Rapture of the desert

by Violet Winspear

  His answer was a smile, half veiled by smoke; half veiled by the dark lashes shading his smoky grey eyes a smile which confirmed for Chrys what she had felt from the moment she had noticed him across the sky lounge.

  Under that suave veneer, that smooth dark suiting, there lurked an untamed heart in a graceful, untamed body.

  CHAPTER III

  "DARLING, enjoy his company but don't fall in love with him ! "

  Those words of Dove's echoed through Chrys's mind as the cab she had just picked up sped through the gaily lighted West End to the Adonis Club on the south bank, across whose dancing terrace the breezes of the River Thames wafted.

  Needless to say Chrys had scoffed at the idea of losing her contained young heart to a roue, no matter how darkly attractive he was; no matter how gallant he could act when walking out of a lift with her at one o'clock in the morning and kissing her hand for the benefit of those who had stayed to watch the rescue.

  The incident had got into the daily papers, and there

  had been a coy reference to the wedding bells on the bag Chrys had held clutched in her hand. She smiled a little to herself as she thought of Prince Anton and his possible reaction to the speculation of the newsmen. She didn't imagine for one moment that he was a born bachelor, but when he married he would choose someone a little more passionate than herself, she was sure of that.

  She sat self-contained in the cab as it halted in a traffic jam near the Mermaid Theatre, where Tarquin Powers was starring in Macbeth. She leaned to the window and gazed at the large poster with his distinguished face and figure on it. Like herself that great actor was dedicated to his art . . . a career in the arts did not mix with marriage . . . not a marriage that involved the total involvement of the heart.

  She leaned back in her seat as the cab proceeded on its way to the Club, and a street light that slanted into the enclosure revealed the cool silvery material of her dress, and the wrap of pale velvet against which her coiled hair gleamed softly. In her earlobes there were little flame-coloured gems, and deep blue were her eyes, with flying wings of eye shadow painted above them.

  It was while she was dressing that Dove had come into her bedroom and made her profound little remark. "Fall in love with him?" Chrys had laughed. "He's the type who breaks female hearts as he breaks in Arab fillies. He's been brought up to think of women as chattels . . . objects of pleasure."

  "Then why are you dining with him?" Dove had asked, reasonably.

  "Because we made a bet, the prince and I. He said the lift wouldn't move before midnight, and I said it would. He won, and so I must pay the forfeit."

  "Dinner at the Adonis, eh? They say it's all rigged out just like those clubs of the Georgian era, where Beau Brummel and the other rakes used to dine in alcoves with their 'ladies of the night ' "

  "Thanks! " Once again Chrys had laughed, but in

  her heart she had wondered what real motive lay behind the prince's invitation. "I should think he already knows I'm not a 'lady of the night' after being locked in a lift with me for eight hours."

  "Chrys, whatever did you do?" For about the fiftieth time Dove had looked at her as if it were impossible to be imprisoned with such a man and emerge with her virtue intact.

  "We talked," Chrys repeated. "Do I have to convince you, Dove? He's as good at talking as I imagine he is at most things, including casting doubt over a girl's good name! Do assure Jeremy's mother that her beloved son is not marrying into the family of a scarlet woman. In fact, to put it quite bluntly I couldn't imagine a man as suave as the prince enjoying love's antics on the hard floor of an express lift."

  "Chrys, really! " Dove had looked quite shocked.

  "Well, it was what you were wondering, now wasn't it, my pet?" It was then, with a touch of bravado, that Chrys had added the flame-coloured earbobs to her ensemble. She had bought them in Russia off a gipsy fortune-teller, who had looked deep in her eyes and warned her about a tall, dark man. She had laughed at the time, because it was so to formula — beware of the dark stranger — he will bring you love or danger!

  It was as Chrys had viewed the earbobs in the mirror, and set them sparkling against her hair with a little defiant toss of her head, that Dove had announced her intention of sending a wedding invitation to the prince.

  "It will conciliate Mrs. Stanton," she said. "She's a bit of a snob and his title will overwhelm her."

  "Which one?" Chrys said drily. "He's also known as Zain ben Sharife, and Jeremy's mama might imagine that he'll sweep her off to his desert abode in the manner of that silent-screen actor — what was his name, Rudolph Valentino? Mrs. Stanton probably remembers him."

  They had joked about it, Dove and herself, but tiny flickers of curiosity and doubt were like sparks in

  Chrys's veins when she alighted from the cab at the discreetly lit entrance of the Adonis Club. She paid her fare, then turned to find a bewigged and knee-breeched doorman holding open the bowed-glass entrance door so that she might step into the Regency-decorated foyer of the restaurant.

  She had specified that she meet the prince on the premises of the club, wishing for as long as possible to conceal from him the address of the Kensington flat she shared with Dove. There was no knowing what Dove might say to him if they were to meet! She was the type of girl, pampered for her prettiness, who said naively whatever came into her mind. She might ask Anton de Casenove if his intentions were as honourable as Jeremy's, and Chrys was appalled by the very thought of what he might assume.

  He might take it into his mocking head to think she had designs on his bachelorhood!

  "Your mask, madame."

  "I beg your — a mask?" She stared at the white velvet half-mask the bewigged attendant in the foyer had placed in her hands.

  "It is a rule of the Adonis Club, madame. Each patron must be masked."

  "How romantic! " She had been about to say 'how ridiculous', but thought better of it when she saw a tall, lean, elegant figure reflected in one of the long Regency mirrors of the foyer. His evening suit was perfection, his ruffled shirt-front impeccable, his narrow feet shod by a master hand. And though he wore a black strip of velvet across his upper face, she knew his figure, and the faintly mocking smile on his mouth.

  The attendant took her wrap, and the prince advanced towards her with all the silent suppleness of a duellist ... for all the time he duelled with his eyes and his words, and perhaps his intentions.

  As he came closer to her, her nerves quivered like water when a sudden breeze passes over it. Now those subtle grey eyes were appraising her through the open-

  ings of his mask, studying her dress with its shapely hanging sleeves and its design that was so simple as to be medieval. The material had been purchased in Russia, and the design had been seen in a stained window of the old Russian castle where she and the other members of the Company had danced a ballet one memorable evening.

  She knew from the look in the masked grey eyes that the prince admired her dress, but all he said as he bowed his head with that flawless perfection of manner was that he welcomed her and was glad to see that she had not lost her nerve and left him to eat and drink alone.

  "You must put on your mask before we go into the restaurant. Shall I assist you, Miss Devrel?"

  "Are the masks in the tradition of the Regency rakes,

  milor?"

  "Quite so. To be seen but not recognized was all part of the game."

  "What game is that?" she asked, retreating ever so slightly as she adjusted the white velvet mask and saw his face, in the golden light of the Regency chandeliers, take on a demonic quality, partly mocking, and yet with something intent about the set of the lips and the glint in the eyes.

  "The game of illusion, matushka. Of sadness masked in gaiety. Of devilry masked in piety. Of hate masked in love."

  "I see." She stood there slim and silvery, with only the scarlet earbobs to light her pale beauty. "And what mask are you wearing, Prince Anton ?"

  "Only the one you see." A
smile flickered on his lips as he touched the strip of black velvet across his upper face.

  As she thought over his remark a teasing silence hung between them for a few moments, then a waiter appeared at his elbow and murmured a few deferential words.

  "Our table is ready in the Alcove du Diable, so shall we go in, Miss Devrel ?"

  "Yes," she said, and felt her heartbeats under the fine taut silk of her dress as she followed the waiter to their table and felt the prince walking so tall and silently at her side. Dark velvet curtains across the doorway of the alcove were thrust aside so they could enter, and inside a table was beautifully set in front of a banquette, and a soft illumination came from the shaded wall-lights.

  The alcove was private, intimate, and as she felt the admiring flick of the waiter's eyes over her person, the little jolt to her nerves told her that he thought she was the prince's inamorata. It was the inevitable supposition in view of his rakish reputation, and as she sat down on the banquette and smoothed her dress, she noticed there were orchids on the table. A cluster of them meshed in fern, creamy pale with a merest dusting of gold at the edges of their secretive petals.

  Instinct told her that the prince had ordered them; that they weren't a speciality of the club like the face masks and the Regency satyrs and cupids decorating the ceiling of the Alcove du Diable.

  "Champagneskaye," said the prince, as he sat down beside her, using the Russian word with a sort of love in his voice. "And baby oysters on the shell."

  He turned briefly to Chrys. "You will allow me to select your hors d'oeuvre?"

  "Yes, if you wish to do so." She was slightly confused to find him close to her on the seat, looking so directly at her through the oblique openings in his black velvet mask. He had the kind of face that suited a mask, for it brought out the fine shaping of his lips, and the firm sculptoring of his jaw. It emphasised the mystery, and the charismatic quality of the man. Made her even more aware of his unique accent, and fascinating turn of phrase. She turned to the orchids, with their quieter exoticism, and touched her fingers to the strange pale petals rimmed with gold.

  "Champagne and oysters, monsieur." The waiter withdrew and the portieres fell into place behind his

  dark-clad figure. At once the sense of intimacy was provocative, made more so than last night in the lift because Chrys was wearing silk and eye-shadow and a whisper of her best perfume. And they were seated together on the soft leather of a banquette and orchids out of season were on the dining table.

  "You look very lovely, Chrysdova," he said. "Like a figure which has stepped out of a medieval window in a quiet, mysterious chapel. Even your hair has the authentic styling, and the only note out of tune — ah, but perhaps I am being too personal. The blunt British are reserved about themselves, eh?"

  She turned her head to look at him, provoked by his remark about her appearance. What could be out of tune when she had spent a couple of hours getting ready for this dinner with him? "What little thing displeases you, milor?" she asked pertly.

  "These, of course." He flicked a finger at the scarlet earbobs. "You should wear only sapphires, the very darkest, with a blue flame burning in the heart of them."

  "I could hardly afford sapphires on the money I earn." She jerked away from his touch, and consequently the tiny red gems danced gaily against the gold of her hair. "If it offends your taste to be seen with a woman in jewellery which has not come from Cartier, then I can leave this instant without a qualm or a backward glance."

  "You will stay exactly where you are, you little spitfire." His lip quirked, but there was a looming danger to his wide, impeccably tailored shoulders which warned her to remain seated. The wall lighting slanted on to his face and he seemed tawny-skinned, and the sculpturing of his cheekbones was intensified. He had the looks of a man who could be cruel when it came to having his own way with a woman.

  "No woman walks out on me," he drawled. "Later on I might grow bored and send you home in a cab, but right now I am intrigued by the look of you, and by the antagonism I arouse in you."

  "I suppose it must come as a shock to you not to be turning my head with your practised charm and your sophistication, Prince Anton? Or do you have a desert name by which you prefer to be called? Somehow you strike me as a man who regards women as harem slaves, to be enjoyed one hour and ignored the next."

  "I had no idea, Miss Devrel, that you were such an authority on the men of the East, or of the West." His drawl was infinitely mocking. "When you told me last night that you hated men, I took it to mean that you had ice crystals in your veins, but now I begin to wonder if your coolness is the result of passion spent on the wrong man."

  "Men have never bothered me," she retorted. "All I have ever wanted is to dance every dramatic role in ballet, but I am sure you wouldn't understand about dedication to anything. To you, milor, life is a game and pleasure is your pastime. You are like Adonis, ever chasing, and ever fleeing the trap of Venus. Like Adonis you bled for love, but being also something of a devil you lived to chase and run again."

  "From you?" he mocked. "After I have chased you, of course."

  A scornful answer sprang to her lips, but was checked as the portieres opened and the waiter appeared with their champagne and oysters. The next few minutes were devoted to the opening of the wine, the tasting and the pouring of it into the wine bowls on the long stems, ideal for collecting the bubbles at the edge of the wide rims. The small oysters, pale pink in colour, were served on the shells of giant oysters, with a mayonnaise sauce and slivers of lemon, slices of crusty bread and balls of butter.

  Despite the antagonism which he aroused so readily in Chrys, she watched fascinated as the prince tasted the wine and pronounced it perfect in his flawless French; then he examined each shell of oysters to make certain they were of the very best, and finally he dismissed the waiter with an imperious yet in no way demean-

  ing flick of his hand. He was a man accustomed to giving orders, and having them obeyed with the minimum of fuss and the requisite of perfection.

  Chrys felt the stab of realization that he wasn't just anyone, and colour tingled in her cheeks as she accepted the pepper mill from him and recalled the way she had just spoken to him. Adonis — and Venus! The colour deepened in her cheeks. She had more or less implied that his looks condemned him to be a lover, whereas at heart he was really scornful of love. This placed her in the position of Venus, the one who was hungry for love!

  She looked at him with a flash to her eyes, all on edge in case he should think for one moment that she saw him in the light of a lover. He returned her look with almost too much innocence, and then he raised his wine glass.

  "Come, Chrysdova, drink a toast with me! " Obediently she picked up her glass and felt it quiver in her nervous fingers.

  "To the sham pains of life, matushka, and may you rarely know the real ones."

  "It would be nice not to know them, milor, but —" She shuddered as she remembered the agony of her fall, the rack of pain on which she had lain in the speeding ambulance, the terror of finding her legs so useless . . . until the blessed relief of that first movement all those days after the operation.

  "Drink your champagne," he said quietly. "It has a way of blurring the reality of things."

  She was tempted to retort that she had tasted champagne before accepting the honour of dining with him, but the moment she put her lips to her wine glass she knew that she had never tasted champagne like this before. It was like liquid gold, with a sensuous quality . it was like everything else he demanded of life, a perfect wine.

  "I see that you are a connoisseur, milor." By now she had fallen into the habit of addressing him in this Regency way, for try as she might she couldn't accept

  Anton de Casenove as a modem man. He had the locks and the rakish dignity of those Georgian gentlemen of leisure and refined pleasure. The cut and style of his suits had a quiet flamboyance about them, and as he ate his oysters off the small silver fork, she noticed his dark-stoned cufflin
ks, and the seal ring on the small finger of his left hand, engraved with a strange Islamic symbol.

  There was not a single item about the man that was ordinary . . . least of all his conversation.

  "You are wondering, petite, all the time about my motive in wishing you to take dinner with me, and I wonder why you should find it a mystery when a thousand men could give you the reason in three simple words."

  "But you don't deal in simplicities, Prince Anton. You are too subtle for that, and last night you didn't ask me in plain terms to dine with you. You made of it a thing of chance."

  "But I had to do so." His eyebrow quirked above the darkness of his mask. "You would not be here in the Alcove du Diable if I had not coerced you. Now would you?"

  "Perhaps not." She shrugged her shoulders and the silk of her dress glimmered in the soft lighting that illuminated their table; there was a gravity to her blue eyes as they dwelt on his face. "I am not a girl who goes out on many dates. My ballet régime has always been a strict one, imposed by my first important ballet-master and kept up by me. The dedicated dancer never dances out of theatre hours."

  "How wistful your eyes look when you speak of dancing." The prince drank from his wine glass and studied her eyes as he spoke, the blueness of them intensified by the white mask "Has your surgeon vetoed all dancing, or only your professional activity ?"

  "Oh, I'm quite fit for normal activity, but as you probably know from your grandmother, the art of ballet is pretty strenuous and I mustn't do the bending and

  limb stretching involved . . . not for a year! "

  "A year in the desert is but a day in the city." Again he spoke in a voice almost as smooth as velvet. "So the gaieties of other female hearts are of less importance to you, eh?"

  "I'm not a gay person, mon cher." She smiled a little as she spoke and ate her last oyster. "They were delicious ... do you always demand the very best from life, Prince Anton?"

  "It is in my nature to do so." His lips smiled beneath the mask, but it seemed to her that his eyes had the stillness of the sea when a storm has passed and left a certain melancholy in the air. "You are correct in your estimation of your own personality. Gay people are of the surface, like a frothy soda drink. You are deep . . . still waters . . . with possibilities unseen and undisturbed. No man, of course, has ever touched you, and I don't mean in a physical sense. There have been men, no doubt, who have kissed you ?"