Rakehell's Widow (22 page)

He did not seem at all abashed by Alabeth’s rebuffs; indeed he lost no opportunity at all of trying to speak to
her or to get her on her own, but she managed for the most
part to elude him. For Jillian’s sake she endured his
presence in the house, and that was her only reason for
tolerating him, but she had a suspicion that he believed she
had embarked upon some elaborate game. She was most careful, therefore, to give him no encouragement what
soever, being at all times remote and icily civil, for never
would she be able to forget how mercilessly he had used her unhappiness to try to seduce her.

Octavia did not return to Town immediately after Ascot, but when she did, her first call was upon Alabeth. Her gray taffeta skirts crackling busily, she crossed the drawing room to kiss Alabeth on the cheek and then sink onto a
sofa with a great sigh. “My
dear
, I don’t think I can
survive much more of this Season, for I swear I am already
on my last legs.”

“Oh, I do hope not,” remarked Alabeth a little slyly,
“for there is Jillian’s ball to see to yet.”

“How utterly selfish you are,” replied Octavia, smiling.
“And how is she? Recovered?”

“Can you not hear?”

The sound of the pianoforte echoed clearly through the
house, and Octavia nodded. “How I wish
I
had had the
foresight to ask him for private tuition. Just think of all
those delicious hours alone with him.”

“I can think of better ways of spending my time.”

Octavia raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Really? You must tell me sometime, for to be sure I must be missing some
thing exciting.”

Alabeth smiled. “Besides, Jillian is most certainly not
alone with him. I have seen to it that her maid is in
attendance at all tunes.”

“Perhaps you are wise,” Octavia replied, “dull—but
wise.” She listened again as Jillian played a particularly
difficult sequence. “She plays like an angel, but then I
suppose she is being taught by an arch-angel, is she not?”

“He isn’t any sort of angel, he’s the very devil,” was the short reply.

Octavia was a little taken aback, but she tactfully
decided to leave the contentious subject of the Count. “Well, Ascot was a bore,” she said at last. “I do not think I have ever enjoyed the week less.”

“Why? What happened?”

“Well, to begin with Charles Allister insisted that we all
attend that odious little theater in Windsor to see Mr.
Quick perform.”

“The theater is hardly odious, and anyway, you like Mr.
Quick.”

“I do indeed, but on this occasion it was virtually impossible to hear a word from the stage.”

“Why?”

“Because, in spite of the Royal Family being present, a group of rather drunken Etonians continually quarreled
and interrupted the performance. It was quite disgraceful
and they should have been ejected a great deal sooner than they were. By the time the performance continued, I was
quite out of sorts with it and wished more than anything
else to leave. Piers Castleton had the right idea; he escorted
Adelina from the theater the moment the trouble began.”

“They were together at Ascot, then?” Alabeth tried to sound only vaguely interested.

“My dear, they were together
everywhere!
It’s obviously
quite a thing between them. Harry Ponsonby seems to
have undergone a complete change of heart, for he’s now pursuing her again after having treated her rather poorly
before. He’ll have a job on his hands, though, for he has a
formidable rival in Piers.”

“Yes.” Alabeth lowered her eyes.

Octavia glanced curiously at her. “Are you feeling quite well?”

“Yes, I’m perfectly all right.”

“You look a little peaked. Have you been sleeping?”

“Yes, truly I have, Octavia.”

“Well, I think I detect a fibling or two in your replies,
for you look far from glowing. I hardly like to ask, but is it perhaps something to do with the Count? A lover’s tiff?”

“No, for that would suggest that we have been lovers, which we have not—and which we are never likely to be.
He is odious in the extreme and I endure his presence in the
house simply and solely because of Jillian. So do not go imagining a liaison which does not exist.”

Octavia’s shrewd gaze rested thoughtfully on her face
for a moment. “Alabeth, I haven’t reached this age
without knowing a thing or two, and when I look at you, I
see someone who is nursing a bruised heart. If it is not the
Count, which evidently it is not, then who is it? I swear I
haven’t detected a sniff of one particular man having
carried off your heart—”

Alabeth stood up. “That’s because there isn’t anyone,”
she said lightly.

“My dear, I am your friend, your very dearest friend, and it grieves me that you will not confide in me. Perhaps I
could help—”

“No one can help.”

“Then there is someone?”

“Yes. Now, please, Octavia, I don’t wish to—”

“Who is he, Alabeth?”

“I really don’t want to say.”

“I insist, for I cannot have you looking so utterly
miserable, it won’t do at all.”

Alabeth turned away, knowing that Octavia was far too
concerned to have any intention of leaving the subject
alone. She took a deep breath and then looked back at
Octavia’s earnest face. “It’s Piers Castleton.”

Octavia’s eyes widened. “Piers? But you’ve always
loathed him.”

“Have I? I think you will find that the truth was very
opposite.”

“For how long?”

“Too long.”

“Before Robert died?”

“Yes.”

Octavia was on her feet in a moment, swiftly taking
Alabeth’s hands. “Oh, my dear, and I’ve been rattling on
so unfeelingly— But you’ve hidden it all so well, you
know, I really believed that you despised him.”

Alabeth smiled wryly. “I tried to believe it myself. Any
way, it really doesn’t matter now, for Adelina has him,
and from all accounts he’s very content to be netted.”

“Hm. Well, if you ask me, she’s most definitely
not
his
type. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Alabeth, does Piers know that you—”

“No! At least, maybe he guessed once, but nothing was
ever said, and he certainly has no notion of my true
feelings for him now. And, Octavia, you are not to tell
him, do you hear? If you attempt any of your matchmaking, I will never forgive you.”

“But—”

“No, Octavia, I want it to be this way. I have decided
that I will get over him, and I will succeed. I’ve thought of
nothing else this past week but how I am going to put this part of my life well and truly behind me, and the last thing I want is for you, no matter how full of good intentions, to
meddle.”

“But it is hardly meddling,” protested Octavia.

“It is, for he is completely indifferent to me, except
perhaps to feel decidedly irritated whenever I am near him,
and I could not bear it if he learned the truth. Promise me
you will say and do nothing, Octavia.”

Octavia reluctantly gave in. “Very well, you have my
word—for the moment.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that if sometime in the future I really and
truly feel that the circumstances warrant my meddling, as
you are pleased to term it, then I will meddle. No, I’m
sorry, Alabeth, for it would be very wrong indeed of me to
promise once and for all on something as important as
this. You obviously love him with all your heart, and you
are my dearest friend. I would be a monster indeed if I
agreed to stay my hand forever.”

“Octavia—”

“Rest assured, my dear, that I will be the soul of
discretion, should the occasion ever arise, which it may
not. Look at me, my dearest Alabeth, and know that in me
you have a sincere and devoted friend. I would never,
never
do anything which would make you unhappy.”

Alabeth squeezed the other woman’s hands then. “I know,” she whispered.

Octavia spoke a little more briskly then. “Now, then,
where was I? To be sure I cannot remember. However,
there is the matter of the grand regatta at Ranelagh. There
was a dreadful mix-up with my invitations and now for the life of me I don’t know who received cards and who didn’t.
Did you and Jillian receive one?”

“No, I’m afraid we didn’t.”

“Oh, dear, this is very embarrassing. However, I shall issue the invitation personally. Will you both join my party on my barge? It should be so much more agreeable to sit in
comfort on cushions and so on, and I can see to it that
there is a tidy stock of champagne to add to the delight.”

“That does sound exceedingly agreeable and we would
both be very pleased to join you. Thank you.”

Octavia smiled. “Excellent. Now, I really must fly, for I
have a thousand and one things to do and Seaham is being a bear because of all the expense lately. Good-bye for the
moment, Alabeth. And Alabeth….”

“Yes?”

“I hope you don’t regret telling me your secret.”

“No, I don’t regret it.”

Octavia kissed her on the cheek and a moment later was gone. Alabeth sat down again. She felt better for having confided in Octavia, for it was good just to have said aloud
that which had been hidden away in her heart for so long.
She leaned her head back, listening to Jillian’s playing.

“Alabeth?”

Her eyes flew open and she saw the Count in the act of closing the door. “What do you want?” she asked sus
piciously, guessing that he had waited until he heard
Octavia leaving.

He bowed elegantly before her, looking very debonair
and dashing, the epitome of male beauty. “Surely,” he
murmured, “it is in order for me to discuss Lady Jillian’s progress with you?”

“Oh. Why, yes, of course.”

“May I sit down?”

“Please do.” She indicated a nearby chair, but he sat
next to her on the sofa.

“Lady Jillian plays very well, Alabeth; indeed, I would go so far as to say she is extremely accomplished.”

She tried to ignore his persistent use of her first name. “I am pleased to hear it,” she replied, moving away along the
sofa just a little.

“Oh, Alabeth, are you still a little cross with me?”

“I have repeatedly asked you not to address me with such familiarity,” she replied coldly, feeling more and more uneasy as he continued to look at her, a knowing
smile playing about his fine lips.

“I did not think I had sinned so very much, Alabeth,
and now I think you are too cross.”

“Please leave me—”

“You are so cross, but it is not with me, is it? You are
cross with yourself, because you know that soon you will
give in to me.”

“How dare you! Get out of here, sir, and do not ever
approach me again,” she cried, leaping to her feet.

He rose too, and before she knew what was happening,
he had taken her in his arms and was pressing his lips over
hers. There was an urgency in his kiss, a determination to
conquer swiftly, and she struggled furiously, wrenching
herself away at last, her eyes bright with anger.

“Leave this house immediately,” she breathed. “Get
out before I have you thrown out.”

His smile began to fade at last. “Have done with this cat-and-mouse game, Alabeth, for it has gone on long
enough.”

“It is no game, sirrah. Your attentions are not welcome
and they are most certainly refused.”

He seized her again, his eyes very dark. “No one spurns
me,
no one!”

Furiously, she tore herself away from him, dealing him a stinging blow on the cheek.

His mouth twisted unpleasantly and his voice shook with
ice-cold anger. “You will pay dearly for that—”

“Get out of here!”

“I swear that I will make you regret having played
games. Before I have finished, you will wish with all your
heart that you had accepted me.”

“Will you leave now or shall I send for the ser
vants?”

Without another word he turned on his heels, and she
heard his angry steps on the staircase. He called for his hat
and gloves, the front door closed, and then she heard his
carriage drawing away. Silence descended over the house,
broken only by the sound of Jillian’s soft playing drifting down from the floor above.

It was some time before Jillian came down and found
Alabeth still in the drawing room. “Where is the Count?
He said he would only be a few minutes, but now I am told
that he has left.”

“Yes, he had to go,” replied Alabeth, wondering how to
explain what had happened.

“Oh.”

“He will not come back, Jillian.”

Jillian stared at her. “There must be some mistake.”

“There is no mistake, he will not be coming back.”

“Why?”

“Something he said to me could not be disregarded, and
I have forbidden him to return.” Alabeth felt decidedly uncomfortable before Jillian’s continued gaze.