Devil's Palace (16 page)

Her green-gold eyes held her reflection in the mirror. Was this really her, Charlotte Grainger? Was she really about to take as a lover a man who had barely bestowed one kind word on her? A man who had mocked her with his eyes? Gained amusement at her expense; humiliated her? Where was the Charlotte Grainger of a week ago? Was she really no better than the cocottes of the casino? Than Louise de Remy and her host of jewelled, perfumed friends? She did not know. She knew only that she had fought against her desire for him with every fibre of her being and that she had lost the battle. The Charlotte Grainger who had arrived in Monte Carlo six months ago had died with the Princess. Another Charlotte faced her in the mirror. A girl willing to risk everything to know fleeting happiness with a man who would possess her heart until it ceased to beat.

She crossed the room and climbed into bed. The sheets were cool to her fevered body, the room a warm glow in the soft light. Five minutes passed and then there came the sound of footsteps outside her door. She closed her eyes tightly, hardly daring to breathe as the door opened and he stepped into the room. He was walking towards the bed. She could sense his presence, smell the faint aroma of cologne. His shadow fell across her and she dug her nails deep into her palms and forced her eyelids open.

He stood looking down at her, his jacket discarded, his lace-frilled evening shirt slashed open at the throat revealing crisply curling dark hair. He seemed suddenly taller, more broad-shouldered than ever. She could see the ripple of strong muscles beneath the soft linen of his shirt, and was burningly aware of the leanness of his hips and the sleek fit of his trousers.

She lifted her eyes to his, her cheeks flaming at the indecency of her thoughts. The candlelight cast flickering shadows across the harsh planes of his face. His eyes were impenetrable. Dark lakes in which she could read nothing. The terrified excitement that had held her enthralled reached crescendo pitch. She longed for his touch. For the heat of his body next to hers. A small pulse began to beat wildly at her throat. He was frowning slightly, turning away from her. Was he about to leave her?

She gave a little inarticulate cry and stretched her hand out, restraining him. He halted, staring down at the trembling hand that covered his own. A muscle twitched at the side of his jaw and then he groaned, grasping her hand tightly in his, staring down at her with an expression that rocked her heart.

So he had looked when he bathed her cheek, when he had comforted her after Princess Natalya's death. So he looked at her now as with the utmost delicacy his finger softly traced the line of her forehead, down her nose to her mouth.

Charlotte gasped, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, kissed the fingertip that rested on her lips. Time hung suspended. She felt as if she were drowning in the depths of his eyes and then he was on the bed beside her and she was in his arms, her lips parting willingly beneath the fierce onslaught of his. Delight engulfed her as his strong hands moved down her body, caressing her throat, her shoulders, releasing her breasts from their light covering of silk.

She gave a soft, yielding moan and her fingers clutched convulsively at the thickness of his curls as with the gentleness of absolute love his head moved down, kissing the hollow of her throat, the rose-pink nipples held captive in his hands. She arched her body against the hardness of his, the love she felt for him flooding through her so that it seemed as if she would be consumed by it.

‘Charlotte … Charlotte …' His voice was naked with desire and longing as the weight of his body imprisoned her beneath him.

He had come into the room only to assure himself that she was no longer distressed. The sight of her gold-red hair cascading over the pillow in thick, undulating waves and the tantalising outline of her slender body beneath the silken sheets had held him enthralled. He had been capable of no other movement than to go forward. Standing by the bed, looking down at her, he had been stunned by her beauty, by the intensity of the emotions she awoke in him. Nevertheless, he had been determined to do nothing other than wish her goodnight. Until her hand had covered his with the light touch of a butterfly and his iron self-control had melted as if in a furnace.

His mouth was once more upon hers, the fever possessing him rising higher and hotter and then he heard her cry out, not in pain but in capitulation, and he halted, struggling for control. To possess her now would be madness. Their whole future would be tarnished by the knowledge that he had brought her to Beausoleil against her will.

Was that why she was responding to him with such sweet abandon? Because his behaviour had led her to believe that she had no choice?

Exercising almost superhuman control he hauled himself away from her, his eyes burning like live coals.

‘Goodnight,' his voice was a harsh rasp over the beating of his heart. He could not see the bewilderment on her face for the red haze that clouded his vision. He had to be free of her. To stay a moment longer would be to succumb utterly.

With the blood pounding in his ears his hand wrenched at the smoked-glass knob of the door. For a terrible second he hesitated and then the door rocked on its hinges as he slammed it shut and strode, dark-visaged, down the corridor.

Charlotte knelt in the centre of the rumpled bed, her hair cascading around her shoulders, staring after him in disbelief. ‘Sandor …' It was a tremulous plea that carried no further than the room.

She remained in motionless disarray and then the enormity of what had taken place overcame her. Shame descended like a tidal wave. She had behaved like a trollop. A
putain.
What would he think of her? How would she ever summon the courage to face him again?

Desolation swept over her and her cheeks were still wet with tears as the night sky imperceptibly lightened to presage dawn.

Downstairs Sandor sat in a high-winged leather chair and stared unseeingly into the flames of a log fire. Not until tomorrow would he know if she had responded to him out of love or fear, or if her response had been nothing but a figment of his fevered imagination, brought about by his overpowering desire for her.

And if it had? He passed a hand across his eyes. He would tell her that Lady Beston was desirous of having her as a companion. That no further amorous advances would be made to her under Beausoleil's roof. To kiss her again would be madness.

He swirled the brandy around in the glass and drank deeply. If she did not want him the sooner she left for England with Zara the better. She had destroyed his desire for all other female companionship, even that of Sarah. Wearily he rose to his feet and made his way to his vast, opulent and lonely room. It occurred to him that he had walked out of the casino leaving a fortune on the card table. No doubt François would have safely retrieved it. He was uncaring. He cared only for Charlotte. Restlessly he threw himself on his bed, tossing and turning, longing for the dawn, yet dreading it in case it brought disillusionment in its wake.

The next morning Charlotte awoke in a sunlit room, wondering where she was. Then memory came flooding back and her cheeks scorched. In nervous haste she sprang from the bed and dressed herself with trembling fingers. As she was pinning her hair there was a knock at the door and Jeanne entered with a tray bearing a cup of hot chocolate.

‘Oh, I am sorry Mademoiselle. I had not expected you to rise so early. You should have rung for me …'

‘It is all right, Jeanne,' Charlotte struggled to keep her voice steady, ‘ I am accustomed to dressing myself.'

‘But Count Karolyi expressly wished that I …'

At the sound of his name Charlotte felt a pain like that of a knife between her shoulder blades.

‘Where is Count Karolyi?' she asked stiffly.

There was a curious throb in the voice of the gentle-faced English girl. Jeanne was confused. What had master done to enrage her so?

‘He is in the breakfast-room, Mademoiselle. He …'

‘Thank you, Jeanne.'

Forcing herself to move, she walked swiftly past the startled maid and along the corridor. She had disgraced herself once but she would not do so again. Her heart hammered painfully as she descended the stairs.

A footman hurried forward and she said with all the dignity she could summon, ‘ Count Karolyi, if you please.'

‘Yes, Mademoiselle. This way, Mademoiselle.'

Charlotte followed him, her head high, determined not to stay a second longer than was necessary beneath Count Karolyi's roof.

Charlotte entered the room bravely, but the sight of him sitting in careless negligence almost robbed her of her good intentions.

He had obviously been riding. He was wearing a Russian-styled high-necked silk shirt that emphasised the Slavic lines of his face, and his riding breeches were tucked into glossy black knee-high boots. A whip had been tossed carelessly onto a nearby chair and he was at breakfast. He was cutting himself a slice of cheese and he paused as she entered, balancing the cheese on the edge of his knife. She stared at the sharp blade, noticing how long his fingers were, how well shaped.

She clenched her nails into her palm. She must not think of his hands, his body. She had to forget her madness of the previous evening and make quite sure that he did not believe she had been acquiescent and willing.

‘Count Karolyi, I insist on an apology for your behaviour last night.' Her voice was trembling. What if he cruelly pointed out to her that it had been her own hand that had detained him? She held on to the back of a chair for support as their eyes held and Sandor's brows drew together in a deep frown. The desperate hope that he had nursed throughout the night died. She had not come to him this morning with eyes shining with love. He could not clasp her in his arms and kiss her and tell her that he loved her more than he had ever dreamed he could love anyone or anything in the world. She had come to him demanding an apology. Any willingness on her part the previous night had been occasioned only by fear. With great difficulty he controlled his voice.

‘Please be seated,' he said, rising from the table, and pulling back a gilt and monogrammed chair.

‘No. I demand an apology. I …' She dared not look at him for the shame she felt. Surely he knew how willing she had been? How eager?

Sandor dismissed the footman and maid and fought the disappointment that was crushing him. His dream had been fragile enough and he had been a fool to think that it could withstand the light of day.

‘Please be seated,' he repeated, cold with terror at the thought that she might leave Beausoleil, that he might lose her forever.

Hating herself for her weakness, Charlotte obediently sat.

‘You appear to be distressed.' He was pouring a cup of coffee for her.

‘Distressed?' Charlotte stared at him incredulously. ‘Distressed? You barter for me as if in a funfair, take … take, indecent advantage of me and then accuse me of being distressed?'

‘Excuse me,' he said, the underlying throb in his voice barely controlled. ‘ But
I
did not barter. The bartering, if that is the correct word, was made by your escort.'

Sparks flared in her eyes. ‘You were party to my humiliation!'

Their eyes met across the breakfast table. She knew that he knew of the hideous little supper room, of the champagne, the divan. She fought to hold on to her anger but was aware of nothing but his nearness.

‘Nevertheless, I demand an apology.' Her voice was low and he knew that it was not the cards and spectators and the bright lights of the Devil's Palace that she was referring to.

Time spun out in a long moment, and then he said, his voice rich and dark, ‘I give it, Charlotte. Freely.' A bitter smile twisted his mouth. ‘Perhaps you would listen to one or two suggestions I have for your future safety.'

Her safety? What did Sandor Karolyi care for her safety? Mistrustfully she stared at him.

‘If you will consent to stay at Beausoleil for the next few days I can promise you a safe and escorted return to England.'

Her eyes widened in disbelief. ‘As your mistress?' she flared indignantly. ‘I could have returned as such with the Comte de Valmy!'

His hand shot out, lean and strong, encircling her wrist. ‘Not as a mistress, Charlotte.'

The warmth of his touch spread through her. She could not move. She could think of nothing but the feel of his flesh against hers.

‘A friend of mine, Lady Beston, is arriving in Monte Carlo within days. She is in need of a companion and I know that you will suit her admirably.'

She fought to think clearly, to take in what he was saying. His eyes were fiercely intent, unmistakably sincere.

‘And until Lady Beston arrives? What will be required of me?' she asked tremulously.

‘Not what you fear.' She did not hear the bitterness in his voice. ‘There will be no repetition of last night. I shall require your company when I visit the casino. When I visit friends. That is all.'

He did not want her. She had known so all along. Last night had been a mere diversion for him. Her throat felt so tight it made speech almost impossible. ‘For me to do so would be to cause speculation,' she said with difficulty. ‘It would be believed that I was your … that I was your …' She could not say the word. ‘Lady Beston would not want a young woman with a marred reputation as a companion.'

He said with a crooked smile, ‘Have no fears on that score, Charlotte. Your reputation in Monte Carlo is already tarnished. I shall assure Lady Beston that it is so undeservedly. You will find Lady Beston both kind and understanding.'

The table was so small, they were sitting so close to one another, that she could see the tiny flecks of gold near the pupils of his dark eyes. He did not want her for a mistress. He was merely being kind, as he said Lady Beston was kind. She faced him, knowing that she was incapable of walking away from him. That as long as there was the slightest excuse of staying with him, she would stay.