The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) (14 page)

“Which is it to be?” he asked. “The paper Prince? Or are you prepared to wake up, my Sleeping Beauty, and face life as it is? Are you ready to come really alive and admit that you love me?”

The beguiling note in his voice was almost irresistible. Then he felt her stiffen.

“What is your answer?” he asked.

“When the Prime Minister and the Captain were ... talking in the ship,” Vesta answered, “they spoke of ... Madame Ziileyha with whom the Aide-de-camp said His Royal Highness was ... besotted. They said she was evil. If she is evil ... must not I try to be ... good?”

The Count released Vesta’s hand.

“Madame Ziileyha is evil,” he said, “and the Prince allowed her to get so much power into her hands that she caused the Revolution.”

Vesta’s eyes widened.

“You mean it was her fault?” she asked.

“It was his fault,” the Count said. “The Prince is weak, Vesta, a weak man who has put his own desires and his own wishes before the needs and the well-being of his country. That is the man to whom you are trying to be loyal!”

His tone was harsh as he continued:

“A man who deliberately, for years, has ignored the wishes of his people, who shut his eyes to the fact that this woman was intriguing against the State and against himself!”

“But what will happen now?” Vesta asked.

“If the Revolutionaries have taken over,” the Count said, “then there is every chance that the Turks will try to conquer us. But I am sure that can be avoided. I am not concerned with the politics of Katona at the moment, Vesta, but of your part in them.”

“Do you ... think,” Vesta asked in a whisper, “that the Prince will ... refuse to give up ... Madame Ziileyha?”

“I think that after what has happened he will have little choice in the matter,” the Count answered. “But can you put your faith in him now that you know the truth about him? That is the question you have to ask yourself.” He watched the expression on her face.

“You see, my little goddess of fire, it is not the Prince who has awoken you from your sleep, but I.” Vesta made a little gesture with her hand as he continued:

“However much you may deny it, I know that if I take you in my arms this moment your lips will cling to mine and you will feel again that wonder and rapture which we both knew just now. The whole world will be forgotten because we are close to each other.”

His voice once again made Vesta vibrate with an ecstasy which seemed to tingle in her veins and made it hard for her to breathe.

Then as he bent her head so that he could not see the yearning in her eyes or guess how desperately she wanted his kiss, the Count said quietly:

“We have not yet reached Djilas, and we shall not get there tonight. You have twenty four hours, my sweet, in which to make your choice.”

“A choice?” she questioned.

“Whether to admit that you belong to me as the gods have intended,” he answered, “or whether you must proceed with this senseless self-sacrifice, and go to your paper Prince to become a paper Princess.”

She did not move or answer and after a moment he said:

“I want you, dear God! How I want you! As I have never wanted a woman before! I love you, Vesta. I love you—you have taken my heart and soul from me and they are no longer in my keeping, but in yours.”

He drew a deep breath.

“You may go to Djilas to help a weak Prince, to support a crumbling regime, to please a cheering crowd. But if you do this you will have destroyed me.” Vesta’s head came up quickly and she looked at him enquiringly.

“I mean that,” he said in his deep voice. “When a man loves as I love you, that love takes everything else from him. If I cannot have you, if you send me away, I shall then be only the empty shell of what I am now. I love you, I worship you, and I cannot go on through life without you!”

His voice seemed to ring out. Then before Vesta could answer he rose to his feet and bending down helped her to hers.

“We are going on now,” he said. “You have-twenty four hours in which you can tell me that you love me. If I fail and you go to Djilas without me, I cannot for a moment contemplate the darkness in which I shall be left.”

Vesta stood in the shadows of the trees looking up at him.

If she had been in England she knew she would have doubted if what the Count said was the truth, if he could really feel so intensely. But there was no question of the raw sincerity .of his voice or the dark yearning in his eyes.

Then as he looked down into her small face, white and frightened, he said softly:

“You are all the beauty of the world, you are all I ask of life and all I hope of Heaven.”

His words brought the tears to Vesta’s eyes.

But because she was shy, because she was pulsating with so many conflicting emotions which she could not understand, because she wanted to hide her head against his shoulder, she turned and ran away from him.

She ran to where the horses were contentedly cropping the grass on the other side of the plateau, and reaching her horse she leant against the saddle.

‘What shall I ... do?’ she whispered in her heart. ‘Oh God ... tell me what I am to ... do!’

Chapter Seven

Vesta heard the Count approaching her, but she did not turn round. He came nearer until he stood just behind her.

“I have brought your jacket and hat,” he said in a quiet voice. “Turn round.”

She hesitated before she did as he asked.

He laid her jacket down on the horse’s back, set her wide-brimmed hat on her golden hair and tied the ribbons under her chin.

“I do not want you to spoil the perfection of your skin,” he said.

He put his fingers under her chin and turned her face up to his.

She thought he was about to kiss her, but instead he said:

“You are so beautiful—so incredibly, heart-breakingly beautiful.”

Their eyes met and for a moment neither of them could move. Some magic held them spell-bound as if they looked deeper and deeper into each other’s souls. The Count took his hand away and said hoarsely:

“If you look at me like that, I shall carry you away to that lonely cave and then there will be no decision for you to make now or ever.”

He picked her up in his arms and set her on the saddle, put the reins in her hand and arranged her full green skirts as if she was a child.

“I will carry your jacket for you,” he said, “but if you feel cold tell me at once. Remember the air from the snows can be treacherous to those who are not used to it.”

His concern for her and the gentleness with which he spoke made the tears prick Vesta’s eyes.

He thrilled her when he was passionate and commanding. But when he was tender and gentle she felt as if he drew her heart from her body, and she loved him in a way which she could not describe even to herself.

“He is so wonderful,” she whispered.

He swung himself into the saddle on his own horse and leaving the plateau behind found a narrow path, little more than a sheep track, leading onwards across the lower part of the mountain.

It was still very warm, but as they proceeded there was a faint breeze in the branches of the trees which fanned Vesta’s cheeks and relieved the worst of the heat.

It was difficult however to think of anything but the Count and her love for him.

He had given her twenty-four hours in which to make up her mind and it seemed to her as if she was faced with a dilemma that was worse than walking on the knife-edge of a precipice.

How could she give him up? How could she leave a man who stirred her to the very depths of her being, who aroused in her an ecstasy such as she had never imagined?

On the other hand there was her duty and the promise that she had given not only to her father but to the Registrar in front of the Prime Minister of Katona and the Viscount Castlereagh that she would marry Prince Alexander.

How could she be so false, so despicable as to refuse to honour her word, to run away from her obligations and responsibilities?

“If only there were someone I could ask to help me decide,” she sighed.

She watched the broad shoulders of the Count riding ahead of her.

Every so often he looked back to see that she was still there. She saw the smile on his lips and it was easy to imagine the fire that lay behind his dark eyes.
‘Could love really come so swiftly, so overwhelmingly?’ Vesta asked herself.

The answer was that she could not question her love. It was there strong and undeniable. And how could she doubt that the Count felt the same wonder and rapture that was hers.

Then with horror she remembered what he had said about Madame Ziileyha and the Prince’s weakness of character.

Could it be really true that the Prince had protected a woman who was striving to destroy his own country, who could even cause a revolution?

It must have been Madame Ziileyha who had wished to send her back to England.

It must have been at her instigation that the Revolutionaries were proceeding to Jeno to compel her to return home on the ship in which she had arrived or, if that was impossible, to destroy her.

Vesta drew in her breath. There were so many dangers in this land!

So many frightening incidents had happened to her since she had arrived, she could hardly believe they were not all a figment of her imagination!

Who would have thought when she left England to become the bride of a Royal Prince, escorted by a Prime Minister and carrying with her an elaborate and expensive trousseau, that she would find herself possessing nothing but what she wore?

But here she was riding with a man she had never seen until three days before and so wildly in love with him that she wanted nothing from life except to be in his arms?

Even to think of the Count, to watch the carriage of his head as he rode in front of her, was enough to make her thrill and tremble as she had done when he touched her.

Then she could see the face of her father, almost like an avenging angel, speaking to her of her duty and the manner in which she could serve her country.

She knew that if he were with her now, there would be no question in his mind as to which course she must take.

He would tell her that she must honour her promise to the Prince, and that, whatever she might learn about him, she had in fact already taken him for better or for worse.

Those were the words in the marriage service which they would repeat to each other when she reached Djilas and they were married in the Cathedral.

For a moment Vesta visualised herself standing at the Altar steps, wearing the white dress which she and her mother had chosen with such care.

“Wonderful jewels will be waiting for you in Katona,” the Duchess had said. “The Prime Minister tells me that the tiara worn by the Princess is almost like a crown, and although I would have liked to send you with the veil that all your sisters have worn when they married, I hear there is a veil that is used there by every Royal bride.”

Even then Vesta had found it hard to be really interested in the jewels or anything else she would find in Katona.

Her thoughts were on the Prince.

She wondered whether he would think her beautiful, whether he would admire the clothes she and her mother had chosen so painstakingly from all the best dress-makers in London, whether they would have much in common.

“And now,” she told herself, “clothes and jewels have no importance whatsoever!”

The Count had seen her in only two dresses—the muslin she had worn when she first arrived and he had been so incensed with her, and the green riding-skirt which was creased and dusty from the hard treatment it had received these past two days.

Yet he thought her beautiful!

“Incredibly, heart-breakingly beautiful,” he had said, and she felt again the thrill that had run through her at his words.

“What shall I do? What shall I do?”

The words seemed to repeat themselves over and over in her mind to the sound of the horses’ hooves moving along the narrow sheep track.

She knew it was a tug-of-war between her brain and her heart.

Her brain told her that she must behave honourably, she must do what was expected of her, that she had come to Katona as the wife of the Prince and there was no possible escape from what lay ahead.

But her heart cried out with an agony that was like a physical wound. She loved the Count!

“I love him ... I love him!” she said to herself and once again saw her father’s face.

She knew the Duke would be utterly ashamed of her should she fail both him and the Prince.

She thought of her mother. Once some years ago, she had listened to her mother talking to her sister, Angeline, before she married.

“You must look after your husband, Angeline,” the Duchess had said in her gentle voice.

“Hugo says he is going to look after me,” she said.

The Duchess smiled.

“Men always say that when they are in love,” the Duchess said. “But when you are married you will find that a woman has to protect, sustain and inspire her husband. That is her job as a wife.”

“But how can I protect Hugo?” Angeline asked in surprise.

“You will protect him,” the Duchess answered, “from many worries and troubles that you know would upset him. You will protect him from over-exerting himself, from being perturbed by problems about your children, even from being bored by people he dislikes.”

The Duchess gave a little laugh.

“If you only knew how often I have protected your father! But of course he has no idea of it.”

“I think I understand what you mean, Mama,” Angeline said slowly. “But how do I ‘sustain’ Hugo?”

The Duchess took her daughter’s hand in hers.

“You will sustain him, dearest child, when things go wrong,” she replied. “If he has financial anxieties, you will help him to realise they are of little importance. You will keep him always believing that things will get better in the future and if, by any chance, he loses someone he loves, he will turn to you in his sorrow and only you can help him.”

There was a little break in the Duchess’s voice, and Vesta knew she was thinking of Gerald who had been killed.

It was true, she thought, that it was her mother who had been able to help her father in his darkest hour. She had in fact prevented him from breaking down completely when they learnt of Gerald’s death.

Yes, the Duchess had certainly sustained her husband in his hour of need. Vesta had wondered then whether she would be able to sustain a man in the same way.

“And lastly you must inspire your husband,” the Duchess had continued. “Men need inspiration of women. They do their best, they achieve the impossible, when they are struggling and striving not for themselves but for the woman they love.”

She sighed before she continued.

“It is not always easy, Angeline, in fact it is often very difficult. But if you understand what your task entails, if you love the man to whom you are married, then nothing is too difficult, nothing is impossible.” Angeline had listened wide-eyed, and Vesta had wondered if her mother would say the same thing to her when she got married. But her advice to Vesta had been very different.

“You must remember, dear child,” she said, “that you will find in marrying a foreigner many difficulties and many problems that you would not have encountered otherwise. Never be critical of your husband even to yourself, and remember that sympathy and understanding are essential for a happy marriage.”

Thinking of her words now, Vesta asked herself:

‘Am I expected to be sympathetic and understanding about the Prince’s infatuation for Madame Ziileyha? How can I be? Will we ever be able to discuss such things frankly between us?’

Then she wondered if the Prince loved Madame Ziileyha as she loved the Count.

If he did, could their marriage be anything but a hopeless failure from the very beginning?

With each of them yearning for someone else, how intolerable it would be to be forced into a position of pretending publicly that they were happy, of deceiving the people over whom they ruled.

Then almost like a dagger in her heart, Vesta thought of the Count’s words when he had said:

“Have you any idea what happens when a man and a woman are joined together?”

She felt a fear of the unknown ripple through her, and she remembered he had gone on to say:

“It can be all the wonders and ecstasy of the divine or something obscenely degrading.”

‘It will be degrading,’ Vesta thought passionately, ‘if the Prince loves Madame Ziileyha and I love the Count!’

How could they be man and wife, “one flesh”, as the marriage service put it, when their marriage .was entirely of political necessity and they had no real interest or affection for each other.

‘Why, oh, why did I not think of this before I left England?’ Vesta asked and knew the answer was very simple: that then she had not been in love!

The horses were moving higher up the hillside and Vesta realised that they would soon be crossing the crest onto the side of the mountains which looked towards Djilas.

The Prince would be waiting for her, and now she found herself thinking of him not as a Prince but as a man.

A man who would kiss her because it was his duty to do so, a man who would be prepared to give her children because they were necessary for the continuance of the Royal House.

‘I cannot ... bear it ... I cannot!’

Vesta almost cried the words aloud.

Then she remembered the Brigands going down on one knee beside her horse to kiss the hem of her riding-skirt.

They were paying her homage because she had helped them. Would they have done so if they had known she was not a good woman, but one who turned her back on her obligations and her responsibilities?

‘If only there was ... someone who would ... help me,’ Vesta longed again.

And she knew that she yearned beyond everything else to feel the security of the Count’s arms around her ... an eagle protecting her!

She looked ahead and saw that they had reached the summit. The Count had drawn his horse to a standstill and was waiting for her. She hurried her own animal on, eager to be beside him, longing to hear his voice.

“Are you tired, my darling?” he asked as she drew in her horse.