Zoe Read online

  ZOÉ

  T. A. Ford ACKNOWLEDGEMEN T S

  Zoé would have never made it out of the confines of my online blog without the help and support of many people. First and foremost, thank you to my copy-editor and writing friend Erica Langdon, without whom this book simply would not be. The sleepless nights, tireless days, and titillating debates on pirate-speak, have forever bonded us. Thank you so much for your editing, grammatical corrections, and your historical consultation. I look forward to a lasting partnership with you for many stories to come.

  A special thanks to Lois Troutman, who also provided historical facts and research that opened my eyes to a world where Zoé’s story had to be told.

  Special thanks to my mother. It was your faith in me and our shared love of reading that has brought me thus far. To my friends and family, let me say that your support, patience, and encouragement make me proud to present this tale to you. I love

  Copyright © 2008 T. A. Ford and thank you all.

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 1-4196-9147-3 To my muses Renee Elise Goldsberry and Michael Easton, meet ISBN-13: 9781419691478

  Zoé Bouchard and Gianelli La Roque, inspired by you. Heartfelt thanks to all my cranky reviewers, loyal readers, and talented Visit www.booksurge.com to order additional copies. authors at Divasnluv. Through you, I found the courage to enter the world of publishing. I dedicate this book to you and Jovanners everywhere!

  ZOÉ

  T o u l o u s e , F r a n c e – A p r i l 1 8 2 8 “Is it true what they say? The château has over 130 rooms, all made of gold? ”

  Zoé’s eyes lifted from her book of poetry. It had served as a welcome distraction from the sourness in her stomach. A look of tired sadness passed over her features, but she concealed it with a patient smile.

  “Where did you hear such gossip? ” she whispered, preferring not to stir Madame, and once again become the focus of her never-ending criticism. If this trip proved successful, she’d lose the shield of love her stepsister provided, and be forced to endure under Madame’s bitterness.

  “I heard the servants whispering of it this morning. Do you think it’s true? ”

  “Rooms paneled in gold? ” Zoé dropped her eyes and shrugged. Though Marianne’s life was the charmed one, Zoé, too, had heard the whispers. It was possible the Count lived in a palace filled with treasures. Her long lashes lifted again to her sister’s smiling face as she accepted the deeper truth. It was Marianne’s life to be presented to such a suitor; it was hers to remain in the background, alone.

  “Château La Roque. There it is!” Marianne gasped when she spied it out of the window. Madame choked, coughing on her guttural snore, and awakened with a start. Zoé, now intrigued, moved forward to peer out of the carriage window. The château, perched high on a snow-speckled incline, dominated the horizon. It loomed in the distance like a mythical castle of labyrinthine secrets. Vines of ivy, tough enough to have survived winter’s frost, twisted along its stone walls, while thick tendrils of milkwhite mist swirled around its octagonal towers.

  The prolonged anticipation was almost unbearable. What awaited them all behind the aged, exclusive walls had been whispered about between she and Marianne for weeks. The same as always, a warning voice spoke in her mind. Pretension, respectability, and exclusion, packaged with tolerant pleasantries and veiled acceptance awaited her, certain to remind her of her place.

  Zoé sank back into the shadows with a sigh. It was so. If their father’s wishes were fulfilled, she’d lose Marianne, the only other person besides her father who loved her. And she would lose her to the master of that estate — Le Comte Julien de La Roque.

  And who was he really? Would he love her sheltered, dear sweet sister as much as she did? Or would he be the man the maidens whispered about? A Casanova who collected women’s virtue for sport and gave no thought to heartache? He was said to be more handsome than any man in Narbonne. Tales of his amorous exploits traveled as fast as the wind along the Aude River.

  As the carriage turned up the road to the château, Zoé sat perfectly still. Her thin fingers were locked tensely in her lap. She wondered if her worries were purely the result of selfishness.

  Their father had told many stories of La Roque’s military successes and dismissed rumors about the Count’s ways with women, but Zoé could not, for she believed that every rumor concealed a hidden truth. She could only pray that in his quest to see Marianne married, their father would not destroy his youngest daughter.

  The carriage stopped. Madame Bouchard gave Zoé and Marianne a stern look, which they returned with obedient nods. The opening of the door invited the pale late-afternoon sunshine to pour in, and a handsome young footman appeared to assist.

  Zoé held her place. For once, she was grateful to be the last attended to. Finally, it was her turn.

  “Mademoiselle,” said the footman.

  She extended a slender hand, and emerged, head bowed. Her bonnet shielded her face from view and her cape gave little hint to the exotic beauty that stopped many a Frenchman in his tracks. The footman bowed his head in greeting, as was proper when welcoming a family of such prominence. Zoé sensed him lift his head to peer under her bonnet.

  Her eyes, a tawny shade of brown, captured his and held him to the spot. Recovering, he looked away with a deep blush. Zoé dropped her eyes. Of course, he expected a fair maiden with skin of cream, and eyes the color of rain. Feeling his gaze return, she looked up and caught his self-imposed superiority, and uninvited hint of lust. When she first became aware of how her charms affected men, she’d taken such reactions as compliments. Now, they made her uneasy. She’d learned long ago that certain men felt free to take liberties simply because she was une femme de couleur.

  “Merci,” she replied, removing her hand from his.

  The black mares at the front of the carriage kicked their hooves with a snort, adding a little distraction to the scene.

  “Baggages, garçon!” the horseman yelled to the footman. The icy breeze stroked her face and the silver ribbons of her bonnet fluttered, carrying them from beneath her chin. She tried not to read any unwelcoming portent in the chilly greeting and held her head high as she faced the unknown.

  Well, it was not necessarily the unknown. Her fate was already set, thanks to the African blood coursing through her veins, blood she cherished because it was the only tie to her long lost maman and a culture foreign to her.

  Zoé rarely felt this kind of envy, but as Marianne’s giggles drifted to her, she couldn’t help but feel a sense of sadness and compare their fates. Marianne would go on to live in a grand manner, but Zoé had little chance of marrying a man of Comte La Roque’s stature. Such men would always view her just as that footman did.

  She made her way across the pebbled path to the château. The soft folds of her cape rippled with each step. She had to take care. The last of the morning frost had left the path slick and treacherous.

  Another sign, she thought, and then scolded herself for being so superstitious.

  Suddenly a feeling of being watched struck her. She looked up, just in time to catch the fluid movement of a curtain falling back into place. Squinting against the sun, she wondered whether her eyes weren’t tricked by unseen shadows.

  “Pardon, mademoiselle.” Two footmen heaving trunks between them angled up the path. She stepped aside to allow them passage. The young man who’d helped her down from the carriage brushed past her, and then tossed her a backward glance. She averted her gaze.

  “Zoé! Come, chérie!” It was Marianne, standing before the massive arched doorway that marked the château’s main entrance. Zoé quickened her pace. She didn’t want to draw the ire of Madame Bouchard. As Zoé neared her white half-sister, she once more felt a surge of love for the sixteen-year-old. Marianne was so young, an
d so lovely. How could she not?

  The girls looked like mirror images of each other with matching creamy-white cashmere capes. Marianne’s bonnet shielded her golden locks from view but it couldn’t hide the merriment in her emerald-green eyes. The sisters were equal in beauty as well. If not for skin tone, they could have passed for twins. For Zoé, it was proof that she, like Marianne, was a proud daughter of Bertrand Bouchard. Some might consider her to be just his bastard child from his African mistress, but no one in Narbonne dared say it to her face.

  “Why do you dawdle so? ” scolded Madame. Zoé was disappointed to realize that her stepmother was already irritated with her. The carriage ride had been pleasant enough, especially while Madame slept. But now that the time was approaching when Madame would have to introduce her stepdaughter to strangers, her stepmother’s hostility was quite evident.

  Zoé had heard that Madame was once quite beautiful. Perhaps this was true, but it was hard to imagine. Madame was short and portly, with flaming red hair. She covered her thick, flaccid features with heavy white powder, and darkened her cheeks and lips with rouge the color of blood. She had a distinct mole above the right curve of her lips and venomous green eyes, that in their own chilling way, were indeed quite beautiful. But for Zoé, Madame’s outer beauty, or lack of it, didn’t matter. What mattered was the inner ugliness of which she was capable.

  A stately gentleman appeared and the staff, who had gathered to the front of the château to greet the guests, parted to allow his approach. Zoé felt his gaze pass over them and stop on her. The flash of surprise in his eyes told her that he had not been informed that a mulatto woman would be within their company. But from the way his eyes shifted between the mulâtresse and Marianne, he surmised that she was indeed a Bouchard.

  He addressed Madame, who batted her lashes at him. “Bonjour, Madame Bouchard,” he said. “Welcome to Château La Roque.”

  “Bonjour,” she replied. “I am Gérard. Mon seigneur has instructed me to see to your needs,” he said with a respectful nod.

  “Indeed.” Madame replied, with an upward toss of her chin.

  “This way.”

  With an elegant bow, he stepped back and ushered them further into the main hall. Zoé was aware of the maidservants staring at her and the amused glances they exchanged. She felt Marianne slip her hand into hers and gave her a warm smile.

  The château was as grand on the inside as it was on the outside. In Zoé’s opinion, one could tell a lot about a person by the way they decorated their home. Her family’s home held a touch of femininity; it was to be expected under Madame’s governance. Comte La Roque, and those who had preceded him, had taken great measure to ensure his home was equal to the prominence of the La Roque name. Zoé gazed about in open admiration. Her eyes followed the length of the walls, which were adorned with paintings of La Roque’s ancestry. She leaned back to gaze at the hand-painted, golden domed ceiling that depicted artistry beyond her dreams. A mahogany stairwell curved along one wall, leading to the upper areas of the château.

  Zoé absorbed every detail and was reassured. Yes, Marianne would have a grand life as the lady of this house. EF

  Upstairs in his chambers, Julien La Roque stepped back from the window. He took one last look at himself in the tall mirror in his bedroom. His dark hair, glistening like polished wood, tapered neatly to his collar. Instead of the platinum wigs he donned when conducting business, he preferred a single gentleman’s bow to restrain his mane. He stroked his trimmed mustache and goatee, which connected to long sideburns outlining his jaw.

  At six-feet-two, broad-shouldered and brimming with vitality, La Roque enjoyed the kind of physical presence that allowed him to dominate a room the moment he entered it. Some said it wasn’t his height, but his hypnotic, crystalline blue eyes that were the most compelling of his features. His eyes were indeed so clear and blue that his last bedmate remarked that they reminded her of moonlight. And his handsomeness did not end there. With a squared chin, a slightly up-turned celestial nose, and thick silky brows, his strong features held an unmistakable sensuality.

  LaRoque’s quick wit and unassuming manner had given him a clear advantage both in politics and the bedroom. However, his philandering had also drawn criticism from those he respected. Finally, to silence the wagging tongues, he decided to entertain young women of appropriate social status and give the appearance of seeking a bride. Once the tongues were silenced, he would abandon the quest and enjoy women in ways to which he was most accustomed.

  Speaking of…

  His thoughts turned to the young demoiselles whose arrival he’d watched through his window. There was no need to keep them waiting.

  He shot his cuff, adjusting the ruffles that extended from under his sleeve. His eyes caught his manservant’s reflection in the mirror and he turned.

  “They’ve arrived? ”

  “They await you in the salon,” Gérard bowed.

  La Roque allowed himself a smile of satisfaction. How quickly matters advanced. He’d met Bertrand Bouchard only weeks prior and listened to him pitch the virtues of his daughter, Marianne. La Roque had only extended the invitation after hearing of the land in Marianne’s dowry. Acquiring it would further his business interests along the coast.

  “Trés bien, Gérard. I will join them now.”

  He strode from the chamber and descended the steps to the foyer. Crossing the long hall he found himself more than curious. He thought he’d seen a mulâtresse with them. This would prove interesting.

  The sound of girlish laughter floated out into the hall. Stopping just outside of the entranceway and stealing a peek, he spied two of the loveliest young creatures he had ever seen, sharing his chaise longue and giggling.

  There was the attractive woman-child with hair as golden as sunshine, pinned up on either side of her head by jeweled barrettes. The rest of her hair hung in ringlets that cascaded past her shoulders. Soft ivory shoulders beckoned him. Her throat appeared warm and shapely above her low-cut bodice. She was ripe, and he felt compelled to know her.

  A slow, secretive smile formed on his lips. He envisioned the ways he would possess her. Then Gérard announced him, bringing him out of his wicked thoughts. He watched a moment longer as she readied herself for their introduction, then stepped under the arch of the entrance way.

  But then he took note of her companion, her face previously concealed from his view. All thoughts of the first young woman fled. This mulâtresse – quelle belle femme! Her hair, dark as ebony, pinned up from her face, fell in long, graceful waves to the center of her back. Her smooth skin glowed with pale golden overtones; and the high, exotic cheekbones that set off her delicate features captivated him. He couldn’t take his eyes off her full mouth. A soft pink shine glossed her lips, making them appear to be dew-kissed. Not since his travels to more foreign regions, as an attaché serving a General in Napoléon’s army, had he seen such a beauty. She dropped her eyes under his steady gaze.

  Her ladylike manner radiated youth and innocence. He had to know more.

  Madame Bouchard stepped forward, drawing his attention. Until that moment, he hadn’t noticed her. His mind made an instant and admittedly unfair comparison. She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. She might even have been attractive once, but being in the same room as her lovely daughters put her in a ghastly light. He took in the heavy white face powder, the large streaks of rouge from cheekbone to ear, and the severe black and gray dress. More than anything else, however, he noted the look in her eyes: determination and a hint of desperation. Good. The balance of power was most definitely in his favor.

  “Bienvenue à Château La Roque, Madame,” he said.

  “Mon seigneur Comte La Roque, it’s a great honor to finally meet you,” she said, batting her lashes and extending a gloved hand.

  La Roque approached. He kissed her hand, but shifted his eyes once again to the dark beauty.

  “The pleasure is mine. And whom do we have here? ”

  “May I p
resent my daughter, Mademoiselle Marianne Frances Bouchard,” she said, directing him to the pretty blonde. Marianne dropped a low curtsey.

  La Roque kissed her gloved hand, too. Her bashful smile as she looked into his face was endearing. Such purity was hard to find, he thought, with the appreciation of a connoisseur.

  Flustered from the brief contact, Marianne dropped her hand.

  “Enchanté,” said La Roque in his deep, smoky voice.

  “Mon seigneur,” she replied, with another bob of her head.

  Madame Bouchard cleared her throat. “Her companion, Zoé Camille Bouchard.”

  Zoé, standing behind Marianne with her eyes cast downward, stepped forward and offered a slight curtsey. La Roque kissed her hand as well.

  “Enchanté, mademoiselle.”

  Not as easily captivated as Marianne, Zoé looked him in the eye, but corrected herself before Madame saw her brashness. “Mon seigneur.”

  La Roque noticed the way she gracefully made her presence known and unknown. There was wisdom in her poise that her sister didn’t possess. She mocked him and his position with a stolen look. How refreshing and different from most of the women he met.

  Madame Bouchard cleared her throat again, and by that small sound alone, La Roque understood the situation. Zoé must be the husband’s child, the product of une petite liaison. Madame had evidently agreed to raise Zoé as her own, but the girl was to be Marianne’s companion, nothing more. This meeting was to pair Marianne with a proper husband, not Zoé.

  “Comte La Roque, Marianne has been anxiously anticipating this meeting. Haven’t you, ma chère? ”

  “Oui, Maman. Mon seigneur, I’ve been told of your many exploits and I hear that you are quite the sportsman.”

  La Roque nodded. “You like sports, Mademoiselle? ”

  “Oh, I love croquet and riding,” she said. “Nothing as adventurous as you, of course.”

  “Excellent,” he replied with little interest.

  Madame Bouchard smiled. “With your leave, mon seigneur, we will stay for a week to give you the opportunity to become acquainted with my Marianne. With the proper escort, of course. My husband shall join us near the end of our visit.”