Condemned & Admired Page 2

  That night, long ago, destiny had guided Antoine Duret to a deserted beach below Silcox Manor, not knowing that the love of his life would all but stumble upon his privateer hiding out in a cavern, waiting for the storm to pass. The moment they had laid eyes on one another, everything had changed. Even Violette’s practical-minded and often rather sceptical father had known that he could not allow Alexandra Winters to walk out of his life.

  After only a few moments, they had decided to risk it all and start a new life together despite everything that had stood between them. They had taken a leap of faith, and they had been rewarded for it.

  Had her mother never stumbled upon Antoine Duret that night, what would their life have been like? What would it have been like for Violette growing up in England as the daughter of Viscount Silcox?

  Violette shuddered, for although she did not remember much, she would never be able to forget the cold in the viscount’s eyes whenever he had looked upon her. He had been the one who had given her life, given her his name, and yet, he had never cared for her.

  For that alone, she no longer thought of him as her father or of herself as Violet.

  She was French now, not English.

  And it had been her choice.

  Just as she had chosen to love the man who had come to find them that night, to become his daughter, and no one else’s.

  Her father was the man who had stood by her side for the past twelve years. The man who had jumped into a rolling sea to save her when she had been washed overboard during a sudden storm. The man who trusted her to steer his ship and to protect herself when they boarded an enemy ship. The man who loved her.

  Inhaling a deep breath, Violette knew how fortunate she was. Instead of being trapped in a cold townhouse full of servants, she now had a bustling family, chaotic and wild, but full of love and devotion. Her mother and she had both found a new home with Antoine’s family, and not much time had passed until they had thought of his family as their own.

  “Where do you go when you stare out at the sea?”

  Startled, Violette glanced over her shoulder and found her cousin Henri standing there, eyeing her with a hint of curiosity in his eyes and a touch of amusement curling up his lips. His dark hair, like her father’s, gleamed in the sun, and he held himself with the same quiet confidence. However, unlike her father, Henri’s eyes often sparkled with mischief, and his words had a cutting honesty to them that often disarmed even the most reclusive characters. A few years her senior, Henri had been the big brother she had never had ever since they had first met twelve years ago.

  Violette shrugged as he came to stand next to her, his dark green eyes drifting over the distant horizon with the same sense of awe Violette always felt when they were under way. “My old life,” she said with a sigh. “England. The night we left.”

  Not looking at her, Henri inhaled a deep breath. “Do you miss it?”

  Violette snorted, “How could I? I barely remember it.”

  “But you remember what’s important, n’est-ce pas?” Turning sharp green eyes on her, he held her gaze, daring her to contradict him.

  Violette sighed, fighting the curl that came to her lips. “You know me too well.”

  Henri laughed.

  Rolling her eyes, Violette elbowed him in the ribs, and he shrank back, groaning rather theatrically. “I don’t regret my mother’s decision,” Violette finally said, her gaze once more travelling to the distant horizon. “On the contrary, it was wise. It freed us. It gave us a choice we would otherwise never have had.” She turned to look at him. “It gave me this life.”

  Henri nodded. “And you never wish to be back in England?”

  Violette sighed, knowing that there was no use lying to her cousin. He simply knew her too well. “I do. Sometimes.” She shrugged. “I do not wish to return or that my life had taken a different turn, but I’m curious sometimes.”

  Again, Henri nodded. “That’s only natural, Violette.” A slow grin drew up the corners of his mouth, and she could see his eyes light up with mischief even before he had spoken another word. “What I wouldn’t give to see you dressed like a fine lady,” he sighed, his voice mocking. “Your hair piled high on your head, a fan to keep the flush from your face as you allow one fine gentleman after another to lead you across the dance floor, blushing as they compliment your beauty.”

  Gritting her teeth, Violette glared at him. “Say another word, and you’ll swim with the sharks.”

  Lifting his hands in surrender, Henri took a step back. “What a temper! And you wish to commandeer your own ship one day? I think not.”

  Violette laughed, “Do you not also have that dream?”

  “Mais, oui.”

  “Then why would you mock mine?”

  Resting his elbows on the rail, Henri cocked his head to the side, watching her through slightly narrowed eyes. “You’re English,” he finally said. “Do you think France will grant a letter of marque to an English traitor?”

  Seeing the challenge in her cousin’s eyes, Violette willed her blood to calm down. “I might be a traitor to the English,” she replied, holding his gaze, “but not to the French. Whether you like it or not, I’ve chosen a side.”

  “And what side is that?”

  “My family’s,” Violette replied, knowing exactly where her loyalties lay. “I will fight for those I love.”

  Henri’s features softened, and the humour in his eyes was replaced by an almost imperceptible spark of vulnerability. “And does that include me?” he asked, keeping his voice light as though he were teasing her.

  However, Violette knew that he was not. Still, she could not help but tease him as he often teased her. It had become their normal way of communication. “On some days,” she said, feigning seriousness. “On others, not so much.”

  Henri clutched a hand to his chest as though mortally wounded. “Mademoiselle, I cannot believe my ears!”

  Violette laughed, slapping him on the arm. “Will there ever be a serious word between us, Henri? Or will we spend the rest of our lives speaking in riddles?”

  Grinning, Henri shrugged. “Only those who know each other well can speak without making sense and still be understood.” He turned sideways, resting one arm on the rail. “I know what you dream of. I’ve always known. Still, I must warn you not to entertain such hopes.” His voice became serious. Still, there was a touch of regret in the way he looked at her. “Should we be able to outfit another ship, I doubt my uncle would name you captain.” The left corner of his mouth quirked. “After all, you’re an English lady of eighteen. He would be a fool to do so.”

  Although her cousin’s words stung, Violette knew them to be true. She had dreams, certainly, but she knew how unlikely it was for them to become reality one day. Still, she could not help but give back with equal measure. “And you are more qualified?” she challenged. “France would have to be blind, deaf and dumb to grant you a letter of marque.”

  Henri laughed, “At least, I’m French, born and bred.”

  Violette shrugged as though that was of no importance.

  “I’m a man.”

  Laughing, she shook her head.

  “And I’m a true Du–” Henri broke off, and all humour slid off his face, replaced by a look of regret and shame.

  “A true Duret,” Violette finished for him, her gaze holding his.

  Closing his eyes for a second, he stepped toward her. “I’m sorry. I did not mean…”

  Violette nodded, knowing that a part of her did wonder what she had inherited from the man she refused to acknowledge as her father. Was a part of her as cold and unfeeling as she had often seen in him? When it came down to it, would she betray her family to further her own goals?

  Henri reached out and pulled her hand in his. “I did not mean what I said.” His green eyes held hers steadily. “You’re my cousin in every way that counts. Do not doubt my loyalty…or my love.”

  Squeezing his hand, Violette squared her shoulders as his words war
med her soul. “I know,” she whispered. “And you’re wrong. I am a true Duret.” She drew in a slow breath. “It does not matter who gave me life or whose name I received at birth. I am who I choose to be. No one else gets to make that decision for me.”

  A slow smile drew up the corners of Henri’s mouth, and he nodded to her. “You have a hidden strength, ma chère cousine, and wisdom beyond your years. I have no doubt that you will find a way to claim what’s yours.”

  Violette smiled. “Even when it comes to commandeering my own ship?”

  Henri laughed, “Even then. If any woman–no offence intended–can do it, it’s you.”

  Sighing, Violette gazed out at the wide ocean stretching out before them as far as the eye could see. “Can you imagine both of us captain of our own ships?”

  “I can,” he replied, a touch of awe in his voice as he stood beside her, his eyes sweeping over the sea that had become home for both. Then he turned to look at her. “Would you return to England in order to procure a letter of marque…provided that the English king would grant one to a woman?”

  Violette shrugged. “Perhaps. I cannot say.” She turned to look at him. “Perhaps one day. One day, I might.” Seeing the questions in his green eyes, Violette added, “But no matter where I go or what I’ll do, it will not change who I am or who I love. I feel no loyalty to England or to France for that matter. As I said, my loyalty lies with my family. I would give my life for them.” A soft smile curled up the corners of her lips. “For you. Never doubt that.”

  Henri nodded, the same awe in his eyes that she only saw there when he gazed out at the sea. “You were right, ma chère cousine. You are a true Duret, and I’ve never met a finer one.”

  Chapter Two – A Noble Bloodline

  A sharp pounding echoed to his ears, and Oliver Cornell, Earl of Cullingwood, rolled over in his bed, burying his face in the soft pillow, determined to ignore whoever sought his attention so early in the day.

  However, as much as he tried to separate himself from reality, it always seemed to catch up with him in a most insistent way.

  When the pounding finally ceased, Oliver drew in a deep breath, feeling his tense muscles relax, only to have them tense up once more as his father’s sharp voice drifted upward from the foyer of his townhouse.

  The man was a born commander, his voice sharp and loud and clear even over great distances. “Out of my way!” his father bellowed, and Oliver had no trouble picturing poor Dunston struggling for words, his face bright red as he tried to dissuade the Marquess of Northey from bursting into his only son’s bedchamber.

  Sighing in resignation, Oliver pushed himself into a sitting position and cringed as a violent headache assaulted him. He pressed his hands to his temples in the hopes of regaining some sense of control over his body but failed miserably.

  In the next moment, the door to his bedchamber was flung open, and his father stormed in, followed by Oliver’s butler, wringing his hands as though hoping that the scene before him was merely a dream.

  “I’m sorry, my lord,” Dunston mumbled, gesturing wildly, his mouth opening and closing.

  Oliver started to shake his head, but then stilled when the movement sent new shock waves through it. “You may leave us, Dunston,” he groaned, feeling sorry for the old man who never knew where his loyalties lay, with Oliver or his father.

  Meeting his father’s eyes, Oliver found them to be full of disapproval and condemnation…as always. “What brings you here this morning, Father?” he asked, hoping the man would simply get on with his usual lecture about Oliver’s dubious pastimes and then leave him be.

  “Such audacity!” the marquess snarled, his eyes narrowed into slits as he glared at his son, taking note of Oliver’s no-doubt bloodshot eyes, pasty skin and altogether dishevelled appearance. “Such irresponsibility! You’ve been to the docks again, haven’t you? Spent your time with sailors and harlots?” Gritting his teeth, his father shook his head, his lips pressed into a tight line as though to keep from lashing out at him further.

  Oliver sighed, “What is it to you, Father?”

  For a moment, the marquess looked ready to topple over as he leaned more heavily on his walking stick. “What is it to me?” he huffed, his eyes wide as though Oliver had asked him why he bothered to breathe. “You are my only son. My heir! It is your duty to act accordingly. Instead, you disrespect everything you were born to be. You’re ruining your life as well as your reputation, and it reflects badly on the family.”

  Oliver scoffed, “What family?” He wished he felt better so he could simply walk away and leave his father standing and not engage in this futile argument once again. “Mother is dead. There are no brothers or sisters that could be affected by my behaviour and what little distant family we have is estranged. So, tell me, Father, what family do you speak of? Who am I to sacrifice my life for?”

  “You ungrateful fool!” his father snarled, waving his walking stick like a club as though he wished to bash his son’s head in. Still, Oliver knew that as much as the old man might wish to, he never would. After all, Oliver was his only heir. “Ours is a noble bloodline that deserves respect. You, however, are throwing your life away by drinking yourself into oblivion. Is this the life you prefer? Is this truly better than what I demand of you?”

  “Demand of me,” Oliver repeated, wishing he could shake his head without cringing at the pain pulsing under his temples. Sliding out of bed, he stood carefully, holding out his arms to steady himself, then slipped on a robe. “I do what I do,” he said slowly, holding his father’s accusing gaze, “because it is the only way I can bear the life you forced on me. I do what I do to forget.”

  Although Oliver could not deny that a small, very small part of him still hoped to see a spark of understanding in his father’s eyes, he was not at all surprised to see nothing but open hatred in the old man’s gaze. “You were born to privilege,” the marquess snarled, his old hand gripping the knob of his walking stick tightly. “You’ve been granted everything in life, and yet, you disregard even the smallest request I would ask of you.”

  “Request?” Oliver boomed, staring at his father as though he had just risen from the earth. “Request?” Pinching his eyes shut, Oliver forced the wave of nausea back down as he shook his head and the world began to spin. His head pounded, and yet, the physical pain was no match for the ache in his heart that had been with him every day of his miserable life. Would it ever cease?

  Forcing his eyes back open, Oliver stared at his father. How could the man not know? How could he not see what this was doing to his son? How could he not care? “I can see,” Oliver began, unable not to say the words, “that you do not understand, and still I must tell you that this life is not a privilege. It is a cage. I am trapped in a life not of my choosing, and I would trade it in a heartbeat to be free. To be free to choose.”

  Snorting, his father shook his head as though Oliver were a little boy asking for the stars. “If this is how you feel, then why don’t you?”

  Taken aback, Oliver stared at his father. “I might…one day. One day, I might.”

  His father laughed, “What a damn fool you are. You pretend to be above rank and reputation, fortune and family ties, but let me tell you, you would not survive one day as a common man. You might dream of a common life, but do not for a moment believe it to be the fairy tale you make it out to be.”

  Oliver sighed, then sank back down to sit on the bed as his legs would no longer support him. No matter what he did, his father would never understand.

  After all, Oliver did not want a common life. He was not fool enough to idealise a life of hardship and deprivation. What he wanted was respect. He wanted his opinion to be considered, to be valued. He wanted to be asked. He wanted to be…loved.

  For who he was.

  Not valued for being the only available heir.

  But his father would never understand. Did the man not care that no one loved him? Was his heart truly made of ice?

 
Clearing his throat, the marquess took a step forward, his face calm as he looked at Oliver with that haughty expression that promised another request to be made to his son. “Do as you must,” his father began, his voice as cold and unfeeling as the look in his eyes. “However, before you set out to get yourself killed, it is your duty to take a wife and father an heir in order to carry on the lineage and to ensure that the title will remain in the family.”

  Oliver closed his eyes. More than once his father had encouraged him to pursue a young lady of his choosing, and although Oliver was very fond of the fair sex, deep down, a part of him still held out for the one woman who would see him not as the Earl of Cullingwood, but simply as Oliver.

  So far, he had not found her.

  Would he ever? Did such a woman even exist?

  “Over the past fortnight,” his father continued undeterred, “I have compiled a list of eligible ladies from noble families, and I am relieved to report that I have found the one who would be perfect for you, my son.”

  “Don’t you mean perfect for you, Father?” Oliver asked, unable to help himself. “I assume she is of impeccable manners as well as reputation. Her family is most likely of equal or better standing than our own, and she has an impressive dowry to her name, does she not?”

  His father inhaled a slow breath, his eyes shooting daggers at Oliver. “There will be a ball at Lord Bretmore’s in two days’ time, and I have it on good authority that the lady in question will be in attendance. It will be the perfect opportunity for you to begin your courtship.” Then the marquess turned on his heel and marched toward the door. Stopping in its frame, he turned back to glare at his son. “After you have married and fathered an heir, you are free to do as you choose, but not before,” he warned. “For once, do as you’re told, and do not disappoint me again.”

  Listening to his father’s steps echoing down the marble staircase, Oliver sank back into the mattress, angry not only with the man who disregarded him at every turn, but also with himself for allowing it to happen.