They call her Dana (24 page)

Holding the candelabra high, I started down the hall toward the small parlor where, I knew, the Watteau and one of the Boulle cabinets were kept. Shadows flickered on the walls, and the sound of the pouring rain echoed strangely here inside, creating a muted, monotonous background. Cobwebs floated from the ceiling like ghosdy silken threads. The sour smell of mildew and dust was almost overwhelming. Yes, I would have to get the servants in here. It was in a shocking condition. Good hard physical work would help me sort things out in my mind.

Julian was an extremely attractive man, warm and appealing, and I did love him. There could be no denying that. I loved him, but ... but did I really want to sleep with him? Was it that kind of love? No, I decided. I was eighteen years old and I knew the facts of life and knew about the needs blossoming inside me, but Julian wasn't the one to relieve them. I admired him, respected him, wanted to please him and make him proud of me, but, even though I might be attracted to him in a purely physical sense, I didn't want things to change. I wanted to love him as I loved him now, as my savior, as my mentor, as the man I could always rely on for warmth and wry teasing and protection. That would all change were I to become his mistress.

And Julian ... He had considered me a child, had treated me as he might treat a bothersome, amusing kitten. This had irritated me, and from the first I had endeavored to make him see me as a woman. Three nights ago, I had finally had my wish . . . only to discover that it really wasn't what I wanted at all. I felt I had unleashed something that could easily get out of control. Julian saw me as a woman now, all right, a highly desirable woman, and it was going to be diflicult to keep things the way they had been. There was a new tension between us. Never again would there be that playful badinage, that give and take such fun for both of us. The jaunty camaraderie was gone, I knew. Never again would either of us be completely at ease with the other.

It was all so bewildering and confusing, and it was all my fault. It was as though ... as though I had been carelessly playing with some weapon I wasn't even aware of as such. Now I had spoiled things and upset Julian and made him feel things he didn't want to feel, couldn't help feeling now. Maybe they were right after all. Maybe I really was wicked. I loved Julian in a special way, would always love him, and I wouldn't have him hurt for the world. Where would it all end? I had a lot of thinking to do and, I realized, several decisions I must make. Time. I needed time, but right now I just wanted to put it out of my mind.

Finally reaching the parlor Delia had described to me, I set the candelabra down in the center of the dusty hardwood floor. The carpets had been rolled up and stored away, I was glad to see, but a set of heavy golden brocade drapes hung over the small room's one set of windows. Clouds of dust flew in the air

when I pushed the drapes apart, revealing a set of deplorably dirty French windows overlooking the narrow strip of garden and high stone wall on this side of the property. It was raining furiously, waves of it slashing against the windows, and the constant flashes of lightning made the candelabra almost superfluous.

I waved my hand in front of me, coughing at the dust and thankful I had on the simple pink and tan striped cotton frock instead of something nicer. I was already dusty, my face undoubtedly smudged, and the rain had done little to lessen the sultry heat. I could feel the perspiration running down my spine and moistening my armpits. Oh well, it made no matter. No one was going to see me. I began taking off" the once white cloths, causing more clouds of dust to fly in the air. Maybe I wouldn't have to worry at all, I thought wryly as the dust billowed around me. Maybe I would simply die of asphyxiation here in the east wing. When the dust finally settled, I gazed around at the pieces I had uncovered and, oh yes, they were superb, much too lovely, much too valuable, to be drying up and gathering dust in this abandoned room.

There was a lovely, delicate sofa of intricately carved rosewood, upholstered in faded wine-colored brocade richly embroidered in a deeper wine. Running my hand along the top, I saw the royal sunflower motif carved in the wood and knew from my studies that the sofa must be Louis XTV. The rich red-brown gloss of the varnish was there beneath the dust, begging for polish. I longed to give it the attention it needed here and now. Beside it stood a small table, also of rosewood, inlaid with floral patterns in different woods and lavishly festooned with brass garlands, sadly tarnished now. Although I couldn't properly date it, I guessed that it was Louis XTV, too. And there across the room was the Boulle cabinet, incredibly beautiful with its intricate brown and gold marquetry and its smooth, graceful lines. From my reading I knew Boulle had died in 1732, and his pieces had never been equaled in beauty and craftsmanship.

I got down onto my knees to examine the cabinet more closely, running the palm of my hand over the satin-smooth curves of wood, banishing the thick layers of dust, and so rich was the patina beneath that it seemed to catch all of the candlelight and reflect it from within. The cabinet was banded and ornamented with thin, delicate strips of metal engraved with tiny flowers.

and the metal was gold, I realized. Neglected though it had been, the gold dim with dust, the rich woods thirsty for proper oils, the cabinet was still even more beautiful than any of those I had seen pictured in the book I had studied. It might have belonged to a king, I thought. Imagine growing up with things like this in the house.

Standing up, massaging the small of my back, I caught a glimpse of myself in the blurred, murky glass of the tall, oval-shaped standing mirror I had uncovered as well. The mirror stood in a carved rosewood frame embellished with garlands of brass flowers. The glass was indeed murky, speckled with spots as well, but in the glow of the candlelight I could see the reflection of a slender young woman with dust-smudged cheek and thick, honey-blond hair that tumbled to her shoulders in unruly waves. I ran my fingers through the waves and brushed the dust smudge from my cheek. My pink and tan striped frock was dusty, too, and there were perspiration stains as well. I pulled at the ofl'-the-shoulder puffed sleeves and adjusted the rather low-cut bodice that emphasized my too full bosom. Corinne claimed it was a great asset that should be shown off to advantage, but I still longed for less in that particular area.

Sighing, I shoved an errant wave from my temple and examined the sadly faded gold and ivory damask that covered the walls. It was tattered in places, and cobwebs festooned the corners. How lovely the room must have been at one time. There, over the soot-stained white marble fireplace, hung what must be the Watteau, shrouded with a dust-layered sheet. Flashes of lightning illuminated the room as I pulled the sheet off, and there was a great rumble of thunder that seemed to shake the house. Sheets of rain still slashed against the windows and gave no signs of lessening. I prayed it would be over by the time Delia was ready to return, and then I gave my attention to the painting in its ornate and flaking gold gilt frame, setting the candelabra up on the mantel to provide more light.

It was gorgeous, the rich colors still aglow after all these years. Sitting on what appeared to be a stump, against a background of green-gold forest and vivid blue sky, a young woman in eighteenth-century attire gazed pensively into space, eyelids lowered, a faint smile on her lips. Slender and graceful, she had rich chesmut hair worn in the elaborate coiffiire of the time, and her half-veiled eyes were a deep violet-blue. Her gown was of

gleaming ivory brocade lavishly adorned with beige lace ruffles and small gold velvet bows. The tip of one beige satin slipper was visible beneath the voluminous skirts, part of her beige lace underskirt showing, and in her lap she held a delicate ivory silk fan with gold patterns. The painter had captured not only a person but a mood as well, and I knew that the pensive young woman must be thinking about a young man who was, perhaps, betrothed to another.

I knew very little about painting, only what I had picked up from reading those heavy art volumes in the library and smdying the plates, but I did know this painting was superb, if not a masterpiece at least a perfect example of a master's work. The blue sky shimmered with sunlight, the green-gold treetops feathery and full, seeming to to stir, while hazy violet-brown shadows spread beneath them, making patterns on the grass. The young woman was alive, so real I could read her mind, feel what she was feeling. I gazed at her in the flickering glow of the candlelight, wondering if she had lost her young man, if she had finally found happiness. Several long moments passed, and I began to have the curious feeling that someone was studying me as intently as I was studying the portrait. The feeling persisted, quite unsettling. I could almost feel a pair of eyes boring into my back.

I whirled around. I gave a little gasp. He was standing in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame, the other resting on his thigh, and the doorway was hazy with shadow and he was little more than a tall, lean silhouette dimly seen against the gray. My heart began to pound. There were no ghosts in the east wing, and I didn't believe in ghosts anyway. The man continued to stand there, filling the doorway, and then he straightened up and walked on into the room, stepping into the circle of light spread by the candles. My heart continued to pound. He continued to study me, taking in every detail, making no effort to conceal his disapproval and disdain, and after a moment he looked up at the portrait.

"She was my grandmother," he said.

"You—you're Charles," I whispered.

"And you are the young woman I've been hearing so much about from my Aunt Lavinia—and others."

His voice was a lazy drawl. His manner was calm, deliberate. His very dark blue eyes were cool, his wide, beautifully shaped

mouth was held in a stem line. He was like a younger, leaner version of Julian in many ways, the Etienne features clearly pronounced, but he wasn't at all like his older brother. No warmth, no humor softened those perfectly chiseled features. He was a hard man, and I sensed he could be utterly ruthless if the need arose. Not as glossily handsome as his cousin Raoul, he was even more attractive, mature and virile. The skin was stretched tautly across his high, broad cheekbones, and his lower lip was full and sensual. His rich chestnut hair was slighdy damp, and I realized he must have dashed across the courtyard to get here.

"You weren't supposed to be here until day after tomorrow," I said, and I was horrified to discover that my voice trembled.

"My ship docked this morning, two days early."

"I see."

"I stopped by the shop, then came home to discover that both Delia and my brother were out. Pompey informed me that you were prowling about here in the east wing, so I came on over."

"How long were—were you standing there?"

"Long enough," he said.

He was wearing brown boots, snug tan breeches and a thin white lawn shirt damp from rain. As tall as Julian, with slender waist and broad shoulders, he had a lean, powerful build with superb musculature. That body might have been sculpted by Michelangelo, I thought, remembering the plates I had seen in one of the art books. Charles Etienne was a gorgeous male with a commanding presence and, as well, potent sexual magnetism that was like a palpable force. I was acutely aware of that force, and my knees seemed to grow weak. Few women would even try to resist a man like this one, I thought, and I was scandalized by the sensations stirring inside me at the mere sight of him.

"What are you doing in the east wing?" he asked.

"I—I wanted to see the Boulle cabinets and the Watteau. Julian told me there are two Fragonards as well."

"You're interested in valuable things, then?'*

I caught the implication immediately. "No," I said coldly. "I'm interested in beautiful things. There's a difference."

He nodded, as though acknowledging my score, and then he looked around at the things I had uncovered. "Christ, I haven't seen this stuff in years. I'd forgotten all about that cabinet."

"It's far too lovely, far too precious, to be gathering dust in

this abandoned room. It needs to be hand-rubbed with polish, and the gold bands should be cleaned."

"You're right. It would fetch a princely sum at Etienne's."

"You—surely you wouldn't sell it?"

"I'd sell it in a minute—all the rest of this stuff as well—if I didn't think Delia would have a heart attack."

' 'Even the Watteau?''

"Even the Watteau. Sentiment is all well and good, but money in the bank is far more reliable. Our family account was pitifully low when I left . . ."He gave me a long, meaningful look. "I imagine it's considerably lower now.''

I knew what he was implying, and I could feel my spine stiffen. He moved over to the mantel to examine the portrait more closely, his back to me. The damp cloth of his shirt clung loosely to his back and shoulders, and his chestnut hair gleamed darkly in the candlelight, several wet tendrils curling up at the back of his neck. The room seemed suddenly much smaller, the rain seemed louder, and I felt as though my knees might give way at any moment. Never had I felt this kind of physical longing for any man, an urgent ache inside, and I found it intensely unsettling, frightening as well. He turned around, folding his arms across his chest.

"Lavinia wrote to me about you," he said.

"I know she did."

"She wrote me several letters, in fact—keeping me abreast of the situation."

"Giving you her version of it."

"My first impulse was to grab the first ship home, but common sense told me Julian was far too sensible to do anything really disastrous. I was wrong, as it turned out. Lavinia's next letter informed me that he had made you his legal ward."

He spoke in a matter-of-fact voice that had a husky rasp and that drawling accent of the South, though his was not as pronounced as many. He looked at me with cool assessment.

"I must say," he added, "you're not at all what I expected."

"No?"