Moonlight Masquerade (15 page)

Returning to the chair before the fire, he
sank into it gratefully, no longer furious with himself for his
exhaustion. His only anger was that he had waited this long to try
to regain the use of his arm. The signs had been there for a long
time, the physical evidence that his arm had not been rendered
totally useless by Fletcher’s muscle slashing whip, but he had not
wanted to acknowledge this silent forgiveness for his great
sin.

For nearly two months after his beating,
Vincent’s left arm had been made totally immobile —tied tightly
against his body in a sling to keep his wounds from reopening—even
on the day he was told that he had become the seventh Earl of
Hawkhurst.

When the sling and the bandages had finally
been removed, the arm was, in his bitterly uttered words, “fit only
to serve as a tolerable paperweight.” He had completely ignored his
doctor’s plea to try to restore the arm’s strength by means of
simple exercise, choosing instead to hide himself away at Hawk’s
Roost where he could wallow alone in his misery.

Looking back on those first terrible months,
the inactivity had served only to worsen his problem, he was sure
of that now. The muscles in his back, in his chest—muscles that had
once been honed to near perfection by his active, sports-filled
lifestyle—had paid the price of his perverted martyrdom, and they
were rebelling most boisterously now at even the most simple
commands.

Vincent reached over to pick up the brandy
snifter that stood on the table beside his chair and drained its
contents in one long gulp, then leaned back in his chair and
smiled. He couldn’t help it. He was proud of himself—proud of his
achievement.

Christine would be proud of him too if only
she could see him. He would perform his little party tricks for her
and she would jump up and down, clap her hands delightedly and
exclaim, “Oh, Vincent, how wonderful!” before racing over to throw
her arms about his neck and kiss him firmly on the mouth.

The smile slowly faded. “Christine,” he said
aloud, missing her more than even he—the man who had purposely sent
her away—had thought possible.

For more than four years he had cherished
his solitude, neither wanting nor needing company. He had found
some measure of peace. He had almost begun to believe he could look
at himself, look at his life, and not miss the old Vincent or the
life that had been before.

Now he was as frustrated as the lions he had
seen pacing their small cages at country fairs, his leashed energy
threatening to explode at any moment, the urge to roar and howl
nearly too compelling to be ignored. He refused to go outside, not
wanting to chance seeing Christine and thereby having to say
good-bye to her again. So, like the jungle cats, he prowled the
cage of his study hour after hour, day after day, free to roam only
as he slept, fitfully, his body never really at rest, his mind
never finding real peace.

He had thought and thought, rationalized and
agonized, as Lazarus hovered over him fretfully, begging him to
eat, to rest, to stop his constant demands on his injured body. At
last, he had come to a decision so startling, so cleansing, so
alien to all his thoughts of so many years, that he had fallen into
his chair and wept.

The past was the past! Yes, he had done
wrong. He had been younger then, full of himself and his grand
ideals and ideas of the world. His picture of life had been
distorted, a young man’s dream of perfection, colored perhaps by
his own physical appearance and his then seemingly charmed
life.

Arabella’s tragic death had shattered that
dream in an instant, and Fletcher’s devastating revenge had
stripped him of his fairy-tale life.

Strangely, his altered physical appearance
had also ceased to bother him. Christine hadn’t recoiled from him.
Oh yes, she had screamed that first night she’d seen him, but he
had managed to rationalize that occurrence away. She had been
riding along in a coach, on her way to London, only to suddenly
find herself awakening, injured, in a strange bed, with a strange
man hovering over her. Her frightened screams had been pure
reaction.

He didn’t like his scars, still thought them
ugly, still hadn’t garnered the courage to look at them, but he
could live with them if she could.

He had even stopped believing that they were
the outward sign of his shame. They were scars, nothing more,
nothing less, at least to him. The concealing cloaks he had favored
for so long had been put away, and he would not wear them
again.

The only thing he could not see himself ever
doing was making a return to London. That part of his life was
over.

But that didn’t mean that his entire life
was over! He had been to the brink—and possibly a bit beyond—but
now he was on his way back, to life, to sanity, to hope for the
future. Christine was bringing him back from the edge, whether she
was in his arms or out of his life forever. She didn’t know it, but
she had saved his life. If he never saw her again he would always
be grateful to her.

She was suffering, his darling girl. Lazarus
had taken special care to tell him that, and the knowledge pained
Vincent even as it cheered him. She loved him, or at least she
thought she did. Yet she knew little of life, hidden away at
Manderley with only that rather strange aunt to guide her.

Vincent had to stand back and let Christine
have her Season. He had to allow her a taste of life outside the
shadows, and pray that she wouldn’t forget him once she was in the
glittering world of London. He had to allow her to hear the story
of his disgrace, his heartbreak, from the people she would meet,
and to make her own decisions as to his guilt or innocence.

Only then could he invite her back to visit
him at Hawk’s Roost.

And he would go slowly with her even then.
He wouldn’t make the same mistakes he had made with Arabella,
forcing his love on her before she was ready to receive it.

His only worry was, even if she still loved
him, could he really ask her to live here with him, secluded
forever at Hawk’s Roost, away from Society, where his scars
wouldn’t be a constant source of whispers and reminders of his
past? For, as far as he had come, he had not come far enough to be
ready to face the London
ton
, even with a loving Christine
on his arm. It would bring it all back, when he was ready at last
to forget it. He couldn’t subject Christine to the scandal his
appearance would always provoke.

So, he would have to wait, and hope, and
believe that Christine truly loved him, and that her love would
bring her back to him.

“And when she comes, if she comes,” he said
aloud, watching as once more his left hand strained to close around
the white queen, “I shall hold her close in both my arms and never,
ever
let her go again.”

“C
ome, Christine,”
Aunt Nellis urged fretfully, heading for the front door, a red and
white striped bandbox banging against her hip as she walked, “we’ve
tarried long enough. The coachman Lazarus engaged for us in the
village told me he hopes to make Paddock Wood before nightfall, and
that’s twelve miles from here at the least. Thank heaven that other
man took his repaired coach and moved on yesterday. I would rather
walk to London than ride with him again!”

“Yes, Aunt,” Christine answered dutifully,
slowly making her way down the broad staircase, a similar bandbox
in her own hand. “You go on without me. I just want to say good-bye
to Cook, and then I’ll join you in the coach.”

“Say good-bye to the cook?” Aunt Nellis
asked, looking puzzled for a moment before biting her lip and
resignedly nodding her head. “Oh, yes, yes. The cook, of course. He
was very kind, wasn’t he? He has even packed some sandwiches for us
to eat on the way. Go along then, dear, but please don’t be long.
Who knows if this fine weather will hold.”

“Thank you, Aunt Nellis,” Christine said
gratefully, standing very straight on the bottom step, her chin
resolutely held high. The day she had dreaded had finally arrived,
without so much as a single word or nocturnal visit from Vincent.
Was he going to allow her to walk out of his life without even
saying good-bye? Was he actually planning to let their last,
horrible meeting be the memory she would take away with her?

“Well,” Christine said with conviction,
carelessly tossing aside the bandbox containing her aunt’s
second-best bonnet, “as I remember the saying, ‘it is a bad plan
that admits of no modification.’ There are times when it takes a
woman to do what must be done, and
this
is most definitely
one of those times!”

Letting go of the newel post she had been
clinging to as if it was the only support keeping her from tumbling
into a yawning abyss, Christine descended the final step and turned
toward the door to Vincent’s study. As she crossed the black and
white tiled foyer, her jean half boots kicking against her heavy
skirts, her pace increased until, without bothering to knock, she
flung open the study door so that it slammed loudly against the
inside wall and burst into the room.

“Vincent?
Vincent!
I’m going now,”
she announced baldly, her gaze avidly searching the room for some
sign of him. “I know you love me. Are you really fool enough to let
me go?”

“I’d be twice the fool to let you stay, imp.
You are fast destroying my property as well as my best intentions.
I have just come back from saying my farewells to your aunt in
hopes of finding you.”

He was here! Hawkhurst’s words had come from
behind her, and Christine whirled about, startled, to see him
standing in the doorway, smiling down at her. It was full daylight
and Vincent was standing bareheaded, his scars totally revealed. He
looked wonderful, devilishly handsome despite his imperfections,
and very much at his ease.

There was so much she wanted to say to him!
“Vincent! You—you’re not wearing your cloak,” she heard herself
saying stupidly.

“Yes, I had noticed that, especially once I
had stepped outside onto the drive. You’ll need your muff, I fear.
I have already entrusted it to your aunt. Now, good morning,
dearest girl,” he went on most congenially as she continued to
stare up at him, open-mouthed. “Oh, dear, what’s wrong? Have you
forgotten what you were going to say? I think it had something to
do with calling me a fool. There’s really no need. I know I am. Can
you ever forgive me for the terrible things I said the night you
came to my room?”

Christine’s heart skipped a beat as she
devoured him with her eyes. It was suddenly the most beautiful
morning the world had ever known. Oh, how she loved him, how she
had missed him. She slipped easily back into their banter, as if
that last evening had never happened.

“Of course I forgive you! But, for nearly
two weeks you have been avoiding me, only to appear as if conjured
up by a magician just as I am about to leave. Not only that—why are
you being so nice? I mean, to go to my aunt, to let her see you. I
don’t understand. It is totally out of character for a mysterious
recluse.”

“I can’t believe I have actually missed that
sharp tongue of yours.” Vincent took hold of her elbow, guiding her
further into the study. “Your aunt and I have spoken several times
in the past few days, Christine,” Vincent told her, only confusing
her more. “She’s a very nice woman, if a bit imaginative. She’s
been putting poor Lazarus through hoops ever since she
arrived.”

Christine shook her head. “Aunt Nellis never
told me,” she said, almost to herself. “She’s never been able to
keep a secret.
Never
.” She looked up at Hawkhurst, her
sky-blue eyes suddenly filled with tears. “Why her, Vincent? Why
her, and not me?”

Vincent ignored her question, only reaching
into his pocket to extract an oblong velvet box that he pressed
into her hand. “I wanted to give this to you before you left. Will
you wear it some time, and perhaps think of me?”

Christine opened the box with trembling
fingers, a silent gasp escaping her lips as she looked down on a
pearl necklace of such simple perfection that she couldn’t quite
believe it was real. She raised her head to look at him, seeing the
quick pain in his eyes before he had a chance to hide his emotions
behind an impersonal smile.

“Thank you, Vincent,” she said quietly.
“I’ll wear it always.”

Vincent nodded his approval, looking toward
the hallway. “You have to go now if you wish to make much progress
before stopping for the night. The coachman told me the roads still
aren’t very fit for traveling.”

Christine stood her ground, a horrifying
thought having just sprung into her mind. “These pearls—are these
your way of saying good-bye? If they are, I don’t want them. I
could never bear to look at them.”