Grahame, Lucia (18 page)

"I can't do that, sir," he said at last in a very low
voice. "My orders are to return with the horse as quickly as
possible."

"The horse may die," my husband said.

"So may my wife and baby, if I lose my position,"
retorted the other with a flash of anger.

My husband flushed more deeply.

"Of course," he said at last. "I beg your
pardon."

I supposed there was nothing for it, then, and that the groom
would turn away to carry out his inhumane obligation.

But neither of the men moved. I felt they were taking each other's
measure.

"The Sparlings can go to the devil," said my husband
suddenly. "Let the horse rest. I'll give you a place at Charingworth. You
won't be any poorer for it."

For an instant the groom looked as if he might leap at the offer,
but still he hesitated.

My husband laid his hand lightly upon the horse, which was shuddering
somewhat less violently. The groom appeared to be thinking hard. His face was
as unrevealing as my husband's.

"And which one of us do you think will be brought up as a
horse thief?" he asked suddenly.

"I'll take up the matter of the horse with Lord Sparling
myself," replied my husband. "If you would have no objection to
that."

Another long silence.

"Well, I suppose I had better tend to the horse then,"
said the other man finally, still in the same expressionless voice.

I heard my husband let out his breath.

When the horse had been taken to the livery stable and my husband
had assured himself that it was likely to recover, we returned to our carriage.
Inside, he turned to me, and I realized, with something like shock, that he
must have been exercising enormous self-control for the past twenty minutes or
so. He had given so little indication of this that I had not fathomed the depth
of his rage.

"Have you any idea how hard that miserable Sparling wretch
must have forced that animal to run?" he demanded. "To win a bet with
his father! My God!"

His eyes were blazing.

I understood his anger and had almost been wishing that something
would occur to ruffle his tiresome, imperturbable equanimity. But not this. The
reemergence of that disturbing aspect of my husband—for the second time that
day—frightened me, and involuntarily I shrank from him.

He turned away, leaned back in the seat, and closed his eyes.
After a while he said quietly, with a rueful sigh, "That's all we need,
another groom."

I did not attempt a response.

"Oh well," said my husband wearily. "It will
lighten the work of the others, and I suppose that's never a bad thing."

He seemed to shake off the last remnants of strong emotion and
turned again to me.

"You don't mind driving back alone, do you?"

"Alone?" I said. "Why? Where are
you
going?"

That night, to my astonishment, he came to my bedroom. Only
moments after I had put out the light, I heard his soft rap at my door.

My heart pounded violently as he crossed the room to me. Was
something wrong? Or had he simply tired at last of waiting?

He sat down upon the edge of the bed.

"Did I wake you?" he said.

"No, I wasn't asleep yet. What is it, Anthony? Has something
happened?"

"No," he said. He reached across the counterpane to take
my hand.

"May I lie here with you for a while tonight?" he asked.

"Oh, of course," I said. My throat was so full I could
hardly speak; I didn't know whether it was alarm or a fragile joy that was
nearly choking me. Perhaps it was both.

He took off his shoes and stretched out beside me. He was on top
of the bedclothes and fully dressed; I lay beneath them in a heavy winter
nightgown.

"You were wonderful today, you know," he said.

"I was afraid you'd be..."

I hesitated.

"Be what? Shocked by the things you said?"

"Shocked... or embarrassed. I ought to have told you about my
infamous grandmother long ago instead of springing it on you like that."

"Oh, I don't know," he said with a laugh. "I rather
enjoyed it."

Already he was starting to make me feel too good, just lying there
next to me, talking in the dark, giving me the simplest and most precious
lover's gift, the feeling of closeness, of being a part of something—not alone.

I turned over on my side to face him.

"I'm glad you're here," I whispered hesitantly.

He laid his hand over mine, interlacing our fingers lightly. That
felt good, too. We lay that way for a long time, not saying anything, until his
hand seemed as much a part of me as my own, as if the borders between our separate
skins had dissolved away.

I knew this shouldn't be happening. Innocent as it was, I knew I
would have to stop it before I started to need it too much. I'd had a letter
from Poncet two days earlier. Again he wanted to raise the monthly payments.
God only knew how I would manage to satisfy him. It couldn't last much longer.

"I've been wanting to kiss you all day," said my
husband. That was all. He didn't move toward me. He just said it—a simple
statement of truth, not a demand, not a rebuke.

My heart ached. Surely there was no danger in it. It was such a
small thing; he'd been so patient with me and understanding, how could I
withhold something as trivial as a kiss? What harm could it do to bestow that
one tender favor?

I moved a little closer and slipped my left arm under his neck.
With my right hand I began to stroke his hair. A frantic inner voice screamed
at me to stop. I ignored it.

"Fleur?" said my husband, as if he didn't quite believe
what was happening.

I opened my lips and brought them to his.

I never wanted it to end.

He kissed with the same languorous grace that characterized
everything he did. He kissed as if that one kiss were everything he had ever
wanted or could ever want. Even when he moved, so that he was above me, his
body half covering me, he never tried to claim more of me than my mouth. All of
his energy and concentration were invested in that kiss.

His mouth was so warm; his tongue's lazy exploration of the world
behind my lips, so sweet; he tasted so good, so fresh.

I felt my own mouth grow more urgent.

All my careful resolutions to remain in control began to
disintegrate. I wanted this to go on forever.

No, I wanted it to go further....

I had forgotten that a kiss could be so seductive.

That was when he took his lips away. I stared up at him, silent
with wonder.

He stood up.

"I'd better let you sleep," he said gently. "Good
night, Fleur."

I was too dazed to answer him right away.

By the time I could have, he was gone.

I sat up dizzily and tried to comprehend what had happened.

That kiss... it had sent little waves of flame skittering through
my veins. I could still feel them.

It was too much.

It wasn't enough.

He had said his door would always be open to me.

I opened the door into the gallery and started to walk toward the
wing where he slept.

Already my courage was failing. What would happen if I arrived at
his bed only to find that the fragile heat he'd sparked in me had dissipated.
Or I came to him only to disappoint him once again, and this time in spite of
the desire that brought me to his bed? Could I bear another night like the one
in Athens, especially now, after the pure magic of his kiss?

My steps began to flag.

There was an open door on my left.

Beyond the threshold was the room where his mother had stayed
during her visit with us.

I came slowly to a halt. Suddenly I was cold again.

By the dim light from the gallery, I could see into the vacant
room. No trace of Lady Whitstone remained. It was as if she had never been
there.

I shivered as I remembered the ruthless speed with which my
husband had dispatched her. As unpleasant as she was, what had she done to be
thrown out of his house with such chilly indifference? She'd asked a few rude
questions and made a few disparaging remarks, that was all. Her crime was
nothing compared to mine. And
she
was his own mother.

If he could do that to
her,
how would he treat
me
when
the day of reckoning came, as it surely must?

I leaned weakly against the door frame.

I would have gone to him with that kiss still burning on my lips,
holding nothing back. If he could wreck my first line of defense with a mere
kiss, I could be sure that by the time I got up from his bed, he would have
taken my heart. It wouldn't have fallen to him easily, but once it was his, it
would be his forever.

Then I'd be lost beyond all hope.

There was no possibility of salvaging this marriage—it was built
on sand and was sure to come crashing down.

When it did, I had to be able to walk away intact. I couldn't go,
leaving part of myself irrevocably in the possession of a man in whose eyes,
from that moment on, I would be only a traitor and a liar. A shameless
adventuress whom he'd once been foolish enough to love. A woman without an
ounce of integrity. A sham.

I knew that would be all he'd be able to see.

Even if the sham had been transformed into the real thing.

I turned around and went back to my room. The ache of loneliness,
after that brief, illusory closeness, was almost more than I could bear. But at
least it was familiar and manageable, unlike the imagined fate that had made me
feel so weak and ill as I'd stood in the doorway of that empty, stripped-down
bedroom.

The following night my husband came to me again.

I hadn't yet gotten into bed. I'd been sitting by the window in an
old nightdress, with a silver hairbrush in my hand. I wasn't using it. I was
staring out into the blackness of the night trying to see where I'd taken the
first wrong turn. Was it in sitting for those paintings? Should I have denied
Frederick the pleasure it had given him? The pleasure it had given me?

Or had it been in paying Poncet for his silence? I still shuddered
to think what would have become of me if I had not. Where would I be now?
Certainly not here in this warm, luxurious room....

My husband's knock interrupted my reverie.

My heart leaped and then faltered.

I knew what I had to do. I had to retrieve the ground that I'd lost
the night before. I had been thinking about this all day, but I hadn't expected
to have to act quite so soon.

I got up and opened the door to my husband.

He saw the hairbrush in my hand.

"Let me do that," he said, and led me back to the
armchair in which I'd been sitting.

Reluctantly, knowing that it was a mistake, I handed him the
brush.

He brought it to my temples. I closed my eyes for a moment and
gave myself over to the sensuous pull of the soft bristles through my hair.

At last I forced myself to turn around. I reached out my hand to
take the brush from him.

"Do you want me to stop?" said my husband. He looked
surprised.

"Yes," I said. "I don't like that... what you were
doing."

"You don't like it?" His voice was disbelieving.

"No. I don't like being touched. I'm sorry. I just
don't."

My husband did not lay the brush upon my outstretched palm.

"So you don't like being touched," he said.

There was no warmth in his voice at all. He struck the back of the
brush against his left palm at the end of his sentence as if to give it a
harsher emphasis.

"No, I'm sorry, but I don't."

"And I suppose you don't like being kissed either."

"That's right. I'm sorry."

"And last night you were just... being a dutiful wife."

"It was such a small thing... I thought it would make you
happy."

"I see."

He began to stalk slowly up and down the room, still with the
brush in his hand. At last he stopped, a few feet from me.

"Tell me something, Fleur," he said. His voice was so
much colder than usual that I thought he must be angry, that his patience had
worn out at last. When I met his eyes, they had an opaque, closed look. What
were they hiding? Anger? Hurt? Or simply disbelief?