The Wedding Game (29 page)

Douglas smiled a little ruefully. “You mean Chastity, of course.”

“Of course,” Max said. “They're quite unstoppable, the Honorable Duncan sisters, once they decide upon something.”

“Mmm,” Douglas murmured thoughtfully. “I'm beginning to think it's time I took the initiative.”

“I rather thought you already had,” Gideon said, blowing a perfect smoke ring. “Or was that Chastity's initiative?”

“Don't be embarrassed if it was,” Max said. “Constance shamelessly seduced me in this same house.”

Douglas considered this question, then shook his head. “No,” he said definitely. The passionate impulse that had felled them both simultaneously had come out of the blue. “As far as I can remember, there was no initiative.”

His companions nodded as if they understood this perfectly well. “Something in the nature of Zeus's thunderbolt, I daresay,” Gideon observed. “Well, as long as you have no aspirations towards a quiet life . . . ?”

“I can't remember now,” Max said consideringly, “but I may have had such aspirations once.”

The library door opened and the three men turned warily towards it. Sarah stood there holding a handful of playing cards. “We're going to play murder in the dark,” she said. “Prue says you have to come, Daddy, and you, Uncle Max, and Dr. Farrell.”

“But it's not dark,” her father protested, trying to buy time.

“It is in the attics, and that's where we're going to play.” Sarah came over to her father and seized his hand, tugging on it. “Come on, Daddy. It'll be such fun. Even Miss Della Luca and Lord Berenger are going to play.”

Gideon groaned and got to his feet. “All right, I'm coming. And I'm not going alone,” he declared to his companions, who rose with as much reluctance and followed them to the drawing room.

“It's all very simple,” Prudence said. “Whoever picks the ace of spades is the murderer.” She tapped the rules off against her palm. “The king of hearts is the detective. Everyone else is a potential victim. The first person to feel a hand on his neck screams as loudly as possible and the lights go on. Then the detective has to try to find the murderer. Hand out the cards, Sarah.”

“How the hell did you get the
signorina
to agree to this farce?” Douglas demanded of Chastity in an undertone as he took his card.

“I didn't,” she said. “George Berenger did. He said he'd played as a child every Christmas, and would love to play again. He's so lonely, poor man.”

“So, you're going to match him up with Laura?” He sounded a little caustic.

Chastity shrugged, said carelessly, “No one can match someone up with someone else. They have to decide that for themselves. We're just putting opportunities in their way.”

“Yes, so I'd noticed,” he said dryly. “For their own good, of course.”

“It doesn't do any harm,” Chastity said, hearing how defensive she sounded. The whole topic touched her on the raw and it was not a conversation she wanted to have. Deliberately, she turned her attention to her playing card, examining it behind her hand.

“Everyone ready?” Prudence, who seemed to be mistress of ceremonies, called. “We're going up to the attics.” She led the way, the rest of the party trooping behind her.

In the dark attics there was much scuffling and giggling, as shadowy figures moved around, trying to avoid each other. Douglas, who, since he hadn't drawn a significant card, decided he could opt out without spoiling anyone's fun, found himself an ancient armchair smelling of dog's hair in a dark and deserted corner where he was sure he wouldn't be discovered and settled down to wait it out. The postprandial brandy had made him sleepy and he allowed his eyes to close.

A squeal very close to him shattered his doze. A light and laughing voice declared in the most ridiculous accent, “Oo-la-la, take ze 'ands off me, m'sieur. You take ze liberties.”

Douglas squinted into the darkness. He had heard that fake accent before. His blood pounded in his ears.

“I'm not taking liberties, madam wife,” Gideon said indignantly. “I am merely trying to strangle you.”

“Oh, murder . . . murder most foul!” Prudence shrieked, abandoning the French maid persona and collapsing backwards into her husband's arms. After a few minutes of shuffling, shifting chaos, oil lamps were lit and the participants looked expectantly around at each other. Prudence lay on the floor. Gideon, looking both guilty and bewildered, stood over her, holding the ace of spades.

“Well, that wasn't very good, Daddy,” Sarah declared. “Now we all know it was you who murdered Prue, because you said so.”

“I'm sorry,” Gideon said, bending down to give his wife a hand to pull her to her feet. “I don't think I've fully grasped the concept of this game.”

“Well, we'll try again,” Prudence said, seeing how disappointed Sarah looked. “One more round. Everyone give me your cards.”

Chastity handed in her card and wondered what could have happened to Douglas. She was sure he had come up with them, but he certainly wasn't there now. Maybe he'd gone to take a nap. It wasn't as if there was an obligation to join in these parlor games.

She found him in the drawing room when the party finally went down for tea. He was ensconced in a deep armchair, reading an old copy of the
Times.
Chastity brought a cup of tea to him, together with a thick slab of Christmas cake. “You didn't care for the game,” she said, smiling as she set down cup and plate on a little side table. “I don't really blame you. But Sarah enjoyed it.”

“I found myself falling asleep,” he said. She thought he seemed rather grave, his eyes so dark as to be almost black, and curiously expressionless. He broke off a piece of icing from the cake. “I've just had a telephone call from a patient. I'm afraid I must go back to London on the first train tomorrow.”

“Oh,” she said. “So soon.”

“Yes, I'm sorry. An emergency.” He crumbled marzipan between his fingers.

She forced a smile, said quietly, “We have tonight, though. One last night.”

He looked up at her, his expression unreadable. “Yes, one last night,” he agreed.

Chastity nodded and moved back to the tea table. She had known it had to happen. There was always going to be one last night. When they were once more in London, this interlude would be over. But she had hoped . . . No, she hadn't hoped, but she wasn't ready for it. She hadn't had time to prepare herself.

And there was something desperate about their passion that night. A hunger that somehow could not be sated. It was like some kind of drug, Chastity thought as she moved over Douglas's body, licking every available inch of him, nuzzling him like a puppy at its mother's teat. She was drugged with lovemaking, and she wouldn't allow herself even to think that after tonight she wouldn't have this anymore.

She straddled him, running her hands over his torso, playing on his ribs with her fingertips. She lowered her mouth to his, driving her tongue deep between his lips. He slid his hands beneath her belly and lifted her hips so that he could move upwards and within.

Chastity held her breath as she felt him inside her, for the moment quite still, just an inhabiting presence that slowly filled her. She let out her breath in slow measure and leaned back, resting her hands on his thighs, using only her body to keep them both hovering on the edge. He held her hips lightly, allowing his own body to follow her initiative. She smiled down at him, her hands now at her waist as she sat upright, driving herself down upon him. Sensation grew, spread from her loins to her belly. She tightened her thighs. His fingers dug into her hips, his eyes closing as he drove upwards, lost in her body, and she held him tight inside her and gloried in the possession.

And when it was over, she fell forward, her mouth pressed into the hollow of his shoulder, her hair spread in a red cloud across his chest, her sweat-slick skin glued to his. “How could that be possible?” she murmured weakly.

He didn't answer immediately, then he said, “I don't know,” and there was a strange resonance to the simple statement, a mingled anger and sorrow and confusion. Chastity heard it, and heard it as an echo of her own feelings of loss and frustration that something this good had to be given up. Holding her waist, he rolled sideways with her in a slow disengagement that even so left her feeling bereft. She curled tightly against him, fitting her curves to his hollows.

They lay in silence. Douglas listened to her breathing, hearing it deepen. Once it had settled into the rhythms of sleep, he slid out of bed and pulled the thick quilted coverlet over her. He stood looking down at her in the dim glow of the fire. He had intended to say nothing. This lovemaking would be their last, a bittersweet farewell, and then he would leave, and say nothing. But now he realized he couldn't. He needed her to feel the sharp sting of his hurt and his anger and his disappointment. He had suffered Marianne's rejection in silence, as if he had somehow deserved it, but now it felt as if he had to exorcise that hurt too with this other woman who had so deceived him.

Chastity awoke about half an hour later. The room was quiet, except for the slight crackle of the fire. The space in the bed beside her was empty. She struggled onto an elbow. Douglas, in his dressing gown, was sitting in an armchair by the fire, watching her, and she felt a stab of fear as those charcoal eyes rested impassively on her countenance.

“It was you,” he said. “The Go-Between . . . in the National Gallery. It was you.”

“Yes,” she said dully, resignation sweeping through her. There was nothing to be done now, and nothing to be salvaged. “It was me.”

He said nothing, merely looked at her. His anger was an almost palpable force and she wondered if perhaps that was what had awakened her. But there was more than anger in his eyes. There was sorrow and, even worse, disappointment. It made her feel crumpled and dried out like a shriveled leaf.

“How did you know?” she asked, not that it mattered.

He gave a short laugh. “That absurd accent. Your sister used it . . . as a joke, I assume.”

“I didn't notice,” Chastity said in the same dull tone. “It's just a useful way of disguising our voices. It's not meant to sound authentic.”

“I imagine in your business one needs a bag of such deceitful tricks,” he said, getting to his feet. “How else would you get your clients, if that's what you call them, to reveal themselves so completely? People you rub shoulders with on a daily basis . . . social acquaintances . . . people who assume you're something you're not. People who trust you.” He walked to the door as he spoke. He set his hand on the latch and looked across at her. “Good-bye, Chastity.”

The door closed quietly as he left her, the slight breeze sending a sharp spurt of flame rising from the dying fire.

Oh, God. Chastity lay on her back, her arm covering her eyes, where tears stung behind her closed lids. She understood now that he had loved her. The bitterness of his hurt told her that. This had not been a light fling, a casual loving interlude for Douglas any more than it had been for her. And she could not for the life of her think how she could have changed anything.

She lay wakeful throughout the rest of a night that seemed eternal, and fell into an uneasy sleep just before dawn. She awoke to a brilliant day of clear blue skies, cold sunlight sparking off the snow, and dragged herself out of bed. Douglas had said he would be taking the first train back to London, so he would be long gone by now.

Chastity dressed and went downstairs. Jenkins was crossing the hall from the breakfast room, an empty coffeepot in his hand. “Morning, Miss Chas.”

“Good morning, Jenkins. Did Dr. Farrell get off all right?” She tried to ask the question lightly, as if it was the mere casual inquiry of a thoughtful hostess.

“Fred took him to the station in the gig about an hour ago,” Jenkins said. He regarded her closely. “Everything all right, Miss Chas?”

“Yes, of course,” she said airily. “I daresay we'll see him when we return to London.” She smiled and made her way to the breakfast room, where everyone was gathered but the contessa, who always took breakfast in bed, and Sarah and Mary Winston, who had already breakfasted and were out exploring the winter wonderland.

Lord Duncan looked up from his plate of kidneys and bacon. “Morning, my dear. Beautiful, isn't it. Perfect hunting day.” He sighed.

Chastity nodded absently and sat down between her sisters.

“Pity we had to lose that Dr. Farrell. A decent chap.”

“What kind of medical emergency was it, Chas?” Constance asked. “Did he say?”

Chastity shook her head, tried a laugh. “Patient confidentiality,” she said, taking a piece of toast from the rack. She saw that her fingers were quivering and put it down quickly, contemplated picking up the coffeepot to fill her cup and decided against it.

Constance took up the coffeepot and filled her youngest sister's cup for her. “Drink it,” she said softly. “You look as if you need it, love.”

Chastity's smile was wan, but she picked up the cup and managed to drink from it without spilling, conscious of her sisters' anxious and rather puzzled looks. They had known last evening that Douglas would be leaving this morning, he had made his farewells before bedtime, so there was no explanation for Chastity's clear and present distress.

“What plans do we have for today?” Constance asked brightly, reaching for the butter.

“Fresh air,” Max said. “And plenty of it.”

“I told Jenkins we'll take the guns out,” Lord Duncan said eagerly. “Try for a few ducks on the lake . . . a goose or two. What d'you say?”

“Well, you men can do that,” Prudence said. “The women are going ice-skating. I promised Sarah.”

Gideon looked alarmed. “How do you know the ice is safe?”

“Gideon, my love, the water in the horse pond is only a foot deep,” Prudence said with a smile that managed to be both patronizing and affectionate. “You didn't think I'd let Sarah on the lake, surely?”

“How was I to know there was a horse pond?” he asked. “I don't know anything about country life. I've only ever seen the lake.”

Chastity nibbled her toast, thankful that for the moment no one was paying her any attention.