Love Bade Me Welcome (25 page)

Being dead across from Homer, it was inevitable my eyes would settle on him from time to time. He looked at home to a peg at the head of his table. I could not picture Norman there half so well. The neighbors listened to their host not only with respect, but with genuine interest and enthusiasm. Our servants had not liked Norman. Those changes of mood made them uncertain. They never knew whether they would be joked or scolded, which made them timid.

Homer had used a despicable means to achieve his end, but having achieved it, he carried it off in good style. Perhaps he had convinced himself he did the right thing to bring the tainted branch of his family to a demise. And if he truly believed that, he was as mad as Norman, and a criminal to boot.

As these thoughts and feelings occupied me, he looked down the table. Seeing my thoughtful expression, he frowned, cocking his head, as though to say, “What is the matter, my dear?” I had come to know him well enough to read his mind. So I smiled softly, then he was at ease, and turned to speak to his partner.

After dinner some of the younger guests wished to go to the barn to watch the servants dancing, and doubtlessly to join in, once away from their parents. Homer too went, as he had told me he planned to. The older neighbors had card tables set up, and suddenly I found myself alone with Bulow.

“We could hear the music from the west verandah, if we went there and opened the windows,” he suggested.

“Let’s,” I said eagerly.

I felt sad, to have to miss out on the music and dancing at the barn. Having mixed with society after my long months of solitude, I wanted to cast off all traces of mourning and return to life. It was hard to go on mourning a madman. I was lonesome, and tired of being alone.

The colored lanterns around the rose garden were lit. After the card game, I knew Homer planned to serve punch and some light refreshment there. Bulow threw open some of the windows, and the raucous strains of the musicians’ tunes wafted towards us. Country dances were the order of the day.

“What a splendid moon!” he exclaimed, sticking his head out the window. A great globe shone down on us. “A full moon,” he added. “What lunacy will it cause the young romantics before the night is over, I wonder. Come and look at it, Davinia,”

I went to another window, to avoid a too close contact with him, but he outwitted me, coming to stand behind me, with his hands on my arms. “Is it me you’re afraid of, or the moon?” he asked, bending his head down close to mine, speaking directly into my ear, in a way that caused a pleasant shiver.

“Neither one,” I said briskly, moving my head away. An amused, tolerant little chuckle escaped his lips.

“That’s not very flattering!”

“I never heard of a moon attacking anyone. As to yourself, why should I be afraid of you, Bulow?”

“You’re quite right. You shouldn’t be,” he answered, sliding his arms around my waist and tightening them in a way that frightened me quite dreadfully. My heart hammered, for I knew what would come next. What was most frightening of all, I wanted it to happen. His arms holding me against him, his soft caress on my hair, sliding down to my ears, filled me with old sensations, stirred dormant memories best left sleeping. “You’re not a young girl, after all. You are an experienced woman. Don’t you miss Norman, miss his lovemaking? Widows do, they say.”

The music stopped. Suddenly his caressing, insinuating voice was the only sound, save for a few echoes floating up from the barn. He began kissing my neck, sending shivers along my spine.

“Stop it, Bulow,” I said, my voice lacking any conviction.

“Say please,” he teased, his lips descending to the hollows of my neck. I felt his head against my neck, while his fingers massaged my back with easy familiarity. I closed my eyes, and for about ten seconds of wonderful misery enjoyed the sensations he aroused. Suddenly the music resumed. It was no noisy country dance this time, but a plaintive waltz.

“Let’s dance, Bulow,” I said, to break away the frightening intimacy that was fast developing. “No one will see us here.”

“A good idea.”

He turned me around into his arms. The haunting strains of a Strauss melody, more beautiful for coming from afar, almost like fairy music, surrounded us. Bulow was a graceful dancer; his body might have been created for the waltz. His arm held me lightly as we spun and whirled around the verandah. The dancing lanterns traced patterns on the wall, the floor, even our faces. It was an enchanted, magical moment, when anything seemed possible. We swirled and whirled, faster, faster, till our heads were spinning, without once missing a step. We were like two parts of one body, acting in unison, made not of mortal flesh and bones, but of moonbeams and magic vapors. I let my head fall back.

“Your face is red. Now blue!” I exclaimed, laughing for sheer animal joy.

He stopped dancing, jerking me closely against him. “Have you any idea how beautiful you are?” he asked, his voice husky.

“Don’t spoil it,” I pleaded, pushing him off, but it was already spoiled, the enchanted moment past. Moonbeams and magic vapors had turned to flesh and hot blood. I knew that look of passion that had taken possession of his features. I tried to think of some mundane subject, to bring him to earth. “Norman used to love Strauss,” I said. “We...”

“Norman is dead, Davinia. He’s gone. Isn’t it time you accepted that fact? He’s gone, and we’re here. You, young and beautiful, and infinitely desirable. I, young and infinitely desiring. I could fall in love with you without even trying. Shall I?” he asked playfully.

“Miss Crofft might have something to say about that.”

“Never mind Miss Crofft. What has Miss Davinia to say?”

“The name is Mrs.
...
” I began, but never finished my prissy little speech. He grabbed me into his arms; his lips came down swift and hard and hot on mine. His arms molded me to his firm, male body. I made one effort to disengage myself, which only served to tighten his hold and increase his ardor. Mine rose along with it, fired by the fat white moon, the gentle breezes, carrying that insidious melody, the dancing, flickering colored lights.

A heat grew in me, spreading from lips to bosom to loins with fatal speed. I clung to him, returning every ruthless pressure of his arms and lips, aflame with a passion too long denied. I was giddy with a new lust for life and love, hungry for a man’s love and passion. At that moment, any man would have done. An elemental force possessed me. It was a long, heady, heart-destroying embrace that left me panting. When it was done, I clung to him, hearing my shallow breaths blend with his.

He was going to say he loved me, that he wanted to marry me. How strange. Half an hour before, I was sure he wanted no more than a flirtation, but that kiss spoke of love. Surely it must be love. A love born of physical desire, but love. I felt his body stiffen before I noticed the direction of his stare. Turning to follow it, I saw Homer’s rigid body framed in the doorway. I felt like a criminal.

“Am I, by any chance, intruding?” he asked, in an angry, tight voice. I jumped guiltily away from Bulow.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Bulow drawled easily, with a mocking smile. He was
enjoying
it! He clung to my fingers, though the distance now between us made it awkward. I wanted to melt and disappear into the floor cracks.

“Leave us, Davinia,” Homer ordered. There was no trusting the glare he directed on his cousin. If I ever doubted him capable of murder, that look convinced me.

“Stay, my love,” Bulow parried. “She doesn’t belong to you yet, Homer. We know you are overly eager to sweep up all Norman’s possessions.”

“Get out of my house,” Homer ordered.

“What pleasure it gives you to be able to say it at last, eh Coz?
Your
house, and never mind how you got it.”

“Meaning?”

“Why, there is no point in making accusations that cannot be proven, so I shall say no more.” He looked at me, a warning look. I wished he had not spoken, but at least he had got a rein on his temper, and discretion.

“Shall I humor the fellow?” he asked me, smiling. “Yes, it will be best to continue this discussion at another time. We don’t want to scandalize a polite party.” He gave me a long, sweet smile, ignoring Homer entirely. Then he lifted my fingers to his lips and kissed them. “Till tomorrow, my love,” he said, surely to provoke Homer. “I’ll take a stroll down to the barn, and see you later.”

On that cavalier speech, he turned and sauntered out, making his exit from the door that led directly outdoors, to avoid Homer, at the other door that led into the house. It was a wise move. I did not think he would get past his cousin unmolested. I was left alone to confront Homer.

“I am not
much surprised that Bulow would behave with an utter lack of propriety, but I must say I am surprised at
you,
Lady Blythe,” was his opening blast. He advanced at a slow, measured stride, his body stiff as a board.

“It’s not what you think,” I said defensively, angry with myself for feeling guilty.

“Very likely it is not what
you
think either. If you believe you have a hope in hell of weaning him from Miss Crofft, you are mistaken. He has this day spoken to her father. It is true the parents were not delighted with a young man who has made so little of his inheritance, but they did not forbid the match outright. He’s weasel enough to get himself accepted. Miss Crofft is a considerable heiress, you know.”

If it was true, it was very wrong of Bulow to try to seduce me, and if it was not true, it was wrong of Homer to lie. In either case, I was being duped by someone, and my reaction was naturally not pleasant or mild. “In that case, I’m surprised
you
haven’t tried your luck with her,” I shot back sharply. “But then of course you wouldn’t stand much chance against Bulow.”

“I don’t have to marry for money.”

“No, you contrived to get it by other means,” I said, too angry to be discreet.

“That’s the second time this evening my inheriting Wyngate has been mentioned in a highly questionable way. ‘Accusations that cannot be proven,’ I believe was Bulow’s phrase. May I know what these vague ‘accusations’ are based on?”

He towered over me, his temper lending a menacing expression to his face. I backed away, frightened of what he knew, or would find out. There was an implacable set to his shoulders that told me he meant to get an answer. “Bulow said it. I didn’t.”

“You repeated it. What do you mean? What are you suggesting? You might as well make a clean breast of it. You’re not leaving till you have explained this to my satisfaction.”

I sought wildly for some explanation that would let me free. And if I escaped with my skin this night, I wouldn’t wait for Mrs. Winton either. I would harness my team and go home alone tomorrow. I was playing with death, staying here. “I don’t know what he meant.”

“Don’t
lie
to me!” His hands were on my arms, in a hold that would leave bruises.

I had to say something, satisfy his rabid curiosity, but dared not admit my worst suspicions. “If you must know, I didn’t fall down the windmill stairs. I was pushed.” This could never be proven, so it did not really put him in danger.

He stood stock still, staring, his face a petrified mask of bewilderment. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner? Are you sure?”

“Why should I have told you? You wouldn’t have believed me,” I invented quickly.

“
But
Bulow
believed you! You two soul mates are so closely attuned that you will run to him, but you won’t tell
me.
You were living under my roof, under my protection. It was for
me
to look into this charge.”

He glared, then a questioning frown formed between his brows. It was slowly replaced by astonishment. “You think it was me!” His voice was light, high, incredulous. “That’s why you didn’t speak. That’s why you’ve been recoiling from me, as though I were a reptile. Don’t deny it!”

“I’m not denying it. I
do
think you pushed me, but I have no proof, so I’m no menace to you. I can’t prove you killed my unborn child, but no one else stands to gain anything, and I
was
pushed. I’ll tell you quite truthfully, I’m glad my child did not inherit Wyngate, or I’d go in fear of his life. You got clean away with it, Homer. I can’t prove anything, so I don’t mean to bother telling anyone. There would be no point. So long as you don’t arrange any
more
accidents...” The murderous sneer he wore cast me into a spasm of fear.

“According to your tale, I have gained my foul end. I trust Wyngate was the object of this hypothetical accident? Don’t you think it might have been more logical for me to wait and make sure it was a son you had, and not a daughter? Even such a monster as I would not engage in unnecessary slaughter of infants, surely. Or do I do it for the sheer entertainment? What cunning ruse have you dreamed up to prevent me?”

“Bulow knows everything. He’ll go to the police if anything happens to me. You’ve got what you wanted. You got clean away with murdering Norman—
Norman’s son,”
I corrected wildly, when I heard what had slipped out in my excitement and fear.

“Did I murder Norman as well?” he asked sarcastically. “How did I arrange that one? Truth to tell, I have wondered, upon occasion, whether you didn’t slip him a dose of something yourself, when you learned he was a lunatic. Especially when you had the hope of giving birth to an heir. I’ve always found that story of his having eaten poison berries in January just a bit thick. Who
did
bake up the cake that killed him, Davinia?”

“Cake? What do you mean?” It was as good as a confession. How did he know the poison had been in the cake, if he hadn’t put it there?

“I had his body exhumed. You agreed to it, unwittingly, when you gave Rupert your power of attorney to go searching for the jewels. Imagine my astonishment when we actually found them. It helped convince me you were innocent. The belladonna was in a plum cake he ate the day he died. That same one you shared with him—you remember telling me the touching tale, no doubt. Extremely odd
your
piece did not contain any.” He stopped, waiting for me to speak, but I was unable to.