by Sandra Heath
Puzzled, she leaned up on an elbow and pushed her loose golden hair back from her face. The clock on the mantel began to chime midnight, and at the first stroke the door opened softly. The gentleman she had met by Lough Erne entered. Until that moment she had no memory of him at all, but as he smiled at her now, she not only recalled their previous meeting but recognized him as Sir Erebus.
He was dressed in evening black, with a diamond shining brightly in the folds of his neckcloth. How handsome he was, and how wonderfully exciting. She felt her heartbeat quicken, but strangely she felt no fear, and she stretched a hand out to him as he approached the bed. His warm fingers closed reassuringly over hers as he gazed down at her. “One month from now the nineteen years will have come full circle,” he said softly.
“Nineteen years?”
“Your mother sought to keep you from me, but now she has gone, and my path is clear.”
“I don’t understand.”
He put his hand to her cheek. “There is nothing to fear, my sweeting, for you will come to me. I’ll be your king, and you’ll be my queen.”
“As in the lavender song?”
“Yes, as in the song. The lavender is still in bloom, and the wheat stands high. The cycle is turning fast.”
“What cycle?”
He didn’t answer the question but pressed a pomegranate into her hand. “Eat this when the full moon rises at eight tomorrow morning,” he said.
“But—”
“When you see the full moon and its blue shadow, you must eat the pomegranate. The blue image is a portent of the second moon that will come this month, the second moon that signals the ending of the cycle.”
“I don’t know what all this means, and it frightens me a little,” she said in a small voice.
He smiled reassuringly. “You do not need to worry your lovely head, for I will take care of you. For now, though, you will remember nothing of me or this meeting, except the things I have instructed you to do.” He bent to put his lips to her forehead.
“But I want to remember you,” she breathed.
“And so you shall, but only when it is necessary, as now.”
Tears filled her wonderful green eyes. “Will you stay with me now?” she whispered, with no thought of how shockingly improper a question it was. But she was not really herself now, having been overcome by feelings—and a force—she had never known before. She was his to do with as he pleased.
“Stay with you now?” His dark eyes took in the curves of her body beneath the bedclothes. “Believe me, there is nothing I would like more, but you must remain untouched.”
He drew back from her, and she reached out desperately to catch his hand. “Are you going?”
“I must.”
“Will I see you again soon?”
“Tomorrow night, provided you are still attending the celebrations in St. James’s Park.”
She nodded quickly. “Oh, yes, the Bishop of Fairwells has secured a private pleasure barge on the lake and is to hold a large dinner party on it when the fireworks display commences.”
“Yes, I know, for I will be among the guests, but you will not know we have already met.”
Her eyes were warm and filled with longing. “Why must it be like this?”
“Because the cycle cannot be complete unless the mysteries are performed exactly as they always have been.” He took a strand of her hair between his fingertips. “You are so perfect that I know I can only succeed in what must be done. Sleep now, and forget me until I next wish you to remember.”
Corinna closed her eyes, her fingers tight around the pomegranate, and as she sank into a deep sleep, she was filled with love for Sir Erebus Lethe.
* * *
Lammas Day was traditionally when the gathering of the harvest began, so fine weather was needed; instead it was raining heavily. Out in the countryside the reaping could not begin, but the merrymakers of London were not deterred, and just before eight o’clock in the morning the sound of cheers and cracker fireworks in the square aroused Corinna from her sleep. The day’s festivities had already commenced, and other fireworks could be heard across London, even though it was daylight and exceedingly wet.
Corinna lay drowsily in the warm bed, her head devoid of all memory of the night’s events. Through the ill-drawn curtains she could see the low gray clouds, and her heart sank as she thought of all the wonderful celebrations that would be ruined by such weather. But then, quite suddenly, there was a break in the endless gray and a glimpse of flawless heavens beyond. Low over the rooftops opposite she saw the pale orb of the full moon. No, she saw two moons! One pale and creamy, as always; the other, peeping from behind it, a hazy, spectral blue—lavender blue—that was barely visible against the sun-filled skies above the clouds.
She had never seen such a wonder before, although she knew the old sixteenth-century saying “If they say the moon is blue, We must believe that it is true.” Well, it was indeed true, for she was looking at it now. She moved her head slightly in order to see better and felt something hard and round against her cheek. Puzzled, she reached for it. A pomegranate? She was astonished. Who on earth had put it there?
When you see the full moon and its blue shadow, you must eat the pomegranate. The instruction entered her head, and without hesitation she sat up and took her reticule from the table by the bed. Inside was a little pair of scissors, which would certainly be needed to pare the fruit’s hard rosy-gold skin. She hesitated before cutting into it because she knew the pink juice would run and leave black stains on anything it touched, but she soon dismissed such considerations. She simply had to eat the pomegranate!
Without further ado she cut deep into the skin. The delicious juice ran over her fingers and the bedclothes, but still she kept cutting. At last she had a segment she could eat, and as she sank her teeth into the soft, seed-packed flesh she felt a surge of something she could not have described.
Outside someone began to sing.
“Lavender blue, dilly, dilly,
Lavender green.
When I am king, dilly, dilly,
You shall be queen.”
Chapter Six
In another bedroom at the back of the house, Anthea had also been awakened by the sound of fireworks. Her window faced east over the garden toward South Bruton Mews and always caught the full glory of the early morning sun, but not on this dismally wet Lammas Day.
Directly outside, the rain drummed upon the verandah off her bedroom, to which she had direct access by way of French windows. The sound reminded her of the summer evening in 1812 when she had learned that Jovian reciprocated the secret feelings she had formed for him.
It had happened in the gardens of Carlton House, the Prince Regent’s London residence. His Royal Highness had been giving a fete for something or other, the reason escaped her now, and many of the guests had been outside in the gardens because the summer night was oppressively hot and muggy and Carlton House itself stifling. A thunderstorm had been threatening, and everyone wished it would break and bring a little welcome freshness to the air.
Her gown that night was a spangled silver net over white silk, a very light and pretty thing that had been made especially for the occasion, but still she felt uncommonly warm as she crossed the royal gardens. She was going to a secluded bench set in a lantern-lit bower of deep pink Apothecary’s roses—or Rosa gallica officinalis, as Aunt Letty would no doubt say.
Sitting there observing the moths and other night insects fluttering around the colored lanterns, she had thought herself quite alone until suddenly there were voices on the other side of the bower. Unwillingly she found herself eavesdropping on lovers, or rather on a casual encounter the lady wished to turn into something much more.
Her name was Mrs. Mclntyre, a thirty-five-year-old, chestnut-haired beauty who had a string of liaisons to her name. There was a Mr. Mclntyre, but as he also indulged in numerous dalliances, they were evenly matched in the Infidelity Stakes. That night Mrs. Mclntyre’s sights
were set upon none other than Jovian, for whom Anthea had long burned a secret torch of unrequited love.
“Oh, come now, Duke,” she heard Mrs. Mclntyre tease, “what harm on earth can there be in walking together in the gardens?”
“The harm, Mrs. Mclntyre, is that such a walk could be construed as something it is not.” There had been no slurring of his voice then, no impatience or slight edge to his temper, just an amiable tone to which no woman could reasonably take offense.
“Perhaps it would be intriguing to let it become the thing it presently fails to be,” the lady suggested, in a kittenish tone.
“I have no desire to face Mclntyre at dawn.”
“Mclntyre?” The lady laughed. “Good heavens, Duke, if you imagine my husband is in the least interested in what I do, you are very much mistaken.”
There was a pause, and then Jovian apparently decided to be firm and to the point. “I am afraid, madam, that you can apply Mclntyre’s sentiments to my own.”
Silence ensued, then came the sharp sound of a slap, followed by the angry rustle of mauve taffeta as Mrs. Mclntyre hurried away in high dudgeon.
Anthea had remained as quiet as a mouse throughout and truly believed her presence was undetected, but suddenly Jovian addressed her. “I know you are there, Lady Anthea.”
Her lips parted in dismay, and she didn’t reply as he came around to confront her. He folded his arms and smiled in the lantern light as a sudden stir of breeze gently ruffled his blond hair. It signaled the onset of the thunderstorm, although neither of them realized it. How breathtakingly handsome he was in formal evening black, with white lace spilling from his cuffs and blossoming from the front of his shirt. There was a plain ruby pin in his neckcloth, an understated but exquisite touch that demonstrated his superb taste and style.
She fiddled awkwardly with her ivory fan, glad that the night and the lanterns disguised the hot blush that now marked her cheeks. She had never been alone with him like this before, never been faced with the power of her feelings. “I—I was not a deliberate earwig, your grace.”
“Did I say you were?”
“No,” she admitted, “but—”
“But nothing, my lady,” he interrupted. “And please do not call me ‘your grace,’ for I abhor it.”
“I apologize again.”
“I am the one who should apologize for having allowed such a scene in your hearing.”
“I rather think events were foisted upon you,” Anthea replied.
“Maybe, but in the end I was less than a gentleman.”
“She was refusing to take no for an answer.”
Lightning flashed in the west, followed by a low rumble of thunder, and the breeze picked up a little more as Jovian indicated the empty bench beside her. “May I join you?”
“Of course.” Her heart was pounding so loudly in her ears she wondered he could not hear it, and as he sat next to her, she was so desperate not to give herself away that it was difficult to maintain her equilibrium.
He smiled. “Of course, with no intended offense to Mrs. Mclntyre, if you and I sit here like this, our coziness might be construed as something it is not,” he murmured.
“Possibly.”
“How very noncommittal,” he murmured.
“What would you have me say? Shall I be the vaporish miss and squeal for rescue?”
He laughed. “Do you require rescuing?”
She looked at him. “No.”
“I know how you feel about me, Lady Anthea,” he said then.
“I... beg your pardon?” Her cheeks must have deepened to maroon at the very least.
“I know how you feel about me.”
“And how, pray, do I feel about you?” she inquired, trying to be arch.
There was a moment’s silence, then he said softly, “You love me, Lady Anthea.”
She could not help rather pointlessly seeking to save face by denying what was patently true. “You flatter yourself if you think I love you, Duke.”
He gave a low laugh. “One thing that is said of me is true, you know. I can read minds. I can certainly read yours and have been doing so for some time now. It is most gratifying to know how your heart turns over with excitement if our glances happen to meet.”
Unable to cope with her embarrassment, she leapt to her feet with the intention of returning to Carlton House, but he caught her hand to make her stay. “Don’t be offended, Lady Anthea, for I am not poking fun. Far from it.” He stood, still keeping firm hold of her hand. “You see, if you could read my mind, you would know that I feel exactly the same way about you.”
The clasp of his fingers burned through their evening gloves, but somehow she managed to speak. “Does—does it amuse you to tease me?”
“You think I tease?”
“What else? You and I have never been alone together before; indeed we must be termed acquaintances rather than friends; yet suddenly you speak of harboring deep feelings for me.”
“Why should I not? After all, your feelings for me go beyond those of a mere acquaintance. Or do you still deny it?” His thumb moved against her palm as if they were flesh to flesh.
The rising wind died for a second, during which a pin might have been heard to drop upon the grass, then the storm resumed with another flash of lightning. A crash of thunder followed almost immediately, and there were a few spots of rain in the air. Other guests in the gardens began to hurry back to Carlton House, but she and Jovian stayed where they were.
“What shall we do, Anthea?” he murmured. “Remain mere acquaintances, or follow our hearts?”
She couldn’t, wouldn’t, accept that he was sincere. After all, he was one of the greatest prizes in the Marriage Mart, and certainly the most attractive, so why would he fall in love with her? She was an earl’s daughter with a fine inheritance, but there were others like her who were also beautiful. “I—I gave you no leave to use my first name.”
“True, so I am presuming anyway, so it is only right that you call me Jovian.”
Fear of hurt and ridicule remained stubbornly uppermost in her mind. “You are a practiced lover, Duke, and—”
“Jovian,” he corrected.
“And—and half the women in society adore you, so if you expect me to believe—”
“That I love you?” he broke in gently, his voice almost lost in the rushing of the wind. His fingers linked tightly between hers. “I have never before told any woman that I love her, nor will I ever say it to another, because you are the only one for me.”
“Please...”
‘Tell me that you love me too, Anthea, for I need to hear you say it.”
Her lips moved, but she could not speak.
“Say it, Anthea.”
The rain began to fall in earnest, soaking through her dainty gown almost in a moment. It seemed to wash away her foolish restraint. “I love you,” she whispered.
He smiled and pulled her close to kiss her full on the lips. She was hardly aware of the storm that now began to rage overhead. All she knew was that his kiss thrilled through her like a charge, as if her body had absorbed the lightning.
His lips moved slowly and luxuriously over hers in the skilled kiss of a man of experience, but at the same time it was innocent too, as if this was the first kiss that had mattered to him. There was no artifice or calculation, no feeling that this was the means to an end or a passing fancy; every heartbeat, every fraction of breath, every caress came from the soul, and there was no room left for doubting his motives. Love was what urged him, what urged them both....
Her emotions soared to meet the storm, as if her feet no longer touched the ground. The sensation of flying was so powerful that she felt they were above the rooftops. It was such a wild, exhilarating, rapturous feeling that she wondered what she would see if she opened her eyes. Would they be above Carlton House, Pall Mall, St. James’s Park, Westminster Abbey, then even above the storm clouds, so that the moon and starlit heavens were once again spread overhead ... ?
> She didn’t look, for fear of destroying the illusion. It was better by far to believe in the utter enchantment of floating above the world in his embrace, with only his arms preventing her from tumbling to destruction like a modern Icarus, wings burned by the moon instead of the sun.
She was breathless and excited, her hair was wet and her gown drenched through and clinging to her body like a cobweb that shone with dew instead of spangles. Exultation coursed through her veins, and she did not want the beguilement to ever end, but at last she was conscious of descending to the earth once more and feeling the wet grass beneath her satin slippers.
His arms still enveloped her. Earthly arms? No, she wanted there to be something of the other world about him, something so amazing and magical that being with him would always be like living a fairy tale. “Tell me we flew,” she whispered. "Tell me that you just took me over the rooftops toward the moon.”
“We flew, my darling, we flew,” he averred softly, and bent his head to kiss her again.
She guessed he was humoring her, but the words were what she wanted to hear. “Will we fly again?” she asked, as the kiss ended.
“Oh, yes, I promise you,” he breathed.
The deluge continued around them, the dark skies were slashed with lightning, and rolls of thunder made the very earth tremble, but the storm did not matter at all, nor could she have cared less that her hair was wet and spoiled. When his lips first touched hers she had been a green girl, but now her dormant senses had been fully awakened. Her innocence had begun to steal away, but along the sweetest, most spellbinding of paths.
They both realized at the same moment that they really ought to go inside. How they had laughed as they ran hand in hand back to Carlton House, where their bedraggled appearance caused much comment. But she was suddenly impervious to such things; only Jovian would ever be able to hurt her now.
Her joy had known few bounds as that summer gave way to autumn. Society anticipated the seemingly inevitable marriage announcement, which she knew would take place at Christmas, but as the festive season began a change had stolen over him. The Jovian she adored became someone else entirely, a man more likely to be drunk than not, a man whose tongue could be cruel, and whose entire character appeared to have undergone a complete transformation. The face was the same, but all else was different. Her heart began to break, then it shattered, and her happiness seeped wretchedly away into oblivion.