Evening Star Page 20

  “I don’t understand,” she whispered. Her mind felt heavy and dull, and she shivered again, for only her chemise covered her now.

  With a low groan, he grasped the straps of her chemise and ripped it away.

  Giana was naked and he was staring at her. She tried to focus her mind on what he had meant, but his mouth was covering her face and throat with light, nipping kisses.

  “I knew I wasn’t wrong about you,” he said. “Your pulse is pounding, my love.” His fingers moved from the pulse in her throat, slowly downward to her belly. When they found her, she fell forward against him.

  He felt her soft woman’s flesh moisten and swell to his fingers, and he smiled as he kissed her mouth. He eased his finger into her, feeling the heat of her body, and the convulsive tightening of her muscles. Then he was beyond thought. He pulled away and got rid of his clothes faster than he would have thought possible.

  She was cold again. Slowly she let herself fall to her knees, clutching her arms over her breasts. She heard him chuckle, and then she felt the warmth of his body over her, felt him gently pressing her onto her back.

  “Loose your hair, Giana,” she heard him say, but her arms were leaden at her sides, and she only stared up at him vaguely. He was naked, beautifully naked, and he was covering her, warming her. She arched upward, silently begging him, for she was too embarrassed to ask, and she saw him smile, even as his fingers closed over her again.

  This must be passion, she thought. Her body felt taut, yet soft and open to him. His fingers left her and she moaned at the loss.

  “Just a moment, Giana.” He pulled the pins from her hair and glided his fingers possessively through the loose, thick tresses down to her waist.

  “You taste delicious,” he said, his tongue lazy on her mouth.

  His body was scalding hot, and she clung to him, welcoming him as he moved on top of her.

  “Four years I’ve wanted you.”

  Alex felt himself losing control. He reared up over her, and she cried out as his warm body left her. She tried to pull him back down, lurching upward, only to feel him press her back.

  “A moment, love,” she heard him say. He was looking down at her belly, his dark eyes on his gently probing fingers. “But I can’t wait, my love.” Pressing her thighs apart, he gasped in his need and thrust himself into her.

  She felt searing pain as he drove into her, as if he were ripping her apart. She was shaking her head wildly, spilling her hair over her face and eyes. She clutched at him, and a shrill, thin wail tore from her mouth.

  From a great distance, she heard him curse, his voice bewildered and angry. “Shit.”

  She felt tears wetting the tangled tendrils of hair at her temples. She was pinioned beneath him. “I’m a virgin,” she whispered.

  “Jesus, Giana.” Suddenly his body was tense above her, and his hard flesh was throbbing deep within her. She felt him shudder and his seed spewing from him, filling her.

  Alex was panting, cursing himself between breaths for a rutting bastard. He rolled off her and rose, so angry with himself and with her that he cursed again, cursed until he could find no more words. He heard her sobbing, and turned back to her. He saw tears on her face, and streaks of blood on her thighs. She was shuddering, hugging her breasts with her arms. She opened her eyes and met his furious gaze.

  “I’m sick,” she whispered.

  “Sick,” he said. “What the hell do you mean you’re sick? You were a virgin, damn you, and that isn’t an illness.”

  He clapped his palm over her forehead and felt the heat of her fever. “Damnation,” he said, and without another word he hauled her to her feet and lifted her into his arms. “I am not an ogre, you little fool.” He carried her down the short hallway into the bedroom. “You should have told me you were ill. Your mother’s influenza?”

  “My mother didn’t have the influenza.”

  Alex felt the anger of a foolish man. “Of course not,” he muttered. “That hardly explains why you didn’t tell me you were feeling ill.”

  “You wouldn’t have believed me.”

  Probably true, he thought. “Does your head hurt?” he asked as he tucked the covers about her.

  “Yes. It stopped for a bit with the champagne.”

  “You were a goddamned virgin. Jesus, I forced a goddamned virgin into bed with me. Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” He cursed under his breath at his own question.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Giana said, lurching upward.

  Alex grabbed the chamber pot just in time.

  He fetched her water and held her head while she washed her mouth out and then drank greedily.

  He tucked her in again and laid his palm on her forehead. He ran his fingers through his hair, and drew a deep breath. “You will need a doctor.” He rose from the bed and stared down at her. “Damned little fool,” he said. He shook his head. All he seemed capable of doing was spouting curses. What an incredible debacle.

  “I’ll go fetch a doctor. The chamber pot is beside you if you need it while I am gone. For God’s sake, Giana, keep covered up and stay warm.”

  She heard him moving about in the parlor, then heard the front door slam. She sat up and gazed about the dim room. She was no longer cold. She felt blessedly numb, except for the throbbing pain between her thighs. It brought her a measure of reason. You do not have to see a doctor, Giana. You can escape him. There are trains back to London.

  She tried to lurch out of the bed, struggling with the heavy blankets. She wriggled off the side and slipped to the floor. She staggered to the parlor and looked down at her petticoats, her stockings, shoes, and undergarments scattered about the floor. Her fingers seemed like someone else’s, clumsy and stiff, as they forced the buttons of her gown to fasten.

  To Alex’s supreme relief, he found a doctor but four houses away from the cottage. It was eight o’clock at night, and Dr. Preston eyed the disheveled gentleman on his front step with a sigh.

  “My wife is ill,” Alex said, his American accent never before so obvious. “You must come quickly. I have tucked her into bed, but I fear she is quite sick with the influenza, I believe. She has fever, chills, and a headache.”

  Dr. Preston thought fondly of his pipe, waiting to be stuffed with his Jamaican tobacco. “Very well. I will be along shortly. Your name, sir?”

  “Saxton. Alexander Saxton. We are in the rented cottage, the white one that backs onto the beach.”

  “I know it,” Dr. Preston said. “You are American, sir.” At Alex’s abstracted nod, he relaxed a bit. “Don’t worry, sir, your wife will be fine.”

  A few minutes later, Alex walked quietly into the dim-lit bedroom. For a long moment he simply stared at the messed bed, refusing to believe that Giana was gone.

  “Giana, where are you?”

  He strode into the parlor and saw with a glance that her gown was gone, and her cloak. Her reticule and shoes were on the floor with her undergarments. He was on the point of bursting out the front door when he felt a draft coming from behind him. He whirled about and dashed to the small kitchen, through the back door that stood ajar, and down the shallow back steps to the garden.

  “Giana.”

  The garden gate was creaking in the wind on its rusted hinges. He pushed the gate open and found himself on the beach. A pale quarter-moon shone down on the water, silvering the gentle whitecaps.

  “Giana.”

  He saw a huddled splash of blue in the moonlight. She was lying on her side on the damp sand, her legs drawn to her chest, the softly hissing waves lapping gently over her bare feet. He ran to her side and fell to his knees beside her on the coarse sand. He lifted her into his arms, and she didn’t struggle against him, only gazed at him vaguely. He wanted to blister her ears with her stupidity, but he doubted she would understand him. He had barely time to strip off her cloak and gown and put her back into bed before a sharp rap on the front door announced Dr. Preston’s arrival.

  Dr. Preston sat beside her, surpri
sed to find wet sand on her cheek. “She has been swimming?” he said sarcastically, casting a baleful eye toward Alex.

  “I found her on the beach when I came back,” Alex said. “I assume that she became delirious and wandered out.”

  “Mrs. Saxton,” he said to her, gently shaking her shoulders.

  “Hello,” she said to the strange gentleman staring down at her.

  Dr. Preston watched the young woman’s eyes close, then pulled back the covers to listen to her heart. He saw she was naked, and snapped, “Bring her a nightgown. She must be kept warm.”

  He was in a biting humor when Alex reappeared, a flannel nightgown in his hands.

  “This is your wedding night, I take it, sir?”

  Alex stared at him.

  “Blood. There’s blood on her thighs. Damnation, could you not have waited to consummate your marriage until your bride was well again? Have you no sense at all, man?”

  “Very little, it would appear,” Alex said. “I will bathe her.”

  Dr. Preston snorted. The lady wasn’t dangerously ill, in his opinion, but the influenza would keep her weak and fevered for at least two days. He wondered silently how the devil she could have been so out of her mind from the fever to want to set out for a stroll on the beach. Damned young people, anyway. Not a grain of sense in any of them.

  “She’s sleeping now, which is for the best. I’ll leave a saline draft for her. Keep her in bed, sir, and you can keep away from her. She should be fit again in a couple of days. She’s young and strong, but she can’t withstand the influenza and your amorous attacks as well. Do you have a woman coming in to cook for you?”

  Alex shook his head. He had intended the small cottage only for bedding Giana.

  “Well, Mr. Saxton, then you will have to be nurse and cook.”

  Dr. Preston accepted his payment, snorted yet again, and took his leave, with the admonition that if Mrs. Saxton worsened, he would return.

  Alex closed the front door and leaned against it for a moment. He returned to Giana, gently drew back the covers, and bathed away the blood. He found himself grinning reluctantly at the very virginal flannel nightgown as he smoothed it down over her. He buried her again under a pile of blankets, and gently wiped the beach sand from her face.

  “I’m sorry, Giana,” he said.

  Chapter 14

  She sought him out during the night, drawn to his warm body like a moth to a flame. Alex molded her tightly against the length of him, though he himself was sweating from all the blankets. Gradually her trembling stilled and she sighed deeply, easing into a deep sleep. Alex resigned himself to a miserable night.

  He slept only fitfully. His thoughts would not slow as the events of the past week jostled about helter-skelter in his mind, leaving him angry one minute and smiling grimly at his own stupidity the next. She had been in Rome, dammit, and she had sought him out at the Flower Auction. She had behaved oddly, even insultingly, but she had been at Madame Lucienne’s brothel, as well. He shook his head wearily. Only Giana would be able to provide him answers. She had told the truth, but certainly not all of it? Why? Was she protecting someone? Hadn’t she wanted to protect her own innocence? He remembered her surprise, and her response to his lovemaking, despite her illness. Until he had hurt her. Damned rutting fool. A bloody virgin, and obviously a young lady, despite what he had believed, what he had seen. He found himself smiling grimly again. After what she had seen that summer, she was hardly an innocent young lady. Still, he had compromised her, and the thought made him want to kick himself.

  He saw himself now as the unwilling bridegroom, the inevitable payment for his revenge and his desire. He, Alexander Saxton, who had vowed never to tie himself in marriage again. He felt a fleeting moment of pain at the thought of Laura, and quelled it resolutely.

  Giana moaned softly into his shoulder, squirming against him as though he were her safe harbor from a bad dream. He shifted slightly to accommodate her. Dammit, he wasn’t at all certain that he even liked her. She was headstrong, sharp-tongued, as independent as a damned man, and appallingly intelligent. She was also lovely, in face and figure. At that lapsing admission, he felt an unwanted surge of desire, for she was pressed closely against him, her belly but a flannel nightgown away from him.

  He finally fell back into a light sleep, knowing, even accepting now, that he would marry this Englishwoman. A man simply did not poach as he had on the upper-class preserve without accepting the consequences. His last thought was that his mother-in-law would be a damned duchess.

  Giana did not become fully awake until the following evening. She remembered waking during the day and sipping a quite delicious soup that Mrs. Preston must have brought them. She was no longer feeling feverish, and her headache had lessened. She heard Alex coming down the hall and quickly closed her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to have to face him, knowing full well that he would have a dozen questions for her. She could feel him staring down at her. Unable to help herself, she sneezed.

  “I thought you were awake,” she heard him say. She opened one eye and glared up at him.

  “Leave me alone,” she said.

  “I would like to, Giana, but I’m not such a villain. What’s done is done, and the both of us will make the best of a bad situation. Don’t get yourself into a lather, you’ll only bring on your fever again.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked, opening her other eye.

  “Well, there are, of course, quite a few questions I have for you, but not now. I will wait until you are well again. But regardless of your answers, we shall marry. You were a virgin, and I can think of no other reasonable course but to toe the line to the altar.”

  “The altar,” she repeated. When she finally grasped his meaning, she gaped at him. “Marry you? Mr. Saxton, I would allow the human race to become extinct before I would accept you as a husband.”

  “You are feeling more yourself, I see,” Alex said. Oddly, her outraged refusal made him angry, and he felt his control slipping. Had she no sense at all? “We will discuss it tomorrow, when I don’t have to fear you relapsing on me.”

  “We have nothing to discuss.” The pounding in her head suddenly sharpened, and she closed her eyes, turning her head away from him on her pillow. “I told you the truth from the beginning, but you chose, arrogantly, not to believe me.”

  “You told me only enough of the truth to sound completely unbelievable. Your stupid denials in the face of what I saw with my own eyes. You sounded like a silly, bleating sheep. Rather, ewe. That I find mightily interesting. Drink this lemonade and go back to sleep. Perhaps you’ll be more reasonable on the morrow, though I doubt it.”

  Giana drank the lemonade, though sleep was the last thing she wanted. She closed her eyes until he left the bedroom. Marry him—was he out of his ridiculous American mind? She had wanted him, but it was dreadful. And her illness had nothing to do with that.

  Odd how she had never considered that he would take this particular tack. Americans weren’t gentlemen—she had always believed that—but faced with his angry decision, she had to revise her opinion of them. No, she would not. A gentleman would never have forced her to bed with him in the first place.

  When she felt the bed give as he climbed in beside her, she forced herself not to move. Could he not at least leave her be and sleep on the sofa?

  She knew he was stubborn, knew that once he had set his mind to something, he would be immovable. But she had paid her debt to him. And she was already feeling stronger. All she needed now was opportunity.

  Her eyelashes fluttered when the bright sunlight spilled into the bedroom, giving her away.

  “Open your eyes, Giana. I know you’re awake. I’ve brought you some bread and more lemonade. While you eat, I’ll go fetch us some food.”

  She felt her blood race in her veins. She nodded docilely, even smiling slightly as he helped her sit up in bed.

  “Since I have no idea where to forage, I might be a while,” he continued. “Stay
in bed, and use the chamber pot if you need to. No trips to the outhouse in the back garden, and for God’s sake, stay off the beach.”

  “Very well,” she said, not looking up at him.

  Had he known her better, a red light would have flashed. He said over his shoulder when he reached the open doorway, “When I return, we will talk.”

  It was nearly noon before Alex, laden with packages of food and bottles of a light white wine, returned to the cottage. He stepped into the bedroom quietly, not wanting to disturb her if she slept, and clenched his jaw in anger. He knew that she wasn’t wandering about outside. She had left, and taken her valise with her. He found a hastily scrawled note on her pillow. “Mr. Saxton,” he read, “you may take yourself back to America with my best wishes, and with a clear conscience, at least where I am concerned. I trust that even you will now consider my debt paid in full. Though you will be tied now to the Van Cleves, you will not have to worry that anyone will ever know what happened, nor will you ever have to deal with me again. As you so kindly said, I have many years to go before I equal my mother. I will not even pray that your ship sinks on your crossing back to New York.” She had signed with an insolent flourish: “Georgiana Van Cleve.”

  Lanson tugged at his ear as he said to Aurora, “The American gentleman, Mr. Alexander Saxton, ma’am, is asking to see Miss Giana. I informed him she has not yet returned from her holiday. He then insisted that he wishes to see you.”

  Aurora calmly put down the Sunday paper she was reading and rose. “Do show Mr. Saxton in, Lanson.”

  Alex glanced at the rich inset bookshelves that lined two walls of her library, and admired her taste in the light French furniture that gave the room a cool airiness. “Mrs. Van Cleve,” he said as he stepped toward her.

  Aurora returned his cool greeting, offering her hand. “Mr. Saxton, I believe Lanson informed you that Giana has not yet returned.”

  Alex took a deep breath, and plunged forward. “It is because of your daughter that I have come, Mrs. Van Cleve.”