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Paladin22
Philippe was livid by the time he reached the home he shared with Sophia. His ears burned, his face flushed as he paced through the kitchen.
"Only a complete coward would hide behind his bedroom door," he muttered to himself as he struggled out of his overcoat and threw it over a kitchen chair.
No one spoke to him in that manner. He was a Dupree! He was a fifth generation winemaker. Ever since he was thirteen he had been working in the office alongside his father, filling orders and overseeing production.
He was trusted to do his job. He was good at his job. Everyone who worked with his father knew Philippe and respected him.
But the vineyard no longer belonged to his family. It was in the Dupree Family, yes, but it was in his uncles' possession and had been since his mother and father died.
Being left with nothing galled Philippe. The vineyard estate, with its vast orchards of apples, apricots, plums, and grapes made for a fairytale playground where he and Sophia lost themselves all afternoon. Two creeks had turned brother and sister into fish during the summer, while winters saw them sliding across the ice or taking boards onto the gentle snow-covered slopes in the barren orchards.
Over the summer their lives had changed.
His two uncles wouldn't permit him to work in the vineyard, as they had older sons whom they thought were more capable. Unless Philippe agreed to take Sophia with him, their uncles were prepared to marry her off to a man three times her age, which Philippe had not allowed. With no home or business, Philippe and Sophia were left to fend for themselves.
As much as he hated to admit it, Philippe was growing weary of caring for Sophia. He didn't want anything to happen to her, but with her eyesight failing in one eye and the other still uncertain, he wanted her married. It was the only way he could think of to guarantee her future. If she waited a few more months no man would ever accept her. The truth she had to accept was that if she were completely blind she wouldn't be able to care for their children or household.
Philippe sighed in disgust. Karl had promised to care for Sophia, but Philippe was no fool. He knew men like Karl. Hell, he was a man like Karl. There was little doubt in Philippe's mind that Karl would provide for her financially, but there was little chance they would share a marriage bed for more than the first few months. Karl would seek his affection elsewhere, and that would leave Sophia to tend to the house as best she could. If she were to conceive a child it would most likely be tended to by a nanny. She would, perhaps, be kept at a private residence with her own wait staff.
It would be a lonely life, but her finances would be in order and their good name saved. That was all he could ask. Once she grew used to her lot in life, Philippe suspected she would be quite content. She would not be the only woman in the world whose husband sought pleasure in other women.
And perhaps, following the wedding, Karl would do as he promised and purchase Dupree Vineyards. The family business would once again belong to the family, which would give Sophia more liberty and return Philippe's social status. They would no longer be servants.
But now this man, this cowardly stranger, was attempting to ruin Philippe's plans for Sophia. The more he flattered her and placed absurd ideas into her head the more time she would waste before becoming Karl's wife. Why couldn't she see that?
God forbid this man would talk her into his bed. Since he spent the majority of his time hiding there was no telling what his true intentions were. Sophia was so impressionable that Philippe feared she had already fallen prey to this man.
With his hand balled in a fist, Philippe considered punching the tabletop but stopped himself. He saw Sophia standing in the doorway, her hair down and framing her face. She looked pretty. Too pretty.
"Remove that dress. Put your work frock on, pull your hair back, and for God's sake, Sophia, wash that rouge from your cheeks."
"I'm not wearing—"
"Do what I say!" Philippe screamed.
Sophia jumped back, her hands working through her hair to twist her black locks into a bun. "Philippe—"
Losing his self-control, Philippe grabbed Sophia by the shoulders and shook her hard. "You go, you attend your futile lessons, and you return here at once. Is that understood? You will dine with Karl Turro tonight! You will not ruin this!" he said through his teeth. He released her and swung his arm back though he stopped before he struck her. "Go."
She nodded as she turned and headed down the hall where she disappeared into her room.
Philippe ignored her sobs as he snatched his jacket and returned to his own room across from Sophia's. This was for the best. When she was taken care of financially she would thank him. If he were not a decent man he would have doomed her to the fate their uncles had in store for her. He would have had her married to a beady-eyed, white-haired man with grandchildren her age. He would have handed her to a man known to favor girls even younger than Sophia. He wouldn't have given thought to a more suitable match, a man who in time could possibly train himself to care for her. That man was Karl Turro.
"Oh, hell," Philippe said to himself as he leaned against the wall, unable to block out Sophia's sobs.
Love was out of the question, and for that Philippe closed his eyes and sighed.
-o-
Citrine delivered Monsieur Belmont's food to the parlor. He scared her half to death, as she hadn't expected him to be in the parlor before his food arrived.
"How is it that one man is so silent?" she said under her breath when he merely glanced over his left shoulder and nodded.
He was sitting at the piano, shuffling through sheets of music. He didn't say a word, and although Citrine didn't expect her employer to acknowledge her, there was something odd about the way he looked at her but resumed his task.
Since Citrine had arrived at Belmont Manor she had been attempting to figure him out. She couldn't decide if he was shy or too eccentric to concern himself with the outside world.
Given that he was a composer Citrine suspected he was a pretentious artist more concerned about his craft than with the public. But the mask covering the right side of his face piqued her curiosity.
The other women who worked in the Manor—and who were no longer employed there—had debriefed Citrine in the cellar. Citrine could still see the glint of horror and excitement in their eyes as they clutched her arms and whispered, "He wears a mask!"
It was debated, sometimes quite heatedly, as to whether he wore it to cover some type of scar or to set himself apart from the rest. A ploy, Citrine was told, merely for publicity. Artists were always doing something absurd.
One older woman, whom Citrine had replaced, said that she had read in the paper that the right side of his face was unhealed flesh.
"It was some sort of terrible illness," the woman had confided in Citrine.
Citrine had nodded, attempting to ignore the woman as she continued her work.
"I've heard it's simply ghastly. If you get close enough…he smells like death."
Citrine had merely smiled, but Sophia had been quite upset. In a huff she took a tray of tea and biscuits upstairs for the master of the house.
"Gossiping cows," Sophia had muttered as she left the kitchen.
From everything Citrine had seen Monsieur Belmont wasn't unpleasant; he just kept to himself. Out of everyone employed at the Manor the only person he saw frequently was Sophia.
Citrine left his food on a small table in the opposite corner and wiped her hands on her apron. "Will you take dinner here or in the dining room this evening, Monsieur Belmont?"
"My room," he answered in his rich, deep tone.
"Very well, Monsieur," Citrine replied.
She lingered, waiting for him to speak again. It didn't much matter what he said. For all she cared he could have told her to leave and never return. She merely wanted to hear his voice again and find another elusive piece of the enigmatic puzzle. Dinner the previous night had told her nothing, as he had kept to himself throughout most of the meal.
Erik glanced over his shoulder again and looked her up and down. "That is all."
"Of course," Citrine said pleasantly. She smiled even though he wasn't looking at her. "I haven't yet made dessert, Monsieur. Would you care for something in particular? I have several jars of pears and red raspberries for tarts, or I could make something with chocolate. Monsieur Monte—"
"Make whatever you wish," he replied. He paused and twisted a little more until he looked her in the eye.
From where she stood Citrine could only see the left half of his face. Her curiosity was piqued, and the longer she stared at him the harder it became to ignore his appearance. Why a man with such a flawless face would choose to hide part of it was beyond Citrine's imagination. He had a strong jaw, a dimpled chin, and a focused gaze that bore straight through her. He was intimidating in build, commanding in voice, and unmistakable in presence. For such a silent man he could not be ignored—even though his preference seemed to be to enter and leave a room unnoticed. No wonder Sophia talked about him when they were alone together in the kitchen, Citrine thought.
"When you send dinner up," he said, his voice like thunder rolling through the room. "I would prefer extra salt to sugar."
"I don't add enough salt?" Citrine asked, suddenly insulted by his request.
"Perhaps for others," he replied and left it at that.