Anne Herries

by Rosalynand the Scoundrel

  She was afraid that they might drift apart, that she might lose him. And she could not bear it.

  ‘Madame Moreau,’ announced the parlour maid. ‘And Comte Devere.’

  Rosalyn glanced round as the new arrivals entered her sitting room where she was presiding over the teacups. Since the comte’s dinner party three days previously she had received a steady stream of callers, most of them ladies who were curious to discover more about the woman who had commanded so much attention from Comte Devere.

  ‘Madame—monsieur.’ Rosalyn rose to greet her guests. ‘It is a pleasure to welcome you here.’

  Madame Moreau was looking about her in a superior way, obviously thinking that the house did not compare to her brother’s.

  ‘Madame.’ The comte bowed over Rosalyn’s hand, a gleam of appreciation in his eyes. ‘You grow more lovely each time we meet.’

  Rosalyn had wondered if the prompt return of his gift might offend him, but judging from the way he was looking at her—like a hungry wolf stalking its prey—she sensed that it had merely intensified his interest in her. The comte clearly enjoyed the thrill of hunting his intended conquests.

  She wished that Damian had been at home to support her that afternoon. However, he and Jared had gone to an isolated estate some distance away, to look at a stallion they had been told was particularly fine.

  ‘If it is what we want I shall buy him,’ Damian told her. ‘We can take him with us when we leave for Spain.’

  ‘When are we leaving?’

  ‘Soon,’ he promised. ‘I am waiting for my lawyers in Paris to complete the papers necessary for Jared’s adoption, then we shall go.’ He had smiled and kissed her. ‘I already have agents looking for the right place for us…somewhere with good grazing for the horses and plenty of water.’

  Rosalyn had still said nothing to him of her suspicion that she might be with child; she was not yet certain, though her conviction grew with each passing day. She hoped they would be settled in their new home before her condition began to make things uncomfortable.

  She had let Damian go with a smile and a kiss that morning, but now she felt suddenly alone and vulnerable. No, no, that was ridiculous! She had a house full of servants, and half a dozen guests to keep her company. There was not the slightest need to be uneasy.

  Yet as her other guests began to say their farewells after the customary twenty minutes or so, her anxiety intensified. Why must the comte keep staring at her in that particular way? Why was she beginning to feel trapped?

  Eventually only Madame Moreau and the comte remained. When the sister stood up, telling her brother that he must not leave on her account, Rosalyn knew a moment of panic.

  ‘No, no, Christophe,’ Madame Moreau said to him. ‘I know you wish to talk privately to the countess so I shall leave you together. I am perfectly well able to find my way home.’

  She gave him such an arch look that Rosalyn was angry as the Frenchwoman swept from the room. It seemed clear to her that Madame Moreau was a party to her brother’s plans for seduction. She suspected the pair had played this game before.

  Well, it would not work this time! She was no innocent to be deceived by a philanderer.

  As soon as the comte’s sister had gone, Rosalyn got up and went to ring the bell for the maids to clear the tea things. She turned to look at the comte.

  ‘You will forgive me if I ask you to leave now, monsieur?’ she said. ‘I have a little headache and I wish to rest for a while.’

  ‘Another headache?’ The comte looked amused. He arched his brows. ‘I am alarmed, madame. You are perhaps ill? Will you allow me the privilege of recommending my own physician?’

  Rosalyn was prevented from answering by the arrival of the maids. As they began to clear the used tea things, she walked out to the open French windows and went out to the stone terraces. She walked down three steps to the lawns below. The comte followed her.

  ‘Yes, you are very wise, madame. Fresh air will often cure a headache, I believe. Perhaps more so than lying down in an airless room. Unless of course one had company to ease the tedium…’

  His meaning was so clear that she turned on him, eyes sparking with anger. ‘Very well, sir, you force me to speak plainly. I do not wish to be alone with you. Your attentions are unwelcome to me.’

  ‘You returned my gift,’ he said, ignoring her outburst. ‘Did it not please you? I was told you had a preference for such trinkets, but if you would prefer something else you have only to ask. Tell me, madame, what can I offer that would make you smile for me? Both my person and my fortune are yours to command.’

  ‘Nothing. I want nothing you can give me.’ Rosalyn glared at him. Was the man so thick skinned that he could not be told? ‘Please leave now and do not bother me again.’

  She walked away from him, across the lawn. The sun was hot and she had not lied when she’d said she had a headache. It was a dull, heavy feeling that had been pressing down on her for a while.

  When she realised the comte was still following her, she swung round, temper flaring.

  ‘Will nothing I say make you understand?’

  He smiled his disbelief, so used to having his way that he could not believe her refusal to be final.

  ‘You are magnificent when you are angry,’ he said, his voice husky with desire. ‘Such a woman as you would be worthy of my home. If I have given you the impression that I want only a brief affair, I must beg you to forgive me. If you were free I would marry you—as my mistress you would have a king’s ransom at your command.’

  ‘I have no wish to marry you or to become your mistress. Nor am I interested in your wealth, monsieur.’

  She was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. The pressure in her head was becoming hard to bear.

  ‘But you will be mine,’ the comte muttered, angered by her apparent indifference. An ugly lust twisted his features as he made a grab at her. ‘I shall taste the honey you deny me…if only briefly…’

  Rosalyn was so shocked that he should physically assault her in broad daylight and in the very gardens of her home that she did not react fast enough. His arms closed about her, pulling her, resisting, against him. She beat at him with her fists as he bent his head to take possession of her mouth in a hateful, greedy kiss that filled her with disgust. Such was her horror that she summoned all her strength, wrenching away from him and wiping the back of her hand across her mouth to take away the taste of him.

  ‘How dare you? How dare you insult me so?’

  ‘That was only the beginning.’ His eyes narrowed. Unused to being thwarted and denied his pleasures, her resistance had brought out the worst in him. He had heard rumours about this woman that had made him think she might be available and his disappointment at being rejected was all the stronger. ‘I always get what I want in the end, believe me. You were Marlowe’s mistress before he married you—why not leave him and come to me? I can give you far more—’

  ‘Never!’ she cried. ‘Please—leave me alone.’

  ‘Why not make this pleasant for us both? I can be a bad enemy if I choose. I want you—and I intend to have you, if I have to abduct you and kill your husband.’

  He could not mean it! Rosalyn was too shocked and confused to think clearly. ‘No…’ she whispered, as his face began to go fuzzy before her eyes. She was feeling most unwell. This could not be happening: it was like a nightmare playing out in slow motion. She pressed a hand to her forehead as the garden began to spin around her. ‘No…you must not say such…’ Through the mists, which were closing in on her, she was aware of danger and she cried out to Damian. ‘Please help me…help me…’

  Everything was going black. She was falling…falling into a bottomless void…

  When Rosalyn came to her senses some time later, she was lying on a sofa in the parlour. Nessa was bending over her, bathing her head with a cloth wrung out in cool water, and a maid was hovering in the background: there was no sign of the comte.

  ‘What happened?’ she aske
d, a faint moan escaped her. ‘How did I get here?’

  ‘The mem-sahib fainted,’ Nessa said. ‘You were kissing that man—and then you fell to the ground. Rajib was in the garden; he saw what happened and went to your assistance. It was he who carried you here.’

  ‘I must thank him…’ Rosalyn put a hand to her head as she tried to sit up. ‘The comte…’ The room still seemed to be moving and she lay back, sighing and closing her eyes. ‘He…forced himself on me. I did not kiss him. He threatened to…’ She recalled Devere’s threat to kill Damian and a thrill of fear went through her. ‘My husband must know nothing of this. If he knew what the comte said to me, he would—’

  ‘What would I do?’

  Rosalyn’s throat caught as she looked up and saw Damian coming towards her. His expression was so stern. When had he returned? What had he seen or heard that had made him look like that?

  ‘Damian…’ She faltered, feeling nervous. Was he angry with her again? ‘I did not know you were home.’

  ‘Did you not, my dear?’ His tone was so cold, so angry. ‘Perhaps it is fortunate that I did return a little sooner than planned. Otherwise I might not have discovered what has been going on.’

  ‘Damian…’ cried Rosalyn in distress. ‘You cannot think…’

  She pushed herself up against the pillows someone had placed behind her. Why was he looking at her in that way? She stared at him, the coldness spreading through her as she sensed his fury. He had already sent the maid scurrying from the room; now he jerked his head at Nessa, dismissing her.

  ‘I said leave!’ Damian glared at the old woman. ‘I want to be alone with my wife.’

  ‘Damian—there is no need to shout at her,’ Rosalyn protested. ‘She was helping me, because I had fainted.’

  ‘And why did you faint, my love?’ Damian asked as Nessa went from the room. ‘Was it at the prospect of becoming the comte’s mistress—or your disappointment that you had not waited and married him?’

  There was such bitterness in his face!

  ‘How can you?’ Rosalyn stared at him, tears she refused to shed stinging her eyes. What had happened to him? He was like a stranger. A hard, cold man she had never before seen. ‘Comte Devere called with his sister. I was obliged to entertain them.’

  ‘I met Madame Moreau’s carriage as she was returning to her home,’ Damian said, a hard glitter in his eyes. ‘When I reached the house, I was told the comte was with you—but before I could come in search of you, Rajib told me you had fainted. I came at once…in time to hear you beg Nessa to help you conceal your indiscretion.’

  ‘No, that is not true. You do not understand,’ she cried. ‘This is unfair, Damian. You accuse me without having heard my story. It was not what you think. You must believe me!’

  ‘Then tell me. I shall be interested to hear what Devere said to you.’

  Rosalyn got to her feet. She was still feeling unwell, but she could not allow this misunderstanding to continue.

  ‘Listen to me,’ she begged. ‘Please listen, Damian.’ There was no chance of concealment now. She must tell him the whole story and hope he would not lose his temper again. ‘I did not wish you to know, because I feared you might force a duel on him and I do not wish…’

  ‘You feared for his life? You would do well to do so.’

  ‘Do not be ridiculous!’ Anger helped her stand straight despite the fuzzy feeling in her head. ‘I cannot believe you think so ill of me, Damian. Have you lost your senses? The comte insulted me. He told me he knew I had been your mistress—and promised me a king’s ransom if I left you for him. When I naturally refused, he became resentful and seized me. He kissed me but I fought him off. Then he became abusive…he said he would have me if it meant abducting me and killing you. I was feeling most unwell and called for you to help me—and then I fainted.’

  Damian was staring at her oddly; the fierce anger had died out of his face to be replaced by an expression of shame. He had been incensed when he heard her telling Nessa to keep the incident from him, but now he saw why she had done so: it was entirely for his sake, to protect him from the duel he was in honour bound to fight. He must certainly fight: he could not allow this insult to his wife to go unchallenged. Damian acknowledged the whole thing was his fault: by making her his mistress before they married, he had opened the way for an insult of this kind.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I should not have said such terrible things to you. I most humbly beg your pardon, Rosalyn. This is all my doing. All my fault. None of it was of your making.’

  ‘No, it was not, nor should you have accused me so unkindly,’ Rosalyn said. Her head was going round and round so fast that she could scarcely see his face. She felt very ill and did not know what she said, ‘If you are going to be so jealous…so angry…every time a man looks at me, I do not think I shall be able to bear it.’

  ‘Rosalyn…’ She sounded so odd, so detached—as if his behaviour had so disgusted her that she had begun to regret their marriage. ‘Forgive me…please?’

  Damian was about to explain his reasons for being so overwrought when she made a little sighing sound and fainted again. He moved swiftly to catch her in his arms, fear coursing through him. Everything else faded into insignificance as he realised she must be ill. If Devere’s despicable behaviour had caused her to faint once that would not have been surprising, but this was different.

  Carrying her in his arms, he went swiftly from the parlour and up the stairs. He called loudly for assistance, sending a footman scurrying to fetch a physician from the village, and two maids to prepare the bed. As he laid her gently down, she moaned and fluttered her eyelids. He stroked the damp hair back from her forehead, cursing himself for quarrelling with her when she was ill. What a thoughtless brute he was! And all because he was afraid of losing her.

  ‘Rosalyn dearest,’ he whispered as he sat beside her, bathing her head with cool water. ‘I am a wretch to upset you so, my love. I am so sorry…so very sorry.’

  Her eyes opened at that, and she caught his hand. ‘You won’t call him out, will you? Please, Damian! You must not fight him because of what happened this afternoon. I was not really harmed…and he has sworn to kill you. I could not bear it if…’

  So he had not quite killed her love! Damian felt the relief sweep through him. He had allowed his fears to drive a wedge between them, but it was not too late. She still loved him.

  ‘I shall not be killed,’ he reassured her. ‘Rest, my darling. Nothing will happen to me. All that matters is that you should be well again. I have sent for the doctor. He will soon be here.’

  Her head was beginning to clear at last. She smiled at him, sensing his anxiety, his guilt for having been angry with her. Her fingers entwined with his lovingly.

  ‘I believe I may know what is wrong with me,’ she told him softly. ‘I think…it may be that I am carrying our child, Damian.’

  ‘Carrying our child?’ Damian stared at her, first in disbelief and then in dawning wonder. If this was true, it was so much more than he had hoped for! ‘Do you mean it, Rosalyn—you are carrying our child?’

  ‘Yes…I think I must be,’ she said, a strangled laugh escaping her as she saw his joy. And she had wondered if he would be pleased by the news! ‘I cannot be certain until I have consulted a physician, of course, which is why I did not say anything before this—but I do believe it to be so.’

  ‘No wonder you fainted,’ Damian said, a rueful look in his eyes. ‘And I was so unkind to you—can you forgive me?’

  ‘Yes, I can forgive you,’ she said, clinging to his hand, ‘but I do not understand your anger, Damian. You cannot for one moment think that I encouraged the comte’s advances?’

  ‘No…’ A little nerve flicked in his throat. ‘No, Rosalyn. Despite what I said to you downstairs, I did not truly think it. Not in my heart—only with my jealous mind.’

  ‘But why?’ she asked. ‘Why should you be jealous? You must know why I came with you? You must know that I love you?�
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  ‘Yes…’ He stood up and walked away to the window, looking out into the garden. How to tell her when he did not truly understand himself? ‘It makes no sense…I do not know how to explain it to you.’

  ‘Won’t you try, Damian?’

  ‘I suppose I feel that I do not deserve you,’ he said, and turned to face her. She saw that the bleak look was back in his eyes. ‘That…if I allow myself to be happy, it will all go away.’

  ‘But why? Why should you not deserve to be happy? Please tell me, my love.’

  Damian was silent. She sensed that he was struggling with himself, trying to find the words to tell her what was in his heart, but before he could do so, one of the maids came rushing in to tell them the doctor was on his way upstairs.

  ‘Another time, my love,’ Damian said and bent to kiss her forehead. ‘I shall wait downstairs while the doctor examines you.’

  Rosalyn nodded, sensing that the moment for explanations had passed. She wanted to beg him not to leave her, but could not. He pressed her hand, turning as the doctor came in.

  He was a fussy little man in a black frock-coat and striped trousers.

  ‘Well, well, what have we here, madame?’ he said, giving her an indulgent look. ‘They tell me you have been fainting. Have you been sitting too much in the sun?’

  Damian smiled and left her alone with the physician.

  Why had he found it so difficult to put his thoughts into words? She deserved an explanation for behaviour she must think unreasonable. How could he tell her that he was haunted by his fear…that because he had failed Helen, he would lose the woman he loved?

  It was not a rational fear. He had tried to tell himself so many times that it was not his fault Helen had taken her own life, and yet the guilt remained even after all these years.

  If he had not left Helen there, sitting alone on that bench in the garden of her home, she might still be alive. She had begged him to go, told him that she felt much better, that she needed a little time alone—but he should not have listened. He should have taken her to her family, made sure that she was being cared for.