Devil's Palace (6 page)

Her hands pushed purposefully against his chest. His lips claimed and demanded, searing hers, hot and sweet.

She twisted her head but there was no escape. His hands burned through the silk of her gown. Heat surged through her body as if she were in the grip of a fever. His mouth parted hers and she could summon no resistance. Weakness flooded through her and she swayed helplessly against him, held upright only by the strength of his arms.

His kiss had lost its savagery. It was long and slow and expert, shocking in its effect on her. Her hands no longer pushed against him in protest. Instead her fingers opened and closed helplessly and then clutched despairingly at his shoulders, sliding upwards of their own volition to the warmth of his neck as her senses reeled.

For a lifetime his mouth held hers captive and then very gently he released her, looking down at her with a strange expression in his devil-dark eyes.

‘Charlotte …' His voice was unsteady, scarcely recognisable. She was panting for breath, suffused with shame, her emotions in turmoil. She struggled to speak and when she did so the words were ragged and thick with suppressed tears.

‘You … are … despicable.'

Falteringly she backed away from him.

‘Charlotte, please …' The harsh planes of his face looked almost Arabic in the moonlight.

Her voice rose, edged with hysteria. ‘Don't touch me … don't ever touch me again!'

His nearness, his masculinity, were overpowering. She had to move, had to be free of his presence. His hand reached out for her and she struck it blindly away.

‘You are hateful! Detestable! I never want to set eyes on you again!'

Her hand rose again, slapping him full across the face and then the tears that had been held back for so long scalded her cheeks as she whirled away from him, running along the terrace and up the steps, as if the Furies themselves were at her heels.

He didn't move. His face had hardened into an impenetrable mask. As she disappeared from sight he cursed softly and then, his eyes bleak, followed slowly in her wake.

She paused at the entrance of the Salle Mauresque, struggling to regulate her breathing. Charlotte. He had called her Charlotte. And he had behaved infamously. She pressed her hands against her scalding cheeks. She was trembling violently, her heart racing. Captured in his arms she had felt no revulsion, only a wild, fleeting joy. She had wanted to remain there, to hear the thud of his heart against hers; to feel the strength of his body; the heat of his hands. The blood surged through her veins in a hot tide. She was shameless; little better than the Parisienne who flaunted herself on the grand duke's arm. She took a deep; shuddering breath and stepped once more into the laughter-filled room.

The Princess eyed her curiously. Unless she was very much mistaken, Charlotte's cheeks were unduly flushed and there was a suspicious glitter of unshed tears in her eyes. She felt suddenly tired. Perhaps she had been unwise in allowing Charlotte permission to accompany Justin de Valmy. Certainly a proposal of marriage would not be forthcoming from such a venture. De Valmy was not a young man who would be so rash as to align himself to a girl of no social status.

‘I shall be enchanted to join you for supper tomorrow evening, Mademoiselle Bernhardt,' she said as she prepared to depart.

Sarah's almond-shaped eyes danced. ‘I have much to show you, Princess Natalya. My paintings, my sculptures, my animals. They travel everywhere with me.' In a graceful, fluid movement she rose to her feet and kissed the Princess goodbye. ‘Will you be brave enough to play with my pet cheetah tomorrow, Charlotte? He is as brave and beautiful as yourself. Naughty Monsieur Bertora will not allow me to bring him into the casino. Yet my cheetah is not so wild as some who pass through his door!'

Despite her anguish, Charlotte laughed. Sarah's blatant joy of life was infectious.

‘That is better,' Sarah chided. ‘You were made to smile and laugh, my dear Charlotte, not to look so inexplicably sad.'

Her acolytes surrounded her, eager to gain attention. Sarah ignored them and announced her desire to bathe in the sea.

The Princess walked without her usual sprightliness through the gilded rooms. ‘I feel unusually fatigued,' she said as she entered her coach.

‘You won splendidly.'

A hint of Princess Yakovleva's zest returned. ‘I did, didn't I? I told you today was a lucky day for me.'

Charlotte remained silent. It had not been lucky for herself. It had been momentous; traumatic; nearly tragic. But it had not been lucky.

Twelve hours ago she had been unaware of Count Sandor Karolyi's existence. Her lips burned with the memory of his kiss. It had been the first she had ever received. Were all kisses so inflaming to the senses? She thought of the Comte, dashing and appraising. Her pulse remained steady. Her heart did not beat in long, thick strokes as it did when her thoughts dwelt on the handsome Hungarian. If Justin de Valmy kissed her, would she feel the same, shameless response? It was a question that would go unanswered because she had no intention of permitting such liberties. She had every intention of pleading a headache and not accompanying him at all.

The carriage swept through the stone, lion-flanked gateway and Maria, the Princess's maid, hastened from the lamplit villa to divest the Princess of her sable wrap and to assist her to bed. Charlotte walked slowly to her own room.

Dawn was already tingeing the sky a dull gold. She removed her dress and took the camellia from her hair. If it had not been for Sandor Karolyi's presence, the evening would have been the most memorable of her life. For one heady moment every eye had been turned in her direction.

Her nightdress was cool as she slipped it over her head. And if it had not been for Sandor Karolyi she would not have been alive to experience it. In that, at least, he had spoken the truth. She lay on the bed, vivid images burning against her closed lids.

Sandor Karolyi gazing down at her with an unfathomable expression in his eyes as she lay semi-conscious on the sofa in the Hotel de Paris; Sandor Karolyi regarding her discomfort with amusement as the Princess chastised her for looking like a peasant girl. The coldness of his expression in the casino when the Comte de Valmy had treated her as a social equal. The hard glitter of his eyes as he had faced her on the terrace. She closed her mind against further memories, unable to endure them. She would think of Sarah instead. Sarah; so magical and full of life. She wondered if Sarah had been teasing about the cheetah or if it were true.

Sleep edged nearer and nearer but her last thought was not of Sarah but of Sandor Karolyi and the strange note in his voice as he had called her name and she had run, leaving him alone on the darkened terrace.

The next morning Charlotte woke with a sense of disquiet. She lay for a few moments, gazing at the sun-bright ceiling. The Comte was calling for her at eleven. The little French maid who did tasks too menial for Maria, came in with a cup of morning chocolate. She sipped it, wondering yet again why the Princess had countenanced such an expedition. She achieved no answer. The Comte had made his request, been accepted, and now she had no alternative but to make herself ready for his arrival.

The Princess was still asleep and would be until long after the Comte had called for her. Reluctantly she dressed in a gown of watered green silk that emphasised the colour of her eyes. The neckline was demurely high, small pearl buttons running from the base of her throat to her tiny waist. Her nonsense of a hat, with a wisp of veiling and a feather was perched on the top of her abundantly waving hair, the ringlets tamed into a smooth, upsweeping chignon. White net gloves covered her hands. Her parasol was edged with lace. She gazed at herself in the mirror and knew that anyone seeing her would assume her to be a lady of quality. A slight smile curved her lips. If the Comte de Valmy had seen her before she had entered the Princess's employ, he would certainly not have asked for her company. The memory of serviceable dimity gowns in lack-lustre colours made her run her fingers appreciatively over the fullness of her silk skirts. The Princess had been kinder to her than anyone save for her beloved parents.

The sound of hoofs and the rattle of a landau permeated her thoughts. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her parasol. He had come. Never in her life had she driven alone with a gentleman. What was she to say to him? What did he expect of her?

‘There is a gentleman for you,' Maria said, disapproval registering in her velvet brown eyes.

Panic seized Charlotte. The whole affair was improper. Cocottes rode alone with their gentleman friends. Married ladies, too, saw no reason to be accompanied by anyone other than a footman or a maid when indulging in a promenade or a carriage ride with gentlemen other than their husbands. But they were accustomed to the laxity of Monte Carlo society. Charlotte was not. She had been brought up quietly and with reserve. She enjoyed being a spectator to the dazzling, glamorous pageant surrounding her, but it had never occurred to her that she might be a participant. Her position had precluded any such aspirations: until last night.

A flare of anger sparked her eyes. She was only suffering thus because of Sandor Karolyi. If he had not goaded her, she would never have accepted the Comte's invitation. ‘Damnable man,' she said aloud, giving vent to her feelings in a way that would have shocked her father inexpressibly. Then, head high, she marched across the room to face Justin, Comte de Valmy.

If Justin had entertained any doubts as to the wisdom of escorting a paid companion in public, they vanished the moment Charlotte stepped towards him.

Her beauty was stunning and effortless, arousing his protective instincts as well as his admiration. Within hours, news of his morning's outing would have reached the Countess's ears, but he was uncaring. He would teach her that he was not a plaything to be taken up and discarded at will.

‘You look very beautiful,' he said, deep blue eyes holding hers unnervingly.

Charlotte blushed. She was unaccustomed to such attention and it was occurring to her that the eligible young man assisting her into the landau was doing more than flirting with her. It was almost as if he was embarking on a courtship.

‘Thank you,' she murmured, and lowered her eyes as the coachman flicked his whip and the horses began to trot out through the Villa Ondine's open gates and up and away from the casino and the villas huddling the Port.

‘Have you been long with Princess Yakovleva?' he asked, determined to do what so far he had only considered doing. He would make the sweet-faced English girl his mistress for the summer. She would accompany him to Paris and then to his château in Brittany. Unfortunately, from September, the liaison would have to be conducted more discreetly. In September he was to marry.

‘Six months.'

‘And are you happy in her employ?'

His ease of manner had relaxed her. ‘ Exceedingly,' she smiled, and the effect was like warm sunlight.

He was sitting opposite her, elegant in the uniform of an officer of the
Chasseurs à Cheval.
His jacket was of light blue, decorated lavishly with silver braid. His tight fitting trousers scarlet; his boots polished to mirrored brilliance.

‘But not so happy as you would be outside it.'

Her expression was one of puzzlement.

He laughed, reaching out and taking her hand.

Dismayed, she withdrew it hastily, noting that they were already a disturbing distance from the villa. The vine-clad hillside fell steeply to the sparkling blue of the Mediterranean, clouded in mimosa and the purple haze of jasmine.

He laughed, bewitched by the shyness he was about to overcome.

‘You must surely guess the reason for my seeking to speak to you in private, Charlotte.' His voice was caressing. Heat smouldered at the back of his eyes.

‘I am afraid that I gave it no thought, Monsieur,' she said in confusion.

Was he going to make a proposal of marriage to her? The idea was stupefying. They had only met the previous evening. He was wealthy and titled. It was beyond belief that such a man could have fallen instantly in love with her. Yet his eyes told her differently. They were warm and flattering.

‘Charlotte.' He reached once more for her hand and this time she did not withdraw it. ‘It cannot have escaped your attention that I am most deeply attracted to you …'

He
was
going to propose. Her heart began to beat light and fast.

He was young, no more than twenty-five, undeniably handsome with his sleek fair hair and startling blue eyes. She would be a Comtesse. She would no longer have to live in fear of the future. She would have a home of her own. Children. The prospect was intoxicating; impossible. She was not in love with the Comte. The touch of his hand sent no reverberations down her spine. The prospect of his kiss aroused no desire in her. Sadly she sought the words to refuse him without hurting his feelings.

‘I am leaving Monte Carlo within days for Paris. Come with me, Charlotte.' He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it fervently.

She stared at him. ‘I am afraid that I do not understand. I …'

As the landau rocked gently along the dusty track his arm circled her waist and he pressed feverish kisses on her neck.

‘You shall have everything your heart desires, my love …'

She shrank away from him, comprehension flooding her shocked eyes. ‘Are you asking that I … that I become your
cherie amour?'
she asked, the words strangling in her throat.

He laughed, the heat in his eyes hotter. ‘But of course. It will be a whole new world for you, Charlotte. You will have a maid of your own: Paris gowns, jewels …'

‘Tell the coachman to stop! Instantly!' She was shaking, overcome with mortification.

He did as he was bid, imagining she wanted to enter his arms and enjoy his embrace without the diverting motion of the carriage.