A Prologue To Love (34 page)

Oh, not an interlude. There must be some permanent arrangement, satisfactory to both, but with no responsibility.

Lord Halnes, mused Cynthia. Wonderful man. A really wicked man. He would never be tedious. There was an excitement about him, even if he was English. He was also very, very rich, enormously rich. There was possibly a castle in England. Cynthia said as she sipped her brandy, “I never see an Englishman without remembering the frightening time when I was presented to Her Majesty.”

Montague was surprised. “Yes?” he said.

“I was an Esmond,” said Cynthia. “Of the very old Esmond family in Surrey. Of course we have been here at least a hundred years. My great-great-grandfather was a younger son. We are distantly related to Lord Baltimore.”

Montague was silent; he sipped his brandy also and mentally commented that it was extraordinarily fine brandy. But he was really considering the new gentle note in Cynthia’s voice — what an adorable voice! An American lady was distinctly different from an English lady. But this lady had been an Esmond. He knew the English Esmonds very well. Improvident, if charming. Mrs. Winslow was not only distractingly beautiful, she was intelligent and very subtle. This was somewhat unnerving. She had caught a hint of his thoughts. This would not be an easy matter. Montague became serious and put down his glass. He must have her, at almost any cost, except marriage, of course.

“Your niece, Miss Ames, is the daughter of your sister, I understand, Mrs. Winslow.”

Something had gone wrong, thought Cynthia, deeply vexed. She said, sighing, “Yes. My twin sister, my dear Ann. Isn’t it unfortunate that Caroline doesn’t resemble her? You have met Caroline, certainly.”

“Yes,” said Lord Halnes, feeling genuinely despondent. But there was nothing else for it. “You see, old Johnny was quite sympathetic to the idea of a marriage between me and Caroline.”

Cynthia was so jolted that she sat upright abruptly, spilling some of the brandy in her slender lap. Lord Halnes immediately sprang to his feet and, murmuring, used his handkerchief to mop up the liquid. His fingers and the back of his hand came into contact with the thin silk, and he felt the warm and velvety flesh under it. His head quite whirled; a hot thrill ran through him. “Oh, pardon me, pardon me,” he stammered.

Cynthia watched the trembling fingers with a faint smile of sudden satisfaction. The fingers were not anxious to leave her. She found a tiny fold or two of silk that needed attention. The handkerchief slowed, dragged, almost halted. Cynthia’s perfume filled the air as an early breeze quickened. She let her right arm lean briefly against Montague’s shoulder. His face was brilliantly scarlet now and considerably bloated, and there was a congested look about his nose. He sat down, panting a little. “So sorry,” he said.

“Really nothing,” murmured Cynthia. “So clumsy of me.” She paused and looked at him with delicate incredulity. “You were speaking of Caroline?”

“Yes,” said Lord Halnes reluctantly. He was having some difficulty with his breathing. Muttering an apology, he passed his handkerchief over his chubby face. Now that he was not smiling he looked again like a respectable upper clerk in a banking house. “It was Johnny, you know. He and I were very close friends; he thought the match very suitable.”

Cynthia sipped reflectively at her glass. This gave her an opportunity to display her captivating profile with the finely carved nose, the full rosy lower lip, the clear white brow. She let Montague dwell on that profile for a little. “I see,” she said. “But Caroline is hardly twenty-four. And American girls are quite immature compared with European young ladies. She is so inexperienced; I am her only close relative.” Cynthia sighed, and her breast stirred. “It is only natural that I should feel some responsibility for my sister’s daughter.”

“I understand,” said Montague. He refilled his glass with some agitation. Damn the beautiful devil; she was deliberately seducing him. Under other circumstances he would have been elated. This was a bad spot; he must get over it quickly so that more important matters could be tenderly explored. “In America,” he continued, “marriages are romantic. It is all love, isn’t it? But in England and on the Continent” — he did not like England to be considered part of Europe — “things are a little more sensible. Money and a good match are the thing, though it is not true for America.”

Cynthia laughed musically. “Perhaps not. But it is so in Boston. A man doesn’t expect, in Boston, to be lucky enough to get beauty and money together. In fact, an attractive face is somewhat of a drawback to a Bostonian and just a trifle suspect. And what more does a man need but money?” She turned a bland yet sparkling face upon Montague, and her eyes were innocent.

He could not look away. Cynthia smiled gently, showing her small white teeth; she nibbled her lower lip thoughtfully, and this distracted Montague to an inner frenzy. “Have you seen Caroline in Lyndon or Lyme?” she asked, having detected the frantic gleam in his eyes.

“No. Not yet. After all, she is a young lady, alone. I thought she might be here.”

“Oh dear, no. Caroline and I are not very good friends, I am afraid. It is not my fault, I assure you, Lord Halnes.”

“Please call me by my Christian name. Please.”

Cynthia raised her eyebrows.

“Montague,” he pleaded.

“Then you must call me Cynthia, now that you are almost a member of the family.” She tilted her head on her long neck and gave him a dazzling look.

“Cynthia,” he repeated. He was certain he had never heard a lovelier name. He was becoming fatuous, he thought. If he did not control himself he would find himself groveling like a clodhopper. He regarded Cynthia’s elegant hands; he remembered the satin touch of them.

“We were speaking of Caroline,” said Cynthia.

“Eh? Oh yes,” said Montague a little stupidly. “So we were. You have no objection to my — ”

“Becoming my nephew?” interrupted Cynthia, dimpling. “As I am forty-three, and you, I believe, are a little — a very little — older, the situation is amusing.”

“I can’t believe you are forty-three,” said Montague sincerely.

“How kind of you! Frankly, I am not yet forty-three. I was married very young. I was only eighteen when my son Timothy was born.” Again she turned a bland face on him. He did not doubt her word at all. His infatuation was increasing at an alarming rate. He had seen more beautiful women before; he had possessed more beautiful women. But he knew, as a judge of womankind, that Cynthia not only was pretty but possessed wit and brains. She was not only a lady but perfectly cultivated and sweet as honey. John Ames had been her lover, yet she exuded a kind of purity and tantalizing virginity. This is no woman of light virtue, thought the unhappy Montague.

“May I ask how Caroline regards your offer?” asked Cynthia seriously.

“I haven’t made it yet. But Johnny, poor Johnny, told me a day or two before he died that he would extend my offer to Caroline. I have reasons to believe that he did so.”

“Oh?” Cynthia’s tone was cool and abstracted, but she felt sick. How intolerable this was, how frightful. This man was not only wealthy and titled, but he was a man she understood; she was already helplessly attracted to him; when he had mopped the brandy from her clothing she had experienced the blissful response she had thought she would never know again. And Caroline — Caroline! — stood in the way. For the first time in her life Cynthia knew violent hatred. It caused her to flush, to become prettier, for her eyes flashed. Then she was sick and abandoned again, and only her training prevented her from bursting into tears. Anyone but Caroline, she thought, anyone but that dreadful, sullen lump of a girl who had insulted her so grossly. How cruel life was, how brutal, how disgusting. She had never thought this before, but the repellent aspects of life now overwhelmed her. I will go to New York! she vowed silently. I couldn’t stay here and see him with her — that dreadful, sullen lump of a girl. Lady Halnes — Caroline! It was only the money. Montague did not need that money, but when did a man of his kind not want more even if it were attached to a Caroline Ames? He needed it for wider power; the very quality in him which fascinated her was the quality that would prevent him from marrying a fortuneless widow.

“And?” she murmured, fighting the tightness in her throat.

He started. “And?” he repeated dully. “Oh yes. I must admit that Caroline did not seem entirely pleased. This is only a conjecture of mine, please forgive me. But when I saw her just a few hours before poor old Johnny died I was certain that her father had mentioned the matter to her.”

Cynthia became sharply interested. “Were you, indeed? I am deeply attached to Caroline; I am her aunt. I should like her to be happy. What was her response? This is all very subtle, it seems.”

“Not very,” said the dejected nobleman. He was very certain now that Cynthia would not be easy to capture; she might not be captured at all, under the circumstances. But that would be intolerable. He must not let himself think it. “Caroline, as you may know, isn’t subtle. She is silent, but very direct.” He paused. “I always felt that she detested me.”

Cynthia’s eyebrows rose in a splendid imitation of disbelief. “Surely you were mistaken!” she cried. “How could that be so — Montague? Even Caroline would know that you were offering her a great honor!”

He was delighted and as flattered as a schoolboy. He was lighthearted again. He smiled. “I don’t think Caroline considered it an honor. We haven’t exchanged any real conversations, you know. She is a trifle difficult to understand.”

“I do know,” said Cynthia sympathetically. She let her eyes become large and humid. “Poor child. She has had a most wretched life. I must tell you of it someday. It was all her father’s fault. I did my best, truly I did.”

“I am sure of that!” he exclaimed. He pulled his chair closer to her.

“I’m afraid that I wasn’t very successful. Ah well.” Cynthia let herself muse again. Then she held out her glass to be refilled once more. She laughed sweetly. “In a way, this is very amusing. You see, I am considering remarrying; a Boston gentleman. I have known him from childhood, and he is now a widower. You must really give me a little time! It would be absurd for you to marry Caroline before I marry, wouldn’t it? A little improper.” She fluttered her hands and gazed at him appealingly. “You will wait, won’t you, for at least a few months? It would be much better if it were at least a year from the time John died.” She was suddenly shocked; she had actually forgotten that she had loved John Ames. She turned quite pale. Montague felt a spasm of vicious jealousy. He thought that Cynthia had paled with remembered grief, that she mourned.

But what had she said? That she was going to be married. He said with actual rage, “You are marrying? But, as you have said, Cynthia, it would be proper to wait a year, wouldn’t it?”

She heard the anger and she saw the male fury and hostility on his plump face, the utter refusal to believe her, to tolerate this thing. Contentedly she eyed him with softness. Really, she thought, he may be a great man, a powerful man, an extremely brilliant man, but a woman of finesse can manipulate him as easily as if he were a miserable shopkeeper. As easily as if he had been John.

“You’ve forgotten,” she said gently. “I am not John’s widow. I am only his sister-in-law. It would not be in the least improper for me to marry in November.”

“In November!” he cried. “Impossible!”

“Impossible?” She pretended astonishment. “Why should that be? After all, I am almost forty-three. I am no schoolgirl.” She assumed hauteur and let her eyes show incredulity at his presumption, and a measure of outrage. “But we were speaking of Caroline,” she said coldly. “Not of me. I was wrong to confide my private affairs to one I have just met; please forgive me. You will see Caroline, of course, before you leave Boston?”

He did not answer her; in fact, he had hardly heard her. His undistinguished features appeared swollen, and he looked at her as if he hated her. She was attracted to him; he knew all the signs. She had led him up the garden path and then had coolly abandoned him. She was an elusive devil; she was after something. He wanted to pull her from her chair and kiss her roughly. He moistened his lips.

“No?” said Cynthia in a fragile tone.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered. Then, “I see. You were asking if I were going to see Caroline. That is why I came.” He fell morosely silent, his eyes still lustfully on her face.

“She refuses to come to this house,” said Cynthia, now very satisfied. “She will not see me. I believe she was a little jealous.”

“Why?” he asked bluntly.

“She thought I had some influence over her father.”

“Did you?” he asked more bluntly. He refused to dance any longer in a silly minuet. So she was raising her eyebrows again, was she, and becoming haughty? Be damned to her.

Cynthia smiled and showed her white teeth. She understood. She played with the long lace on her arm and looked at him frankly. “Caroline thought so. And perhaps I did. But not to her hurt, I assure you. You see, my sister and I were twins. John adored my dear Ann.”

He shifted restively on his chair. The heat had lessened in the garden, but his complexion was fiery. “Did he adore you also, Cynthia?”

“How dare you?” she exclaimed, really angry now.

“I adore you,” he said heavily. “And I’ve known you less than an hour. Please. Please, Cynthia. Listen to me. My God, I suppose I’ve been an insulting blackguard, and you are quite right to be outraged. If you wish, I’ll leave at once. I deserve to be dismissed.”

Cynthia was silent. But there was a rapid exultation rising in her. She kept her face cold and aloof, however. “It is unlike an Englishman to insult a lady,” she said finally. “But considering that you are going to marry Caroline, that you will be my nephew” — she let him think of that for an instant — “I feel constrained to forgive you.”

“Thank you,” he said gratefully, and Cynthia smiled in herself. “I don’t know what possessed me; it is not like me at all. What in heaven’s name did I say to you?”

Cynthia let herself show amusement. “You said you adored me. How kind. If I did not know you were an Englishman I should consider you a French gentleman.”

His color became even more fiery.

“I must tell Edgar,” said Cynthia. “Now that we are to be married I am afraid he is taking me a little for granted. After all, we were children together.” She paused and gazed at him with mischief. “I was a trifle hasty. I should really be flattered.”

“I don’t know what possessed me,” repeated Lord Halnes, feeling as if he had been rescued.

Long blue shadows slowly crept over Cynthia. It had been a long time since she had known happiness and bliss. She bathed in them luxuriously. Poor Montague. She had really been very naughty, she reflected. She had deliberately led him on to commit that appalling rudeness. Once a man became helplessly rude, a woman became the victor. Perhaps it would have been a little more tactical to wait for another occasion. But there was no time to be lost, no time for approaches and retreats. He was much more difficult than John.