The Deception

The
Deception
______________________

Catherine Coulter

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and
incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is
entirely coincidental.

THE DECEPTION

A SIGNET Book / published by arrangement with the author

All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1998 by Catherine Coulter
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Electronic edition: February, 2002

To Catherine Lyons-Labate.
She loves chocolate and gardenias.
She loves to laugh, she’s unconditionally cheerful.
Best of all-she laughs at my jokes.

London

December 2, 1814

H
e was hot and impatient, wanting nothing more than to bury himself in her and forget for a while at least that there were monsters out there that could bring a man to despair. He was heaving with the effort as he managed, finally, to balance himself over her. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice as raw and naked as his soul, “I’m sorry,” and he knew in that moment that he simply couldn’t be of any use to her at all. He wondered if indeed he was being any use to himself in those moments he exploded deep inside her, losing all sense of self, all sense of who and what he was, or of belonging to anyone or anything. He was scattered and drifting, and he relished the brief oblivion. But after the shattering pleasure receded, he was again incredibly alone. And once again he remembered there was evil out there in the night.

He slowly moved away from her, feeling himself come back into painful focus, seeing the shadows the fire cast on the walls opposite her bed, following them to the deeper shadows that filled the corners of the
bedchamber, bathing everything in gray emptiness. No, the emptiness was inside him, and he was the one who yet lived.

He turned to her. She was lying on her back, her legs still spread, one graceful hand lying fisted on her white belly. He lightly closed his hand over hers, lifting it. “I’m sorry,” he said again. “I will do better.” She wasn’t going to tell him it didn’t matter to her if he treated her like a vessel of convenience, because it did matter. She’d known him for two years, not a very long time to know a man as complex and proud and ferociously sexual as Richard Clarendon, but enough for a woman who was as arrogant in her own way as he was, and well used to gratification, to say, “You’re never a careless or selfish lover. You might as well tell me what’s wrong.”

He lightly kissed her knuckles, then laid her hand back onto her belly. He smoothed her fingers, splaying them on her white flesh. “You’re beautiful,” he said, his voice as absent as his mind was from her.

“Yes, I know, but that doesn’t matter. You’re beautiful as well. Now, what’s wrong, Richard?”

He rose slowly, walked to the fire that was no longer raging but soft and glowing, and stretched himself. His large body was bathed in golden light. She admired his mind as well as she admired his body—both were quick and graceful and powerful. “You’re tired,” she said, breaking into his silence. “Yes, very tired.” He was more than that. He was also a fool. He had hoped that being with her would somehow renew him, make him savor life and its living once more, but it hadn’t. He felt even more tired than he had an hour before. “Yes,” he said. “Very tired. I’m sorry,” he said yet again. She rose and walked to him, pressing herself against
his side. “It’s that girl, isn’t it? The one who married Phillip Mercerault? The one who turned you down? Your man’s spirit still wants her?”

That made him smile. Things would be much simpler if Sabrina was responsible for the pain that had burrowed so deeply in him that he doubted if it would ever retreat. “Man’s spirit? How is a man’s spirit different from a woman’s spirit?”

“They are very different. Your spirit nurtures your belief in yourself. If a woman rejects you, it’s your own worth that is wounded, not your heart. A woman’s spirit is a desert to be filled with a man’s attention. Hers is easily wounded, for men don’t excel in giving full attention, it isn’t their way. So both men and women suffer from pain; only their pain is very different from each other’s.”

“To debate that would be an impossible task. No, this has nothing to do with Sabrina. She and Phillip did as they should. She’s pregnant, and Phillip is happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

She nodded, realizing that he was telling her the truth. “Then what is it? Is your mother ill?” “No, she’s perfectly fit.” “You miss your father?”

“Yes, of course. He was the very best of men. I will miss him until I die myself.” He paused, then looked down into that quite lovely face. “You won’t cease, will you, Morgana?”

“No.” Her hand was on his arm. There was nothing seductive about it, but still his body reacted. She saw the renewed heat in him, the force and energy of him turning to her, and she quickly backed away. “Before you leap upon me again, tell me.”

“A woman shouldn’t plague a man. Oh, hell, it’s all about murder, Morgana, the needless murder of
someone who shouldn’t have gotten himself killed, someone who was very close to me.”

“Did you kill the murderer?” She said it so matter-of-factly that he started. The duke rammed his long fingers through his black hair, sending it to stand on end. “No, I don’t know what particular man killed him. I’d like to dispatch that man to hell where he belongs, but it’s what’s behind him that drives me to fury and despair. I begin to wonder if any of us are safe anymore.” He turned back to the fire, his head down, and she knew he wouldn’t say anything more. He was in pain. She would help him. He paid her to be at his beck and call, but this was one time when she would have quite willingly taken him into her arms for absolutely nothing at all.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and pressed herself against him. He was hard against her belly. She kissed his shoulder, laid her face against his chest. “Come, let me help you forget, at least for a little while.”

He didn’t take her back to her bed. He lifted her, driving upward deeply into her. He wondered if he was hurting her, but then he touched her and she made that soft sound deep in her throat, and he knew she was close to her climax. He didn’t let her down this time, but when he left her forty-five minutes later, she knew that he still felt as cold as stone.

Romilly-sur-Seine, France
February 10, 1815

I
t was late. Evangeline set her brush beside the silver-handled comb on the dressing table, too tired to braid her hair. She heard her maid, Margueritte, laughing softly and humming even as she smoothed the wrinkles from the blue velvet gown that Evangeline had worn that evening.

She stared at herself in the mirror. She was too pale, and there was no laughter in her eyes or on her lips. She was tired, so very tired, and it was deep, all the way to her soul.

She knew a horrible wrenching inside. She knew what it was as well. She wanted to go home, to England. She hated France.

But she couldn’t tell her father, it would hurt him deeply. And she loved him more than she loved anyone on the face of this earth. When they’d heard that Napoleon had been defeated and Louis would be returned by the English to the French throne, he’d been so pleased that he’d grabbed her up to dance with her.

They’d returned six months before to Romilly-sur-Seine, not to their ancestral home but rather to a smallish manor house that lay but two miles from the chateau. A wealthy merchant lived in their home now, with his fat wife and six offspring.

Her father hadn’t cared. He was pleased to be home, to speak his own language again, to laugh at the things a Frenchman was supposed to laugh at. He’d never really understood the English humor. She imagined that he’d simply never wanted to take all that was English into himself, and so he hadn’t. He spoke English beautifully, but his thoughts were always in French. She wondered what her mother, a very English lady, had thought about that, for surely she knew that her husband would never move his thoughts and dreams toward her.

He’d lived for twenty-five years in Kent, married to the daughter of a local baron, who’d lived with them since he’d lost all his own money gambling. She’d liked her English grandfather. She doubted now that as an adult she would care for him at all, but a child had no such qualifying notions. He’d died before she’d gained an adult’s mind, and thus he would be forever a romantic figure in her thoughts.

She was the mirror image of her father. She spoke French beautifully, like a native actually, but she simply wasn’t French. How to tell her father that she was miserable, that she would die before she married a Frenchman like the Comte de Pouilly, Henri Moreau, a rich, handsome young nobleman who left her cold and rigid, no smile in her mind, much less on her mouth?

The evening had been long and trying, largely because Henri, for no good reason she could think of, had determined with appalling certainty that Evangeline
would make him the ideal wife. The good Lord knew she had discouraged him, but his hide was thicker than the bark of an oak tree. He wanted her. Every chance he got, he tried to trap her against a wall or against a tree, or push her into the bushes to try to kiss her. He’d managed it once. She’d bitten his tongue.

There was a light knock on her bedchamber door. She smiled automatically, rising, for she knew it was her father. He always came to her every night before she went to bed. It was one of her favorite times.

She called out in French, because she knew that’s what he wanted to hear from her,
“Entrez.”

Her father, Guillaume de Beauchamps, the most handsome man she’d ever seen in her life, strode through the bedroom door like a warrior he really wasn’t. What he was, she thought, still smiling as he came toward her, his hands outstretched, was a philosopher. Women flocked to him. Even when he spoke to them of the metaphysical underpinnings of Descartes, they usually just smiled at him and moved closer.

“Papa,” she said, and walked into his arms. Nature had given him the face and the body of a warrior. He was magnificent. Few people knew that his heart didn’t beat properly, that she worried about him constantly now, for he was fifty-five on his last birthday, and the English doctor had told her that there was nothing to be done, that he must rest and remain calm. He had said it was a good thing her father was a philosopher; that would keep him seated and thinking. The only problem was that her father became dreadfully excited when he read Montaigne.