The Marquis and I (The Worthingtons #4)(36)

A small smile wobbled on her lips. “I know how hungry you always are.”

“Thank you.” Food was the last thing he wanted right now, and he did not dare resort to the brandy. “I’ll have a cup of tea.”

Once she’d handed the tea to him and poured a cup for herself, she folded her hands in her lap. He supposed this was to create a feeling of calm, but her fingers had tightened to the point where her knuckles turned white.

“What is it you wish to ask me?”

“Aimée, why did you choose this life?”

For a moment she stared at him, a polite smile frozen on her lips. Then her top lip curled into a sneer. “I did not choose this life.” Her voice was low, and brittle, and pain echoed through her words. “It was chosen for me.”

Con’s first reaction was to reach out to her, hold her hands or take her into his arms. Yet he wasn’t sure she would accept his comfort or that he had the right to offer it.

His second response was chagrin. Charlotte had been right and he, in his arrogance, had been absolutely wrong. “I would like to hear your story, if you will tell me.”

Blinking rapidly, Aimée poured a glass of the claret he provided for her cellars and took a long swallow. “I do not think you truly wish to know. This is merely some fancy you have developed.”

Then he did reach out, covering her hands with his. “Please. I need to understand.”

Shaking his hands off as if they were dirt, she brushed at a tear. “I come from a good family. My father was a wealthy wine merchant, and my mother was the daughter of a baron.” She pronounced the rank in the French manner. “They were very much in love, but they would not have been allowed to wed if it had not been for la Terreur. My grandfather did not cover his head. You would say ignore the facts. The noble he had wished my maman to marry had been murdered, and he thought she would be safer with my papa.” Taking out a lace-edged handkerchief, she dabbed her eyes. “For many years we were happy. Then my parents died from la grippe. I was fourteen, dévastée. A man my father knew, a colonel, offered to take me to my aunt and uncle in Lyon.” She took a larger drink of wine, almost emptying the glass. “Instead he made me his mistress.” Her eyes had a dull, hopeless look and her tone was flat. “Some months later he was given a command in the south and left me with a well-known courtesan in Paris. She taught me everything she knew. Art, music, clever conversation. The last thing she did for me was to send me here, to England. I heard that she has since died.”

Con poured her another glass of wine. Fourteen! He did not even know how to respond. How could anyone take the innocence of a child? Although, he knew it happened. He never expected to be on familiar terms with and care for someone it had happened to. But Charlotte, if she had not actually known, had suspected what had occurred. He almost wished she was here to tell him what to do.

He drank his now cold tea without tasting it. “Do you know if your aunt and uncle are still in Lyon?”

“They are. We write to each other. They think I am married to an English merchant.”

Even in France, being a courtesan is not respectable. To keep up such a fa?ade Aimée must want desperately to be respectable again.

He wondered if that was even her real name and thought it was probably not. “What if you had the funds to go to your family in France, with enough money to live on as if your ‘husband’ had died and left you a widow? Would you like that?”

She looked at him for the first time since she had begun her story, and stared. The soft ticking of the gilded clock on the mantel filled the silence. Still, it was several moments before she replied, “More than anything in my life I want a real husband and children. Very few women want to have the life I’m leading.”

The last part of what she said answered another question. Most of them? How could he have been so wrong?

“You are shocked, mon ami.”

Con could only nod.

“How much would you pay for a woman who showed her distaste?” Aimée asked.

Not much, he answered, but only to himself.

He sucked in a deep breath. He might not be able to repair all the damage he and other men had done, but he could help her have what she wanted and deserved. “Then you shall have it. Or at least as much of that life as I can give you.” His stomach twisted. The part he played in Aimée’s life made him almost physically ill. “I will transfer this house to you. It is your decision whether to sell it or lease it. I will also set up an account that will be sufficient for you to maintain the fiction you told your family.” The sick knot that had developed in his stomach began to unwind as he mentally reviewed the steps needed to accomplish his goal, and he smiled. “I’m afraid you will have to arrange the husband and children on your own.”

For the first time since he’d entered the house, the smile Aimée gave him was genuine. This time, he hoped the tears shimmering in her eyes were ones of happiness. “Merci beaucoup, mon ami. I do not know how to thank you.”

“It is I who should thank you.” Con thought of the stories Charlotte had told him and how he had scoffed and not believed her. “You have given me a chance to begin making amends.”

His former mistress moved to a small escritoire. Drawing out a piece of paper, Aimée made a notation. “This is the name I use for my family.”