The Questing Heart (15 page)

'So the icicle has melted at last,' he murmured hoarsely in her ear. 'There's only one thing to do now, little one.'

He picked her up as if she were a feather, strode across the room and dropped her on his tumbled bed. Indescribable sensations sent tremors through her limbs. Sheets of rain were coming down outside and the lightning was less continuous. He left her to close the window and impatient tug at-the curtains, then he turned back to her, leaving them half drawn.

Whether Clare would have actually allowed him to carry out his very obvious purpose, or whether she would have been shocked back into sanity when she realised her predicament, she was never to know. Excited as Chris was he would never attempt to force her, so the decision was hers. She did not have to make it.

A beam of light flooded the room from a powerful torch, catching Christopher's figure as he moved away from the window. A dark form was standing in the still open doorway, and with a thrill of horror Clare realised who it must be. She slid off the bed, her emotion ebbing away, dragging her dressing gown back over her shoulders. She retreated to the furthest corner of the room with the faint hope that the shadow of the armoire would conceal her if she stood beside it. It did not occur to her to defy the intruder, who had no more right there than herself, and she had a legitimate excuse in her fear of the storm. She was so appalled at being caught in such a compromising situation, and by her hostess of all people, that her wits deserted her.

For the moment all Violetta's attenuon was concentrated on Chris, whom she held transfixed in the light of the torch like a butterfly upon a pin. He folded his arms over his bare chest and demanded with something like a snarl :

'Can I have no privacy in this house?'

'It is a very bad storm,' Violetta returned coolly. 'My wing of the house has been struck. I came to see that all is well with you,
caro.'

She too had her excuse for her intrusion.

'I'm perfectly okay,' Christopher told her. 'You know a good storm always excites me. Shall I come and inspect the damage in your wing?'

He had moved in front of Violetta, who still stood just within the doorway, blocking her view of the room and at the same time snatching up his brocade robe which he had flung on a chair and shrugging his arms into it. The torch played on its rich sheen of black and gold.

'That would be very good of you, Cristofo. It is a terrifying thing to happen when one is all alone.' There was „ reproach in the husky, sexy voice. She had been alone because he had not come to her.

'After you, Vio,' Christopher said, and gently pushed her through the door.

Though the storm was passing away, lightning still flared at intervals; a particularly bright blaze lit up the room through the half-drawn curtains eclipsing the light from the torch. For a split second the trio were revealed in every detail, Chris tying the cord of his dressing gown about his waist, Violetta's pale face as she glanced back at him over her shoulder, whitened by the ghastly glare, her eyes enormous dark pits, and Clare standing beside the armoire, staring at her with anxious eyes. The room darkened, the thunder rolled, no longer cracking above their heads as it moved towards the sea. Violetta stepped back into the room and switched the beam of her torch on to Clare's shrinking figure.

'Mamma mia,
so that is why you would not come to me!' she exclaimed furiously. She continued to play the beam of the torch over Clare, and the girl drew herself up proudly. She would not let herself be intimidated.

Chris started to speak, but Signora Albanesi cut him short with a stream of abuse, which since it was in Italian Clare could not understand, though its purport was obvious.

'Basta!'
Chris thundered. He snatched the torch from Violetta's hand, snapping it off so that the room was plunged into darkness.

'I did not lease you the
castello
to provide you with a refuge for your amours!' Violetta accused him.

'You offered me accommodation here to do my writing,' Chris spoke quietly but firmly, 'while you embarked upon a cruise with Giorgio Gambetta, and you agreed I should bring my secretary. What your relations were with him was not my business, and when you arrived yesterday you told me he had let you down. But that was no excuse to come snooping up here without advising me of your intention and spoiling my concentration.'

'On her?' Violetta sneered.

'On my work, which is important.'

Outside the sky was turning grey as the clouds lifted and the summer dawn broke through. Clare could just distinguish their two dark shapes. Christopher was with difficulty containing his anger, but Violetta made no attempt to restrain hers.

'Naturally I supposed the secretary was a man, you mentioned a Mr Perry. Instead you have the effrontery-to bring your paramour.'

'Clare is nothing of the sort, she's a respectable, hardworking girl,' Chris declared. 'Mr Perry wasn't suitable, she's far more efficient, but my private arrangements aren't anything to do with you, Violetta.'

'What takes place under my roof is,' she retorted.

'Nothing has taken place to which you could possibly object,' he told her smoothly. Ironically it was Signora Albanesi's intervention that had prevented that, and Clare felt a wave of shame and humiliation as the other woman's words found their mark. Could she really have so far forgotten herself as to welcome Chris's advances?

'Clare came to me tonight because she was frightened of the storm,' Chris went on. 'You must admit it was enough to terrify anyone.'

'Dio mio,
do you think I am a fool?' Violetta stormed. 'You do not treat her as an
impiegata.
You use her first name, you demand that she eats with us ... in that dress ... and there is the way you look at her. I will not be insulted by her presence. You will send her away in the morning. She is a …' Violetta relapsed into her own tongue, spitting out a string of abusive names.

Clare put her hands over her ears, to shut out her raucous voice which rage made hoarse. Worn out by the succession of emotions she had experienced that day, she wanted to creep away and hide. Her dismissal was certain. Chris could not keep her at the castle in defiance of the owner's displeasure, nor did she want to stay. The camaraderie that had been between them was irretrievably broken by the night's events; he would come to despise her as she was beginning to despise herself.

She became aware that Violetta's flood of invective had been checked and Christopher was speaking.

'... keep a civil tongue in your head when you speak of the woman I intend to make my wife.'

Clare's hand dropped and she strained her eyes to see his face in the faint light. Violetta had become rigid with astonishment, then she laughed shrilly.

'Your wife? That nondescript creature! Your chivalry does you credit,
caro,
but you do not deceive me. You, a famous man in your own country, who could make an advantageous match, to wed a nobody! You cannot expect me to take you seriously.'

It was she, Clare Underwood, they were talking about, and Chris had adopted this ruse in an endeavour to protect her. She felt a rush of gratitude towards him, but Violetta was right, he could not be serious.

'Oh, but I am,' he insisted. He moved towards Clare and put a firm arm around her shoulders. 'We're
simpatico
and I find tier indispensable. Above all she is quiet and restful. A famous man, as you graciously call me, doesn't want an outstanding wife, he wants to hog all the limelight for himself.'

The last sentence was typical of Chris, and Clare knew he was hitting at Violetta, who would definitely not allow herself to be eclipsed by her husband.

'The poor little thing needs a masculine shoulder to lean upon,' Chris went on blithely, now beginning to enjoy himself. 'She rouses all my protective instincts. When she fled to me tonight I... er ... proposed. You'll be the first to congratulate us, Vio.'

Clare could sense Violetta's doubt and spite seeping through the dim room. Chris squeezed her shoulders reassuringly. He was aware of it too.

'You will advertise it when you leave here in the morning?' Violetta asked with honeyed venom. 'As is the custom, is it not?'

'I intend to send an announcement to the English papers as soon as we reach civilisation,' Christopher told her.

'Bene,
I will look out for it, but if you do not, I shall send a piece to the British press myself. "Secret Love Nest of Actor-Dramatist Revealed." You see I know your journalese jargon.'

'I doubt if my affairs are as much news as you imagine,' Chris told her. 'But I admire your ingenuity. It won't be necessary to stretch your invention that far. The announcement will be made.'

Clare thought he would keep his word ... and wriggle out of it as a future date. Meanwhile she leaned against him, thankful for his shielding presence. There was something primitive about Violetta's rage and she would not have put it past her to assault her. It matched the atmosphere of past violence that hung over the castle and the deeds perpetrated there had been done by her ancestors. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, the poet had said. But Clare was puzzled why Chris had repudiated his loving mistress, if she were his mistress, unless he was annoyed by her intrigue with Giorgio Gambetta, whoever he might be. That might have been the cause of a quarrel, and she had followed him seeking a reconciliation, as she had formerly suspected. They had had all day to effect it, but Chris's unwise insistence upon her own appearance at dinner had inflamed the woman's jealousy so much that finding Clare in his room she had exploded without regard to pride or dignity. Clare felt vaguely sorry for her.

'You will leave my house,' Violetta decreed. 'I cannot have you here after this... revelation!'

'We've no wish to stay where we're unwelcome,' Chris returned.

' The plural pronoun pricked Violetta afresh.

'Vada ... fuori... pronto!
' she spat at them.

'In this rain?' Chris protested. 'Vio, have a heart.'

The Signora calmed herself with an effort. 'Then go immediately after
prima collazione.
It shall not be said Violetta Albanesi turned even a dog out into the rain, even one such as you are. My torch, please.'

Violetta's dramatic exit was spoilt because Chris had dropped the torch and though the daylight was growing it was not sufficient to enable him to locate it. He went to the bedside table and struck a match. The candle he lit shone on the Signora's rich crimson robe, her plaits of red hair hanging down her back, finding a reflection in her dark passionate eyes. She is quite magnificent, Clare thought involuntarily, and marvelled that Christopher could withstand her.

He picked up the torch and handed it to her with a little bow.

'Thank you for your consideration, Violetta.'

'Pah!' She swept out of the room, and they heard the door into the corridor bang behind her.

'Charming!' Christopher observed sarcastically. 'A fine exhibition of primitive Italian! Violetta ought to be on the stage.' He turned to pull back the drawn curtains over the window and admit more of the wan light. Rain was streaming down the outside of the panes. 'There'll be no more fireworks tonight, Sparrow, either inside or out. You'd better go and get what sleep you can.'

'But Chris...' Clare's mind was seething with questions. 'Where can we go, and ... and ...'

She did not know how to put it, but surely he could not intend to continue with the masquerade he had presented to Signora Albanesi? If he did not, was there any danger in her threat? Violetta knew Christopher Raines was Cedric Radford, but could disclosures about his private life really harm him? Were not amorous episodes expected of people connected with the stage?

Chris passed his hand wearily across his brow.

'Go to bed, Clare, We'll sort things out tomorrow. If I'd any idea she wasn't yachting in the Med, I wouldn't have come here.'

Clare went from the room which was impregnated with the strong scent Violetta used so that her baleful presence still seemed to linger there. The thunder was only a distant roll, the lightning faded and barely perceptible in the strengthening dawn of a new day. Regaining her own room, she opened the window on the precipice side to admit the smell of new-washed earth, cool and refreshing after the heat.

She leaned on the sill staring down into the gulf filled with white mist into which the legend said a girl had hurled herself to escape dishonour. Then the enormity of what had nearly happened hit her like a blow. The Underwoods came of old Puritan stock and had brought her up to observe a strict morality. Though as she reached maturity she had kicked against it, for her colleagues at school had called it old-fashioned, she was still influenced by it, in spite of her desire to gain experience. She had never intended to go very far with her experiments, and she was innocently unaware of the strength of sexual desire, or had been until tonight. To her naive thinking that could only be justified if one loved and was beloved, and there had been no great love between her and Chris to excuse her conduct. Her feelings towards him were confused and contradictory. She loved him for his gaiety and generosity, but she deplored his frivolity and what seemed to her his easy morals. The events of the night had shocked her too badly to accept the whole man, finding his faults as endearing as his virtues, as was the case with true love, while as for Christopher, he did not love her at all.

He had only recently tired of his Italian inamorata, which was the conclusion to be drawn from the scene she had just witnessed, and how could she dream he would be any more faithful to her? She suspected Chris took women where and when they presented themselves if he were in the mood, as he had been that night. The hard truth was that she had offered a temporary distraction at a moment when he was excited by the storm and he had seen no reason to deny himself gratification as she had been apparently willing. He might even have thought that she had used the storm as an excuse to run to him in response to the hints he had given her. The thought made her writhe with shame.