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Authors: Margaret Pemberton

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BOOK: Devil's Palace
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A deep inner warmth suffused her. His self-assurance was contagious. If Sandor said Prince Charles would be delighted with her company then she believed it.

‘Sadly Prince Charles is blind and the scent of flowers does not agree with him, so wear no posies or perfume on our visit.'

Charlotte was horrified. ‘But that is terrible! To be averse to flowers in Monte Carlo, where there are flowers everywhere!'

‘He spends very little time in Monte Carlo,' Sandor said, his voice softening at her concern for an elderly man she had not yet met. ‘He lives mainly in his mountain retreat. The Grimaldi Palace is generally inhabited only by his son, Prince Albert.'

Charlotte's tender heart ached for the afflicted ruler of Monaco. ‘How said to have such a beautiful home and be forced to spend so much time away from it.' She paused, thinking of the home Sandor so obviously loved. Of Valeni, deep in the Hungarian forests. It was a beautiful name. Was it a beautiful house? Was there a lake with swans floating serenely on dark-green water? Did geese fly overhead on their migration south? Were there horses to ride, sleek and sure-footed? And dogs waiting patiently for their master's return?

‘Tell me about Valeni,' she said shyly.

Sandor stared at her. He never spoke about Valeni with anyone but Zara but suddenly the temptation to confide in the quietly listening girl before him was almost more than he could bear.

He wanted to tell her of how Valeni meadows were thick with wild flowers in the spring. How wild boar made their home in the forest. He wanted to tell her of the beauty; the solitude; the peace that engulfed him whenever he was on Valeni land. And he wanted to tell her that he was legally entitled to none of it.

The breath caught in his throat. Only to the woman he married would he disclose that terrible truth. Only then would he share his burden. Yet still the urge persisted. He shook his head violently as if to clear it. He was going mad. The idea was preposterous.

Sea-green eyes met his, thick-lashed, honest and trusting. The loveliness of her face was breathtaking in its purity. Charlotte's love, once given, would not depend on her suitor's wealth or title. It would be unconditional. A constant strength: a haven and a refuge. And it would be given to a man other than himself—a man who had never taken advantage of her. Never shamed her.

His gold-flecked eyes hardened. For a pulsebeat of time he had thought the impossible was possible. Common sense reasserted itself. Monte Carlo was far behind them. They were passing orange and lemon groves. Between the trees Beausoleil's white walls gleamed vividly.

‘Valeni is my home,' he said, and shrugged his shoulders dismissively, his voice betraying none of his inner tumult.

Charlotte returned her attention to her clasped hands as the carriage bowled through Beausoleil's magnificent gateway. Had there been a rebuff in his voice? Had she offended him by her question?

The carriage halted. He alighted and held out his hand for her. She took it, acutely aware of the warmth of his grasp, of the sense of power under restraint emanating from his tall, broad-shouldered figure. All too soon his hand released hers and they were walking into Beausoleil. Georges greeted them at the door with a broad smile.

‘Lunch is served, sir.'

‘Thank you, Georges.'

Through an open doorway Charlotte could see a table laid with white napery, silver and cut glass. Lobster rested on a bed of salad. Champagne was chilling.

A maid relieved her of her gloves and parasol and she was aware that her new dress and long rope of pearls was being much admired by Beausoleil's staff.

She touched the pearls lovingly. They
were
beautiful. The most beautiful things she had ever worn. Her hand fell. She must not become too attached to them. When she left for England with Lady Beston the pearls would have to be left behind, along with the other finery Sandor had purchased for her. To be worn by … whom?

Her heart contracted. She must not allow thoughts of the future to spoil the present. Sandor was looking down at her curiously and she forced a smile. She would be happy every minute she was in his company. Desolation and despair could be indulged in later.

‘Are you troubled, Charlotte?' He was so near. She longed to rest her head on the snowy-white of his shirt front. To feel the strength of his arms around her. To raise her face for his kiss.

‘No,' she lied and prayed fervently that Lady Beston should be long delayed before arriving in Monte Carlo.

The French windows leading on to the terrace and gardens were open and a soft breeze filled the room.

‘Lemonade?' Sandor asked, sitting opposite her as he had at breakfast.

‘No.' Charlotte replied daringly, ‘ I would like some champagne please.'

Sandor grinned and as the champagne cork popped and Georges poured the bubbling liquid into their glasses, said,

‘And will you also gamble at the tables tonight?'

She was momentarily disconcerted, not knowing whether he was making fun of her or not. The dancing lights in his black eyes were reassuring. He was amused but not in any way at which she could take offence. Laughter suited him. His eyes crinkled pleasingly at the corners. His mouth was no longer a harsh, impatient line but a teasing curve.

‘I would
like
to,' she admitted.

White teeth flashed as he laughed delightedly. Outside the room Georges and Jeanne raised their eyebrows.

‘But I have no money of my own with which to gamble and it seems so wicked to gamble away that which is not mine.'

Sandor looked at her with unconcealed interest. ‘I find you intriguing, Charlotte. I know of no other young lady who would have the slightest qualm at gambling with that which is not hers.'

Charlotte smiled. ‘But they perhaps did not have a parson for a father.'

There was a curious edge to his voice, ‘You speak in the past tense. Is your father dead?'

Charlotte's eyes clouded. ‘Yes. He died two years ago.'

‘And your mother?'

‘She died shortly before my father. She was ill with a virulent sickness, and Papa nursed her, as he did many others in his parish.'

‘And you, in your turn, nursed him?'

‘Yes.' Her voice was little more than a whisper.

Sandor reached across the table and it seemed the most natural thing in the world that his strong, olive-toned hands should imprison hers.

‘And then?'

She shrugged her slender shoulders. ‘ I cared for the children of a parson in the neighbouring parish.'

‘And you were unhappy?'

Her smile was rueful. ‘I discovered that not all homes were as contented as my own had been. I couldn't bear living in a rectory that was cold and cheerless and without laughter. It made my memories all the more painful. So I left, intent on becoming a governess, and found myself companion to Princess Yakovleva.'

‘And in Monte Carlo, surrounded by dandies, roués, spendthrifts and the scions of great European families all recklessly gambling away their fortunes?'

‘Yes,' she agreed, and her smile once again held warmth.

Sandor regarded her musingly. She was like a flame. Some kind of inner light seemed to illuminate her. The lobster and salad remained untouched. Her hand remained imprisoned in his. She had no need to say how she had delighted in the gaiety and frivolity. He had seen her at Princess Yakovleva's side, watching the glittering throng around her with fascinated eyes; enjoying all that Monte Carlo had to offer and yet remaining totally uncorrupted by it.

‘I would like to see you play the tables,' he said, and the curve of his mouth was devilish. ‘Beginners bring luck. You might very well make me a fortune this evening, Charlotte.'

‘But I might also lose!'

He shrugged. ‘No one should gamble who cannot afford to lose.'

‘Tell me about gambling,' she said impulsively. ‘ My father said it brought only ruin but you gamble excessively and you are not a ruined man.'

At her candour Sandor threw back his head and laughed unroariously.

Georges and Jeanne, patiently waiting to enter with the dessert, stared at each other in amazement.

‘Your father,' Sandor said at last, still chuckling, ‘ was a most astute gentleman and perfectly correct. Gambling can become a compulsion and when it does, ruin usually follows.'

‘Then it is not a compulsion for you?'

‘No. For me gambling is a way of life.'

The familiar darkness touched his eyes fleetingly. A way of life, because there was nothing of greater worth to replace it. No wife to love. No sons to teach to hunt and fish. No daughters to take pride in. Daughters with copper-gold hair and sea-green eyes.

A small frown furrowed her brow as she regarded him, her head tilted slightly to one side. He tightened his hold of her hands and flashed her a devastating smile.

‘The first rule is to choose the game you have the most affinity for.'

‘Roulette,' Charlotte said unhesitatingly, surprising even herself.

‘Why roulette?' He was laughing at her again and this time she was laughing with him.

‘I do not know. I just enjoy the excitement of the spinning wheel and the click of the ball, and it does not require the skill of two-pack solitaire or baccarat.'

‘And so you will play roulette tonight?'

She was caught up on a tide of recklessness. ‘Yes.'

He grinned. ‘ Then this is what you must do. First of all, seat yourself at the table. Too many people stand in nervous anticipation and then lose money because they become tired. Seat yourself opposite the even chance, red or black, whichever you favour.'

‘But how do I know whether to favour the red or the black?' Charlotte asked in perplexity.

Sandor's grin widened. ‘That, my dear Charlotte, is a matter of great skill. If your hair is black, favour the black. If it is red …' His eyes rested on the halo of her hair. ‘Then perhaps it would be best to favour the red.'

Her eyes were full of soft light. He wanted to rise from the table, sweep her up in his arms and carry her to his room. He said,

‘Once at the table, make yourself comfortable. Take out a card and pencil the figures one to five down the page. Ignore the other players. You are playing to win and when you have won, you will stop. That is perhaps the greatest secret of all. Your first bet is the sum of the top and bottom numbers on your list. Five plus one. Six gold plaques. If you win you cross out the five and the one on your list and your next bet is the sum of the remaining top and bottom numbers of your column. Four plus two. Your following bets are always the sum of the top and bottom numbers you have
not
crossed out.'

Charlotte stared at him with mystification. ‘And will I win if I play as you say?'

His smile was lazy and teasing. ‘ If you are lucky. If you are
unlucky
you will not lose a great amount because you will stop as soon as all the numbers you have written down have been crossed out. If you win you will not lose your winnings because you will not play again. That is the only way to make a profit out of gambling. Iron self-discipline.'

She nodded her head, intrigued. ‘Yes. I see that this way the chances are greater than choosing a number because it happens to be the date of my birth.'

‘Then you are wiser than Sarah. She steadfastly refuses to follow any system at all and chooses her numbers at the table by sheer whim.'

Charlotte's smile was mischievous. ‘But she often wins. I have seen her.'

‘And loses, because she promptly gambles it all back again.'

‘That is true,' Charlotte admitted thoughtfully, remembering the times Sarah had called for champagne to celebrate her winnings, and then for more champagne to console herself in her losses.

‘Princess Yakovleva did not often play roulette. She preferred baccarat.'

‘As I do.' His voice was so tender that it startled her.

He could restrain himself no longer. Her eyes had a captivating slant. Her lips were vulnerably soft. Her presence filled his senses, sending the blood surging through his veins. The desire that laughter had kept at bay showed nakedly in his eyes.

Charlotte tried to hold on to reason and sense, and failed. Her heart seemed to rock within her breast. Slowly he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the tips of her fingers one by one, his eyes never leaving hers.

If she did not protest now she would be little better than Louise or Floretta Rozanko. She tried to speak and could not.

Not releasing her hands, he rose from the table and stepped to her side. She could smell his cologne. His tightly trousered legs brushed her skirt.

‘No …' she whispered, and then he drew her to her feet and she entered his arms like an arrow entering the gold.

The blood pounded in Sandor's ears. She was his. She would always be his.

Her response now was not occasioned by fear. Nor was it a figment of his imagination. He kissed her urgently, hungrily, until she lost her breath in the passion of his mouth. Then, with a groan, he swept her up in his arms and strode from the room like a man demented. He was halted in his tracks by Georges.

‘Prince Charles is expecting your arrival at the Grimaldi Palace at three-thirty, Count Karolyi,' Georges said, all too aware of Count Karolyi's intentions.

‘The Devil he is!'

Beyond Georges the staircase curved invitingly.

Georges stood his ground determinedly. He had been in Sandor's service for many years and was accustomed to the endless stream of actresses and society beauties that found their way, briefly, into the Count's bed. However, the English girl was different. She was not of loose virtue and she was not protected by a complacent husband. Sandor's brows drew together demonically and Georges quaked in his highly-polished shoes as he said through parched lips.

‘Miss Grainger will need to change her attire, and it is already after two o'clock.'

BOOK: Devil's Palace
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