Inconvenient Lover

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “I have. He won’t tell me.”

  Perversely, the answer seemed to delight Benitta. A smile widened her mouth. “I see. Then you need to sort out your own feelings, don’t you?”

  “Do I? I thought I’d done that when Hugh asked me to marry him and I said yes. Loving David is irrelevant. I won’t risk hurting him because of my inherited need to play, love and fight hard.”

  “I see,” Benitta said again. “I’m going up. It’s time to start getting ready for the ball.” She pushed her glass away and stood up. “If you are so sure of your feelings, Anastasia, then why are you at home at four in the afternoon, drinking champagne after a day of playing hooky, when you should be in the office, working?” She smiled to take the sting out of her words. “It’s very Katherinish, you know.” She left, leaving Anastasia staring after her.

  Why am I doing this? she asked herself. She tried to probe her feelings again, as she had just done with Benitta and came up with the truth. Because I love David and walking away from whatever we might have had is going to hurt. I’m putting it off.

  She grimaced. How long could she put off the end? If she didn’t end it, an intervening event would end it for her. That much she had learnt from her parents’ battles.

  Chapter Twelve

  On her way up the stairs, Anastasia deliberately stopped to stare at her mother’s image. It was bravado. A challenge.

  “I’m not going to feel guilty any more, Mom,” she whispered. “Thanks to David, I’ve lost the fight to not be like you. I might as well enjoy it now. At least until he’s out of my life.”

  Slowly she moved down the gallery. The first door on the right was a large double one, closed against entry as always. Her father’s room. Her parents’ room, she amended.

  And for the first time in her life she opened the door uninvited and stepped inside. Without pausing, she crossed the large Bokhara rugs, their faded jewel colors glowing in the late afternoon sun, to the wall of mirrors. They were actually a bank of sliding doors that disguised the entrance to the en suite, dressing room and huge walk-in wardrobe.

  The wardrobe had been custom designed to her mother’s specifications and still housed all Katherine’s many evening gowns and exotic dresses. Another testament to her father’s inability to release his bitterness, Anastasia thought, sliding aside the door that led into the wardrobe.

  Knowing that, unconsciously, it was what she had intended to do all along, Anastasia crossed to the racks of dresses and slowly, lovingly, begun to go through them all. Despite their age, the dresses were in pristine condition. They had remained virtually in stasis since her mother’s death and their exotic, flamboyant designs were so far outside fashionable dictates that they were timeless and undated, even twenty years later.

  She came across the black lace ball gown almost immediately and her fingers paused on the coat hanger. A Spanish flamenco dress, with black lace and layers of flounces and frills that trailed down from the top of the calf to a train that stretched eighteen inches across the floor. It was lined in a deep dark red like the color of the rose called “Black velvet”, so each step taken caught the eye with a flash of color. There was even a beautiful lace mantilla to match. Her heart began to beat a little harder at the sight of it.

  Carmencita.

  She shoved the dress back on the rack and hurriedly pushed more dresses across to examine. She would not dare wear a dress that made so obvious a statement. David would misconstrue it entirely.

  But even as she continued her inspection of the other wonderful creations, her mind was circling back to the flamenco dress, drawn like a magnet to the perfect statement it made and the beauty of the dress itself.

  Reluctantly she went back to the place where she had rehung the dress, pulled it out and studied it.

  The dress would cling to waist and hip and down the length of her thigh. The low neck was edged in fragile lace scallops, which softened the décolletage. The back plunged. She guessed it would reach past her waist. The curve echoed the shape of the train and over the small of the back, just beneath the plunging back line, were lace and silk roses, black and the same dark burgundy red as the lining. The long tight sleeves came to a point over the back of the hand and they were sheer, with no modest lining.

  Why not? Anastasia thought. Carmen loved and walked away from that love. And David had called her Carmencita—that first night, on the bridge.

  But…to actually wear her mother’s dress?

  Finally, Anastasia did what she had been doing all day. She listened to her heart.

  The dress fitted perfectly.

  Anastasia looked at herself in the cheval glass in her room, two hours later, frightened at her own daring. The fact that the dress fitted her so accurately was one more mute testimony to the resemblance between mother and daughter.

  She swivelled on her stilettos, turning so she could see her back. The train turned with her, wrapping around her in an elegant sweep. She touched the woven chignon at the back of her head, unaccustomed to the weight of her hair being centered so low. This time she had followed the style of the dress through. She had accentuated her eyes with kohl and mascara, although she could do nothing about the color of her eyes. They were blue-green tonight and nothing could turn them a proper Spanish black. Her lips were red to match the red in the dress, full and glossy, making her teeth very white in contrast.

  With the chignon and the deep red roses she had picked from the greenhouse an hour earlier pushed into her hair, the style would be complete.

  Benitta had found her when she had been cutting the full-blown roses. “Hugh is on the phone. He’s worried about you.”

  “I left a message with my secretary,” she said over her shoulder, concentrating on reaching the last rose she wanted and not scraping her hands on any thorns.

  “He got it. He’s still worried.”

  She straightened. “Tell him not to worry. I’m all right. I’ll see him at the ball.”

  “You could tell him that yourself,” Benitta said.

  She shook her head. “I don’t want to talk to him right now.”

  Benitta had studied her for a minute, then walked away.

  She had tapped on Anastasia’s door a little later, just as she had picked up the gown in trembling fingers, preparing to slide into it.

  “We’re sorting out transport for the night, Anna. Are you planning on coming into town with us?” Benitta asked through the door.

  “I don’t know what my plans are, Benitta. I’ll take my own car.”

  There had been no answering response.

  Now, staring at herself in the mirror, Anastasia tried to scrape together the courage to go downstairs. It was time to leave. But the image in the mirror kept her immobile for a moment longer. It was her she could see there but the differences were subtle. Her image seemed more focused, clearer. More precise. And the dress made her feel the delicious abandonment she had been straining to capture all afternoon. The freedom to fly.

  The red lips in the mirror curved into a smile. “Enjoy,” they told her.

  Benitta was standing in the entrance hall as Anastasia walked down the stairs. Her aunt was ready and waiting to leave, a heavy overcoat over her elegant velvet ball gown. At the sound of Anastasia’s heels on the marble staircase, she turned around to watch her descend.

  Benitta’s face underwent a shocking transformation. From pleasant expectation it shifted through surprise, to horror, to outright fear and anguish.

  The reaction made Anastasia falter a little. Then she remembered her decision. For tonight at least, she was giving in to whatever impulses drove her.

  Benitta spoke, in a low, hoarse whisper. “Mother of God, Anastasia! Are you mad?” She moved forward a pace, in a jerky fashion and shot a glance at the door that led to the drawing room. “He’s coming right now. Get it off. Now. Go. Before he sees you.”

  She shook her head. “No, Auntie. Not tonight.”

  Benitta actually began to wring her hands and the pa
nicky motion fascinated Anastasia. “Please,” she moaned under her breath. “I know you must talk to each other. But not this way. Not this way…”

  Anastasia caught a motion out of the corner of her eye and looked up. Her father stood at the doorway, staring at her. She gently squeezed Benitta’s hands, making them still. “Too late,” she said. With a deep breath, she stepped around Benitta and walked toward her father. “I’m leaving now. I’ll see you there, of course.”

  “Where did you get that dress?”

  She stopped in front of him and looked up. His face had drained of color, leaving a whey complexion and the startling murky blue eyes that glinted with the beginnings of anger. It was the first time Anastasia had recognized who she had inherited her chameleon eye coloring from. She had always read her father’s mood from the color of his eyes. Blue meant anger.

  “You know where it came from, Dad.” She tried to still the trembling that had begun in her stomach and was rapidly spreading out to all her limbs.

  His lips thinned into colorless, tight flesh. “How dare you…” he began and trailed off, apparently unable to find an appropriate description for her or her actions.

  She swallowed. “I dare, because it’s time someone did. It’s way past time.” Her voice trembled too, despite her fight for control.

  “Anastasia, no,” Benitta cried in a horrified whisper.

  Her father’s throat worked convulsively. “You will go and change. Now.”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m going to the ball. And I’m going in this dress. Mom’s memory should be loved and cherished. Not preserved in formaldehyde along with all the bitterness, like some sort of specimen, or object lesson to be held up before me every time I dare to let my self-discipline slacken.”

  “You look like a whore,” he snapped, his voice a whiplash.

  “Christopher!” Benitta moaned.

  Anastasia tried to let the insult slide over her. “No, I don’t, Daddy. You’re angry at me and that’s why you say that.”

  His nostrils flared as he breathed heavily, bringing his anger back under control. “You’re just like your mother.” His voice was toneless.

  Anastasia nodded. “Yes, I am. And I’m tired of apologizing for it.” She turned away and picked up the black wool cape she had laid on the hall chair earlier and her car keys. “I’ll see you at the ball.”

  She spared a glance at Benitta. Her aunt’s face was as colorless as her father’s. This was not the sort of confrontation she’d had in mind. Anastasia smiled at her, trying to reassure her, but Benitta’s expression didn’t change.

  She slipped out of the door and crossed the gravel, heading for the garage. She held her train in one hand. She didn’t want it to drag just yet. The time for elegance to have priority was at the ball. She wanted to arrive in spotless, immaculate condition, so that her first appearance was unsullied. She knew David would be waiting for her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  By the time Anastasia reached the large, rambling home of Pierre and Angelique Therion, her nerves were thrumming with anticipation, making her fingers clumsy and her reactions sensitive and jumpy. She was relieved to be able to hand her car over to a valet. She wasn’t sure she would be able to deal with the precision steering she would need to thread her car into a space between the multitude already spread throughout the surrounding streets.

  She stepped up onto the front veranda of the elegant house and was greeted with a warm smile from the usher. “Please, go on through the house to the garden.”

  “Thank you.” She wrapped her cape more firmly around her, for it was another cold crisp night so typical of late October and walked along the wide central passage that led straight through to the back veranda. Even without directions she would have found her way unerringly, for she could already hear the music and she was familiar with the layout of the house from previous years.

  Anastasia had been receiving an invitation to this most renowned Autumn Ball since she was sixteen. Pierre and Angelique were contemporaries of her father and had been holding an annual ball for well over twenty years. The event had transmuted to a tradition that was eagerly attended by a large number of people—often the same people year after year. To be invited was a sign of acceptance among some of the most prestigious social circles in town. To attend was an experience.

  The garden was an arena-sized expanse of lawns and borders, which stepped in three graceful terraces down to the river, where a private jetty and boathouse sat in lonely darkness, bathed only by the light of the full moon, which glittered and winked across the lapping wavelets of the placid river.

  On the middle and largest terrace was erected the marquee. It was reputed to be the largest marquee in the state. It took up nearly every inch of the grassed area of the terrace and even extended into the garden border at one end. Anastasia knew from past years that the border was simply incorporated into the decorating inside the tent, adding a graceful living backdrop to the orchestra.

  The tall structure consisted of a plain buff awning on the outside but inside, the tough weatherproof material was disguised by hundreds of yards of white chiffon. The delicate fabric was draped into graceful drops, canopies and bowers, gathered up by huge bunches of fresh, hothouse-cultivated flowers. The flowers had been picked especially for the occasion only this morning and transported to the city in time for the team of florists to arrange and mount them.

  Fully half the area inside was given over to a highly polished wooden dance floor. Its size indicated that the ball was a traditional one—dancing was the main event of the evening. The rest of the room was filled with tables and chairs, a bar and room for the orchestra and a cloak area, where the Therions greeted each of the two hundred guests personally, while attendants took their coats and hung them up.

  It was late by the time Anastasia reached the host and hostess and most of the guests had already arrived. Her cape was whisked away, as she shook Pierre’s gnarled hand and thanked Angelique for this year’s invitation.

  Angelique studied her with the frank assessment of a true Frenchwoman. “My dear, you look stunning.”

  Anastasia smiled, feeling some of the butterflies in her stomach subside and a few muscles relax in the warmth Angelique’s comment created. “Thank you.”

  “But where is Hugh?” Pierre asked. “Surely he is coming to appreciate this vision?”

  “He is coming tonight,” Anastasia assured them. “But I drove in from Numeralla myself. He will be here, I’m sure.”

  “He is a fool if he does not come,” Pierre declared. “And to teach him a lesson I will request of you at least one dance tonight, yes?”

  “Yes, Pierre. And it must be a waltz.”

  Angelique gently turned Anastasia in toward the room. There were no other guests arriving behind her, so Angelique was doing the proper thing, making sure her unaccompanied female guest was taken care of. She led her past the rails of coats already hanging, to a spot where the whole room could be taken in at a glance.

  “There must be many people you know here tonight, Anastasia.”

  “I can see a lot of familiar faces.” She looked around, trying to find someone she knew that Angelique could sit her down with. She knew the kindly lady would not leave her until she had other company. There were very few tables left completely empty and many of the faces that had turned to see who was arriving now were lighting up with recognition. Some waved and she smiled back.

  Then she saw David and her heart stopped.

  He was standing at a table of people who must be friends of his, for he was slowly straightening from bending over in conversation. He looked devastatingly handsome in the formal black lines of his tuxedo. She welcomed the rush of happiness she felt at seeing his now familiar and beloved face and let her happiness show.

  He was staring at her, his gaze burning into her soul. He was devouring her appearance, digesting the message and the picture she was making and his eyes were brilliant with an answering message that, althou
gh she could not decode it, made her tremble anew. She kept herself erect and still, her head held proudly.

  The others at the table David stood next to were turning to look at her now, puzzled by what must have been a sudden break in David’s conversation. Their expressions were avidly curious.

  He bent to say a few quick words, before beginning to thread his way across the room to her.

  Angelique was pointing out old friends. Anastasia could barely hear her. Her mind was dealing with the sudden hot wave of longing that had swept through her, trying to still her heart enough so she could breathe and move. She kept her sight upon David as he drew closer, hungrily imagining him taking her into his arms and claiming her as his before the entire world, with one searing kiss.

  Then she remembered that would never happen. She must acknowledge his claim on her first and that was out of the question.

  David reached her. He picked up her hand in his and kissed it. “Carmencita.”

  It was an acknowledgment that he understood her message. Over the back of her hand she could see his eyes gleaming, silver gray. His glance penetrated her soul and she suddenly knew that no matter what was said by either of them between now and the end, this moment would remain forever the time when they truly understood what was in each other’s heart.

  David lowered her hand and took her other hand and held them wide with his own, openly admiring her dress. He looked up into her eyes and opened his mouth to speak, then appeared to change his mind. After a moment, he shook his head a fraction and said, “You’re perfect.” His voice was a little rough. “Thank you.”

  Behind him, the orchestra ceased their warm up and launched into a Viennese Waltz.

  “I believe the honour of the first dance is mine,” said an intruding voice.

  Anastasia turned to her left. Hugh, resplendent in evening formal, stood just behind her. His expression was neutral.

  How much had he heard? Anastasia couldn’t guess from his expression. Then she realized that it didn’t really matter, anyway. David had said and done nothing that wasn’t completely innocent. And Hugh’s appearance had crystallized her doubts and fears.