Who Can Deny Love

by Barbara Cartland

  “It was a very – beautiful service and the flowers were – lovely! Thank – you! Thank – you!” Cyrilla replied.

  “I hoped they would please you.”

  “They – were for – Papa,” she said with just a note of rebuke in her voice.

  “If the Church is to be believed,” the Marquis replied, “there are plenty of flowers where he is at the moment, so the flowers that are given at funerals are, I always feel, for those who are left behind.”

  “Whoever they were for – it was very – good of you.”

  The Marquis glanced round the studio.

  “Is there anything here you want to show me?” he asked.

  “You have bought one painting which Papa had nearly finished and that was the best,” Cyrilla said. “I don’t think any of the others are worth even a few – shillings.”

  “Suppose we are frank with each other,” the Marquis said slowly, “and you start by telling me how you intend to live.”

  He saw by the expression on her face that this was a question she had been dreading and that she must have asked herself what she should do almost every moment since the day her father had died.

  There was silence and, as he waited for her answer, the Marquis thought that the light coming through the North window made her hair, which was that strange mixture of gold and silver, appear as if it was haloed.

  “You are so beautiful!” he said in a low voice. “You must realise it will not be safe for you to live alone without a man to protect you.”

  “I have – Hannah.”

  “You cannot spend the rest of your life alone with a maid,” the Marquis said, “and, sensible though she is, I cannot believe that her conversation is particularly inspiring.”

  His smile took the sting from his words and almost despite herself Cyrilla smiled too.

  “Hannah worries about me. She is always telling me what I must not do – but it is difficult to converse with her for any length of time.”

  “That is what I thought,” the Marquis said. “I know the Hannahs of this world well. They are very worthy but, as I have said, not particularly inspiring.”

  “Then where shall I find – conversation now that – Papa is – dead?” Cyrilla asked.

  “That is what I want to talk to you about,” the Marquis replied and, as she looked at him enquiringly, he replied,

  “I don’t want to frighten you and I know that it seems as if we have only just met each other, but that is not true. You have been in my mind and heart for a year, since I first saw you as the Madonna in The Virgin of the Lilies.”

  There was a look of astonishment in Cyrilla’s eyes, then of something else that made the Marquis take a step forward and put his arms round her.

  She did not resist him and he knew that she found it as inevitable as he did that they should be close together.

  Because she was different from any other woman he had known, because he felt a kind of inexplicable awe of her beauty and of the vibrations that had been aroused in him first by the painting and then by Cyrilla herself, he was very gentle.

  His arms held her until, as if it was a movement of poetry or of music, he put his hand under her chin and turned her face up to his.

  For a long moment he looked down at her before his lips found hers.

  Everything that she did had a dream-like quality about it and the softness of her mouth and the little tremor that he felt go through her had an unreality and yet an unmistakeable magic.

  To Cyrilla, the Marquis’s actions were an enchantment that had carried her into a fantasy world ever since she had first met him.

  She had not known that such a man existed and at first she had not understood the strange feelings he aroused in her and why, when he was not there, she still felt as if he held her close so that she could feel safe and unafraid.

  Now, when his lips touched hers, she felt as if everything she had prayed for had come true and that in his kiss was the blessing of God and a divine radiance that sometimes encompassed her when she was at prayer.

  It was so sacred, so holy, so utterly and completely wonderful, that she could feel only as if they were enveloped by a celestial light.

  The Marquis’s arms tightened, but his lips were still gentle and tender and Cyrilla felt as if he drew not only her heart but her soul from her body and made it his.

  ‘This is love,’ she thought, ‘love so perfect – so wonderful, it is what Mama – knew and I was – afraid I might never – find.’

  But it had happened, it was here and it was the Marquis she loved, so that he filled her whole world.

  The Marquis raised his head.

  “My darling,” he exclaimed, “you belong to me! I have been searching for you all my life and now that I have found you I can never let you go.”

  “I – love – you!” Cyrilla murmured.

  “As I love you!” the Marquis asserted and his voice was hoarse.

  As he spoke, he knew the words were true. It was something he had never said before, because he had always known that if he did, it would be a lie.

  But what he was feeling at this moment was love – the love he had never known.

  It struck him that he, of all people, without realising it, was an idealist seeking perfection in love as he had sought it in art and in sport and in his possessions.

  And now with his incredible good luck he had found it and Cyrilla was his.

  As if she understood what he was thinking, she said,

  “How can we – feel like – this? I never knew – I – never dreamt when I saw you – outside the door, that this would – happen.”

  “And what do you think I feel?” he asked. “I used to look at your face in the painting that hangs in the music room at Carlton House and think with despair that you had died centuries ago! Yet, my darling, you are real! You are here, close to me and nothing could ever be more wonderful!”

  Cyrilla gave a little cry.

  “Suppose Papa had never – painted that – fake? Suppose you had – never seen – it? You would – never have come – looking for me.”

  “It was fate that we should meet,” the Marquis said firmly, “and now all we have to do, my precious one, is to be grateful to the Gods that have brought us together and to make sure that we are never parted.”

  “That – is what I – want,” Cyrilla whispered.

  She paused for a moment and then she said,

  “Is it wrong, when Papa has only just – died, for me to feel – so marvellously – ecstatically – happy?”

  “Nothing you do could be wrong,” he replied, “and I am happy too in a way I never expected to be.”

  They sat down on a dilapidated sofa that stood against one wall of the studio.

  The Marquis put his arm round Cyrilla as he said,

  “You know very little about me, darling, and I must tell you that I have a rather questionable reputation with regard to women. But that is only because I was always searching for you, only to be disillusioned over and over again.”

  “It does not matter,” Cyrilla replied. “Mama said that when one falls in – love, the whole – world is changed – overnight. One is not concerned with the past, only with the future.”

  “Your mother was right and therefore we will forget my past and concern ourselves only, my lovely one, with our future, when we can be together.”

  “Fate must have sent – you to me just when I – wanted you most,” Cyrilla said. “I thought when Mama – died, nothing would ever be the same again and I would always be – miserable. But I knew I was necessary to Papa and I have to try to be happy for his sake. Yet, now – ”

  “Now?” the Marquis prompted.

  “Now, when I thought I was completely – alone except for Hannah and it was very frightening – you were – there! How can I ever be – grateful enough to God for sending – you to me?”

  “We will be grateful together,” the Marquis said with a smile. “And now, little sweetheart, let us plan the future,
for I have no wish for you to stay here.”

  He looked at her as he said,

  “I was thinking yesterday how this is not the right background for you and how much I want to give you one that is.”

  “Do backgrounds matter?” Cyrilla asked. “I think that wherever you were, you would be – yourself – so strong and dynamic that – everyone would be – aware of you.”

  “You flatter me,” the Marquis replied. “My strength is as nothing compared with the beauty that makes you so outstanding. Do you realise how beautiful you are?”

  “I have always – compared myself to – Mama,” Cyrilla replied quite seriously, “and she was so beautiful that I am very – humble about – myself – ”

  “There is no need to be,” the Marquis interrupted.

  “But I want – you to admire – me,” Cyrilla finished.

  “This is a feeble word to describe what I feel about you,” he said. “I want to give you diamonds that will frame your beauty, jewels for the rounded column of your neck, which will reflect the stars in your eyes.”

  “I would – like all those – things, but only if you want me to have them.”

  “I would give you the sun and the moon if it was possible,” the Marquis declared. “As it is, I am a very wealthy man and you shall have everything you ever want as long as you will go on loving me.”

  “I shall never – cease doing that, if we – really belong to each – other and you – love me too.”

  “More than I can say in words,” the Marquis replied.

  He put his arm round her as he spoke and kissed her again, kissing her possessively and a little more passionately until, as if she was shy, she turned her face away and hid it against his shoulder.

  “I will not frighten you,” the Marquis said as if he admonished himself, “but, my darling, you are not only divine and ethereal but also human.”

  He held her close as he went on,

  “I am not going to take you away from here tonight as I don’t yet have a setting ready for you. By tomorrow I will find a house which you will like with, if possible, a garden. The summer is coming and I can see you sitting amidst the flowers and under the trees. We will be alone there and no one will encroach on the dream world which is ours when we are together.”

  “Where is this house?” Cyrilla asked. “Does it belong to you?”

  “Not at the moment,” the Marquis replied. “My family house in Berkeley Square, which I use when I am in London and my ancestral house, Fane Park in Hertfordshire, is very fine. I want to show you all their treasures, especially the paintings. But in your house I shall have you entirely to myself in a setting which is yours and yours alone, where not even my ancestors can encroach.”

  “It sounds – wonderful the way you say it,” Cyrilla said, “but – ”

  “What is worrying you?” the Marquis asked.

  “I-I don’t think I – understand about this house.”

  “It will be yours.” the Marquis said. “I shall give it to you and the deeds will be in your name. Whatever happens in the future, you will have somewhere to live and enough money to keep you in comfort.”

  He pulled her against him.

  “You are mine, my little Virgin of the Lilies and I will look after you and protect you and keep you from anxiety for the rest of your life. That I swear and, my darling, we will be happier than any two people have ever been since the beginning of time.”

  As he finished speaking, he started to kiss her and it was impossible for her to say anything.

  He kissed her until the studio seemed to whirl round them both and then with what was a superhuman effort he rose to his feet.

  “I am going to leave you now, my precious,” he said. “I want you to rest because you have been through a great deal these past few days.”

  Cyrilla made a little sound and he thought that she was going to plead with him to stay with her and he said quickly,

  “If I don’t go, nothing will be ready tomorrow. I have a great deal of planning to do and what I intend will not be easy, but difficulties are only there for me to sweep them away!”

  He smiled as he added,

  “I had difficulty in finding you, difficulty in getting into the house first with you and then with Hannah trying to keep me out. Now I feel I am invincible because you love me and I love you.”

  He pulled her to her feet, kissed her once again, then he went from the studio and she heard her footsteps going down the stairs.

  A moment later she heard the door close behind him.

  It was then that she gave a little cry which seemed to come from the very depths of her being.

  Chapter Four

  Cyrilla stood staring at the door as if she thought that the Marquis would come back or she must run after him.

  Then, with a murmur that was somehow infinitely pathetic, she put her hands over her face.

  She was crying helplessly when Hannah came into the studio.

  “I was just wondering – ” she was saying, then as she looked at Cyrilla, she moved forward and said,

  “What’s the matter? What has upset you?”

  “Oh, Hannah! Hannah! How was – I did not – know!”

  As if she must have something or someone to protect her, Cyrilla turned to the maid and put her face against her breast.

  She was crying despairingly by this time and Hannah asked again,

  “What’s the matter? What has upset you? You were so brave at the funeral.”

  “It – is not – Papa.”

  “Then what’s his Lordship done?”

  There was a sharpness in Hannah’s voice now and, as she held Cyrilla in her arms, as she had done since she was a baby, there was a fiercely protective look in her eyes.

  At the same time there was the anger and suspicion which the Marquis had seen when he first saw her outside the door before he drove away.

  “What has his Lordship said to you? Tell me!” Hannah insisted,

  “I thought he – loved – me.”

  “He appeared to do so!”

  “I – believed in him – I believed that he loved me – as I loved him.”

  Cyrilla’s voice was almost incoherent, but Hannah was only too well aware of what she was saying and, before she could reply, Cyrilla went on,

  “How could I – suffer as Mama – suffered? How could I – live like – that all over again? I could not – bear it, Hannah – not even – with him – and I love – him, love him with – all my heart!”

  “That’s not love, Miss Cyrilla, as you well know, not from a gentleman who has only seen you three or four times at the most. Now stop crying and listen to me.”

  Hannah spoke not as a maid would speak but as a nanny and it was as her nurse that Cyrilla made an effort to obey her.

  Hannah moved her back a step or two and sat her down in an armchair; then, standing beside her, with her arms crossed, she said,

  “I told you when your mother died that you should go where you belong, but you wouldn’t listen to me.”

  “How – could I? You know what a – state Papa was – in. I had to – stay with him. I had to! It was – what Mama would have – wanted.”

  “Well, she’s now no longer here,” Hannah said, “and I’ll listen to no more excuses. I wanted to say this to you as soon as the funeral was over, but his Lordship was here before I had a chance.”

  The mere mention of the Marquis made Cyrilla’s tears flow afresh and she said in an almost inaudible voice,

  “I – love him, Hannah – but I – cannot do – what he – asks.”

  “I should think not indeed!” Hannah agreed indignantly. “He deceived me as he deceived you with his kindness over the Master’s funeral, his flowers and his money.”

  Cyrilla raised her head.

  “Hannah! You have – not taken – money from – him?”

  “Only a few pounds, Miss Cyrilla, to buy food and that’s something that can easily be paid back once you do what’s right and prop
er.”

  “Is it – right and – proper?” Cyrilla asked. “Supposing – supposing – ”

  “There’s no supposing about it!” Hannah said sharply. “I’m taking you to Holm House immediately, so stop crying. Put on your cape.”

  “Im-immediately?” Cyrilla stammered.

  “What’s the point of waiting?” Hannah asked. “In fact, this is what I intended to do as soon as you had recovered.”

  Cyrilla gave a deep sigh.

  “I don’t know – what to say – Hannah, and I don’t – know what – to do.”

  “Well, I do!” Hannah said. “And that’s why, Miss Cyrilla, we’ll have no more arguments. I must do what’s right and if you’ll not come with me, I’ll have to go alone.”

  Cyrilla looked at her with a startled expression.

  “Don’t – leave me – alone – I cannot stay – here, in case – ”

  They both knew she was afraid that the Marquis might return and, if he did, Cyrilla thought, that she would be unable to refuse anything he asked of her.

  As if she understood what Cyrilla was feeling, Hannah put out her hand and drew her to her feet.

  “Come along,” she said, “there’s no time to be lost.”

  “How – are you – sure?” Cyrilla tried to say, but Hannah had already left the studio and was walking down the narrow passage to her bedroom.

  She came back a moment later with Cyrilla’s warm cloak and put it over her shoulders.

  “Perhaps I – should wear a – bonnet,” Cyrilla suggested in a faraway voice.

  “There’s no need,” Hannah replied. “You come just as you are. It’s getting chilly now that the sun is going down.”

  She fastened the cape under Cyrilla’s chin and started to walk down the stairs.

  “Our clothes – should we not – take them?” Cyrilla asked.

  “We’ve plenty of time to fetch them if they are needed,” Hannah answered.

  She walked to the kitchen and took down her bonnet and shawl from a hook on the back of the door and put them on.

  She went back to where Cyrilla was waiting at the bottom of the stairs and, passing her, opened the front door.

  “Wait!” Cyrilla cried. “I want – time to – think! We must not do – anything we shall – regret.”