A Duel With Destiny

by Barbara Cartland

  “But – you are leaving – tomorrow.”

  The Marquis raised his head and sat up a little straighter, but his arms were still around her.

  “I must go home, as it is arranged, but we have to make plans so that we can be together without upsetting your father.”

  “It will upset him to lose me,” Rowena agreed, “but it was inevitable that it should happen one day.”

  She smiled a little shyly and went on,

  “I have thought about it – not that I imagined I would – love you – but because I could not leave the children with no one to look after them.”

  “No, of course not,” the Marquis agreed.

  “I am certain – although I have never mentioned it to her – that Miss Graham, who teaches Hermione, would be only too pleased to move in here. Her cottage is very small and very damp which gives her rheumatism – in the winter. She thinks that Papa is wonderful and would look after him.”

  “Then that makes it very easy,” the Marquis said.

  “You are – certain – quite certain that you want me?”

  “Do you really need me to answer that very foolish question?” he enquired.

  But there was no need for words as he kissed her and Rowena felt the urgency behind his lips and the fire that seemed to unite them both.

  For a moment she felt as if there were flames so intense and so consuming that she might lose her whole identity in them.

  Then the Marquis’s lips became less fierce and possessive and instead were tender and caressing.

  “You are very young,” he said softly, “I would not wish to frighten you.”

  “I am – not frightened,” Rowena replied. “It is all so – perfect – so wonderful! Are you sure I am not dreaming?”

  “If you are, then I am dreaming too.”

  He laid his cheek against hers as he went on,

  “Could anyone be so soft and sweet and at the same time excite me to the edge of madness? Oh, my darling, how long have I to wait until we can be together?”

  “You must not do anything that is wrong for you,” Rowena said quickly. “You must remember – that you will not be really well for some time. You must take things easy.”

  “You call this easy?” the Marquis asked with laughter in his voice.

  “It is – marvellous! Perfect!” Rowena replied, “but loving may make you tired.”

  “I suspect it will,” the Marquis answered, “but a different sort of tiredness and one that you will find can be marvellous, my sweet!”

  Rowena did not understand what he meant, but she was too happy to want to ask questions.

  The mere fact that the Marquis’s arms were around her and his lips were near to hers was too much of a miracle for her to be able to think straight.

  All she wanted was that he should go on kissing her and arousing within her those ecstatic rapturous emotions that she had not known she was capable of feeling.

  She put her head against his shoulder with a little sigh.

  “I want to take care of you – even though you are so important, I think perhaps you need me.”

  “I need you for a thousand different reasons,” the Marquis said. “Most of all I want you because you are mine, you are a part of me and it is impossible to think of myself in the future without you.”

  “That is what I want you to – feel,” Rowena replied, “but you have known so many beautiful women who I am sure have been alluring and exciting. Supposing, after a little while I begin to – bore you?”

  “I know you will never do that,” the Marquis said, “but whatever happens, my precious, I shall always look after you and you shall never regret that you have given me yourself.”

  He kissed her forehead and then he said,

  “Now in case your father returns sooner than we expected we must make plans, you and I. I have been thinking about this.”

  “About us?” Rowena enquired.

  “I have thought of nothing else these last few days,” he answered, “and I think that the best thing will be for you to tell your father that I have arranged for you to come to London as a companion to one of my relations.”

  Rowena was very still.

  It was almost as if her whole body, which was close against the Marquis, had become so rigid that it had turned into stone.

  In a voice that she could not recognise as her own she asked,

  “Wh-what are you – saying to me?”

  “I am trying to find a plausible explanation for your going to London,” the Marquis replied. “There will, of course, be no relative, but I have a house in Chelsea, a very attractive little house, which is ready for you now. There will be two servants to look after you and we will be together at every possible moment, that I promise you!”

  With what seemed to be a superhuman effort Rowena moved from the circle of his arms.

  “I-I still don’t – understand,” she said and now there was a piteous note in her voice.

  The Marquis looked down into her eyes and then he rose to his feet.

  “I did not mean to mislead you,” he said. “I thought you would realise.”

  “I-I – thought – ” Rowena began.

  He walked across the room to stand as she had done, leaning against the lintel of the window gazing out into the garden.

  “This is more difficult than I anticipated,” he said after a moment. “I suppose I forgot how young and innocent you are, how unversed in the ways of the world.”

  Sitting on the sofa Rowena clasped her hands together. They were very cold.

  “Are you – saying – are you – telling me that you – don’t love me?”

  “No, of course I am not saying that,” the Marquis replied. “I love you as I swear to you I have never loved a woman before, but I cannot offer you marriage.”

  He spoke very quietly and yet to Rowena his words seemed to ring out in the drawing room and echo round its walls.

  She felt as if her whole body became as cold as her fingers and there was a block of ice in her heart.

  “Then what – are you saying?” she murmured.

  “I am asking you to be with me because I love you and I think you love me,” the Marquis answered. “We can be happy together, very very happy, Rowena!”

  He looked towards her as he spoke, but her eyes were downcast, looking at her interlocked fingers.

  She looked very young, little more than a child, and his voice was gentle as he said,

  “I should have explained to you before that marriage and love in the world I live in are two very different things. I know what you are feeling, Rowena, and you must forgive me for hurting you. I did not intend to do so.”

  Still she did not speak and after a moment’s pause he continued,

  “You have seen my Family Tree, you know what I feel about my ancestors. To me it is as though I was born with a sacred trust, a duty, if you like, to carry on the family name.”

  He drew a deep breath before he went on,

  “There is no question of personal feelings where marriage is concerned. It’s a question of noble blood being matched with noble blood, of putting the family first and being true to one’s inheritance.”

  The Marquis moved back towards Rowena as he added,

  “I want you to understand, my darling, that what I feel for you is something quite apart from anything I shall feel for my wife, when I have one. In fact I don’t intend to marry for years and when I do it will be a mariage de convenance such as are arranged in France.”

  He reached the sofa and after a moment’s pause sat down beside Rowena.

  He did not touch her, but a little quiver shook her although her eyes remained on her hands.

  “In the meantime,” the Marquis continued, “we can be happy together. I will settle money on you, Rowena, so that you will never want again in the whole of your life. You will be mine in everything but name and I believe, because we both love each other, you will find that is of no consequence. What is important to both of u
s will be our love.”

  “A love that is – wrong and – wicked!”

  She spoke beneath her breath and yet he could hear the words distinctly.

  “Who is to say what is wrong or what is wicked?” the Marquis asked. “What we feel for each other could never be anything but good and perfect.”

  He put out his hand as he spoke to cover hers, felt how cold they were and knew that she trembled because he touched her.

  “You love me,” he said. “You love me in a way that you have never loved anyone before. I am the first man who has kissed you and you are mine, mine completely and absolutely. Try to understand, Rowena, that I will give you everything in the world, everything you want, and we will know a happiness which is vouchsafed to few people as fortunate as we are.”

  “B-but it would be – wrong.”

  “Nothing can be wrong as long as we don’t hurt people,” the Marquis replied. “I have already explained to you that your father will not know, nor will Hermione have the slightest idea that you are not employed in London and thus able to send them plenty of money. They can have all the luxuries that they have never been able to afford in the past.”

  “If they learnt that I had – lied to them – what do you imagine they would – think?” Rowena asked him.

  “There is no reason why they should know. We are both intelligent people and we will make quite certain that there is no gossip. No one will know, that I promise you!”

  “But I would know.”

  There was a pain in the words that was inescapable and at the same time she raised her head and straightened her back.

  “I would know,” she repeated, “and would be ashamed to face my own family!”

  She moved as she spoke and the Marquis’s hands fell away from hers.

  She stood in front of the mantelpiece and drew in her breath almost as if she needed to resuscitate herself before she could speak.

  Then she said slowly and distinctly,

  “I love you. I think I shall always love you – but I cannot – do as you – ask.”

  “Why not?” the Marquis asked. “Why should you deny yourself and me what both of us long and crave for not only with our bodies, Rowena, but also with our hearts and minds?”

  His eyes were on her face as he went on,

  “You are letting conventional prejudices blind you to the fact that a love such as we have for each other is very rare and comes but once in a lifetime if ever. You say you love me, and I think that is true, and I love you overwhelmingly. I know you want me. I cannot live without you. Can you refuse me just because you are setting your sights on some impossible goal?”

  “Yes – I can!” Rowena said. “I cannot believe that I could mean anything to you beyond a passing amusement – an interest that would die as quickly as it came to life. That is not love, my Lord – not real love!”

  “You are talking nonsense about a matter of which you know nothing!” the Marquis retorted. “I do love you, Rowena. I love you with all my heart. Just because I cannot marry you, which is a very different thing, that does not mean to say that I am not prepared to devote my whole life to you. I am! Why should you ask for more?”

  “What you are really saying,” Rowena said, and now there was a touch of anger in her voice, “is how dare I ask for more! I – an unimportant doctor’s daughter ought to be overwhelmed that a Nobleman such as yourself should condescend to notice her, let alone love her! Well, my Lord, I do dare! I dare to tell you that the love you offer is not good enough for me. I am sorry – but there is no more to be said on the matter.”

  She turned towards the door, but before she could reach it the Marquis had risen to his feet.

  He caught her once again in his arms and pulled her roughly against him.

  Then he kissed her fiercely, passionately and with a violence that was almost brutal.

  At first his lips hurt her almost intolerably, then, although she tried to prevent it, although she attempted to struggle against him, the lightning shot through her as it had done before and she felt herself grow limp against him.

  His kisses became gentler, but at the same time more possessive.

  She felt as if he demanded not only her body but her very soul and attempted to draw it from her and make it his.

  She knew that he was striking at her resistance, undermining her opposition, compelling her with every nerve and sinew to surrender herself completely and absolutely to what he demanded.

  For a moment the wonder of what he made her feel, the ecstasy that was so intense as to blot out thought, made it impossible for her to move, but only to feel.

  Then she fought against him frantically and, taken by surprise, he loosened his hold on her and she was free.

  She did not speak to him because it would have been impossible.

  She only pulled open the door and ran away before he could stop her, knowing as she stumbled up the stairs that she was blinded by the tears that had begun to run tempestuously down her face.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Coming back from the village Rowena turned into the small unkempt drive that led up to the house and saw with a sudden constriction of her heart that there was a phaeton standing outside the front door.

  There was no need to question who owned the black and yellow vehicle with its shining silver accoutrements and the four magnificent chestnuts pulling it.

  A groom with a cockaded top hat and yellow turnovers on his boots was standing at the horses’ heads and Rowena knew that the Marquis would be inside the house.

  It was four days since he had left for Swayneling Park and she had thought as he drove away that she would never see him again.

  Not that she wanted to, she told herself fiercely. She had even decided that she would not say goodbye to him, but he had been too clever for her.

  After a sleepless night when she had cried intermittently with an abandonment and a despair that she had not known since she was a small child, with the dawn she had felt pride come to her rescue.

  She told herself that however deeply she was wounded, however unhappy she would be, she would not allow the Marquis the satisfaction of knowing that he had completely annihilated her and that she could no longer stand up to him.

  She had a feeling that he would not be defeated easily and that somehow he would try to persuade her to agree to what he desired.

  There was an obstinacy about him that was unmistakable and what she knew was an iron determination to have his own way.

  But she was resolved, as she had never been resolved before, that though he might break her heart she would never agree to become his mistress.

  “I love him! I love him!” she had sobbed into her pillow.

  But even the new ecstatic emotions he had aroused in her did not prevent her from recognising what was right and what was wrong or knowing that her mother would have been shocked and horrified by what he had suggested.

  Although she tried to be practical, Rowena had all her life been idealistic and romantic.

  Because her father and mother had been so happy, because they lived in a world where nothing mattered except their love for each other, Rowena had always imagined that one day she would find a man for whom she would feel the same.

  She had been conscious that her mother’s love for her father was very moving and very vital.

  Mrs. Winsford would listen for the first sound of the wheels coming up the drive and, if it was the time she was expecting him to return, she would drop everything she was doing and run to the front door to greet him on the steps as he alighted from his gig.

  Then his arms would go round her and locked together they would move into the house to kiss in the hall with a tenderness that was unmistakable.

  “You are so beautiful, my dearest one!” Rowena heard her father say often, “that I can never look at you without thinking that I am the most fortunate of men.”

  He had laughed and added,

  “People think I am poor, but actually I own the most preci
ous treasure in the whole world and that is you!”

  As she became adolescent and began to think about love, Rowena had hoped that one day a man would look at her as her father looked at her mother and his voice would deepen when he spoke to her.

  She had not imagined that love would come to her in the shape of anyone so magnificent, so outstanding or in fact so unique as the Marquis.

  But now she told herself it was inevitable that living the restricted quiet life she had lived for nineteen years she would fall overwhelmingly and hopelessly in love with him.

  ‘I might have know that what he felt for me was not love but something quite different,’ she told herself bitterly.

  Innocent though she was in many ways, Rowena could not have been a doctor’s daughter and not be aware of the tragedies that happened even in a village as small as Little Powick.

  There were girls who found themselves having unwanted babies, married women who were beaten up by their husbands because they had been caught behaving improperly with another man and a suicide, which had left an indelible mark on Rowena’s mind.

  She had known the girl who died, a pretty feckless child, for she was little more, whose innocence had attracted the innkeeper, a coarse, rather brutal man, married to a weak wife who had little or no influence over him.

  All the village knew that they were meeting down by the river, but no one was brave enough to interfere and the Vicar was too indolent.

  It was a brief and doubtless tempestuous affair that the innkeeper was soon bored with.

  He returned to his bawdy friends in the bar and the girl, who had been swept off her feet by his fervour, drowned herself in the shame of learning that she carried his child.

  There was such an uproar in the village and so much unpleasantness was engendered by the tragedy that the innkeeper moved away to another locality and was replaced by a more decent man.

  But that, Rowena had thought, did not bring back to life the pathetic victim who, because she had taken her own life, was not even allowed to rest in the village Churchyard.