These Old Shades (Alastair-Audley Tetralogy 1)

She twisted her handkerchief.

‘Am I – will you – still let me be your ward?’

He was silent for a moment.

‘My dear, you have a mother now, and an uncle, who will care for you.’

‘Yes?’ she said.

His Grace’s profile was stern.

‘They will be very good to you, ma fille,’ he said evenly. ‘Having them – you cannot still be my ward.’

‘N-need I have them?’ she asked, a pathetic catch in her voice.

His Grace did not smile.

‘I am afraid so, infant. They want you, you see.’

‘Do they?’ She rose also, and the sparkle was gone from her eyes. ‘They do not know me, Monseigneur.’

‘They are your family, child.’

‘I do not want them.’

At that he turned, and came to her, and took her hands.

‘My dear,’ he said, ‘it will be best for you to go to them, believe me. One day I think you will meet a younger man than I who will make you happy.’

Two great tears welled up. Léonie’s eyes looked piteously into the Duke’s.

‘Monseigneur – please – do not talk to me of marriage!’ she whispered.

‘Child –’ His clasp on her hands tightened. ‘I want you to forget me. I am no proper man for you. You will be wiser not to think of me.’

‘Monseigneur, I never thought that you would marry me,’ she said simply. ‘But if – you wanted me – I thought perhaps you would – take me – until I wearied you.’

There was a moment’s silence. Then his grace spoke, so harshly that Léonie was startled.

‘You are not to talk in that fashion, Léonie. You understand me?’

‘I – I am sorry!’ she faltered. ‘I – I did not mean to make you angry, Monseigneur.’

‘I am not angry,’ he answered. ‘Even were it possible, Léonie, I would not take you as my mistress. That is not how I think of you.’

‘You do not love me?’ she said, like a child.

‘Too – well to marry you,’ he said, and released her hands. ‘It is not possible.’

She stayed quite still, looking down at the marks of his fingers about her wrists with a little wise smile.

‘You will take me to this mother and uncle whom I do not know?’

‘Yes,’ he said curtly.

‘Monseigneur, I would rather stay here,’ she said. ‘Since you do not want me I will not go back. C’est fini, tout cela.’ A sob rose in her throat. ‘You bought me, Monseigneur, and I am yours till I die. I told you – once – that it was so. You do not remember?’

‘I remember every word you have spoken to me.’