The Seduction (15 page)

He stood and bent over her hand: the generous
mother who, perhaps, loved him. "Thank you, Mama. You are very kind. It is
my intention, with your permission, to raid your glasshouses."

She waved one hand and closed her eyes.
"Take anything you like. Really, Ι have never liked babies-"

Alden slipped from the room.

JULIET WAS WOKEN THE NEXT MORNING BY Α SMALL
NOISE. SHE had been dreaming again. Λ golden man had been holding out both
hands, cradling something mysterious and precious, something for which she had
always yearned. She looked longingly into his palms, anticipating treasure . .
.

Kate stood beside the bed with a jug in her
hands.

"I trust you slept well, ma'am."

What had he been holding-? The elusive images
faded away.

Juliet glanced at the window. Kate had already
opened the casement. It was full daylight. She had slept late, something she never
did! But now, just today - thanks to him - it didn't matter. She had three
extra maids"

"I have brought up hot water, ma'am."
Kate dropped a small curtsy. "And breakfast." The maid nodded toward
the small table by the door. "It's a lovely morning. Promises to be fair
hot again today."

Juliet sat up and wrapped her arms about her
knees. A warm breeze stirred outside, carrying the scent of the garden and the
far woods. For a moment she imagined herself back in her father's house.
Bemused, as if still enfolded in the warm atmosphere of her dream, she let Kate
pour water to wash her hands and face. The maid then set the covered tray
across her lap on a little table with short legs. She remembered ones like it
from her girlhood.

The tray was draped with a fine linen cloth. An
embroidered monogram had been worked in white thread on the corners. Juliet
lifted one edge to look at it. An unfamiliar crest and a single letter: G.

Kate lifted the cloth away.

On one corner of the tray, a card sat pinned
between two chess pieces: white king and red queen. The queen toppled as Juliet
plucked out the card.

The handwriting was firm and confident, a man's
hand, but one tempered by social grace into fluidity:
Madam, your wish is my
command - G.

Juliet laughed as she set down the card.
Even
in bed?
She felt pinned by a piercing diversity of emotions: a sudden heady
delight mixed oddly with a bittersweet sense of loss. Her thoughts spun.
Your
wish is my command.
The words of the genie in
The Arabian Nights'
Entertainments?
The book sat somewhere on a shelf downstairs:
Mille et
une Nuits.
One thousand and one nights, when a new bride named Scheherazade
had woven a spell of tales so her husband would not execute her in the morning.

The tray was silver, heavy and expensive. The spoons
and knives were also silver, the handles inlaid with gold. She picked up a
spoon. The gold picked out a sinuous engraving: G. Alden Granville.

It all spoke so clearly of him: the exuberant joy
in beauty, the love of sensual indulgence - and the seductive small joke, like
a little wink, of the two chess pieces. An intimate awareness stirred her
blood, almost giddy, almost as if he were here in the room, waking her from a
long sleep and giving her that tiny, knowing gesture, the quick drop of an
eyelid over one startlingly blue eye.

Your wish is my command.

His crest was echoed again on the corner of a
napkin. To one side, a fully open red rose nestled among a host of white sweet
peas in a flat crystal vase. Juliet plucked out the rose and inhaled its rich
scent. Where had he found such a bloom so early in the summer? It spoke of an
extra care, that he had troubled to find such a flower for her.

She was being served breakfast in bed. She had
three extra maids. Contemptible, luxurious excess! Why not appreciate it?

Α bubble of mad laughter fought for release.
With determination, she swallowed it, but the humor danced in her throat,
making her feel wanton - like a girl.

Juliet set the rose behind one ear.

On the other side of the tray, the spouts of a
silver tea service steamed gently next to a blue-and-white china tea-dish,
edged in gold. More fine china held strawberry jam and butter. Flaky pastries
threatened to crumble at a touch. Other dishes lay covered with individual
silver lids. She lifted one: newly baked currant buns. Another: eggs. As she
leaned forward to inhale the mixed aromas, the rose fell from her hair. It
landed, shedding petals, in the butter.

She pressed both hands over her face as the
laughter soared to the surface. Mad, like the release of months – years - of
tension. The maid stepped forward as if to remove the offending flower. Choking
back her hilarity, Juliet waved one hand to stop her.

"You didn't know roses were edible, Kate?
Indeed, they are very good buttered. "With a grin, Juliet popped a petal
in her mouth.

The maid stared at her in open astonishment.
"No, ma'am." She curtsied. "Yes, ma'am,"

"As eggs," Juliet said earnestly,
"are very good with jam. Thank you, Kate. You may go,"

Her round face stiff, Kate curtsied again and
backed out of the room.

Mirth burst out in a great shout of glee. Juliet
laughed until the bed shook, threatening to spill her luxurious breakfast. She
held on to the little table with both hands while hilarity rocked her.

Oh, Mr. Granville, might Ι wish for the
moon? And would you deliver it, wrapped in roses and polished silver? Would you
deliver me a whole new past? What about a new future to go with it?

In the center of the tray sat another dish, its
contents also hidden under a cover. As soon as the mad laughter died to an ache
in her side, Juliet lifted the lid, knowing quite well what she would find.

She sat and gazed at it for a moment, while she
picked up a pastry. With a silver knife, she spread strawberry jam over the
crumbly, hot surface and bit into it. Ambrosia! Flakes of floury, buttery
flavor burst on her tongue, mixed with the sweet-tangy strawberries. Still
studying the contents of the center dish, she set down the pastry and poured
tea. As she sipped at it, she tipped her head on one side to better appreciate
the chef’s work.

The spiky green top had been sliced off, then
arranged as a decorative surround. Intertwined with hothouse flowers, it made
an exotic setting: exuberant, foreign, speaking clearly of paradise. But true
paradise lay inside the natural cup formed by the rind. Each slice of fruit had
been carefully removed, then cut into an individual flower shape before being
set back inside. They glistened there like liquid sunshine.

Juliet set down her tea and picked up a fork. She
speared a single piece of golden fruit and closed her eyes, before she bit down
into this wondrous heaven. Juice ran down her chin to be licked off with a
blithe tongue.

Not the moon, exactly. Fresh pineapple.

KATE HAD BEEN RIGHT. IT WAS ANOTHER HOT DAY.
Stultifyingly hot. After a quick tour of her garden, Juliet retreated into the
cool parlor. The occasional burst of talk or the rattle of some implement did
little to disturb the close air. Tilly and the new maids were doing all the
work that usually kept Juliet occupied. She had a whole day to indulge herself,
to take a holiday. She could read, lounge at the window, luxuriate in having
absolutely nothing to do. Surely she could enjoy it?

She ran her finger along the spines of the books
and pulled out
The Arabian Nights.
Here was fantasy, magic, sweeping
adventure in exotic worlds. Here was a woman who had wed - unwisely?

Juliet smiled a little grimly to herself.
Obviously Arabian ladies had very little choice and learned to make the best of
it. But Scheherazade risked death each morning if she did not keep the sultan
entertained with another wondrous tale the night before. That was not, of
course, the usual danger of an unwise marriage! Life was a little less dramatic
than fiction, even if sometimes just as painful.

Meshach, Shadrach and Abednego rubbed about her
ankles, complaining until she sat down. It was too hot to have a cat curl up on
her lap, but they each picked a spot on her spread skirts, pinning her to the
sofa. She gazed at them, her only companions. Yet even the cats had come with
the house, another legacy from

Miss Parrett. Of course, no cat ever truly
belonged to its owner. Not the way Scheherazade had belonged to the sultan. Not
the way a wife was the property of her husband.

There. It was out. She almost repeated it aloud.
Α
wife belongs to her husband.

The cats purred, a dry rumble. Α snatch of
the maids' chatter blew by the open window. The hum of bees drifted. Dimly in
the distance, black rooks cawed and swirled, argumentative and noisy, in their
rookery in Mill Spinney.

Mr. Alden Granville thought her a widow. The
village thought her a widow. Her secure future here depended on that. But
Juliet wasn't a widow. She was a wife.

Five years ago, after the tragedy, George had
abandoned her and left her destitute. It didn't matter that she had no idea of
his whereabouts. They were still married - until death. If he discovered her
here, he could march into her life and demand all his rights: her property, her
attention, her person. Not even her body was her own.

She was a wife.

Α wife belongs to her husband.

She mustn't forget. Mustn't think for one moment
that this little episode with a charming stranger changed anything about her
circumstances. It was playing with fire even to entertain him, and a madness if
she thought she could warm herself at those flames and not be burned. If she
took a lover, she could never stay hidden. Sooner or later it would become
known and she would be discovered. She had also taken vows and paid heavily for
them. Not something she took lightly, whatever the results of that hasty wedding.
And yet- And yet-

Someone knocked on the door. Juliet leaped up,
dislodging cats. They gave her three variations of the same disgusted look and
resettled themselves where she'd been sitting. But it was only Betty with a
question about some chores. Thrusting away her thoughts, Juliet walked through
to the kitchen and plunged into work.

ALTHOUGH IT WAS ALREADY EARLY EVENING, IT WAS
STILL HOT when the boxes arrived, delivered by private carriage. Pushing her
hair back from her damp forehead, Juliet oversaw the few minutes of clunking
confusion as a footman brought three of the boxes inside and handed her a
sealed missive. Her name surged across the front in the handwriting she'd first
seen that morning. Perhaps he had sent his excuses and would not come for their
chess game that night! It was a moment of piercing disappointment. Dear Lord,
how foolish!

The maids stared at her with open curiosity.
Juliet straightened her spine and walked into the parlor. The wax seal held the
same crest as the spoons. She broke it open and started to read:

Madam: Imagine an Italian evening. It is the very
hot end to α very hot day. The stars will soon blaze in α velvet sky.
White stone houses glow like lamps. The very earth breathes heat. Yet
presently, perhaps, a cool breeze might stir to carry the burning air away
across the parched hills. Perhaps the zephyr will pull α moisture laden
current from the wine-dark ocean. Perhaps it will bring us a serene breath from
the icy moon. Will it waft the spiced scents of history and foreign blooms onto
our deeply shaded patio? Shall we drink wine and eat a light supper? Shall we
play chess together? Ι have sent you α dress in the Italian style.
Ι think it might please you - G.

She sat for a moment and gazed blindly at the
paper. Then she walked back into the hallway, where the maids were still
fussing over the boxes.

"Oh, ma'am!" Tilly's freckled face
beamed like a sunrise. "This one's labeled for the kitchen, Betty's to see
to that. This one says it's for the bath and is for Kate. The other's all in
foreign."

Juliet read the label on the largest of the
boxes.
Vestimenti di confidenza.
She did not know Italian, but she could
guess the meaning.

"It's for me," she said. "Leave it
here."

"You aren't going to open it, ma'am?"
Tilly was openly dismayed.

Juliet shook her head.
Α dress in the
Italian style.

"There is another note attached here,
ma'am."

Kate gave her a folded paper. Juliet broke the
seal and walked away to read it.

It would please me very much if
you would wear it. Ι shall wear mine - G.

JULIET WENT THROUGH THE REST OF THE EVENING LIKE
Α nervous filly. It continued hot, the air heavy with unshed moisture.
Jumping and starting at each small sound, she felt taut with anticipation,
waiting for him to arrive. She imagined herself winning the chess match. She
imagined herself repudiating him, berating him, sending him away. She imagined
herself madly asking him to kiss her. She did not dare to imagine an Italian
supper.