A Duke Never Yields (37 page)

The friar’s words echoed his own thoughts so closely, Wallingford gave a little start. “Yes, it’s so,” he said softly.

“Do you confess, signore?”

“No. I’m English, of course, and there is no confession, as such.”

“Ah. Is a shame. Is good, I think, to say aloud the sin, to have the forgiveness.”

Wallingford laughed. “I’m afraid my sins are too numerous to count, let alone relate in detail. I shall have to take my chances, I suppose.”

“Are they, signore? You are a good man, I think. You think to marry, to have the family.” The friar paused. “Your lady, she is good?”

“She is an angel,” Wallingford said instantly. “A mischievous one, I’ll admit, but free of vice, free of any thought of wickedness, as pure and loyal as . . .” His breath ran out of his body. “Ah, God.”

“What is it, signore?”

Wallingford sank slowly onto the pew beside him. “I don’t deserve her, of course, but what man does?”

“This is not so, signore. You are good; if you are not yourself good, you see not the goodness in her.”

“She is an angel, she exists in an almost impossible state of grace, and I have led her into sin. I have taken her to bed.”

The friar was silent.

Wallingford leaned his forearms on his knees and looked down. “She was a maiden, and I took her in pleasure, because I couldn’t resist her.”

“This is a sin, of course,” said the friar, “but you will marry her, yes?”

“I will, I’ve sworn it before God. I should not have taken her otherwise.” He lowered his voice. “But there have been others, Father, many others before her. I have lain with women since I was fifteen, without marriage, nor yet a word of love between us. I have seduced other men’s wives. I have coveted and lusted. I have been ruled by my own wants alone.” He fisted his hands against his eyes. “Is it too much to hope, Father, that I can change?”

“My son, for the change, is need that we see the error of the past, and seek a better way.” The friar’s voice was infinitely kind.

“I do. I mean to be faithful to her. I would not hurt her for the world.”

“Then why do you fear, my son?”

“Because I have never resisted temptation before. I don’t know if I can.” A sob burst out from his tortured throat. “How can I promise her fidelity, with these lips that have kissed so many others? How can I offer her this hand, that has drawn women into adultery?”

“My son, you have the will to act, or not to act. This will, it is God’s true gift to man. He can choose to sin. Every sin, he make the choice.”

Wallingford said nothing. The candles flickered next to the altar, rippling golden light across the intricacy of marble and gilding. A weight came to rest on his head: the friar’s hand.

“I can offer you the forgiveness of God, my son. But I think first you wish to forgive yourself, yes?”

Wallingford closed his eyes. “I suppose so.”

From the air above him came a few murmured words of Latin, so low as to be unintelligible. The weight lifted from his head. He had been blessed, Wallingford knew, but when he rose some time later to leave the chapel and stride back down the nave, he did not feel a bit different.

*   *   *

O
utside, the light blinded him, reflecting from the white marble of the facade in the full horizontal glare of a falling sun.

A falling sun?

He pulled his watch out of his pocket, stared at the face, shook it, stared at it again.

Three hours. He had been inside the cathedral for three hours.

He went on staring stupidly at the watch face, unable to comprehend what it told him. He spun around in a circle, looking for a public clock, but saw none. Only the sun dipping down below the hills, below the faded red tiles of the rooftops.

“
Gran Dio!
Wallingford!”

He jumped and turned.

“You! In Siena! Ah,
mio caro
, I cannot believe it!” A woman stood before him, veiled, dressed in black, a young boy clutching her hand.

He cast his eyes over her in astonishment. Who the devil was she? The voice was familiar, intimately familiar, but his disordered mind could not connect it with a living person.

“Ah, you devil! You do not know me.” With her free hand she lifted her veil, and her dark eyes sparkled out of her lovely pale face.

“Isabella!” The name burst like a reflex from his lips.

“
Si
, it is I, though I see from your face I have made much change.” She made a deprecating gesture with her hand. “You have not met my son.”

“I have not.
Buon giorno
, young man,” he said, sounding as awkward as he felt.

“My son is five years old in September.” Isabella gave him a significant look.

He met her eye squarely. “My felicitations to you both. His father must be very proud of such a son. But I regret to say I’m in a very great hurry. Perhaps another time?”

She laid her hand on his arm. “Ah, Wallingford, you are always so cold. Have you no kind word for me? You, who have make me suffer so.”

Her dark eyebrows came together in genuine longing. Had he really caused her to suffer? He had left rather abruptly, of course, but such affairs always ended abruptly. Had he inspired genuine affection in her? He hadn’t tried to, hadn’t wanted to.

Wallingford glanced down at the boy, who was looking up at him with shy curiosity, his hair as dark as Wallingford’s own. But this was not his son; he knew that. He had taken the greatest care, after all; and by his own careful calculations, this child had been conceived at least a month after their short liaison.

“I’m sorry for your suffering,” he said softly. “I never meant to cause you pain.”

“Wretch. But is all forgiven, to see you now. You are staying in Siena?”

“Yes, and in fact . . .”

“You must have the dinner with me, this minute! I am all alone here. My friends, we came here for the Palio, and I have stayed on for a matter or two of business. My husband the marchese, he died a year ago, and there are still the papers and the business.” She waved her hand. “You must dine with me.”

“I cannot,” he said. “I have urgent matters of my own, I’m afraid.”

“Ah! A lady, perhaps? But she is not more beautiful than me, yes?” Isabella looked up at him through her magnificent eyelashes, full of hope and something more, something lonely and almost desperate. “You tell her you have the engagement already.”

Wallingford felt the weight of the friar’s hand on his head, an echo of memory, and a wave of compassion washed over him. “Isabella, my dear, it won’t do. I . . .”

“Wallingford?”

Abigail’s voice floated across the steps.

He jerked around, and there she was, her white dress almost invisible against the pale marble. She hurried toward him, one hand clasped firmly on her hat, the other holding her skirts from her eager legs. A few strands of hair escaped from beneath her hat brim, and Wallingford wanted to fall on his knees and hold them to his lips.

“There you are!” He held out his arms.

“Where have
you
been, for heaven’s sake?” She put her hands in his, and he kissed each one, pressing hard with the force of his relief.

“I was in the cathedral, keeping cool, and I . . . I don’t know, I expect I fell asleep, though I don’t know how. I am so sorry. Thank God you’re all right.”

“I’m quite all right. I’ve been turning the city inside out for you. We must hurry, Wallingford!”

“Wallingford,
mio caro
.” Isabella’s voice appeared at his shoulder. “You are not introducing me to your little friend?”

Christ.

Without relinquishing Abigail’s hands, he said, “How unforgivable of me. Abigail, my dear, I give you the Marchesa Attavanti, late of Venice. Signora Marchesa, I have the very great honor”—he turned slightly toward her—“to present to you Miss Abigail Harewood, my affianced bride.”

“
La vostra fidanzata!
” Isabella’s voice was shocked and brittle. “Is a great surprise you give me, Wallingford.”

“I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Signora Marchesa,” said Abigail. Her cheekbones were tinged with pink, but her eyes were sincere and steady. Wallingford could sense the energy strumming through her body: hurry, or agitation? He gripped her hands firmly.

“Tell me, when is the happy day?” asked Isabella.

“Why, today, as it happens,” said Abigail.

“Today!” said Isabella.

“Today?” said Wallingford.

Abigail smiled at Wallingford. “Isn’t it lovely? That’s why I came to fetch you, darling. They’re preparing the ceremony right now.” She glanced at the lowering sun. “We must hurry, I’m afraid. The moon will be rising any minute.”

The steps of the cathedral gave way beneath Wallingford’s feet. He wavered, planted his left shoe desperately on the step below, and for a horrifying instant it seemed the only thing holding him up was the steely grip of Abigail’s hands.

“Moonrise,” he said, rallying. “Of course.”

“Moonrise,” Isabella echoed. Her face was ashen. “Is so romantic.”

“Wallingford is such a dear romantic soul,” said Abigail. “All flowers and champagne and that sort of thing, aren’t you, darling?”

He released one hand and kissed the other. Was her hand shaking, or his? “The more the merrier.”

Abigail smiled at Isabella. “Isn’t he a dear? But we must be off, I’m afraid. The moon waits for no man.”

“Is true,” said Isabella. “I wish you much happy. Good day to you, signorina, and to you, Your Grace. I hope one day to see you again, with much love and many child.”

She gripped her son’s hand and lowered her veil, and walked away with her chin tilted toward the pale lengthening sky.

*   *   *

T
he sun had fallen fully behind the surrounding buildings, and the black eyes were almost invisible inside the iron grille.

“It is Signorina Abigail,” she said. “I have returned.”

The door swung open. “This man, he is much trouble,” grumbled the nun.

“I quite agree, Suor Giovanna, but I’m afraid he’s all I have. You are so kind to allow him in.” Abigail stepped through the doorway, pulling Wallingford along behind. His limbs seemed curiously heavy, almost unwilling. She hoped it was only the shock, and not some reluctance insinuated in his heart by the lovely flashing eyes of the Marchesa Attavanti.

“Fifty years I have lived inside the walls, and there is no man. Is only for the Suor Leonora, may God bless her days.” Suor Giovanna turned to Wallingford. “You! The eyes are to close.”

“Close my eyes?” asked Wallingford, incredulous.

“
Si
. And the head is to think holy things, signore. Eyes close, head holy. You understand?”

“I understand,” Wallingford said humbly. He closed his eyes. “Quite holy.”

Abigail took his hand. “I’ll lead you. But do hurry.”

“It’s rather difficult to hurry when one’s eyes are closed,” he complained, but he followed her along as they raced down the corridors, with hardly a misstep. Abigail’s heart beat with unnatural speed, as it had since she had spotted him on the steps of the cathedral, engaged in deep conversation with the shapely woman in black and her little dark-haired son.

Two hours ago, she had emerged from the convent in a haze of love and hope, expecting Wallingford’s arms to lie open and waiting outside the door. Instead, there was only the empty cab, and the driver who said that the signore had walked off some time ago, and promised to be back in an hour.

She had waited and waited, panic growing in her heart, and at last she had set off looking for him in the cab. She had gone to the hotel in the Piazza del Campo, where they hadn’t seen him; she had gone back to the convent; she had begun to search the streets, one by one. Perhaps he had gotten lost; perhaps he had been waylaid for his gold cuff links and the folded lire notes in his inside jacket pocket. Wallingford hurt, Wallingford kidnapped, Wallingford dead: All these possibilities had struck her, one by one, each more horrifying than the last. And all the while, the sun had dropped in the sky, in the full blinding glare of the approaching sunset, while the Signorina Monteverdi waited patiently for them in her little garden with the lemon tree.

At last Abigail had seen him, his head bowed solicitously to the woman in black, whose hand lay on his arm in a gesture of unmistakable intimacy. Her body had gone limp with relief, and then charged instantly with a burst of emotion. Anger, jealousy, helplessness: She had concealed them all as she stood there, exchanging greetings. She had done her best to sound exactly like Abigail, to inform Wallingford of their approaching nuptials with the same careless glee as she had informed him of their approaching first kiss.

He and the marchesa had been lovers, once. There was no doubt of that.

Abigail turned the corner of the convent hallways, and the door to the garden lay open ahead, flooded with dying light. She stopped, so abruptly that Wallingford crashed into her.

“I beg your pardon,” he said.

“Wallingford, open your eyes.”

“I can’t. That terrifying nun will thrash me, I’m sure.”

Abigail took both his hands in hers. “Open them. Look at me.”

His eyes opened, black and opaque in the dim corridor. “What is it? What’s going on?”

“Wallingford, if you don’t want to do this, if you have any doubt at all, you must tell me.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Doubts, Abigail? Are you mad?”

“I saw you on the steps with the marchesa. You were lovers, once; don’t deny it. Is that your son?”

“Good God! Of course not. Not a chance of it, I promise you solemnly.”

“But you were lovers.”

He paused. “Yes. Many years ago.”

His hands felt hot in hers, like coals. “Wallingford, you must be certain. You must be absolutely certain. The Signorina Monteverdi waits in there, and if you don’t love me truly, if you can’t pledge yourself in sacred vows—
sacred
, Wallingford—then there’s no point at all.”

Wallingford drew one hand from hers and cupped her cheek. “Abigail, the question is not whether I’m certain. Of course I am. I’ve known for months I wanted you for my wife. The question, my love, is whether
you’re
certain.”