Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet (33 page)

Damon whispered something, and she gave a little sob and ran down the hall.

Sophia's knees were jelly, and she sat down once more, waiting.
Damon's shoulders sagged, but for a minute or two he made no other
movement. At last, as though he sensed her presence, he turned to her.
His eyes were dulled, and he looked exhausted. The mark his father's
hand had left was glowing on his face beneath the powder, and she was
reminded of the first time she had slapped him, never dreaming what the
future held. He ran a hand through his hair in the familiar gesture of
exasperation and muttered, "If you heard it all, ma'am, why do you
stay?"

"Because I must talk to you." She was surprised that she could speak so steadily.

"Not now," he said wearily.

She walked swiftly forward, blocking the doorway as he shrugged into
his jacket. His eyes moved past her, and from the empty room behind
her, a man coughed discreetly. Sophia stepped aside, and a footman,
gazing at a point some inches above the Marquis's telltale face,
intoned a sepulchral "A note for your lordship. By special messenger."
He handed Damon a folded paper, bowed in acknowledgment of the crisp
thanks, and took himself off, his eyes sliding sideways for just long
enough to register the name and rank of the lady involved.

"Well, now we're properly in the soup," Damon muttered, breaking the
seal. "Between my face, your presence, and the fact I was putting my
jacket on when that dolt—"

Sophia's gasp was echoed by the Marquis as he read the letter,
crushed the paper, and stood glaring down at his clenched hand.
"Where's Ridgley?" he demanded. "Here— yes?"

"No." Taken aback by the fierce light in his eyes, she said, "He
went to Devon to try and reason with Mr. Prendergast. As my agent."

He took a pace toward her, those dark brows downdrawn in a heavy scowl. "Alone? Wasn't Hartwell with him?"

"Amory? Why—no. Lord Ridgley went with Major Henderson."

"Buzzy Henderson?" he asked keenly. "Of the Seventh?"

"Yes. He was staying here, but his wife is increasing, and he became
worried and decided not to remain for the ball. He lives in Torquay.
They journey together."

He stared at her for another long moment, then started for the door.

"I
must
talk to you!" she cried.

"I haven't the time, ma'am. Stand aside, if you please."

"No! Camille, I want to know—Oh! Put me down, sir!"

He did not put her down. He held her for a moment, close against his
heart, his eyes searching her face with a yearning desperation. Her own
anger faded. She forgot about Nancy and Ariel; she forgot poor Vaille
and his grief; she forgot Cobra. All that mattered was the handsome
face before her. All she knew was the need to throw her arms about his
neck, to feel the dear pressure of that sensitive mouth…

Damon set her down and said with a bitter smile, "What a damnable
fool I am! What a weak-kneed failure! I shouldn't have come. But—I did
want to see you in that gown…" His eyes drank her in hungrily as he
held her at arm's length. With a short laugh, he said, "It will be
something to hold in my memory…" She stretched out her arms
appealingly, and he stiffened and turned away. "Gad, how I forget
myself still. The complete cad! What would my affianced think?"

Sophia had heard men talk of having been kicked by mules. She knew now how it must feel. "Your… affianced?"

"I'm to be married. Quite soon, I suspect, if the lady has her way."
He strolled to a corner table and affected to inspect a paperweight
that lay there.

Recovering a little, she followed and tugged at his sleeve. He faced
her, a cynical half smile still upon his face. She said firmly, "You
are
not
going to marry Charlotte." He looked astonished, and she went on. "I am sorry that she will grieve, but you love
me
— I know you won't admit it, but then you lie so much, it's hard to know where you begin! You lied about Nancy!"

Blinking dazedly, he said a low-voiced "I said nothing of it."

"Which was in itself a lie! You lied to your father about Cobra!"

He sighed and, putting down the paperweight, reached for his sleeve.

Sophia placed her fingers over his hand. "I have seen your scorpion.
You may have been a member, but I shall never believe you joined
willingly."

Damon pulled quickly away and said with a bored shrug, "Why would I
lie about such a thing? Do not be ridiculous." Glancing up, he smiled
unpleasantly. "I assure you, ma'am, I was a most—active… member."

"One would never guess it," she flashed, "considering that
I
am pursuing
you
! And it is you who profess to be the filthy, lecherous libertine who… Camille? What are you… doing?"

"Realizing you are right." He moved very close, his smile
incalculably evil. "Because I am your uncle, I have held you in high
regard. But you inflame me, I'll not deny it. Nor any longer restrain
my natural instincts."

"Good!" she cried, and threw her arms around his neck.

Several eons later, he lifted his head from the glory of her mouth,
looked yearningly into the glowing tenderness of her eyes, joyed in the
firm young beauty of her, leaning so trustingly in his arms. And
pulling her even tighter against him, he closed his own eyes and after
a long, precious moment murmured, "What a fool I am, not to have
realized you have already found a way for us."

She smiled happily and snuggled her cheek closer under his chin.

"Sophia, beloved. How I adore you. But—we'll have to wait—just a little while. For appearance's sake, my heart."

She looked up at him questioningly. "Appearance's—?"

"Well, I can't very well—ah—arrange things just at first. I shall
have to take her to Spain, I think. But as soon as we're home…"

A chill touched her. She pulled herself away. "Camille? What is it?"

"Why, our arrangement, dearest. I dared not suggest it, though I've
wanted you… you must know that—almost from the first instant we met.
I'd not dreamed you would be so sensible, so understan—"

"So," she said, her lips cold and stiff, "you will marry Charlotte for her fortune. And I… will become your… mistress…"

"
Bien-aimee
. I shall cherish you forever. And how shall it
matter? You will have everything money can buy—for Charlotte has a
great deal of that, at least. Ah, do not look so sad, my heart. I can
set you up in style once she is my wife. Were it not for that curst
immovable father of mine,
you
would become my Marchioness. But he's cut me off altogether. We have no alternative, you see."

"Perhaps… we do," she said faintly. "I have a very fine emerald,
Camille. We might manage… quite well without— her… if we were careful."

He gave a muffled sound and swung away from her and after a second
said harshly, "Scarcely. Would your emerald give me back my spa? Enable
me to complete the Priory?"

"It would last us—for a year. And then—Marcus will pay me back."

"Clay?" He tensed, and glanced at her. "You gave the money to Clay?
What a joke! I cannot wait a year! The roof is not on the stables, nor
part of the hotel. The barn is complete, but there is much still to be
done on the main buildings. The canals are dug but not paved. Were a
whole year of rain and weeds and wind to have their way, half the work
would be ruined. If I could complete the spa at once, we might manage…
but I cannot—and Vaille is a relatively young man, Sophia. A vigourous
man. For as long as he lives, I would exist on a pittance. I could not
endure that." He turned to her, his smile eager, his eyes very bright
and hard. "No matter. This way is surer, with less effort. Sophia—most
beautiful and desired of women—what a life we shall have— you and I."

"It would… break… Charlotte's heart," she whispered.

He gave one of his small, graceful, and very French gestures, and
she thought achingly that he had never looked more handsome—or more
ruthless. "Come, now,
ma chère
,"— he took her by the
shoulders—"we do not live in the Middle Ages! It is, after all, quite
the thing. Charlotte must eventually agree to whatever we—"

She spun away and sobbed out, "How could you be so cruel? She
worships you! How could you believe I would suggest anything so… so
crude… and immoral?"

He looked bewildered. "But—I thought… you said—"

"You thought me a cheat! A wanton who would betray her friend! Can
you think I would take my happiness by breaking the heart of someone
else?"

He stepped closer, his eyes anxious now. "Such a dramatic child… But
it is done all the time, my heart. You have only to look around."

She backed away, one small step at a time, knowing all her hopes lay
in ashes and her future would be a dreary emptiness. "Do not…" she said
in a gasping little voice, "
ever
...come near me again!" And on the words, she turned and left him alone.

The fire was dying in the beautiful parlour fireplace, only an
occasional flicker of flame lighting the gold leaf of the mantle.
Sophia made no move to add a log, although the room was growing chill,
and she shivered a little as she huddled on the doubtful comfort of the
Louis XIV sofa. Her brows were knit above her dulled eyes because her
efforts to recall the evening were proving useless. The last thing she
remembered with any real clarity was that ghastly little ante-room, the
terrible quarrel, and her subsequent idiocy. She had a vague impression
of having seen Damon stalk across the ballroom, his face a
thundercloud; of having danced a good deal and laughed too much and too
shrilly. She had flirted outrageously with Phinny, poor man, and God
knows who else. Longing to creep away and hide like the poor wounded
creature she was, she had forced herself to see it through, to deny
them all the pleasure of another
on dit
. Stephen had not
interfered, though he had seldom been far away and watched her with a
worried frown; and twice Genevieve had come and slipped an arm about
her, enquiring if everything was all right. Dear fortunate little
Genevieve… loving and loved.

Self-pity was deplorable, and she knew she was unutterably foolish
to feel such a horrible sense of loss. She should be glad to have
discovered in time that he was just as she had initially imagined him.
Selfish and utterly without honour.

She wiped automatically at her reddened eyes with her sodden
handkerchief. She would not have thought she'd any tears left. She had
made a total fool of herself—but one learned from one's mistakes…
surely? She had imagined herself in love with an unworthy and evil man,
an aristocratic, soulless gigolo. And yet how tenderly he had held her.
How ineffably dear that kiss. And—God help her! How she loved him! Even
now! She put her hands over her face and bowed forward, weeping again
and wondering that her mind did not fail her, so torn was she between
love and loathing. And she realized at last, with a forlorn
helplessness, that there was no real loathing. Only grief—and despair.

A hand touched her shoulder. A beloved voice said, "Chicky…do not."

In a second, she was clasped tight against her brother's shoulder,
sobbing her heart out, grateful beyond words for the comfort of his
presence.

After a while, she took the dry handkerchief he offered, wiped her
eyes, sniffed unashamedly, and finished. "And that's all there is,
dearest. Only… I feel so sorry for… poor Vaille." She blew her nose,
afraid to tell Whitthurst the whole, having omitted all reference to
Charlotte and the shameful proposal Damon had made her after the Duke
had gone.

"And you, dear?" he asked kindly. "Do you realize now that Damon is not the man for you? That you will find somebody else?"

His eyes were very intent, and Sophia blinked rapidly, struggling
for control, but two great tears spilled over and streaked down her
cheeks, and her brother, his arm tightening about her, said, "Oh,
Chicky… my poor darling!"

Clinging to him, she whimpered helplessly, "It's no use… you see. I
have tried so hard to hate him, Stephen. But—somehow it always… goes
wrong. Each time I am determined to quarrel with him, I wind up… loving
him a little bit more. I must be witless. I know what he is, and still
I cannot help it. No matter how low… and vile… and contemptible! I
cannot—"

"Be still! Dammit! That's enough!" He tore away from her and strode
to the mantle, glaring down at the smouldering fire. His hand formed a
tight fist. He slammed it repeatedly against the mantle and swore
softly, as she had never heard him swear. Her mouth dropped open in
bewilderment. This raging, snarling, bitter man could not be her gentle
Stephen? This blast of profanity could not be issuing from that sweet
mouth that had never cursed before her—except for small oaths at times
of great provocation.

Whitthurst drew his hand across his eyes, was briefly silent, then
turned to face her fully. And she was afraid because he looked grim and
older—not at all like her light-hearted, happily-in-love brother.

"I should have told you long ago," he said in a hard, forced voice,
"but I lacked the courage. And then Cam said I must not… for your own
safety, so—"

"My… what?" she gasped.

"So I took the easy way," he went on wretchedly, "and convinced
myself that he was right." He took a deep breath, his chin came up, and
his shoulders drew back. "Do you remember what you said when you
described Cobra to me?"

Sophia stared blankly, and he gave a bitter smile. "I do. Oh, so
well! You said they were the dregs of mankind. The lowest, most
wretched beasts that ever walked this land. And, it was true. They
were—they are—just as you described, and worse. And I suppose that's
why…knowing that you knew of them, knowing what Papa had said, I—could
not bear to…"

Her brother bit his lip and, as if the words were torn from him, groaned, "Sophia—
I
was a member!"