Tempting the Prince
Chapter 1
London, 1821
He smelled her fear.
Shrouded in darkness and swirling fog, he watched her glancing over her shoulder when she reached the sickly yellow glow from the gaslight. She knew he was there. Somewhere. Lurking. He loved the hunt, especially when his quarry knew he was watching and waiting.
Rejecting him had sealed her fate. An insulting laugh and a toss of her mahogany curls had answered his proposition.
When she rounded the corner, he cut through the next alley to get ahead of her and leaned against the stone wall. Footsteps approached, heightening his anticipation.
She was almost here.
She would be his.
She would regret refusing him, if only for a moment.
Leaping out as she passed, he grabbed her from behind and slashed the blade across her throat. He pushed her to the ground and stood over her. The gurgling sounds of her struggle to breathe lessened, each beat of her heart pumping the life out of her.
Using his bloodied blade, he hacked a long length of her hair. Then he pressed a gold sovereign into the palm of her hand and closed her fingers around the coin.
“Thank you for an enjoyable evening, my dear.”
The unmistakable aroma of horse droppings floated into the garden on a gentle breeze.
Belle Flambeau stood in her blossoming domain and sniffed the air, a smile touching her lips. The odor of horse dung from Soho Square shouted springtime.
Wisteria trees bloomed purple against the red brick house, while yellow tulips conspired with purple crocus to startle the eye with vibrant color. A fragrant lily of the valley ground cover reclined in front of the silver birch tree guarded by lilac, gardenia, rose, and pussy willow shrubs. Forsythia nodded in the breeze at their old friend, the purple pansy that lived in the shade beneath the oak tree.
The garden goddess promises minor miracles.
The clever business slogan pleased Belle. Her success in reviving plants had spread to the great mansions the previous season. Already, gardeners for those wealthy aristocrats had requested her services.
Belle narrowed her violet gaze on the pansy and walked toward the oak tree. The pansy’s failure to thrive troubled her. Each day she snatched the pansy from death’s grip but found it wilted again the next morning.
“Sister.”
Belle glanced over her shoulder and saw one of her sisters walking across the grass. Bliss looked disgruntled.
“Why does Fancy insist on keeping the duke’s identity a secret?” Bliss demanded, her voice shrill with anger.
“To which duke do you refer?”
“Our father, of course.” Bliss rolled her eyes. “Investing would be easier if I knew which companies he owns.” Her sister waved in the direction of the house. “The duke has always supported us in style. Why does our company need to pauperize him? If he retaliates, the Seven Doves will fail, and we will live in the poor house.”
Belle placed her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Calm yourself.”
Bliss took several deep breaths and then asked, “Is your touch making me feel better?”
Belle gave her an ambiguous smile. “Fancy will never forgive Father because, as the eldest, she remembers the relationship they shared.”
“You’re only a year younger,” Bliss said. “Don’t you have memories?”
“When I think of Father,” Belle answered, “I see a tall, dark-haired gentleman holding Fancy on his lap.”
“Did he never hold you?”
“At first I was too young to share his lap with Fancy.” Belle shrugged, feigned nonchalance masking her remembered hurt. “When you and Blaze arrived, I suppose I was too old. The man could only hold one baby in each arm.”
“Being born between the oldest and a set of twins is not the most auspicious position,” Bliss said. “Being ignored could not have been pleasant.”
“I enjoyed Nanny Smudge’s attention.” Belle lifted a rectangular gold case from the basket looped over her forearm. “Search for the duke with the initials MC and a boar’s head crest.”
Bliss shook her head. “Admitting ignorance of one’s father’s identity is humiliating. Does your illegitimacy bother Baron Wingate?”
Belle paused before answering, squelching the rush of irritation. None of her sisters could resist the opportunity to insult her future husband. “Charles understands that we cannot control our origins.”
“I worry the baron will hurt you.”
“I appreciate your concern.” Belle watched Bliss disappear into the house and turned to the ailing pansy. All thoughts of healing the flower vanished with her sister’s concern.
I refuse to become love’s victim, Belle told herself. Like Mother.
Gabrielle Flambeau, the daughter of a French aristocrat, had escaped the Terror when the citizens slaughtered her family. A penniless countess, her mother had won a position in the opera and caught the eye of a married duke. Together, her mother and her anonymous father had produced seven daughters.
London, 1821
He smelled her fear.
Shrouded in darkness and swirling fog, he watched her glancing over her shoulder when she reached the sickly yellow glow from the gaslight. She knew he was there. Somewhere. Lurking. He loved the hunt, especially when his quarry knew he was watching and waiting.
Rejecting him had sealed her fate. An insulting laugh and a toss of her mahogany curls had answered his proposition.
When she rounded the corner, he cut through the next alley to get ahead of her and leaned against the stone wall. Footsteps approached, heightening his anticipation.
She was almost here.
She would be his.
She would regret refusing him, if only for a moment.
Leaping out as she passed, he grabbed her from behind and slashed the blade across her throat. He pushed her to the ground and stood over her. The gurgling sounds of her struggle to breathe lessened, each beat of her heart pumping the life out of her.
Using his bloodied blade, he hacked a long length of her hair. Then he pressed a gold sovereign into the palm of her hand and closed her fingers around the coin.
“Thank you for an enjoyable evening, my dear.”
The unmistakable aroma of horse droppings floated into the garden on a gentle breeze.
Belle Flambeau stood in her blossoming domain and sniffed the air, a smile touching her lips. The odor of horse dung from Soho Square shouted springtime.
Wisteria trees bloomed purple against the red brick house, while yellow tulips conspired with purple crocus to startle the eye with vibrant color. A fragrant lily of the valley ground cover reclined in front of the silver birch tree guarded by lilac, gardenia, rose, and pussy willow shrubs. Forsythia nodded in the breeze at their old friend, the purple pansy that lived in the shade beneath the oak tree.
The garden goddess promises minor miracles.
The clever business slogan pleased Belle. Her success in reviving plants had spread to the great mansions the previous season. Already, gardeners for those wealthy aristocrats had requested her services.
Belle narrowed her violet gaze on the pansy and walked toward the oak tree. The pansy’s failure to thrive troubled her. Each day she snatched the pansy from death’s grip but found it wilted again the next morning.
“Sister.”
Belle glanced over her shoulder and saw one of her sisters walking across the grass. Bliss looked disgruntled.
“Why does Fancy insist on keeping the duke’s identity a secret?” Bliss demanded, her voice shrill with anger.
“To which duke do you refer?”
“Our father, of course.” Bliss rolled her eyes. “Investing would be easier if I knew which companies he owns.” Her sister waved in the direction of the house. “The duke has always supported us in style. Why does our company need to pauperize him? If he retaliates, the Seven Doves will fail, and we will live in the poor house.”
Belle placed her hand on her sister’s shoulder. “Calm yourself.”
Bliss took several deep breaths and then asked, “Is your touch making me feel better?”
Belle gave her an ambiguous smile. “Fancy will never forgive Father because, as the eldest, she remembers the relationship they shared.”
“You’re only a year younger,” Bliss said. “Don’t you have memories?”
“When I think of Father,” Belle answered, “I see a tall, dark-haired gentleman holding Fancy on his lap.”
“Did he never hold you?”
“At first I was too young to share his lap with Fancy.” Belle shrugged, feigned nonchalance masking her remembered hurt. “When you and Blaze arrived, I suppose I was too old. The man could only hold one baby in each arm.”
“Being born between the oldest and a set of twins is not the most auspicious position,” Bliss said. “Being ignored could not have been pleasant.”
“I enjoyed Nanny Smudge’s attention.” Belle lifted a rectangular gold case from the basket looped over her forearm. “Search for the duke with the initials MC and a boar’s head crest.”
Bliss shook her head. “Admitting ignorance of one’s father’s identity is humiliating. Does your illegitimacy bother Baron Wingate?”
Belle paused before answering, squelching the rush of irritation. None of her sisters could resist the opportunity to insult her future husband. “Charles understands that we cannot control our origins.”
“I worry the baron will hurt you.”
“I appreciate your concern.” Belle watched Bliss disappear into the house and turned to the ailing pansy. All thoughts of healing the flower vanished with her sister’s concern.
I refuse to become love’s victim, Belle told herself. Like Mother.
Gabrielle Flambeau, the daughter of a French aristocrat, had escaped the Terror when the citizens slaughtered her family. A penniless countess, her mother had won a position in the opera and caught the eye of a married duke. Together, her mother and her anonymous father had produced seven daughters.