The Gift of Loving

by Wilson, Patricia

  He left and she subsided on to the soft sheets, her eyes on the ceiling, waves of aching rapture racing through her. She was alive, awake, restless with longing. Her lips still felt his tasting her, her body felt the warmth, the strength of his arms. She rolled from the bed to her feet, her hand clenched to her mouth. It was an arrangement, a bargain, nothing more. It would never be anything more but her ability to leave him had all drained away.

  She went down to dinner feeling searingly alive, but with her eyes unknowingly showing her bruised feelings.

  Guy turned impatiently away when she refused a drink and avoided his gaze and her eyes followed him almost mournfully.

  Even if this had been real, even if he had wanted to marry her with no ulterior motive, how would she have ever been able to cope with him, with his passions and his strange burning tempers? Common sense, of which she had plenty, would never make up for her lack of knowledge of a man like Guy. He would be bored with her rapidly.

  As it was, this was a bargain for a little time and her heart felt heavy when she thought of the time to leave. A baby seemed an unlikely dream. It would never happen.

  'You need not fear a repetition of this afternoon,' Guy rasped as she almost cringed away from him when they moved from the dining table to take coffee. Veronique was watching them with an undue fascination and Lucy knew that her new feelings were swimming to the surface every few minutes, showing on her face.

  He walked abruptly out of the dining-room ahead of them and Veronique sat next to Lucy as coffee was served.

  'I suppose Guy has told you about the wedding arrangements?' she asked quietly.

  'I have not!' Guy answered before she could speak. 'Time enough to terrify her when it is necessary.'

  'She will have to face it, Guy,' Veronique said impatiently. 'After all, she's going to be there.' It was a feeble joke, made because Veronique was well aware of the atmosphere between them. It did not amuse Guy.

  'I sometimes wonder about that,' he muttered, pouring himself another drink and slumping into a chair with ill-concealed irritation.

  'She would like to fall asleep and wake when it is all over!'

  'Guy!' Veronique looked scandalised and her eyes went nervously to Lucy, who was fighting back tears. Guy followed her glance.

  'Do not panic, Veronique. She will face it. She will not walk out, will you, ma chere?'

  There was an exquisite threat in his voice and Lucy looked at him with flushed cheeks, her head thrown up proudly, her eyes glistening with tears.

  'I'm destined to be a countess,' she stated flatly and his mouth twisted ironically as he looked at her, Veronique ignored.

  'You are. I'm sure you can think of other things much more alarming.' There was a fraught silence and then Veronique interrupted it quite breathlessly.

  'Yes. Well, I'd better enlighten you as Guy has not done so.' There was a trace of anxiety in her voice and Lucy glanced at Guy. His dark face was aloof, stern, unbending, and she felt a wave of fright.

  How had he managed to get her to melt in his arms? He was the most tightly controlled, the most strict man she would ever meet. He looked up and caught her eyes on him and his expression deepened from coldness to anger as he stood.

  'I will leave you two ladies to discuss wedding details,' he snapped as he walked out without waiting for any reply.

  Lucy's face was miserable. She was simply a pawn in this, being moved this way and that at Guy's whim. Veronique must have had the same thought because she looked suddenly embarrassed and began to talk almost gushingly. Lucy would rather not have known.

  She didn't want a history of the weddings of past Comtes de Chauvrais. She didn't want to know about the small but exquisite cathedral or the three hundred guests. By the time she escaped to bed she was almost shaking with fright and she almost wished that Guy had been waiting for her in her room to entrance her out of it no matter how savagely. He was not.

  * * *

  On the day she was too numb to feel anything at all. Guy had not approached her again and it had been left to Veronique to manage things. At the rehearsal, Guy had helped, but it was only that she had set her mind steadfastly to getting through the actual ceremony, to remembering everything, that had enabled her to go through with it.

  When the day itself arrived she was almost immune to anything.

  The hundreds of guests were simply a sea of faces, people she didn't know, people she would never see again. Her mind noted Michelle Colliot, the beautiful face cold and tight, but her feet took her to Guy and he turned and held out his hand, his dark eyes meeting hers for a second and then it was all out of her control. The ceremony began and she was committed, committed to Guy for as long as this bargain needed to last, sacrificed for Guy's plans and her own inability to break free of him.

  The walk down the aisle to the joyous peal of bells brought tears to the back of her eyes and as they stood and received congratulations Guy's arm came tightly around her.

  'It is almost over,' he whispered against her hair, suddenly comforting. 'You have managed well. Do not let me down now.'

  'I'm not going to.' She closed her eyes for a second and his arm tightened.

  '1 hear your tears, Lucinda, even though they are silent. It is for a little time only, and then you will be more free than you have ever been in your life.'

  She didn't answer. He could not have said anything to distress her more, because while she had stood before the altar with him she had almost drifted into a dream that this was real, never to end. Tears choked her but she held them inside. She would be rich and truly

  more free than she had ever been before. She would be more alone too. The crowds of guests didn't matter any more. There were other priorities. The end could not come soon enough for her because with every day that passed she was becoming more and more ensnared by Guy Chabrol.

  Michelle came up to them as they stood with other guests and she slid her arm into Guy's.

  'Married! I never thought I would see the day, cheri. I suppose it had to happen sooner or later.'

  'I waited for the right woman,' he informed her a little tightly, extricating his arm. It merely amused Michelle.

  'You must have changed. Innocence never really appealed to you.'

  'There's not a great deal of it available. I am lucky.'

  'So you are,' Michelle answered, looking up at him with sparkling eyes. 'Innocence at home and excitement further afield. I imagine your business trips will not be dull.'

  'They will not. Lucinda will be there,' Guy said tauntingly, and Michelle turned and walked off.

  Lucy was not at all in doubt about what Michelle meant. It was so obvious that they had been lovers; maybe they still were. Michelle was bitterly hurt by Guy's marriage. It was written across her face.

  'I don't like this,' she said tremulously, her face pale.

  'You imagine that I do?' He looked down at her mockingly. 'You do not know me, ma chere, and you will never know me. Do not trouble your head about it. It will not concern you for long. You can afford to ignore Michelle. She is not the Comtesse de Chauvrais.' He

  looked round impatiently. 'One more hour of this to endure, I think, and then we can leave them behind.'

  'Leave them?' Panic flared in Lucy and she looked at him anxiously, a fact that seemed to give him cause for caustic amusement.

  'They are most certainly not invited on our honeymoon,' he mocked.

  'Honeymoons are for two people only, the bride and the groom. We will not need guests.'

  A shiver flared over her skin.

  'When...? Where...? How...?' she began breathlessly and Guy smiled for the first time that day.

  'When? In one hour. Where? Sicily. How? By air. By tonight, we will be safely away from all this, and alone.' He looked at her tauntingly and she looked hastily away, her heart taking off at an alarming rate. Alone? Perhaps. Safely? She thought not!

  Veronique came in to see her as she was changing to leave for Paris.

  'You—you
looked very nice, Lucinda,' she said hesitantly. 'It all went off very well. Guy must have been proud of you, being as you are—er—unaccustomed to this sort of thing.'

  'Is anyone ever really accustomed to this sort of thing?' Lucy asked quietly. 'Are you? Did you like all the ceremony, the strain, the crowds of people?'

  Veronique blinked rapidly, a small nervous habit she had that came out when she was a little dumbfounded.

  'No. No, I suppose you're right. Nobody in their right mind would like to face this sort of thing regularly.' She suddenly laughed, the first time Lucy had ever seen genuine laughter in this woman. 'We

  managed it, though, didn't we? I wonder if Guy thought we wouldn't be able to cope?'

  She gave Lucy an unexpected kiss on her cheek as she left.

  'Have a lovely time,' she said quietly. 'Sicily is beautiful, especially Taormina, where Guy is taking you. I went there too, with his father.' She looked saddened, but before Lucy could say anything she was gone and Guy appeared at the door like a dark magician, ready to spirit her away.

  Their eyes met and then his gaze roamed over her as she stood in her green silk suit, her eyes suddenly downcast.

  'Like an angel awaiting her fate,' he murmured. He held out his hand. 'Come along, countess, let us leave with a flourish. There are still about two hundred guests waiting to see us off.'

  And one of them Michelle Colliot, Lucy thought. She gave him her hand, she had no alternative, and as she walked down to confront the sea of faces, now upturned towards her, she just let them all blend, anaesthetising her mind. If he still loved Michelle it didn't matter, because this was all pretend, a marriage with a good reason, Guy's reason. He didn't belong to her. He would never belong to anyone, not now. If he loved Michelle it was too late anyway.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  TAORMINA sat high above the sea, a long sweep of glorious coastline and Mount Etna unmistakable and forbidding to the west. The streets were lined with cafes, and little piazzas with shops caught the eye. The air was balmy—almost sensuous—and there were flowers everywhere. The luxurious hotel where they were to stay seemed to be full of them, and, for a brief time, Lucy was so entranced that she forgot to be nervous at all.

  They had a suite of rooms with views of the great horseshoe curve of the bay, of towering rocks edged by white sand, and Lucy stood at the window gazing her fill as the luggage was brought up and Guy dealt with the porters.

  'You find it beautiful?'

  He was behind her and she instinctively stiffened, her enjoyment dulled at once, but she managed a calm-voiced reply.

  'Very beautiful. I—I've never lived by the sea in England. It's very special to be able to just stand and look at it.'

  'Not for too long if we are to eat. The flight was late and I'm told that dinner is almost finished. We had better go down now, I think.

  You can gaze at the sea later.'

  It gave her an excuse to move away.

  'I'll just freshen up.' She shot a rather nervous glance at him and he nodded curtly, his lips tightening at her obvious desire to put some distance between them. When she came from the bathroom he was pacing about, not looking at anything, his hands deep in his pockets, and for a moment she felt he had forgotten she was there.

  'I'm ready. Shall we go down?'

  Lucy stood demurely waiting and his dark eyes swept over her with what looked very much like distaste.

  'We may as well. I cannot think of any reason to postpone the meal.'

  'Do—do I look all right?' Guy might be used to places like this but she wasn't, in fact the only time in her life she had been in any sort of hotel was when she had flown to Paris with her aunt.

  'You wish me to tell you again that you are beautiful? I am not given to offering countless compliments. If you were not "all right" I would tell you.'

  He turned abruptly away and opened the outer door of the suite, not speaking at all, and Lucy hurried forwards, depression rising inside her when she thought of the coming night. He wasn't even going to be civil during the meal. The night would be a nightmare she just would not be able to face.

  She had enough gloss about her to face the dining- room and the meal that followed. Her clothes were good and with her newly acquired skills at make-up she felt as secure as she was going to feel. A glance in one of the mirrors assured her that she didn't look anything like a scared mouse and she straightened her back and assumed a cool look that should please Guy. It looked aristocratic, countess-like, her delicate face composed.

  It did not please Guy.

  'If you are to sit like the icemaiden then there will be some doubt in the minds of the staff as to whether or not we are on honeymoon,' he observed caustically, glancing angrily at her composed face. Her composure fled at once.

  'Do they know...? How do they know...? Surely you haven't...?'

  'We have the honeymoon suite,' he informed her drily, his eyes disparaging. 'We are also getting a deal of tender care from the waiters, who are beginning to look at you with less admiration and more concern. No doubt they are beginning to conclude that we have already enjoyed our wedding night and that now. the whole thing is a bore.'

  Lucy's face flushed painfully, her eyes looking down at her plate, his sudden hard laugh making her jump.

  'Do not worry. The waiters are filled with admiration. Italians like to look at young women. They are looking so steadfastly at you that one or two guests are being sadly neglected.'

  She glanced round uneasily and turned back very quickly indeed when she realised he was telling the truth. It didn't amuse Guy.

  'Let's go,' he ordered curtly. 'We have finished and they are merely daydreaming. You are married to me.'

  The remark did nothing for her confidence and she walked out as stiff as a rod, well aware that he was in one of his angry moods again.

  'You would like to stroll in the gardens? It is not late and quite warm.' His voice sounded infinitely bored but Lucy wasn't at all bothered by that.

  'Oh, yes, please!' She was almost feverishly glad, grasping the chance to keep away from their suite like a lifeline and he glanced down at her sardonically as they stepped outside.

  'Finally, however, it will be late,' he pointed out and Lucy felt goosebumps shiver over her skin even in the soft night air.

  There was a high bright moon like a lamp lighting up the night sky, its brightness fading out the brilliance of the stars, and Guy looked up, his dark face still and strange in the moonlight.

  'Have you ever considered that it is the same moon which looks down on each one of us?' he mused. 'It is strange is it not that we think of this moon as shining for us alone when in fact it shines now in France, too, and in England. It shines on my chateau, on the glitter of Paris, even on your field of buttercups.'

  'How do you know there were buttercups?' Lucy glanced at him curiously and a tight smile edged his lips.

  'I have figured it out for myself, mostly, though it is imagination. I thought about your peculiar freedom as a child and imagined you running barefoot and alone through the fields; naturally they were filled with buttercups, the dream looked better that way.' He suddenly smiled down at her, his black mood gone, and she found herself smiling back.

  'Imagination and dreams are not exactly the same,' she reminded him with solemn wisdom, and his grin widened.

  'Are they not? You must tell me about it. Obviously my education is lacking.' He was still smiling as he took her arm, leading her out of the hotel grounds along the still warm streets, letting her gaze in shop windows and wander across the small piazzas, pointing out the great bulk of Etna against the moonlit sky. It was romantic, the soft breeze sensuous, stroking her skin, and Lucy relaxed without even knowing it, never flinching when he took her hand and held it firmly, his fingers entwining with hers. It felt like a romantic holiday and she had never really had a holiday before, romantic or otherwise.

  The moon was no help at all, however, as they went back to the hotel, and in the lift all her tension ret
urned. This was the night. She couldn't believe she had allowed herself to be manoeuvred into this situation. She turned impulsively to Guy, to beg him to reconsider, but his face stopped her. It seemed to have been carved from rock.

  He was standing tall and straight, looking at the closed doors of the lift, and her heart sank. He hated this too. He was remembering that it should have been Michelle. No wonder he distrusted women if he loved Michelle so much and she had married someone else. He had been gentle out there but now he was facing the inevitable. If she angered him it would only be that much worse.

  The closing of the outer door of the suite sounded like doom and Lucy stood perfectly still, unable to take even one step towards the bedroom.

  'You may shower first,' Guy said coldly. 'I will wait in the sitting-room. I will read.'

  Her retreat seemed more like flight, she knew, but there was nothing she could do about it, and she leaned against the closed door of the bedroom hardly able to breathe, her eyes steadfastly refusing to see the huge bed, the turned-down sheets. Thoughts of escape came back into her mind, thoughts of getting out of the window and climbing down the thick creepers that covered the walls, but she was in a worse situation than she had been in before, even further from England. Her financial assets were still zero. Guy would catch her and be furious because other people would find out too. They would be right back here.

  She went to shower and then fled to the bedroom again, standing looking out of the window at the moon and the lights that glittered on the sea as Guy came in quietly and as quietly collected his robe.

  When he came back in, she turned to face him, her body stiff, her face white. She was too frightened to be thrilled by the sight of him in a short black robe, his hair still glistening from the shower, and he looked at her steadily before flicking off the lights, leaving her in the softer light of the moon.