The Prince of Eden (39 page)

"I am," she replied. She seemed to suffer a slight self-consciousness, then added, "Thank you, Edward, for bringing me here."

The fact that she had addressed him with familiarity was not lost on him. "I would come here every day," she murmured, "if I resided at Eden."

"Will you?" he asked quietly. "Reside at Eden, I mean?"

She glanced at him, no longer embarrassed as she had appeared below in her chambers. Now her expression was one of resignation. "I suspect that plans of that nature are being laid."

"And is it your desire?"

"I don't think I have much voice in the matter."

"Why not?"

For an instant he saw the gloom on her face even though she was staring silently out to sea. She was not, as he had expected she would be, the empty-headed, cold-natured, pampered daughter of a peer of the realm. There was the suggestion about her of unmined riches.

So intent was his scrutiny of her that only now did he realize that she was returning his gaze.

"Why have you not joined the company for the last few days?" she asked, displaying a bluntness which at least matched his own.

He laughed and shook his head. "I know none of the guests," he offered lamely. "I felt out of place—"

"Sophia Cranford said you were ill."

"111?" he repeated. "She'd like that very much, but I assure you, I'm not ill-"

"Why did you hold back that night we arrived? You were the last to come forward in greeting, yet it's your castle."

"You were not my guest," he replied, finding her questions interesting.

"Still you stood very much apart," she persisted.

"I am apart," he said. "As I told you, I spend most of my time in London."

"Why?"

"It suits me." He was aware suddenly of a strong acceleration of his pulse. She had shifted her position, had bent over as though in examination of something at her feet.

"Look," she smiled.

He lowered his eyes to where, below her skirts, he saw bare feet. "What in-" He started forward.

She laughed. "I lost my slippers on the stairway."

He started to bend down and only at the last moment caught himself. She saw his unease. "It's quite all right," she said. "I can retrieve them later."

He continued to stare down at the small white naked foot. Then she lowered her gown and stood erect again. She seemed totally at ease now, the grief which earlier had plagued her completely gone. "Does it get very cold here?" she asked lightly, her mind obviously turning at random.

"In winter, yes," he replied, still amazed at the tumultuous feelings the sight of those bare feet had aroused within him. "A damp cold," he went on, "and on occasion, snow."

"I dislike winter," she said, as though it were an innate failing. "I remember being forced to take walks in winter. It always seemed so dreadful and unnecessary, coming home in the raw twilight with nipped fingers and toes—"

He watched her carefully, not clearly listening to what she was saying, concentrating instead on the play of moonlight upon her face, the way one side of that lovely cameo would appear first lit, then in shadow. Then softly she said, "If I don't have to think very much on what's ahead, I may come to reside at Eden Castle."

He saw it again, the desperation on her face. It occurred to him that it would be more considerate to divert her attention to something else.

But he didn't. With a full awareness of what he was doing, he said, "You're not a pawn, you know. Your life is your own."

She looked at him as though shocked by his idiocy. "Clearly you are not a woman," she smiled.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that you are able to entertain such luxurious thoughts as self-determination."

"And you are not?"

She looked at him with a timid glance. "I serve no purpose, fulfill no destiny other than reproduction."

"That's nonsense."

"I wish it were." Suddenly she pressed her head back against the chimney, her eyes closed. "Oh God, let's not talk of it," she begged. The despair lasted only a moment. "Tell me of yourself," she asked quietly. "How do you pass your days in London?"

When he failed to answer, she prodded gently. "You must do something. I thought I was the only one who existed in a vacuum."

"We—have a school," he began, trying to rally his wits about him. "A Ragged School, they call it." He shook his head. "I have little to do

with it. It's simply established in my house. Daniel runs it. Daniel Spade."

"A good friend?" she inquired.

"The best," he replied. "We grew up together. Here at Eden." He looked about him. "The last time I stood here, I was with Daniel."

She seemed to be listening closely. She surprised him then by asking almost blithely, "Why have you never married?"

While it was a simple question, it was not so simply answered. "I've never met anyone who would have me," he smiled.

"I don't believe that."

"It's true."

"Is it because of your illegitimacy?" she asked, again painfully blunt. "Bastards marry," she said simply. "I'm sure you know women."

He nodded, fascinated by their game of truthfulness. It was as though neither of them seemed inclined to censor any thought, no matter how painful or scandalous. If it was a game, and he was certain it was, he decided to play it willingly. Now in an attempt to shock her, he said, "I know prostitutes for the most part. There's a young girl now, living in the house in London. Elizabeth is her name."

"Where did you meet her?" she asked, apparently not shocked in the least.

He felt a moment's unease. How glibly they were speaking of unspeakable things. "In Newgate," he replied, monitoring her reaction. But again he saw nothing. It was as though this sheltered blueblood was beyond being shocked.

"The prison?" she inquired casually.

"The prison."

"And what were you doing there?"

"I was under arrest."

"On what charge?"

"For public brawling."

"And you met Elizabeth there?"

Again he nodded, unable to account for her remorseless interest in such sordid matters. Under normal conditions and in polite circumstances, they ought to have been discussing a comparison of Shropshire hunts and Devon hunts, the Christmas cotillion, the state of King William's health, the pros and cons of the German influence on the young Victoria.

"Did she offer herself to you?" she asked then, the shadows completely gone from her face.

Incredibly he was the one who suffered embarrassment. Still he

replied honestly, intent on playing the game. "She did," he replied, amazed at the face opposite him.

"And did you have her?"

He shook his head.

"And why not?" she persisted.

"She's scarcely a child," he murmured. "Very young."

"So you took her home?"

He nodded.

She seemed to be listening with incredible intensity, as though her fascination knew no bounds. She stood erect before him now, no longer leaning against the chimney. A curious resolution seemed to settle on her face. Then he heard her voice again, speaking dangerous words. "Did you know the adulteress, Charlotte Longford?"

Suddenly there churned inside his head a memory. He turned away, taking refuge for the moment in the nimble beams of bright light playing about the night sky.

"Fm sorry," she murmured. "But we do receive newsprint in the Midlands. The account of the trial was carried in full. Your house was mentioned. I believe she worked there as a volunteer—"

Still he made no response. The game of truthfulness had gone too far. Her inquiries were tactless.

"Did you know her?" she persisted, moving up close beside him.

He nodded, trying to ignore the wound, those prevailing memories of guilt.

"Did you make love to her?"

Suddenly he turned on her. "Why are you asking these questions?" he demanded.

"I have no right," she agreed.

"No."

Then in spite of their mutual agreement on the impropriety of her words, she asked, with a slight though all-important variation, "Did you love her?"

Now she appeared before him like a tormentor. The memories and images were as fresh as though they had just occurred. He saw the rat scrambling up the prison garb, then disappearing behind her back. He saw himself try to pull her forward, saw the grotesque angle of her neck and head as she remained in spite of death, pinned to the wall.

As these images returned to him, he looked back at Harriet, perplexed. "Why?"

"Ahead of me is a lifetime of lies," she said simply. "I can play the role, I really can," she exclaimed with grieved astonishment. "I'll work

my way through the years, obedient and docile, if only I can have a now, one perfect, honest now."

Her cheeks seemed to grow pale as though she belatedly suffered from her own daring. "I know nothing and have no time to learn," she went on softly. "You've known both passion and grief in abundance. Please share them with me. I shall feed on them for the rest of my life and-"

She didn't finish her thought, but turned away. He had never heard such a plea, or had it been a confession? He stretched out his hand for her arm and touched it, gently turned her toward him. As he drew her still closer, he imagined her feet white and naked near his boots. She lifted her hand to his face and with two fingers traced the angle of his jaw, culminating in a light caress of his lips.

The moonlight vanished from her face as the shadow of his head replaced it. He moved at first with a certain tentativeness, still bewildered by her. He heard again her words, "I'll work my way through the years, obedient and docile—" She spoke nonsense and later he intended to tell her so.

But for this moment he felt no need for words. He bent his head and touched her lips with his, found them open and receptive, and drew her still closer, pinning her to him in an embrace as though he intended to pull her through him. As his tongue explored her mouth, he was aware of her arms about him, the press of her body against his.

As the kiss ended, they looked at each other as though mutually shocked by the degree of their passion. There still was a lingering look of sadness on her face. But with a conscious effort of will, he dismissed it.

Again he felt her hand on his face, her fingertips tracing his jaw. "I'm memorizing it," she whispered, "against the day when it will be gone from me."

"I will never be gone from you," he vowed, gathering her to him.

"No," she agreed, in the last moment before their lips met again, this embrace even more violent than the last. He had the feeling of fast-gathering tumults. His hands on her back moved down to the softness of her hips. In spite of the skirts, he felt the contours of her legs. "Come to me," he whispered as the kiss ended.

"I will," she promised. "Though not here, not now."

"When?"

She drew away from him, her voice manifesting a peculiar disciplined quality. "Our perfect now will last five days," she said, looking back at him, as though reining in her own feelings.

He watched her closely and thought her the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. He was certain she felt as he did. Then why talk of a limited now? Of course they had the others to contend with, but the announcement could be made quietly, swiftly, and then they would leave immediately, not for London, not for a while. Perhaps Scotland, a Highland cottage, isolated, where at leisure and in seclusion, they could learn what had occurred in the years before this night.

As he plotted their future in one direction, he heard her still speaking of a limited bliss. "Five days," she repeated, her voice strangely calm. "We'll make a bargain on it. I would like to walk with you, to feel you at my side. And we will ride one day, across the moors, so that I may see you on horseback, and one day we shall explore the beach together to chart one another against swelling space—" Her voice dropped even lower. "And one day you will make love to me—"

For a moment, she seemed incapable of further speech. He stepped forward and took her hand and the contact seemed to give her strength.

She looked up at him and her manner changed again, grew light and calm. "I'd be most grateful, Edward, if you would do all this for me. Is it asking too much?"

He didn't know whether to laugh or scold her. He'd never heard a love plotted with such dispassionate precision. "And afterwards?" he asked, moving closer, incapable of keeping distance between them.

She permitted the embrace though not as generously as before. "Afterwards," she smiled. "The engagement will be announced, and within the year I'll become Lady Eden."

The wind had blown clouds up and these clouds now obscured the moon. With the light gone, he could not see her face. But he thought her words absurd and said as much.

"No," she protested. "We shall not pursue it beyond five days."

"I won't permit it," he argued, feeling her motionless in his arms.

"You'll have no choice," she said.

"But you don't love him."

"Of course not. But everyone will be pleased and I'll do my best to be a good wife." Then again she commenced that peculiar scrutiny of his face.

Now the gesture annoyed him. Angrily he caught her hand and drew it away, held it rigid against his chest. "You're speaking nonsense, you know."

If she noted his anger, she gave no indication of it. "Five days, Edward," she whispered. "Please give me five days—"

He considered pursuing it further, but changed his mind. The five days would not be constant. There would be endless interruptions, a need for deception and stealth. But since he could not for the moment dissuade her from her foolishness, he would give her the five days, then take her away for eternity.

In answer to her request for five days, he nodded and drew her close. His whole consciousness was concentrated on the perception of those points where their bodies touched, her legs between his, her hips and breasts pressing against him, her head against his shoulder. "You cannot plot or plan the course of love," he warned her gently.

"When there's no time, there is no choice," she replied. "I'm far richer now than I was an hour ago."