The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel by Lauren Willig Read Free Book Online
Book: The Mark of the Midnight Manzanilla A Pink Carnation Novel by Lauren Willig Read Free Book Online
Authors: Lauren Willig
feathers bristling from a turban of Nile green satin.
And a young woman, a fillet of filigree shining in her gently curling hair.
“—disgraceful!” the older woman was saying. But Lucien had eyes only for the young woman.
He felt that dislocation again, that curious overlay of past and present. In place of the slender woman in the hall, he saw a little girl in a white dress with a sash embroidered with posies, her chubby hands grasping a bouquet of dandelions.
Lucien stepped out from behind the suit of armor. “Marie-Clarice,” he said.
All four turned to stare at him as though the suit of armor had suddenly taken to its legs and staggered forward to greet them.
Marie-Clarice stared at him, with eyes that were too dark for her pale face. She had inherited their father’s fair coloring, but their mother’s eyes, deep-set and black, the same eyes that Lucien saw in the mirror every morning.
“So it is true,” she said distantly. Her eyes narrowed and her voice hardened. “It is you.”
There seemed very little to say to that except, “Yes.”
How else did one fill nine missing years?
“Well!” said Aunt Winifred, her stays creaking ominously beneath her satin gown as she drew in an indignant breath. “One would think you might have allowed your own family to hear of your return from your own hand, rather than leaving it to the mouths of common gossips—”
“We’re delighted,” Uncle Henry intervened, shooting his wife a hard look. A little too heartily, he said, “Welcome home, my boy. Welcome home.”
Lucien’s cousin, Hal, his hair the same silver-gilt that Uncle Henry’s had once been, did nothing but stare, his jaw dropping until it connected with the top fold of his elaborately tied cravat.
They were all fair. The Caldicotts had been breeding fair-haired, light-eyed, and pink-cheeked since time immemorial, a testament to their Saxon forebears. Next to them, Lucien felt, as he always had, a cuckoo in the nest. It was an unfortunate mischance that he was the cuckoo who bore the title.
“Hello,” Lucien said inadequately.
His sister took a step forward. Their mother had been petite, but Marie-Clarice had inherited the Caldicott height, as well as the family’s famed silver-gilt hair. Only her eyes belonged to their mother.
“Did you mean to call?” she inquired dangerously. “Or were we not to be privileged with the pleasure of your company?”
Every word stung like the lash of a whip, all the more so for being—Lucien had to admit—deserved.
“I had thought you would have been at Hullingden,” he ventured.
Hullingden was the primary family seat. Lucien had grown up there, had roamed those woods and explored those secret passageways. It had been, for the bulk of his childhood, his entire world; Belliston House, in London, was a faraway place he knew of only from his parents’ conversation.
The estate had been passed into the stewardship of Uncle Henry until such time as Lucien came of age.
By the time Lucien came of age, he was already halfway across the world.
He ought, he knew, to have presented himself at Hullingden first. It wasn’t much good for the prodigal to return without making his presence known. But the idea of passing through those portals again had filled him with a fine sweat of fear. Belliston House was different. It was bland. It was safe.
“It’s your sister’s first Season.” Aunt Winifred sailed into the fray, her feathers bobbing ominously. “Naturally, we are in London. As you would have known had you shown any of the consideration due as the Head of the House.”
Lucien could hear the capital letters as she pronounced it and the bite of venom behind it.
“But what,” Aunt Winifred added, addressing herself to the suit of armor, “can one expect?”
From the witchwoman’s brat.
The boys at Eton weren’t the only ones to have cast slurs on Lucien’s parentage; Aunt Winifred had been more subtle, but no less vicious. It was one of the
And a young woman, a fillet of filigree shining in her gently curling hair.
“—disgraceful!” the older woman was saying. But Lucien had eyes only for the young woman.
He felt that dislocation again, that curious overlay of past and present. In place of the slender woman in the hall, he saw a little girl in a white dress with a sash embroidered with posies, her chubby hands grasping a bouquet of dandelions.
Lucien stepped out from behind the suit of armor. “Marie-Clarice,” he said.
All four turned to stare at him as though the suit of armor had suddenly taken to its legs and staggered forward to greet them.
Marie-Clarice stared at him, with eyes that were too dark for her pale face. She had inherited their father’s fair coloring, but their mother’s eyes, deep-set and black, the same eyes that Lucien saw in the mirror every morning.
“So it is true,” she said distantly. Her eyes narrowed and her voice hardened. “It is you.”
There seemed very little to say to that except, “Yes.”
How else did one fill nine missing years?
“Well!” said Aunt Winifred, her stays creaking ominously beneath her satin gown as she drew in an indignant breath. “One would think you might have allowed your own family to hear of your return from your own hand, rather than leaving it to the mouths of common gossips—”
“We’re delighted,” Uncle Henry intervened, shooting his wife a hard look. A little too heartily, he said, “Welcome home, my boy. Welcome home.”
Lucien’s cousin, Hal, his hair the same silver-gilt that Uncle Henry’s had once been, did nothing but stare, his jaw dropping until it connected with the top fold of his elaborately tied cravat.
They were all fair. The Caldicotts had been breeding fair-haired, light-eyed, and pink-cheeked since time immemorial, a testament to their Saxon forebears. Next to them, Lucien felt, as he always had, a cuckoo in the nest. It was an unfortunate mischance that he was the cuckoo who bore the title.
“Hello,” Lucien said inadequately.
His sister took a step forward. Their mother had been petite, but Marie-Clarice had inherited the Caldicott height, as well as the family’s famed silver-gilt hair. Only her eyes belonged to their mother.
“Did you mean to call?” she inquired dangerously. “Or were we not to be privileged with the pleasure of your company?”
Every word stung like the lash of a whip, all the more so for being—Lucien had to admit—deserved.
“I had thought you would have been at Hullingden,” he ventured.
Hullingden was the primary family seat. Lucien had grown up there, had roamed those woods and explored those secret passageways. It had been, for the bulk of his childhood, his entire world; Belliston House, in London, was a faraway place he knew of only from his parents’ conversation.
The estate had been passed into the stewardship of Uncle Henry until such time as Lucien came of age.
By the time Lucien came of age, he was already halfway across the world.
He ought, he knew, to have presented himself at Hullingden first. It wasn’t much good for the prodigal to return without making his presence known. But the idea of passing through those portals again had filled him with a fine sweat of fear. Belliston House was different. It was bland. It was safe.
“It’s your sister’s first Season.” Aunt Winifred sailed into the fray, her feathers bobbing ominously. “Naturally, we are in London. As you would have known had you shown any of the consideration due as the Head of the House.”
Lucien could hear the capital letters as she pronounced it and the bite of venom behind it.
“But what,” Aunt Winifred added, addressing herself to the suit of armor, “can one expect?”
From the witchwoman’s brat.
The boys at Eton weren’t the only ones to have cast slurs on Lucien’s parentage; Aunt Winifred had been more subtle, but no less vicious. It was one of the