Love in the Ruins

by Barbara Cartland

  He knew only too well that his Master was not particularly pleased at having to go out tonight.

  Equally he thought perhaps that it would be good for him to have a change of scene after what had happened in London.

  Whoever it was who said that nothing could be kept a secret from the servants had indeed been extremely shrewd.

  Jenkins had known without being told that the Duke was running away from Lady Sybil.

  He was sure it was for the simple reason that his Master could not stop her from trying by every means in her power to lure him into matrimony.

  Lady Sybil had been a widow for three years and she was determined to marry again someone who could give her the money she wanted and the life she enjoyed.

  She also desired an unassailable position in the Social world.

  Her father had not been a very pompous Peer.

  With little money it was therefore imperative that Lady Sybil should find herself a rich and distinguished husband.

  She had married a man who was very much older than herself, but was rich enough to please her father.

  Colonel Brooke, however, had no intention of spending his time in London.

  He found the balls, the parties, the receptions and the people who attended them boring.

  He took his wife to the country and Lady Sybil had become so frustrated that she sulked for weeks.

  The only diversions were the horses, hunting in the winter and the shooting.

  Her husband’s friends were all the same age as himself and their conversation seldom deviated from sport.

  Lady Sybil thought that she would go mad with the boredom of it all.

  When her husband died unexpectedly of a heart attack, she had difficulty in not dancing on his grave.

  His relations had forced her to mourn him respectfully in public, while they whispered about her heartlessness in private.

  When at last she was free to throw off her black crepe, she sped to London like a wild duck flying in from the sea.

  She opened her husband’s London house, which he had kept closed all the time they were married.

  She entertained wildly, luxuriously and very extravagantly.

  Her guests largely comprised those who could enjoy a good dinner without having to pay for it and who found a pretty woman irresistible.

  It was as soon as Lady Sybil had seen the Duke for the first time that she knew what she wanted and what she intended to have.

  She stalked him more persistently than any Scottish stalker ever followed a stag.

  When he finally succumbed, she felt that she had achieved her objective and won what had been an arduous battle.

  The Duke was everything she desired as a lover.

  Yet she could not persuade him to say the words she longed to hear.

  The words that would make her his wife.

  Nor, she was aware, did he ever actually say, “I love you!”

  It took her some time to understand, for she was not very perceptive, that what he enjoyed with her was not love as the word meant to him.

  It took a long time, in fact many sleepless nights, before she faced the unpleasant truth.

  While the Duke enjoyed her as a woman, she made no impact on his brain nor on what she thought of as his heart.

  He was courteous, good-mannered and grateful in his own way for the pleasure she gave him.

  He sent her flowers and presents of no particular value, but which were in good taste, appropriate presents for a woman who thought of herself as a lady.

  She knew when he left her as dawn was breaking that she was never quite certain if she would see him again.

  She wondered if he would disappear without even realising how much she would miss him.

  Sometimes she felt like screaming at him because, in spite of all her efforts, he remained out of reach.

  She tried being slightly elusive, but that did not work.

  She then determined to make herself indispensable to him. She had to make him feel that life would be impossible without her.

  That was where she made her fatal mistake.

  The Duke soon woke up to the fact that Lady Sybil was becoming too familiar, too demanding and too possessive.

  That was the one word that frightened him.

  He had no wish to be possessed by anybody.

  Least of all by somebody whose whole mind was fixed on matrimony.

  Impulsively, making a quick decision that was characteristic of him, he told his valet to pack.

  They left London the following day.

  He knew his secretary could cope with everything, including the engagements for which he had to apologise and, of course, Lady Sybil.

  The Duke ordered a basket of flowers to be sent to her as well as a polite note.

  In it he said how sorry he was not to be able to dine with her that evening as he had promised.

  He explained,

  “I have to go to Paris, then on for a visit to Tunisia where I wish to see some Roman ruins and include an account of them in my book.

  I know you will understand and I thank you again for all the delightful times we have spent together.”

  When Lady Sybil found the note lying on her breakfast tray, she felt apprehensive.

  It was unlike the Duke to write to her when he had seen her only the previous evening. He had escorted her home early, saying that he was tired, which also was unlike him.

  In fact, she was sure because he was so athletic and strong, that he was never tired.

  She had said to him in a tone of concern,

  “You don’t think you have a cold?”

  “I hope not,” the Duke had replied, “but I want an early night.”

  He had taken her back to her house.

  To her annoyance he had kissed her goodnight without much warmth in the carriage.

  He had then said goodbye on the doorstep.

  She could hardly beg him to come in in front of the night-footman.

  She therefore simply said,

  “I am sure you would like a nightcap and there is some champagne in the drawing room.”

  She looked up at him as she spoke with an expression in her eyes that he could not misunderstand.

  “Thank you,” he replied, “but not tonight.”

  Before she could think of anything more to say, he had stepped back into his carriage.

  As he drove off, she wanted to run after him.

  She felt in some inexplicable way that he was driving out of her life.

  As she now read the note, she knew that was exactly what he had done.

  The Duke had actually thought about Lady Sybil several times as he was crossing the English Channel.

  His secretary had, as usual, arranged everything with a speed and expertise that the Duke had come to expect of him.

  His Grace had the best cabin on the ship, and a coupe reserved for him on the train to Paris.

  He read the newspapers and thought of what he would see in Tunis.

  He felt with the satisfaction of a boy going home for the holidays that he was free.

  Free of Lady Sybil’s demands and of her incessant notes that arrived nearly every day on her scented writing paper.

  He was free of her constant demands on his manhood, which he had begun to find excessive.

  Just for the moment he felt that he had had enough of women.

  Which was the reason why he was not at all pleased by the Vicomte’s plans for this evening.

  He told himself that he must be getting old.

  Five years ago he would have been excited by the idea of meeting the crème de la crème of the Parisian courtesans. They were the most famous in the whole of Europe.

  ‘What is wrong with me? What do I want?’ he asked himself as many men had asked themselves before him.

  He did not know the answer.

  Quite suddenly it struck him that perhaps he had become an idealist through his new interest in Roman culture springing from his study of Roman ruins.
r />   Was he looking for Aphrodite, as the Greeks called the Goddess of Love?

  Or perhaps it was the Venus of the Romans, with her exquisite body and a face that was more saintly than sensual.

  ‘The Gods of Olympus!’

  He laughed aloud at the idea.

  He had, however, never met a woman who could rival those creatures of ancient mythology who had appeared on the Shining Cliffs at Delphi.

  Or in the Temples he had inspected in a number of different countries.

  Jenkins helped him into his well-fitting evening coat. It had been made by the best and most expensive tailor in Savile Row.

  The Duke took a perfunctory look at himself in the mirror.

  He had no idea how handsome he was!

  Or that, more importantly, he had a personality that vibrated out from him to everyone he came into contact with.

  Jenkins handed him a considerable sum of money which he put into the inside pocket of his coat.

  There were also some gold louis to go into his trouser pocket.

  Automatically, although the Duke knew that it was unnecessary, he said,

  “I will not be late, Jenkins, but don’t wait up.”

  “You’re certain Your Grace won’t want me?”

  “Quite certain!” the Duke said firmly.

  He walked towards the bedroom door and the valet opened it for him.

  As his Master disappeared down the corridor, Jenkins looked at his own reflection in the mirror and said aloud,

  “What’s the bettin’ ’is Nibs don’t return before dawn’s breakin’!”

  Then he laughed out loud.

  *

  An hour later the Duke was sitting at the dinner table in a large and luxurious house in the Rue St. Honoré.

  He was aware that his friend, the Vicomte, had not exaggerated in saying that this was to be a superlative party.

  There was no doubt that the women were some of the most beautiful he had seen anywhere and that included Paris itself.

  The whole room was decorated with orchids.

  When they sat down at the table, in front of every woman’s plate were two perfect orchids, just touched with pink and bound together by one thousand franc note.

  The cuisine was perfection.

  The meal started with caviar, which had been specially brought from Russia for the occasion and the courses that succeeded it were the most superlative of French artistry.

  The wines, as only the men knew, were of vintages so rare and so fine that they should have been drunk reverently by the spoonful rather than in glasses.

  The Duke was aware that the male guests consisted of the most influential men in Paris.

  Their host, the Banker, had an international reputation. He was so rich that it was doubtful if this evening’s entertainment would even cause him to look twice at the bill.

  He had indeed excelled himself this evening.

  While they were eating, a violinist, who was considered the finest in Europe, played softly in the background.

  The party consisted of just thirty people.

  It was difficult to find words adequate to describe the attractions of the courtesan on his left.

  She was dark-haired with a magnolia skin and huge eyes that seemed to glitter like diamonds.

  She was also witty and he found himself laughing at everything she said.

  She managed by some charm of her own to make the very air sparkle with a joie de vivre that was peculiarly French.

  On his right sat a woman who was half-Swedish.

  Her hair was so pale that, if her eyes had been pink, she would have been an albino. Instead they were strikingly green and turned up at the corners. Her voice was very soft.

  She had a way of making everything she said seem intimate as if she was talking for his ears alone.

  Without being conscious of it, the Duke found himself responding to her with pleasure.

  She was, however, being monopolised by the man on her other side of her.

  He therefore turned back to the woman on his left and once again she was making him laugh.

  When he asked her name, she replied,

  “I am known as ‘La Belle’.”

  “It suits you,” he smiled.

  They talked and laughed as they moved into the ballroom to dance to an orchestra specially engaged from Vienna.

  The ballroom had been transformed into a bower of white roses and the Duke realised that it was designed as a flattering background for the beautiful women who had been invited.

  Still more surprises awaited them.

  There was an actor from the theatre who sang risqué, but at the same time cleverly amusing songs.

  An acrobat, whose act was short but brilliant, vanished with everybody shouting for more.

  There was a cotillion in which extremely rich and expensive presents were provided to be given by the men to the women they had danced with.

  Then almost before anybody had had time to breathe, there were fireworks in the garden.

  They turned the sky into a kaleidoscope of colour such as the Duke had never seen before.

  As soon as the fireworks began, La Belle took him by the hand and led him into the garden.

  Little grottoes had been arranged round a fountain that stood in the centre of the lawn. The grottoes were small and the Duke realised that there were exactly fifteen of them.

  They were all fashioned of exquisite flowers.

  They hung in each one from a curved ceiling over a couch draped with velvet onto which rose petals fell slowly, one by one.

  Tiny lights were hidden behind the flowers and there was an exotic fragrance in the air.

  As the fireworks ended a gypsy band, which the Duke was sure had come from Hungary, started playing in the garden.

  It was the exotic, compelling and entrancing music of passion, which only the gypsies knew.

  Yet it was irresistible to all who heard it.

  It was almost like a dream as La Belle moved into the Duke’s arms and they sank together onto the softness of a rose petal covered couch.

  *

  As the Duke went home in the early hours of the morning, he thought with a twist of his lips that Henri had been right when he had said that it would be a ‘party to end all parties’.

  And that it would be a mistake for him to be in Paris and deny himself the pleasure of enjoying it.

  Nothing, in fact, could exceed what he had experienced that night.

  But the sooner he was on his way the better.

  He especially remembered a conversation he had had with one of the other guests before going in to dinner.

  The man had introduced himself saying,

  “We have met before, Monsieur le Duc, but I doubt if you remember me.”

  The Duke, who had an extremely good memory, only hesitated for a moment before he replied,

  “Of course I remember you, Comte André, and it is nice to see you again.”

  “I am flattered that you have not forgotten,” the Comte said.

  They had met at a dinner given by the President, which the Duke had found rather dull.

  He remembered also that the Comte was married to the President’s cousin and he asked genially,

  “How is Madame la Comtesse? In good health I would hope?”

  “Excellent, thank you,” Comte André replied, “and may I ask the obvious question as to why you are in Paris?”

  The Duke smiled.

  “I am only passing through and I am actually leaving for Tunis tomorrow.”

  “Tunis!” Comte André exclaimed. “I was there only a short time ago myself.”

  He paused and then he said,

  “Can it be that you are interested in Thuburbo Maius? I reckoned that you would have seen it before now.”

  “I have hardly had the opportunity,” the Duke replied, “considering that your countrymen have only recently brought the Tunisians under control and I am told that visitors are now welcome.”

  “I
am sure they will welcome you,” Comte André said.

  He paused for a moment before he added,

  “I think, unless you have other arrangements, you may find the hotels somewhat uncomfortable.”

  The Duke shrugged his shoulders.

  “I suppose that is what I must expect, but I am hoping that the food will be French.”

  Comte André was writing something on a piece of paper.

  “Let me suggest,” he said, “that you visit the Villa L’Astre Bleu, which is extremely comfortable and the food is excellent.”

  He saw that the Duke looked puzzled and he explained,

  “It is where I stayed myself and it belongs to a friend of mine. You may have met her, the great heiress, Minerva Tison.”

  The Duke wrinkled his forehead.

  “Tison? Tison? Surely he died in an accident a short time ago?”

  “Sadly that is so,” the Comte answered. “His daughter is very lovely and very charming, but now all on her own. It would really be a kindness if you called on her and I am sure that she would welcome any friend of mine.”

  He smiled before he added,

  “ – and please give her my love!”

  The way he spoke told the Duke a great deal without putting it into words.

  He put the note into his pocket and remarked,

  “Thank you, it’s very kind of you. I will certainly convey your message to Miss Tison, even if I don’t impose on her as a guest.”

  “It is something I strongly advise you to do,” the Comte said reflectively. “The hotels, such as they are, are not yet ‘Frenchified’, to coin a word. The food is dubious and the service from Tunisians almost non-existent.”

  “Now you are frightening me!” the Duke muttered.

  “I am offering you the alternative of the Villa L’Astre Bleu,” the Comte said.

  The Duke’s attention was then claimed by his host and he did not have the chance to speak to the Comte again.

  Now while he was sailing towards Tunis, he was thinking about the conversation.

  He then decided that he would be extremely stupid if he did not at least investigate the Comte’s suggestion.

  He was not particularly impressed by the Comte himself.

  At the same time he was aware that having been invited as a guest at that particular party he would appreciate comfort.