“Three or four, if I remember correctly,” he said coolly. “Many nights I was too tired, my mind too filled with business to be bothered. But if my body needed relief, there was always a willing woman to see to my pleasure.”
“Variety,” she said. “You do not even bother to lie about it.”
“Why should I? I wasn’t married, for Laura had died the year before.”
“And you aren’t married now.”
“And I am tired of you, because you are fat and predictable.”
“Yes,” she said. “You can be honest with me. You owe me nothing.”
“Very well, if it is truly honesty you wish, Giana. Behold honesty, though I doubt you would recognize it if it flattened you.”
He closed his hands gently over her breasts, his dark eyes steady on her upturned face. “I want you, Giana. Your predictability, your openness to me, I find delightful. I am pleased that you enjoy being in my arms, that you enjoy how I touch you. I even enjoy the feel of your rounded belly against me.”
He saw a leap of joy in her eyes. Then the shadows of doubt she could not hide. He sighed.
“So much for honesty.”
“Alex, I—”
“Stow it, Giana. I’ve always been better suited to action.” He lowered his mouth to hers, tasting the tart apple cider she had sipped at the park. “Your breasts are so soft against me,” he whispered into her mouth.
“I ache. I ache so much I cannot bear it.”
“That is honesty I cannot deny,” he said, trying to smile. She tangled her hands in his hair as he lowered his head to suckle her breast. He laid his palm against her heart, and felt it racing. “Ache where, Giana? Your breasts or your belly?”
“Both. And my legs. They feel boneless.”
He stripped off her dressing gown and pulled her ripped chemise over her hips. She stood before him dressed only in her silk stockings, held above her knees by blue garters. His eyes roved upward to her swollen belly, to his child growing in her womb. “You are truly a delicious sight, Giana.”
“You must stop tearing off my clothes, Alex.”
“Your damned undergarments are always a nuisance.” He closed his hands about her waist and grinned. “The baby is growing, Giana. Not too long ago I could encircle you.”
He stepped back from her and began to pull off his clothes, aware that she was watching him. She was fascinated by his body, perhaps as much, he thought, as he was by hers. He looked up at her, and she said, “You are a beautiful man, Alex.”
“Given your unusual summer in Rome, I shall take that as a compliment.” He clasped her hand in his and drew her toward him. When he cupped her buttocks, she pressed her cheek against his shoulder, clutching his broad back, and sighed.
“I think I could spend all my time quite satisfactorily like this, Alex.” She stood on her tiptoes and rubbed against him, wishing she were taller so she could fit better against him. She felt him tugging the pins from her hair, stroking his fingers through the thick waves that reached nearly to her waist.
“You are toying with me, Alex,” she said, and giving him a siren’s smile, she slid her hand between them.
“Giana, stop.” He closed his hands beneath her hips and lifted her, and she fell forward against him, laughing against his throat. He carried her to their bed, gently eased her onto it, and pressed himself over her. Suddenly he raised himself on his elbows, startled eyes flying to her face.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered, trying to pull him back against her.
“The baby. He just kicked me.”
Giana giggled. “Please, Alex, promise me you won’t tell Dr. Davidson. The poor man would die of embarrassment.”
But Alex was frowning. “I’m too heavy for you now, like this.” He saw that she would protest, and added on a grin, “I don’t want our child cursing his father before he is even born.”
He scooped her in his arms and pulled her onto her side, facing him. “We’ll just have to become more inventive, Giana,” he said against her mouth. “This isn’t so bad, is it?”
She moved against him, and whispered as he moaned, “No, Alex. I see that you like it quite well.”
When at last she was snuggled against him, and he was gently stroking her back to calm her, he felt her arch back to look up at his face. “Will it always be thus? Will you always make me want to die for you?”
“I will always try.”
She kissed his chin. “You need to shave,” she said. “I should dislike being so hairy,” she added thoughtfully. “I should not like putting a razor to my face every day.”
“I should dislike your doing it too.”
She laughed and snuggled against him, burrowing her face against his chest.
“Princess,” he said softly after a moment, “promise me that you will tell me if something distresses you.”
“I felt so depressed,” she said on a sigh.
“There was no need, as I hope you believe now.”
“I suppose you are right,” she said, though to his ear she did not sound certain.
He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and gazed down into her sleepy face. “I can’t change the laws, Giana.”
“No,” she said sadly, “no one can. Men will not allow it.”
“But we can ignore the laws. They needn’t touch us.”
She became very still in his arms. He waited for the wariness to shutter her eyes, and realized he was holding himself as still as was she.
She said nothing.
“Go to sleep, Giana. We have a couple of hours before dinner.”
She heard disappointment in his voice, and felt tears sting her eyes. She was afraid.
Chapter 22
“Do listen, Giana.” Once Leah had secured her stepmama’s attention, she read from the Times. “ ‘Lord Palmerston has been dismissed from the Foreign Office after expressing approval of Louis Napoleon’s coup detat.”’
“Coup d’état,” Alex corrected automatically.
“What is that?”
“It means a sudden overthrow of a government,” Giana said. “Of course,” she added, with all the English disdain of the French, “it is not unexpected in a country like France.”
But Leah, having delivered her bit of news, had her head buried again behind the Times pages.
“Lord Palmerston is an excellent statesman,” Alex said.
“Come, Alex,” Giana said, “Lord Russell had no choice. Palmerston has behaved outrageously. What of the supposed apology he snickered to the Austrian General Haynau after the poor man was attacked by employees in a brewery?”
“Haynau is a pig,” Alex said. “Lord Palmerston was perfectly justified in his bit of rudeness.”
“Who is the painter J.M.W. Turner?” Leah asked suddenly.
“Why, Leah?” Giana asked.
“He died.”
“What a pity,” Giana said. “He was a dear friend of my mother’s. He was a very famous painter, Leah. You remember the Turner paintings in the drawing room, do you not, Alex?”
“Yes,” Alex said, but his attention was no longer at the breakfast table, but on a letter he was reading. He raised his face, smiling widely. “Delaney should be here for Christmas,” he said.
“Uncle Delaney,” Leah said, slithering from her chair. “Oh, Anna, you will adore my uncle. Giana, he is so funny.” Casting a candid look at her father, Leah continued, “Though he is not nearly so handsome as Papa.”
“But he is younger than Papa, is he not, Leah?” Giana asked, giving Alex a droll look.
“He will doubtless improve with age,” Alex said. “Now,” he continued, rising, “who would like to come with me to cut down our Christmas tree?”
Giana was the one, bundled up to her ears in a heavy fur-lined cloak, who picked out the huge fir tree Alex cut down. They dragged it back to the city tied to a sled behind the carriage. Leah, exhausted from all the excitement, fell asleep in her father’s arms. Giana watched Alex wipe away the traces of ho
t chocolate from about Leah’s mouth and lightly kiss the child’s smooth brow. She felt tears sting her eyes, and quickly turned her head away. It was her pregnancy, she thought, that was making her foolishly sentimental. But it had been a day that would remain with her, she knew, a joyous day with so much laughter, one that would never fade from her mind.
“You are very quiet, Giana,” Alex said, closing his book to look at her full face as they sat in front of the fireplace in their bedchamber that evening. “Are you tired?”
She started at the concern in his voice, and forced herself to shrug her shoulders. “Of course not, Alex.” But his eyes held hers for a moment longer, and the hated, inexplicable tears swam in her eyes again. “I’m being foolish,” she said, swiping her fingers over her eyes. “It’s just that we never had such a Christmas tree. The past couple of years, Mother had one delivered, delivered like a package, to the back door. The servants decorated it. The damned servants. I always admired it, and duly complimented Lanson and the staff on their efforts, because I was supposed to. I always hated Christmas.”
Alex watched her silently. He wanted to tell her that if she but stayed with him he would erase all her bitterness. He would make her every Christmas a special time. He waited until she quieted, and asked her, “What were your Christmases like when you were Leah’s age?”
“I got lots of presents. Mother was so busy, Alex, I understand that now. But a child isn’t so understanding. Leah is such a lucky child.”
“More lucky this year, I should say. This is her first Christmas with a mother and a father. I much enjoyed today, Giana. You were as excited as Leah.”
Her smile became more natural as Alex continued. “We will let the tree soak for a couple of days, then bring it into the drawing room. Mrs. Carruthers is helping Leah make decorations for it.”
“That will be marvelous,” she said. “Perhaps Anna will show me how to make something.”
“I will show you. I am really quite good at decorating trees.”
“As good as you are at growing orchids?”
“Better. If you would like, it is sort of a tradition in this household to have an open house on Christmas Day.”
Her eyes sparkled. “Yes, so very much. Should you dislike me inviting the Lattimers?”
He said only, his voice perfectly bland, “No, that would be fine.”
“Sometimes you are terribly provoking, Alex Saxton.”
“Suffice it to say, princess, that Charles Lattimer will still gobble up your collateral when McCormick lets you down.”
“I shan’t fight with you about that tonight, Alex.”
“Excellent.” He patted his thighs. “I think I can still hold you comfortably.”
Giana readily left her chair and settled herself in his lap.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “I much enjoy family life. You are treating Leah as if she were your own child.”
“I love her,” Giana said.
“Would you love me if I were nine years old?”
His voice was light, teasing, and Giana answered, keeping her voice as light as his, “I can’t fight with Leah the way I fight with you.”
“I remember thinking once that we were like a couple of stray cats. At least the she-cat is resting as she should now.”
‘’Because you happened to be right about that, Mr. Saxton, I suppose I was a bit overbearing when I first arrived.”
“You suppose?”
“You’ve been very kind, Alex.”
“Don’t let that get around, princess, I would lose my reputation in business.” He dropped his hand to her swelling belly and rested it there. “Life is damned odd,” he said thoughtfully.
“Indeed. Here I was, perfectly happy, minding my own affairs, and then you, a brazen American, came trooping into my life. And within one short week I lost my virginity, got vilely ill—”
“And became beautifully pregnant,” he finished with satisfaction.
“I don’t think I’ll apologize for being overbearing.”
He raised a black brow. “Stray cats never apologize,” he said.
“Alex, I don’t believe it.”
“Merry Christmas, Giana,” he said, smiling down at her stunned face.
“You did this for me?” She gazed about the once dismal parlor that had occupied the south corner of the house. The dull dimity curtains, the gray wallpaper, and the odd collection of furniture had vanished. She gaped at the rich blue-and-white carpet, the inset bookshelves, the drawing by Bornet of New York Bay from the Battery hung above the graceful Italian fireplace, the oak desk set at an angle facing the garden windows. On its smooth surface was an ivory-inlaid box filled with pens and pencils. A daguerreotype of her, Leah, Alex, and Mrs. Carruthers standing in front of the jetting Park Fountain in the City Hall Park stood beside the pen box. Two boxes lay on the center of the desk, and she clumsily lifted the lid of one of them. It was exquisite stationery, “Georgiana Van Cleve Saxton” and the address of Alex’s office building printed in flowing black script at the top of each sheet. Giana turned slowly. “Why?” she asked, sweeping her arms about her.
“Why?” An amused black brow winged upward. “Self-preservation, Giana,” he said. “You were beginning to take over my library, and I decided you should have one of your own. And with a study of your own, I thought you might stay more at home.”
Their eyes met for a moment, and he read her unspoken thought. But I will not be here. In five months I will never see this room again.
“The stationery,” she said. “It is beautiful.” She turned away to finger the crisp sheets of paper. Georgiana Van Cleve Saxton. He had taken nothing from her.
“I thought,” he said coolly, “that a woman of your stature should cease using her husband’s stationery. I trust everything pleases you.”
Giana nodded, unable to meet his eyes. She walked to the bookshelves and gazed at the titles. “Dickens,” she said. “I like Dickens.”
“There is also the usual complement of Greek philosophers, and modern-day tomes on economics and politics.”
“And Jane Austen,” she said, pulling down the copy of Emma, bound in thick red vellum. “How did you know she is my favorite author, Alex?”
“Your mother wrote me.”
She turned slowly to face him. “You have been planning this for some time?”
“I suppose so. The trick was to keep you out of the house when the workmen and decorators were here. Your preoccupation with strawberry ice cream was invaluable, particularly when the fireplace construction ran into the evening hours.”
Giana replaced the book on the shelf. “The chair,” she said, “it is like yours, only smaller.” She had always secretly admired his chair, but of course had teased him about his impressive seat of power.
“Yes.”
She picked up the skirt of her dressing gown and ran to him. “Thank you, Alex,” she cried, hugging her arms about his back.
He kissed her lightly and smiled over her head at his creation.
“My Christmas present to you is not nearly so impressive,” she said shyly, her fingers toying with the buttons of his dressing gown. “In fact, perhaps you won’t care for it at all.”
“You didn’t have to get me anything, Giana,” he said roughly.
“You don’t like presents, Mr. Saxton? Even a big fierce man is allowed to be excited once in a while.”
“I am, nearly every night.”
She pulled away from him. “Stay here, Alex. I’ll be back in but a moment.”
Alex was still admiring his handiwork when Giana returned, breathless, a large package under her arm.
It was a painting. He could feel the frame through the paper wrapping as he tore away the ribbon.
“It’s me,” Giana said behind him.
Alex propped the painting up on Giana’s desk chair and took several steps back to look at it.
“Mr. Turner painted it,” she said when he was quiet for several moments. “He was noted
for his landscapes, of course, but Mother convinced him to put me in one of them.”
Alex stared at Giana’s image, smiling at him innocently, her vivid eyes, not quite the right color, he saw, wide with wonder. She was dressed in a dark blue riding habit, standing next to a tall black stallion, her gloved hand holding his reins. Creamy-textured woods and hills filled the background. It was almost the Giana he had seen in Rome. “When was it painted?” he asked quietly.
“The Christmas of 1846.”
Before Rome. Six months before Rome.
Yes, he thought, there was innocence and trust on the young girl’s face. He realized he would give almost anything to see that look on her face now.
“I had it shipped from London,” she said, nearly dancing around him in her anxiety. “I did not know what you would like for Christmas—you have everything. I thought perhaps—” Her voice trailed off, for he was eyeing her with a bemused smile.
“You have given me a present beyond anything I could ever imagine,” he said. “May I hang your portrait in the—my—library?”
She drew a relieved breath. “You really like it, Alex?”
“I like both the younger and older versions of Georgiana Van Cleve.” Did you give me the portrait to remember you by?
“Come, Giana. I’ll wager Leah has already pulled Mrs. Carruthers and poor Delaney out of bed.”
In fact they found Leah sitting on Delaney’s bed, her legs curled up beneath her, tearing open one of the several presents he had brought her.
“You’ve come to save me,” Delaney said, fumbling to place over his eye the monocle Alex had given him as a joke. “Lord, it’s only seven-thirty in the morning, a morning I might add after an evening of grog. Can it be, Alex, that we had such energy and dedicated greed when we were boys?”
“We had much more,” Alex said, grinning. “ Remember the Christmas Father gave us hatchets?”
“And poor Mother had a dining table with only three legs for her Christmas ham. But you were the elder, all of eight years old, as I remember. I was but a babe in arms, innocent as the Christ Child.”
Evening Star Page 30
