Tender the Storm (48 page)

Zoë had stopped pacing as she became caught up in her reflections. Rolfe eased back into his chair, crossing one booted foot over the other. "Were you jealous of her, kitten?"

"Jealous?
Of Claire?"
Surprise etched her voice. "She was my sister."

He smiled. "You admired her, then?"

"I adored her. She was everything I wished I could be."

"Like what for instance?"

"Oh . . . you know . . . confident, sociable, vivacious,
fun
-loving. There was always a sparkle to a party when Claire was there. I was the quiet one, you see."

"What about your brother?" he
asked,
his tone as casual as he could make it. "Does he take after you or Claire?"

"Neither," she answered at once. "Leon is . . . well
. . .
I suppose, when I think of it, he takes after us both. He has Claire's charm, but he is moody —you know, he broods about things."

"How odd!" he said, smiling.

"What is?"

"When you talk of your sister, you use the past tense. When you talk of your brother, you use the present."

"Do I? I hadn't noticed."

He waited a moment, giving her the perfect opportunity to confide in him. It seemed as if she might, then she tore her gaze from his and said in a choked voice,
"Maman
said it was a terrible failing—this brooding about things. She said I was too sensitive."

He was disappointed in her, though nothing in his expression gave him away.
Reluctandy
, he followed her lead, "Yes, you are sensitive, but that is one of the things I like in you, but not the only thing by any means. You are sensitive, thoughtful for others, loyal to a degree, and as brave as Achilles."

"I'm not brave," said.

"If you are not, then I don't know who is," and before she could interrupt he went on, 'You tamed my hellion nieces to practically eat out of your hand, you reduced my mother to a quivering jelly, and you incited my poor-spirited sister-in-law to emulate your example."

Her expression arrested, she said, "Charlotte? What has Charlotte done?"

"She's demanding that I find her a husband so that she can set up her own establishment."

Zoë giggled. "Charlotte has more backbone than I gave her credit for. What . . . what did she say when she heard of our divorce?"

"Nothing, for the simple reason that no one knows that we are divorced.
I told
my
family that you had conceived the insane notion of returning to

France to find
your
family."

"Oh. When do you intend to tell them?"

Never
was what he was thinking. "In my own good time," he answered.

"I —I suppose everyone at the Abbey was happy to see the back of me?"

There was something in her voice, something in her look which gave Rolfe pause. And then it came to him. Zoë was not unmoved by the sentiments of the various members of his family.

Zoë was generous to a fault. They did not deserve her consideration, he was thinking, remembering the callous way they had received the news that she had run off to France. His nieces had merely bemoaned the fact that there was no one to teach them spells; his sister-in-law had expressed a faint regret before demanding a season in town so that she might find herself a husband; and his mother had positively smirked.

Their indifference to Zoë's fate had appalled him. The servants had shown more concern. And so he had told them, ranting and raving like a lunatic. It was no wonder, he had raged, that Zoë had run away from the Abbey when she found herself confined with so many unfeeling monsters. Didn't anyone care what happened to her?

She was waiting for his answer. The last thing he was going to do was hurt Zoë. "Why should you think they were glad to see the back of you?" he countered.

"Well, frankly, they didn't strike me as an affectionate lot. Please don't take that the wrong way," she hastened to add. "They're English. I presume that is why they are so . . . undemonstrative."

Ignoring the inadvertent slur, Rolfe said emphatically, "Until you were not there, they did not know how much
the had
come to depend on you."

"Truly?"

She was smiling, and Rolfe would have damned his own soul to keep that sweet smile in place. "Truly," he averred.

"What a whisker!" she retorted, and flounced to the piano. She was still smiling, touched that Rolfe could be so careful of her feelings. Her next thought sobered her. If he had truly cared about her feelings, he would not have taken up with all those women.

He noted the change in her expression. Without taking his eyes off her, he went through the motions of taking snuff. "What are you thinking?" he asked quietly.

She told him.

"So I sowed a few wild oats in my time," he said. "What of it? Once I took a wife to myself, I fully intended to give up my bachelor ways."

They had had this conversation before. Zoë understood what Rolfe was saying. Until their marriage was consummated, he had felt free to pursue other women. But their marriage had been consummated, and still . . .

"I saw you the week before I left England," she said. "I was staying with the Lagranges. Do you remember? I persuaded them to take me to
Govent
Garden. I was avidly curious to see your mistress.
Rosamund.
Wasn't it vulgar of me?" She swallowed before continuing. "She's very pretty, Rolfe, as is Roberta Ashton. Mrs. Ashton was good enough to invite me to her box during the interval."

Through set teeth, he said, "And I can well imagine what that viper said to you. But don't you see
Zoë,
those women belong in my past? God, why am I defending myself? Haven't I already told you that my affair with Roberta Ashton was over before I married you? And as for Rosamund, I went straight to her house and ended our liaison only hours after you truly became my wife."

"Then who was the woman you were kissing on the steps of Covent Garden?"

"What?"

"I saw you. So did Charles.
On the steps of Covent Garden.
The spectacle was quite amusing."

It came to him that Zoë must have seen him with the actress whose lover, Betrand, had died resisting arrest. He had been playing a part, pretending that he admired her, wanted her. Amy Granger was on the lookout for a rich protector. In point of fact, all Rolfe had wanted was information on
Betrand's
associates. The girl knew nothing. And still, a week later,
La Compagnie's
assassins had gunned her down.

That thought made him harsher than he meant to be when he said, "Was this to be the pattern of our life together? Did you intend to kick up a dust every time I looked at another woman?"

"You haven't answered my question."

"Nor do I intend to! Believe what you will. You always do anyway."

"What I believe," said Zoë, distinctly, coldly, "is that we would have made each other miserable—you with your infidelities and I . . ."

". . .
with
your petty jealousies," he cut in brutally.

". . .
abandoned
to your mother's mercies," finished Zoë, equally brutal.

"What the hell has my mother got to say to anything?" be roared.

"Everything," she shot back. "Who do you think put me wise to you in the first place? Who do you think —
" She
cut herself off abruptly. It was not her intention to set Rolfe against his mother. It was not she who had to live with the woman.

"My mother told you about those women?" asked Rolfe incredulously.

"It makes no difference who told me," said Zoë. "We are no longer married, and there is no point to this conversation."

Rolfe's eyelashes dropped. "No," he agreed. After a pause, he went on carefully, "But should we change our minds anytime soon, as I've told you before, it would be a mere formality to have the divorce overturned."

"I don't think so," said Zoë, and giving him her back, she launched into Scarlatti.

Rolfe cupped his neck with his laced fingers and struck a negligent pose. His wife, he was reflecting, had a stubborn streak in her nature which was not apparent on first acquaintance. No. Nor on
second, nor
third acquaintance either. How had he ever come to believe that Zoë was as soft and malleable as a lump of butter?

It was because of her looks, he decided. She was small made, with delicate bones, and with a helpless way of looking at one from beneath those heavily fringed doe eyes which aroused a man's protective instincts. But Zoë wasn't soft, or malleable, or helpless. She was a resolute little thing, to which her slightly squared jaw gave evidence.

He'd forgotten about her temper, he thought, as the Scarlatti became more impassioned. And then he wasn't thinking about her temper. He was thinking about the fire he could arouse in her, and the soft, throbbing cries she made, before he brought her to climax. Purgatory, he reflected, must be something like this—to have the one thing one desired above all others within reach and, at the same time, beyond reach.

"Why were you laughing just now?" Zoë closed the piano lid and swung to face him.

If they were to have any kind of life together, there were fences that must be mended. He determined to make a start on them at once. "The irony of my situation amuses me. Don't you find it amusing?"

"I might if you explain yourself."

His manner and expression were devoid of all amusement when he leaned forward in his chair and said gravely, "For most of the time that we were wed, I was waiting for you to grow up, Zoë. Don't you see
,
you had me convinced in my own mind that you were younger than your years? For your sake, I had to keep you at a distance. Do you see what I am saying?"