Natalya (39 page)

Francesca blanched but obeyed docilely. After handing him the priceless earrings, she stood and presented her back to him. "You'll have to work the clasp, darling. You know I'm hopeless with such things."

"For God's sake, stop calling me darling," he shot back through clenched teeth. When he touched her neck, the sudden, sighing intake of her breath sickened him. The clasp was unfastened in a trice, and he dropped all three pieces of the parure in his coat pocket.

"Do you know, it's quite amazing, but I am not curious as to how you found me," she said softly. "I knew that you would somehow, if you lived."

Grey gave her a chilling smile. "Fascinating."

She sat down again and assumed an earnest expression. "Now, then, Grey, you must hear me out. You owe me at least the few minutes it will take to tell my story. I realize that what I've done must appear altogether inexplicable—"

"Not at all. The explanation is simple. You are selfish, coldblooded, and spoiled, and I was a fool to marry you." His manner grew dangerously calm as he continued, "Perhaps I shouldn't fault you for recognizing the truth about the farce we were engaged in. However, I do condemn you for leaving me without word of your whereabouts, still tied to you by wedding vows and unable to loose those legal bonds."

"But, Grey, I
loved
you!" She turned green eyes up to him, bright with pain. "Have you forgotten all that we shared during those... private moments? No, don't answer; I can see that you mean to pretend that there was ever naught between us, and I suppose I cannot blame you. But, it was different for me. I was afraid to let my feelings show after our wedding because you were so cavalier about the entire business."

"What the devil are you going on about?" Grey broke in impatiently, pushing open a window to let in some air. "Do you take me for one of those drooling puppies who believe whatever you tell them, despite the obvious facts? Not that it signifies in the least, but you ran off mere weeks after our wedding! Damned odd behavior for a wife in love, wouldn't you agree?"

Francesca stretched out her hand and touched his for an instant, thrilling to the warmth of his bronzed skin, remembering his intoxicating scent and the heady rapture of his kisses. "You doubtless won't believe me, but I left
because
I loved you so. I was frightened, Grey! Desperately frightened that you would be killed in the war, and even more afraid that, if you did come home to me, you would break my heart. I had never known such powerful longing before, and—"

"I'm afraid you'll have to do much better than that, my dear," he drawled sardonically.

She began to weep, burying her face in her hands. "I knew that you would be this way—that I would be better off striking back in kind than telling the truth!"

Standing in the middle of the summerhouse, Grey cast his eyes heavenward. "I shudder to think what you imagine you can gain from these histrionics, Francesca, but you would be wise to take a different tack. You know me very little if you believe I can be manipulated."

Experience had taught Francesca that all men could be manipulated, and in any case, she had no other option save surrender, and that did not occur to her. Shakily she rose to her feet and threw herself against him, sobbing. "My darling! Can you not feel the sincerity of my pain? Have you not the smallest piece of love for me hiding in a corner of your heart?"

The Francesca he had known in London had been sly, keen-witted, wildly passionate, and self-absorbed. Grey had never known her to display a single tender emotion, and he was taken aback by these tearful pleas. He had expected defiance, even threats and lies, but never this! Clasping her shoulders, he was about to put her away from him when a movement outside the summerhouse caught his eye.

"Good God," he muttered. There, amid a profusion of yellow and white narcissus, stood Natalya. Her beautiful eyes were wide with confusion and disbelief. Just before she turned to flee, Francesca lifted her head from Grey's chest and looked back, recognizing Natalya Beauvisage... and understanding instantly that she was her rival.

* * *

Grey St. James walked toward the little cottage behind the gardens of Belle Maison. The mansion was dark and silent, but candlelight illuminated the cottage windows, beckoning to him. It was neatly one o'clock in the morning, and he realized that anyone seeing him wandering about would, perhaps rightly, think him mad. Tonight, however, his cool head and ready wit had deserted him, replaced by emotions that burned too hot to touch, much less examine. Sleep was impossible, and a force Grey didn't understand had drawn him on horseback through the starlit night. Without choosing a destination, he'd found himself at Belle Maison.

It seemed as if an eternity had passed since he had come away from the Hampshires' garden party. By the time he and Francesca returned to the house, most of the guests had departed, and Natalya had been surrounded by young women in the parlor, laughing gaily. It was obvious to Grey that she was hiding from him behind the barricade of females, and he was oddly grateful. He didn't know what to say to her then.

He still didn't know, but he felt compelled to say something now that he was here at this impossible hour. Dear God, what a coil his life had become in one short day! The situation with Francesca gave him precious little peace, for he couldn't fathom what she was about. In an effort to gain some control over the matter, he had closeted himself in his library earlier that evening and written to her, coldly demanding the return of all the Hartford jewels and informing her that he would seek to have their marriage dissolved immediately upon his return to England. Speed, warming to his role in the drama, had dressed in black to deliver the missive, impressively sealed by Grey's signet ring. He hardly expected Francesca to obey his commands without protest, but the action had allowed him to put that particular problem aside for the moment.

Grey's body ached with fatigue as he listened to the calls of the night birds and smelled the fragrant spring flowers. A horse stirred and snorted in the nearby stables, while shredded clouds floated past the moon. Grey paused on the mossy brick footpath, inhaling the cool air and wondering what the devil he was doing. Someone had mentioned that Natalya was using this cottage as her writing study, but that certainly did not mean she slept there as well. And, even if she did, what explanation could he give for disturbing her in the middle of the night?

Then, as if in answer to his questions, a white-clad figure moved past the candlelit window, pausing to open it a few inches. Grey almost imagined that he beheld a ghost as a breeze stirred the loose white gown and tumbled honey curls of Natalya Beauvisage.

She saw him but did not move. Her heart raced with a sweet, reckless joy as she drank in the familiar lines of his lean, shadowed body, the ebony gleam of his hair, and the white glow of his shirt in the moonlight. How could one human being, even in the form of a vision, be the source of both acute heartache and immeasurable happiness?

Today, after leaving the Hampshires' party, Natalya had wanted to get into her bed, draw the covers over her head, and remain there, asleep preferably, until her pain eased. Knowing that such behavior would alert her entire family to her humiliating, helpless passion for Grey, she had chosen instead to take refuge in the cottage, explaining that the party had given her several inspiring ideas for her book that must be recorded without delay.

"I must be seeing things," she whispered now. "Seeing things and going quite mad...."

The apparition walked slowly toward the cottage, and she went to open the door.

"You are doubtless wondering what I am doing here," Grey said, with self-directed irony.

"You're real'."

"Unfortunately, yes. Are you?" When she nodded, he smiled. "Perhaps we're having the same dream, for that would make more sense than the two of us meeting like this in the middle of the night. Will you let me in?"

The air, scented with the wisteria that plunged over the cottage roof, seemed imbued with magic as well. "What sort of dream would this be if I did not?" Natalya answered, stepping back so that he might pass. "I am curious to discover how it will end."

"To be frank, so am I." Spying a decanter of brandy on a table in the parlor, he went over and removed the stopper. "Do you mind if I help myself?"

"No." She stared at his profile, which was irresistibly burnished by the glow of a dozen candles. "In fact, I believe I ought to join you."

When Grey had splashed brandy into two crystal tumblers, he joined her on the settee. "I hope you have a more plausible reason for being here at this uncivilized hour than I do." His voice still held a note of satiric disbelief, as if part of him were watching the scene from a distance.

Natalya's first sip of brandy gave her courage, but she trod carefully. "I was writing."

"Is it your custom to write when the rest of the world sleeps?"

"No," she answered simply, "but I was in no mood for sleep. What of you? Is it
your
custom to wander my family's garden, miles from your own in Philadelphia, after we have all gone to bed?" She imitated him by arching a delicate brow.

Grey grinned in spite of himself. "Ah, minx, you have the devil's own wits. No, it is not my custom; in truth, I am not quite certain what brought me here tonight."

"Are you not?"

A silence fell between them, broken finally by Grey. "This area is one where I have seldom strayed...."

"What area is that?" she prodded, with feigned confusion, watching the way his long fingers tightened around the glass.

He glared at her. "I mean, the area of—the realm in which—" He broke off, sighing harshly. "God knows what I'm trying to say, because I'll be damned if I do! I've no business even speaking of this to you given the complicated circumstances of my life—and the fact that I've really no idea what it means, or where it's going, or—"

"Grey... are you talking about your feelings for me?" Natalya felt oddly serene in the face of his agitation.

"See here!" he cried accusingly. "I don't think we ought to be discussing this at all. All my life, I've been taught to act and think, not feel. Quite honestly, I'm not even certain what a feeling is when I'm having one, so I've learned to avoid the blasted things entirely." He stood up. "I'd better go."

"Oh, no, you don't!" Warmed by the brandy and this glimpse of vulnerability, Natalya caught Grey's hand and pulled him back down on the settee. "I seem to recall another conversation not so long ago, in your upstairs sitting room on Spruce Street, when you accused
me
of running from my feelings. You implied that I was callous because I had tried to pretend there was nothing between us, and although I now remember that no discussion was made of
your
feelings, you did maneuver me quite neatly into bed." Pausing to sip her brandy, she grinned at him. "This time, you owe
me
an explanation, sir—many explanations, in fact. You may as well resign yourself to providing them. No doubt you'll be able to sleep again after our little talk."

Grey stood up, looking pained, and went to fetch the decanter of brandy. Pouring more into his glass, he returned to the settee and put it on the low table in front of them, securely within reach. "You can be a merciless vixen, Natalya."

A warm, dizzying euphoria filled her body. "Perhaps," she teased, "and yet..."

"If you imagine that I'm going to say I'm in love with you, you're mad!" he shouted. "Love! What the devil is
love?"

"I can see that you are upset," Natalya soothed. "Let's put the subject of love aside for the moment and come back to it later. Besides, I'd really rather hear about Frances Wellbeloved. Who is she, and what is her role in your life?"

"You just had to ask that, didn't you? You'll wish you hadn't when you hear the answer." His tone was scorching.

"But, Grey," she said gently, "I have to hear it, just as you have to say it, or we can never move forward."

"Damn you!" He heard his voice as from a distance, and it was like a stranger's. "Francesca is my
wife!"

Chapter 25

May 16, 1814

"Frances Wellbeloved is your
wife
?" Natalya echoed in a small voice, pressing a hand over her aching heart. "You must be in jest!"

"Would that I were, my dear," Grey replied ruefully. Seeing that she had begun to tremble in her thin lawn nightgown, he retrieved a blanket of Irish wool from a nearby chair, wrapped it around her body, and put her brandy glass in her hand. "I do hope you're not planning to faint."

She sat up straighter, eyes sparkling. "I'll have you know that I
never
faint!"

"Of course not." He gave her a fond smile. "I apologize for suggesting that you might."

"Apology accepted. Now then, I suppose that you'd better tell me everything." She shook her head and sighed. "Really, Grey, how could you be married to such a woman? What possessed you?"

"Satan, I presume," he answered dryly. "Actually there were several reasons why I married Francesca, but in retrospect none of them seem very good."