by Carole King
“Answer me,” he grated. Her widened gaze lifted. The color had drained from her face. “Autumn,” he intoned, battling a powerful and, Autumn conceded, well-founded bitterness. “Please . . .” He paused, seeming to struggle for words. “In the name of God, why are you doing this?” The words came out in what might have been, had Cain been less angry, a groan. Autumn felt tears well up, and Cain immediately enfolded her in his embrace. “Autumn, what are you afraid of?” he entreated. “You must tell me what is troubling you. Not two days ago we were the best of lovers.” Autumn drew away from him and looked up into his eyes. Their luster had dimmed to a cloudy sapphire, and torment raged behind the clouds. The best of lovers! The phrase caught and tore at Autumn’s heart. Without a word, she reached up, wrapping Cain’s neck in her arms, dragging his lips down to meet hers. She held him for a long, ravaging moment, entrapped in a kiss of such savagery that even she was astonished by the ferocity of its command. Autumn dragged herself from him and could not check the compelling impulse that made her suddenly swing back her arm and land a stinging slap on his jaw. Cain’s head jerked back and his eyes widened. Tears raged now in her heart. She could not bear the hurt she’d caused him, and she could not endure the hurt he’d caused others. Robert Moffat flashed into her mind, that salty, smiling bear of a man. And now Cain was asking to be to her what he’d refused to allow his mother to be to Robert. The irony and hypocrisy of it nearly overwhelmed her. She raised her hand again, but this time Cain was prepared. He stopped the blow by grasping her wrist. “Autumn, please,” he said, astounded, his own anger gone. She wrenched her arm away from his grasp and began to beat wildly at his chest. Not wishing to cause her injury, he could do no more than manage to fend off the blows. At last he was able to grab her about the waist, and with some further effort, he managed to pin her arms behind her. “Please, Autumn,” he said, his breath and hers coming in harsh gasps, “tell me what enrages you so. What have I done?” Her head fell against his chest. Her fury spent, her outrage depleted, her strength deserted her. Her knees buckled beneath her, and Cain swept her up into his arms and carried her to a small sofa near the hearth. Her head fell back over his arm, and Cain noted the blue pulse that throbbed at the base of her throat, so vulnerable, so sweetly escalated by some secret wrath. He lay her down, kneeling beside her and watched her as she unclosed her eyes. Autumn looked at him for a long time. Her gaze took on a liquid, jewellike luster.
Why, she wondered could she not say the things she wanted to say to him? Why could she not tell him of her fears? Why could she not tell him of her talk with Robert and simply ask him about his feelings for the man? Autumn knew why—she was afraid. At the bottom of all her conflicting feelings, she knew she was afraid of losing Cain Byron. He was bound to her by nothing more than an ephemeral and unfocused emotion.
“Make love to me, Cain,” she said abruptly.
“I beg your pardon, love?” he responded, unsure of what he had heard.
“Make love to me,” she repeated. “Make love to me forever, Cain. Let time and place be suspended. Let the heavens open to welcome us. And let us make our home there. When terrible things happen, when we are frightened or angry or disillusioned, let us always remember that we can go home—together.” She raised her arms and entwined them about his neck. Cain, with unaccustomed uncertainty, lowered his lips to hers. He had no idea what had generated her anger or what had made it flow into this most disconcerting but most welcome direction. “Will you? . . . make love to me?” His muffled answer may not have served other questions, but it was plain enough for this occasion. He lifted her into his arms and strode with her from the room, up the front staircase and across the second floor gallery to his chamber. He pushed at one heavy door with his broad shoulder, sliding it open, and swept them both into the dark, moon-shadowed room.
He lay Autumn on the thickly draped bed and gazed down at her for a long incredulous moment. He realized that some terrible conflict was playing havoc with her emotions right now. Some turbulence of thought drove her to both violence and desire. He hesitated to advantage himself, and yet the lure of her sweet aggression was more than he could ignore. “Are you sure you want to do this, Autumn?” he asked her. She drew him to her.
“I am sure of only one thing, Cain, and that is our love and its most perfect expression. Nothing else makes sense to me.”
“You fill me with wonder,” he whispered. He pushed himself up and moved across the room to lock the doors. To his astonished pleasure Autumn followed him. She stood before him and languidly began to unfasten the lacings of her gown. A velvet heat began to flow through him, clutching and clawing at his restraint. She allowed her clothing to slide down the delicate curves of her form to fall in a frothy heap at her ankles. She was now protected only by her corset and beneath that a lacy chemise that barely concealed the upthrusting of her full young breasts. Cain caught his breath. In the moonlight she appeared to be a lustrous angel fallen to earth only to give him pleasure. She lifted her arms and loosened her hair, allowing it to cascade like liquid pearls about her shoulders. She reached out, and with the enticement of her fingertips, she divested his broad shoulders of his light shirt. Drawing and stretching the fabric tautly down his arms, she leaned to him, caressing his furred chest with her tongue. His head fell back, and he said her name again and again as the delirium of passion seething beneath his flesh engulfed him. In an agonized fever of need, he lifted her, sweeping her from her feet, and carried her to the great bed. He lay her down, tearing at the fragile lacings of her corset, rending it and the chemise from her body. Enraptured by a torrent of need, he explored and enticed her flesh. At last he took her in a towering rage of desire, pressing her to him in soul-melting undulations of ecstasy. Time became suspended. They were lifted together to a crescendo of heavenly repletion. In that moment, their souls melded in a harmony of star-kissed rapture.
Autumn’s breath came raggedly, and Cain held her to him. He stroked and soothed her trembling flesh and waited for her breathing to even. At last he looked down on her in puzzled wonder. His onyx gaze held bewilderment, a certain awe, and unchecked admiration. But Autumn did not note his regard. Like a pearl, she gathered herself into his embrace as she gave herself languorously to slumber. No word passed between them.
Cain watched her as the moon passed his windows, swathing her in the luster of its light. She seemed to sleep untouched by her earlier distress, unscathed by the torture that had consumed her. She seemed so fragile in the setting of his muscled arm and so at peace as she snuggled against him. He wondered, as he awaited sleep, whether that peace would be transient or lasting. His brows quirked as he surveyed her opaline form. She was a miracle of mysteries to him. It amazed him that this wonder of a woman, this most arresting of creatures, this most fascinating, troublesome, bewitching, adorable being had consented to be his.
Chapter 16
Within a week, Isabel Thackeray arrived one early evening. She was ushered into the mansion with a tender respect by Carrie, who left her in the front parlor—that grand and most prepossessing of rooms—while she hurried off to apprise the family of the lady’s presence. Used to luxury, though she had not enjoyed such amenities for a very long time, Isabel was not intimidated by the room. Rather, as she pulled off her gloves, she surveyed it with both admiration and a cool and calculating eye. The wallpaper was a pale, shimmery topaz and was reflected in a pier glass framed in gilt, which hung above a scallop-shell mantelpiece of rare Cuban mahogany. On either side of the deep hearth were lofting French windows draped in pale lavender silk with looping valances of gold velvet. Facing the windows and hearth was a Renaissance revival parlor set in shades of purple and ivory satin. Isabel took appropriately appreciative note of the impressive chandelier that hung above her in the center of the room. It was at least three feet in diameter and glittered with hanging crystals of amethyst and topaz. Chinoiserie adorned elaborately carved etageres; the carpets were Aubusson; the ceramic was Capodimonte; the chairs
were Chippendale. With a soft smile of both appreciation and melancholy, Isabel approved the obvious refinement of her daughter’s employer, if not, as yet, the man himself.
“It’s a . . . cozy room. Wouldn’t you agree?” The voice came from behind Isabel. She glanced about the cavernous chamber to find, at one of many connecting doors, a tall, queenly woman watching her. “I am Vanessa Byron,” that woman said as she approached her guest. “You must be Isabel.”
“I am,” said Mrs. Thackeray, extending her hand. “You are Dr. Byron’s mother, no doubt.” Vanessa nodded. She cast a wry gaze about the room.
“Cain’s father, my deceased husband, always hoped for just the reaction you gave as you entered this room. It was designed for people who know quality.” Vanessa’s regard drifted back to her guest, and she smiled. “I suspect, Mrs. Thackeray, that you are one of those.” Isabel nodded.
“I am so pleased, Mrs. Byron, that I was able to present you with an appropriate response.” Both women laughed softly.
“Please, forgive my popping in and surprising you that way,” Vanessa said as she ushered Isabel to the sofa. Before the women sat down, however, Vanessa interrupted with another thought. “I hope you will not think it impolite of me, Isabel—if I may call you by your first name—but I might suggest that we get to know each other in a more congenial setting.” She glanced about reflectively. “This room was not created for cordiality.”
“I do not think it at all impolite, Vanessa.”
“My own parlor is not half so lavish as this, but it is not half so ceremonial.” The two women passed through a series of connecting doors and finally sat together in Vanessa’s more intimate, more lighthearted room on rather faded, extremely comfortable chairs. Though the furniture was of a decidedly uncertain lineage, the décor more personally than publicly pleasing, both women, though cultured and accustomed to great wealth, seemed quite at ease. Carrie brought tea, lit lamps, and announced woefully that Cain and Autumn were out for an after-dinner ride, and that one of the stablemen had been sent to find them. And he would find them, she assured the ladies, her tone implying an “or else.”
“Autumn was so nervous about your arrival,” Vanessa said by way of explanation. “She could not keep herself still. Carrie was appalled that Cain should take her riding with your visit imminent. Her worst fears have been realized.” Vanessa laughed. “I am afraid that Carrie deems herself quite the expert on propriety.”
“Proper or not,” said Isabel sipping her tea, “I am very glad, in a way, that my daughter is not here to greet me. I, too, have been a bit nervous about seeing her after all these months. I sent her off as a little girl, and now she is a woman.” Her words trailed off.
“She is a remarkable woman,” Vanessa offered. Isabel regarded her earnestly.
“Is she, Vanessa? Oh,” she said suspending her hostess’s hastily advanced endorsement, “I know Autumn is a lovely woman—she was a lovely child—but time and circumstances have a way of changing people.” Isabel’s eyes, a remarkable brown with flecks of green, softened with a certain sadness. “Autumn had a beautiful, a most advantaged, childhood, but the last few years were a struggle for all of us. Her father, you see, was a zealous man—something of a rebel, in fact. He could never accept the status quo. In the end, he was not satisfied with his own wealth and position in the world, he desired that everyone should have a piece of that pie. He made unfortunate loans to people, backing their schemes and dreams, and he offered his own money when their designs failed. He was an optimist and a most generous man. He was the most foolishly, gallantly generous man I have ever known.” She sighed. “His generosity and his optimism cost him his life, and in many ways, his daughter’s life as well.”
Vanessa studied the proud, petite woman sitting opposite her. While she could recognize the father’s traits in Autumn, she could see the mother’s, too. Isabel was gloriously feminine, with a luxurious mane of upswept chestnut curls and a perfect white cameo of a face. Yet, about her there was a lack of innocence, a spareness of emotion, a cynicism that Autumn had not acquired. Vanessa understood that cynicism but for a very different reason.
“My husband was quite the opposite,” she observed. “He was not generous, either with his emotions or his money. He was, in fact, the most arbitrarily prudent of men. Nothing was ever spent unless for purposes of display. That room in there—the one in which I greeted you—is a monument to his wealth and stature. Everything in this house gave evidence to his success.” She looked briefly into the deepening twilight outside the French window and watched the light lawn curtains flutter for a long moment. She glanced back at her guest. The two women were of an age, though Isabel was a few years younger than Vanessa. How pleasant a thing, how luxurious and comfortable, she mused inwardly, to have a woman who might understand long-suppressed thoughts and feelings. Vanessa sensed a bond forming between them. No truth need be hidden from this woman, no expression denied. “Oh, Isabel,” she said quietly, “if your husband took your daughter’s life with his generosity, mine took my son’s life with his pernicious stewardship.” She paused. “Cain was a most light-spirited lad. He was content to roust about the town in highest ardor. He had starch and vigor. But his father wanted him to be a proud complement to the family prestige. He insisted Cain attend the best schools and threatened to cut him out of the family entitlements unless he agreed to follow the dynastic dictates of the Byron line. There was no room for discussion—ever—on any subject. He married off our daughters to the proudest of families. He held us all up as examples of what a man can accomplish when he keeps tight control of his environment.
“When my husband died, Isabel, I felt sadness, of course, but I must add to that a certain qualification.” Vanessa’s tone altered. “His hand was so strong, his will so . . . crippling that I felt, almost, a sense of . . . a terrible sense of liberation. It is very hard to explain, but that day, the day he died, I went up into my room and . . .” She paused, looking at her guest, her expression solemn. “Isabel, I went up into my room and I laughed.” The words had come out in a rush as though Vanessa was thankful to be unburdened of them. “I laughed, Isabel, for the first time in years. I could not then, nor can I now, imagine why I reacted that way at such a sad time. But suddenly the world seemed brighter. The birds’ songs outside my window seemed more melodious than they ever had; the sky shone with a new luster, and the air was pure and clean. I was a child again, Isabel.” And very abruptly there were tears in Vanessa’s eyes. She wiped at them and took an impatient breath. “I cannot imagine why I told you such a thing,” she said hastily. “You must imagine me positively insane. I thought myself insane for some time after that.” Isabel set down her cup and went to her hostess.
“I understand, Vanessa,” she said with a comprehension she did not completely grasp. There was a sense of wonder in her tone. She knelt close to Vanessa’s chair and took the woman’s hand in her own. “My husband was not cruel; he was kind. But he was controlling nonetheless. He sacrificed everything we had for a cause that he believed in. As in your family, everything we did and everything we had was controlled by my husband. His ideas of what was right took precedence over every other consideration. Proud men, Vanessa, whether they are openhanded or penurious, are still proud men. They destroy what should be most important to them. They place their families second to their desire to control their little piece of the world. When my husband died, though I loved him completely, I, too, felt a burdensome sense of lightness. I, too, feared what I felt. And I have never mentioned it to anyone, Vanessa, till now.” They stared at each other for a long time. The silence between them was a knowing one. Isabel moved to reclaim her seat. “My greatest regret,” she commented, “was that I did not take the time to teach my husband humility.” She looked up to find Vanessa watching her. “Oh, my,” said she, “we are a pair of the most unconventional widows, are we not?” They laughed together companionably. Isabel picked up her tea and sipped at it reflectively. “I do hope for so muc
h more for my daughter than what we have known in our marriages,” Isabel said quietly.
“And I for my son,” Vanessa agreed. “You know, Isabel,” she resumed after a short pause, “Autumn is very precious to me. She is like one of my children.”
“I am happy to hear that, Vanessa.”
“Please understand, I do not make this statement idly. I owe Autumn my life. I wish everything for your daughter that I would wish for my own. I love her dearly.” Isabel cocked her head, curious at Vanessa’s intensity of expression. “She came here to Byron Hall as an employee, but she remains as a beloved member of this family. I mean that quite literally, Isabel.”
“I see,” Isabel responded with bare emotion. “Then it is true. The letter I received from one Miss Antoinette Fraser is true.” She set down her cup with a delicate click.
“Not completely,” Vanessa told her. “Though I have had no access to the actual letter, Autumn told me about it, and I can only imagine that it contained jealous ravings. Antoinette is a dreadful and amoral woman.”
“I suspected as much. The missive was barely coherent, the message crawling with hate. And then your son’s letter was delivered. And it was most respectful.”
“You may count on my son’s deference, Isabel. He loves your daughter, I should say, to distraction.”
“And how does Autumn feel about him?”
“She loves him, too—completely.”
At that moment, Cain and Autumn burst into the room.
“Mother!” Autumn squealed in delight. She ran to Isabel and gathered her into an embrace, nearly toppling them both in the process. “We had no idea when you would arrive,” she said, drawing away and examining her mother adoringly. Isabel returned the examination with an approving smile. She had never seen her daughter in riding breeches and commented on the sensible arrangement. “Cain and I went shopping in the city today. I insisted on buying them, to his discomfort.” She smiled mischievously in Cain’s direction and twirled for her mother’s further analysis. “We made a few other purchases,” continued Autumn excitedly, “not the least of which was a gift for you. We found a wonderful gold and coral necklace. I’ll just go get it—” She stopped abruptly. “Oh, Mother,” she gasped, “where are my manners?” She took a long calming breath, and proudly introduced her mother to Cain. Isabel extended her hand and made a brief, though most thorough, inspection of him. Silently, she pronounced him dashing, magnetically handsome, and meltingly masculine. She smiled tranquilly.