If she could explain, if there was any way—which there wasn't —it would be senseless to fly to him anyway. He would cast her aside as tarnished goods. Her situation was too incredulous to believe or to understand.
Her hands were behind her on the door. She braced them now, for support. "I think you should leave now, Drake."
"As you wish," he replied glacially. "Mrs. uh . . . ?"
"It doesn't matter," Ronnie said blandly, praying he would leave.
"It does matter, Ronnie," he told her gravely. But he didn't press the point. Instead he reached for her arm and pulled her from the door, dropping her arm again quickly after he had moved her out of his way. His touch had been as red-hot as a branding iron.
He stopped for only a second to gaze back at her. "Oh—thank you for a most interesting cruise."
Then he was gone. His piercing gaze, his towering disdain, were all that remained imprinted on her mind. Her knees buckled beneath her and she slid to the floor, gripping her stomach as if he had dealt her a blow with a two-by-four.
But still she didn't cry. She sat rocking, biting her lip. They were calling the passengers ashore. She pulled herself back to her feet by grasping the bedpost. After walking into the cabin's small bathroom, she splashed her face with cool water and made a few makeup repairs, her hands moving mechanically. She curled her hair into a tight bun at the back of her neck and donned sunglasses and a chic, wide-brimmed beige felt hat that matched her smart heels and small sling handbag.
Gathering her things, she left the cabin. But not without looking back at the still-rumpled bed.
She had never intended to; it had been foolish. But she had fallen in love. The precious memories were the ones she would learn to recall, not those of his dark ferocity at her deception. She would learn to remember his eyes as they blazed the tender fire of passion, not the charred embers of scorn.
And in the loneliness of her austere existence, she would sort out the misery of the different types of love. Her tears would come later. Upon the remote windswept island that was her home, she would find ample time for solace. And she would be plunged back into grueling reality.
The woman the world knew as Mrs. Pieter von Hurst walked away from her breakaway cruise, her heels clicking briskly upon the deck.
The immaculate sophisticated lady.
Beautiful, poised, reserved, genteel—yes, the perfect, seldom- seen wife of the world's most brilliant contemporary sculptor.
And one of the most unhappy women alive.
Chapter Two
It was amazing that the sea could change so quickly. It had been calm, glassy, and cobalt-blue for the cruise, serene beneath powdery skies.
Now it matched Ronnie's mind. Foam-flecked waves were pulsating in wild whipped peaks, rising with the whistling of the wind. The sky was losing its early-morning glow, growing gray with a vengeance.
"Storm's blowin' in," Dave Quimby announced unnecessarily, pulling his yellow slicker cap lower over his forehead. He scratched his grizzled beard and gave Ronnie a gap-toothed smile. "Maybe ye'd best head on in to the cabin, Miss Veronica."
Ronnie shook her head and smiled back with affection. Dave, her husband's fulltime captain—a necessity when one lived on one's own island miles off the the shore of Charleston—was her one true friend in her home of five years. He was a man unintimidated by Pieter von Hurst; if he feared and respected anything, it was only the sea. To his credit, Pieter respected and admired Dave.
And if Dave cared for any human being with a degree of his softer nature, it was Pieter's young wife. She might be the courteous Mrs. von Hurst to the rest of the world, but to Dave she was Miss Veronica, as she had been on that day long ago when Von Hurst had returned to the island to stay as a recluse forever.
Dave sensed more than most people. He had known from the beginning that there was something very wrong with his employer's marriage. Brides were supposed to be happy, radiant young things. Miss Veronica had never been happy—not since the day she stepped ashore and looked over the barren island with a deep sigh of resignation. Only he had seen the dejection in her eyes. When Von Hurst had snapped something at her, she had turned to him with a gentle, tolerant smile.
Of course. Von Hurst was sick. Much sicker than most folks knew. If Dave's intuitions were right, Von Hurst was dying. And God forgive me, Dave thought, the sooner the man dies the better.
Better for the gentle mistress he loved.
Ronnie shook her head at Dave. "I don't want to go below!" she called above the roar of the Boston Whaler's engines and the wind. "I love the sea like this!"
He grinned knowingly. Maybe he loved her because she loved the sea as he did—and because she was like a storm at sea. Her true nature always hidden, unless she was out with him, Miss Veronica had depths as fathomless as the Atlantic, as tumultuous as any gale that blew. Only with him was she like a nymph of Neptune, her feet scampering over planks with excitement when they sailed, her head lifted to the wind. She was always willing to fight the roughest weather.
The sea was her escape.
Too soon they reached the jagged shore of Von Hurst's island. "Go on up to the house, Miss Veronica," Dave yelled over the encroaching wind. "You look too pretty to get a drenching! I'll get your things up right away."
"Thanks, Dave," Ronnie said, slipping her bare feet back into her heels. The pathway to the gray brick manor loomed before her, and she had no choice but to follow it. Resecuring strands of hair as she walked, she made her way along the gravel, her footsteps sure and determined. At the double oak doors she rang the bell; the house was always locked, although their nearest neighbor was islands away. Curiosity seekers sometimes motored too near.
"Good morning, Henri," Ronnie greeted the elderly butler and companion to her husband. "Where is Mr. von Hurst?"
Removing her hat and gloves, Ronnie queried him with the formal propriety that was expected of her. "Is he in his studio?"
"No, Mrs. von Hurst," Henri replied, equally formal. "Mr. von Hurst had a poor night. He is in his sitting room. He did, however, request that you come to him immediately upon your return home."
"Thank you," Ronnie said, walking sedately down the hallway to the spiral staircase. She didn't want to see Pieter—and she hadn't expected that he would want to see her right away. She had wanted to go straight to her own room and lie down and sleep and dream and preserve her memories.
But this was better. Pieter was right. They had to face each other; they had to break the ice that must surely exist between them now.
She paused before the door to his sitting room and forced her hand to knock upon the varnished wood. She always knocked. There were times when Pieter wouldn't allow her near him; when he couldn't bear the sight of her.
"Come in."
Pushing open the door, Ronnie quietly entered her husband's darkened sitting room and stood still, waiting for him to turn and speak to her as he stood at his own vigil at the huge bay window. Obviously he had been awaiting her return; he had watched her walk up the gravel path.
He was silent for several minutes, his hands clasped behind his back, his tall form pathetically emaciated. But at least he wasn't in the chair today, Ronnie thought, her heart constricting with the pity she was careful never to show. He was standing straight, his parchment skin tight across a countenance that had never been handsome but still carried a nobility, despite the ravages of illness.
A shudder rippled violently through her as she watched his back and remembered their last encounter. He had been wild on that day, adamant, telling her he no longer needed to seek a divorce because he had discovered, in his attempts to obtain one, that their marriage was illegal. The "notary" who had performed the ceremony hadn't been a notary at all. . . .
Pieter had been so hard, so cruel. But she knew his motives.
In his way he did love her, and he feared he was reaching the end. After five years, he had decided to cause her no more pain.
But she knew he needed her more th
an ever now, and she could be just as adamant as he. "Forget it, Pieter," she had told him stubbornly. "Even if you're telling me the truth, it makes no difference. I've been your wife for five years."
He had bluntly assured her he was telling the truth. And he had insisted upon the cruise. A taste of freedom might be the answer.
Ronnie understood him. To placate him, she agreed. Yet she had never bargained on meeting Drake.
"Well?" Pieter queried her abruptly without turning. "You went?"
"Yes."
"And?" His form twisted a degree as he waited for her answer.
"It was a pleasant little vacation," she replied simply.
"Good," he replied brutally. "Perhaps you'll see some sense."
"No, Pieter," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "I will not leave you. Nor will I allow you to cast me out."
Her words rushed sweetly to his ears, but he closed his eyes in pain. "You'll do as I say, Ronnie," he replied harshly. She didn't reply, and he almost smiled as he imagined the stubborn tilt of her jaw. Maybe she was happy. . . . Happy. The thought was ludicrous. Not after the years he had inadvertently put her through. . . .
"That's all, Ronnie," he clipped rudely.
His bony shoulders seemed to hunch forward for a moment with weakness, and Ronnie had to prevent herself from rushing to him. Now, more than ever, he would want none of her compassion. She stood quietly, suddenly feeling very ill herself but, although dismissed, determined to keep a fearful eye on him for the next few minutes. When the pause between them became unendurable, she ventured a question.
"Will we be working today?" She braced herself, in case he became angry. She had to stay by him, but she had already pushed him today with her determination to do so.... And her guilt was weighing heavy on her mind. She knew the facade he wore. Beneath it, he was a good man.
She curled her fingers into her fists, not noticing that the nails dug deeply into her flesh. In her own mind she was still his wife. She had entered the marriage, whether valid or not, with open eyes. And still she had grasped for her little piece of the moon. . . . God forgive her, but she had had to have it. . . .
"No, we won't be working today. I do not feel that I could do the marble justice." He finally turned from the window and stared at her with somber eyes. She realized he was trying to smile. "Nor could I do justice to you today, my dear."
Ronnie felt the ever-threatening tears welling in her eyes. If only he had been cruel, flown into one of his tantrums! A small sob escaped her and she left the doorway to come to his side, but he stopped her with a hand in the air, his eyes closing.
"No, Ronnie, please," he murmured. "I—I want to be alone. Tomorrow we will go back to work."
Ronnie halted stiffly in mid-stride, swallowed, and nodded. "Can I do anything for you?" she asked softly.
"No, I'm fine. Go to your room and rest. Tomorrow we will be receiving a house guest. You will have your hostess duties to attend to when we are not in the studio." For now, anyway, he was informing her that they would go on as usual.
Ronnie nodded again. "Who is coming?"
"The gallery owner who will be handling the marble pieces." Pieter gave her a crooked grin reminiscent of better times; times when he had been a young and sound man. "He's quite a tyrant, I hear, determined to light a fire under the great Pieter von Hurst. A fine connoisseur of the arts, and a ruthless business tycoon to boot. You'll have to be your most charming—and determined to spare me his lectures."
Ronnie smiled. "We'll keep him at bay."
Pieter suddenly sagged into the massive wing chair by the window. Once more, Ronnie would have rushed to him, but he stopped her again with a hard stare and an uplifted hand. "Go now, Ronnie," he said gruffly.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned and walked softly to the door.
"Ronnie?"
"Yes?" She turned back to him quickly, surprised by the tenderness in his voice.
Absurdly Pieter von Hurst was momentarily tongue-tied. He looked over the exquisite beauty of the wife who could never be his, and he knew, as he always knew, despite his often atrocious behavior, that she had a beauty that went far beyond her regal physical attributes. Hers was of the mind, the heart, and the soul. He owed her so much! Rebellious and spirited herself, she quelled her own righteous anger when he bitterly raged into her, using her as a scapegoat when he sank into despair and lost control.
She had stuck by him through everything, maintaining the public image that was all he had left of a once-great pride, even when they had found out that the ceremony binding them together had been a sham, presided over by an unlicensed notary. In one of his moods created by fear, Pieter had practically ordered her from him. But Ronnie had understood, and remained solidly at his side. They had lived together as Mr. and Mrs. Pieter von Hurst for five years, she had told him. She was his wife. In the very near future they would reconcile the illegalities. . . .
"Ronnie," Pieter repeated, the thin, cracked line of his lips forming a bittersweet smile. "I know this is hard to believe, but I do love you."
"And I love you, Pieter," she answered softly.
"I know that, and I appreciate it. I... er... hope your cruise was nice." He had, compelled by ego, insisted she take the cruise before they "reconciled the legalities." "We won't speak about it again."
Ronnie nodded and moved swiftly for the door, unable to meet his ravaged eyes. She knew what his words had cost him, and the fact that he had spoken them was more than she could bear on top of everything else.
"Oh, Ronnie."
She paused with her hand on the door, not looking back.
"I... uh ... missed you. Is it good to be home?" For Pieter, it was quite a speech.
"Wonderful." She strove for enthusiasm in her tone, but the word still came out as a whisper. Forcing herself to composure until she could sedately open and close the door, Ronnie then tore down the hall to her own room and locked herself in, a cascade of tears finally falling in torrents of silent misery as she was at last able to throw herself into the peaceful, private depths of her huge fur-covered four-poster bed.
A bed she had never shared with her "husband."
Ronnie had met Pieter von Hurst in Paris. She was just twenty-two, in love with spring, in love with Paris, and in love with Jamie Howell, one of Pieter's specially selected students. Few were so honored, few were lucky enough to study with the man, the artist, who was already considered a master though still in his early forties.
Von Hurst was rich and famous; he moved in the elite circles of society, from the Continent to the States. But Ronnie knew he had a fondness for her from the moment he met her. He had told her she was charming, eager, and brilliantly attuned to life, and had hosted the young couple to many a dance and dinner, reveling in their youth and enthusiasm.
And he was there when her talented fiancé fell prey to one of the oldest hazards of youth and the artistic community—heroin. Jamie was dead before Ronnie ever discovered the demon that had hounded him.
Ronnie was aware also that Pieter found her desirable, but he did not take advantage of her fresh innocence and beauty. He had made it very clear that he simply wanted to care for her. And she had let him. She was an American orphan, alone in Paris, grieved and bewildered, but already forming that shell of poised reserve that would hide her emotions from the world. She had been working as an interpreter for English-speaking tourists, but Pieter's artistic eye discovered a way to care for her and benefit them both. She would become his model, he reasoned, and the world also would benefit because her unearthly beauty would be forever captured in marble.
A Season for Love Page 4