by Nancy Gideon
And as she sat in the small dressing room of the chapel in which they were to be married, Arabella repeated that vow as solemnly as she’d repeat those to seal her wedded state. Louis Radman was going to be her husband, and on this night was going to share her bed.
She smiled up at her father as Stuart Howland came to bring her before the altar. The doctor’s face was somber for such an occasion.
“You have rushed to this point, Bella. Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes.” She sighed serenely, and he had to believe her. Truly, there’d never been such a radiance about her.
“Then I wish you every good fortune, my dear. Allow me to gift you with a small token of my love.”
Arabella smiled as he draped a fragile chain about her neck and let the delicate silver crucifix rest upon her bosom.
“I want your word that you will wear this always and that you will call upon its power in times of threat or trouble.”
Arabella gave him a bewildered look. Her father wasn’t a religious man. Like most of the doctors she knew, he likened himself close to a god. So she was as puzzled as she was touched by his present and his insistence. But because she loved him and she was so happy, she made him that promise and he looked tremendously relieved as he bent to kiss her cheek.
“COME NOW, DAUGHTER. His lordship has an impatient look about him, and the service must conclude before noon.” And his eyes misted as she stood and he beheld her with a father’s love, for she was the image of her mother in her high-waisted gown of white and silver, with the airy scarf of lace pinned to her headdress of white roses and trailing down to wisp about her bare arms. And he was comforted by the gleaming silver cross. Wrapping her gloved fingers within the crook of his arm, he led her out to where Louis was waiting before an elite gathering of their friends.
From the marquis’s side, serving as his rather unconventional groomsman, Takeo smiled shyly at Arabella, and she returned the gesture before lifting her gaze to her betrothed. And once their stares met, Arabella was aware of nothing else. Not of the wary look her father gave her husband-to-be as he passed over possession of her hand, not of the words they spoke to one another, not of the ring slipped upon her hand. Nothing made an impression until Louis bent and claimed their first wedded kiss. And it was sweetly satisfying.
They received congratulations at an elaborate wedding breakfast hosted by one of the hospital board. Louis kept to his single glass of champagne, politely declining even a taste of the bride’s cake. His eyes were on his new bride, and they were blatantly hungry. As soon as properly possible, he disentangled her from the party and guided her out to their waiting coach. Within, they rode in silence, just their fingertips entwined until they reached Louis’s home.
Their home.
Inside, there was a bustle of activity. Hired servants wound in and out of the rooms, readying for the grand reception planned for that evening. Bessie Kampford was there to embrace Arabella with a deluge of tears. She’d come along with the new bride’s wardrobe to help her settle in. Louis stood back patiently and waited to receive his wife’s attention. She stood in the center of the hall, a look of confusion on her face.
“Louis, where are all your treasures?”
The parlors had been stripped to the most fashionable necessities and seemed very bare indeed.
With a negligent wave of his hand, Louis said, “I was told there was no room amongst them in which to keep my greatest treasure, so I did away with them all.”
She cried out in genuine dismay. “Oh, you didn’t! All your memories—”
“Mean nothing to me now. I want nothing of the past to hold me. You are my future, Bella. I need nothing more surrounding me.”
Just then, Bessie huffed in, toting several cases and directing the traffic of footmen bearing trunks. “Where be you wanting these?”
“In the big room at the head of the stairs,” Louis told her, without taking his gaze from his wife.
Bessie gave him a level look. “But those be your quarters, my lord.”
“Just so. Place my wife’s belongings there.”
Appearing scandalized, Mrs. Kampford turned to a dreamy-eyed Arabella. “But Miss—Ma’am—”
“The room at the head of the stairs, Mrs. Kampford. I shall be up momentarily.”
And as her father’s clucking housekeeper herded the bearers up in front of her, Arabella gave her husband a shy smile. He responded by opening his arms and she was quick to fill them, hugging fiercely, with a trembling expectation.
“How soon before we can be alone?” she asked, rather breathlessly.
“Not a timid creature, are you, my love? We could be terrible hosts and draw the shades and lock the doors and pretend not to be at home tonight.”
She chuckled and snuggled against him contentedly. “No, I can endure it as long as you’re nearby. Oh, Louis, I am so happy.”
He glanced down at her and his devoted gaze was arrested. “What is that you’re wearing?”
She leaned back and fingered the fragile necklace. “My father gave it to me. I was quite surprised. He’s never attached much sentiment to God and church.”
“You must wear it, then, to honor him.” He lifted the small hand that held the cross and pressed his mouth to the back of it. “He thinks only of you, and in that, I cannot fault him. Now, before I am tempted beyond restraint, go see what havoc Mrs. Kampford is wreaking upon my rooms.”
“I love you, Louis.” She stretched up to affirm those words with a sweet kiss, then rushed off as if she, too, was overcome with the need to barricade herself against the world.
As he watched her hurry up his stairs, Louis Radman felt a tug of tenderness before unknown to him and a swell of protective love for his new bride. And deeper still, a stirring eagerness for the time when all their guests would leave and he could make her truly his own in the way of mortal man.
AND AS THE SUN set, their house filled up with well-wishers and celebrants. Candlelight created a soft fantasy orchestrated by the mellow sounds of a string ensemble. In fashionable circles, the event would be deemed a crushing success, for so many stood mashed elbow to elbow, it was impossible to move with any degree of comfort. Separated from her husband by the press of humanity, Arabella clung to her patience and smiled with an inbred graciousness at all who came to extend their goodwill, but her eyes kept straying toward the stairs and her thoughts toward the night she and Louis would have together when he would continue the lessons in love she so desired.
Distracted by those heated anticipations, she was quite startled by the abrupt appearance of a woman before her, a woman who was without a doubt the most beautiful female she’d ever seen. Tall, sleek, and sharply lovely, dressed to the envy of the court, the blond woman regarded Arabella with a thin smile and the glitter of her black eyes.
“So, he has married you.” That quiet purr was decidedly French in flavor. It was impossible not to feel the threat in her gaze as it moved incrementally from toe to top of head. “I’ll admit, you are a rather pretty creature.”
Fighting to subdue her annoyance at the bold behavior and her sudden alarm as the black eyes fixed upon hers, Arabella forced a smile and extended her hand. “We have not met. I am Arabella How—Radman. Are you a friend of my husband’s?”
“You might say so.” The icy blonde took her hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong, compressing Arabella’s fingers to the point of pain while her thumb stroked leisurely over the pulse point in her wrist. “Luigino and I go back a long way.”
“You knew him in Florence?” Arabella kept her tone calm as she tried to gracefully extract her hand. The woman only smiled. Arabella could feel one long fingernail scraping along her inner wrist.
“In Florence, yes. In Rome. In Milan. In Madrid. In Cairo.”
Arabella understood. This woman was Louis’s past. She was the on
e who’d traveled with him while he’d gathered all those treasures. It was impossible not to be intimidated by a woman of such poise and chill loveliness. Especially when she smiled to revel in that knowledge of that association.
“I know him in ways that you could never know him, chérie, and that is why you’ll not be able to keep him from me.”
Not the words a yet virgin bride wished to hear on her wedding night. Arabella blushed awkwardly, then flushed with a tart anger. How dared this woman speak to her in such a fashion? In her home! About her husband!
“Louis has discarded all the things of the past. You may have been his lover, but I am now his wife.”
The blonde laughed, a high musical sound that was somehow discordant. “Lover? How quaint. Yes, he was my lover once.” Her dark eyes slid to a sultry half-mast and the tip of her tongue moistened voluptuous lips. “And he will be again. Because I know him. I know what he needs.”
“I am what he needs,” Arabella countered, with more confidence than she was feeling. “Perhaps you should go—” Then she looked about, confused. For the woman had simply vanished. The sound of her malicious laughter yet lingered, as did the scent of her perfume. And the terrible feeling of threat to her newfound happiness.
“Bella?”
The brush of Louis’s fingertips along her shoulders wrought a hard shudder. That didn’t escape him, nor did her abrupt pallor. She looked up at him through stricken eyes, with dampness flooding.
“Bella? What’s wrong?”
His closeness, his concern, both combined to scatter her insecurities. Louis had wed her, he’d made her his wife. He loved her. What did she have to fear? Nothing except looking the fool for allowing an old acquaintance to stir up her jealousies. Had she thought him chaste? Not the way he kissed. And the comely blonde was probably not the only affair from his past. What woman who’d known his attentive touch would not wish to make love with him? She did... desperately.
“Nothing’s wrong,” she vowed with a firm, denying smile. “Only it’s such a squeeze, and I’ve grown tired.” Her palm stroked his sleeve. “And anxious.”
He smiled, pretending to be calmed by her flirtatious manner. “Then we shall discourage our guests from remaining. I’ll pass the word that we’ve run out of drink. That should chase them home.”
But when he moved to leave her, he found her fingers curled tightly in the fabric of his coat.
“Louis, please stay with me.”
He could feel her anxiety, but couldn’t guess its cause. Something had upset his unflappable bride. He was quick to relent and to tuck her within the curve of his arm, where he pressed a light kiss to her brow, earning a soft sigh of response. And he didn’t move from her side as their company began to thin with their slyly issued good-nights. As he felt her tension ease, he could almost believe it was the stress of the evening behind her panic, and as the rooms emptied, he allowed himself to think ahead, to the two of them together, alone and entwined. And he was smiling lustily down at his new bride when he felt her rigidity return. Casually, he turned to follow her gaze and thoughts of romance were rent asunder by the appearance of two who had been uninvited.
“Gino, my friend! It has been—how long?”
Louis’s hopes jerked to a tragic halt as the tall handsome man drew him up into a warm embrace. The man pressed fond kisses to either cheek, then his friend stepped back to regard him with a wide smile.
“You look so surprised! Why is that? Did you think we would not travel far to wish you well on such a night as this? Gino, you are family. We love you and want what’s best for you. Isn’t that right, Bianca?”
The svelte blonde stepped in close to rub her knuckles down Louis’s taut cheek. “That’s right. We love you. Did you forget that?”
And her seductive smile tightened a complete terror inside Louis Radman.
“Is this your bride?” the gentleman crooned. “How sweetly lovely. Un amore di bambino; a charming child. Introduce us, Gino.”
Still slowed by shock, Louis murmured the exchange of names. “Arabella, this is Gerardo Pasquale and Bianca du Maurier.”
“Your pretty bride and I have already met,” Bianca said with a taunting smile. “I have told her how we are old and dear friends.” And she swayed in close to adhere to Louis’s other side even as Gerardo slipped an easy arm about Arabella’s waist to separate her from her husband. “And what have you told her of us? Nothing? Shame on you.”
To an observer, it would seem a scene of cozy reunion. To Louis, a nightmare. He had to think, and his mind was strangely paralyzed. Bianca, of course... he had forgotten how powerful she was. There was nothing he could do to protect himself and his bride, but then, what could these two demons do in the middle of company?
Why, they could do anything they chose. And so Bianca’s smug smile reminded him.
She was looking into his eyes, into his thoughts, devouring them, and he could sense her puzzlement. He tried to throw up a mental block, to push her out, and for a moment, he was successful. But she was so strong. And as she leaned in closer, he could see her delicate nostrils flare as she scented out live blood.
His.
“Louis?”
It was Arabella’s faint call of his name that woke him from the spell Bianca was weaving. His mortal wife was looking to him for guidance, and he didn’t know what to tell her. He had to find some way to protect her. And then he remembered Stuart Howland’s wisdom.
“Bella, show my friend the trinket your father gave to you. He is interested in such things.”
Though she was confused, Arabella complied. And the moment she lifted the small crucifix to display it, Gerardo released her and reared back with narrowed eyes.
“Very lovely,” he said softly. “As you are lovely. Bianca, we overstay our welcome. Can you not see that our friend is eager to get on with the initiation of his bride? Fare all’amore.” His sigh was expressive. “I am so envious.”
“I wonder,” Bianca mused, as her slender fingers stroked over Louis’s cheek and down his throat, pausing there for a long moment. “Is that your plan, Luigino? Non, it is Louis now. I must remember. Louis.” She was studying him, shrewd, and made uncertain by what she saw. Her grip on his neck was massaging, unrelenting, and close to suffocating. “Will you make her one of us? Or shall we provide the welcome?”
“No,” Louis gritted out with a fierce control. “Leave. We will talk another time. Not here.”
“Yes, we will talk. We have much to catch up on. Bring your dainty bride. I’m sure she would find the conversation... illuminating. Until then...” She leaned closer. Louis was powerless to move in her iron embrace. Her lips settled over his with an indecent familiarity, gliding slowly, tongue sliding slickly over the narrow press of his mouth. And she laughed softly at his resistance. “Taming you was always my greatest pleasure, Gino,” she whispered against that unyielding line. “Oh, but the victory, so sweet. So worth the time and effort.”
“Don’t waste your time, Bianca,” he growled in warning. “You have nothing I want. You never did.”
“That’s not how I remember it, cher. We shall see who has the better recall, eh?” She moved away from him with obvious reluctance and spared a haughty glance at his wife. “Enjoy him while you can, but you will find some ties are not so easily discarded. Come, Gerard.”
The dapper Italian gentleman embraced his friend once more, indifferent to Louis’s stiff response. And holding the marquis’s face between his palms, he kissed him again in fond European fashion and murmured with a sinister affection, “How I have missed you, Gino! My good, dear friend. I have never forgotten the depth of your love for me. Perhaps it is time to see it repaid.” And his attention slid to Arabella for a lengthy appraisal. Smiling, he followed his lovely companion to the door, then bowing once to the newlyweds, he disappeared after her into the night.
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Chapter Twelve
A MOOD OF TENSION was expected between man and wife when the last of the guests were gone and they found themselves alone. And tension was high in the big bedroom. Arabella watched her husband stride across the room to check the window latches and draw the drapes tight. And when he turned to her, it wasn’t with a look of anxious passion. He was just plain anxious.
“Louis, who were those people?”
“Devils,” he told her simply, and she trembled because she couldn’t laugh and disbelieve him.
“What do they want?”
“Me.” Again, the terrifying bluntness. His hands scrubbed over his features restlessly. They were shaking. And that scared her more than the aggressive pair below.
“Louis, that woman said you were lovers and that you would be again.”
“No. That isn’t true.”
“You weren’t intimate with her? In Florence, in Rome, in Milan, in Madrid, and in Cairo?” That came out with a jealous escalation, and she didn’t care that it did. Jealousy was easier to handle than fright. And the odd pair frightened her.
“In Florence. Long ago.”
“And the rest?” She wrapped her arms about herself to still the terrible trembling.
“I was not in love with her, Bella. Never. I was very young, and she was so worldly. I didn’t understand what she wanted from me.”
“And what did she want?”
“To possess me.”
How much worse that sounded than just to make love to him. So much more complete and permanent. And dangerous. Tears welled up in Arabella’s eyes, and a helplessness she hated. Thinking of that dazzling, sophisticated woman—
“Why did you let her kiss you like that?”
He gave a harsh laugh. How to make her believe that Bianca could have broken his neck with a casual twist of her hand? “One doesn’t let Bianca do anything. She takes whatever she likes.”
