Change of Heart (8 page)

Cecelia watched Gil go off with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. One of Liz’s guests was a former secretary of state whose influence and prestige were enormous. He wanted to talk to Gil, privately, or so the young man who had taken Gil away had said. She had seen the worried look Gil had thrown her and had sent him off with a determinedly serene smile, but she felt anything but serene as she surveyed the glittering crowd before her. Gil had introduced her to a number of people, but Cecelia could not see any of them at just that moment.

She felt utterly miserable. She longed to put down her champagne glass and just walk out the door. But of course she couldn’t do that. She had to stay and pretend she felt easy and happy and carefree. She was raising her glass to take another sip of champagne when she heard a voice call, “Cecelia!” She turned and saw a gray-haired woman dressed in blue coming toward her through the crowd. Cecelia broke into a delighted smile.

“Maisie! What a surprise to see you!”

“Nothing like as big a surprise as you gave us, honey. I couldn’t believe it when I read the papers. And how is your father?”

“He’s fine, Maisie. He’s been convalescing in Arizona, but he’ll be home on Tuesday.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” She frowned. “I hope his hunting days aren’t over?” Maisie Winter was charter member of the Ridgeview Hunt—which was where Cecelia knew her from. Maisie’s husband—a fact Cecelia had not known—was president of a New York bank.

“I hope not too,” Cecelia said fervently.

“So tell me now,” Maisie said curiously, “however did you come to marry Gil Archer?”

Cecelia grinned. “He asked me.”

Maisie broke into laughter. “I see.” She spotted someone across the room and raised the voice that could be heard across half a mile on the hunting field. “George! Here’s Cecelia!”

“My heavens.” A burly man with thinning red hair arrived to beam at her. “Cecelia, my dear, how lovely to see you. And how is Ricardo?” George was another member of Cecelia’s hunt. She had known him since she was nine.

The three of them were talking and laughing comfortably when they were joined by a tall, distinguished-looking man of about fifty-five. He was, Cecelia learned afterward, president of the largest brokerage house on Wall Street. He came over and took her hand, saying, “I know you, young lady, although you don’t know me. My daughter Nancy rode in the Maclay Cup finals in nineteen seventy-five, seventy-six, and seventy-seven. She was third once and second twice. A certain Cecelia Vargas was first all those times— unfortunately.”

Cecelia’s large eyes widened. “Are you Nancy Clark’s father?”

“I am,” he said.

Cecelia smiled. “How do you do?” she said. “How is Nancy? I thought she was going to ride for the USET?”

When Gil emerged almost an hour later from a very interesting conversation with the ex-secretary of state, he looked immediately for his wife. He located her after a minute in the middle of a large, animated group that included two bank presidents and their wives, two princes of Wall Street, and the Irish ambassador to the United States.

Liz Lewis was not enjoying herself. She had had no idea that several of her most distinguished guests had evidently known Cecelia from her childhood. Liz’s clever plan was going most sadly awry.

Gil was surprised to find his wife so evidently known as well, but for him the surprise was a pleasant one. He had always regarded Cecelia’s riding as essentially frivolous and occasionally a nuisance; he was consequently amazed to find her something of a celebrity among many of his peers. “This little gal took the Maclay Cup three years in a row,” Glen Clark said to him as Gil joined the group, shaking his head in mock disapproval. “Robbed my poor Nancy, she did.”

“What,” asked Gil simply, “is the Maclay Cup?”

A whole circle of shocked eyes stared at him. “It’s awarded at the National Horse Show to the best junior rider,” Cecelia said, her eyes dancing.

“Oh.” He looked at her. “And you won it three times?”

“Yes.” She evidently found his ignorance very funny.

“All the junior riders of America heaved a sigh of relief when Cecelia turned eighteen,” said Glen Clark. “Too bad Nancy wasn’t a year younger.”

“Too bad Cecelia couldn’t ride for the USET,” said Mark Evans. He was president of the United States Equestrian Team. “I understand from Roderick that Czar is marvelous,” he went on. “Are you going to be at Harrisburg this fall?”

Cecelia glanced at Gil. “I’m not sure,” she said. “But Roderick’s right, Czar is marvelous. He took two blues today.”

“Oh, were you at Ridge Haven today?” asked Mark. “How was ...” The conversation went enthusiastically on, with Gil listening in growing amazement. He had always thought of himself as a well-rounded person, but this was an area he did not know at all.

Gil and Cecelia were among the first guests to leave the party. At about one o’clock Cecelia began to feel very tired, although she gallantly tried not to show it. Gil had not been pleased when she got up at five o’clock this morning. She was talking to her hostess and Lord Ashbrook when Gil came over to stand behind her. He said a few things to Liz and the earl and then told Cecelia, “I’ve called a cab. It’s time you went home, baby.”

Cecelia tried not to look too pleased. “All right, Gil,” she said gently.

Liz raised an eyebrow. “My, Gil, but you’ve turned into an autocrat. I wonder Cecelia puts up with such high-handed treatment.”

“I’m used to it,” Cecelia said sweetly. “My father is Latin American.”

Gil grinned. “I’ve always wanted an obedient wife.”

“Well, you’ve certainly got a dashed lovely one,” said Lord Ashbrook with evident admiration. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Archer.”

“Thank you, my lord,” Cecelia murmured. She smiled at Liz. “It’s been a wonderful party, Mrs. Lewis. Thank you so much.” Cecelia did not like Liz and had persistently called her Mrs. Lewis all evening, to the barely concealed annoyance of the other woman.

“Liz,” she said now for the third time. “After all, Gil and I are quite old friends.”

“Really,” murmured Cecelia and was dismayed by the pang of jealousy that went through her. Liz Lewis was so elegant and sophisticated; her frosted hair was done so smartly; her conversation was so clever and witty. Gil had spent a good half hour talking to her earlier in the evening after he had drifted away from his wife’s little group. Cecelia was afraid he had found their relentlessly horsey conversation extremely boring.

She walked with him now out to the waiting taxi, sleepy and a little let down. No, she did not like Liz Lewis. As the cab pulled away from the hotel Gil said, “I didn’t mean to drag you away if you were enjoying yourself. I just thought you had had a long day and must be tired.”

“I was very happy to hear you say we were going.” She yawned. “I
am
tired.”

“My little equestrian.” He sounded amused. “And to think I was afraid you wouldn’t know anyone at that party.”

Her head drooped toward his shoulder and he put an arm around her. Gratefully she nestled against him. “I didn’t think I’d know anyone either,” she murmured. “Evidently half the Ridgeview Hunt are society big shots. Imagine.”

He chuckled and very briefly touched his cheek to her hair. “Imagine,” he said. By the time they reached East Seventieth Street she was asleep on his shoulder.

* * * *

From habit Cecelia awoke very early the following morning. She lay quietly for a minute, her eyes going around the unfamiliar room, remembering last night’s party. She sighed a little with pleasure as she realized she did not have to get up and was turning to snuggle back down under the covers when she felt Gil’s hand slide over her waist to her hip. Slowly she turned her head on the pillow until she was looking into his eyes.

They seemed startlingly light in his tanned face. “What are you doing awake this early?” she whispered.

“Waiting for you to wake up,” he answered. His face looked serious, intent. The underlying amusement it so often held was gone. His hand moved slowly back over her stomach and Cecelia knew he must have felt the flutter of arousal deep in her abdomen. “Cecelia,” he said. “You are so sweet.” He moved and one hard-muscled leg slid across hers. His lips found the warm valley between her breasts. “I love to make love to you,” he murmured.

Cecelia lay perfectly still under his touch. His fingers pushed her nightgown off her shoulders and his lips moved to the breast he had bared. The air conditioning in the apartment was cool but Cecelia felt the heat of his body, the urgent heat of male desire. His hands had moved up under her nightgown.

“Gil,” she whispered and her body arched up toward him. The pulse of passion was beginning to pound in her now and her hands went up to hold him. The strong muscles of his back rippled under her touch and he bent to kiss her neck. He caressed her and wooed her with the skill of his hands, the urgency of his kisses. After a few minutes she did not want, could not bear, him to wait any longer. Unbidden, her nails dug into his back. “Gil,” she said again, this time more urgently.

“Mmm?” he answered. “Do you need something?” His own voice sounded thicker than usual, but still he held back, teasing her with the caresses of his mouth and hands.

She thought, fleetingly, I wonder which one of us can hold out the longer? And then, instantly, but I don’t want to hold out. She circled his neck with her arms and pulled his head down to hers. “You,” she said against his mouth, “I need you.”

“Cecelia,” he said, “God.” His maddening hesitation lasted no longer. With an almost fierce grip he pulled her to him, filling her with the hot pulsing love she wanted so badly.

Cecelia closed her eyes and let him take her to the farthest peaks of passion—the room, the world, everything dropping away from her awareness. All that was left was the feel of Gil and the flooding, shuddering pleasure he gave to her. She struggled briefly to influence their motion, to please
him,
but he was relentless, and at the end, as they shared the transcendent moment of ecstatic union, she knew she would always surrender to him.

Afterward, tangled together, they fell back to sleep again, and Cecelia did not wake until much later in the morning. Gil was once again awake before she was, but this time he was sitting up against the pillows, the blankets pulled over his knees. He had a newspaper propped up and was reading intently.

He did not notice immediately that she was awake and she lay quietly for a moment watching him. His thick fair hair was rumpled and fell across his forehead like an untidy schoolboy’s. But the wide, strong shoulders, golden tan against the white sheets, belonged to a man, not a boy. He hadn’t shaved yet and his beard glistened like gold thread under his skin.

“Is the world still here?” she asked finally, pushing herself up on her own pillow.

He turned and looked at her, then he put the newspaper down. “Who cares?” he said and reached for her.

Cecelia came home from her weekend in New York radiant. They had decided to stay over Sunday night as well, and on Monday morning Gil took a cab to the magazine and Frank came in to drive Cecelia back to Connecticut. It had been a wonderful Sunday, just the two of them, a brief reprise of their honeymoon, and Cecelia hoped that it was a portent of more togetherness for them in the future. It certainly seemed as if Gil were interested in more of a family life.

“We’ve talked a lot about Jenny,” she had said to him over dinner at a small local restaurant Sunday evening, “but we’ve never talked about having other children. Would you like them?”

“Yes,” he had answered instantly. “I want more children.” He put down his butter knife and looked at her interrogatively. There was a small frown on his face. “I never thought to ask. Are you on the pill?”

“No,” she replied serenely. “I’m not on anything.”

The frown lifted and he reached out to touch her hand as it lay on the table holding her wineglass. “My lovely Cecelia,” he said softly. “We’ll make beautiful children together,”

It was wonderful how soft and warm and tender his voice could be. She loved him so much it hurt. “You’re certainly trying,” she said. He had laughed.

* * * *

Cecelia solved the problem of someone to do the early barn duty the day that she got home from New York. She and Jennifer had gone over to Hilltop Farm immediately after lunch and discovered that Lady, one of the most valuable school horses, had been lame since Saturday. The mare had come in from the field limping, Marie Rice told Cecelia. “The blacksmith was here, and I had him look at her,” she continued. “He couldn’t find a thing.” Cecelia put in a call to their vet, who said he’d be out later in the afternoon.

Lady had picked up a stone in her foot; it was lodged very deeply. The vet extracted it, and after he had finished Cecelia offered him a cup of coffee. He accepted with alacrity and they both went up to the Vargas house, Cecelia complaining the whole way that she shouldn’t have had to call him, that the blacksmith should have found the stone.

Dr. Curran listened to her complain with half an ear; his attention was not on her voice but on her face. She was, he thought painfully, even more beautiful than he remembered.

Tim Curran was twenty-six years old and had been the Hilltop Farm vet for less than a year. He had fallen crashingly in love with Cecelia almost immediately and had been dating her since last Christmas. He had been going very slowly with her, very carefully, not wanting to make a mistake. He had thought he was making progress when Gilbert Archer had suddenly arrived on the scene. This was the first time Tim had seen her since her marriage and his widely set blue eyes held a hungry look as he watched her fix the coffee.

“So how does it feel to be a married lady?” he asked with a casualness belied by the look in his eyes,

“Very nice,” replied Cecelia serenely. She had always tended to regard Tim as a friend rather than a lover and had no idea he had been so badly hurt by her marriage. “Except ...” she added, a tiny frown indenting her pure brow, “I need to find someone to come in mornings and feed the horses, Tim. Can you think of anyone reliable? Daddy should not be getting up that early and he should not be forking hay.”