Carew, alive. Carew, frantic over his daughter, taking a hand in the game once more.
He should be glad, Renold thought. It would still be possible to avenge Gerald Delaup’s death, still be feasible to use Angelica to destroy the man who had caused it.
And yet. There was a new consideration in the game.
Angelica the fair, the beautiful, the good. She would not condone being used, would not easily forgive any punishment inflicted on her father. How was he to proceed without losing her?
That had not, in the beginning, been a part of Renold’s calculations. If he had thought at all of how she would feel, he had considered that her objections could be easily overcome, by subterfuge where possible, by force if necessary.
It would not be so easy. The standards she set were high; she would accept no deviation from them. She could never give her trust, much less her love, to a man who deliberately pushed them aside.
But what was to say she would ever love him in any event? What right did he have to expect it? And if that prize was so far out of his reach, then what did he have to lose?
There was one chance.
He might, if he acted swiftly and with care, bind her to him with tender cords of passion. Desire, once roused, was a powerful bond between a man and woman. If she could be convinced no other man would ever give her the same pleasure, the same surcease, then she might remain with him. Yes, and if that passion and desire should create a child, then he would have a true hostage with which to hold her.
Yes. It was the one chance. She was fair and good, but she was also a woman capable of great passion. It was inside her, suppressed but visible in brief flashes like storm lightning. He wanted to free it, longed to be the one for that sweet task as he had never longed for anything in his life.
It was not selfish despotism, not all of it. She needed him, if she could be brought to see it — needed his help to free herself from the staid precepts and strict principles that ruled her life. She was lovely, but could be so much more that was warm and giving, sensual and inviting. He wanted to see that, could not bear that any other man should.
It was a risk. She was all instinct and febrile intelligence. She might see through what he intended to its black core of deceit. If she did, it would be over. On that point, he could not be more certain.
A child. Her child. His child. Did he dare? He was not, himself, immune to the pain of loss. Any small, fragile hostage of his blood would hold him in its tight little fist as well as its mother.
What would he do if she took his child away? What?
“God,” he said, a whisper both a curse and prayer. He stood still, staring blind and beseeching into the night sky.
There was no answer.
Angelica was half-asleep when she heard the bedchamber door open and close. She had waited for Renold in the salon for what seemed like hours, but he had not appeared. Every possible explanation had run through her head in that time: He might have sent her inside to keep her safe while he fought off more attackers, might have decided on a visit to another woman, might, even, have forgotten he was to join her. Fear had become doubt, doubt had turned to annoyance, annoyance had descended, by way of anger, to hurt disdain. She wanted to flounce over in the bed, sit up and demand where he had been. The only thing that stopped her was knowing that such a question must show how much the answer mattered.
Opening her eyes to slits, she watched from where she lay on her side with her head pillowed on one arm. The fire had died away; the only light was the dim glow of a moon behind the curtain. He was a blue-tinted shadow as he undressed with silent efficiency, sliding out of his coat, punching studs from the holes, stripping off shirt and trousers in a series of well-practiced motions. He bestowed his clothes neatly on a chair and turned toward the bed.
Would she ever get used to his nakedness? At least there was no need to look away now; she could hold her gaze in one place long enough to discover precisely how he was made.
Different. Powerfully male. Beautiful in an aesthetic sense that had nothing to do with gender. Threatening in an odd way she felt without comprehending the full extent of it.
He paused beside the mattress, staring down. Did he know she was awake? Could he tell?
She closed her eyes and lay perfectly still. And thought how, just short days ago, she could never have dreamed of lying there at all.
The mattress behind her gave with his weight. A draft of cool air infiltrated the covers as he slid beneath them. He turned toward her, shifting, she thought, to support himself on one elbow. She quelled a faint shiver of alarm. Or was it expectation?
“Angelica?”
His voice whispered over her. With it came the scent of fine brandy. It was strong, though not overpowering. She considered in silence what. that might mean.
“Mon ange?”
A loving endearment. It was a pleasant conceit, but she could give herself no great credit. Unfortunately.
“I didn’t mean to leave you so long. I just—”
His voice faded. She was still listening to the echoes of it when she felt the warm brush of his hand on her shoulder.
Her breathing altered. What to do? Recoil? Strike out? Scream? While her brain grappled with the problem she lay as still as a hunted rabbit. And waited with discomfiting anticipation for what he might do next.
He leaned over her and touched the heated firmness of his lips to her temple, feathering a line of precise and delicate kisses to the turn of her ear. At the same time, he cupped her shoulder, kneading it with supple fingers and in ever-widening circles. At the center of her back, he swept downward in a long, soothing stroke. His hand came to rest at the first gentle swell of her hips. He left it there in tacit possession. The tip of his tongue, moist, hot, flicked inside her ear.
She came up on an indignant gasp, rolling from under his clasp to face him. “Stop that.”
“I didn’t think you were asleep,” he said in soft satisfaction.
“That’s enough to wake anybody up!”
His soft laugh disposed of the evasion. “The interesting thing is how long it took you to decide to be outraged. It makes me wonder what liberties you might allow if I were patient enough to be subtle about it.”
“If there is one thing you excel in,” she said in scathing denunciation, “it’s subtlety.”
“Sneakiness, you mean? We can dispense with it if it offends. You didn’t object to my kiss or my touch, only to being handled in a more familiar fashion. The question is why?”
The frontal attack left her speechless. She moistened her lips as she stared at his dark form hovering above her.
“Shall I provide an answer?” he went on, relentless. “Being human and nubile, you have a natural interest in what occurs in private between men and women. You can conceal it, but sometimes it betrays you. I may not be the man of your dreams, but I am here, and I don’t repulse you — against your will, you respond to me. You sometimes wonder, if only for a fleeting second, what it would be like to accord me the favors of the marriage bed.”
“No—”
“Yes. You look at my mouth and my hands and think of how they felt, how they made you feel, and you need to know the sensation again. You wonder what more I could show you, and what it would be like to abandon denial and permit me to love you.”
“Love?” she said, the word tight and not quite steady in her throat. “You aren’t talking about love. If we are leaving aside pretense, then you must admit that what drives you is not so far removed from the bruising rut you accused those men of tonight. Only it’s worse in you because there’s something in it that is — that is deliberate, of the mind instead of body or from the heart. So, yes, I wonder what it would be like to be a wife to you, but if you are thinking to take advantage of it you may stop. I prefer there to be love in it when finally I make love.”
The silence was profound when she ceased speaking. Then on a breathless laugh, he said, “Amazing.”
“I can’t imagine why y
ou think so.” Nor could she imagine where her words had come from, though she felt their truth.
“I had the idea, you see,” he said, “that you needed waking to your carnal instincts.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my instincts,” she said shortly. That was also true, though she had once had doubts. The problem, she now saw quite plainly, had been the wrong man, the wrong time.
“Suppose I said that I—”
“Don’t!” The single word had an edge of panic that she could hear in her own ears.
“No,” he said in pensive agreement “You would never believe it, would you? Love isn’t that convenient. Usually. What a pity.”
He rolled away from her and rose from the bed in a single swift movement. Gathering his clothes, he moved toward the door. The latch snapped closed behind him.
Staring after him, Angelica shook her head. She lay back down on a long sigh.
She did want to believe him. That was the real pity.
Chapter Nine
When Michel was announced, Angelica was lying on a chaise in the salon with a cloth soaked in rose water on her forehead for headache and a tisane at her elbow. She was happy to have the company; Renold had been gone all day and she was feeling low and thoroughly sorry for herself.
She had been thinking of her father, also, and of how he had been taken from her just as she thought she might come to know him. In spite of his illness, she had looked forward to long hours at Bonheur in which the two of them could explore the past and plan at least a brief future. Gone, all gone.
Michel was just the tonic she needed to bring her out of her doldrums. With his comic, teasing ways, and uncomplicated interest in how she felt and what she thought on any and everything, he soon had her sitting upright and even laughing.
Tasting the tisane of brewed herbs sweetened with molasses, Michel pronounced it undrinkable. Very much at home in Renold’s house, he bullied Estelle into bringing wine and rice cookies for them. And when he learned Angelica had refused to eat at noon, he commanded also a savory plate of olives and cheese and tiny fried fish spiced with lemon.
“So why are you shut up here alone?” he asked as he popped a purple, ripe olive into his mouth and followed it with a sip of wine. “Has Renold turned tyrant?”
She shook her head with a smile. “No more than usual.”
“So you don’t require rescuing?” He heaved a sigh of mock disappointment. “Well, then, you must have been listening to gossip. Fatal, I warn you.”
“Has there been gossip that would disturb me? I’m glad I didn’t hear.” She shielded her expression with her lashes as she reached for a piece of cheese.
“Only Clotilde, but most know her malice toward Renold, so disregard what touches on him.”
Angelica hesitated, uncertain of the wisdom of what she was about to ask. She spoke anyway. “If the lady married someone else of her own will, why is she so spiteful?”
Michel shrugged. “Injured vanity, possibly. Renold was supposed to waste away for love.”
“I heard a tale,” she said, playing with her wine glass, “of how he appeared at the theater after she was wed with another woman on his arm.”
“An actress, rather,” Michel said, his gaze amused. “A minor liaison, on the rebound; I promise it’s long over. The lady became demanding, which is a fatal tactic with Renold.”
Angelica accepted that, and said with a frown, “Even if Madame Petain disliked having Renold’s new interest flung in her face — and even if she expected to continue their affair — her resentment seems excessive.”
“She is a woman of excesses,” Michel said, choosing another olive.
He was hiding something; Angelica knew it. She considered what it might be while she drank wine and reached idly for a cookie. She ate a small bite before she said, “Perhaps there were promises exchanged, so that she feels betrayed?”
“Renold would not pledge himself falsely, nor give his word where it could not be kept.” The words were positive.
“Well, but I still don’t see—”
“If you must know what is between them, then you will have to ask him. He will tell you if it pleases him, but he would not care to know that I talked behind his back. This much I will say: Clotilde did him a great wrong, and it was this rather than mere hurt pride that caused his retaliation. And it sometimes happens that the very person who does someone the most harm is the one who harbors the most ill will against them.”
It was possible that she might have persuaded Michel to say more, possibly to defend Renold if for no other reason. She was given no opportunity. There came a clattering of wheels in the street outside, then the bell on the courtyard gate clanged like a clarion.
Michel got to his feet and moved to draw aside the drapes at the French door and look out. From that vantage point, he reported the presence of a carriage down below. Tit Jean had apparently admitted the passenger, then emerged to deal with the brass-bound trunks that were piled on top of the vehicle.
Michel turned to stroll back toward Angelica with a quizzical frown on his face. “I swear, if I didn’t know better, I would think—”
The door swinging open cut off his words. A young woman sailed into the room, unfastening the frogs of a fitted coat of black velvet as she came forward. Handing the coat to Estelle, who followed her, tearing at the strings of her chic little hat composed mostly of velvet and violets, she launched into speech.
“How do you do? You must be my new sister-in-law. You won’t mind, I hope, that I have descended upon you? Really, sitting at home hearing news secondhand, and by post at that, was too much to be borne. Mother agreed someone must come and see if what everyone is saying is true. I can see that it must be, indeed.”
Michel said in dry tones, “Permit me, Angelica, to make known to you Renold’s sister, Mademoiselle Marie Lena Frances Deborah—”
“Just Deborah, if you please,” the girl interrupted with a smile as she handed over her hat to the housekeeper, revealing light brown hair streaked with gold, then began to draw off her black kid gloves. “Michel always makes a fuss over the fact that I was Lena for years, but prefer the last of my four given names, now that I am old enough to choose for myself. Men despise change; have you noticed?”
“The problem is that Deborah is so Biblical, and you are not,” Michel returned with an unaccustomed edge to his tones.
“And a good thing, too, or I might smite you!” The girl held her bare hand out to Angelica with frank friendliness in her hazel eyes. “Please say you won’t throw me out, now that I’m here. I promise to be an exemplary guest, not interfering in the least. That is, if you will only permit me to stay.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Angelica said, almost at random as she clasped the other girl’s hand. “I’m sorry to stare, only — I didn’t realize Renold had a sister.”
“Half-sister, to be perfectly correct,” Deborah said with a quick, rather odd glance at Michel. “But how very peculiar of Renold not to tell you; he must be quite besotted to let such a detail slip his mind. Or perhaps he was saving it for a surprise?”
“Speaking of surprises,” Michel said with an air of grim determination, “he will certainly be amazed to walk in and find you here. He thought you intended to stay quietly in the country this season.”
The look on the piquant features of Renold’s sister was derisive. “No one catches Renold off guard, as you must know if you gave it half a thought. I expect Tit Jean sent a boy off to inform Renold I am here the instant he clapped eyes on me. As for remaining in the country, it’s now Lent, so the season is over. I can hardly be accused of discarding my mourning for gay dissipation.” She turned her back on Michel, speaking to Angelica. “I see you are also is black. You have had a bereavement?”
“My father,” she said briefly.
A shadow crossed the other woman’s face like a shutter closing out the light. “Mine also — how very strange life can be. In any case, I give you my condolences.”
Angelica said everything that was suitable and polite in answer. As she fell silent again, an awkward silence developed. In the midst of it, the woman known as Deborah locked glances with Michel across the room.
Angelica was a little perplexed, wondering if the two were at odds in some manner that went beyond the good-natured bickering of those who have known each other from childhood. A moment later, she dismissed the idea. To expect ordinary behavior in this situation was foolish when there was nothing else ordinary about it.
Falling back on her duties as hostess to ease the situation, Angelica offered her sister-in-law refreshment, then rang for Tit Jean to bring the orange flower water requested. She also directed the manservant to place Deborah’s trunks in the room Deborah always used. It was amusing, considering her sister-in-law’s protestations, to discover that not only had this already been done, but that the maid Deborah had brought with her was even now unpacking her mistress’s belongings.
Michel waded manfully into the breach then, by inquiring if Deborah had noticed the new courtyard garden and soliciting her opinion of it. They had not quite exhausted the subject when Renold appeared.
He came into the room with a smile and an easy greeting for his sister, but his gaze went immediately to Angelica. She was not certain what he saw in her face, still he came at once to take her hand and go down on one knee in front of her.
“Tell me the worst at once,” he said in wry pleading. “You and my sister have discovered my perfidy between you and decided to rend me limb from limb in tandem.”
“Now there’s a thought,” Deborah said pleasantly.
“Actually,” Michel said, “they haven’t come to that, quite. They have only established that you treat all your relatives, wife or sister, in the same cavalier fashion when it comes to sharing information.”
“Just so,” Deborah said with a nod that sent a sun-kissed curl to the center of her forehead. “Mother had the news of your marriage from old Madame Mignot, and a more lurid piece of gossip you never heard! There has, supposedly, never been a more romantic rescue. You saved your Angelica from fire and drowning and the dangers of the surgeon’s knife, then married her secretly in the dead of night. Now you keep her hidden away like some beauteous Rapunzel in case she should try to escape you!”
Silver-Tongued Devil (Louisiana Plantation Collection) Page 13
