next
best thing and said, "It will be an honor—and a joy—to be your wife."
He dropped to his knees by the arm of the sofa, took my clenched
hands in his own, and very gently began to loosen my fingers.
"Are you quite sure?" he whispered. "Perhaps it is
too soon for you to give your heart to anyone. Tell me, Fleur, do you love me
at all?"
My recurrent vision of the only alternative that remained to me,
should I deny him what he hungered for, was so alarming that it filled my voice
with real feeling as, wild with relief and despair, I cried out, "Oh, yes,
yes, yes! I do!"
I remember only fragments of the rest of that feverish
conversation. He took me in his arms once or twice, but now that the moment had
come, when I was at last free to yield to the warm pressure of his body against
mine, when I might have given him my lips boldly with no need for self-recrimination
on either his part or mine, my blood did not surge with fire. I felt utterly
numb and exhausted; he must have noticed this, for every so often he anxiously
renewed his inquiries as to my health.
I kept assuring him that I was well, that my pallor was simply the
result of having slept badly the night before.
"Then you must sleep now!" he declared. "Let me
warm a cup of milk for you. It may help to relax your nerves," he
continued, and added with a regretful smile, "which I fear I have only
jangled further."
"Oh no!" I said, trying to smile as well. "I am
rather tired, it is true, but f have a pupil coming within the hour. I can't
risk being half sedated when she arrives."
"But you must send her away," he decreed. "You have
obviously been pushing yourself beyond the limits of your endurance."
I took a deep breath and swallowed my annoyance. I was still my
own woman, although I would not be for long.
"No," I said firmly. "I will not drink hot
milk. I will not send my pupil away. And I will not marry you if you
persist in ordering me about like this!"
Instead of looking chastened, he laughed.
"How right you are," he said tenderly. "Forgive me,
Fleur. I swear to you that I will never give you any reason to regret
the new life you have chosen with me."
CHAPTER NINE
No regrets! What a vain promise!
Regrets had become the treacherous prevailing undercurrent of my
life; every time I imagined that I had risen free of them at last, they dragged
me down again.
I was drowning in regret.
My whole life was about to become one huge and irreparable lie.
But I was too drained and
demoralized to fight it any longer.
Sir Anthony remained in Paris only long enough to put into motion
the machinery of matrimony—we were to be married in August here at St. George's
English Church. Before he returned to England, he expressed some concern about
how I would adapt to my new surroundings. Did I wish to visit Charingworth, his
ancestral home, and arrange alterations to its decor that might suit my taste better
than its present furnishings?
I did not. I waved a hand toward my threadbare carpet and faded
curtains and asked him, with a laugh, if he really imagined I might find his
splendid country house wanting in any way.
Privately I knew that my new surroundings, however ornate, could
never begin to console me for the loss of my freedom or for marriage to a man
for whom I must never permit myself to care too deeply.
For I already knew that if I allowed myself to feel too much for
him, if I were to trust him too completely, I might be tempted to pour my heart
out. And if I were ever foolish enough to confess the truth, I was sure to lose
everything.
He held me in his arms and gave me a tender kiss before he left
me. With any encouragement, his kiss might have been less restrained, but
although I felt almost comforted by the warmth of his arms, the physical desire
which had ravished me in Fontainebleau did not flare up again.
Everything inside me seemed frozen. Perhaps the chill had taken
hold when Poncet had presented me at last with the invoice for all the
best thing and said, "It will be an honor—and a joy—to be your wife."
He dropped to his knees by the arm of the sofa, took my clenched
hands in his own, and very gently began to loosen my fingers.
"Are you quite sure?" he whispered. "Perhaps it is
too soon for you to give your heart to anyone. Tell me, Fleur, do you love me
at all?"
My recurrent vision of the only alternative that remained to me,
should I deny him what he hungered for, was so alarming that it filled my voice
with real feeling as, wild with relief and despair, I cried out, "Oh, yes,
yes, yes! I do!"
I remember only fragments of the rest of that feverish
conversation. He took me in his arms once or twice, but now that the moment had
come, when I was at last free to yield to the warm pressure of his body against
mine, when I might have given him my lips boldly with no need for self-recrimination
on either his part or mine, my blood did not surge with fire. I felt utterly
numb and exhausted; he must have noticed this, for every so often he anxiously
renewed his inquiries as to my health.
I kept assuring him that I was well, that my pallor was simply the
result of having slept badly the night before.
"Then you must sleep now!" he declared. "Let me
warm a cup of milk for you. It may help to relax your nerves," he
continued, and added with a regretful smile, "which I fear I have only
jangled further."
"Oh no!" I said, trying to smile as well. "I am
rather tired, it is true, but f have a pupil coming within the hour. I can't
risk being half sedated when she arrives."
"But you must send her away," he decreed. "You have
obviously been pushing yourself beyond the limits of your endurance."
I took a deep breath and swallowed my annoyance. I was still my
own woman, although I would not be for long.
"No," I said firmly. "I will not drink hot
milk. I will not send my pupil away. And I will not marry you if you
persist in ordering me about like this!"
Instead of looking chastened, he laughed.
"How right you are," he said tenderly. "Forgive me,
Fleur. I swear to you that I will never give you any reason to regret
the new life you have chosen with me."
CHAPTER NINE
No regrets! What a vain promise!
Regrets had become the treacherous prevailing undercurrent of my
life; every time I imagined that I had risen free of them at last, they dragged
me down again.
I was drowning in regret.
My whole life was about to become one huge and irreparable lie.
But I was too drained and
demoralized to fight it any longer.
Sir Anthony remained in Paris only long enough to put into motion
the machinery of matrimony—we were to be married in August here at St. George's
English Church. Before he returned to England, he expressed some concern about
how I would adapt to my new surroundings. Did I wish to visit Charingworth, his
ancestral home, and arrange alterations to its decor that might suit my taste better
than its present furnishings?
I did not. I waved a hand toward my threadbare carpet and faded
curtains and asked him, with a laugh, if he really imagined I might find his
splendid country house wanting in any way.
Privately I knew that my new surroundings, however ornate, could
never begin to console me for the loss of my freedom or for marriage to a man
for whom I must never permit myself to care too deeply.
For I already knew that if I allowed myself to feel too much for
him, if I were to trust him too completely, I might be tempted to pour my heart
out. And if I were ever foolish enough to confess the truth, I was sure to lose
everything.
He held me in his arms and gave me a tender kiss before he left
me. With any encouragement, his kiss might have been less restrained, but
although I felt almost comforted by the warmth of his arms, the physical desire
which had ravished me in Fontainebleau did not flare up again.
Everything inside me seemed frozen. Perhaps the chill had taken
hold when Poncet had presented me at last with the invoice for all the
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