All I Want Is You (32 page)

I can’t remember what I said or what I did, but I think the words must have struck me like a physical blow, because I was aware of Benedict holding me, steadying me. ‘Cora told me,’ he said. ‘About you and him. I’m so sorry to do this to you, but oh, my poor girl, they’re in town, the Oakleys and their entourage, sightseeing and shopping and all the rest of it. I thought you ought to be prepared.’

Indeed, I should have been prepared. I knew Ash needed to keep the dukedom, and that all of his workers – all those miners and the others employed by the estate – needed him. But to make the Belfield inheritance prosperous again, he’d had to make huge financial investments, and Miss Diana Oakley from Chicago would doubtless provide millions.

Benedict was still trying to soothe me. ‘It doesn’t mean he doesn’t still love you, you know, sweetheart. Anyway, look at you – you’re on your way to becoming a star! You could take your pick of lots of lovely men who adore you! Including me,’ he added quietly.

‘I only want him, Benedict,’ I whispered. ‘I only ever wanted him.’

He held me tight. ‘Oh, sweetheart.’

It was time for me to go on stage and sing, though my mind was in turmoil. Would his American heiress care for him? Would she bring him devotion, always, as I would have done? Oh, it was inevitable that she would love him. And the thought of him sharing the same intimacy with her that he’d shared with me was hard – no, was
impossible –
to bear.

One night soon afterwards I was booked to perform with Benedict’s band at a private party in the ballroom of the Berkeley Hotel, and just before we were due to begin I peeped out as I usually did to assess the audience. All the people there were the height of elegance: the men wore evening suits and the women were in elaborate gowns and glittered with jewels. They’d all clearly enjoyed an abundance of champagne and gossip while Benedict’s band had played gently in the background, but they stopped talking when I came on.

I was wearing a new gown of pink silk with narrow shoulder straps, and below it I wore pink satin lingerie, like the set Beatrice had once dressed me in, for Ash. Every day – no, every hour – there was something new to remind me of him: a colour, a lingering scent, a haunting sequence of chords.
Miss Sophie Davis sings with a broken heart
, one of the critics had written admiringly about me, and I wasn’t surprised – it was true.

And that night… he was there. I’d sung two songs before I saw him on the fourth row, and he was gazing
at me with such intensity that I missed my entry. I glimpsed poor Benedict glancing at me anxiously, then he went through a few preliminary bars again and this time I managed to come in as if nothing at all was wrong.

I was a professional, you see. And it was as well, because by then I’d realised that next to him was
her –
it had to be her, Diana, his American heiress. I knew I ought to hate her, but I couldn’t. She looked so young and timid, clinging tightly to his arm, and on her other side sat a man who was presumably her father, in an expensive suit, looking unutterably smug at the thought of having caught an English duke as his prospective son-in-law.

My next song was, as ill-luck would have it, ‘All I Want Is You’
.
No time to signal to Benedict,
Please, not this one. Please let me sing something else.
I saw Ash freeze as the familiar notes began, and his Diana turned to him, lifting her pretty little face to his austere one. She laid her dainty fingers on his scarred hand but he pulled away sharply, and she looked, just for a moment, frightened.

You are not right for him
, I wanted to cry.
He’s mine. He will always be mine.

I saw Benedict watching me anxiously again; I sang ‘All I Want Is You’
,
and it ripped me apart, my audience too; I saw some of the women dabbing at their eyes with their dainty handkerchiefs. I tried so hard not to look in Ash’s direction, but near the end of the song, accidentally, my eyes met his. My voice hitched and broke slightly and I was aware of Benedict glancing tensely once more in my direction.

But I smiled as if it was all part of my act, and carried on. I was a real trouper by then, you see. I carried on.

After my final song, the audience wanted an encore, but I rushed to my private dressing room before the applause was even over, and every part of me was aching so badly with grief that I think I was shaking. I sat in front of my mirror, but I didn’t see my reflection; I simply gripped the edge of my dressing table and struggled for control. Soon Benedict would come in, to see if there was anything he could do. I bowed my head.
Nothing.

The door opened and a shadow fell across the room. I glanced in the mirror and I think my heart must have stopped beating. Not Benedict, but Ash – and just at this moment I couldn’t bear it.

He stood very still behind my chair, gazing at me in the mirror, and I felt weak with shock.
I should have gone with Cora, and joined that travelling dance troupe; I should have gone anywhere, done anything to avoid this…

He said, ‘Why did you leave me?’

I felt my chest heave with sharp, convulsive breaths. Slowly I stood up and turned to face him.

‘It was for the best, Ash. You know that. I know the dukedom means more than anything to you, much as you pretend to despise it. And I have my own life to lead, my own life to get on with…’

My voice trailed away as he went to close the door. He came towards me again. He was kissing me. I tried, oh I tried to push him away.

‘
Go.
Leave me. Please, for God’s sake, get out of my life.’ I wanted him more than ever, but I couldn’t let him
love me, I couldn’t. ‘Ash,’ I breathed, ‘this is madness, it’s
always
been madness. I’m no good for you, no good at all – you have what you want, you have your heiress. Sweet Jesus, will you leave me alone, for pity’s sake?’

He kissed me hard. There was no gentleness in it, no tenderness – it was a kiss of fierce possession. ‘You’re mine,’ he said savagely.

‘No.’ Somehow I kept my voice steady. ‘You don’t mean it. You’re ashamed of me.’

‘
Never.
’

I broke away from him and made for the door, but he barred my way. I said bitterly, thinking of the night at O’Rourke’s back in May, ‘Then you should be ashamed. You’ve good reason to be ashamed—’

He cut in, ‘You sang that song to
me
, Sophie. You saw me here and you sang that song to me. You’ve stolen my damned soul – and I’ve got yours. Haven’t I? Haven’t you given me your soul?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered back helplessly. ‘Yes.’

He gathered me into his arms. ‘Tell me that you love me and no one else. You will damned well tell me.’

‘I love you,’ I breathed. I took his scarred hands to my lips and kissed them. I began to shudder; I lifted my own face yearningly to his. He kissed me again and I couldn’t resist. Oh, God, he was kissing me as if the heat of his lips and the fierceness of his thrusting tongue could erase the hurt of all that was past, and as he slid his powerful hands beneath my gown and over my breasts, I almost ignited with need. I pulled him to me, I let my hips grind helplessly against his, I could feel the power of his erection beneath his clothes.

He put me up on the dressing table then and there. He parted my thighs and I struggled with his jacket, dragging it at last off his strong shoulders. He almost ripped my gown from my breasts and suckled them; he made love to me savagely, pushing my legs wide apart, dragging aside my panties to thrust himself into my moist flesh, as my hands roved beneath his shirt, against his smooth skin, and my cries of need mounted.

I gazed up at him while he made love to me, wanting to imprint on my eyes for ever the image of his perfect, beautiful face and burning blue eyes as I spiralled helplessly, wildly towards my climax and he joined me, pulling himself out just before the end to spill his seed over my stockinged thighs. Then he gathered me in his arms, still standing; my legs were still clasping him, my hips resting on the dressing table, as I stroked his hair and let him kiss me over and over…

My beautiful, scarred man.
The last time.
I knew it was the last time.

The door opened. The door opened, and there, hand in hand, stood Lady Beatrice and Diana.

I was back at Belfield, the village where I’d spent my childhood, and I stood in the churchyard in the late afternoon with my hand resting on my mother’s simple but beautifully carved headstone for which, all those years ago, the man I’d known then simply as Mr Maldon had paid.

Inside the church the village choir was at its weekly practice, and the faint but familiar sound of voices and organ mingled with a blackbird’s song as I laid on the grave a posy of fragrant cream roses and Michaelmas daisies. I wondered what my mother would say if I could speak to her now.

I was a success, they said. I was famous. My fingernails were painted, my fair hair was short and glossy, my clothes were lovelier by far than those Lady Beatrice had once dressed me in, when she was preparing me to seduce Ash. I’d been offered a contract by a well-known American theatre manager to sing in New York for three months, and I was sailing there with Benedict and his band in a week’s time. I should have been happy.

But my heart was as cold as the stone of my mother’s grave.

I could not forget my last night in London, two weeks
before. I couldn’t forget Diana’s face as I realised how completely innocent she was – not only a virgin but ignorant, totally, as to the reality of physical love. She’d looked so horrified to see the two of us, half naked and still in the fresh aftermath of raw passion.

I knew – because I was once like her – that she would have had sweet and girlish fancies of being in love with her Ash, her English Duke. She would have pictured him gently kissing her lips beneath soft moonlight, perhaps, and offering her gifts. She would have imagined tender murmurings, promises of eternal devotion. But never, ever would she have pictured the near savagery of our physical union, our faces still etched with the intensity of our emotions, the air still heavy with our passion-filled coupling.

By the time we’d swiftly covered ourselves, Diana had run off with a low cry – to her father, presumably. Ash had taken one look at me, rasped out, ‘
Wait for me
,’ then pulled on his jacket and charged off after her.

Beatrice stayed in the dressing room. Beatrice had me where she wanted me. She’d said, almost licking her lips, ‘You’ve lost everything for him now, you fool. That girl’s dowry was worth millions and was going to save the entire Belfield estate. Her father will be furious – and you can be sure that all of society will hear about this
very
quickly.’

‘Because you’ll tell them?’ I broke in. I could still feel Ash’s hands on me and his body next to –
inside
– mine.

She’d shrugged. ‘Why not?’ A smile had curled her mouth. ‘But my dear, what an education for poor little
Diana, seeing the two of you in the aftermath of such passion. Quite magnificent – I wish I’d arrived a few moments earlier…’

I was already grabbing my coat and bag, and charging blindly for the door.

‘Going so soon?’ I heard her calling after me. ‘Perhaps it’s as well. Rest assured, Sophie – you’ve lost him, and ruined him. Well done, you.’

I turned to leave the churchyard. From there I could glimpse Belfield Hall in the distance, rising above the lush beech woods of the valley. Tonight I would return to London by train and start making my final preparations to sail with Benedict’s band to New York. There perhaps I would forget him. Perhaps.

Because of the yew trees overhanging either side of the path, he was almost upon me by the time I realised it. My footsteps faltered; I looked up at him, my eyes wide with emotion.
Ash.

It was a warm day, so he’d taken off his jacket and slung it over one shoulder. His dark brown hair was rumpled, and there were shadows under his beautiful eyes. Pain tightened my throat. A duke? No, he was my Ash, my Mr Maldon, the man I would always love.

‘I thought you were in London,’ I said.

‘I left London this morning.’ The heavy boughs of the nearest yew cast loving shadows across his perfect profile. ‘Benedict told me you were coming here, to visit your mother’s grave.’

He’d searched out Benedict?
No – it was probably sheer chance. Benedict’s band had perhaps been playing at
some hotel or party that Ash had attended. I answered, ‘I came to say goodbye to her.’

‘Goodbye?’

‘For a while, anyway. Because – because…’

‘Benedict said that you’re going to New York.’ His voice was very steady, and as he spoke I noticed his car parked nearby. No James. He was on his own.

‘I’ve been offered a contract there, to sing.’ I tried to make it sound like the most wonderful news I’d ever heard. ‘You’ll realise that I can’t turn the chance down.’

He’d come closer. ‘Not even for me?’ he asked quietly.

My heart clenched. I felt dizzy.
Anything. I’d do anything for you, I’d lay down my life for you, you know that…
‘It’s impossible,’ I breathed. ‘I’ve done you so much harm already, Ash; I’ve caused you to lose so much. I’ve already been reminded of that, so many times…’

He looked around the little churchyard, then back at me, steadily. ‘I’m not marrying Diana,’ he said.

‘No.’ I lifted my eyes to meet his gaze, trying so hard to sound sensible. ‘No, I don’t suppose I thought for a minute that you would be. After… after—’

He broke in, ‘Incredibly enough, her father was still willing to push her into the marriage – I can only suppose he obtained a somewhat sanitised version of the events of that night. Diana, of course, was more than happy to tell me she never wished to see me again. I was wrong to have allowed her family to pursue the match so far. It’s one of the worst things I’ve done.’ Suddenly he took my hand. ‘I love you, Sophie – I’ll give up the damned dukedom if you’ll have me.’

Oh, those tender words –
I love you.
They almost broke my heart. And marriage? Did he mean marriage? ‘You mustn’t give it up, Ash. You
can’t
.’My voice was vibrant with emotion. ‘You’ve fought for the dukedom, and it’s yours. And you have so many people who rely on you to run the estate with sense and with justice. You are needed.’