An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (54 page)

“Pull the curtains,” Beatrice commanded. “Light the candles and bring me a fresh night robe from the closet.”

“Your Ladyship will not be going downstairs to dinner?” the maid asked.

“No, I shall dine here,” Beatrice replied. “Carry my apologies to the Duchess and order a bottle of claret with my dinner. Afterwards I will have brandy, command the wine butler to serve me the very best. I will not drink a raw spirit, as you well know.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

The maid glanced at Beatrice curiously with her small, deep-set eyes. She had served her now for nearly five years and she had grown to know the signs when something new was afoot. But her Ladyship was in a good temper tonight, and that was one thing for which to be thankful. She gave the messages and came back to find a fresh night robe as her Ladyship had commanded.

It was not as easy as it sounded. Robe after robe was discarded until at last one was approved of exquisite simplicity, made of lace so fine that it seemed that even a harsh breath would tear it. There was a negligée to match of lace trimmed with ribbons as soft as the petals of a magnolia.

Beatrice slipped off the robe of Chinese silk. Naked as the day she was born, she stood before the mirror.

She was perfect. There were no flaws in the exquisite curves of her breasts, or her thighs that tapered downwards to the high-arched insteps of her tiny feet. Her skin was the luminous colour of a pearl, so fine that she could see the pale blue veins in the soft hollows of her arms and knees.

She stood before the fire sensuously enjoying the heat, while the flames leaping high turned the cold purity of her pale body to a warm pulsating gold.

In the background the maid waited anxiously, hardly daring to move. Her Ladyship’s moods were as changeable as the weather.

At last with a little sigh Beatrice turned from the fire. A silver basin filled with hot scented water was ready for her, and when she had washed, her maid hurried forward with towels of fine linen bordered with precious lace. There were oils and perfumes, creams and powders to be applied, until at last like the sun slipping behind a cloud Beatrice veiled the beauty of her nakedness with the night robe of lace and sprinkled it with the fragrance of tuberose.

Now her hair must be arranged. A dozen times her maid dressed it, only to be cursed for her ineptness, and the long golden tresses were undone, to be brushed, combed and rearranged in another style. Finally Beatrice was satisfied. Her fair fell in great hoops on either side of her face, the ends pinned to her head by a comb set with diamonds. It made her look very young and very ethereal. There was, too, Beatrice believed, something innocent and unsophisticated both in her appearance and in the expression on her face.

It was, she thought, fitting that it should be so for until this moment was she not indeed innocent of love?

Dinner was brought to her and she ate and drank at a small table by the fireside, then she lay back in the chair, waiting for the hours to pass. She was not impatient, it seemed to her that she had waited all her life for this moment and that everything had led up to it.

At last the hands of the clock pointed to midnight. Far away in the depths of the castle she heard another clock strike and counted each stroke slowly and aloud. Then she rose and, taking one last look at herself in the mirror, lifted up the silver candlestick that had been placed by her bedside. Walking so softly that her feet made no sound and there was only the silky rustle of her robe trailing behind her, Beatrice moved down the passage from her bedroom until she reached the top of the main staircase.

The landing was in darkness and everything was very quiet, so quiet that Beatrice fancied she heard the beating of her own heart. Her maid had discovered the whereabouts of the Duke’s suite. It lay, she had told Beatrice, past the Duke’s room and down the passage leading to the Library.

The light of Beatrice’s candle flickered on the walls as she moved forward. There were portraits of bygone ancestors to stare at her as she passed by – a more beautiful apparition than any of them could be in their hauntings.

Beatrice reached the door of the library. Here she paused and looked down the passage. There was a light coming from under one door and she guessed that it was the Duke’s bedchamber, for it lay, as she had been told, adjacent to his private sitting room.

Very softly she opened the door of the library. The room was in darkness save for the feeble flicker of the dying fire. Setting her candlestick down on a table, Beatrice looked at the books lining the wall. From the shelf nearest her she chose one at random. It was of embossed leather, smelling slightly musty with dust and age.

Beatrice threw it on the floor, her lips parted and she gave a cry of terror and fear. Then precipitately she ran from the library and burst open the door of the Duke’s bedchamber. The candles were lit and the Duke was sitting on an armchair in front of the fire. He had taken off the embroidered coat he had worn at dinner, but he was still in his white lawn shirt with its lace jabot and in satin knee breeches.

He was not reading when Beatrice entered, but was staring into the fire, his red hair, which had been brushed clear of powder, vivid against the dark velvet upholstery. As the door burst open and Beatrice stood there, he started to his feet. Then as she staggered a little, her hands outstretched as if for support, he went towards her.

“Help – me !” Beatrice stammered weakly. “Pray – help me – for – I have seen – a ghost.”

She toppled forward and the Duke caught her in his arms. As he saved her from falling, her head fell back and the jewelled comb released her hair. It fell in a cascade of living gold over her white shoulders, and with a convulsive shudder Beatrice turned her face towards the Duke.

“Save me,” she whispered, her voice as broken and fearful as a little child.

11

The Duke carried Beatrice across the room to a sofa near the fire, but when he would have set her down she clung to him, crying,

“Hold me! Keep me safe! I beg of you.”

As if he had not heard, he laid her down and extricated himself skilfully from the white arms seeking to encircle his neck.

“I will fetch you a glass of wine, ma’am,” he said firmly, and turned to where decanters and glasses stood on a small table. Beatrice peeped at him from under her lashes, then as he carried the wine to her side, she lay still, her eyes closed.

The Duke waited.

Beatrice’s negligée, caught under her as she lay, was drawn taut against the lovely curves of her body and her hair cascaded over her half-naked shoulders to fall in a glorious golden disarray on the satin cushions of the sofa. After a moment, as the Duke said nothing, Beatrice’s eyelids fluttered and she looked up at him in a dazed and helpless fashion.

“Where am I?” she murmured, raising her long fingers to her forehead, and she added falteringly, “I think – I must have – fainted.”

“Will you drink this?” the Duke asked, holding out the glass of wine.

With what appeared a courageous effort Beatrice raised herself on one elbow and, putting out a trembling hand, took the glass from him. She took two or three sips, and then gave him a tiny, brave smile.

“I am sorry to be so – foolish,” she murmured.

“I will ring for your maid,” the Duke said, turning towards the mantelpiece beside which hung the bell rope.

“No, no,” Beatrice cried, “pray do not do that. The woman is indisposed and I sent her to bed some hours ago. That is why I was stupid enough to visit the library myself – in search of a book.”

“And when you were there, something frightened you?” the Duke asked.

Beatrice nodded, she shuddered and put her hand over her eyes.

“I saw something white and ghastly. Oh, but I cannot speak of it, it was so horrifying.”

“I doubt if it was a ghost,” the Duke said quietly. “A more possible explanation is that you saw your own reflection in a mirror.”

Beatrice raised herself further and her eyes were round.

“Do you mean that I look horrifying?” she asked.

“On the contrary,” the Duke replied gravely, “but you evidently did not allow yourself time to examine the apparition very closely. There is a mirror in the library almost directly opposite the door. I think, when you view the room in the morning light, you will decide that it was that which scared you.”

“How sensible you are!” Beatrice said. “And now I am ashamed. You must think that I am exceeding foolish and – stupid.”

“No, Lady Wrexham,” the Duke replied. “I have the greatest respect for your intelligence.”

His tone was dry and Beatrice gave him a sharp glance before, with a little exclamation of horror, she put her hand to her hair, pushing back the heavy tresses from her shoulders.

“My hair is unbound!” she exclaimed. “Oh dear, what a sight I must appear to you! My comb is lost too – where can it be?”

“It is over here,” the Duke said, and moving across the room to the place where he had lifted Beatrice in his arms, he picked up the curved tortoiseshell comb. He brought it to Beatrice, and when he held it out to her, her fingers curled not round the comb but round his own.

“You are very kind to me,” she said in a soft seductive voice.

The Duke made her a little bow before deliberately disengaging his hand from hers. For a moment their eyes met and Beatrice with a gesture of her hand indicated a chair near the sofa.

“Will you not sit down?” she asked. “You are so tall that I vow you almost frighten me. I want to talk to you, and why not now?”

The Duke glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and his eyes wandered towards the great State bed with its curtains of patterned silk, its ostrich plumage which touched the ceiling and the cipher on the headboard surmounted by a ducal coronet. On the dressing table and on the mantelpiece the candles were burning low and the shadows in the comers of the room were growing darker and more secretive.

“It is late,” the Duke replied after some seconds. “Your Ladyship is doubtless upset by your unfortunate experience in the library. Would it not be wiser to postpone our conversation until tomorrow?”

Beatrice smiled, and the parting of her lips was very enticing.

“Are you afraid of me – or for your reputation?”

“Neither,” the Duke replied. “I was thinking entirely of your Ladyship’s well-being.”‘

“That is very gracious of you,” Beatrice replied, “but I still desire that we should talk together now, when there is no hurry, the house is quiet and we are – alone.”

Her voice caressed the last word and the Duke without further argument seated himself but a few feet away from her. He crossed one leg over the other, rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and locked his fingers together. The lace at his wrists fell back to reveal his hands, shapely and well cared for, but giving those who looked closely an impression of unusual strength.

Beatrice watched him and her eyes went from his hands to his face, serious and attentive, but otherwise expressionless. Impulsively she bent forward and laid her hand on his knee.

“What are you thinking?” she asked.

“I was but waiting for your Ladyship to speak to me,” the Duke replied.

“Are you curious to know what I have to say?”‘

“Naturally it interests me.”

“And if I tell you it concerns yourself?”

“I should still be interested.”

“It also concerns me.”

“I imagined that was probable,” the Duke said.

Beatrice took her hand from off his knee and sat up. She swung her feet in their tiny satin slippers to the ground, then she pulled her negligée around her – a pretty gesture although if it was an attempt at modesty it had no effect in making her appear more clothed. She patted the sofa beside her.

“Come and sit here,” she said invitingly. “What I have to say cannot be shouted, for indeed it is for your ear alone.”

The Duke rose to his feet, but he did not move towards the sofa, instead, he walked to the mantelpiece to stand for an instant looking down at the flames, his back to Beatrice.

Then he turned to face her.

“Lady Wrexham,” he said, “I have an idea that you are going to speak of what is best left unsaid. You are here as my stepmother’s guest, and it is best that politics and things of grave import should not be discussed between us. We might agree on such matters, but on the other hand we might disagree, and I would not have the enjoyment of your visit to Skaig in any way disrupted.”

Beatrice laughed. It was a soft musical sound.

“Are you so sure it was of politics I wished to speak tonight?” she asked.

The Duke’s eyes met hers steadily.

“I am convinced that was your Ladyship’s intention,” he said, “but the Marquis of Severn’s views are, I assure you, well known both to me and to many of my countrymen.”

Beatrice sighed.

“For a clever man you are singularly obtuse. The Marquis of Severn does not enter into this conversation.”

“On the contrary, I consider him a very important factor in it.”

The Duke’s words were slow and fraught with meaning. In answer Beatrice bowed her head, her hair gleaming in the firelight, two great rippling strands falling forward almost to touch the floor. Then with a sudden gesture she flung back her head.

“What would you say,” she asked, and her voice was young and breathless, “if I told you that the Marquis no longer concerned me personally?”

“I should of course believe you,” the Duke replied, “but I should wonder if you were wise in making such a momentous decision.”

“Wise?” Beatrice queried.

“Yes, wise,” the Duke replied. “For, as you do not need me to tell you, Lady Wrexham, the Marquis is a man of great influence and authority. I should be sorry if anyone, even a woman as beautiful and talented as yourself, incurred the enmity of the most powerful man in England.”

“I am not afraid of him,” Beatrice said. “Once his opinions and approval mattered to me, but something has occurred which has changed everything that I feel, think or care about – yes everything. Can you not guess what that is?”