The Rich Shall Inherit (41 page)

“It’s no good,” he said abruptly, “it’s over. It never even began!”

Poppy’s hand flew despairingly to her mouth as she watched him go … he couldn’t mean it, she told herself, if only they’d had an opportunity to talk together alone then she could have made him see that marrying Angel was wrong—when they loved each other so.

It was very late when the family finally returned to the Gritti Palace in the gondola. Rosalia and Angel drooped tiredly against
Nik, and Poppy sat opposite, watching them through hooded eyes. Such a happy family scene, she thought bitterly, the mother, the father, and the beloved beautiful daughter. Closing her eyes, she remembered her real father’s arms around her and his whiskey breath in her face as he’d said,
“I’m back, Papa’s girl…”
and then his blood spilling onto the rug as he’d sunk to the ground. And she realized that after all these years she still wasn’t Poppy Konstant, she was just Poppy Mallory, and Angel possessed everything she’d ever wanted.

Afterward, she paced her hotel bedroom, thinking about Felipe until the walls seemed to be closing in on her. Unable to bear it any longer, she flung a dark cape over her shoulders and stole from her room, running down the flights of red-carpeted stairs as though she were pursued by demons.

“The Palazzo Rinardi,” she told the gondolier, shrinking nervously behind the curtains. She was still not sure of what she would say as she tugged at the old iron doorbell, praying that Felipe was there. She just knew she had to talk to him, to explain, to tell him she belonged to him before it was all too late. Trembling with fear at her own daring, she rang the bell again and again until at last there was the sound of hurried footsteps and Felipe’s voice called, “What is it? Who is there?”

“It’s me … Poppy,” she called, leaning weakly against the chill stone wall, her knees threatening to give way.

Throwing open the door, Felipe stared at her in surprise. He was wearing a burgundy silk dressing gown over his pajamas and his hair was rumpled from sleep.

“Quickly, before anyone sees you,” he said, grabbing her arm and pulling her inside. “What do you mean by coming here at this time of night? Are you trying to ruin things between me and Angel?” His angry green eyes burned into hers. “That’s it, of course,” he said contemptuously. “You’re jealous! You’re just trying to make trouble.”

“No, oh, no, it’s not that,” Poppy cried. “I understand why you want to marry Angel. But you see Felipe, it’s all wrong when we love each other so …

“Love?” he asked, his brows raised.
“Love?
Ask yourself this, Poppy, is it
love
that you feel for me? Ask yourself exactly
why
you are here.
With another woman’s fiancé!
I think you are a girl who knows precisely what she’s doing,” he added, leaning so close to her, she could feel his breath on her cheek.
“You
know enough to drive a man crazy, Poppy Mallory. Oh, yes,” he added, tilting her face up to his, “don’t think I don’t know all about your little charade.
You
played the role of the Konstant heiress very well, Miss Mallory, but not quite well enough to outsmart me!”

Then his mouth came down on hers with such crushing force that Poppy gasped. “Wait, no …” she cried, pushing him away. “It’s true, what you said. I did play a charade, but I didn’t lie to you deliberately, I didn’t imagine you thought I had money …”

“Then why else would I have bothered with you?” he asked contemptuously. “Because of your beautiful insolent eyes and your delicious milk-white skin? You’re a temptress, Poppy Mallory, and love doesn’t enter into that world!” He pulled her close to him again, forcing back her head as he kissed her.

“No,” she cried, terrified. These weren’t the same gently passionate kisses of their afternoon gondola rides; these were hard, cruel kisses that she didn’t understand. “No, Felipe! I came to tell you our love was strong enough to manage without money, all we need is each other.”

He laughed harshly.
“You
must be crazy,” he said, blocking her path as Poppy backed toward the door.
“You
haven’t come here for
love
, Miss Mallory,” he snarled, picking her up in his arms and carrying her to the salon. “You are here because you want me.” His hands were upon her again, exploring her breasts. “God, your skin is as smooth as this velvet,” he muttered, “it’s smooth as cream …”

“Don’t,” cried Poppy, terrified, “don’t, Felipe … I shall scream …”

“Scream all you like, there’s no one to hear.” He gripped her long hair, forcing back her head as he kissed her throat. “The servants are asleep in their own quarters and anyway the walls are so thick, they’d never hear a thing … and my uncle has gone for the night with some lady friend … someone of
your
breed, Poppy. Of course you’re not a Konstant, are you? You’re a slut, a temptress eager to try what men have to offer, and you and I both know that’s why you’re here tonight.”

“No, Felipe, no,” she screamed as the pins scattered from her hair onto the pretty yellow brocade sofa, and then he silenced her protests with his mouth, forcing her back onto the cushions. His body pressed urgently against hers and his hands sought their way under her skirts, violating her softness with cruel intrusive fingers. Poppy screamed silently with agony and despair, and the tears she had sworn never to shed again flowed from her tightly shut eyes, staining the beautiful yellow brocade as he thrust himself into her.

*  *  *

The bright morning sun filtering between the slatted green shutters of her room stirred Poppy from unconsciousness—it couldn’t be called “sleep” because it had certainly been no restful dreamless slumber. As she woke she felt she was climbing from the depths of some nightmarish crevasse filled with fear and despair. The pain between her legs throbbed agonizingly and her swollen breasts burned where they had been bruised by Felipe’s rough caresses.

She closed her eyes again, praying it was just a nightmare, that she could just forget it all, as if it never happened, but it was no good. No matter how she tried, she would never be able to forget Felipe’s words as she lay destroyed on the pretty yellow couch, her beautiful gray velvet dress ripped and stained with her own blood.

“You teasing little bitch,” he’d snarled contemptuously, “you asked for it!”

Then, bundling her cape around her, he summoned a gondola, tipping the gondolier lavishly and telling him to return her to the Gritti Palace. He’d gripped her shoulders, holding her close for a moment as if he were embracing her, but instead he’d whispered menacingly, “If you ever say a word about tonight to anybody—
anybody
, Poppy—
I’ll see you dead!”
And he’d thrust her, trembling, into the gondola.

It was very late when she got back and only the concierge had noticed her hurrying through the hall. He’d peered at her curiously for a moment and then his attention had returned to his newspaper. In the safety of her room again, she’d torn off the ruined dress and, filled with self-loathing, had hidden it in the laundry basket along with her torn undergarments. Fighting for strength to turn the heavy brass taps, she’d filled the bathtub with hot water and scrubbed the imprint of Felipe’s body from her fiercely. And then, in a clean cotton nightie, she’d curled into a ball in the middle of her bed and wished she could die.

Even now, with the sun shining on another glorious Venetian day—the day before Angel’s wedding—she still wished she could die. She could never tell anyone what had happened, no one would believe her. She thought despairingly that she would kill herself—she would take poison … but she didn’t know where to buy any …. She remembered longingly the gun room at the ranch where the rifles, with their superbly decorated stocks, were kept in locked cases, and Nik’s collection of pistols with their chased-silver and mother-of-pearl handles were displayed in a glass-topped drawer. It would have been so easy there, and a bullet would have been so clean and so fast.

She glanced up apprehensively at a rap on the door. “Wake up, you sleepyhead,” Angel called gaily. “We’ve some last-minute shopping to do, remember?”

“Oh … why don’t you go on without me,” Poppy called, searching desperately for an excuse. “I … I’ve got this stupid headache again.”

“Oh, poor Poppy,” cried Angel. “The Venetian air really doesn’t suit you, does it? Shall you need the doctor?”

“No, no,” Poppy found herself answering in quite normal tones … “I’ll just rest awhile, don’t worry.”
She realized suddenly that Angel didn’t suspect anything. No one did. Only she and Felipe knew the truth. A
shred of hope shone through her despair. If she were clever, then no one need ever know her shame.
Yet
surely it must show on her face. She stared in the mirror, but apart from the shadows under her eyes she looked just as she always did.

She was sitting up in bed trying her best to look composed when Rosalia and Aunt Melody hurried in to see if she was all right. “I’m really getting quite worried about you, Poppy,” Rosalia said, feeling her brow anxiously for fever.

“Nonsense,” boomed Aunt Melody, “the girl’s just lovesick, that’s all!”

Poppy’s eyes widened apprehensively; what could she mean?

“It must be love,” Aunt Melody went on. “After all, I thought Poppy and Angel always do everything together.”

“Oh, I see,” Rosalia laughed, straightening her hat in Poppy’s mirror. “Well, I think there’s a young man at home who’s more than eager to see her again. Greg was most upset not to be coming with us, but I suspect it was
you
he wanted to see more than anyone. But enough of this matchmaking, we must be off. Angel mustn’t see Felipe again until the wedding, so it’s just a family dinner tonight. My goodness, I’m so nervous about the whole thing—all these princes and countesses! I have awful dreams of us all falling into the canal in our wedding finery. Bye now, Poppy, we shan’t be back too late. Why don’t you open your window, dear, and let in some fresh air and sunshine, I don’t like leaving you in the dark.”

Poppy sank back against her pillows, thinking about what Rosalia had just said, and the enormity of her own stupidity hit her like a blow.
Of course, the answer had been there all the time. She could have had everything she’d ever wanted. She could be “Poppy Konstant.” All she’d had to do was marry Greg!

*  *  *

At three o’clock on a September afternoon, looking ethereal in her wedding finery, Angel sailed in her flower-decked marriage gondola along the Grand Canal to the great church of Santa Maria della Salute. Clouds banked the wide expanse of sky, changing the weather from blue to gray, and Venice lay hushed in a breathless prestorm stillness where every sound seemed magnified. A Bach cantata, played on the great organ, reverberated from the ancient walls, echoing over the still lagoon, and only Angel’s tremulous smile lit her progress into the church.

Poppy, in swirling green silk-taffeta with fresh wine-colored roses braided into her rich hair, thought that Angel surely looked the perfect vision of a bride. Her wedding dress was of heavy white satin with a long court-train covered with a layer of delicate lace, sewn with pearls and crystal beads. The same scalloped lace encircled her long slender neck and a silk tulle veil cascaded from the Rinardi diamond tiara perched on her sleek blond hair. The veil hid the expression in her eyes as she took her father’s arm for the walk down the aisle, but Poppy knew they would be shining with happiness.

Gripping her small posy so tightly that the florist’s wire sank painfully into her fingers, Poppy followed them slowly down the aisle, her eyes fixed on Angel’s sweeping train. When she finally dared to steal a glance, she saw that Felipe had eyes only for his bride, as, with her veil thrown back, Angel repeated her vows.

Pretend you are an actress, Poppy had told herself earlier, as she dressed for the wedding, just a minor player in some stupid drama. And so now she signed the register in a hand that she willed not to shake; and she tilted her chin and smiled proudly for the wedding photograph, and she laughed gaily along with the others at Felipe’s witty speech as he proposed the traditional toasts.

“And, of course, we must all toast a most beautiful bridesmaid,” he said without a trace of mockery. He raised his glass to her, but he was smiling at Angel.

When she was alone with Angel later, helping her to change into her going-away outfit of pale blue silk, Poppy was determinedly cheerful.

“First we go to Paris,” Angel sighed ecstatically. “Of course, Felipe knows it as well as he does Venice; he calls it his second home, but for me it will be like discovering a whole new city. Then London … and then New York …” Tilting the little cream straw hat with its veiling and pale roses at exactly the right angle over one eye, she spun around from the mirror and threw her arms around Poppy. “I do love you, Poppy,” she murmured, “you are the dearest sister any
girl could ever have.” And later, as she descended the marble stairway, her arm linked with Felipe’s, she made sure that Poppy caught her bouquet. “You’re next—and I just hope it’s Greg,” she whispered as she kissed her good-bye. And then, in a hail of rose petals and joyous calls of luck and happiness, Angel and Felipe sailed in their bridal gondola down the Grand Canal to the Santa Lucia station, and the train that would take them to Paris and the beginning of their new life.

The smile that had been fixed to Poppy’s face since early morning faded as they disappeared from sight. It was over. She wondered if what Felipe had done meant so little to him, he had already forgotten it, because there had been no trace of remorse or guilt in his demeanor. He hadn’t even glanced at her. She trembled with sudden hatred;
she hated Felipe, and she hated Jeb Mallory. The two men to whom she had given her love had cared so little for her, they had both hurt her and left her without a qualm.

“Come on, poppy,” Nik said, throwing a comforting arm around her shoulders, “don’t look so sad. We haven’t lost Angel, you know, we’ve gained a new son.”

They were to set off on their return journey to California the next morning and Poppy suddenly couldn’t wait to get back. Her answer, and her future, were dazzling clear. Greg loved her. She would marry Greg.