Evening Star

by Catherine Coulter

  An elegant black brow arched upward. “Indeed, sir? Pray sit down, Mr. Saxton. Would you care for a glass of sherry, perhaps?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Alex watched her walk gracefully to the sideboard and pour the wine from a crystal decanter. He wondered, yet again, if he weren’t being a total and complete ass. Giana could not have been more specific. She never wanted to see him again. She did not wish to marry him, and in her mind, she had released him from any obligation he might feel. But dammit, he had dishonored her, and she, stubborn little fool that she was, would simply have to realize that there was no choice for either of them. He accepted the glass from Mrs. Van Cleve and sipped at it.

  “From your own vineyard, Mrs. Van Cleve?”

  “Yes, Mr. Saxton. This particular sherry is from Pamplona.”

  Aurora seated herself opposite him and waited patiently for him to get to the point of his visit. When the silence lengthened, she said with cool impatience, “Giana is in Folkestone, visiting friends.”

  “No,” he said. “Giana was with me in Folkestone.”

  Aurora felt her stomach plummet to her toes, though she showed no outward sign of astonishment. “I see,” she said carefully. “If that is so, Mr. Saxton, why aren’t you with her now?”

  “She left me there. I had assumed that she would return here, indeed, that perhaps she had told your butler to lie to me.”

  “But I have told you Giana is not here.” Her eyes held his, and though her mind was racing, she continued calmly enough, “Perhaps, sir, you had best tell me what happened.”

  Alex rose restlessly from the sofa and paced the floor in front of her. He turned to face her suddenly and rapped out, “I was the man who bought Giana four years ago in Rome at the Flower Auction.”

  “The Flower Auction?” Aurora repeated blankly. “I don’t know what you are saying, Mr. Saxton.”

  “The Flower Auction, Mrs. Van Cleve, is an event held for wealthy gentlemen every few months in Rome. I attended the function toward the end of the summer. Your daughter, ma’am, was one of the virgins who was to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. It was I who bought her. Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on your point of view, I was struck over the head, and awoke in an alley. I searched for her the next day, and for the old man I believed struck me, but she had vanished. I did not see her again until we met in your conference room. I hope, Mrs. Van Cleve, that you can imagine my confusion and my ire.”

  Aurora paled before his eyes. Dear God, what had Daniele forced Giana to do? Sold at an auction? She raised appalled eyes to his face. “I would imagine, Mr. Saxton, that the old man was her uncle, Daniele Cippolo. He would have struck you to protect my daughter.”

  “This is beginning to sound like some ludicrous melodrama.”

  “Mr. Saxton, what have you done to Giana? Where is she?”

  “I don’t know where she is at the moment,” Alex said quietly, “but I must find her. I want her to marry me.”

  “Marry you?”

  The self-assured Aurora Van Cleve was regarding him with bewilderment. “Mrs. Van Cleve,” he said, sitting down beside her, “I see that I should tell you everything.” He did, beginning with that night at the Flower Auction. He told her of his fury at seeing Giana again, the daughter of the famous Aurora Van Cleve. “So you see, ma’am, I threatened her into my bed. It was a debt she owed me, a debt I was determined she should pay. Please do not imagine a sordid seduction scene.” For the first time, he smiled slightly, his features relaxing. “Giana came down with the influenza, but she didn’t tell me—why, I still do not really know. I will not lie to you, ma’am. I took your daughter, and at first, she wanted me. Unfortunately, her illness and my exuberance combined to make quite a farce of the evening.” He stared down at his hands, clasped together between his knees. “You needn’t worry about her illness now. She was feeling much better by the time she left this morning. She wrote me this note.” Alex dug into his waistcoat pocket and handed the folded square of paper to Aurora.

  Aurora read Giana’s brief letter once quickly, then again, more slowly. When she raised her eyes to his face, he said, “Your daughter doesn’t mince matters, does she, ma’am? But in this instance, she is being an irresponsible little fool. I am not pretending to be in any way the gift horse, Mrs. Van Cleve, it is just that I will not let another suffer for an ill I myself caused. You must tell me where she is. I will convince her, you may be certain.”

  “You are telling me, sir, that you blackmailed my daughter into your bed, and now, with your man’s pride, you blithely expect her to fall into your arms?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said quietly. “That’s about it, I expect.”

  Aurora took a deep breath to compose herself. Giana, she guessed, had escaped to Cornwall, to the small cottage near Penzance that had once belonged to Aurora’s father. “No, Mr. Saxton,” she said quietly, “I will not tell you where she is, though I do have a good notion of her destination. She seems, from her note, not to wish to have anything more to do with you. I will bow to her judgment.”

  “Judgment? The little chit has so little sense she deserves to be thrashed. Mrs. Van Cleve, she wasn’t completely well when she left Folkestone this morning.”

  “You appear to nourish strong feelings toward my daughter, Mr. Saxton.”

  “I freely admit it, ma’am. I have no intention of being refused by a headstrong, silly girl who seems to have no idea of the consequences.”

  “Forgive me, Mr. Saxton, but Giana knows the consequences quite well. I have found myself wishing sometimes that she would be nothing more than a silly girl again, if but for a day.”

  Alex gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment. “You appear to know something about the summer I saw her in Rome. Giana refused to tell me much about it, merely chirped that it was all a mistake and that she had not been at fault. Nothing more.”

  “Yes, Mr. Saxton,” Aurora said quietly. “I know about Rome, at least I thought I did. I was responsible for her being there that summer.”

  “I am tired of games, Mrs. Van Cleve,” Alex said, his voice thick with impatience. “Are you saying that you sent your seventeen-year-old daughter to a brothel?”

  Dear God, could that be true? “I suppose you deserve the truth, Mr. Saxton, at least the truth as I know it. Do drink your sherry; indeed, I think I will join you. This will take a while . . .

  “So you see,” Aurora concluded some time later, “I entrusted her to Daniele, but our agreement was that he was only to have her converse with prostitutes, learn from them about the other side of life. Had I ever imagined such a thing as a Flower Auction, I might have thrown her into Randall Bennett’s hungry arms. I am still not sure. She asked me never to look into the particulars of that summer. The changes in her were obvious. She has avoided any entanglements with younger men and has thrown her considerable energies into the business. What I do not understand is why she didn’t tell me about you.”

  “She may have feared you would kick my American hide out of London and destroy the merger.”

  “Your hide is still in jeopardy, Mr. Saxton. Let me ask you a question. Would you have attempted to ruin us if Giana had turned you down?”

  “Why no, of course not. I wanted my revenge, and it seemed the way to ensure it. Of course, I tried to be quite persuasive with Giana.” He paused a moment, frowning into his glass of sherry. “Your daughter can be every bit as ruthless as I, ma’am. I believe she never imagined that I would come here. If she had, she might have tried to stick a knife in my ribs. I am beginning to believe that she came with me to Folkestone because she wanted to, and I gave her the perfect excuse. You must tell me where she is. I will ensure she comes to her senses.”

  Aurora remembered Giana telling her she had desired a man in Rome. It could not have been anyone but him. She had seen her daughter’s eyes when she was with him. Giana felt something for him, of that Aurora had been certain from the first day he arrived. She could not escape the feeling
that Giana would have a great deal to say to him if he had the chance to mull it out with her. But she could not betray her daughter, no matter what she thought. “I will not tell you. If Giana feels anything for you, she will come to you of her own accord. I will not pressure her to wed if there is no caring, if there is only that awful motive, duty. You are an American, Mr. Saxton. Giana is an Englishwoman to the tips of her fingers. And that would be the very least of your problems. No, Giana must do what she feels best. I will not interfere.”

  Alex rose. “Then I will find her myself, Mrs. Van Cleve.”

  Aurora watched him stride from the library, her brow furrowed in thought. “I wish you luck, Mr. Saxton,” she said under her breath.

  She chewed on a hapless fingernail for several minutes, for she knew that without her help, he would never find Giana, locked away in a corner of Cornwall, and his business concerns would soon call him back to New York. She rang for Lanson to bring Giana’s maid, Abigail, to her, and crossed over to her desk to pen a letter to her daughter.

  Chapter 15

  “Do stop fretting, my dear girl.”

  Aurora gazed up at Damien, still clutching Giana’s latest letter. “I suppose you are right. She does sound well and content.” She still marveled at his aplomb. She had waited, weeks before, when she had first begun her recital to him of what had happened, for his toes to curl in his shoes at her story. But his silver eyes had remained soft, and he had leaned over and patted her hand. “You have behaved most admirably, my dear, yes, most admirably. Another woman would now be cursed with a malicious son-in-law and a wretchedly miserable daughter.”

  “But you cannot understand, Damien.”

  “Hush, my dear. I wish to kiss you.”

  And so he had, and not a chaste kiss.

  “I suppose it is time to ask her to come home for our wedding,” Aurora said now, still troubled. “My people have told me that Alexander Saxton has given up his search and is off to Paris and then to New York.”

  “It occurs to me,” Damien said, “that Giana’s Mr. Saxton cannot be altogether motivated by chivalrous tomfoolery toward a destroyed virgin. He must feel something for the girl, else he would have given up long ago.”

  Aurora sighed. “I have given up thinking about his motives. I know he has spent a good deal of money trying to find her. Indeed, I feared once that he would succeed. He nearly got his hands on one of my letters to Giana.”

  “Perhaps you should relent and tell him where she is. Let the two young people fight it out between them. Cornwall is a tomb of a place, and they could yell at each other to their hearts’ content.”

  “Surely that would not be right, Damien. Giana has insisted in all her letters that she does not wish to see him.”

  “Silly chit,” Damien said, his mouth curved in a grin. “I did not tell you, my love, but your Mr. Saxton tracked me down a while ago at White’s, of all places. Tried to convince me to use my influence.”

  “No.”

  “Ah, yes. A forceful man, Mr. Saxton. Giana could do much worse for a husband, I think.”

  Aurora thought of Drew and Thomas. She had told even them that Giana was on a well-deserved holiday. She had not been sure if they believed her. But if Mr. Saxton had approached even the duke, it was likely he had talked with both of them, though they had said nothing of it to her.

  Aurora rose and shook out her silk skirts. “He is gone now, Damien. I hope our lives can be as they were again.”

  “Do you really, my dear? It wounds me that you have forgotten our marriage.”

  “That,” Aurora said, laughing, “I did not mean.”

  “Write to your daughter and bring her home, my love.”

  “Indeed I shall.” Even Dolly had asked her that morning if Giana would be returning for her wedding.

  “I trust so, Dolly,” she had said carefully, looking up from her dressing table into Dolly’s placid face.

  “Well, now, hold still, my pet, and let me finish arranging your hair. The duke is likely pacing downstairs.” Dolly chuckled as she deftly twisted her thick hair into a high chignon. “Your duke is as spanking anxious as a young bridegroom. And his brood of children have behaved very nicely, the lot of them. No trouble there. Just imagine you, my pet, a grace.”

  Even the London weather, usually perverse in October, was blessedly warm and bright when the Duke and Duchess of Graffton emerged from St. Andrew’s Church in Brussels Square. Their five hundred guests, peers of the realm and members of the business class, mingling tolerably well, this day at least, pressed them toward the duke’s festively decorated open broughman, like a huge flock of brightly plumed peacocks, shouting their best wishes. Giana rode in a carriage with the duke’s three daughters, all exquisitely gowned in peach silk, and kept her laughter bright on the day of her mother’s wedding.

  She gasped in surprise when they arrived at the duke’s mansion on Grosvenor Square. The huge dining room was packed with white-linen-covered tables, groaning under the weight of more food than even she had ever seen. The duke had filled the mammoth ballroom, where the afternoon reception would blend into an evening ball, with pots of roses, carnations, violets, and jasmine from his hothouse at Graffton Manor. At least forty white-gloved footmen stood at attention, awaiting the onslaught of guests, under the watchful eye of Gordon, the duke’s butler.

  Giana smiled at her position in the reception line, greeting the endless stream of guests in a loud voice above the laughter and deafening conversation. She had no opportunity to speak to her mother and her new husband for nearly two hours.

  She heard her mother say gaily to the duke, “I have been kissed by more gentlemen and patted on the hand by more ladies than I dreamed lived in all London.”

  “The ladies only shake my hand,” the duke said, smiling down at his wife.

  Giana inched toward her mother, and stood a moment in front of her, a crooked smile on her lips. “The deed is done, Mother. You are still certain you want to stay with this impossible gentleman?”

  Aurora hugged Giana, laughing joyfully. “It would quite ruin his reputation and standing were I to leave him now, my love.”

  “My feet feel like they’re a hundred years old,” the duke said.

  “Just wait for the dancing, sir.” Giana turned to hug her new papa. He smelled of tart shaving lotion and a hint of sweet tobacco. She felt tears spring to her eyes.

  “I am the one to be teary-eyed, puss,” the duke chided her. “After all, I have made my proverbial bed. At least,” he continued, winking over Giana’s head to Aurora, “my proverbial bed will no longer be empty.”

  “For shame, your grace,” Aurora whispered.

  “You are both so happy, and I am happy for you.”

  “Thank you, my love,” Aurora said.

  “Ah, my dear boy, a hug for your old auntie.”

  Giana stepped aside as the turbaned purple-gowned dowager Countess of Shrewsbury sailed like a ship under full speed into the duke’s arms. She turned away, her destination the ladies’ withdrawing room, when she heard the Countess of Elderbridge proclaim in a loud nasal voice to her bosom friend, the Viscountess Charlberry, “The dear duke will not have to blush for the behavior of his new stepdaughter. A modest, well-behaved girl.”

  “But it is my understanding, my dear Aurelia, that the daughter is involved in business, along with her mother.”

  The countess snorted. “Likely Damien will do nothing about it, dear. I’ve never seen him so besotted. He is more vague than ever.”

  And he is sublimely happy, Giana thought, looking back from the two elderly ladies toward the duke. She thought she looked a pale copy of her mother, who had never looked more radiant in her soft ivory silk gown. Indeed, her mother seemed a happy continent away from her.

  She mingled dutifully with the chattering guests who stood about the banquet tables, doing justice to the silver plates heaped with Russian caviar. She raised her glass of champagne for the toast to the bride and groom, made by the duke’s
cousin, Lord Elgin Brayton, a dapper little man dressed all in pearl-gray silk.

  It seemed forever before the orchestra, alerted by Gordon, the duke’s butler, tuned their instruments and opened with a waltz. Giana watched her mother and the duke, smiling at each other, glide gracefully around the dance floor before other couples joined them.

  She saw the duke’s youngest son, George, striding toward her. She was not up to his eager, youthful flirtation and slipped out of the ballroom down a long portrait-lined corridor that gave onto the gardens.

  The evening was as splendid as the day had been, she thought, gazing up at the full moon. Music wafted from the mansion, drowning out the guests. I should be glad to be alone, she thought, quelling a knot of misery that threatened to build in her throat, and leaned over to sniff one of the last remaining blooms on a rosebush.

  “I had hoped to dance with you, Giana, but you escaped me yet again.”

  Giana started at the sardonic voice behind her. She turned slowly to face Alexander Saxton, oddly breathless at hearing the voice that had haunted her, even in sleep, for nearly two wretched months. She drew back at his expression, etched in the shadows of the moonlight. He was blazingly angry. Damn him, what right did he have to be angry?

  “You are supposed to be in Paris,” she said, “or New York.”

  “I was in Paris, but as you see, I am now in London. I thought I would give your mother and the duke my congratulations, though I expect they will be rather taken aback at my appearance.”

  He was standing too close to her, and she took a step backward, nearly tripping on the train of her gown. He reached out his arms to her, steadying her. She shook herself free, furious with herself for taking pleasure in his touch. “What are you really doing here?”

  “I did not want to leave our business unfinished, Giana. I was curious where you have been hiding for the past seven weeks.”

  “In Cornwall.” She gazed up at him desperately. “Mr. Saxton, I have not changed my mind about anything. I do not understand how you can be so pigheaded about this.”