Saved by love

by Barbara Cartland

“I only hope you will miss me and that, every moment I am not with you, you will find it so dull that you will be crying out for me to return!”

  She moved a little nearer to him as she spoke and, although she was not touching him, he felt as though she encircled him with her desire.

  “Tonight,” she whispered, “I will leave you waiting for me with a hunger that cannot be assuaged until we are together again.”

  She looked up into his eyes as she spoke and then moved away with the sensuousness of a snake gliding silently over the carpet.

  The Duc watched her go until she finally disappeared.

  Then he gave himself a little shake, as if to free himself of the mesmeric bonds that she had tied him with.

  Yursa thought that dinner like watching an exquisite picture come to life.

  She was aware, although she tried not to think about it, of the hostile glances she received from Zelée, who was sitting on the other side of the table.

  Once again she could feel a hatred that was unmistakable.

  She tried not to think about it, but it was impossible not to be aware that this strange and beautiful woman loathed her.

  She wondered if perhaps she too had overheard what the Duc’s mother and her grandmother had been planning.

  Then she told herself, now that she had seen the Duc with his friends and, of course, Zelée, that the whole thing was preposterous.

  Only two old women with nothing better to do could think of anything so unlikely.

  The Duc never glanced in her direction and she thought that he was completely oblivious of anyone of so little importance.

  Also she was convinced that it would never strike him that his mother would plan to link his future with an unknown young woman from England.

  ‘He is French, they are all French, and I am quite certain that his mother would resent it and find it intolerable for the Duc to marry anyone but a completely French wife,’ she told herself firmly.

  She could understand that they were afraid of Zelée, but that was something different.

  She was, Yursa thought, like the fire she embodied so vividly in her gown, a fire which could easily burn those she disliked.

  Yursa felt herself give a little shiver.

  Then common sense told her to ignore anything that might spoil the magic she felt at being at The Château and seeing so many treasures.

  After dinner when they all moved to the salon, the men accompanying the women as was usual in France and not staying behind to drink port, Yursa went to the window.

  The night was dark and the stars were shining overhead.

  The valley below seemed far away and mysterious.

  She found herself thinking of the battles that must have been fought there in the past and how Philip the Bold had helped the English during the last stages of the Hundred Years’ War.

  One of his soldiers had dragged Joan of Arc from her saddle under the walls of Compiègne and sold her to the English for ten thousand crowns, well aware of what her fate would be.

  She was so deep in her thoughts that Yursa started when a deep voice beside her said,

  “You find it beautiful?”

  She turned to find that Duc César was beside her, but she had not heard him approach.

  “It is even lovelier than I expected,” she answered.

  “I suspect that your grandmother has talked to you about The Château.”

  “And ever since it has been in my dreams,” Yursa answered.

  “And you are not disappointed now that you have seen it?”

  “It is everything I expected – and more. How very very lucky you are to own it and be the Duc!”

  He looked at her in surprise and there was a faintly cynical look in his eyes as he asked,

  “Am I also what you expected?”

  “No – you are quite – different!”

  It was not the answer he usually received and the Duc enquired curiously,

  “In what way am I different?”

  Yursa thought for a moment, not looking at him, but staring out into the darkness.

  “I am waiting,” he said after a moment, “because I am interested.”

  “I was thinking what the difference is,” Yursa answered. “I think it is because you are – more alive and very much more – intuitive than I had expected you to be.”

  “How do you know I am intuitive?”

  She made a little gesture, which expressed better than words that it was something that she felt, but there was no easy explanation for it.

  “What else do you think about me now that we have met?” he asked.

  She knew as he spoke that he had nearly added, ‘instead of just being in your dreams’ and somehow she did not think it conceited that he should expect to be there.

  It was really inevitable, as if he knew that it would be impossible for her grandmother to speak about The Château without including him.

  “I was told,” Yursa said after a moment, “that they think of you as a King, an Emperor, even perhaps a God!”

  “Is that what you feel I am?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then what am I?” the Duc asked.

  Yursa turned her head away from the valley and the stars.

  “You are the Duc de Montvéal,” she replied, “and that should be enough for any man!”

  The Duc was surprised.

  He was used to flattery, to women extolling his appearance, his talents and his intelligence.

  Now he knew that he was probing into Yursa’s mind, but she had circumvented him in what was a clever way, telling him nothing and yet giving him an answer that was irrefutable.

  He wanted to go on talking to her, but at that moment Zelée was beside him and her arm went through his.

  “I am waiting for you to come and play cards with me,” she pouted, “and you cannot refuse me on our last evening together.”

  She drew him away.

  Yursa went on gazing out of the window until one of her elderly relations joined her to talk about the family links and how many generations there were between them.

  *

  It was late when everybody went up to bed.

  There was a maidservant waiting in Yursa’s bedroom to help her undress.

  When she put on the pretty nightgown and attractive négligée that her grandmother had bought for her in Paris, she walked again to the window to look out over the darkened countryside.

  She could see a light here and there and it was to her as if a star had fallen from the sky.

  Once again she was thinking of the past, of the soldiers, the battles and the Ducs who had fought here and perhaps lost their lives.

  Then unexpectedly the door of her bedroom opened and she turned in surprise to see Zelée de Salône standing there.

  Yursa moved from the window letting the curtain fall behind her, wondering what this beautiful woman could want with her at this hour of the night.

  Zelée closed the door behind her and said,

  “Before I leave tomorrow, as I have to do, there is something I wish to say to you, Lady Yursa.”

  There was an ominous note in her voice that told Yursa before she spoke that she intended to be disagreeable.

  “I cannot imagine what you have to say,” Yursa replied, “but perhaps you would like to sit down?”

  She indicated an armchair as she spoke, but Zelée still stood by the door.

  In her flamboyant gown she seemed almost to burn up the beauty of the bedroom with its painted ceiling and soft damask hangings.

  “What I have to say,” she began, “is very simple – the Duc is mine and nothing you can say or do can take him away from me!”

  She seemed almost to spit the words and Yursa stiffened and took a step backwards almost as if Zelée had assaulted her.

  “I knew as soon as I saw you,” Zelée went on, “why you have been brought here by that old harridan, your grandmother, who has been scheming with the Duchesse to marry you to César for the past five y
ears. Well, you will fail, do you hear me? You will fail!”

  She spoke intensely, still with that fire that Yursa felt was almost physical.

  “I am warning you!” Zelée continued. “If you try to interfere between us, it will be something you will regret. Go back to England and leave the Duc alone!”

  Her last words seemed to echo round the room.

  Then, as Zelée turned swiftly to open the door, she looked back.

  “Go away,” she warned, “before it is too late.”

  As Yursa stood silent, finding it impossible to speak, she went from the room and the door closed behind her.

  For a moment Yursa just stood transfixed.

  It was not only what Zelée had said, it was once again the strange vibrations and violent hatred coming from her that rendered Yursa speechless and immobile.

  Then, as she walked to a chair and sat down, she realised that she was trembling.

  Although it seemed absurd, she was more afraid of the woman who had just confronted her than anything she had ever encountered before in her whole life.

  Chapter Three

  Yursa did not sleep well and had a restless night.

  She found herself haunted by the Frenchwoman’s flashing eyes and the harsh note in her voice.

  She told herself over and over again that it was childish to be frightened of any woman, especially one who was leaving Montvéal.

  Yet she felt a little shiver go through her and only after she had prayed for a long while to her mother and the Saints did she fall asleep.

  When she woke she knew that the one thing she did not want was to see Madame de Salône before she left The Château.

  Therefore when her maid, Jeanne, called her she asked tentatively,

  “Have you any idea what time Madame de Salône is leaving?”

  The maid shot her a sharp glance as if she thought that she had a reason for asking before she replied,

  “Madame is leaving after petit déjeuner, m’mselle, but she is taking it in her bedroom.”

  Yursa gave a little sigh of relief.

  Then, as Jeanne turned away, she saw the maid surreptitiously cross herself and thought that it was a strange thing to do.

  She was, however, so determined not to risk an unfortunate encounter that when she was dressed she went down a side staircase which she had learned the previous evening would take her near to the stables.

  She supposed it was quite usual in The Château, as it was in her father’s house, that guests if they felt in need of fresh air before breakfast would visit the stables.

  She expected the Duc’s stables to be magnificent.

  Yet, when she saw them, she was impressed to find them even better built and certainly more commodious than she had expected.

  Never had she seen better bred or finer horses and the Head Groom took her from stall to stall, gratified by her exclamations of delight at every animal they inspected.

  They had just finished one row of stalls and were about to start on another when the groom turned away from her and Yursa saw the Duc coming into the stable.

  He was looking extremely smart in his riding clothes and when he saw her he exclaimed,

  “So this is where you are! Cousin Hélène was wondering at breakfast what had happened to you.”

  “I am sorry if I have been – rude,” Yursa said quickly, “but I came just to have a quick look at your horses and have been so entranced by them that I stayed much – longer than I – intended.”

  “M’mselle has a way with horses, Your Grace!” the Head Groom said.

  “In that case,” the Duc replied, “I expect you would like to ride.”

  Yursa’s eyes lit up.

  “I was hoping you would – allow me to – do so.”

  The Duc looked at his watch.

  “I came here to decide which of my horses I would ride this morning,” he said, “and, if you can change and have something to eat in fifteen minutes, you can accompany me.

  Yursa gave a cry of delight that sounded like the song of a small bird.

  Without even replying, she picked up the front of her gown and ran from the stable into the yard as quickly as she could and back into The Château.

  Jeanne was still in her bedroom and she helped Yursa to change quickly into her riding habit.

  It was not very smart nor new, but since she had grown a little since it was made for her, it revealed the smallness of her waist and the curve of her breasts.

  Because too it was of a dark material, which was considered correct in an English hunting field, it threw into prominence the translucence of her skin and the vivid gold of her hair.

  She had changed in ten minutes and ran down the stairs into the dining room where several members of the house party were still eating breakfast.

  They paid little attention to her as she quickly ate a hot croissant with butter and honey, and drank a cup of coffee.

  Only as she slipped hastily out of the room did one of the older ladies say to the Marquise,

  “That is a very attractive girl and certainly gives herself no airs and graces.”

  “Why should she?” the Marquise asked with a smile.

  The older woman shrugged her shoulders.

  “I find that the young women today, especially the pretty ones, are very spoilt. They think of nothing but themselves.”

  The Marquise laughed.

  “I remember the same criticism being made about my generation and the generation before me!”

  Unaware that she was being complimented, Yursa ran as fast as she could to the stables to find the Duc already mounted on a magnificent black stallion.

  The grooms were holding for her a horse that almost the equal of his.

  Yursa had ridden since she could walk, so she was not afraid that she would disgrace herself in front of the Duc.

  Indeed she was so delighted at having such a fine mount that she almost forgot that he was accompanying her.

  They rode out of the stable yard, down the drive and then Yursa realised that they were heading towards some level ground in the valley.

  They had almost passed through the thick woods that covered the hill where The Château stood when there was the sound of wheels behind them.

  Automatically Yursa and the Duc drew their horses onto the grass verge to be out of the way.

  Then, as Yursa looked towards the approaching carriage, she saw a face at the window and realised that it was Madame de Salône.

  For a moment the dark slanting eyes were on her and once again she could feel the vibration of hate.

  As the Duc swept off his hat politely, the carriage passed them and there was only the rumble of wheels dying away into the distance.

  For a moment Yursa felt as if she could not move and was frozen to the spot.

  Then, as her horse swished his tail and fidgeted to be off, she forced herself to move forward in the direction they had been going before they heard the carriage behind them.

  She must, however, have looked very pale and her eyes frightened or perhaps he was just using his instinct for the Duc said,

  “Why does Madame de Salône upset you?”

  There was a tremor in Yursa’s voice as she replied,

  “She – she frightens – me!”

  “Why should she do so?”

  Too late Yursa wished that she had said nothing and she turned her face away from the Duc hoping that he would think she had not heard his question.

  He knew, however, that there was something wrong and, drawing his horse nearer to hers, he said,

  “Tell me! I want to know how she has frightened you.”

  She wanted to refuse to answer, but found it impossible.

  “She – she came to my – room last – night.”

  “To your room? What for?”

  “She was – angry and – upset.”

  The Duc’s lips tightened.

  He was too intelligent not to realise that Zelée had made a scene and there was no need to as
k why.

  After a moment he said almost sharply,

  “Forget her! She is of no interest to you.”

  “No – and it is – foolish of me to be – frightened.” Yursa spoke like a child who was trying to be brave in the dark and the Duc smiled before he asked,

  “Are you often frightened?”

  “I cannot remember – ever being frightened of a person – before,” Yursa replied because he was obviously expecting an answer.

  The Duc frowned then, as if he thought it was better to talk of what had happened rather than ignore it, he said,

  “Madame de Salône is very unpredictable and has, as you must have noticed, a penchant for the theatrical and the over-dramatic. So, as I have already said, forget her.”

  “I-I will – try,” Yursa murmured meekly.

  Then she thought that she was being like the rest of the family, obeying orders without questioning them just because he gave them.

  With a smile that swept away the fear in her eyes and brought the colour back into her cheeks she said,

  “Now you are behaving like the Emperor or God – we spoke about last night. You must be aware that you can direct people’s actions, but – not their – thoughts.”

  The Duc laughed.

  “That is certainly an original idea that has not occurred to me before.”

  “It is true,” Yursa said. “I have often found that the more you try to forget something – the more tenaciously it – remains in your mind.”

  When he considered it, the Duc realised that this was true.

  He had the uncomfortable feeling that, while he was trying to forget Zelée’s demand that he should marry her, her proposal kept recurring in his thoughts.

  By this time they had reached the valley.

  There was a level field of grass ahead of them and the Duc said,

  “Before we become too serious, let’s please our horses by racing them to where in the distance you will see a white post.”

  That was something that Yursa longed to do.

  She flashed a glance of delight and they were off.

  She knew that she had no chance, however skilfully she rode, of beating the Duc on his magnificent stallion, but at least she managed to keep up with him.

  They passed the white post, which she learnt later was just over a mile from where they had started, riding neck and neck.