by Liz Carlyle
And he had given her just what she’d asked for, and not one thing more. There was no point in being angry with Geoff.
With a barely suppressed violence, Anaïs turned the tap back on, seized the sponge, and began to scrub. She scrubbed as if she might never be clean again; anything—anything—to remove the muck of stupidity that clung to her.
And when she was done—when she’d rubbed herself red and nearly raw—she hurled the sponge across the bathroom. She glared at it, wishing it and wishing herself straight to the devil, then she set her head to her knees again. And this time she sobbed in earnest.
She sobbed for that piece of her heart forever lost to Geoff, and because she was twenty-two years old and the loneliness was harder to endure with each passing year. Because her prince had not come, and the prince she had found had already set his sights wisely. She sobbed for all these things, large and small, but oh, so very silently, for Anaïs had long been the master of muted tears.
Geoff returned to his bed and sat for a while, elbows on his knees as he awaited Anaïs’s return. He could sense a strong emotion around him now, something very different from desire. He hoped it was not regret. Even loathing, in his opinion, was better than that.
Perhaps he was mistaken altogether. He was not especially capable where Anaïs’s emotions were concerned. Closing his eyes, he drew in what remained of their commingled scents, remembering the night. The whispered sighs. The laughter. The exquisite intimacy. He let his mind run over every moment until at last he heard her bathwater chasing down the drain.
But still she did not return. And when the faint snick of the unfastened lock sounded, and the door did not swing open, he knew that she did not mean to.
Something in his chest twisted.
He had assumed . . .
Ah, but that was unwise, wasn’t it? He drew a hand down his face, pensively scrubbing his hand round a day’s worth of beard, then fell back into the softness of the bed. Now that he thought on it in the clear light of day—now that his body was sated and his mind more rational—Geoff had to admit that nothing had really changed between them. But he had pleased her; on that score, he was well satisfied.
Three times they had made love; the first a little awkward and tentative as they learned each other’s most intimate desires, the second slow and exquisite. He had planted his hands above her shoulders, thrusting and teasing and wooing her with pleasure, then tumbled her atop him to draw her down and down; all the way down into his heart, he feared.
He had watched in exultation as Anaïs had thrown back her head and impaled herself on his shaft with a sigh, her long hair tickling his thighs, her presence filling the shadows of a room that had seemed, mere hours earlier, entirely soulless.
But the third time, in the wee hours of the morning when he had turned her on her back and wordlessly mounted her, Anaïs had risen to him like the moon and the stars rising into the night sky. Exquisitely. Unfailingly. As if it were the most natural thing in the universe. As if they knew each other now in the most intimate and perfect and permanent of ways.
But few things were perfect, and fewer still permanent.
Turning his face into the disheveled bedcovers, Geoff stretched his arm across her pillow and let himself imagine for a moment that she still lay beside him; that her long legs were still entwined with his, her wild black tresses still spread across the linen like so much spun silk. He let himself breathe her in. Anaïs always smelled of something sharp and sweet—like some odd combination of rosewater and anise. Like her very nature.
But in this moment, all that was just a memory. And not likely to become anything more, if her disappearance into the bathroom was any sign. Last night, he had been what she called her right-for-now lover, a phrase he was quickly coming to hate. Nonetheless, those memories of her warmth and her laugh and her scent might have to sustain him for a while.
He shut away the sudden, faintly irrational swell of frustration. There was the day to be got on with, and important work to be done. Whatever was to be settled between Anaïs and him—and it would be settled—had to wait. But the lady, he feared, might have to give up her dream lover and settle for something different.
No, he was not at all sure he was going to allow her to walk away from him as blithely as she might hope.
Fate might not permit it, either.
There could always be grave and unforeseen consequences of a long, passionate night of lovemaking. That was one thing they had not discussed amidst all their breathless sighs and laughter, despite his reputation for being unerringly cautious. It was an oversight Geoff was loath to examine too closely just now.
No, for now, he had pressing business to attend, all of it centered on the dark events unfolding across the street. But before he could turn his attention to Lezennes, there were a couple of urgent letters that wanted writing, the first of which would be to his mother, for in Geoff’s experience, the sooner hard things were said—or unsaid—the sooner they were halfway behind a man.
In one motion, Geoff sat upright, and came off the bed. He went at once to the bellpull, and rang for hot water. Anaïs might steel herself to a cold bath, but he had a day’s worth of bristle to scrape off. And just now it felt as if the chill settling over his heart would be enough to do him for a long time to come.
Anaïs dawdled as long as she dared before going down to breakfast. Upon her arrival in the sunlit dining room, all was civility and silence, save for the rhythmic tick-tock of the ormolu mantel clock, which seemed unusually loud today.
As she’d expected, Geoff was there before her, looking resplendently severe in his charcoal morning coat and an impossibly high, white collar. His face freshly shaven, his expression inscrutable, he was reading a letter and sipping at a cup of the thick, black coffee he favored.
For an instant, she hesitated on the threshold. It appeared he had already dined, for his plate had been swept away.
“Good morning, Geoffrey,” she murmured as Petit drew out her chair.
His pale, wolflike eyes darkening, he flicked a cool glance up at her, then laid aside his letter and rose, his faint bow supremely formal. “Good morning, my dear,” he said. “I trust you slept well?”
“Thank you, yes.” She nodded to Petit to pour her coffee. “Have you had a letter already this morning?”
“Aye, from van de Velde’s contact here in Brussels,” Geoff said. “It looks as though I’m to be away for much of the day.”
Anaïs felt a flood of relief wash through her. “Oh,” she murmured. “Has something happened?”
Frustration sketched across his face. “There is a retired government official he wishes me to meet,” he said. “A fellow in Mechelen who may—or may not—have observed Lezennes paying bribery to some of the fellow’s coworkers, and who may—or may not—know why he was paying it.”
“My,” she said. “There were awful lot of may and may-nots in that sentence.”
“Aye, so it’s probably a long drive for nothing,” he replied. “And even if I learned something, I’m not sure it would improve our situation since I’m not especially concerned about the welfare of the French government—or the Belgians, come to that. I’m just here for the child.”
“Still, one never knows in what way it might help us,” said Anaïs pensively. “If some sort of proof of Lezennes’ character were to come of it—something we could show Charlotte?”
“Precisely,” said Geoff. “So I’ll go. There’s nothing else to be done at the moment anyway.”
Just then the butler passed by the dining room doorway. “Your carriage has come round, sir.”
“Thank you, Bernard.” Geoff laid his letter face down upon the tablecloth, and pushed back his chair. “Petit, how is your Flemish? Can you read it?”
The footman snapped to attention. “Oh, yes, sir. It’s much the same as Dutch.”
“Kindly come with me today,” Geoff ordered. “And excuse us for a moment, will you?”
Anaïs’s stomach sank
as the footman left, pulling the door closed.
But Geoff did not rise. Instead, he toyed almost absently with his coffee cup, then dragged a hand through his shock of dark hair. “There’s something I need to say to you, Anaïs,” he finally said. “About last night.”
“Yes.” Anaïs cleared her throat. “And I to you, Geoff. Last night was . . . magical.”
He flicked a sad, almost cynical look up at her. “Yes, it was,” he agreed. “And frankly, it did not have to end so soon.”
“But it did, Geoff,” she interjected, rising from her chair. “It did have to. All good things must come to an end. And I’ve been thinking about last night. About how it felt.”
“So have I,” he cut in, his voice a little raspy. “And this warrants a longer conversation at a better time, but—”
“Now,” she said abruptly. “Now is fine, Geoff.” She had begun to roam restlessly about the dining room, passing by the sideboard laden with food that didn’t tempt her appetite. “Last night was not precisely a mistake—”
“I’m glad to hear you think so,” he said.
“But it was probably unwise.” Pausing before the hearth, she turned to face him, hands clasped before her. “Oh, Geoff, you are . . . you are wonderful, though even that word does not do you justice. You left me breathless.”
“But—?” His expression had darkened.
“But that should probably be the end of it,” she said, forcing herself onward. “I can see myself, Geoff, so easily growing overfond of you, and complicating our both lives. You are so handsome. So very dashing. And so very—well, let us call it gifted—and I don’t mean metaphysically.”
“Thank you,” he said stiffly. “But forgive me if I fail to see the problem in that.”
“It’s me, Geoff,” she whispered. “The problem is me. I thought I could do this lightly, but—”
“Lightly?” he uttered.
“Yes, but you—” Here she paused to smile wistfully. “Oh, you are not the sort of man a woman takes lightly. I’m just playing with fire. And I’m wise enough to have figured out I’d better quit whilst I’m ahead. We have obligations at home, you and I.”
A bitter smile curved his fine, full mouth. “So I am to be a victim of my success? Is that it?”
Anaïs forced a brighter expression. “If one is to be a victim of something,” she replied, “I daresay that is as good as it gets.”
“Balderdash, Anaïs,” he fired back. “That’s utter balderdash and you know it. Besides, it might not matter what either of us thinks or wants.”
She faltered, and felt the chimneypiece at her back. “I beg your pardon?”
His gaze fell to the slight swell of her belly. “Sometimes fate takes over when two people behave rashly—and we behaved rashly several times.”
“Oh.” Instinctively, Anaïs set a hand on her abdomen. “Oh, no, it should be fine, Geoff. Truly. Do not worry yourself. The timing of things . . . well, it should be fine.”
“Should be,” he gritted. “But mightn’t be. You cannot know, Anaïs, can you?”
She nodded, unable to tear her eyes from his. “It will be,” she answered. “It will have to be.”
He cut his gaze away at last, his hand going to the coffee cup again; covering it, actually, as if by doing so he might hold his own emotions in. “It’s not so simple as wishing it so,” he said quietly. “But I should have been more careful. Forgive me.”
Somehow she dredged up the courage to go to him, and set her hand on his shoulder. “I should ask you to forgive me,” she whispered. “I threw myself at you. But I . . . I’m taking myself back now, Geoff. We’ll be in England again soon. Back to our old lives, and the hopes and dreams we left there. We must be free to pursue them willingly, without any lingering guilt.”
For a long moment he said nothing, as if he were turning something over in his mind. “So tell me, Anaïs,” he finally said, still toying with his cup, still refusing to look at her, “is this about your Mr. Right? And why do I begin to suspect this chap has a name?”
Anaïs closed her eyes. “Doesn’t everyone?” she said quietly. “And as to expectations, I daresay your family has a few, too.”
“So this is about what your family expects?” His voice was cold. “This match is something they have arranged?”
“In a way, yes,” Anaïs whispered. “When I was young, Nonna Sofia said—”
His explosion cut her off. “Oh, God spare me Sofia Castelli again!” he said, shoving back his chair and jerking to his feet. “Tell me, Anaïs, does that woman pull your family’s strings from the damned grave?”
“I beg your pardon?” she whispered, setting a hand to her breastbone.
“Well, does she?” He towered over her now, one fist striking the table so hard the silver jumped. “She has you trained up as if for a suicide mission—as if you were a man—which you are not. And from the grave she still dictates who you’ll marry? Must everyone jump to that meddling old woman’s tune? Well, by God, I won’t.”
Anaïs felt her temper spike. “I fear that overweening pride of yours has overcome good sense, Geoff,” she said, her voice tremulous. “You cannot simply bed me, then expect to own me. You don’t even want to.”
“No, I don’t,” he snapped, “for you’ve a damned shrewish tongue. But if the worst should happen—”
“Oh, back to that, are we?” Throwing up her hands, Anaïs cut him off by turning and heading straight for the door.
“Anaïs, do not walk away when I am speaking to you.”
“We are done speaking,” she said, jerking open the door. “And yes, Geoff, if the worst should happen, you’ll certainly be the first to know—and then may God help me.”
She slammed the door hard behind her, listening in satisfaction as one of the landscapes thumped against the wall.
“Anaïs!” he bellowed. “Damn it, get back in here!”
But Anaïs just kept walking—right past poor Petit, who stood straight-faced in the passageway pretending he hadn’t heard the slams and shouts, and past Bernard, who stood sentry by the front door—then straight up the staircase to her room. And once there, she pitched herself onto the bed again, willing herself not to cry.
She would not cry, damn him.
She would not.
Half an hour later, Geoff watched as the outskirts of Brussels went flying past his carriage window and the flat, lovely landscape of rural Flanders began to unfurl. Green fields, water glistening with the reflection of clouds and sky, even the occasional windmill wheeling in the sun; all of it was stunning. But even the perfection that was Flanders could not distract him this morning.
He fisted his hand, lifted it, then resisted the urge to pound it on something and let it bounce back onto his thigh.
On the banquette opposite, Petit lifted his gaze from the translated notes he was reviewing. “Sir?”
Geoff turned his face back to the window. “Nothing, Petit. Thank you.”
He watched the landscape skimming past until at last the sun struck the window at an angle, throwing his own glowering expression back at him. Almost dispassionately, he let his gaze drift over his face.
He was a handsome man, he supposed. Women always told him so, at any rate. Save for his hair, he looked very like his mother, thank heaven. If he had looked like his father—well, God help them all.
But he did not; he was an Archard through and through, for his mother had been Lord Bessett’s cousin. Their May-December marriage, if one could call it that, had been arranged by his grandfather for the purposes of political expediency. The Earl of Jessup had wished to be rid of his only daughter—and his future grandson—as quickly as possible. So he had dumped them upon his late wife’s family and pressed on with his ambitions.
But Geoff’s Archard blood had held true, at least outwardly. He was tall and lean, and possessed the traditional Archard eyes, though his were cold while his mother’s were anything but.
Perhaps that burning blue warmth came from wi
thin a person? For as often as Geoff’s lovers had whispered to him of his handsomeness, to a one they had told him—in the end, and not in a whisper—that he was cold. Eyes like winter’s ice on a February day, his last had said.
He looked at himself again, his image like water in the wavy glass. Did Anaïs think him handsome? She had said so, yes, but she’d not seemed overly impressed by it. Perhaps a woman such as she did not value outward appearance so very much. Not that she wasn’t beautiful; she was. Dramatically so. Not in the way of a pretty flower or a sunlit garden, though.
No, Anaïs possessed the beauty of a cool, dark forest.
And the tongue of a shrew. He had not lied about that.
Again, he fisted his hand. An awful longing rushed over him; an emotion such as he had never expected to feel, and still did not quite understand. Was it love? Would it fade? He feared the answers were yes, and no, in that order.
He wished he could speak to his father just now. He would ask him what it was like to suffer unrequited love for years on end. Would it eat the heart out of a man? Was that where he was headed? And was there nothing to be done but suffer it?
Or could a woman be bent to one’s will?
Oh, knew the answer to that one.
Anaïs de Rohan would be bent to no man’s will. And he would not want her if she could be.
Chapter 15
Of all those in the army close to the commander, none is more intimate than the secret agent.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
For Anaïs, the evening at the Vicomte de Lezennes’ began as a strained affair, and did not much improve.
Geoff arrived home just in time to dress and go across the street after a fruitless trip to Mechelen to find a man who apparently did not wish to be found. Based on what little she could learn amidst his scowls and grumbling, Anaïs concluded he and Petit had been taken on a merry chase, in the end learning little save for the whereabouts of all the back lanes between Brussels and Mechelen.
At Lezennes’ they were received warmly by Charlotte and with overpolished charm by the vicomte. Throughout the first half of dinner neither gentleman said a great deal, leaving Anaïs to lead the conversation. Lezennes did not seem to mind, choosing instead to lavish an almost cold, relentless attention on Charlotte.