When Angels Fall

by Meagan McKinney

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Victorian Romance

Synopsis

It was five years since Elizabeth Alcester had laid eyes on her former stable boy, Ivan Tramore . . . five years since her world had collapsed in devastating ruin around her. Now, penniless and desperate, she finds herself at the mercy of a cruel, ruthless stranger--a man who vows to possess her, whose hot searing caresses fan the flames of her darkest desires. Tramore had returned home in triumph--the unwanted bastard was now Lord Iva, eleventh Marquis of Powerscourt--the most powerful man in London. Yet one woman had sworn to defy him . . . the proud beauty whose touch had branded him forever. But when at last he holds Lissa trembling in his merciless embrace, his lust for vengeance suddenly explodes in a frenzied fever of passion, and now no power on heaven or earth can tear him from the innocent arms that hold him captive, or protect her from the rapturous moment when angels fall.

Release date: April 15, 2001

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 349

Sample

 



 

 

“I’D LIKE A WALTZ, LISSA,” IVAN SAID WITH A WICKED SMILE.

 

“It’ll be a cold day in—” Before she could even finish her oath, he had taken her by the waist and in moments they were dancing among his guests.

“You are an arrogant, self-serving, licentious, dissolute . . . rakehell!” she whispered furiously.

“Try bastard, sweet. That word always works well.”

“Only because you work so hard at being one,” she hissed.

“Believe me, it takes no effort at all.” His hand tightened at her waist possessively and he swept her toward the balcony. When she tried to pull away he caught her. “Don’t fight me any more,” he whispered.

She shook her head. “Ivan, we’ll destroy each other.”

“So let’s destroy each other,” he answered huskily before claiming her mouth in a soul-searching kiss.

 

“McKinney’s third novel is her best yet.

Her exuberant sense of wit and style make

WHEN ANGELS FALL the perfect Valentine.”

—The Times-Picayune

 

A Selection of the Doubleday Book Club

 

 

Also by Meagan McKinney

 

MY WICKED ENCHANTRESS

Romance Writers of America Golden Medallion Finalist

 

NO CHOICE BUT SURRENDER

Winner of the 1987 Romantic Times award for Best Historical Romance by a New Writer

 

 

 

To Vivian Vincenta Koebel
and Anita DiBernardo Kirk,
those dear ladies who look out for my father.
Thank you!

 

 

 

During the Regency period, Parliament standardized titles of the peerage, thus changing the title of marquis to marquess. Those families, however, who had possessed the title of marquis for centuries still retained personal use of that title, and do so to this day, such as the Marquis of Queensbury and the Marquis of Winchester.

 

 

 

OCTOBER 1855

 

 

Revenge

is a dish

best served

cold . . .

 



The gentleman’s house on Piccadilly was elegant, expensive, and aristocratic. But far from awestruck, Holland Jones merely stood before the baroque wrought-iron gates of No. 181, shaking his head.

It was the perfect dwelling for the eleventh Marquis of Powerscourt. The Sir John Soane red brick Georgian had become renowned for its gatherings of wits and beauties, poets and antiquarians. For three years the marquis had lived there, had thrived there, so it would seem. And for three years the marquis had been happy—that is, Holland thought, if happiness could ever be described as passing over the implacable features of Ivan Comeragh Tramore, the eleventh marquis.

Through the bars, Holland took one last look at the house. His position as Powerscourt estate manager had been his birthright, but Holland still found himself dreading any kind of meeting with his relatively new yet already notorious master. The marquis was always civil with those in his employ, but Holland, for his own personal comfort, preferred to avoid the icy pauses and black, brooding stares that the marquis was known for. Holland particularly wanted to avoid them this day because for the first time since he’d been with the new marquis, he had bad news. Resigned to his duties, however, Holland Jones had no other choice but to enter No. 181 and inform the marquis of the current situation of his estates.

The marquis was expecting him. As the majordomo held the door for him, Holland heard bells ringing belowstairs—for brandy, no doubt. Looking up, he saw an abovestairs maid lighting the gasoliers for the evening.

“I suppose he’s in the library?” Holland faced the majordomo and wearily rubbed his eyes beneath his spectacles.

“Hrrrrumph . . . Ah, yessir,” the majordomo answered, clearing his throat and lifting his chin in one practiced motion.

“Then don’t bother to show me the way, my good man.” Holland looked toward the mahogany library door. “I shall face the beast alone,” he added under his breath as he stepped across the black marble floor. Pausing, he ran a finger along his starched collar, shrugged his shoulders, and entered the marquis’s bastion.

The light and the bustle in the hall had no impact on the library whatsoever. Rows upon rows of leatherbound tomes covered the entire four walls, including the back of the door through which Holland had entered. Heavy red velvet draperies were closed against the drafts from the windows. The only light came from a small, lusty fire in the hearth. The flames lit up the huge gold tassels on the pelmets and, also, the unsmiling face of the marquis.

Unwittingly, Holland was once more struck by the incongruity of the marquis to his surroundings. Ivan Tramore was the sort of man one would have expected to find jousting at a medieval tourney, not sitting in a room full of books. He was better suited to armor, and German armor at that, Holland thought unkindly, recalling the particularly evil-looking armor he had once seen at the Queen’s Exhibit. Yes, black steel would have befitted Ivan Tramore far better than the dark trousers and civilized silk paisley waistcoat he was wearing. Holland knew he himself was more suited to a gentleman’s lifestyle than the grand marquis. This thought brought him little comfort, however.

“Very good to see you, my lord.” Holland waited for a nod before he went to the club chair next to the marquis’s. At the hearth, two huge brindled mastiffs raised their heads from the carpet to stare at the visitor. Noting their unwelcoming stance, Holland took special care easing himself into the chair.

Typically the marquis dispensed with any greetings and proceeded directly to the business at hand. “You’ve been there, then?”

“Yes,” Holland answered, a wariness to his eye.

“And?” The marquis shot him a glance.

“And . . .” Holland straightened, forcing himself to meet his master’s fury head on. “And as expected the castle is in ruinous condition. Being the Powerscourt estates manager, I heartily advise you against removing yourself there.”

Holland peered at the marquis through his smudged spectacles. The marquis did look as if he was taking the news rather well. Ivan Tramore was quiet for a long while, and, as Holland had seen him often do while deep in thought, he rubbed his right cheek. Some time in his past he had acquired a neat slash of a scar there, and, watching his hard, aquiline profile, Holland didn’t doubt the rumors of the widows and the debutantes who had thrown themselves at Tramore’s feet, so enamored were they of that particular scar. Such women had probably read too many penny gothics, he surmised, for he didn’t doubt, either, that the marquis’s fierce countenance had sent just as many women scurrying away.

“How much will it cost, do you think? To put the castle in order.” The marquis’s deep voice startled Holland out of his musings.

“Too much, my lord. A king’s ransom. As we speak, there are rats gnawing at the tapestries—”

“Have I that much? Have I a king’s ransom to restore the castle?”

“My lord, your fortune has at least tripled since you inherited. I think it was your investment in iron that really—”

“So I have enough,” the marquis stated impatiently.

“Aye, my lord.” Holland put his spectacles on his forehead and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache.

“Good.” The marquis stood and rested his arm on the mantle after motioning Holland to remain seated. “There’s another matter I want you to take care of for me.”

“And what is that, my lord?” Holland lifted his head and let his spectacles fall back onto his nose.

“Miss Alcester. I want her cut off. After next month’s allotment, she is to receive no more money.”

Holland could barely believe what he was hearing. “But, if I may, my lord, you just sent me to Nodding Knoll to check up on her.”

“I sent you to check up on Powerscourt.” The marquis’s statement was adamant.

“Yes, of course, my lord. But Nodding Knoll sits right at the foot of the castle. I assumed you wanted me to make the usual discreet inquiries into Miss Alcester’s welfare—”

“And in what condition did these inquiries find her?”

Holland looked at Tramore, but something in the fire had caught the marquis’s interest and his head was turned.

“Elizabeth Alcester is doing fine. Just fine, from what I could gather from the gossip.” Holland’s blue eyes narrowed. “If I may ask, my lord, why must you cut her off? Though I’ve never formally met the girl, nor her family, I must say it’s been quite noble of you to help her out. Especially since you’ve not seen her in five years—”

The marquis’s head snapped up. “It’s not your place to speculate upon my relationships.”

“No, my lord,” Holland placated, “I don’t speculate at all, particularly since I know Miss Alcester was barely a young woman when you last set eyes upon her.”

“That’s right.”

The statement was brittle, yet the undertone, for some reason, struck Holland as oddly poignant.

He began again, this time more slowly. “But if you will pardon me, my lord, I know the Alcesters have a rather disgraceful past; and it’s true that the neighbors gossip about Elizabeth Alcester like little foxes; but, still, for the three years that I’ve been doling out her money, Miss Alcester has spent it only on her family. Why, I’m positive the girl hasn’t bought a new gown in years.”

“All very well,” the marquis answered succinctly, “but I want you to write her a note and tell her that poor ‘Great-aunt Sophie’ has died in Paris and left all her guineas to the Museum of Practical Geology, or whatever you like. Tell her that after next month, her pension ends.”

“My lord, I’m sure you have good reasons for cutting off Miss Alcester. But there is her family to consider. Her brother is merely a lad. And have you forgotten that Miss Alcester’s sister is blind?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything about Elizabeth Victorine Alcester, nor her family. Of that, I can assure you.” The marquis’s dark eyes flashed. When he seemed to have calmed down a bit, he changed the subject. “When will the castle be ready?”

“There is a lot of work to do on it,” Holland said. “It may take months . . .”

“In the will, when did the tenth marquis say that I may live at Powerscourt?”

“Three years after his death, my lord . . . as you well know.” Holland crossed his arms. It was common knowledge that Ivan Tramore was a bastard. And it was. common knowledge that for the past twenty-some years of Tramore’s life he had made his way as a stableboy, and at a neighboring estate at that. Tramore had even been denied the dubious honor of being a servant in the shadow of Powerscourt. The previous marquis had treated his only offspring like a beggar to be thrown out of one’s path on market day. But still, in spite of this, Tramore had always cut too terrifying a figure to be pitied.

Holland still found it disconcerting that Tramore never referred to his father as anything but the tenth marquis. Not even now did he admit to his lineage, three years after he had inherited everything the marquis’s legitimate son could have been due. Possessing wealth and position, Tramore had then lacked only one thing: knowledge. And it was said that the first thing he had done when he had inherited was to read every book in his father’s library. It was as if he wanted to make sure there was nothing the tenth marquis knew that the eleventh marquis did not.

“It has been three years and then some, hasn’t it?” The marquis’s face tightened with some repressed emotion.

“Yes, my lord,” Holland answered uneasily.

“Jones,” Tramore baited, “remind me, will you, why was it stipulated that I wait three years?”

Holland met the marquis’s level gaze. If Ivan Tramore abused one aspect of his vast power, it was his ability to make people uncomfortable. There were times when Holland swore the man enjoyed that more than he would enjoy a woman. Now was just such a time.

“I find it hard to believe that such a thing would have slipped your mind, my lord.”

Tramore remained silent.

Seeing no way out, Holland began haltingly. “Your fath—excuse me, I mean the tenth marquis, stipulated three years, for he did not want you, I believe the words were, ‘to walk upon his grave until it was sure to be cold.’ ”

The marquis let out a black laugh. His dark, handsome face lit up with a passion that Holland was sure would never cross his own proper English schoolboy features. And for that, he didn’t know whether to be envious or relieved.

“I ask you, man, when you were up at Powerscourt, was the grave cold then?” Tramore’s eyes glittered darkly.

“Yes, my lord. Quite frigid, in fact, considering the weather they’ve been having up north.” Holland rose from his seat, hoping that this unpleasant visit had come to an end.

“Then I want the work done on Powerscourt right away. I plan to reside there in one month.” The marquis went to the door to hold it open for Holland’s exit.

“One month! My lord, I cannot be sure it can be done in that amount of time!”

“The tenth marquis is not getting any warmer in his grave, Jones.”

Holland prickled. “Yes, my lord.” Tramore was a bastard, he thought ungraciously as he stepped into the light of the hall. And not about to let anyone forget it.

“Jones.” The marquis stopped him before the major-domo opened the front doors. “Your family has been estate manager for the Powerscourts for how long?”

“Six generations, my lord.” For the second time that day Holland wondered if he should have pursued becoming a chemist like his brother.

“I see. Then you’re the only man qualified to do this for me, Jones. You’ll get the job done and when you do, there’ll be hearty compensation, I promise you.” Suddenly the marquis smiled and shook his hand. “See you at Powerscourt in one month’s time.”

“Yes, my lord.” Dumbfounded, Holland was ushered out the door. The tides had abruptly turned. Instead of threatening him, the marquis had done something even worse. He had placed his faith in him. Holland knew now he would have to give Powerscourt back its old glory in an absurd four weeks or dishonor himself.

Wondering how he would ever accomplish the task before him, he picked up his stride and walked grimly down Piccadilly heading for Pall Mall and the Carlton Club.

 

As Holland left, he was unaware of the eyes that watched him. In the library, the marquis had shoved aside one panel of velvet to peer through the window. His breath clung to the cold panes until Jones was hardly a shadow beneath the streetlamps. Only then did the marquis let the drapery fall back, closed once more.

As if agitated, Tramore ran his knuckles over the scar on his cheek. His hand dropped immediately, however, when a soft knock came upon the door.

“Who is it?” he asked brusquely.

“Mrs. Myers, my lord.” The frilly-capped head of a plump housekeeper appeared at the door with a tray.

“Take it all away, Mrs. Myers. He’s gone already and I’ve no need for refreshment.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. You see, the girls were all cleaning the lamps and there was no one to serve. That’s what took the brandy so long. I had to come myself instead of sending the parlormaid.” In contrition, the housekeeper shook her head so hard that if not for the fat ribbons beneath her cherubic chin, her cap would have flown off her head.

“It’s all right.” As if he were used to her performing contrary to his wishes, the marquis didn’t even look up when she entered the library. She moved past him with a tray of decanters and glasses. Underneath her evening black dress and starched white apron, her horsehair crinoline crackled with every step she took to the hearth. When she reached the pair of club chairs, she set the tray upon a mahogany drum table.

“There. I’ll be leaving the drink with you nonetheless. Just in case you’d like a spot.” She turned. “Anything else before I go?”

“Yes.” The marquis slowly met her gaze. “I’d like to dine in my rooms this evening. And I shall be having an evening companion, so I should like service for two.”

“Very good, sir.” But Mrs. Myers’s expression proclaimed that it was not very good at all.

“Indigestion?” the marquis inquired.

The housekeeper’s jaw dropped, then she abruptly remembered herself. “Nothing of the sort, my lord! I shall see to your service immediately!” She headed for the door.

“You don’t approve, do you?”

Hearing the unexpected question, Mrs. Myers whisked around to face him.

“What?”

“You don’t approve of my . . . lady friends, do you?” The marquis eased his large frame upon a nearby sofa done in the current Gothic taste.

“It’s certainly not my place to disapprove of anything you do, sir.”

“But come now, if it were your place, you would not approve, would you?” He crossed his arms over his chest with an air of nonchalance, yet his dark stare pinned the housekeeper to the floor.

“I believe in marriage, my lord.”

“I see.” The marquis thought on this for a while.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

“Would you be surprised to find that I share that same sentiment?”

“What sentiment, my lord?”

“That I believe in marriage too.”

“No, my lord. I would believe it.” Mrs. Myers lowered her head. “Your mother’s situation still pains you, if only you would admit it.”

Tramore stiffened at the housekeeper’s frankness. “That’s enough, Mrs. Myers. You go too far.”

Though she should have been chastened by the marquis’s reply, the housekeeper instead burst out with another unwanted opinion. “Perhaps you’re right, Lord Ivan, but I’ve known you all your life and I remember when your mother died. And I’ve seen how tough and silent a little boy becomes when he finds he has no other home but the streets.” When she was finished, she watched for the marquis’s reaction.

“I see,” Tramore uttered with difficulty.

The housekeeper finally looked chastised. “Forgive me, my lord,” she whispered. She then looked around the room to see if he needed anything. “Would you like the girl to bring more coal for the fire, or will that be all?”

“No, you may go.” He shot her one last disapproving look, then turned away.

“Thank you, sir.” Mrs. Myers made her way to the door, but before she exited, she paused and looked as if she wanted to speak.

“Is there something you’ve forgotten?” Tramore acknowledged her.

“Aye, my lord. ’Tis not been my place to say such things . . . but if I may, you’re not a bad man. That’s what I tell everyone. You’re not a bad man and I hope someday you’ll find a ladylove who can convince you of that.” Suddenly, as if she remembered what such an outburst could cost her, she brought herself upright and said, “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

“Don’t be absurd.” The marquis’s face was so tight from unexpressed emotion it looked as if it were hewn from marble.

“If I may be excused?”

“Of course.”

The silence in the room was leaden and Mrs. Myers’s brow cleared considerably when she was finally able to close the door behind her.

But in the library, the marquis’s brow furrowed more deeply. Something was on his mind. He ran his knuckles down his scar, but only twice. Then he stood and strode out the door himself.

He went up the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. He passed the second floor where the chambermaids were already setting his apartments to rights for the evening. He passed the third floor where most of the house servants had their rooms. Yet he didn’t stop until he was in the enormous fourth-floor attic. He discreetly pulled the attic door closed behind him.

Tramore looked around, his only light from a candle he had picked up from the servants’ landing. It didn’t take him long to find the path he sought. Through a maze created of tattered French chairs, rotting Elizabethan chests, and fractured gilt mirrors—an entire history of the old owner—he followed his own previous footprints in the dust to reach the article he wanted. It was a huge canvas; the top rail of its frame easily met with Tramore’s chin. A great linen lay over it, and when he snatched it off, a cloud of dust sent the candlelight shimmering over the portrait of an exquisitely beautiful woman.

She was young, but not so young as to be unaware of her effect upon people, particularly those of the opposite sex. Her eyes were eloquently expressive. They were crystalline blue and heavily lashed, but it was not coyness they held, never that, for her expression was much too artless. Rather it seemed as if they held a promise, or a secret that even she had yet to discover fully, much less practice upon the world around her. But someday when she did understand this secret she would bring men to their knees.

But not the eleventh marquis.

He stood before her, his features taut in the sputtering candlelight. The inscrutable expression on his face was as close to hate as it was to love, as close to joy as it was to pain.

Slowly he reached out his forefinger and began tracing the girl’s firm, sweetly curved jawline. His finger moved higher to her nose, which was slightly haughty yet also gamine. His thumb brushed her flaxen-haired temple and he traced one silvery blond curl to the level of her lips, where his forefinger once more took up its quest. His last touch was upon the rose-petal curve of her lower lip, and as if this were almost too much for him, he closed his eyes.

“Lissa,” he uttered in a tight voice. His eyes flew open but he was held captive, marveling at the girl’s femininity. For she was as vulnerable in it as she was made powerful by it.

He bent down and wiped the dust off the brass plaque on the frame’s bottom rail. The fair-haired girl’s name was engraved upon it in heavy ornate script. It said: Miss Elizabeth Victorine Alcester of Nodding Knoll 1850.

He straightened and gave the portrait one last glittering stare. Then, as if he were fully aware of his own madness, Tramore tipped back his dark head and laughed. He ended this strange self-indulgence by violently whipping the linen covering back over the portrait. He left the attic without a backward glance.

Some time later that evening the gold-painted calèche from Fanny Kimbel’s pulled up in front of the marquis’s door. A fine mist had begun to fall just after eight o’clock, but as Fanny always saw to it, her girls were well shielded from the weather. When this particular beauty emerged from the leather-upholstered, satin-hung interior, all she had to do was pull her fox mantle a little bit closer to keep warm. The trip to the door was only a few steps, and soon she was inside the well-lit hall, being attended to by the marquis’s majordomo.

Upstairs the marquis was waiting in his apartments. Attired for the evening in a black cutaway and trousers, Tramore looked the quintessential peer, rich and disciplined. A deep-blue silk cravat tied around his wing collar broke some of the severity of his dress, as did a matching blue foulard waistcoat that showed along the edges of his coat.

He waited in the anteroom, nursing a small brandy and lounging in an old-fashioned wing chair. When he heard the footfall of visitors, his head turned to the door.

Mrs. Kimbel’s most expensive girl entered Tramore’s apartments with a sweep of crinoline and perfume. Roseanne was a gorgeous creature, from her perfectly set glossy brown ringlets to her costly white satin slippers. Her powder-blue watered silk gown made her a vision of elegance. Its bodice was alluring yet tasteful, the waist tiny yet not artificial.

“My name is Roseanne, my lord. Mrs. Kimbel said you had need of companionship.” Roseanne tilted her head to the marquis. Tramore’s mouth lifted in an arrogant half-grin and he stood to greet her. With one look from him, Biddles, the majordomo, immediately closed the door and left them in private.

“I hope the weather didn’t make your journey too tedious.” Tramore put down his drink.

“Nothing could be tedious this evening, my lord.” Roseanne’s gray eyes narrowed. She was obviously pleased with Tramore’s dark good looks, and even more so with his lean, broad-shouldered figure.

The marquis also stared assessingly at her. But his eyes were more dispassionate; the gleam of lust lent them their only sparkle. “Fanny has excellent taste,” he finally commented.

“Mrs. Kimbel was determined to send a girl who would please you.” Roseanne walked up to him and put a finger to his finely hewn lips. “And I shall.”

Tramore looked away, desire and, yet, disinterest etched on his Adonis-like face.

Unhappy with his sudden aloofness, Roseanne then kissed him. She stood on her tiptoes, placed her soft hands on either side of his rigid face, and pulled him down to her lips. Though Tramore was just barely cooperating, it was still a most intimate kiss. Afterward, at least Roseanne looked quite hungry for more. The marquis only stared at her, his eyes heavy-lidded yet watchful.

She whispered, “There’s no need for you to be so distant, my lord. Not on a rainy night such as this. I promise you, it will be far better to let me keep you warm than to go to your cold bed alone.”

He looked down. Roseanne was already unbuttoning his waistcoat. Her hands then worked beneath his cravat to unfasten his shirt. A warm palm slid beneath the linen and massaged his hard, hair-covered chest.

“You’re a greedy little one, aren’t you?” he stated flatly. Tramore placed his hand over hers and made her stop. He did not, however, remove it.

“As you should be, love.” She licked her soft, full lips. “Fanny said she hasn’t sent over a girl in months, my lord. Months . . .” She whispered hotly, “Has it truly been that long? My God, what a raging bull you will be . . .”

She watched him. Tramore just looked on, as if he were actually trying to divorce himself from her charms. The heat in his eyes was the only thing that told her he was not altogether successful.

She began whispering again.

“Do you know that I begged Fanny to be the one to come tonight? Rachel who was here three months ago has never forgotten her night with you, my lord. She still murmurs that it was exquisite.” She repeated breathlessly, “Exquisite.”

Tramore’s gaze left hers and wandered down to her bosom where several mahogany curls rested in teasing disarray. He picked up one curl and rubbed it between his strong fingers.

Watching, Roseanne smiled slyly. Her cold lover was beginning to thaw.

“My lord, I dressed my hair just for you. Does it please you?”

Tramore smiled cynically.

“It’s scented, my lord. I rinse my hair in rosewater. Here, put it to your nose.” She guided the hand that held the curl to his nose. After a moment she sighed. “Does that not please you?”

“It does.” He dropped the curl.

“So you like my hair?” Roseanne would have continued, but she found the marquis beginning to unhook the back of her dress. When she looked up again, he caught her mouth in a fierce, impatient kiss. Though her attire was quite complicated, it did come off, piece by tortuous piece. And she gasped with pleasure every time Tramore’s hands came closer and closer to her skin.

Soon they were both naked on the marquis’s splendid full-tester bed. A crackling fire in the hearth kept them warm, but still Roseanne shivered, for she felt a delicious chill run down her spine as her hands roamed the marquis’s hard, muscular body. In a moment of playfulness, she pinched one of Tramore’s flat nipples. She wanted to see him smile, and when one corner of his mouth turned up in a grin, she was so ecstatic that her hand involuntarily went to touch his cheek, the one that was scarred.

He caught her hand in midair. His grip was iron-hard.

“What is it, my lord?” she whispered fearfully, seeing the light die out of his black eyes.

“Don’t.”

“If I cannot touch you there, then where?”

“Here,” he groaned, guiding her hand downward.

“I see,” she said softly, wrapping her hand around him. She presented him with a coy, mysterious smile for she knew flirtation was her art, but she was bewildered by his reaction. Even though they were entwined in a most intimate embrace, the marquis now seemed impossibly distant and utterly unreachable. With only one intent apparent on his features, he kissed her. Though his tongue stole the breath from her soul, Roseanne suddenly had the awful feeling that the notorious Lord Powerscourt was wretchedly disappointed that it was she beneath his hands and not some other woman.

 

 

 

 

We should doubt whether the woman who is indifferent to her own appearance be a woman at all. At all events, she must either be a hardened character, or an immense heiress, or a first-rate beauty—or think herself one.

 

HONORÉ DE BALZAC

The Quarterly Review, March 1847

 

 



If she had to wear the puce-colored spencer one more time, she would weep. Lissa Alcester turned her azure eyes toward the odious jacket-bodice that was now laid out on her bed. She reached for it, but then pulled her hand back as if she actually dreaded putting the garment on.

Once it had been extraordinarily fine. Fashioned out of a costly French bombazine, the jacket’s workmanship had been exquisite. But it had been given to her in the days when words like “costly” and “exquisite” had no real meaning to her. When luxury had so dominated her life, she had hardly noticed it, never imagining she would one day be wi