From Hell to Heaven

by Barbara Cartland

  ‘Poor child!’ she said beneath her breath. ‘It’s what I expected would happen and how could it be otherwise with his Lordship so handsome and women flocking round him like flies round a honeypot?’

  Because the idea annoyed her, Mrs. Dawes set the silver-backed hairbrushes sharply down on the dressing table.

  *

  Downstairs Kistna paused before she entered the salon.

  She felt as if she must pull herself together, although why she should do so or what made her feel so strange she did not wish to explain even to herself.

  She only knew that she was afraid, and there were no words to express it in.

  A footman had opened the door and was looking at her wondering why she did not go into the salon.

  Then, as she did so, she saw the Marquis standing at the far end in front of the mantelpiece.

  Dressed in his evening clothes he was very impressive and very, Kistna thought, magnificent.

  Then because she would not help herself, because fear was making her heart beat in a strange way, she felt because he was looking towards her with a smile on his lips that he stood for security and what she wanted more than anything else – beauty.

  Forgetting her lessons, forgetting all he had taught her, she started to run towards him.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Kistna was laughing at something Peregrine had said as the three of them rode back through the Park towards the Abbey.

  It was nearly luncheon time and Kistna had begun to feel hungry even though she disliked knowing that their ride had come to an end.

  It was a joy that was inexpressible to know that every morning she could ride the Marquis’s magnificent horses. And with him.

  Today they had gone further than usual and had raced each other on a flat stretch of land that was over a mile long.

  It was inevitable that the Marquis should win, but Kistna managed to beat Peregrine by a short head and he congratulated her.

  “Who would have thought that that miserable girl who looked like a lamppost,” he said teasingly, “and had ridden nothing better than an Indian donkey should dare to prove herself an Amazon and beat me?”

  Kistna had laughed.

  “I am delighted I have been able to do so and as it happens I never rode a donkey in India!”

  “Then it was either an elephant or a camel,” Peregrine retorted, “but certainly nothing as swift as what Linden produces from his stable.”

  “There I agree with you,” Kistna said. “They are the most marvellous horses one could imagine and if I was an Amazon I would steal one and gallop away.”

  “Where would you go?” Peregrine asked.

  Kistna had been speaking lightly, trying as she always did to out-do Peregrine in repartee.

  Now suddenly serious, she glanced at the Marquis and beneath her breath she murmured,

  “Nowhere!”

  Peregrine followed the direction of her eyes and like Mrs. Dawes he realised at once what had happened and wondered what he should do about it.

  He thought that Kistna had suffered enough already to last her a lifetime and it would be cruel to have her break her heart as so many other women had done over the Marquis.

  Peregrine better than anybody else was aware that no woman, however attractive, had ever held his attention for long.

  He had the feeling, which he had never expressed before even to himself, that the Marquis was searching for some ideal, some mythical woman he would never find.

  As they rode on with Kistna edging her horse a little nearer to the Marquis’s, Peregrine was wondering if he should warn her.

  Then he thought that it would be useless.

  Love, he told himself with uncharacteristic seriousness, was something that one could not prevent or control. It happened and, when it did, there was little one could do about it.

  ‘She is young, she will soon get over it,’ he tried to think.

  But he found it was difficult to imagine Kistna with Branscombe.

  He had not been with her every day and nearly every hour for the past ten days without realising not only was she, as he had thought at first, quick-witted, but there were also depths to her character that he had certainly not found in any other young woman of the same age.

  ‘It is because she has lived abroad,’ he thought, but knew that it was more than that and sometimes when they were talking together he felt that Kistna was as old as, if not older than he and the Marquis.

  ‘It is a question of thinking and feeling,’ he decided with an unusual perception.

  Then, at something that Kistna said to him they were all laughing again and he kept them amused until the Abbey was in sight.

  “What are we doing this afternoon?” Peregrine asked as they rode over the bridge that spanned the lake.

  “I have planned something rather interesting,” the Marquis replied, “which will be a surprise.”

  “I will say one thing about you, Linden,” Peregrine replied, “you are a superb host. I was thinking last night, I have never had a quieter time at the Abbey or a more interesting one.”

  “I would not wish you to be bored,” the Marquis said mockingly.

  “There is no likelihood of that,” Peregrine said in all sincerity.

  He thought as he spoke that it was something his host should be saying, for it was the Marquis who had been bored in London, bored at the races, bored at the last prize fight they attended and bored with Isobel.

  As they rode on towards the house, they saw that there was a carriage standing outside the front door.

  Peregrine looked at it casually, then, as he saw its up to date expensive lines and the four horses drawing it, he looked sharply at the Marquis and realised that he was as aware as he was who was calling.

  They reached the front door and, as the grooms came hurrying to the horses’ heads, the Marquis dismounted and went to Kistna to assist her to alight.

  As he did so, he said in a low voice,

  “Go upstairs and stay in your room until I send for you.”

  Kistna’s eyes widened in surprise, but he did not bother to explain and merely walked ahead up the steps and into the hall knowing that she would obey him.

  As he handed his hat, riding gloves and whip to one of the footmen, the butler said,

  “Lady Isobel Sidley has called, my Lord, and is waiting for your Lordship in the Silver Salon.”

  The Marquis did not reply and there was a scowl between his eyes as he walked in the direction of the Silver Salon thinking that a scene was inevitable and that it was impossible for him to avoid it.

  Isobel was looking extremely beautiful as she rose from the chair where she had been sitting and held out both her hands to him.

  “Linden!” she said in a voice that meant she was being deliberately alluring, “I decided that, as Mohammed would not come to the mountain, the mountain must come to Mohammed!”

  “I am surprised to see you, Isobel!” the Marquis replied.

  He raised one of her hands perfunctorily to his lips and somehow extricated himself from her fingers although she obviously was trying to cling to him.

  “How can you be so heartless and so cruel as to leave London without telling me where you were going or when you would return!”

  “I was not certain of that myself,” the Marquis replied. “Have you really come all this way to ask me questions or are you staying in the neighbourhood?”

  “I am staying with you, at least I hope so,” Isobel replied.

  She glanced at him from under her eyelashes in a way that made most men feel the blood rush to their heads.

  But the Marquis appeared to be unmoved.

  “I am afraid that is impossible,” he said in an uncompromising voice that she knew only too well.

  “Why?”

  “Because Peregrine and I are here alone and I have no wish for a party.”

  “You are lying!”

  The accusation was almost spat at the Marquis and he stiffened.

  “I
know you are lying,” she went on. “I was told that you were out riding with Peregrine Wallingham and your Ward! I did not realise that Mirabelle Chester had arrived in England.”

  If the Marquis was disconcerted at Kistna’s presence being revealed, he did not show it.

  Instead he said,

  “Mirabelle is still a schoolgirl and cannot even be considered a debutante until she has made her curtsey to the Queen at Buckingham Palace.”

  “People have been talking of her arrival in this country and of her great fortune.”

  “People will talk about anything,” the Marquis remarked in a lofty tone, “but I must persuade you to return to London this afternoon even though it may seem inhospitable.”

  “I want to be with you,” Isobel insisted and now she was pouting.

  “Then I am delighted to invite you to stay to luncheon, but, as I have just returned from riding, I must go and change.”

  Lady Isobel moved a little nearer to him.

  “Let me stay the night, Linden,” she begged in a low voice, “I want to talk to you and be with you.”

  The invitation in her dark eyes was very obvious, but the Marquis was already walking towards the door.

  “I am sure that Peregrine will be delighted to entertain you with a glass of champagne,” he said, “and you must tell him all the gossip that has accumulated since we have been away from London.”

  He walked out of the room and saw Peregrine halfway up the stairs.

  He waited and, as the Marquis caught up with him, he asked,

  “What does she want? Or is that an unnecessary question.”

  “I have told her she can stay to luncheon, but must leave this afternoon,” the Marquis replied. “She has been told that Mirabelle is here and I am going to tell Kistna to have luncheon upstairs. I have told Isobel that she is only a schoolgirl and not yet entitled to be treated as a debutante.”

  Peregrine raised his eyebrows, but he said nothing and the Marquis went on,

  “I am going now to tell her to keep out of sight and then I must change my clothes. But there is no need for you to change yours, so go and ply Isobel with champagne! If she asks you about Mirabelle, say indifferently that she is nothing but a schoolgirl who will need a great deal of of grooming before she appears in Society.”

  The Marquis did not wait for an answer, but hurried up the stairs two at a time.

  Peregrine with a twinkle in his eyes turned and went down again.

  ‘I might have anticipated,’ he thought, ‘that this sort of situation would arise.’

  It amused him to see how the Marquis was striving to keep control of events, although he might soon find that beyond his power.

  The Marquis went to Kistna’s bedroom and knocked on the door.

  She called out, ‘come in’, but, when he entered, she did not turn her head.

  She was standing gazing out of the window and, although she had taken off her hat, she had obviously not rung for her maid or begun to change her riding habit for a gown.

  She was, in fact, wondering who Lady Isobel was, being certain in her own mind that she was someone who loved the Marquis and whom perhaps he loved in return.

  “Kistna!”

  As the Marquis spoke her name, Kistna started and turned round.

  She had been expecting a maid and, when she saw him standing just inside the door, there was a sudden light in her eyes and a radiance in her face that made it seem as if the sunshine had come inside the room.

  For a moment the Marquis looked at her.

  Then, as if he remembered why he was there, he said,

  “Somebody has called to see me whom I am anxious you should not meet. I therefore wish you to have luncheon up here in your boudoir. As soon as she has gone, I will send a message to let you know and you can come downstairs.”

  Having given his instructions he would have turned away, but Kistna asked,

  “Why should I not – meet this – lady? Are you – ashamed of me?”

  “No, of course not!” the Marquis answered quickly. “It’s nothing like that.”

  “Then – why am I to stay – out of sight?”

  “One reason,” he explained, “is that you are staying in the Abbey unchaperoned. You must be aware that it would be correct for an elderly or married woman to be present.”

  Because she had expected a different answer, the radiance that had faded from Kistna’s face when the Marquis had first told her what she was to do was back again.

  “Is that all?” she asked in such a tone of relief that he looked at her curiously.

  “What else did you expect?”

  What Kistna had really thought was that the Marquis wanted to be alone with the lady who had called. It was an inexpressible relief to know that his reason was merely a conventional one and she replied,

  “Of course I will have my luncheon up here as you want me to, but please, my Lord, do not let your visitor – spoil the afternoon. I am so looking forward to the – surprise you have planned.”

  She was suddenly very childlike in the way she pleaded with him and the Marquis smiled as he answered,

  “I promise you I will do my best.”

  Yet, as he left her, he had the feeling that he was being unkind and, when he went downstairs again, he was very conscious of the fact that there was a lonely young woman eating alone while Isobel was waiting for him.

  Luncheon was an uncomfortable meal, because Lady Isobel was determined to hold the attention of the Marquis and undoubtedly resented Peregrine being there.

  She made spiteful replies to some of the things he said and, when he lapsed into silence and the Marquis made no effort to talk, Isobel attempted to keep the conversation concentrated on herself and was not very successful at it.

  Instead of the lavish meal usually served at the Abbey, Peregrine suspected that the Marquis had cancelled at least two courses because luncheon was finished far quicker than was usual.

  “I will order your carriage, Isobel,” he said, as he rose from the table.

  “I wish to speak to you alone, Linden.”

  She walked with an air of defiance towards the Silver Salon.

  As she entered it, the Marquis hung back for a moment to say to Peregrine,

  “Order her carriage. I only hope this will not take long.”

  “I am sorry for you,” Peregrine replied.

  The Marquis closed the salon door behind him and moved towards his guest in a casual manner.

  At the same time he was uncomfortably aware that Isobel was determined to have a scene.

  She, however, tried a different tactic from what he had expected by throwing herself precipitately into his arms the moment he reached her side.

  “Oh, Linden, I love you!” she breathed, lifting her lips to his. “Kiss me and I will tell you how much.”

  The Marquis looked down at her beautiful face and realised as he did so that she no longer had the slightest attraction for him.

  In fact it was difficult to remember why he had ever found her irresistibly fascinating or that she had easily managed to evoke a fiery response from him by an overture such as this.

  With an ease that came from long experience of evading clinging women, the Marquis managed to extricate himself from Lady Isobel’s arms.

  “I think, Isobel,” he said, as he stood with his back to the fireplace, “we are both old enough and experienced enough to know when an affaire de coeur such as we have both enjoyed comes to an end.”

  “There is no question of it coming to an end as far as I am concerned.”

  Lady Isobel’s voice rose a little as she spoke and the Marquis was aware that she was angry because he had avoided her wiles.

  “What I suggest,” he said, “is that, when I return to London, I will give you a present that will commemorate the very happy times we have spent together in the past. And I hope that there will be no recriminations, no regrets and we shall always be friends.”

  He thought as he spoke that what he
had said sounded priggish and slightly pompous, but he knew from past experience that there was really nothing else he could say to a woman who still wanted him while he had no further interest in her.

  But while many of his discarded loves had wept, sulked or merely accepted the inevitable, Isobel was made of sterner stuff.

  Having been spoilt all her life and having a very inflated idea of her own charms, she was not only furious at losing the Marquis but she was also insulted that he no longer desired her as a woman.

  Incensed almost beyond control she spat out her venom at him, berating him in a manner that he thought would not have come amiss in a Billingsgate fishwife and with every second that passed he found her more unpleasant.

  By the time she finished he had come to the conclusion that he positively disliked her, and decided that there was no one to blame but himself for having had the bad taste to find her desirable in the first place.

  When finally Isobel could find nothing more to say and had already repeated herself a dozen times, she picked up her gloves and her reticule and said in a bitter and acid voice,

  “I will leave you, Linden, as you are so anxious for me to do so, but let me make this absolutely clear, I loathe and detest you for what you have done to me. I gave you my heart and you trampled it under your feet. One day you will be paid back in your own coin.”

  Her eyes narrowed as she went on,

  “One day you will suffer and some woman will hurt you, as I have been hurt, and I shall rejoice that she has the power to do so!”

  The Marquis did not reply. He merely inclined his head.

  Then, with a violent sound of exasperation, Lady Isobel swept down the salon towards the door. The Marquis followed her slowly, thinking only how glad he would be to see the last of her.

  They reached the hall where one of the footmen was waiting with the silk pelisse that matched the gown Lady Isobel was wearing.

  As she allowed the footman to help her into it, she looked up at the ceiling in the hall and then down to where the flags hung over the mantelpiece and to the Marquis standing waiting for her to leave.

  She was in her heart cursing the Abbey and the owner of it, but to Kistna, peeping at her through the bannisters, she looked so exquisitely beautiful that it was an indescribable agony to see her.