Prologue

L’Abbaye de Sacré Coeur, Avril 1810

“What about that one?”

The question startled Sister Mary Joseph, though she doubted her companion was aware of it. There had never been any pretense on his part to give her his full attention. He suffered the tour of the ruins, the walk through the scrupulously tended garden, his introduction in each of the classrooms, and finally the journey along the stone corridors to the old chapel, the stones themselves worn to a faintly concave smoothness by the silent, shuffling passage of penitents like her for more than two centuries.

Now Sister Mary Joseph’s pale green eyes shifted first to the man at her side, then to the object of his interest.

Lilith Sterling knelt at the rear of the chapel, her head bowed, the slim, fragile stem of her neck revealed by the thick plait of hair that had fallen forward over her left shoulder. Her head was covered by a fine white shawl that muted the dark copper color of her hair but did nothing to conceal it.

Sister Mary Joseph gave the young girl full marks for not looking up. At some other time, Lilith’s pious posture would have brought a skeptical, though tender, smile to her lips. That was not the way of it now.

Softly, indicating they should have a care not to disturb Lilith’s prayers, Sister Mary Joseph said, “No, she is just a child.”

The Right Honorable Lord Woodridge arched one brow but did not turn away from his regard of the girl. “I have children,” he said. “My daughter is eleven, my son, three. I think I know the difference. She will suit admirably.”

“I am sorry, my lord, but she is already promised.”

“Promised?” He frowned. “I would know the name of the man. Is he French?”

“No, my lord.”

“English, then. That is good. I do so dislike negotiating with the frogs at every turn. It is invariably unpleasant.” He ignored the slight stiffening that the sister could not conceal. He considered apologizing and immediately dismissed it as unnecessary. Mary Joseph was, after all, as English as he, which is why the Reverend Mother had chosen her to accompany him. Impatiently, he inquired again. “His name?”

“She is promised to Our Lord, Jesus Christ.” Sister Mary Joseph took considerable delight in offering this answer, though she was careful not to give herself away. She would confess the lie later and pray that she would be forgiven.

Wycliff Standish, Baron Woodridge, said nothing for a long moment as his attention returned to the girl. Each line of her face was finely drawn; there was a purity in her profile that he found much to his liking. Except for the faint movement of her lips as she prayed, she was as still as stone. The serenity that surrounded her was almost tangible.

It was difficult to suppress the shiver of pleasure he experienced at the thought of having it within his reach. Mayhap it could be touched. She could be touched, of that he was certain. She was young, yes, but not too young. Possessing her would bring him a measure of peace, at least for a time. And when she had served her purpose, been used, destroyed, and finally discarded, he would know his greatest satisfaction.

“Ridiculous.” His lips moved around the word much as hers did, giving virtually no sound to the pronouncement. That he offered it with a certain finality, as though it put a period to his prayers, was not lost on him. He had, after all, his own god to appease. “She is wasted on the church.”

Sister Mary Joseph hardly knew how to reply to that. She underscored her lie by telling it a second time. “Still, my lord, she is promised.”

Woodridge’s thin upper lip curled. “A bride of Christ? No, it is unthinkable.” Tapping the tip his crystal-knobbed walking stick sharply against the stone floor, he was not surprised when the girl flinched. Appearances aside, she was not in a trance at all, certainly not lost in applying herself to her penance. “Venez ici, mademoiselle.”

Lilith froze.

“We should not disturb her,” Mary Joseph said quietly. It was the most she thought she dared say. Lord Woodridge was more than a visitor to the abbey. He was a guest, invited by the abbess at the most particular suggestion of the bishop.

Woodridge ignored her. He was not accustomed to repeating himself, but he did so now, making allowances for the fact that he was not master here. “Ici. Tout de suite.”

Lilith came to her feet slowly, awkwardly, bracing her hand on the back of the pew in front of her so that she might have more support. She never straightened entirely; the pronounced curve of her spine would not permit it.

Sister Mary Joseph pressed the back of one hand to her lips to suppress the small gasp that hovered there. When Lilith limped heavily toward them, Mary Joseph realized her hand was insufficient to cover the bubble of nervous laughter that was lodged at the back of her throat. She coughed several times instead and drew out her handkerchief from beneath the sleeve of her habit.

Woodridge was caught. His distaste for the creature in front of him was palpable. In other circumstances he would have concealed his disgust. Had he been observed by anyone save the sister and the cripple, he would have schooled his features and made some pretense of sympathy. He might have even deigned to touch the girl, though he would have carefully calculated the benefits of doing so against the possibility that he would be sick.

Lilith approached. The drag of her right foot on the stones echoed eerily in the chapel. She stopped more than a yard in front of his lordship, halted by what she spied in his ice blue eyes. Here was aversion in its purest form. She had given him disgust of herself, not for who she was, but for what she appeared to be.

Her curtsy was as awkwardly accomplished as her rising had been. The slight grimace about her mouth was not feigned. It was painful to be in his presence. “Monsieur.”

“Does she speak English?” he asked the sister.

“Very little.”

He would have overlooked this deficit of education if she were not deformed. Indeed, he knew he would have found a certain enjoyment expanding her vocabulary. Those words shared between lovers, in particular, would have given him pleasure. To hear them whispered haltingly in his ear as he buried himself inside her . . . he reined in those thoughts before he was ill. Already he could taste bile at the back of his throat.

“What is wrong with her?” he demanded, though to his own eyes the answer was obvious. She was spoiled in the most fundamental way. If she was as pure as her profile had suggested, it was because she had no choice to be else. All that would be left to him was to defile her spirit, her soul, and it was not enough. It was his desire to begin with the butterfly, not the moth, and certainly not with this misshapen chrysalis. “Was she so deformed at birth?”

“No, my lord.” That, at least, was true.

“An accident, then.”

Sister Mary Joseph watched the baron closely. He seemed to be satisfied with his assumption and did not ask for the particulars. She tried not to consider the nature of his thoughts. That he was repulsed by what Lilith had become was clear to her and must be so to Lilith herself. His lordship’s reaction bore out all that Mary Joseph had supposed to be true about him in the first few minutes of their introduction. Upon taking his hand, she had felt a chill slip from his fingers into hers, then burrow under her skin until it raised the fine hairs on her arms and at the back of her neck. Time spent in his company had not altered that impression.

It would be difficult to ask for God’s forgiveness when she had no remorse for lying.

“Tell her to leave us,” Woodridge said suddenly. “She is an abomination.”

“Reverend Mother has often said the same.” Mary Joseph offered this observation quietly. Here again was the truth, something the Reverend Mother and the baron could agree upon were such a thing needed, although they had decidedly different perspectives on why the uncomplimentary description was also an accurate one. Turning to Lilith, Sister said, “Allez! Vite!”

Lilith hurried from the chapel as instructed but not before she risked a glance at the baron. He was no longer looking at her, but through her, his lips pursed in a rictus of a smile. Stepping to one side, he gave her a wide berth as she passed. She thought she felt him shudder but allowed that it could have been her imagination. She did not, however, imagine her own response.

For a moment, she’d not been able to breathe.

Woodridge waited for the uneven footfalls to recede before he spoke. This was not done because of any regard for the departing girl’s sensibilities—he was quite certain she had none—but because he needed a moment to recover his own fine ones.

“That was extraordinarily unpleasant,” he said without inflection.