Ariadne's Diadem (29 page)

He went on. “My reappearance will be a talking point as well. I intend to more or less tell the truth, albeit a version that is bereft of fauns, Roman gods, and marble statues, since I have no desire to be thought mad. More prudent by far to confine my explanation to something close to Hugh’s. It could be a simple matter of his attempt to gain my inheritance by attacking me and leaving me for dead on Vesuvius.” He looked intently at her. “Anne, I am determined not to involve you more than absolutely necessary. There is no
need
to say anything about last night’s events. Who is to prove my cousin ever arrived here last night? We can set his horse loose so that it returns to the White Boar as if he had a fall somewhere, and if Kitty should say he set out for Llandower, we can claim not only that he didn’t arrive, but also that you had written asking him not to come at all. Joseph informs me that everything that passes through the rapids washes up at a certain popular fishing place downstream, so his body is certain to be soon discovered there. That, together with the stray horse, will convince the authorities that he died accidentally. It’s the best way, believe me.”

“You’ve given this some thought, haven’t you?”

“Yes, for I wish to protect you at all costs.” He put a quick hand to her cheek.

“I will go along with whatever you decide.”

“Then it is settled; we will insist that Hugh never arrived here. I take it Mrs. Jenkins and Joseph will support such a story?”

“Yes, I’m sure they will.”

He tilted her chin so that she looked directly into his eyes again. “Anne, you now know my cousin’s motives, but do you really know mine?”

“Yours?” She was startled. “What do you mean?”

“Well, Hugh may have pretended otherwise, but one way or another you remained essential to his inheritance, which, rather embarrassingly, you remain to me as well. I
must
wed you if I wish to keep my fortune, but if I do, will you think that is my sole motivation? Or will you know that I do it because I adore you with all my heart? I will give up everything if you need proof of my sincerity.”

Fresh tears sprang to her eyes as she reached up to put her mouth briefly to his. “You do not need to give up anything. I would have married you as Charles Danby, and I will marry you still,” she said, so choked with happiness that her voice was husky.

His heart surged, and he pulled her swiftly toward him, catching her mouth to his once more.

Chapter Thirty-two

Anne was the other half of Gervase’s passion as she went into his arms. Her lips softened and parted beneath the onslaught of his kisses, and as his hands moved desirously over her, she sighed and curved sensually against him.

He felt his body respond. Oh, how he longed to make love to her, to slake the desire that thundered through his veins. He cupped one of her breasts, so firm and eager in the dainty bodice of her gown, and she sank back against the table, drawing him with her. It was a natural movement, innocently knowing, and their lips were still joined as he lay against her. The scent of honeysuckle seemed to fill the air again, and for a moment he thought of wheat fields in August, but then it was gone and he was conscious only of the litheness and ardor of her body beneath his. She moved against him, intensifying his pleasure as well as her own. Her passion was wanton and honest, as was his own, for it was love of the strongest and most natural order that governed them both.

He wanted to worship her completely, to sink within the depths of her beloved warmth. It was the perfect moment. They needed each other, their love had been declared, and they would be man and wife. How simple to anticipate their vows. He could make her his right now, but he knew he wouldn’t. When he took her for the first time, it would be when she was truly his wife. It took all his willpower to conquer his desire, and although he was still aroused, at last he became master of himself again.

They were still wrapped in each other’s arms, too overcome with love to even whisper each other’s name, when suddenly there was a commotion from the direction of the staircase. Perhaps it wasn’t a commotion exactly, just an overexcited mixture of delighted bleating, hoof stamping, and calling as Sylvanus summoned everyone to Penelope’s bedside because the nymph had awoken.

Straightening hastily, they hurried to the stairwell and found the deliriously happy faun hopping up and down on the landing above. He peered over the wooden balustrade, his face alight with relief as he summoned everyone—anyone— to come see that his adored naiad was well again. Mrs. Jenkins and Joseph had heard from the kitchen and were coming up the stairs as quickly as they could, accompanied by Jack, who was yelping and wagging his tail as if he too knew what had happened. Everyone hastened to the nymph and found Penelope sitting up. She was propped on the mound of pillows Mrs. Jenkins had provided, and she looked as if nothing had ever befallen her. So skilled had Joseph been, there was not even a scratch to show she’d been subjected to Hugh’s vicious assault.

Sylvanus was so beside himself with relief that he hardly knew what to do. He talked nineteen to the dozen and kept rearranging Penelope’s pillows until she was obliged to tap his hands reprovingly. “You’ve made me comfortable enough, Sylvanus,” she said with a smile.

“Is there anything you want? What can I bring you? Do you want a drink?”

“I’m quite all right, truly.”

The faun hesitated bashfully. “Am I fussing too much?”

“Just a little,” she replied.

Sylvanus was about to say something more when he noticed Gervase and Anne were holding hands. Then the faun suddenly realized that it was well past daybreak, and Gervase had not had to return to the rotunda. He raised eyebrows inquiringly, and Gervase nodded.

“Yes, my friend, I am free again.”

Sylvanus beamed with delight. “I’m so glad for you.”

Penelope smiled too. “And so am I, Gervase.”

Mrs. Jenkins was startled.
“Gervase,
did you say? But—”

Anne put a hand on the housekeeper’s sleeve. “His name isn’t Charles Danby at all, Mrs. Jenkins, it’s Gervase Mowbray.”

The housekeeper stared. “But, I thought Gervase Mowbray died in Italy.”

“I will explain in due course, Mrs. Jenkins, but suffice it that nothing could please me more than to be united with him.”

“Does this mean you will be Duchess of Wroxford after all?”

“Oh, yes, and it will be a love match, I promise you,” Anne replied, smiling at Gervase.

But then Sylvanus’s happiness was suddenly extinguished, and with a heartfelt sigh he sank onto the edge of the bed and put his head in his hands. “But what am
I
going to do? Now that Hugh is dead, he can’t give me the diadem, and I’ll never be able to carry out my task for Bacchus!” Jack whined and rested his head on the faun’s knee again.

Mrs. Jenkins and Joseph exchanged bemused glances, for they had no idea what he was talking about.

Gervase stepped forward to put a quick hand on the faun’s bowed shoulder. “Hugh gave the diadem to Kitty, remember? You and Penelope overheard at the inn? So
Kitty
is the one who must give it to you, and she is very much alive.”

Sylvanus looked up hopefully. “I’d forgotten that. There’s still hope then,
if she
can be persuaded.”

Gervase drew a long breath, for it would not be easy to part Kitty Longton from anything so valuable.

Mrs. Jenkins looked perplexed at Gervase. “What is this diadem, Mr. Danby? I mean, Your Grace?”

Gervase told her, and the housekeeper turned swiftly to Anne. “But, Miss Anne, isn’t that—?”

In a trice Anne realized what she was thinking.
Hugh’s birthday gift!
“Wait a moment!” she cried, and gathered her skirts to rush from the room. She positively flew all the way down to the entrance hall, snatched the diadem in its wrapping, and then flew back up again. She paused breathlessly in the bedroom doorway. “Is this what you need, Sylvanus?” she asked.

The faun stared incredulously at the beautiful wedding crown, which seemed to scintillate with flashes of fire in the morning light that now streamed through the east-facing bedroom window. He leapt to his hooves. “Yes!” he cried. “Yes, that’s it! But how—?”

“I don’t know anything about Kitty having it, but Hugh gave it to me.”

“Gave
it to you?” The faun glanced imploringly at Gervase, who turned swiftly to Anne.

“You own it now, Anne, so if you give it willingly to Sylvanus, he will be released, just as I was.”

She smiled and pressed the diadem into the faun’s hands. “I give it more than gladly.”

As Sylvanus’s fingers closed relievedly over the precious diadem, there was a vivid flash of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder so loud that it shattered the early morning quiet. A gust of wind got up from nowhere, and the window, which was slightly ajar, slammed back on its hinges.

Mrs. Jenkins shrank against Joseph with a squeak of alarm, and Jack crept prudently beneath the bed, whining uneasily, but Anne hurried to the window to look out. Gervase joined her as storm clouds suddenly billowed across the hitherto clear sky, and the approaching sound of laughter and panpipes became gradually audible. An amazing procession emerged from the clouds and began to stream down toward the ground. Bacchus had come for the diadem. Leading his growling panther, he was attended by his barely governable retinue of fauns. The god’s golden beauty shone against the darkened heavens, and the fauns danced, played panpipes, and frolicked among the undulating folds of his magnificent purple cloak. As the deity of wine, happiness, and wild nature alighted upon the northern soil that was so very far away from his warm Mediterranean haunts, he brandished his staff, and his mischievous followers fell silent. They crowded curiously behind him, peering up toward the castle and whispering together as he struck the staff once upon the ground. The sound reverberated across the park.

Still clutching the precious diadem, Sylvanus gave Gervase a brief farewell hug, and then held a hand out to Penelope. “Come, we must ask my master now if you are to come home with me, for we will not have a second chance.” The naiad flung her bedclothes back, and they both ran from the room.

Mrs. Jenkins and Joseph joined Anne and Gervase at the window as the faun and nymph respectfully approached the god, whose golden light was almost as dazzling as the jewels in the diadem. Sylvanus abased himself and crawled to lay Ariadne’s wedding crown respectfully at the stern god’s feet, then looked up beseechingly, indicated Penelope, and clearly begged for her to be allowed to return to Italy with him now that he had successfully completed his task. His request made, he pressed his face to the grass, his goat tail aloft in trepidation. Penelope sank to her knees, her hands held nervously to her mouth as she too waited for the god’s decision.

Bacchus retrieved the diadem, then jabbed the cowering faun with his staff. The other fauns sniggered, a sound that carried clearly to the watchers at the window. Bacchus silenced them with a glance, and then looked at the little naiad for a long moment, as if assessing her worthiness. Coming to a decision, the god said a single word to Sylvanus, who scrambled gladly to his hooves and snatched Penelope’s hand. The beaming expression on his snub-nosed face said everything.

Bacchus turned to the castle and raised his staff in salute to Gervase, who smiled. Then the whole incredible procession streamed back into the skies, and the last thing anyone saw was Sylvanus and Penelope turning to wave frantically before disappearing after the others into clouds that a moment later had vanished so completely they might have been a dream.

As the morning sun shone out again, Mrs. Jenkins exhaled slowly. “Well, I never did in all my life,” she muttered, turning to Joseph. “Now we’ll have to get ready for Ireland.”

“Eh? Ireland? What do you mean?”

“Come downstairs for a cup of tea, and I’ll tell you.” she said, ushering him out.

Alone again, Gervase took Anne’s hand and drew her into his arms, but before kissing him, she held back a little. “You do swear that I haven’t dreamed all this, don’t you? For I vow that even now I cannot believe it had really happened.”

“It is no dream, just an incredible truth,” he murmured, pulling her close again. “I love you, my duchess-to-be,” he whispered, putting his lips lovingly over hers.

Chapter Thirty-three

It was August, and the sun was bright as the newlywed Duke and Duchess of Wroxford rode through the Wiltshire fields not far from the Palladian splendor of Wroxford Park. Skylarks tumbled in the sky, honeysuckle was in full bloom in the hedgerows, and the distant heights of Salisbury Plain shimmered in the heat.

Gervase glanced approvingly at Anne as she controlled her rather capricious bay mount. She wore a corded silk riding habit that was the same color as the poppies that bloomed so freely in the surrounding fields of ripe wheat, and her silver buttons bore the maze badge of the Mowbrays. The lace scarf falling from the back of her little gray hat was now the sort of original finishing touch he had come to expect—and adore. As he had begun to realize that first night on the bank of the Wye, her taste in fashion was charmingly unique. She always managed to turn the latest mode into something that was strikingly her own, and the result was always much admired. In London it was already being said that if one wished to anticipate the latest trend, one had only to look to the new Duchess of Wroxford. His quiet, unassuming, enchanting bride had taken the capital by storm. He smiled to himself, for he was not surprised. To know Anne was to appreciate her qualities, although he suspected that she would always find it hard to credit that if on the spur of the moment she decided to carry a pink handkerchief, within the week the drawing rooms of London would flutter with such emblems!

 He thought back to the days leading up to their marriage. His sudden return had startled everyone, as he knew it would. There hadn’t been any mention of beings from ancient Rome, nor would there be, for as anticipated, Hugh’s all-consuming ambition to gain the inheritance by attacking his ducal cousin and leaving him for dead on Vesuvius had proved sufficient explanation. The shocking story soon became one of
the
talking points. Hugh himself was widely regarded to have been fortunate to have drowned in the Wye, for if arrested, the gallows would surely have awaited him. Foul play was never suspected in his watery demise, and his arrival at Llandower that night had never come to light.