Jordan appeared again, leading the way for Lord Halnes, practically genuflecting at each step, thought Cynthia. Then she looked at Lord Halnes and was sharply disappointed. What an undistinguished, rather short, and obviously portly man! He resembled a dull stockbroker or upper bookkeeper or obscure businessman. His quiet face was plump and expressionless, with a small double chin, unremarkable features; he was partly bald, also, and his clothing was entirely too heavy for this climate. Why, he’s not even as tall as I am, thought Cynthia, depressed, and he’s probably very tedious. She made no move as he came toward her over the grass, visibly perspiring.
Lord Halnes, wearing an appropriately grave expression and not appearing to see anything about him, was really acutely aware of and astonished at the beauty of the woman half reclining under the trees. Well, well, he thought with pleasure. Johnny did himself well, after all. What a handsome creature. She looks hardly more than a girl. And a devil, if I’m not mistaken. Good old Johnny!
John had not spoken very much of Cynthia; he had not even hinted of his affair with her. Yet when he had spoken, and with reluctance, his face had warmed, the color of his eyes had become actually human, and his abrupt manner had softened. It needed a very perceptive man — and Lord Halnes was most acute and perceptive — to understand that men like John Ames did not suddenly change at the mention of a woman’s name if inspired only by a brotherly and distant affection. Moreover, there was that package in his, Lord Halnes’, pocket.
He had come to within about eight feet of the silent Cynthia before he smiled, and Cynthia was suddenly astounded. Not only was this man charming, but he was clever and fascinating also. The satanic light in his eyes, the curious expression of subtle evil, the virile power stirred Cynthia and delighted her. He bowed to her and murmured in a voice that sounded marvelous to Cynthia, “Mrs. Winslow? I am sorry to intrude. I should have written you first. But I am here only until tomorrow, and to see you in behalf of my old friend, John Ames.”
What a lovely vixen, he thought agreeably. What great gray eyes and gilt lashes, what a long white throat, what distracting hair, and what a figure. Has she anything on under that silk and lace? Possibly not. But she is a lady of breeding, that is very obvious, even if she is careless. Johnny had taste, at least.
The silk and lace whispered softly as Cynthia held out her hand, and they exhaled a hint of intriguing perfume. Cynthia murmured, “How kind of you to come, Lord Halnes. A message from John? How thoughtful. Please sit down in that willow chair; it is quite comfortable. How kind of you.” She said to the bedazzled Jordan, “Brandy. At once, please. You will have brandy, won’t you?” she added to Montague.
“Indeed. A great pleasure,” he said, sitting down. His eyes danced on her with approval and enchantment and secret teasing, and Cynthia’s heart danced also. It had been a long time since a man had looked at her like this, with appreciative boldness and naughty inspection.
“Of course the English prefer tea. Perhaps?” said Cynthia in seductive tones, as if imparting a meltingly improper suggestion.
“I detest tea,” said Montague, leaning back in his chair and continuing his enjoyable inventory. He had dropped his pleasant voice to a warm intimacy.
“I do too,” said Cynthia with a soft laugh. They were conspirators in a delicious comedy. They smiled happily together. Cynthia’s lashes drooped; between them the smoky gray of her eyes sparkled.
“This is such a surprise,” said Cynthia, her voice still murmurous.
“Indeed. Indeed,” agreed Lord Halnes, implying a deeper meaning.
“You must forgive me for not moving this hot day and being so — undressed,” said Cynthia, indicating her clothing.
“I should not have forgiven you if you had done otherwise,” said Lord Halnes with a long slow glance over the graceful length of Cynthia’s body.
“How kind. How understanding,” said Cynthia, relaxing even more.
“How delightful,” said Lord Halnes.
“So good of you,” murmured Cynthia. She daintily applied her handkerchief to her forehead; the lace and silk fell back along her arm, revealing it almost to the shoulder. The action hinted of the cleft between her breasts. Lord Halnes was more appreciative than ever. He leaned forward a little. That was really a remarkably slender and supple waist and not the result of whalebone, and that curve of hip! Good old Johnny! If he was not mistaken this would be a wonderful baggage in bed. He was enchanted by the white chin, the fragile pulsation in the lovely temples. Give him an ardent lady in the bedroom rather than a voluptuous trollop. There was considerable skin visible, but this did not embarrass Lord Halnes in the slightest. He was suddenly in love, and the realization shocked him and made him silent for a few moments.
What a wicked man, thought Cynthia, who was not unsophisticated. What a marvelously wicked man. Still murmurous, as if the comedy of naughtiness were now in full stride, she asked him where he was staying, and when he told her the name of his hotel she made a gay grimace. “Appalling,” she confided.
“Very,” agreed Montague. “As bad as London. Do you know, Boston reminds me of London.” How could he arrange to get this dazzling creature into bed? It seemed a most urgent matter. He had never felt this urgent before, and it was not only exciting but an absolute necessity. If she was mourning for old Johnny it was certainly not evident.
“Dear London,” sighed Cynthia, who loathed London. They looked intensely into each other’s eyes and then suddenly burst out laughing together. It was the first time Cynthia had laughed since John had died.
Jordan brought the brandy; her face had a fixed and reverent expression. Lord Halnes took the tray easily from her hands and placed it on the wicker table near Cynthia. Jordan retreated. She could not understand. His lordship had not appeared in the least shocked at the madam’s dishabille, nor disturbed by her shamelessness, her immodesty. Ah, these were new and distressing times. “Allow me, dear Mrs. Winslow,” said Montague, bending over the tray. He poured a little brandy into one crystal glass. Cynthia said languidly, “A trifle more, please. I do enjoy brandy.”
“Excellent,” said Lord Halnes, filling her glass and then his own. He gave the glass to Cynthia; their fingers touched; it was electrifying. There was no doubt of it, thought his lordship. He was in love. He was absolutely bewitched. This made him thoughtful. There were always complications in life, but he was accustomed to dealing with them. He had not even the most passing doubt that he could get Cynthia into bed. She was attracted to him; he knew those mischievous and languishing glances well. It would be a miraculous interlude in a country almost as dull as England. Interlude?
Oh, not an interlude. There must be some permanent arrangement, satisfactory to both, but with no responsibility.
Lord Halnes, mused Cynthia. Wonderful man. A really wicked man. He would never be tedious. There was an excitement about him, even if he was English. He was also very, very rich, enormously rich. There was possibly a castle in England. Cynthia said as she sipped her brandy, “I never see an Englishman without remembering the frightening time when I was presented to Her Majesty.”
Montague was surprised. “Yes?” he said.
“I was an Esmond,” said Cynthia. “Of the very old Esmond family in Surrey. Of course we have been here at least a hundred years. My great-great-grandfather was a younger son. We are distantly related to Lord Baltimore.”
Montague was silent; he sipped his brandy also and mentally commented that it was extraordinarily fine brandy. But he was really considering the new gentle note in Cynthia’s voice — what an adorable voice! An American lady was distinctly different from an English lady. But this lady had been an Esmond. He knew the English Esmonds very well. Improvident, if charming. Mrs. Winslow was not only distractingly beautiful, she was intelligent and very subtle. This was somewhat unnerving. She had caught a hint of his thoughts. This would not be an easy matter. Montague became serious and put down his glass. He must have her, at almost any cost, except marriage, of course.
“Your niece, Miss Ames, is the daughter of your sister, I understand, Mrs. Winslow.”
Something had gone wrong, thought Cynthia, deeply vexed. She said, sighing, “Yes. My twin sister, my dear Ann. Isn’t it unfortunate that Caroline doesn’t resemble her? You have met Caroline, certainly.”
“Yes,” said Lord Halnes, feeling genuinely despondent. But there was nothing else for it. “You see, old Johnny was quite sympathetic to the idea of a marriage between me and Caroline.”
Cynthia was so jolted that she sat upright abruptly, spilling some of the brandy in her slender lap. Lord Halnes immediately sprang to his feet and, murmuring, used his handkerchief to mop up the liquid. His fingers and the back of his hand came into contact with the thin silk, and he felt the warm and velvety flesh under it. His head quite whirled; a hot thrill ran through him. “Oh, pardon me, pardon me,” he stammered.
Cynthia watched the trembling fingers with a faint smile of sudden satisfaction. The fingers were not anxious to leave her. She found a tiny fold or two of silk that needed attention. The handkerchief slowed, dragged, almost halted. Cynthia’s perfume filled the air as an early breeze quickened. She let her right arm lean briefly against Montague’s shoulder. His face was brilliantly scarlet now and considerably bloated, and there was a congested look about his nose. He sat down, panting a little. “So sorry,” he said.
“Really nothing,” murmured Cynthia. “So clumsy of me.” She paused and looked at him with delicate incredulity. “You were speaking of Caroline?”
“Yes,” said Lord Halnes reluctantly. He was having some difficulty with his breathing. Muttering an apology, he passed his handkerchief over his chubby face. Now that he was not smiling he looked again like a respectable upper clerk in a banking house. “It was Johnny, you know. He and I were very close friends; he thought the match very suitable.”
Cynthia sipped reflectively at her glass. This gave her an opportunity to display her captivating profile with the finely carved nose, the full rosy lower lip, the clear white brow. She let Montague dwell on that profile for a little. “I see,” she said. “But Caroline is hardly twenty-four. And American girls are quite immature compared with European young ladies. She is so inexperienced; I am her only close relative.” Cynthia sighed, and her breast stirred. “It is only natural that I should feel some responsibility for my sister’s daughter.”
“I understand,” said Montague. He refilled his glass with some agitation. Damn the beautiful devil; she was deliberately seducing him. Under other circumstances he would have been elated. This was a bad spot; he must get over it quickly so that more important matters could be tenderly explored. “In America,” he continued, “marriages are romantic. It is all love, isn’t it? But in England and on the Continent” — he did not like England to be considered part of Europe — “things are a little more sensible. Money and a good match are the thing, though it is not true for America.”
Cynthia laughed musically. “Perhaps not. But it is so in Boston. A man doesn’t expect, in Boston, to be lucky enough to get beauty and money together. In fact, an attractive face is somewhat of a drawback to a Bostonian and just a trifle suspect. And what more does a man need but money?” She turned a bland yet sparkling face upon Montague, and her eyes were innocent.
He could not look away. Cynthia smiled gently, showing her small white teeth; she nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully, and this distracted Montague to an inner frenzy. “Have you seen Caroline in Lyndon or Lyme?” she asked, having detected the frantic gleam in his eyes.
“No. Not yet. After all, she is a young lady, alone. I thought she might be here.”
“Oh dear, no. Caroline and I are not very good friends, I am afraid. It is not my fault, I assure you, Lord Halnes.”
“Please call me by my Christian name. Please.”
Cynthia raised her eyebrows.
“Montague,” he pleaded.
“Then you must call me Cynthia, now that you are almost a member of the family.” She tilted her head on her long neck and gave him a dazzling look.
“Cynthia,” he repeated. He was certain he had never heard a lovelier name. He was becoming fatuous, he thought. If he did not control himself he would find himself groveling like a clodhopper. He regarded Cynthia’s elegant hands; he remembered the satin touch of them.
“We were speaking of Caroline,” said Cynthia.
“Eh? Oh yes,” said Montague a little stupidly. “So we were. You have no objection to my — ”
“Becoming my nephew?” interrupted Cynthia, dimpling. “As I am forty-three, and you, I believe, are a little — a very little — older, the situation is amusing.”
“I can’t believe you are forty-three,” said Montague sincerely.
“How kind of you! Frankly, I am not yet forty-three. I was married very young. I was only eighteen when my son Timothy was born.” Again she turned a bland face on him. He did not doubt her word at all. His infatuation was increasing at an alarming rate. He had seen more beautiful women before; he had possessed more beautiful women. But he knew, as a judge of womankind, that Cynthia not only was pretty but possessed wit and brains. She was not only a lady but perfectly cultivated and sweet as honey. John Ames had been her lover, yet she exuded a kind of purity and tantalizing virginity. This is no woman of light virtue, thought the unhappy Montague.
“May I ask how Caroline regards your offer?” asked Cynthia seriously.
“I haven’t made it yet. But Johnny, poor Johnny, told me a day or two before he died that he would extend my offer to Caroline. I have reasons to believe that he did so.”
“Oh?” Cynthia’s tone was cool and abstracted, but she felt sick. How intolerable this was, how frightful. This man was not only wealthy and titled, but he was a man she understood; she was already helplessly attracted to him; when he had mopped the brandy from her clothing she had experienced the blissful response she had thought she would never know again. And Caroline — Caroline! — stood in the way. For the first time in her life Cynthia knew violent hatred. It caused her to flush, to become prettier, for her eyes flashed. Then she was sick and abandoned again, and only her training prevented her from bursting into tears. Anyone but Caroline, she thought, anyone but that dreadful, sullen lump of a girl who had insulted her so grossly. How cruel life was, how brutal, how disgusting. She had never thought this before, but the repellent aspects of life now overwhelmed her. I will go to New York! she vowed silently. I couldn’t stay here and see him with her — that dreadful, sullen lump of a girl. Lady Halnes — Caroline! It was only the money. Montague did not need that money, but when did a man of his kind not want more even if it were attached to a Caroline Ames? He needed it for wider power; the very quality in him which fascinated her was the quality that would prevent him from marrying a fortuneless widow.
“And?” she murmured, fighting the tightness in her throat.
He started. “And?” he repeated dully. “Oh yes. I must admit that Caroline did not seem entirely pleased. This is only a conjecture of mine, please forgive me. But when I saw her just a few hours before poor old Johnny died I was certain that her father had mentioned the matter to her.”
Cynthia became sharply interested. “Were you, indeed? I am deeply attached to Caroline; I am her aunt. I should like her to be happy. What was her response? This is all very subtle, it seems.”
“Not very,” said the dejected nobleman. He was very certain now that Cynthia would not be easy to capture; she might not be captured at all, under the circumstances. But that would be intolerable. He must not let himself think it. “Caroline, as you may know, isn’t subtle. She is silent, but very direct.” He paused. “I always felt that she detested me.”
Cynthia’s eyebrows rose in a splendid imitation of disbelief. “Surely you were mistaken!” she cried. “How could that be so — Montague? Even Caroline would know that you were offering her a great honor!”
He was delighted and as flattered as a schoolboy. He was lighthearted again.
He smiled. “I don’t think Caroline considered it an honor. We haven’t exchanged any real conversations, you know. She is a trifle difficult to understand.”
“I do know,” said Cynthia sympathetically. She let her eyes become large and humid. “Poor child. She has had a most wretched life. I must tell you of it someday. It was all her father’s fault. I did my best, truly I did.”
“I am sure of that!” he exclaimed. He pulled his chair closer to her.
“I’m afraid that I wasn’t very successful. Ah well.” Cynthia let herself muse again. Then she held out her glass to be refilled once more. She laughed sweetly. “In a way, this is very amusing. You see, I am considering remarrying; a Boston gentleman. I have known him from childhood, and he is now a widower. You must really give me a little time! It would be absurd for you to marry Caroline before I marry, wouldn’t it? A little improper.” She fluttered her hands and gazed at him appealingly. “You will wait, won’t you, for at least a few months? It would be much better if it were at least a year from the time John died.” She was suddenly shocked; she had actually forgotten that she had loved John Ames. She turned quite pale. Montague felt a spasm of vicious jealousy. He thought that Cynthia had paled with remembered grief, that she mourned.
A Prologue to Love Page 35
