A Kind of Honor

by Joan Wolf

  He felt his lips move in the expected smile. He heard her say in her low, slightly husky voice, “And what are you doing home so early? I thought you were dining with Charles.

  He was feeling very strange, as if his skin had been stripped away and all the nerves in his body exposed. He was barely able to answer, “Like you, I felt the need for some quiet.”

  “Then I won’t keep you here talking,” she said gently.

  It took a moment for her words to penetrate his brain. Her large dark eyes were focused on his face, “Goodnight, Adam,” she said, and smiled.

  The smile shattered him. He fought to control his breathing, finally managing a brief, “Good night,” as he backed away from the door. He turned, walked mechanically up the stairs and into the blessed privacy of his room.

  He went to the window, opened the drawn curtains and looked out at the rain as it pooled under the lamps on the street. He stood there for a long time, trying to come to grips with this new knowledge that had just shattered his peace. He understood now why Lady Sophia had not interested him. It was Nanda he wanted; it was Nanda he loved. He thought of her eyes, her mouth, her body, and his desire was mixed with a pain that was worse than any he had suffered from his leg.

  I can’t stay in this house, he thought wildly. I can’t see her every day. I can’t hide from her what I feel. And she can’t know; I don’t want her to know.

  He had thought he was safe. He had seen through Gacé’s game; he was not a fish to be caught by the lure of Gacé’s wife. But little by little she had invaded his mind and his soul, until now he stood here, aching for what he could not have.

  And he knew that this was no transient desire; he was familiar with them, and this was different. This was not just a beautiful woman he wanted in his bed. This was Nanda. Nanda, whose clear, thinking mind could match his own; Nanda, whose fidelity and courage had seen her through the barren wasteland of a loveless marriage; Nanda, whose face and body were as beautiful as her heart and soul.

  I can’ leave, though, he thought in anguish. He was trapped in this house by his job. Because of Gacé, and the threat he posed, Adam must try to hide his love and desire. He had to pretend that nothing had happened. Of course, he reminded himself bitterly, on the surface, nothing had.

  # # #

  The Duc de Gacé, unaware of the suspicions harbored against him by his houseguest, was evaluating his own position. It was supremely ironic, he thought, as he sat cogitating in his library one misty morning, that now, when he had forsaken the monarchy and gone over to the enemy, it looked as if the invincible Bonaparte might be toppled after all. Gacé’s hopes still lay with Napoleon, but only a fool would fail to plan for all contingencies. The Duc needed a place he could retreat to, should matters become uncomfortable for him here in England. He had no plans to be hung as a spy.

  He read through his mail slowly, a slight frown between his elegant eyebrows. The last letter was from his cousin in Baden, and Gacé put it down with a sudden decisive movement. Baden, he thought, was a perfect place. The Duc had resided in Baden for years after he left France. Baden was where his first wife was buried and where Ginny was born. Gacé actually owned an estate, Niederwald Castle, on the east bank of the Rhine.

  The only negative was Baden was part of the Confederation of the Rhine, which had declared for Napoleon. But Gacé knew that the moment Napoleon looked vulnerable, Baden, Bavaria and their sister states would desert him faster than rats fleeing a sinking ship. In actual fact, the German Confederation, like Gacé, was collaborating with both sides, with the aim of being on the winning side in the end.

  Gacé re-folded his letters and put them in his locked deck drawer. He would write to his cousins in Baden tomorrow to tell them he and his family might be returning to Niederwald. They could hardly point a finger at him; they were all tarnished with the same brush. Nor would the English government move against him. He had Nanda, the sister of the Earl of Menteith, to hold over them. She would come with him, he knew. He had the children.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “The Duc and the Duchessee de Gacé,” the major domo announced, and Nanda and Gacé walked into the large reception room of Lord Castlereagh’s London house. The closest guests turned to look at the arriving couple, and Nanda managed to smile pleasantly as her husband escorted her down the two steps that led into the room.

  She had taken special pains with her appearance this evening. Her gown was of light champagne satin, with a deep décolleté that she had filled with the magnificent pearls Gacé had given her as a wedding gift. The only colors about her this evening were her large, dark eyes and the rich darkness of her shining hair.

  She knew her husband was pleased with her. There was a look in his eyes she recognized, and his hand rested caressingly on the bare skin of her arm. She struggled to maintain a serene expression, when every instinct was screaming for her to push him away.

  Her eyes drifted casually around the ballroom as she and her husband came to a halt, and Gacé began to speak with someone he knew. Her eyes stopped when they found Adam Todd. The blue eyes she knew so well were fixed on her, and as their gazes met, something leaped between them. Her hand on Gacé’s arm tightened and he looked down at her. Somehow she managed a reassuring smile. “A new dance is forming, Matthieu,” she said. “Will you dance with me?”

  “It will be my pleasure, ma belle,” he replied.

  She let him lead her to the floor.

  # # #

  Adam tore his eyes away from Nanda. Lady Sophia, who had come up beside him, was saying, “They make a lovely couple, do they not?”

  “Very handsome,” he returned in what he hoped was an indifferent tone. He turned to her. “How are you, Sophia?”

  “Lonely,” she answered, her eyes going once more to the Duchessee de Gacé. She put a hand on his arm, saying softly, “When are you coming to visit me, Adam?”

  He looked at her for a long silent moment. Then he asked, his voice harsh, “When do you want me?”

  “Tonight? You could escort me home.”

  Why not? he thought bitterly. I can’t go back to Berkeley Square. I just… can’t.

  “Why not?” he said to the woman beside him.

  “Why not indeed?” she responded, her golden eyes hazy with anticipation.

  # # #

  It was early morning when Adam returned to Gacé House. He let himself in and went quietly up the stairs, the candle steady in his hand. As he reached his bedroom, a door opened down the hall and Gacé, wearing a velvet dressing gown, came out. He halted in surprise when he saw Adam. Then he smiled. “Sleep well, Stanford.” His light voice was warm with amusement. “Goodnight.”

  “Goodnight, Gacé,” Adam answered mechanically, opened the door to his bedroom and went inside. He stood with his back to the closed door and drew one deep, shuddering breath, then another. Gacé had been coming out of her room.

  Adam swore suddenly as the candle tumbled from his hand to the floor. He stared without comprehension at the broken candlestick in his hand, then at the extinguished candle on the floor. He had snapped the fragile china candlestick in two.

  The violence he felt within himself was terrible. With sudden decision he turned, left the room, and went back down the stairs. He didn’t know where he was going. He only knew he had to get out of this house.

  # # #

  Nanda scarcely saw Adam after the Castlereagh reception. The children kept asking her where he was, and she had no answer. She also had a nagging headache that would not go away. She did her best to seem normal for the children, but she couldn’t escape the fog of melancholy that seemed to have enveloped her.

  Then Marc broke a window playing cricket in the garden.

  Gacé was icily furious with his son and, that night, as Nanda was putting Marc to bed, his small arms reached up to clutch around her neck. “Mama. I want to whisper,” he said.

  Obediently she inclined her head. “What is it, darling?”

  “I wish Adam wer
e my papa,” he whispered.

  Nanda’s heart leaped in her chest. She stared into her son’s frightened, defiant eyes and searched for an answer she couldn’t find. Her heart was pounding so hard she was afraid Marc would hear it. She pressed her child gently down on his bed and said, as quietly as she could over her thumping heart, “Adam can’t be your papa, Marc, you already have a papa. But he can be your friend; and that is a very good thing.”

  Marc pushed out his lower lip. “I love Adam, Mama.” The unvoiced second part of his sentence hung in the air: I don’t love Papa.

  “It’s all right to love him, darling, but as a friend,” she said steadily. “Go to sleep now.”

  “All right.” As she reached the door he sat up again. “And I love you, Mama.”

  She smiled. “I know, Marc. I love you too. Now go to sleep.”

  Marc lay down again and Nanda passed down the stairs to the small drawing room. She sat in the big Chippendale wing chair, staring into the fire, her heartbeat slowly calming. I wish Adam were my papa, Marc had said. And her heart had leaped as the answering words rang in her mind: So do I.

  She must not think such a thing, she told herself, as she sat alone in the small, elegant room. She was a married woman. She had children who depended upon her for their well being. She must remember she was a married woman.

  She closed her eyes as her thoughts turned to the bleak desert that was her marriage. She had been seventeen years old when she met Matthieu, and she had thought he was a hero. She had seen the charm and the pathos of a man who had lost his country and his wife. She had seen a man who was bravely and gallantly trying to make his way in a new land. She had seen a lonely widower, taking care of his little daughter all by himself. She had thought she would rescue him from his loneliness. She would marry him, and love him and Ginny, and they would all be so happy.

  She had resisted acknowledging the truth about her husband. She had tried very hard to see the gallantry and goodness she believed to be part of his nature. But, at last, she could no longer hide from the reality. She had married a man who lived in the wasteland of pride. She had married a man who was incapable of loving anyone – not her, not even his children. His name and his lineage were all that mattered to Matthieu. He lived to bring back the glory of royal France, and the glory of the de Vaudoban name and property with it.

  He had married her because she was well connected and because she so obviously adored him. That was all he had asked, that his beautiful young wife should be his entrée into the highest reaches of English society, and that she should continue to adore him. And she had … for a while.

  Then she had begun to question the way he treated his daughter. She had disagreed with his answers. She had showed him she had a mind of her own. Even worse, she had showed him she had a moral sense that stood in judgment on him, and found him lacking. That was when the chasm had opened between them.

  She had thought she was resigned to the roles they agreed upon. She played the part of the adoring young wife, and he left the rearing of the children up to her. But, for some reason, that resignation had disappeared. Life with Matthieu was no longer tolerable, and until tonight she had not understood why.

  I wish Adam were my Papa.

  It was Adam Todd who had awakened her. Unconsciously she had been comparing him to Matthieu, and to other men she knew as well. Compared to Adam, the rest seemed just shadows, insubstantial and uninteresting. In all the years of her marriage she had never once been tempted to set up a flirtation, let alone something more serious. Now she knew why.

  But it was too late. She was a married woman.

  She sat on late into the night, until the fire was cold and the candles were almost burned down. At four in the morning the salon door opened and Adam was there. “What are you doing sitting here alone at such a late hour? This room is freezing.” His voice was rough with concern.

  She said nothing and, after a moment’s hesitation, he came into the room. She said, “You look tired.”

  His blue eyes were steady on her face. What he saw there caused them to narrow. “That is your fault,” he said, his eyes burning into hers.

  The breath left her body. She stared back at him, her heart in her eyes.

  “I couldn’t bear to be near you,” he said levelly, and she could see he was controlling his breath. “I love you too much.”

  As she continued to stare at him, he held out his hands. “Come here.”

  Slowly, wordlessly, she rose and crossed the room until she stood before him. “Nanda,” he said, and the sound of her name on his lips seemed wildly erotic. His eyes weren’t blue anymore; they were black with desire. He bent his head and she lifted her face for his kiss.

  At first it was tender, gently seeking a response from her. When she answered him, leaning toward him and sliding her arms around his neck, he pulled her to him with hard strength, his lips urgent and demanding. They stood thus for a long minute, locked together in mutual passion. Then Adam began to move her toward the high-backed Chippendale sofa.

  Nanda, eyes closed, gave herself up to him, her body pressed against his so tightly that the buttons on his coat cut into her skin. They reached the sofa and he bent as if he would pick her up. The burned-out fire fell with a whooshing sound. Nanda jumped, and reason returned.

  It took a moment for him to realize she was pushing him away. When he dropped his arms she backed away toward the door. “No,” she said breathlessly. “We cannot do this.”

  “Why?” His voice was harsh. She could see how fast he was breathing.

  Her loosened hair hung in a silky mass around her shoulders. She pushed a strand back. “It’s too late,” she said shakily. “I have been sitting here all night thinking of how much I love you, but it’s too late.”

  He was shaking his head. “No, I won’t accept that. I can’t accept that.”

  “You must. Adam, please leave this house. I can’t stand seeing you like this. It’s impossible.”

  A pulse was beating in his temple. He said, “I can’t leave.”

  She hesitated for a moment, pushing down the impulse to throw herself into his arms, then turned and almost ran out the door.

  # # #

  Adam stood, listening to her feet on the staircase, his face for once unguarded. He understood her terror, her fear of destroying what for five years she had so carefully built. But she had said, I love you. He would do anything in the world for her, he thought. Except give her up.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  For the rest of that night and for the next few days Nanda fought an anguished battle. With the honesty that was so integral a part of her nature, she faced her future. Yes, she loved Adam Todd. She had crossed the river of friendship and stood now on a foreign shore, where the light was blinding and the hunger burned. That wild desire she had felt in the drawing room – to know, to give, to be given to – could not be denied. It existed, and each day it grew stronger. But the final, painful truth was this: a relationship between them was impossible.

  It was an inevitable decision. For five years she had lived with the knowledge that her interests must always be secondary to those of her children. And for the sake of those children she must remain married to their father. An affair with Adam was a possibility, and such was Nanda’s pain she even briefly considered it. She knew that, as long as they were discreet, her world would turn a blind eye. But she also knew that Gacé’s pride would never allow it. He would punish her, and he knew the best way to make her tow the line was the threat of losing her children.

  The bitterest truth of all was that she did not want an affair with Adam Todd. She wanted to marry him. And that was something she could never have.

  She wasn’t sure what he wanted from her. He said he loved her. Certainly he desired her. It was only natural that he should, considering their propinquity over the last few months. But even if he really loved her, she must make him understand that an affair between them was impossible.

  She had tried once mor
e to get him to leave Berkeley Square, but he only looked at her with eyes that made her shiver and refused. And she knew that as long as he remained where she was forced to see him, she wasn’t safe. She couldn’t trust her own heart. In desperation, she wrote a letter to her brother, Robert.

  # # #

  Lord Menteith received his sister’s note requesting him to call on her the following morning - and not to tell anyone about the visit. He was thoroughly mystified and presented him in Berkeley Square promptly the next day at ten o’clock.

  “Is something wrong, Nan?” he asked, after he had been shown into the morning parlor where his sister was making tea.

  She looked up from the tea service to meet his eyes.

  “No,” she said.

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He accepted a cup of tea from her hands and took the closest chair. “Children all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” he repeated. He sipped his tea. “Gacé is fine, I know, as I see him virtually every day. How are you?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m all right, Robert.”

  He cocked a skeptical eyebrow. “You don’t look all right. You’re too thin, for one thing, and there are shadows under those famous eyes.” He put his cup on the delicate table beside his chair and said gently, “What’s wrong, Nan? You wanted to see me for some reason.”

  Tears welled up in her eyes and he began to rise from his chair. She gestured him back, then said in a choked voice, “I wanted to see you, Robert, to ask if you could get Lord Stanford transferred away from the Horse Guards.”

  He looked at her in stunned silence. Then, in a bewildered voice, “Get Stanford transferred? But why?”

  She didn’t answer, but bright color burned in her cheeks.

  He frowned. “If he’s a nuisance can’t you ask him to leave yourself? He can find other lodgings without having to leave the Horse Guards.”