Tender the Storm (21 page)

Zoë's eyes sought reassurance from Charlotte. It was pity that she saw in her sister-in-law's stare before the girl looked away.

Zoë's head came up. "What are you suggesting?" she asked quietly.

"I'm not suggesting anything!" snapped the dowager, suddenly conscious that if her words were carried to Rolfe she might very well come under the bite of his censure. "All that I am saying is that my son is scarcely ever here." She sniffed, and dabbed delicately at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. "One son was torn from me. Is it any wonder that I should wish to see something of Rolfe when he is all that remains to me? But you cannot know a mother's feelings."

Zoë's thoughts immediately flew to her own family in France. The dowager had been told something of her circumstances, but she rarely made mention of Zoë's family, and then only to imply that Rolfe had bestowed a great favor in raising her to the exalted state of marchioness.

"But that is neither here nor there. No. What I wished to say to you is this. You will refrain from seeking out the society of my servants. Miss Miekle is not paid to be your companion. She has
work
to do, and it has been brought to my attention that you are taking advantage of her kind nature."

"Mama!"
remonstrated
Charlotte quietly.

Stung, Zoë cried out, "That's a lie!"

The dowager straightened in her chair. "You dare to call me a liar?" she demanded.

Zoë jumped to her feet. Defiance and injury shimmered in her dark eyes. A confusion of thoughts jostled each other in her head. When she spoke, anger shook her voice. "I dare! Yes, I dare! You're cruel, and you mean to be! You don't want me to have any friends. Deny it if
you
dare."

The dowager's brows lifted. "Friends?" she asked scornfully.
"With the servants?"

"Miss Miekle is a lady!"

"She is an employee!"

"She is more of a lady than . . , than
you
are."

The dowager uttered a strangled gasp and fell back against the cushions in a
semiswoon
. Zoë stared horrified as Charlotte jumped to her feet and ran to help the dowager. Coming to
herself
, Zoë quickly moved to the console table against the wall where she found a decanter of brandy and a small glass. A moment later, she was pressing the dowager to drink.

The dowager swept the glass from Zoë's hand, spraying the brandy over the front of her gown. "You-you ungrateful wretch!" she spluttered. "Now see what you've done. I want nothing from you!" And she closed her eyes as if the sight of Zoë disgusted her.

With a little cry, Zoë ran from the room.

As ill luck would have it, Rolfe arrived at the Abbey late of that very evening. Zoë was on the stairs when she heard the commotion of his arrival at the front doors. Her heart leapt to her mouth. She lost no time in repairing to her own chamber where she quickly undressed and doused the lights before crawling into bed.

This time, she felt no joy in her husband's homecoming. Her sense of injury was too acute. The dowager had put the demon of jealousy into Zoë's breast. She remembered the beautiful lady at the
Devonshires
' party who had seemed to be one of her husband's intimates. He would know many beautiful women, she reflected. Mimi and Fifi must be of their number. She felt as if a knife was twisting in her heart.

As Zoë had feared, the reckoning for her misdemeanors could not be long delayed. After a restrained greeting over breakfast the following morning, Rolfe told her to fetch her pelisse and bonnet since he wished for her company as he walked.

"This is a pretty kettle of fish to come home to," he said mildly. They had reached the top of the rise which overlooked the Abbey and all its outbuildings.

"Your mother doesn't like me," said Zoë defensively.

"Have you given her cause to like you?" Rolfe paused to take in the view.

Zoë followed his gaze. "From the outside, the Abbey must look very much as it was when the monks first built their monastery."

"Yes. There have been very few changes to the outside of the building," agreed Rolfe. "And don't try to change the subject, kitten. Couldn't you unbend a little? I know you're not quick to anger. But I ask you, to call my mother a liar? You really must apologize, you know."

"Must I?" murmured Zoë, affecting an interest in a flight of birds as they winged their way to a stand of beech trees just coming into leaf.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Zoë's eyes glinted up at Rolfe and suddenly she was past caring for his good opinion. He did not deserve her love, she decided. He had, quite literally, dropped her on unwilling relatives and then deserted her. For months she had been treated as if she were a leper, with only the conversation of children and servants to keep her from going mad. She was worried sick about the fate of her own family.

Not once since he had sought her out had her husband so much as made a passing reference to them. And yet, he must know how things stood in France. Did he mention such things to her? He did not. It was left to Francoise to write and tell her that the news from home was as black as ever it had been. Robespierre had gone raving mad. Executions were at fever pitch. And all that her husband could do when the world was coming to an end was chide her for not apologizing to the most selfish and demanding woman it had ever been her misfortune to meet. And then there was Mimi and Fifi, and all the other beautiful women of his acquaintance. It was too much to bear.

Eyes snapping, bosom heaving, she said scathingly, "You should never have married me only to bring me here. I was happy where I was. At least I had friends."

A dark tide of color rose in Rolfe's neck. "You dare to say that to me? Let me tell you, you shameless ingratiate, if I had not wed you out of hand, your position today would be insupportable."

For a moment, she could make no sense of his words. When enlightenment dawned, she gave a sarcastic laugh. With no clear idea of what she was saying, but with a burning desire
to
hurt him as much as she had been hurt, she cried out passionately, "The
carte blanche
of an honest rake would have found more favor with me than this intolerable marriage to you."

These were not the words of a child. Nor did Zoë look that part to Rolfe in that moment. She had long since removed her bonnet. The breeze stirred her hair, veiling her face in tendrils of dark silk. She
brushed at them ineffectively with one hand.

Rolfe knew an impulse to punish her for her gross ingratitude. But it was the impulse to kiss those sweetly sensual lips which was irresistible. He did not stop to think of the wisdom of what he was doing. His hands cupped her shoulders, and then his mouth came down hard on hers.

His name, choked off deep in her throat, like a kitten's purr, burned into him. He forced her mouth wider, letting her taste the force of his rising passion. For a moment, she tried to fight him. In answer, he pulled her body more fully against his, wrapping his arms tightly around her till she could scarcely breathe. The moment he felt her yield to him, he gentled the embrace.

He caught hold of her hair, wrapping it around his hands, arching her throat to receive his kisses. The soft sounds she uttered made his head swim. "Satin and silk," he whispered. "I knew you would feel like this.
Soft.
So
soft,"
and he breathed endearments he had never thought to utter to any woman.

Weeks of denying the attraction Zoë held for him were forgotten as she grew pliant in his arms. His conscience clamored to be heard. She was too young. She was an innocent. She could not possibly imagine the fantasies he entertained when he thought of her in his bed.
Later,
Rolfe told his conscience,
tell me later,
and he molded his wife's softness to his hard length.

His hands roamed, discovering each delicate bone, tracing each soft contour. She was small made, but there was nothing childish about her figure. There was nothing childish about her response to him. She was emphatically female to his
male. Desire flamed through him. His embraces became rougher, more demanding.

He pulled back and gazed down at her. It took a moment before he had his breathing under control. His voice was hoarse and scarcely recognizable, "You're my wife."

"Y — yes."

"I want to do everything to you. Do you know? I want to touch you in ways I've never touched you before."

Under the blaze of passion in his eyes, Zoë faltered. The unfamiliar sensations which had held her in thrall to him began to dissipate. This was Rolfe, she told herself. She loved him. And yet, her mouth went dry with fear. She had never seen that look in a man's eyes before. She had never been so aware of the sheer power of the male animal, and of her own vulnerability. Beneath her fingertips, she could feel the straining virility in the rigidly controlled muscles. Instinctively, weakly, she murmured, "Please, Rolfe.
No . . .
I can't . . ."

The change in him was instantaneous. His lashes swept down, veiling his expression. His body went rigid, then slowly relaxed. He opened his eyes and set her away from him. He chuckled. "So! You would rather accept the
carte blanche
of an honest rake, would you, kitten? Let that be a lesson to you, my girl. Look at you! You're shaking. And that was only a kiss."

She saw at once that she had made a blunder. Her natural fear of the first experience of a man's passion had led her to reject his lovemaking. "No," she said, protesting the thoughtless words which had turned him away from her.

He flicked her playfully on the nose. "Don't be alarmed, kitten. I have no intention of forcing myself on you."

"You don't understand," she cried out.

The screech of children's voices close at hand put an end to their conversation. Ladies Emily and Sara swooped out of a clump of bushes and bore down on them.

"Aunt Zoë, Aunt Zoë," lisped Lady Sara, "Tell Emily that it's my turn to be the angel!"

"No '
tisn't
. It's my turn," said Lady Emily.

"But I don't want to be the witch," wailed Lady Sara. Her huge, pleading eyes were fastened on Zoë. Tears welled up and overflowed. She gave a pathetic sniff. "Witches are horrid!" she said.

"No, they're not," contradicted Lady Emily. "Aunt Zoë is a witch."

Lady Sara rounded on her sister. "Aunt Zoë is not a witch! She's not! She's an angel! Tell her, Aunt Zoë!"

"What's this about angels and witches?" asked Rolfe, and scooped Lady Sara into his arms. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and proceeded to dry her wet cheeks.

"Sara's a watering pot," observed Lady Emily.

"I'm not a watering pot! I'm not," averred Lady Sara. She wriggled furiously. "Put me down, Uncle Rolfe. I'm a big girl. Only little girls get picked up." Rolfe obediently set Lady Sara on her feet.