Evening Star

by Catherine Coulter

  “You are thin, Giana,” he said, sweeping his eyes over her. “And your complexion is sallow, but that might be the moonlight and the peach in your gown. You should not wear pastels, my dear.”

  Giana clapped her hands over her ears. “For God’s sake, Mr. Saxton, leave me alone. Haven’t you done enough to me?”

  “I have done too much to you, Giana. I am sure your lovely mother wrote you in her letters that she spilled the whole story of why you were in Rome four years ago.”

  She nodded, grimacing at the memory of her mother’s appalled letters. At least he no longer believed her a perverted rich girl who played games in brothels.

  “But she really knew very little, except that you were innocent. And your Daniele appears to have taken quite some liberties with your education. Odd that it took you four years to discover what it is really like to bed with a man.”

  “You arrogant ass.” His words dug deep, and she could not forgive him. Her hand flew toward his cheek, but he caught her wrist and bore it back to her side. “You hurt me.”

  “When I took you in Folkestone, or now?”

  “Why do you wish to torment me?” she whispered.

  “I do not want to torment you, Giana,” he said. “I want you to become my wife.”

  Giana could not stop tears from welling in her eyes. Even as they spilled onto her cheeks, she felt her stomach turn. She wrenched away from him and stumbled toward a line of thick ivy bushes. “I’m sick, damn you.”

  “Not again,” she heard him say wearily behind her.

  There was nothing in her stomach, for she had been unable to eat that day. But she felt her body heave, and fell to her knees on the thick grass. She felt his hands on her shoulders, steadying her. When the nausea receded, he hauled her to her feet and carried her to a stone bench beneath an arbor of roses.

  “I think I remember what comes next,” he said, no amusement in his voice. “Sit still like a good girl, for once, and I’ll fetch you some water. Thank God there is no beach about.”

  She rinsed out her mouth, not caring that he was watching her, and downed the rest of the water. In a spate of anger, she hurled the empty glass at him.

  He ducked it handily, and said, as if nothing had happened, “You are not still ill from the influenza, are you?”

  “Don’t be stupid,” she said.

  “Then my unexpected presence brought you such mingled delight that you threw up?”

  Giana returned his amused expression with a look of loathing. “Leave me alone,” she muttered, “just leave me alone.”

  “Giana, we have bandied insults like a pair of duelists. I am weary of being the villain in this drama of yours, weary of wasting my time with a silly child who, for all her supposed brains, has not a whit of sense.”

  “Silly child?” She jumped to her feet. “Damn you, Saxton. I am not a silly child. You miserable bounder, children do not get pregnant.”

  Her words hung naked between them. “I did not mean that. You make me so damned angry, and I wanted to get back at you.”

  Under her appalled gaze, he began to smile, his eyes full of devilry.

  “Don’t you dare look so smug. I tell you, it is not true.”

  “I am glad it’s not what I’ve done tonight that made you throw up,” he said, his smile widening. They were the first words that came to him. He was glad he had them to speak, because in truth his mind was reeling at her revelation. He had planned to confront her tonight but one more time, as a sop to his conscience, perhaps. But now, in rapid succession, he was to be a husband and a father again.

  “It’s not fair,” she said more to herself than to him. “One time, one miserable time, and the result is that I cry when I don’t want to, retch in my evening gown, say things I don’t mean to say, and look sallow.” She raised angry eyes to his face. “And you have the gall to stand there laughing at me. It is not funny, damn you. God, I should love to thrash you.”

  “Then do it,” he said coolly. He pulled open his evening coat and unbuttoned his waistcoat, baring his shirt to her.

  She did. She slammed her fists against his belly, letting all her fury loose, until she had no more strength, and fell limply against him.

  “Do you feel better now? After our child is born, I’ll let you thrash me again. You’ll doubtless be stronger then.”

  “I’ll be strong again in a few minutes.”

  He smiled over her head. “Everything will be all right now, Giana, I promise you.” He meant what he said. This headstrong, delightfully stubborn English girl would become his wife. He would hear her out, counter all her foolish objections, and drag her to the altar.

  “Nothing will ever be right again,” she muttered. “One time. One stupid time.”

  “I know,” he said. “It isn’t fair, is it? You are almost two months pregnant now. We should be married as soon as possible.”

  “No,” she said, “I will not marry you.”

  “When did you discover you are pregnant?”

  “I’ve known for over a week.”

  “Ah. Then you must have spent those seven days thinking about every possible thing you might do. Did you decide to bear a bastard? Travel to the Continent, perhaps, to have your child in hiding? Will you give your child up, or pawn him off to society as a long-lost niece or nephew?”

  “I thought perhaps he or she could be my mother’s child. She is not too old to bear a child.”

  “I am certain your mother would have something to say about that,” he said. “Have you told her?”

  “No, not until I decide what to do.”

  “The child is mine too, Giana, and you must grant half the decision to me. Do not make my child, our child a bastard. Marry me.”

  “I can’t marry you. You’re an American.”

  “I am not that officious, am I? Did you in your machinations even consider telling me?”

  “Yes, but I quickly dismissed it.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not intend ever to marry.”

  He was not surprised, not really. Not after what Aurora Van Cleve had told him, and what Giana had seen in Rome. He could not very well bludgeon her into accepting him. “I know that you have seen firsthand how some husbands treat their wives. But marriage need not be like that, Giana. You have but to look at your mother. Do you think the duke would ever be unfaithful to her, or abuse her trust in any way?”

  “He could if he wanted to,” she said. “All the marriage contracts in the world would amount to nothing if he wished to control her and her fortune. It is the law.”

  “So you are afraid of marriage, then. Are you afraid that I would lock you in a back room and gamble away your fortune, bring a string of mistresses into my house, perhaps, and parade them in front of your nose?”

  “It would be your right, and your words are very telling, Mr. Saxton. It would be your house.” She straightened and rose from the bench. He let her go. There was a world-weariness in her eyes that made him want to hold her, make her forget what she had seen in Rome. “At least there are no more lies between us, Mr. Saxton. It is your child, but in my body. You are free to leave, and I want you to go. I will inform you of my plans when I have made them.”

  “I believe it is not just marriage you fear, Giana,” he said, rising to tower over her. “I think you fear yourself, fear the passion you felt for me. As ill as you were that night in Folkestone, there was a part of you that wanted me, wanted to let you feel a woman’s pleasure, though you scarce understood it.”

  “Your male arrogance is showing again, Mr. Saxton. I pray I shall have a daughter and not a son.”

  “Prove it.”

  “Prove what?” she said, backing away from him.

  “Prove that you are indifferent to me. If you truly are, I will withdraw from your life, just as you wish. You don’t fear that your body will disagree with your ridiculous pronouncement, do you?”

  She felt a tingle of fear. “You will leave me alone, then?”

  Lor
d help me, he thought. “Yes.”

  His dark eyes were caressing her face, and she could not seem to tear her gaze away. She thought that he would savage her, bruise her in his attempts to arouse her.

  “Am I now to do my worst?” he said, smiling as if he knew what was in her mind.

  She did not reply. Alex drew her toward him, as if he were her partner in a waltz, his left hand pressing at the small of her back, his right resting lightly on her shoulder. Her body was stiff, steeled against him. He kept his touch light and leaned down, not to kiss her mouth, but to nibble her ear. “When next we make love, Giana,” he said, his warm breath filling her ear, “you will feel no pain. I will lie beside you and caress you, like this.” His lips caressed her eyes and her cheeks, circling her mouth, without touching her lips. She felt his hands stroking her back and gliding around to her breasts.

  “I remember how soft you are, Giana, when you want to be, how your breasts fill my hands. You will arch your hips to me, and we will move together, until you cry out for me.”

  She stiffened against him, but when he gently cupped her breasts, she felt her nipples grow hard, felt them ache. “No. You will not seduce me with words, damn you.”

  “No more words, then, love.” His breath was hot against her lips, and she felt his tongue glide gently over them. He closed his fingers around her neck, drawing her closer to him. She felt him hard against her through her petticoats, and whimpered, unable to help herself.

  “Damn you.” She parted her lips to him, and when she felt his tongue touch hers, she wrapped her arms about his shoulders and pulled him down to her. He felt her shudder.

  He kissed her deeply, and then drew back, studying her eyes, vague and dreamy in the moonlight.

  “I am sorry, love,” he said, his voice a whisper against her hair.

  She pressed her head against his shoulder until the painful ache eased, and broke into furious sobs.

  Alex gathered her in his arms, rocking her body against him. “Hush, Giana.”

  “God, I hate you,” she said. She pulled away from him and he let her go.

  “How can you want me to make love to you one moment, and hate me the next?”

  She gave him a defeated, desolate look. “The duke loves my mother,” she said. “You do not love me, nor do I love you. Just because my body shows the poor judgment to desire you, you expect me to forget all that you are, all that marriage entails, gaze at you with dewy eyes, and agree to anything you say.”

  “It would be a nice conclusion,” he said, smiling, “but I know you well enough, Giana, to know that you will thwart that fond hope. Come now, I’m really not such a bad bargain, and you cannot think I am anything like your fortune-hunting Randall Bennett. I am even willing to overlook the fact that your new stepfather is a damned duke.”

  “I will not sew altar cloths. I will not be a brood mare and sit around with other ladies watching the damned clock, wondering where my husband is, and talking about servants, food, and children.”

  “You are obviously quite fertile, Giana,” he said, trying to repress his grin, “but you cannot be a brood mare without me. I have no wish to breed five or six children and have my wife pregnant until she is thirty. We could easily prevent conception, you know.”

  “Yes, I know. But wives are kept pregnant, and husbands, damn them, feel it their god-given right to go find their wretched pleasure with mistresses. I will not do it.”

  “How do you know about contraception?”

  “In Rome. I asked. I wondered how the girls at Madame Lucienne’s kept from becoming pregnant.”

  “Ah, your unusual education again. So you see, if you are not pregnant all the time, I will have little need to go elsewhere for my wretched pleasures.”

  She felt color stain her cheeks. “That is not what I meant. Please, Mr. Saxton, you must listen to me, for I am quite serious. I will not marry you. I have plans for my life, and they do not include giving up my identity to a husband, pandering to his needs, or pleading for spending money.”

  “It comes down to the fact that you don’t trust me.”

  “Power corrupts, Mr. Saxton, and I have no intention of being its victim.”

  “It would appear we have reached an impasse. Tell me what you intend to do, Giana. Your position is rather untenable, you know.”

  He saw her shoulders slump. “I don’t know yet,” she said.

  Dear God, he thought, he could not leave a twenty-one-year-old girl pregnant with his child. He drew a deep breath and said, “I have a proposition for you, Giana.”

  “A proposition,” she repeated, looking up at him warily.

  “We will announce that we have been secretly married. You will come with me to New York, as my wife. If you find the trappings of married life with me offensive, you can return to England after our child is born and simply say that we were divorced. Then no one would question the legitimacy of our child. And you would not be bound to me, ever, legally.”

  “You mean live a lie, pretend that we are married. Lie to my mother, lie to everyone.”

  “You may tell your mother or not, as you wish. If, on the other hand, you discover that living with me is not the appalling degradation you envision, we could wed whenever you wished it. It would be up to you, Giana.”

  Giana pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I don’t know what to say. I must think.”

  He smiled. “Even you, Giana, would admit that there are some benefits to marriage. I offer you those benefits without any of the ills.”

  “Why, Mr. Saxton?”

  “I can think of no other solution remotely acceptable to either of us. There is but one promise you must make me. If you decide to return to England, you must promise that I will be allowed to see my child, to have my role in his or her future.”

  “It is insane—all of it. You cannot mean it.”

  “I mean every bloody word, dammit. You must decide, and quickly, before all London knows you are breeding. Surely you wish to avoid that kind of scandal.”

  “But you don’t even like me.”

  “I trust you will become more amiable once the sword of Damocles is no longer hanging over your head. I am even willing to wager that you have a sense of humor.”

  “But there is nothing in this for you. I know your reputation in the business world, Mr. Saxton. This is completely unlike you. Why?”

  He wondered why indeed. He supposed he did not like to be thwarted. No, it was more than that. He had wronged her, taken her innocence, and at the same time created a child.

  “I do like you, Giana,” he said. “It is true that I, like you, thought I would never again contemplate marriage. But the fact of our child remains. Will you agree?”

  Giana slowly nodded. She raised her face to his and drew a deep breath. “I cannot think of any better result for the child, Mr. Saxton. I do agree.”

  “Never have I had such difficulty convincing a woman not to be my wife. We will allow a couple of days to elapse, time enough for licenses to have been processed, inform the newspapers, and be on our way to New York by the end of next week.”

  Seven months with him, living with him intimately, as her husband. Seven months in America. She pressed her finger to her temples, imagining her mother’s astonishment, after all she’d written to her about him. Aurora had played the devil’s advocate with her at first. Would she be dismayed now? She brightened, thinking of Derry.

  “You are smiling, Giana. What are you thinking now?”

  She glanced up at him. “I was thinking about a friend of mine, Mr. Saxton, a dear friend whom I haven’t seen in four years. She was full of all the romantic drivel young girls thrive on, then. She has been married four years now, and is likely miserable.”

  He silenced a sharp retort that was blistering his tongue. He said, “I believe you’ve made yourself quite clear on your views, Giana. I think it wise that you contain your cynicism, at least in front of others. To the world, we will be a happily married couple.”

&nbs
p; “Ah,” she said. “Does that mean that I must hang on your every word and gaze at you with limpid, dewy eyes?”

  He heard a quiver of laughter in her voice, and smiled. She did have a sense of humor, thank God. “Do so tonight at least. Now, Giana, let us return to the ball. I think it wise that you introduce me to a few people if our elopement is not to come as too much of a shock.”

  He offered her his arm. Giana lightly laid her hand on his black sleeve. “Do you think you could bring yourself to call me Alex?”

  “I think I can manage it, sir. I also think that first I shall introduce you to the Duke and Duchess of Graffton.”

  Chapter 16

  Giana gazed down from the third-floor window of her room at the Royal George Inn at the fog-laden streets of Bristol. The raucous singing of a group of rum-happy sailors drifted up to her.

  ’E ain’t the man to shout: Please, my dear,

  ’E’s only the lout to shout: Bring me a beer,

  ’E’s a bonny man wit’ a bonny lass

  Who troves ’im a tippler right on ’is ass,

  And to hove and to trove, we go, me boys,

  We’ll shout as we please till ship’s ahoy.

  A lump rose in her throat at the sharp cockney sounds. Tomorrow she would leave England aboard the American steamship Halyon. She left the window and nestled herself against the evening chill in the large, airy room by the glowing fire in the grate. She kept a wary eye on the door that adjoined her room to Alex’s. He had assured her he had booked two rooms for them at the Royal George Inn. She had simply not thought to ask him if there was a door connecting them. She had given up with the buttons at the back of her gown. Where was the maid he promised to send up to help her undress?

  She remembered how her mother had recovered quickly, at least, at her wedding ball when she had seen Giana smiling up at Alexander Saxton, her hand nestled securely in his. She had told her mother the truth, two days later, all of it, adding with a sickly smile that Aurora must simply regard it as a seven-month holiday in America, with a grandchild as the joyous result. To Giana’s surprise, her mother had succumbed more quickly than she had imagined. She had insisted they dine together, and Alex, seemingly perfectly at his ease, had lounged after dinner in the sitting room with the duke, smoking a smelly cigar. What had irked Giana was the smile her mother had given Alex before they left, an unspoken message passing between them. When she had taxed Alex with it, he had given her a lecherous grin. “She knows, my dear Giana, what pleasures await you.”