Evening Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “I hope you enjoyed yourself,” she said when they at last scrambled onto the boat.

  “Indeed, my dear. In fact, I am tempted to leave business discussions to Raymond and Hammett tomorrow. Edward Blakeson, the gardener I was talking to, has agreed to show me more of his methods so I may improve my luck with my orchids in Connecticut. They are quite delicate, you know, more so than a woman. And of course their care is quite different.” He paused a moment, grinning down into her stone-set face. “I hope that I may learn how to care for them as well as I care for women.”

  “Your innuendos are not amusing, Mr. Saxton.”

  “You wish me to speak more bluntly, then? Surely you know that the thought of holding you in my arms, of kissing your soft mouth, Miss Van Cleve, makes me tense with anticipation.”

  “I would prefer you not to speak at all,” she said, pulling her fingers away from his hand. “You do not desire me, you want only your petty revenge.”

  “You are really quite wrong. I will be pleased to prove that to you.”

  “I do not want you to prove anything, Mr. Saxton. I only want you to leave me alone and leave London.”

  He stroked his fingertips over her open palm. “Odd,” he said thoughtfully, gazing into her eyes, “you seem to tremble when I touch you.”

  Giana snatched her hand away. “Please,” she whispered.

  “Please what, my dear? Dare I guess?”

  “I wish you would take yourself to Hell.”

  “When next I kiss you, Giana, I would appreciate your leaving off the violence. My shin still aches. I suppose I should be grateful that you did not kick me elsewhere.”

  She frowned at him, helpless to dampen his good humor, and fell into a brooding silence. She was terribly aware of how close he was standing at casual ease beside her. Who is there to know or care if I give my virginity to him? I am twenty-one, no longer a silly schoolgirl. She started, aghast at herself. Damn him.

  “I wish you would stop teasing me,” she said aloud. “And you are so damned big, I cannot see past you.”

  He stepped behind her and gently drew her back against him. “Is this better?”

  She imagined her naked hips pressed against his belly, and blanched at the shiver of pleasure it brought her. “It is not.” She turned crimson at the interested stares of their fellow passengers.

  “Then you will have to tell me what you like, my dear,” he said easily, letting her go. “A man’s pleasure is very much bound to his woman’s. Oh, I forgot to tell you. We will be leaving Friday by train to Folkestone. I have procured us a lovely house at the strand. Do make whatever arrangements you must with your dear mother.”

  To Giana’s surprise, her mother was awaiting her downstairs, beautifully gowned. “The duke,” she said, smiling, “is to join us again for dinner. He was disappointed you were not here last night, and insisted upon seeing you, en famille.”

  “That is nice,” Giana said, her voice abstracted.

  Aurora watched her daughter jerk off her gloves and pace about like the tigers at the exhibition. “I trust you enjoyed your outing with Mr. Saxton,” she said. “Where did you go?”

  “No, I did not, and it was Kew Gardens.”

  “Then why did you agree to see him again? And why Kew Gardens? Surely there are more amusing places for a visitor in London, particularly a gentleman.”

  “He likes flowers,” she said flatly. “When is the duke expected?”

  “Soon. Incidentally, Giana, Thomas visited me this afternoon, filled with praises for you. He said he had never seen you so engaged.”

  “The merger is important,” Giana said. “And I have no intention of giving that man anything.”

  “Well, that is certainly good business.”

  “Mother, I have decided to leave London for a while. A school friend of mine has invited me to Folkestone.”

  “I see,” Aurora said, not seeing at all. “When do you intend to leave?”

  “On Friday afternoon.”

  “And your return?”

  “I am not quite certain.”

  “And your friend’s name? In case I need to get in touch with you.”

  “Blakeson,” Giana said, the gardener’s name at Kew Gardens. “The Edward Blakesons. I will be met at the station in Folkestone and do not know their address.”

  “Do you wish Abigail to accompany you?”

  “No. That is, it is not necessary. Susan Blakeson, my friend, will certainly share her maid with me.”

  “His grace, the Duke of Graffton, madam,” Lanson announced from the doorway.

  “It took a duke to make Lanson pretentious,” Aurora said under her breath to Giana. She rose and shook out her skirts. “Show the duke in,” she said.

  The duke’s eyes, Giana saw, were glued to her mother, alight with pleasure. The ruby signet ring on his third finger flashed brightly as he brought Aurora’s hand to his lips.

  “Must we really wait until our wedding night, my love?” he whispered against her ear.

  “No,” Aurora said.

  “Little baggage,” he murmured. He turned to Giana, who was fiddling awkwardly with a Se`vres figurine. “Forgive my abstraction with your beautiful mother, my child, but surely you cannot blame me.”

  “Good evening, sir,” Giana said, taking in her mother’s besotted gaze. “No, sir, I cannot blame you.”

  “We see eye to eye. Well, Giana, I understand you had quite a day.”

  “’Twas but more of the same, sir,” she said with sublime disregard for the truth. “Your days are always far more interesting.”

  The duke looked mournful. “Today I tried to tell that damned son of mine, Edward, you know, that you, dear Giana, are far too intelligent and much too discerning to have anything to do with a pompous oaf like him. He is persuaded you would make him a superb wife.”

  Giana started, then laughed, unable to help herself. “You are jesting, sir. Come, Edward is much enamored with Lady Arabella Lawton.”

  “True, I have been found out. But at least your face is now sunny, my dear. Life is far too short to take too many things seriously. If one cannot smile, one might as well cock up his toes.”

  “Smile in the face of overwhelming adversity. That is your advice, your philosophy, sir?”

  “You may be certain, Giana, that now that I have found your mother, I shall die with a happy smile on my vacuous face. Now, ladies, I am famished. Is dinner to be served soon?”

  “Dinner is already served, and you have two arms, your grace.”

  “To my profound relief, my dear.”

  Chapter 13

  Euston Station was hot, a press of milling travelers, harried porters, and shouting hawkers. “Some things are the same everywhere,” Alex said to Giana. “There’s our train, I believe.” Giana weaved where she stood. He grasped her elbow and she blinked away her dizziness, locking her knees beneath her.

  “Should I take that as a compliment, Giana? Are you so overwhelmed that you are thinking of fainting on me?” At her angry gasp, he said, “Do wait, my dear, until I have you safely within. Ah, here is our porter.”

  “Your wife is ill, sir?” the porter asked.

  “My wife? Just a bit faint from the heat.” He gazed down at her, smiling widely. “She will feel much better presently.”

  Alex assisted her into their private car, made room for the porter to place their luggage on the racks above their seats, and settled himself comfortably down beside her.

  He gave her an engaging grin. “Come, Giana, surely I am not such a bad bargain? I wish you would admit you are not so averse to our little adventure.”

  Little adventure? That was what he thought of it?

  The whistle sounded shrilly, and the train jerked slowly forward, its stacks billowing clouds of black soot.

  “No,” she stated, jerking at the door handle. “I won’t go with you.”

  Alex grabbed her arm and pulled her, squirming, against him. “Hush,” he said in a surprisingly gentle voice. �
��You are just nervous. It will pass.”

  “I hate you,” she said against his shoulder.

  “Do remember you said that when you are in my arms tonight. It will give me pleasure to remind you.” He regarded her flushed face a moment, a thick black brow arched upward. “You want me, you know. Whenever I touch you I feel you respond to me. You tremble delightfully. And your bonnet is askew.”

  Giana pulled away from him and righted her plum-trimmed straw bonnet. She felt oddly weak and closed her eyes against a pain in her temple.

  Alex watched her as she sat stiffly, staring straight in front of her, her cheeks flushed and her fists clenched in her lap. He could not for the life of him figure out why she was still acting the outraged maiden.

  “It will be some years before you equal your mother,” he said after a while. “Indeed,” he continued thoughtfully, “I do believe I have given on more points to her than I had intended. A remarkable woman, your mother. But then, she has only Van Cleve interests to think about.”

  “She wishes to meet with you again on Monday.”

  “Then we will have only three nights together, my love. No matter, there will be other nights, and days too. I enjoy making love in the sunlight, though there doesn’t ever appear to be any in London. Do you?”

  “No,” she said shortly, presenting him with her profile again.

  “Yes, indeed,” he said aloud. “Aurora Van Cleve is very remarkable. I see now why Raymond and Hammett were leery about dealing with her. You lack her charm, Giana, but perhaps I am not being fair. Are you exquisitely charming to other men?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Your mother even laughs charmingly. I have yet to hear you laugh, Giana.”

  “You never will.”

  “I begin to believe that unless I wish to carry on a monologue all the way to Folkestone, I might as well take a nap and garner my strength. Do rouse me if you wish to become more communicative.” He folded his arms over his chest, stretched out his long legs, and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was snoring.

  Giana refused to admit to herself until the porter announced Canterbury that she was ill. She pressed her palms against her cheeks and they were hot to the touch. Her throat felt scratchy and her headache was now a steady pounding. She wanted to laugh, but tears burned her eyes instead. She stared over at Alexander Saxton, peacefully sleeping. Wild thoughts careened through her mind. She could cosh him over the head with her valise. She could strangle him with one of her silk stockings and chuck his body from the moving train. At least it would stop his miserable snoring.

  She was ill. Surely he would not want to make love to her if he knew. She reached a hand to his shoulder, then withdrew it. She could easily picture him regarding her with amused disbelief if she told him she was sick. He would laugh and ask if she had any better tricks to try. She tried to focus her mind, but her head seemed to be spinning. She closed her eyes, and when next she was aware, the train was slowing. They were coming into Folkestone.

  The porter rapped on their compartment door and opened it.

  “Folkstone,” he said, eyeing the slouched gentleman.

  Alex gave him a wide smile. “Excellent. At last, my love.” He reached over and patted Giana’s gloved hand intimately.

  The porter gave him a disgusting answering grin, almost a leer.

  “Forgive me, Giana, for being such a boring fellow and sleeping the whole journey. I promise that you will have my full attention for the next three days.” He yawned and stretched. “I allowed myself to see the more interesting side of London last night in Raymond’s company.”

  “I hope that you have caught some vile disease.”

  “You will learn, Giana, that I am very fastidious. Indeed, that is the last fate you should wish for me,” he added on a mocking grin. “Such vile diseases are catching, you know.”

  Giana allowed Alex to bundle her into a closed carriage and pull its worn wool rug over her legs. She stared out the carriage window as the horse clip-clopped through the quiet streets. She had always liked Folkestone, until now. She sat weakly against the moldering leather squabs, listening to the pounding in her head, and ignoring Alexander Saxton.

  The carriage drew to a halt in front of a small whitewashed cottage surrounded by a low wooden fence. There was a slight misty drizzle, and Giana raised her face to it as Alex helped her down from the carriage. She suddenly realized that she was thirsty, terribly thirsty.

  She said as much to Alex when he ushered her into the cozy front parlor of the cottage.

  “I am too,” he said. “First things first. Sit down, Giana, and I’ll set the fire.”

  She could think of nothing else to do, and sank down onto a chintz sofa. There were light dimity curtains on the windows, and thick wool rugs scattered on the floor, held in place by the heavy mahogany legs of solid chairs and side tables. It was a comfortable room, and she did not want to leave it. She did not want to think about the bedroom.

  “I’m hungry,” she said.

  Alex turned, his task completed, and said cheerfully, “I will give you the biggest supper you can hold, my dear, but not just yet. Think of how romantic it will be to drink champagne and eat a late supper before the fire. A very late supper.”

  Suddenly she wasn’t hungry at all. She lurched to her feet and dashed her hand over her forehead. “I don’t want any supper,” she said.

  “When it came down to it,” he said, “somehow I did not think you would mind waiting for your dinner.”

  “That is not what I meant.” Her voice sounded slurred and low, completely unlike her. The fire was blazing brightly, and yet she felt herself shivering. She walked toward the welcoming fireplace to warm herself.

  “Take off your cloak and bonnet, Giana.”

  She did so, her fingers clumsy and awkward. He helped her, tossing the garments to the sofa.

  She felt his hands on her shoulders, and jumped. He was turning her toward him, molding her against him. His hands were caressing her arms, and she felt a warmth in her body—whether because of him, she did not know. Tell him again that you are a virgin. Tell him that you are ill. But her only protest was a soft moan from deep in her throat. No, don’t tell him anything.

  Alex looked down into her glazed eyes. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips slightly parted. He felt her hands pressing against his chest. “Relax, love,” he said gently. Slowly he lowered his mouth to hers. She tasted warm, he thought, delectably warm, the heat of her passion welling up to him. He felt her tremble, and when his tongue slipped into her mouth, he felt her start, as if surprised. He closed his arms tightly about her back and drew her against him, exploring her mouth with his tongue just as he would her warm belly. He left her mouth and kissed her eyes, her cheeks, her throat.

  “Alex,” she said, trying to draw back from him. “I’m thirsty. Please.”

  Alex was trembling, he wanted her desperately, and it surprised him. He was mauling her like an untried boy.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, getting a hold on himself. “I am too. Champagne?”

  She nodded. Perhaps champagne would clear her head.

  Alex drew a bottle from his valise and popped the cork, spewing the warm champagne over the carpet. “I even had the foresight to bring glasses,” he said, grinning at her. Why the hell was she staring at him so warily, as if he were some sort of untamed beast? “Here,” he said gruffly, handing her a glass.

  The champagne slid down her throat, cooling her mouth. She downed another glass and asked for a third. She was beginning to feel light-headed, not at all an unpleasant feeling, and the pounding at her temple was lessening.

  “Can an experienced man always tell if a woman is a virgin?” she asked.

  He eyed her curiously for a moment. “I suppose so, usually. Did the first man you enjoyed not know you were a virgin?”

  “If a woman has led a very active life, horseback riding, and all that, is it possible he would not know she is a virgin?”

  “It is
possible, I suppose, but there would still be a bit of pain.” He cocked his head at her. “You fascinate me, Giana. Why your interest?”

  She shrugged. “I merely wondered, that’s all.” She held out her glass to him again.

  “No more, Giana. I have no wish to have a drunk woman in my bed.”

  “I don’t want to be in your bed, Mr. Saxton,” she said.

  “Then how about in front of the fire?” He took her glass and set it down on a small table, his movements deliberate and slow. He would go easy with her until she wanted him.

  He gently caressed her face, and raised her chin to him with his fingers. When he touched his lips lightly to hers, she parted her mouth willingly. While his tongue caressed her mouth, his hands roved lightly down her back to cup her hips. He felt her stiffen, and then, to his immense pleasure, she rose to her tiptoes to fit herself against him.

  “I hate all the damned clothes you women wear,” he said against her ear.

  She felt his fingers prodding at the tiny buttons over her breasts. He kissed her again, deeply, and pushed her gown from her shoulders. When she felt his hands against her bare flesh, she clung to him.

  “Still more garments, Giana,” he said, pulling open the ribbons of her chemise. She drew back, suddenly frightened, and tried to cover her breasts. She raised wide, confused eyes to his face.

  Alex didn’t notice. He gently pulled her hands away and gazed at her full breasts. His hands trembled as he gently cupped them. She was incredibly white, her flesh like smooth silk, her nipples a pale pink velvet. As he caressed her, he felt a bolt of anger at the thought of other men touching her, delighting in her as he was now. He leaned down and closed his mouth over her.

  Giana gasped, in surprise and in pleasure. She felt her breath quicken, and arched her back to him.

  He felt her quivering against him, heard low moans from deep in her throat. Jesus, he thought, there is such passion in her, such openness and giving. And why not? Why would she give her body to so many men if she did not enjoy it?

  “Damn you,” he said. He jerked off her gown, and with it, her many petticoats. She stood passively, letting him roll down her silk stockings and pull off her shoes. He stared up at her a moment.