Rakehell's Widow (19 page)

“Well,” he inquired, “what have you to say?”

“You have offered an explanation which may possibly
have some foundation.”

“I can see from your face that you believe it to have a
great deal
of foundation.”

“Very well, I admit that what you say sounds very likely.”

“Thank you for that small crumb.” He sketched a
mocking bow.

“But it in no way excuses your other conduct.”

“Ah, so we are back to that.” He put his hands on his
hips, surveying her in the gloom. “You cannot ever set it
aside, can you, Alabeth? You must blame me for all that
befell Robert.”

“Because you
are
the blame,” she cried defiantly.

“I promise you that I am not.”

“I cannot and will not believe you.”

“That you will not is true, that you cannot is not.
Robert was vain, foolish, hotheaded, deceitful, and con
niving; he played you false on many occasions and the duel
in which he died was not caused by the turn of a card but
by his having bedded another man’s wife.”

“No, that is not true,” she whispered.

“Every word of it is true.”

“What right have you to condemn Robert when you
yourself have killed in a duel? I’ll warrant the paltry reason
you suggest for Robert was in fact your own.”

“I do not deny killing the Russian, but I defy you to find my reason paltry. The Russian compromised my sister,
and he did so for a wager. I admit this now because my
sister is dead and cannot be harmed anymore by the truth.
The Russian paid dearly for his crime, Alabeth, and I would not shrink from doing it again. If you find that
paltry or in keeping with what lay behind Robert’s duel,
then I am sorry for you.”

“I did not know—”

“There is a great deal you do not know, madam, and
even more you refuse to know. By the time he died, I
despised Robert, I despised him for his shallow conceit, his
callousness toward you—”

“He wasn’t,” she cried. “He wasn’t!”

“He was, damn you, and you have to face the fact. He
kept a mistress—did you know that? No, I can see that you
didn’t. He had also lost vast sums at the gaming table, and the only reason you were spared from discovering the fact is that the night he died he won back an equally large sum
—one more day and you would have lost not only your
husband, madam, but the roof over your lovely head too.”

She flinched. “I will not believe it,” she whispered. “I
will not believe it, for you remained at his side throughout,
and if you despised him, then you would not have done
so.”

“I remained at his side because I wished to spare you,
Alabeth,” he said softly. “And spare you I did, for had
any other been his second, then the true reason for the duel
would certainly have been revealed to you. I did not want
you to be hurt any more than you already had been, and so
help me I did what I could to soften the blow. I may have
despised the man, Alabeth Manvers, but I certainly did not
despise his wife.”

She looked away, her lips trembling.

“Robert was not worth your grief, Alabeth; he did not
deserve one single tear and certainly deserved even less of your remorse. He was faithless and could be incredibly un
feeling, and only sheer luck prevented you from learning the truth. Or perhaps it was not luck at all,
perhaps it was unkind fate, for had you known the truth a little earlier,
then you would have been spared your damned
conscience.”

“No—”

“But, yes, Alabeth, your marriage was a mistake and
you know it.”

“That isn’t true.”

“Yes it is, for you suddenly realized that you were the
wife of the wrong man, didn’t you?”

It was too much, and with a gasp she raised her hand to
strike him, but he was too swift, catching her wrist and then twisting her close.

“Damn you, Alabeth, damn you for making me reach
this point! You’ve blamed me over and over and I will not
be blamed anymore, for I was guilty of nothing beyond the
fact that I held another man’s wife in too high regard—and that wife was not indifferent, was she? There lies the
source of your conscience, for although you did not betray your marriage vows by even one kiss, you betrayed them
over and over again in your thoughts.” He released her
suddenly. “Well, it’s past now, Alabeth, and I believe I’ve
said all that needs to be said. Go, and take your damned
conscience with you. I wish to God I’d never set eyes on
you and I pray that our meetings in future will be few and
far between.”

He inclined his head and then turned to walk from the
room. In a blur of tears she saw the footman approach him
in the vestibule, explaining that Lady Silchester was sleep
ing. She heard him reply that he would call another time, and then he was gone.

The tears lay damply on her cheeks as she tried to collect
herself, but she trembled and fresh tears stung her eyelids.
When she closed her eyes, she was at Charterleigh again,
on a warm August afternoon, and Robert was presenting
her to Piers Castleton. Piers was taking her hand and
drawing it to his lips, and she was realizing in that single, breathless moment that nothing was ever going to be the same again.

She had been dishonest with herself and dishonest with him—and now it was too late.

It was some time before she felt composed enough to walk
back to Berkeley Square, accompanied by the footman, who must have seen her tear-stained face.

She reached the house at last, having run the gauntlet of
the select gathering outside Gunter’s without having
aroused any curiosity, but as she stepped into the hall, she heard the sound of someone playing the pianoforte in the
music room. Jillian must have returned early and she
would undoubtedly be able to tell that something was
wrong.

She turned to Sanderson. “At what time did Lady Jillian
return?”

“Lady Jillian has not returned, my lady; it is Count
Zaleski who is playing.”

“The Count?” Her heart sank.

“He said that he had called to make arrangements for Lady Jillian’s tuition, and when he was informed that both you and Lady Jillian were out, he asked if it would be in
order for him to inspect the pianoforte, to see that it was tuned and in good order. He said that it seemed a shame
for him to waste his evening entirely on a fruitless call. I, er, I said that I did not think you would object, my lady. I
trust that I have not acted unwisely.”

“No, of course not, it was a sensible decision. I will go up to speak with him directly, but first I will need my
maid.”

“Very well, my lady.”

She went up to her room, wishing that the Count had chosen some other night to call—or perhaps the truth was that it was no accident that he chose this particular night,
for it would not be difficult for him to discover that Jillian
would be at Lady Dexter’s, thus most probably leaving her sister on her own— Yes, the more she thought about it, the
more she thought that this was probably the case. She glanced
at her reflection in the cheval glass. Tonight nothing could
have been further from her thoughts than the prospect of an
entanglement with the handsome Pole.

The door of the music room was ajar, and candles had
been lit, as it was dark outside now. The soft, moving light glinted on his fair hair as he played, and she stood in the doorway watching him. She did not think that she had ever
seen anyone more beautiful than this aristocratic genius
who was at once fire and ice, passion and detachment. He
was a contradiction, looking so fine and aesthetic, and yet capable of producing music of such force and vigor that it
seemed impossible his slender, pale fingers could have the
strength.

In the candleglow the likeness to Robert was even more
uncanny, and inevitably her thoughts turned to her
marriage. Like Adam Zaleski, Robert Manvers had been a
contradiction. Capable of an enchanting charm, he had
also been able to cut her to the quick with a hurtful word
or a careless action. She had glimpsed the truth about him,
but she had drawn a veil over it. Tonight Piers Castleton had wrenched that veil aside.

The final notes of music died away and she entered the
room. “Good evening, Count Zaleski.”

“Ah, Lady Alabeth. Good evening.” He rose, taking
her hand and drawing it to his lips. “I trust that you do not mind me coming up here, but it seemed nonsensical to go
away without at least inspecting the pianoforte.”

“And is it in good order?”

He smiled. “Naturally, it is a Broadwood, and very fine
indeed.”

“You will be able to use it to teach my sister?”

He nodded, his glance resting thoughtfully on the slight marks still visible from her tears. “Have you been cry
ing?”

She turned to the sheets of music scattered on the top of the pianoforte. “What was it you were playing?”

“It was a sonata composed by a man named Beethoven.
You have heard of him?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Soon the whole world will know of him.”

“If his music is all as magnificent as that sonata, then I
think you are right.”

“Why have you been crying?” he asked softly.

“You are mistaken.”

“Oh, Alabeth,” he reproved, “I know that that is not
so.”

“I don’t wish to discuss it.”

She did not know that she was toying with her wedding
ring, but his glance moved to her agitated fingers. “You have been weeping for your dead lord?”

“I said that I did not wish to discuss it, sir.”

He detected the hint of a tremor in her voice. “Very
well, I will not speak of it. Come, Alabeth, let me play
some more for you, something soothing perhaps.” He held
out his hand to her, drawing her closer to the pianoforte.

She could feel the danger in the moment, hear the seduction in his voice, and see it in his eyes, but something made
her obey. She stood within the glow of the candles, and as
he began to play, his irresistible spell began to coil around her with invisible silken threads. She was transfixed by the
simplicity of the clear, melancholy music. Outside, she
could see the moon rising, as hauntingly beautiful as the music. The poignancy of the moment, filled as it was with
half-thoughts, memories, and broken dreams, was too
much—just as he intended it should be. She hid her face in her hands and turned away, unable to stem the fresh tears.

In a moment he was on his feet and had come around the
pianoforte to her, taking her gently in his arms and holding
her close. “Oh, Alabeth,” he murmured, “if only you
knew how I wish to kiss away those tears—”

“Please leave me,” she began, her voice breaking as she
tried to move away, but his arms tightened around her.

“Leave you? How could I leave you when your heart is
breaking?” His voice was low and he bent his head to kiss
her on the lips, his fingers moving in the softness of her hair. “Oh, Alabeth, I desire you more than any other
woman.”

From the depths of the house she heard the front door
close and Jillian’s voice greeting Sanderson, and with a rush of relief she pulled sharply away from the embrace.
He could see that the spell was broken, and anger darkened
his eyes. His lips pressed together and annoyance touched
his movements as he turned quickly to the seat at the pianoforte.

Alabeth watched him, the remnants of the spell drifting away forever. How despicable he was, he had thought
nothing of using her unhappiness to further his chances of
seducing her. He had deliberately and callously chosen
music which would affect her, and he had not cared about
anything but his own desire.

He sensed that something was suddenly wrong. “Alabeth—?”

“I think, sir, that in future you should keep your dis
tance.”

“Oh, but, Alabeth—”

“And do not address me again with such familiarity,
Count Zaleski, for I do not like it and will not permit it.”

“I know that you are upset—”

“A fact which you would have done better to observe a
little earlier. Your conduct here tonight has been
monstrous.”

He said nothing in reply, for at that moment Jillian came into the room. “Hello, Alabeth. Good evening,
Count Zaleski.”

Alabeth smiled, giving no hint of the scene which had
passed a second before. “Hello, Jillian. And did you have
an agreeable evening?”

“I did, indeed. Charles was most entertaining, he really is an excellent actor, you know; I was quite surprised.”

The Count had risen to his feet. “You speak of Sir
Charles Allister, Lady Jillian?”

“I do.” Jillian’s eyes were a little speculative as she
looked at him, and Alabeth wondered what she was think
ing.

He took out his fob watch. “I think it is time I departed,
Lady Alabeth, for I am expected at Brooks’s.”