Charlotte willed herself to look away from him but could not. The darkness of the carriage had cast him into deep shadow but she could still see the blue sheen on the midnight-black hair and his eyes pinned her in place like live coals.
‘You … shamed … me,’ she whispered, wondering how it was that a man who could be so cruel one minute could emanate a sense of comfort and safety the next. His jaw tensed and small white lines framed his mouth.
‘No one could shame you,’ he said curtly.
She brushed the tears from her cheeks but they continued to flow. She should not be even condescending to speak to him. He had humiliated her, taken her captive. Any kindness was nothing but a figment of her imagination.
He leaned towards her, and through the heavy silk of her skirt his knees brushed hers. Heat flooded her face and she was grateful for the concealing darkness.
‘Charlotte.’ His voice was deep and caressing. Panic welled up in her. How could she hold on to her rage, her fear, when he had only to change the tone of his voice for her to feel faint with longing?
He made no move to take advantage of the intimacy of the carriage. Instead, very slowly, he held his hand out to her, palm upward, his eyes never moving from her face.
The carriage lurched and swayed as the horses began to climb the hill to Beausoleil and Charlotte stared at him, mesmerised.
‘I would not have willingly distressed you,’ he said quietly.
Her heart pounded so that she could hardly breathe. She could no longer think clearly. She could see only his eyes, hear only his voice, gentle and coercing.
Hesitantly she inched her hand forward, slipping it tentatively into his. His fingers locked over hers tightly and she gave a gasp that he mistook for grief.
In one swift easy movement he was beside her and as his arms circled her shoulders she began to cry again, but for far different reasons than Sandor imagined.
His eyes darkened and he stroked the top of her head, marvelling at the thickness and softness of her hair. Perhaps, when Zara arrived, Charlotte would understand the reason for his actions. Zara. The love he felt for his sister and could never publicly show, tore at his heart. Wryly he reflected that if Monte Carlo society believed Charlotte was his mistress, it would make meetings with Zara far easier. And for once Monte Carlo society would be wrong. Charlotte would not be his mistress. She would never condescend to become so. He had hurt her too deeply. Humiliated her beyond forgiveness.
He leaned his head back against the padded upholstery, his dark eyes bleak. His whole life was a lie. Povzervslay was Count Istvan Karolyi’s true heir. His sister was believed to be the daughter of Prince and Princess Katzinsky and as wife of Lord Beston, she could do nothing more than exchange meaningless pleasantries with him when they met. His heart could be given to no woman, for no woman would accept him once she knew the truth. Or … His eyes rested broodingly on the woman in his arms. Only a very rare woman. A woman who would risk her life for a child, whose grief for an elderly lady was deep and genuine. A woman who spurned the easy option of becoming the mistress of a count or a prince, preferring to seek work even as a maid if it would enable her to retain her honour. A woman to whom he had brought nothing but unhappiness and distress.
The lights of Beausoleil gleamed between the pines. As the carriage halted Sandor released her, alighting in silence. When his hand took hers to assist her from the coach, Charlotte shuddered.
His touch flared through her like a flame. Her inner fight had been in vain. The tears glistening on her cheeks were tears of shame at the knowledge that she felt only relief that the man about to take her to his bed was not the loathsome Prince Yakovlev nor even the pleasant-faced Comte de Valmy. Shame at the passionate desire he aroused in her, at the fever that was possessing her, rising higher and hotter as he strode with her into the chandelier-lit entrance hall of Beausoleil.
Would he be forceful? Tender? Why was he not speaking to her? Not looking at her? A moment ago he had held her in his arms. Her head whirled and she felt sick with anticipation.
‘Mademoiselle Grainger will be staying at Beausoleil indefinitely,’ he told the maid that hurried forward. ‘See to it that a bath is drawn for her. She has had a tiring evening. Also, that the bed in the yellow room is aired.’
‘Yes, Count Karolyi.’ The maid bobbed and scurried away to give orders to the undermaid to fill the swan-shaped bath in the room adjoining the yellow boudoir.
A valet removed Count Karolyi’s discarded gloves. A footman hastened forward with a silver tray bearing a glass of brandy.
‘A drink for Mademoiselle Grainger, Georges. A lemonade I think. The evening is hot.’
‘Yes sir. At once, sir.’
‘Jeanne!’
Another maid hurried forward.
‘From now on you will act as Mademoiselle Grainger’s personal maid. Please see to it that she has everything she requires.’
His voice caught and deepened as he turned once more to Charlotte. ‘I trust you will be comfortable, Mademoiselle. My goodnight.’ He spun on his heel, knowing that if he stayed in her presence a moment longer he would be unable to control his raging desire for her.
She stared after him, uncertain and bewildered.
‘This way, Mademoiselle.’ The little maid indicated that Charlotte follow her. Numbly Charlotte moved forward. A small cap of lace perched delicately on the maid’s neatly upswept hair. Her dress was black and of good material, expensively cut. Her wisp of an apron was lace-edged.
She led the way up a magnificent staircase that wound in a delicate curve. The room behind the door she opened was already being tended. A footman was lighting candles. A maid was turning down the sheets on the chiffon-draped and canopied bed.
‘Your bath will soon be ready, Mademoiselle.’
Lemonade and biscuits were brought on a tray. No curiosity was displayed by the maids or the footman. Perhaps Count Karolyi often brought home young ladies possessing neither bags nor baggage and installed them in his bedroom. She looked around her. The room bore no masculine overtones. There was no sign of Sandor’s occupancy.
The undermaid entered from the adjoining bathroom, bobbed deferentially, and announced that a bath had now been drawn. Charlotte wondered what army of servants had carried jugs of hot water so quickly up the back stairs. Jeanne began to assist her with her dress and Charlotte stood uncomfortably. She had never had a personal maid before. It felt strange to be so waited on. To her relief she was left to enjoy the luxury of the fragrant scented bathwater in privacy.
What would she do when she emerged from the water? She had no nightdress. No négligé. Would Sandor be waiting for her in the satin-sheeted bed?
His face burned against her mind. She was his without reservation. Did he know it yet? What would be his reaction when she entered his arms of her own volition? Her body felt as if it were on fire, throbbing with an excitement she had never previously known.
Thick, soft towels were at her disposal. She wrapped herself in them and with her heart thudding in her throat, slowly entered the bedroom. The giant bed dominated the room. Candlelight cast soft shadows on the walls and the heavy velvet curtains. A nightdress and négligé were laid across the bed-foot. Soft silk slipped over her head and shoulders, rippled around her hips. She gazed at herself in the mirror. The candles behind her silhouetted her slender body, the soft roundness of her breasts, the gentle swell of her hips. Would he find her pleasing?
Her green-gold eyes held her reflection in the mirror. Was this really her, Charlotte Grainger? Was she really about to take as a lover a man who had barely bestowed one kind word on her? A man who had mocked her with his eyes? Gained amusement at her expense; humiliated her? Where was the Charlotte Grainger of a week ago? Was she really no better than the cocottes of the casino? Than Louise de Remy and her host of jewelled, perfumed friends? She did not know. She knew only that she had fought against her desire for him with every fibre of her being and that she had lost the battle. The Char
lotte Grainger who had arrived in Monte Carlo six months ago had died with the Princess. Another Charlotte faced her in the mirror. A girl willing to risk everything to know fleeting happiness with a man who would possess her heart until it ceased to beat.
She crossed the room and climbed into bed. The sheets were cool to her fevered body, the room a warm glow in the soft light. Five minutes passed and then there came the sound of footsteps outside her door. She closed her eyes tightly, hardly daring to breathe as the door opened and he stepped into the room. He was walking towards the bed. She could sense his presence, smell the faint aroma of cologne. His shadow fell across her and she dug her nails deep into her palms and forced her eyelids open.
He stood looking down at her, his jacket discarded, his lace-frilled evening shirt slashed open at the throat revealing crisply curling dark hair. He seemed suddenly taller, more broad-shouldered than ever. She could see the ripple of strong muscles beneath the soft linen of his shirt, and was burningly aware of the leanness of his hips and the sleek fit of his trousers.
She lifted her eyes to his, her cheeks flaming at the indecency of her thoughts. The candlelight cast flickering shadows across the harsh planes of his face. His eyes were impenetrable. Dark lakes in which she could read nothing. The terrified excitement that had held her enthralled reached crescendo pitch. She longed for his touch. For the heat of his body next to hers. A small pulse began to beat wildly at her throat. He was frowning slightly, turning away from her. Was he about to leave her?
She gave a little inarticulate cry and stretched her hand out, restraining him. He halted, staring down at the trembling hand that covered his own. A muscle twitched at the side of his jaw and then he groaned, grasping her hand tightly in his, staring down at her with an expression that rocked her heart.
So he had looked when he bathed her cheek, when he had comforted her after Princess Natalya’s death. So he looked at her now as with the utmost delicacy his finger softly traced the line of her forehead, down her nose to her mouth.
Charlotte gasped, and as if it were the most natural thing in the world, kissed the fingertip that rested on her lips. Time hung suspended. She felt as if she were drowning in the depths of his eyes and then he was on the bed beside her and she was in his arms, her lips parting willingly beneath the fierce onslaught of his. Delight engulfed her as his strong hands moved down her body, caressing her throat, her shoulders, releasing her breasts from their light covering of silk.
She gave a soft, yielding moan and her fingers clutched convulsively at the thickness of his curls as with the gentleness of absolute love his head moved down, kissing the hollow of her throat, the rose-pink nipples held captive in his hands. She arched her body against the hardness of his, the love she felt for him flooding through her so that it seemed as if she would be consumed by it.
‘Charlotte … Charlotte …’ His voice was naked with desire and longing as the weight of his body imprisoned her beneath him.
He had come into the room only to assure himself that she was no longer distressed. The sight of her gold-red hair cascading over the pillow in thick, undulating waves and the tantalising outline of her slender body beneath the silken sheets had held him enthralled. He had been capable of no other movement than to go forward. Standing by the bed, looking down at her, he had been stunned by her beauty, by the intensity of the emotions she awoke in him. Nevertheless, he had been determined to do nothing other than wish her goodnight. Until her hand had covered his with the light touch of a butterfly and his iron self-control had melted as if in a furnace.
His mouth was once more upon hers, the fever possessing him rising higher and hotter and then he heard her cry out, not in pain but in capitulation, and he halted, struggling for control. To possess her now would be madness. Their whole future would be tarnished by the knowledge that he had brought her to Beausoleil against her will.
Was that why she was responding to him with such sweet abandon? Because his behaviour had led her to believe that she had no choice?
Exercising almost superhuman control he hauled himself away from her, his eyes burning like live coals.
‘Goodnight,’ his voice was a harsh rasp over the beating of his heart. He could not see the bewilderment on her face for the red haze that clouded his vision. He had to be free of her. To stay a moment longer would be to succumb utterly.
With the blood pounding in his ears his hand wrenched at the smoked-glass knob of the door. For a terrible second he hesitated and then the door rocked on its hinges as he slammed it shut and strode, dark-visaged, down the corridor.
Charlotte knelt in the centre of the rumpled bed, her hair cascading around her shoulders, staring after him in disbelief. ‘Sandor …’ It was a tremulous plea that carried no further than the room.
She remained in motionless disarray and then the enormity of what had taken place overcame her. Shame descended like a tidal wave. She had behaved like a trollop. A putain. What would he think of her? How would she ever summon the courage to face him again?
Desolation swept over her and her cheeks were still wet with tears as the night sky imperceptibly lightened to presage dawn.
Downstairs Sandor sat in a high-winged leather chair and stared unseeingly into the flames of a log fire. Not until tomorrow would he know if she had responded to him out of love or fear, or if her response had been nothing but a figment of his fevered imagination, brought about by his overpowering desire for her.
And if it had? He passed a hand across his eyes. He would tell her that Lady Beston was desirous of having her as a companion. That no further amorous advances would be made to her under Beausoleil’s roof. To kiss her again would be madness.
He swirled the brandy around in the glass and drank deeply. If she did not want him the sooner she left for England with Zara the better. She had destroyed his desire for all other female companionship, even that of Sarah. Wearily he rose to his feet and made his way to his vast, opulent and lonely room. It occurred to him that he had walked out of the casino leaving a fortune on the card table. No doubt François would have safely retrieved it. He was uncaring. He cared only for Charlotte. Restlessly he threw himself on his bed, tossing and turning, longing for the dawn, yet dreading it in case it brought disillusionment in its wake.
The next morning Charlotte awoke in a sunlit room, wondering where she was. Then memory came flooding back and her cheeks scorched. In nervous haste she sprang from the bed and dressed herself with trembling fingers. As she was pinning her hair there was a knock at the door and Jeanne entered with a tray bearing a cup of hot chocolate.
‘Oh, I am sorry Mademoiselle. I had not expected you to rise so early. You should have rung for me …’
‘It is all right, Jeanne,’ Charlotte struggled to keep her voice steady, ‘ I am accustomed to dressing myself.’
‘But Count Karolyi expressly wished that I …’
At the sound of his name Charlotte felt a pain like that of a knife between her shoulder blades.
‘Where is Count Karolyi?’ she asked stiffly.
There was a curious throb in the voice of the gentle-faced English girl. Jeanne was confused. What had master done to enrage her so?
‘He is in the breakfast-room, Mademoiselle. He …’
‘Thank you, Jeanne.’
Forcing herself to move, she walked swiftly past the startled maid and along the corridor. She had disgraced herself once but she would not do so again. Her heart hammered painfully as she descended the stairs.
A footman hurried forward and she said with all the dignity she could summon, ‘ Count Karolyi, if you please.’
‘Yes, Mademoiselle. This way, Mademoiselle.’
Charlotte followed him, her head high, determined not to stay a second longer than was necessary beneath Count Karolyi’s roof.
Charlotte entered the room bravely, but the sight of him sitting in careless negligence almost robbed her of her good intentions.
He had obviously been riding. He was wearing
a Russian-styled high-necked silk shirt that emphasised the Slavic lines of his face, and his riding breeches were tucked into glossy black knee-high boots. A whip had been tossed carelessly onto a nearby chair and he was at breakfast. He was cutting himself a slice of cheese and he paused as she entered, balancing the cheese on the edge of his knife. She stared at the sharp blade, noticing how long his fingers were, how well shaped.
She clenched her nails into her palm. She must not think of his hands, his body. She had to forget her madness of the previous evening and make quite sure that he did not believe she had been acquiescent and willing.
‘Count Karolyi, I insist on an apology for your behaviour last night.’ Her voice was trembling. What if he cruelly pointed out to her that it had been her own hand that had detained him? She held on to the back of a chair for support as their eyes held and Sandor’s brows drew together in a deep frown. The desperate hope that he had nursed throughout the night died. She had not come to him this morning with eyes shining with love. He could not clasp her in his arms and kiss her and tell her that he loved her more than he had ever dreamed he could love anyone or anything in the world. She had come to him demanding an apology. Any willingness on her part the previous night had been occasioned only by fear. With great difficulty he controlled his voice.
‘Please be seated,’ he said, rising from the table, and pulling back a gilt and monogrammed chair.
‘No. I demand an apology. I …’ She dared not look at him for the shame she felt. Surely he knew how willing she had been? How eager?
Sandor dismissed the footman and maid and fought the disappointment that was crushing him. His dream had been fragile enough and he had been a fool to think that it could withstand the light of day.
‘Please be seated,’ he repeated, cold with terror at the thought that she might leave Beausoleil, that he might lose her forever.
Hating herself for her weakness, Charlotte obediently sat.
‘You appear to be distressed.’ He was pouring a cup of coffee for her.
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