mend the family breach. However,
when Sophie heard of Rupert’s abrupt departure from England, she followed him with the intention of forcing him to comply
with her wishes for peace, but it was too late. Rupert was fatally ill. Sophie attended the funeral accompanied by her great-nephew,
Valentin, whom she had brought with her.


A new idea to further her plans for reuniting the family struck Sophie as she studied Nicole standing next to Valentin, but
it would have to wait. Sophie returned to England with Valentin, and the resumption of hostilities between England and France
put an end to further contact between Nicole and the Harcourt family.


It was still early afternoon, and snow was falling heavily as Nicole Harcourt and Madame Lafitte arrived at an imposing residence
on the Boulevard St-Germain. The coach pulled into the courtyard before the Hotel Belmon-taine, relinquished its passengers,
and continued on its way. Madame Lafitte and Nicole stood in the courtyard, looking about in bewilderment and wondering what
was to happen next. However, Madame Lafitte was not one to lose time in matters of wonderment. She sprang into voluble action,
mounting the stairs and tugging Nicole along. She pounded the brass knocker forcefully and complained loudly at their lack
of reception.


“C’est barbare!” complained the outraged Lafitte. “That not one member of the family should be here to welcome you. This is insupportable.”
She chose her adjectives freely from both French and English.


“It’s insulting,” Nicole agreed with heat.

At that moment the heavy oak door swung open and a poker-faced butler ushered them into the library. Again the pair stood
looking about uneasily. This time they were
in the middle of a room hung with quantities of red damask draperies that shut out much of the thin November sunlight. A small
fire in the grate did little to relieve the heavy chill in the air, and the single branch of lighted candles was of little
assistance against the wintry shadows filling the room.


“I suppose we may as well make ourselves comfortable,” Nicole suggested and seated herself on the nearest straight-backed
chair. “Come madame,” she beckoned firmly. “Be seated here beside me.” They sat in contemplative silence for a few minutes.


“I had hoped for more of a welcome from your relations,” admitted Madame. Lafitte as the minutes passed. “It does not seem
they are overanxious to receive you.”


“Receive me indeed! They should be waiting here with open arms to welcome me. Do not forget, Fifi, were it not for me, they
would not have the prospect of great-aunt Sophie’s riches before them,” Nicole declaimed with much feeling of justice on her
side.


“But ma chère Nicole, the reverse is just as true of you. You stand to benefit no less than they. Come now, you must admit it,” chided
Madame Lafitte, who had calmed down once she was quietly seated and removed from the discomforts of a jostling coach.


Irritated, Nicole snapped, “Oh, Fifi, do not be so fair-minded. They do not deserve it. Look how they treat me already! Apparently
they do not care enough to make me feel welcome in a strange house. It is evident that their attitude has not changed over
the years. I am my mother’s daughter, after all, and they could never forget that she was a… a dancer. This sets the pattern,
do you not think so?”


“Patience, little one,” Madame Lafitte counseled.

Nicole jumped up to pace nervously about the room. With a sigh she removed her pelisse and shook out her
dark-blue dress. She untied her bonnet and began smoothing her hair into a semblance of order. She wore her dark tresses simply,
without benefit of the hairdresser’s arts.


“Stop fussing, Nicole,” Madame Lafitte broke through her thoughts. “You are quite presentable. Come, sit down.”

“I feel better on my feet,” Nicole replied.

At that moment Lady Eleanore, the Viscountess Ards-more, swathed in sables and exuding self-importance, sailed grandly into
the library trailed by her niece and companion, Cecily Fairfax. Nicole, noticing their elegant toilettes, felt at a disadvantage
in her simple merino.


Lady Eleanore advanced toward Nicole, her thin lips pursed as she tilted her silvery head to one side and stared down her
aquiline nose at the girl.


“My dear Nicole,” Lady Eleanore finally broke through the frosty silence. “How happy I am to meet you again.” She made no apology
for her tardy arrival.


Nicole stood still allowing her cousin to brush her cheek with a cold kiss. “I too am happy to meet again after so many years,
Cousin Eleanore.” Nicole spoke through stiff lips.


“Cecily, dear, come meet Nicole Harcourt.” Lady Eleanore addressed the young girl behind her.

Cecily examined the rather breathtaking picture Nicole presented and murmured her greeting. She viewed the silky luster of
Nicole’s blue-black hair and the smooth ìvory of her complexion with a sudden flash of despair. This was an undeniable beauty.
One look at Nicole’s violet eyes and Valentin was surely lost to Cecily forever. Valentin was soon to take this gorgeous creature
to wife. There would be no room for Cecily in such a union. Her hatred of Nicole sprang forth on the moment.


The Viscountess, viewing Nicole’s beauty with the dispassionate
eyes of the future mdther-in-law, found her displeasure less in Nicole’s appearance than in her credentials. The daughter
of a dancer! Well, what cannot be changed must be endured. The girl certainly had a presence about her, and her exquisite
figure in the proper clothes would command admiration. Nicole and Valentin would make a striking couple, no doubt of it. The
Har-courts would carry off the affair with their usual panache.

This wedding, forced on her by Sophie’s eccentricity, must be accomplished with all due haste. Valentin’s expectations had
held off creditors of every description far beyond their limits. The family coffers were bare and the situation was desperate,
but there was no need for Nicole to be apprised of this. Such knowledge was sure to strengthen the girl’s position. Only look
how bold she appeared, standing silently before them, waiting for her to carry on the business of this meeting.


“Well, shall we put aside further display of amenities and get on with the business at hand?’ Lady Eleanore suggested haughtily.

“As you wish, Lady Eleanore,” Nicole answered quietly.

“We have ourselves just arrived from London and taken residence here at the Hotel Belmontaine. This house should afford us
a suitable background for the wedding and all affairs attendant upon that event, don’t you think?” The Viscountess did not
wait for an answer. “I believe it will be to everyone’s advantage to accomplish this wedding as speedily as possible. As a matter of fact, arrangements for a civil ceremony at the British Embassy have been scheduled
for six weeks hence. That will give us enough time for fittings and completing your trousseau, as well as a few quiet introductions
into society.”


Nicole was surprised at the speed with which everything
was being arranged. “But my dear cousin,” Nicole interrupted her. “You go along too fast for me. I must inform you that I
have not entirely made up my mind to this marriage.”


The Viscountess stared unbelievingly. “What is that you say? Not made up your mind? Surely you are jesting,” she exclaimed sharply. “You are here. You know the conditions of the will. What
else is there?”


“There is another party necessary to fulfill the conditions of that will, I believe,” Nicole answered firmly.

“But the Viscount has consented. He is perfectly amenable to great-aunt Sophie’s… demands.”


“Perhaps I would like some evidence of a more tangible nature. I have yet to set eyes upon my prospective bridegroom in person.
Eleven years is a long time.”


“But my dear girl, this is a marriage of convenience. Surely you do not expect the Viscount to go through the hypocrisy of a courtship?”


Her words stung Nicole cruelly. “Perhaps not a courtship, but at least he could give some time to our becoming acquainted.”

Lady Eleanore turned her bewildered eyes to Cecily who shrugged her shoulders eloquently.

Nicole was enjoying her cousin’s discomfort and sudden loss of grand manner. It assuaged a little that cold arrival earlier.

During the lull that followed, Cecily Fairfax could hardly sit still. Could there be some hope for her after all? Would this
half-French nobody relinquish her claim to Valentin? She could barely breathe, so great was her agitation.


“My son is a member of the Duke of Wellington’s staff engaged in delicate matters of state for His Majesty in Vienna. As such
he is not at liberty to come and go to
satisfy the whims of a romantic girl.” The Viscountess picked up the attack again with alacrity


“There is nothing romantic about my desire to reacquaint myself with Viscount Ardsmore, I assure you,” Nicole lied nervously.
“There are matters he and I should settle between us before marriage plans proceed further.”


“What matters, may I ask?” Lady Eleanore demanded arrogantly.

Nicole faltered for a moment. What matters, indeed? She would die before admitting to her cousin the fears she felt about
Valentin. Her fear that the idol of her dreams would find her wanting. That he would not love her with the same desperate
devotion as hers—a devotion born of years of romantic fantasies in which Valentin pursued her, wooed her, rescued her, ravished
her, protected her and loved her again and again. It could not be just a marriage of convenience!


“I would prefer to see the Viscount before we proceed further,” Nicole replied with quiet determination.

Lady Eleanore recognized Nicole’s intransigence. “Very well. I will post a letter to my son in Vienna this very night. I had
hoped to spare him any unnecessary inconvenience, but I see you are determined to present obstacles. Nevertheless, I must insist that you remain with us at Belmontaine so that the preliminary fittings
can be made. Even you must realize that a trousseau is not assembled overnight.” Anger prodded the Viscountess to speak with
unconcealed disdain.


Nicole bit back an angry rejoinder as Madame Lafitte grasped her elbow. Now that the gauntlet was flung between them, Nicole,
repressed a tremor of fear. Perhaps she had gone too far. After all, her cousin was only engineering the accomplishment of
Nicole’s dearest, deepest desire. What was she doing to be throwing obstacles in the
way? She would marry Valentin tomorrow, were he to ask her. And even if he did not come to ask her, she would still marry
him.


Lady Eleanore rang for the housekeeper. “Madame Dupré, please show my, guests to their rooms.” She turned to Nicole. “If you
will follow Madame Dupré, she will see that your needs are cared for. You will find your boxes already unpacked. And now if
you will excuse me, I will go write that letter.” She swept from the room just as grandly as she had entered minutes ago with
Cecily trailing in her wake.


Once they reached Nicole’s bedroom, Madame Lafitte began to lecture her charge. Although the lady had voiced considerable
criticism of the marriage and the bridegroom, she never doubted for a moment that. Nicole would or should marry Viscount Ardsmore.
She had accepted it as a foregone conclusion. The marriage represented a heaven-sent opportunity for Nicole’s financial security.
Madame Lafitte was conscience-stricken, that she might have contributed through foolish babble to Nicole’s possible rejection
of this good fortune. But the girl proudly refused to listen to her.



A pale sunlight filtered into the breakfast room at the back of the house. There was a sideboard amply provided with eggs,
ham and kidneys, but Nicole preferred the French custom of coffee and croissants for breakfast. Were it not for the cold winter
light, the room surrounded by windows on three sides would be a cheerful retreat, providing, as it did, a charming view of
the terrace and gardens to the rear of the house.


The bed chamber in which Nicole had just spent the night was a far cry from the homely little room of her girlhood in Beauvais.
It was of immense proportions and luxurious appointments with blue satin paneling on the walls and matching velvet draperies
at the tall windows. She had just bathed in comfortable warmth before a substantial fireplace and yet her temper was not that
of one
well pleased with her changed circumstances. Yesterday’s interview with her cousin still rankled, and Nicole was not in a
mood for appreciating her sudden change in fortune.


As soon as Madame Lafitte entered the breakfast room, she resumed her attack on Nicole. She had to convince the girl to accommodate
the Harcourts.


“Ma chère Nicole, let me speak to you as your own dear mama would…”


“That is hardly the right tactic to employ, madame, since it is my own dear mama who suffered most at the hands of the cruel
Harcourt family.”


C’est vrai, but…”


“But nothing, Fifi. My father was forced to leave London because my mother was scorned for being a ballet dancer. Do you think
I can forget that? At last fate has dealt a few trump cards to this side of the family, and I shall play them well. Let them
squirm a little. Revenge can be sweet.”


“You sound bitter, Nicole.”

“Why shouldn’t I sound bitter?”

“You must forget the past, child, and think of the future. It could be rosy. Regard your changed circumstances, and furthermore,
the young man who came to your papa’s funeral was very handsome, n’est-ce pas?”

“Valentin is another matter,” Nicole admitted. She could still see him standing tall and aloof at the graveside, a fugitive
ray of sunlight glinting against the burnished gold of his hair. He had seemed a vision materialized briefly from a girlhood
dream of the ideal knight, all strength and beauty and valor. Yet now he was to be hers for a mere nod of assent. It was Lady
Eleanore, his mother, who stood in the way. That woman roused all Nicole’s latent bitterness for those years when she and
her mother were outcast Harcourts, denied recognition be
cause they were beneath family consideration. That the Harcourts might have some justice on their side, considering her mother’s
low birth and questionable career, only lent fuel to the fire of Nicole’s wrath.


A young serving girl interrupted Nicole’s ruminations. “Excuse me, mademoiselle, but the Viscountess awaits you in the drawing room.”


“Thank you, Lily. Tell my cousin I shall be with her directly.” As the door closed behind the maid, Nicole turned to Madame.
Lafitte, a sly smi. . .