Never Resist Temptation (27 page)

“The hamlet,” he said. “Have someone follow me with a heavy cloak and order a bath—two baths—for our return.”

His own attire was still sodden from the ride but he gave it no mind. She was likely awaiting him, warm, dry, and
safe
in the Queen's House, yet his anxiety wouldn't be assuaged until he had her in his arms. He ran out of the library door and took the steps from the terrace in leaps.

He could see light in the Queen's House but the door was swinging, wide open. “Jacobin,” he shouted at the threshold.

He could hear nothing above the wail of the wind, the creak of hinges, and the thudding of his heart. Something—a movement?—off to one side caught his attention, and he peered into the deepening gloom, to the other end of the lake. She couldn't be out on the bridge, could she?

 

The bridge, Jacobin thought. It had to be on the bridge. Once they had crossed it, Edgar would push her down the steep slope into the roaring stream. She'd considered her chances of swimming to safety and regretfully dismissed them. She was, at best, a weak swimmer and the water would be icy, the current fierce, and her clothes would weigh her down.

The railing of balusters along the sides of the gently
arched structure was low, no more than knee-high at most. If she could distract Edgar as they crossed she might be able to unbalance him and push him into the water. It wasn't much of a plan but the best she could come up with. She had the advantage of near darkness and knowing the territory.

She could feel Edgar's breath on her neck each time she hesitated on the rain-soaked path, and he pressed her from behind.

“Keep moving,” he muttered.

They were at the end of the bridge now, and she increased her pace, praying she wouldn't slip on the three shallow steps that led to the apex of the structure and that Edgar would. At her little spurt of speed, she drew away from the gun barrel that had been nudging her back the whole way from the Queen's House. She listened intently, desperately waiting for her chance.

It came, she thought. Not sure if she was correct in sensing a hitch in his walk, a booted foot hitting the riser of a step, she swung around with all her strength, slamming her arm against Edgar's body.

She heard a splash—the gun falling into the water, she hoped—and hurled herself at her cousin. He slumped onto his rear, arms splayed, his head against the railing.

“You bitch,” he shouted, struggling to rise, but she was on him now. She grabbed him by the ears and banged his head against the stone coping, over and over, beyond caring what she did to him.

Afterward she realized she might have killed him had a pair of strong arms not pulled her away.

“You rescued me again,” she muttered.

“I think you rescued yourself,” Anthony replied. His tone was steady, even a little amused. But the way he held her close to his hammering heart and pressed kisses over every inch of her face told her all about the measure of his relief. “It seems to have been Edgar who needed rescuing.”

She twisted her head to see her cousin, blood oozing from his head, being trussed up by Tom Hawkins.

“You knew I was strong.”

“It's lucky I like strong women.”

“I love you,” she said, and relaxed into his embrace.

W
ith Edgar awaiting trial for Candover's murder, Kitty had decreed that a hasty marriage was unnecessary and they could wait for St. George's, Hanover Square in the spring. A compromise was negotiated in the form of a Boxing Day wedding at Storrington in the presence of every cousin, distant connection, and miscellaneous member of the
ton
who could be lured to Sussex for the occasion. A surprising number had been ready to change their Yuletide plans at the last minute.

Charming people for the most part, but Jacobin found life somewhat lacking in drama. And excitement. It seemed like an age since she'd been able to snatch more than five minutes alone with Anthony. Being a fiancée was tame compared with the role of a mistress. With the house bursting at the seams, discreet nocturnal passage creeping was an impossibility.

The day before Christmas she excused herself from a ladies' decorating session in the drawing room and crept outside. Through the windows of the library she
could see a group of men sitting around with glasses of brandy and spending a thoroughly enjoyable afternoon without the distraction of holly, pine boughs, and mistletoe.

James Storrs glimpsed her from the room and winked at her. She'd already established a friendship with Anthony's easygoing younger brother. She shrugged at him and rolled her eyes. He must have drawn his brother's attention to the window. Anthony looked out at her with a smile that made her heart race.

Quickly she turned her back on him, not without a come-hither glance over her shoulder and a wave of a length of satin ribbon. She was running low on garters. When she reached the London shops she was going to have to get some new ones, in every available color.

It took him a ridiculously long time to extract himself from the masculine gathering. Probably listening to an improper story, she thought waspishly as she roamed around the saloon of the Queen's House. Its rich rococo decor, in marked contrast to the faux rustic exterior, never failed to make her think of France. With a pang of nostalgia laced with sadness, she wished her parents could be at her wedding.

And Anthony's too. She found Catherine Storrington's actions perplexing. Although Anthony had come far in reconciling himself to her death, it would take a long time for him to be truly at peace with her abandonment of him. He had accepted that he would never discover the identity of his mother's lover.

Her attention fixed on the late Lady Storrington's desk, which she recalled had once resided in her boudoir and been brought to the Queen's House after her death. It was an elaborate object, not large, but paneled in two or three different woods and trimmed with ormolu. At a glance it looked like a small armoire, but the front hinged down to form the writing surface and reveal an intriguing nest of drawers, cubbyholes, and little cupboards. Although far more elaborate, it reminded Jacobin of a piece her mother had owned in Paris.

Her mother had told her Marie Antoinette was particularly fond of such desks. In fact the French name for them,
secrétaires
, with its double-entendre connotation of secrecy, had been used by the queen's detractors to suggest that she was using her numerous writing desks to conceal secret documents. With nothing else to do, Jacobin poked around in the piece, opening and shutting drawers and doors to see if there could possibly be a hidden compartment.

Idle curiosity became genuine interest when she noticed that a niche on one side was shallower than its twin. There might be a space behind it large enough to hold a small bundle of papers. Groping inside, she detected a slot, about the size of a sixpence. She inserted a fingernail and pried away the back panel. Something fell out: letters, and a miniature portrait in a gilt frame.

She knew who it was at once, for the face was as familiar to her as her own. Chestnut curls, brown eyes, a firm straight nose, and a cleft chin. A masculine version of herself. Her father.

 

Silently she handed him the miniature.

“Is this your father?” Anthony asked. “You didn't tell me you had a portrait of him. You really are very like him.”

“I found it in the desk.”

His mind grappled with the meaning of her words. “Why…how?”

He accepted a letter from her outstretched hand and examined the single sheet carefully. The paper was of good quality but the folds were fragile, as though it had been opened and read many times. The handwriting was unfamiliar, in a foreign style. “It's in French. Will you read it to me?”

She nodded, eyes shining with tears.

“‘My dearest Catherine,'” she translated. “‘With a heavy heart I write my
adieu
to you. I understand that your duty and devotion to your family must come before our love. You will return to England with your good husband and live once more with your beloved Anthony and the little Kitty. Don't be sad, my love. The thought of your melancholy weighs on my soul. I want only your happiness, and it tears my heart that we can never find joy together. Be happy with Lord Storrington and your precious children whom you love so much. I shall marry Felicity and do my best to be a good husband, for she deserves it. And I shall devote my efforts to improving the lot of my unhappy country, to making my fellow citizens free and happy and peaceful. Have care of yourself, Catherine. And avoid Candover. Al
though he will be my brother-in-law, I fear his malice and his spirit of vengeance.'”

Tears poured down Jacobin's cheeks and choked her voice. “‘Since the first moment I saw you at Trianon your beauty and loveliness of spirit have possessed my senses. Although our love will never be
consommé
…'”

She hesitated. “Consumed…or consummated?”

“Consummated, I imagine,” Anthony said softly.

“‘Although our love will never be consummated, the very great passion I have for you will never die. On the day of my death I shall hold your image in my heart.
Adieu
my Catherine, my very dear Catherine. I will love you always. Auguste.'”

Anthony's mind was a blank.

“I'm sorry, Anthony,” she said, but he was hardly attending.

“Impossible. It's incredible.” He tried to think, though his brain felt as though it were stuffed with bran.

He was the handsomest man in France
. Candover's words came back to him during their first infamous card game. He hadn't heeded them at the time, but it was the first hint: that Candover had hated his brother-in-law because he'd won the heart of the woman he wanted. It was all there had he thought to look: the clues to a trail of events that led from a visit to Marie Antoinette's retreat at Versailles in 1786 to this moment in this house, built in imitation of the same corner of the French royal estate.

“How could I not have seen it?” he said aloud.
“The truth was there to see had I interpreted things correctly.”

Jacobin couldn't believe it. She was standing there, her heart broken, and he was thinking
logically
.

It wouldn't last, she knew. Soon the anger that had long burned over her uncle would turn against her father, then her.

She laid her father's letter carefully on the desk, giving it a last regretful look. Despite the misery the contents had caused her, she hadn't been able to help thrilling at the sight of his handwriting and at the passionate words that had brought him back to her so vividly.

“I shall leave now,” she said flatly. “I'll return to Hurst and see my uncle's solicitor. At least I have money. You won't have to worry about me.”

His eyes fastened on her. “What the blazes are you talking about?”

“I understand that we cannot be married, and I think it's better if I go at once.”

“Go? Go?” His voice rose to a shout and he grabbed her shoulders roughly. “No! You can't leave me. You can't abandon me!” He sounded panicked and held her so hard it hurt.

“But…but…you can't want me now. My father…your mother. You must hate him. You must hate
me.
”

He gathered her into his arms. “Hate you?” he asked, so tenderly she felt her senses melt with relief and love. “I could never hate you. I love you.”

“I'm sorry,” she said again through tears, “for what my father did. For what he did to you.”

“He did nothing, and neither did Mama. You read the letter. He sent her back to me and Kitty and my father.”

“Aren't you still angry?”

He was thinking about it. She could tell by the way his body stilled, though he held her in his embrace. “No,” he said in wonder. “It's gone. She couldn't help falling in love but she could help what she did about it. Her behavior was irreproachable.”

“It made her very unhappy,” she said somberly.

“I think she was always unhappy in a way, not because of what happened, but because she was an unhappy person. Lord Hugo said something about that, about a hidden darkness. After her separation from your father she succumbed to an illness that was already lurking. She probably couldn't help it.”

“Poor lady,” Jacobin murmured. Then, more severely, “But she should have tried harder for her children's sake, for your sake.”

Anthony released her and walked over to the window. “I was angry with her,” he said haltingly. “I never admitted it to myself. It's why I became obsessed with Candover, because I didn't want to blame her. I took it out on poor Kitty too, and she was innocent as a babe. She
was
a babe. But now I can forgive her. Mama, I mean. There's nothing to forgive really. She did her best.”

Pleased as she was for him, that he could finally put his mother's treatment of him behind him, she still couldn't fully sympathize with the woman.

“Anthony,” she said. “If I die you are not to abandon our children. And if you die I
will not
kill myself.”

He couldn't help smiling as he turned to see her standing with her hands on her hips, scowling ferociously. No, he thought gladly. She was made of sterner stuff, his Jacobin.

“Children? Are you trying to tell me something, my love?”

“What? Oh no. At least I don't think so. It's too soon to tell.”

He rather hoped she was with child. Especially since they'd be married in two days and the infant wouldn't arrive embarrassingly early.

“I know you'll make a wonderful parent, just like your father.” He looked straight into her eyes, wanting to reassure her that he felt no resentment toward Auguste de Chastelux. “He sounds a remarkable man.”

“Oh, he was! I couldn't have had a better father.”

“You must tell me all about him.”

“I'd like to. I think we both had good fathers.”

He nodded. His own father had, in his own way, been the best of men.

“Why did he say that about Candover?” he said abruptly. “On his deathbed, I mean. My father said a letter came from Candover, just before Mama…died. What did the villain have to do with it?”

“I forgot!” Jacobin exclaimed. “There's another letter.” She picked it up from the desk and gave it to him.

He froze when he recognized his mother's hand, and his fingers trembled. It was directed on the address panel to his father.

“‘My lord.'” His parents had always addressed each other formally, he remembered. “‘Today I received a letter from Candover. Auguste has been executed in France. I cannot bear to live without him in this world. I pray I may meet him in the next. Kiss Anthony, Kitty, and James for me. I love them all but I know I have failed in my duty as a mother. They will be better without me. I'm sorry, my lord. You have always been a good husband, better than I deserve. I commend our children to your care. Your respectful and affectionate wife, Catherine Storrington.'”

An odd farewell, Jacobin thought as he read it. The words seemed perfunctory, almost cold, for all they spoke of love and respect. As though Catherine had already, in her own mind, departed the world when she wrote them.

Her heart ached for Anthony. What a contrast to her father, who, despite the loss of his love, had carried on to be a decent husband, an adoring father, and to make something of his life in his political writings.

“When did your mother die?” she asked.

“August 1794.”

“That's when my father was imprisoned. He had taken my mother and me out of Paris for safety, but he returned to testify on behalf of a friend. It did no good. The friend went to the guillotine, and he was arrested. My mother must have got word to my uncle—”

“—who couldn't wait to tell my mother the news. The bastard couldn't resist making her miserable.”

“And even boasted to Edgar that he drove her to her death,” she added. “He deserved to die. No,” she corrected herself, “no one deserves to be killed, but I can't say I'm sorry it happened to him.”

He chuckled, a surprising, though welcome, sound.

“Why are you laughing?” she asked suspiciously.

“You always make me laugh. It's one of the things I love about you.”

“That's good. I think.” Actually she knew it was good. She felt like singing and dancing and leaping with joy.

“Very good.” He was moving closer, with a look on his face that managed to be both mirthful and heated at the same time.

She swayed her hips, tilted her breasts up, and eyed him provocatively through her lashes. “What are you going to do now?” she asked huskily.

“Now immediately or now in the future?”

“Either or both.”

“Well…in the longer term I'm going to marry you and spend a lot of time in bed with you and laugh a lot and eat a lot of little puffy things and have as many children as you wish for and be happy for the rest of my life.”

“That sounds…acceptable. And immediately?”

“I came here this afternoon in answer to an invitation. I intend to accept it. Immediately.”