The Temptation of Torilla (19 page)

It was as marvellous and Divine as the kiss he had given her before, but now it was more intense, more poignant, and she knew that her love was a force that had grown so strong that it was like a tempestuous sea or a burning fire.

‘I love you! I love you!’ she wanted to cry out.

But the Marquis’s lips drew her heart from her body and made it his and there was nothing in the world but him and he was Love itself.

Only after a long, long time did he raise his head to say in a voice deep and unsteady,

“My precious, my little love, I thought I had lost you.”

“Oh, Gallen!”

She hid her face as she spoke against his shoulder and the tears were running down her face from sheer happiness.

“It is all right my darling,” the Marquis said. “It is all over,”

He kissed her hair as he added

“I am so grateful, so unspeakably grateful, that the agony has passed and we can be together.”

“To-gether?”

Torilla echoed the words through her tears.

Then he kissed her again, a long slow possessive kiss, which made her feel as if her whole body melted into his –

Some time later they sat at a small table and ate and drank, although what it was Torilla had no idea.

She could only look at the Marquis and feel that she was held captive by the expression in his eyes.

She had not known it could be possible for him to look so young, so happy and so carefree. The lines of cynicism had gone and there was a radiance in his face that she knew was echoed by hers.

It was even difficult to speak. They could only look at each other and feel as if they had died and been reborn. Once Torilla put out her hand to touch the Marquis.

“You are really – here?” she asked.

“That is what I want to say to you, my wonderful, beautiful perfect little love.”

When the meal was over, the Marquis drew Torilla to her feet and, holding her by the hand, he walked from the private room along the passage to the yard.

She saw that his phaeton was waiting there drawn by the superb chestnut horses she had seen were his when she was at
The Pelican Inn
.

Now there was no groom, only the ostlers from the inn were at the horses’ heads.

Torilla tied the ribbons of her bonnet under her chin and, only as she did so, did she exclaim,

“My luggage! It was on the stagecoach.”

The Marquis smiled.

“My servants have already taken it on ahead of us.”

He helped Torilla up into the phaeton, climbed up himself, threw two golden guineas to the delighted ostlers and then they were off, bowling at a tremendous speed along the road leading North.

Only when they were clear of the houses and out in the green countryside did Torilla ask,

“Where are we going?”

“First to visit my mother,” the Marquis replied. “I must tell you she is absolutely convinced it was her prayers alone that brought Rodney Marsden back from the grave and saved me from a loveless marriage.”

Torilla turned her head to look at him and he went on,

“I expect you realised that after I was saved by fate or prayer, I left London immediately to take my mother home.”

“I did not – think of your doing – that,” Torilla said in a low voice.

The Marquis looked surprised.

“Then what did you imagine had happened to me, my darling?”

There was a pause before Torilla said hesitatingly,

“I – thought perhaps you did not – want me any more.”

“I will tell you how much I want you and need you,” the Marquis replied, “tonight after we are married!”

She looked at him in a startled fashion as he added,

“You must realise, my precious heart, that we have to be very circumspect and very secret about our wedding. I will not have you gossiped about.”

“And we can really be – married tonight?”

Now Torilla’s eyes were like stars and there was a note in her voice that made the Marquis say,

“If you look at me like that, I shall be unable to drive carefully and we will have an accident!”

Torilla gave a little laugh of sheer happiness and, moving closer to him, laid her cheek against his arm.

“Can I really marry – you so – quickly?” she asked.

“It is all arranged,” the Marquis answered. “We will be married in my own Chapel at The Castle by my Chaplain, and the only witness will be my mother. No one will know anything about it for some months.”

“It sounds too wonderful!” Torilla cried – and she knew the Marquis felt the same.

They drove along almost in silence until the Marquis drew his team to a standstill and she saw a little way to the left of them across a winding river The Castle set amid the green foliage of protective trees.

She had expected it to be impressive, but it looked enormous, its grey stone silver in the sunshine, the Marquis’s flag flying from the highest tower.

He did not speak, but his eyes were on her face and after a moment Torilla said in a low voice,

“I shall not be a – brilliant Social hostess.”

“No?” the Marquis questioned.

“I shall not be – sophisticated or – witty.”

“No?” he said again.

She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly troubled.

“I have – nothing to give you but – love.”

He held the reins in one hand and put his arm round her.

“Do you think I want anything else?” he asked, his voice deep and passionate.

His lips touched hers and she felt his fiery desire on them.

Then he whipped up his horses and they moved off at a pace that told her he was impatient for what lay ahead.

They went first to the Dower House, which lay at the far end of the Park surrounding the Castle.

Grooms appeared to run to the horses’ heads and the Marquis helped Torilla down and led her into the house. For the first time she felt a little apprehensive at meeting the Marquis’s mother.

Supposing she did not think her good enough for her son? Suppose she had other plans for him now that he was free again?

The Marquis opened a door and there sitting in the sunlight of a bow window, Torilla saw a grey-haired woman with a face that somehow reminded her of her own mother.

There was the same sweetness of expression, the same kindness in her eyes, the same smile of welcome.

The Dowager Marchioness was looking at her son and he said in a voice that was unmistakably proud,

“I have brought Torilla to meet you, Mama.”

“I have been so greatly looking forward to this moment, my dear,” the Dowager Marchioness replied, then she held out both hands to Torilla.

*

Torilla walked hand in hand with her husband in a garden that was brilliant with flowers. They filled the air with fragrance and formed an indescribably beautiful kaleidoscope of colour.

The sun was hot on their heads and it was a relief when the Marquis drew her under the shade of the trees that bordered the lawns.

A path wound its way through the silver beeches, which had a fairy-like appearance about them. Then the wood grew thicker and the sun could only percolate through the branches above them in tiny patches of gold.

“Where are you taking me, darling Gallen?” Torilla asked.

Her voice had a caressing note in it so that every word she uttered seemed an endearment.

“To a very special place,” the Marquis replied. ‘It is where Mama told me she and Papa used to rest in the afternoon when they were on their honeymoon.”

The house where the Marquis and Torilla were staying had been given to them as a wedding present by the Dowager Marchioness.

She had explained to Torilla why she had done so.

“My husband and I spent our honeymoon there,” she said in her soft, sweet voice, “and we were so ideally happy that afterwards he bought it from the friends who had lent it to us, and we kept it as a special place where we could be alone.”

There was a reminiscent look in her eyes as she went on,

“Whenever Gallen’s father was tired or seemed to have so many important things to do that it encroached upon our time together, we used to go there alone.”

She smiled before she continued,

“It is a place where we talked only of love and ourselves, and to me it will therefore always be the most wonderful place I have ever known.”

The moment Torilla reached the house with the Marquis, she had known that it would mean as much in their lives as it had in his father’s and mother’s.

Built of warm welcoming red brick, it was a very old house with a garden that was a paradise of beauty and the whole atmosphere seemed redolent of love.

They had stayed the first night after they were married at The Castle.

Then they set off, the Marquis driving his magnificent chestnuts, on their honeymoon.

Every minute they were together was so wonderful, that Torilla thought at the end of every day it would be impossible to love the Marquis more than she did already, only to find each morning that she had been mistaken.

Walking through the wood with him now she knew there was no need to ask him if he was happy.

She had not thought it possible for anyone to look so different from the way he had done before and in consequence even more handsome, more irresistibly attractive.

Suddenly ahead of them there was a deep forest pool with the water as green as the trees reflected in it.

There were golden flowers around it and water lilies with their wax-like petals lying on flat green leaves.

At the side of the pool there was a small arbour covered with roses and honeysuckle in which Torilla found, when they reached it, there was a large comfortable couch with many cushions.

“This is lovely, and so cool away from the heat of the sun!” she exclaimed.

She sat down on the couch as she spoke and found that it extended so that she could raise her feet and lie back against the cushions.

The Marquis pulled off his tight-fitting coat and threw it on the ground.

Then he stood at the edge of the pool searching for the fish that swam beneath the leaves of the water lilies.

He was wearing only a thin white lawn shirt and Torilla looked at his square shoulders and his body tapering down to his slim hips in their tight yellow pantaloons.

‘No man could be more attractive,’ she thought, ‘and he is mine – all mine – as I am his.’

As if, as always, he knew what she was thinking, the Marquis turned to throw himself down on the couch beside her.

“What conclusions have you come to?” he asked.

Torilla gave a little laugh.

“I would not want to make you conceited.”

“I am the most conceited and the proudest man in the world because you say you love me.”

“It is not what I say – it is what I – feel. I love you with my heart – my mind – my soul – I am all yours.”

“My darling little wife.”

The Marquis’s voice was moved and he took Torilla’s hand in his and kissed it, his lips lingering on each finger and finally on the soft palm.

It was very quiet and still and there was only the sound of bees taking the pollen from the roses and the honeysuckle.

“No place could be more perfect!” Torilla murmured.

“That is what you are, my sweet,” the Marquis answered. “Perfect in every way. Oh, my darling, I worship you! I think you are the only good woman I have ever known.”

“You must not say that,” Torilla protested, “and I am not good. You will never know how hard it was for me not to agree to what you asked, not to go away with you, because without you there was only darkness and utter loneliness.”

“But you refused me,” the Marquis said.

Torilla remembered the letter she had torn up in the middle of the night.

“I was very – very – tempted to change my – mind,” she whispered.

“And yet you did not do so because you thought it would be wrong.”

“But I – wanted you so –
desperately
.”

“As I wanted you,” the Marquis answered, “and yet I knew, deep in my heart, you would do what was right, because it would be impossible for you to do anything else.”

“We have been so lucky, so very, very lucky,” Torilla said, “and that is why, my wonderful husband, we must try to help other people to find happiness as we have found ours.”

She paused to ask,

“You are happy?”

“Do I need to answer such a foolish question?” the Marquis replied.

Raising himself on his elbow he looked down at her.

His eyes searched her face and after a moment she asked,

“Why are you – looking at me like – that?”

“I am trying to find out what makes you so different from every other woman I have ever known,” he answered. “You are breathtakingly beautiful, my darling, but it is so much more than that.”

He put out his hand as he spoke and with his finger traced the smooth oval of her forehead.

“Such a wise little head,” he said, as if he spoke to himself.

The he touched first one of her eyebrows, then the other.

“Like birds’ wings,” he murmured, “carrying a message for those who have ears to hear.”

“What sort of message?” Torilla asked.

“Of inspiration, as you inspire me, of sympathy and, of course, of hope. That is what I thought I had lost as I walked up the aisle behind Beryl.

“I was suffering the agonies of the damned,” the Marquis added, “I knew I had no one to blame but myself and the punishment fitted all the many crimes I had committed.”

“What – crimes?”

“You will never know. They are all in the past. In the future I shall be a model of virtue, not that it will be difficult because I have no wish to be anything but what you want me to be.”

“I adore you – just as – you are.”

“How could I have guessed,” he went on, “how could I have known that morning when I felt like a man leaving the condemned cell that Rodney Marsden, and of course my mother’s prayers, would come to our rescue?”

“We must not think about it,” she said. “Sometimes, when I wake up in the night in your arms, I am afraid it is all a wonderful dream and I shall find myself back at Barrowfield with only the smell of coal dust and the darkness of the mine.”

“All that is over,” the Marquis said firmly. “We have a lot to do, my precious, in going round my possessions – and there are quite a number of them – to see that no one is suffering unnecessarily and there are no more horrors of which I am in ignorance.”