Wildest Dreams (The Contemporary Collection) (11 page)

Regardless, she knew why. It was simply a reason Gilbert was not likely to accept. She didn’t, in truth, find it acceptable herself. There was no earthly good that could come of a respectable married lady keeping anxious watch for a man she had seen once in a rainswept pleasure garden.

She couldn’t help it. She had scolded herself for continually thinking of those few idyllic moments and vowed a dozen times that she would stop. She had told herself she was being foolish, that the incident had meant nothing to Allain Massari except a diverting flirtation. She had tried to be dutiful and pleasant toward her husband and find satisfaction in the long years that stretched before the two of them as man and wife.

In spite of everything, her mind returned again and again to the words that had been spoken between Allain and herself, to the look on his face as he held her and the desolation in his eyes as they parted.

She had kept the lilacs though they were limp and faded; they were in the case Hermine carried, pressed in her journal on the page where she had written every meaning for flowers that she could bring to mind. And she had pinned the bouquet of pansies that had been on her tray this morning to the lapel of her traveling cape.

Pansies, which meant
you are in my thoughts
.

At the far end of the room, beyond the circular ottoman seats and potted palms that marched in a line down the middle of the lobby, a gentleman stood with his back to her while he spoke to a liveried servant. He held his hat of fine nut-brown beaver in one gloved hand at his side. His camel’s-hair coat, cut along the austere lines made popular by Victoria’s consort, Albert, fitted his broad shoulders to perfection, while its collar and lapels of rich brown velvet gave it an added elegance. Even as he spoke he shifted his position, turning his head slightly, half smiling, to stare for an instant in Violet’s direction.

Allain.

Violet drew in her breath as a small shiver moved over her. The look he had given her was fleeting, the briefest possible appraisal from under his lashes across the busy lobby; still, Violet felt it as the most intimate of greetings. It said to her that he had been watching for her, had been aware she was there from the moment she arrived, and that he took pleasure just from the sight of her.

A flush began at the soles of her feet and rose in fiery heat to her hairline. She could no more prevent herself from smiling than she could have stopped the swift beat of her heart. A sweet, insidious joy invaded her senses, singing in her veins, though she lowered her gaze to the carpeted floor to hide it.

Dear God. This would not do. It was wrong, it was foolish.

It was also wonderful, as if she had wakened to delight after a long and dreamless sleep.

The need to speak to Allain Massari was urgent inside her. Surely there could be no harm in a final farewell. Their lives that had touched so briefly would part here, and that would be the end of it. One day she would do no more than smile at the memory of her innocent London escapade.

“Stay here a moment, Hermine,” she said, “and I will see what is keeping Gilbert.”

She moved down the room with her skirts whispering over the carpet and dipping gently around her. She reached to touch the cluster of pansies she had thrust into a tiny pewter flower holder with a minute amount of water and pinned to her lapel. As she neared the group of men where Allain stood, she placed her thumb on the catch of the flower holder and pressed hard. The small bouquet came free and tumbled to the floor.

She stopped with a low cry of feigned surprise, then bent as if she would kneel to retrieve the flowers.

Allain was quicker. He stooped to scoop up the pansies, presenting them to her with a bow of impeccable grace.

“Thank you,” she said in almost inaudible tones. “I had hoped you would—”

“I know, and I am all admiration for your cleverness.” Laughter made his eyes bright as he met her gaze. “I was at my wit’s end, trying to devise a way to approach you.”

Her smile in return was fleeting and troubled, though she was warmed by his instant understanding. She said, “I only wanted to say good-bye. We leave for Bath today for a fortnight. Afterward, we are going straight on to Paris.”

“Ah, so soon.”

She nodded. “The war preparations—”

“Yes.” He paused, then went on in hesitant tones. “I have been thinking about your sojourn in Paris. I wonder — has your husband given any thought to having a likeness of you made while you are in the city?”

“A likeness?” Her gaze was alert.

“A portrait. What better place to have it done? I can recommend Delacroix as an artist. He is not only gifted in portraiture, he also happens to be a valued friend of mine as well.”

“Delacroix? But he is renowned for his scenes of war and — and odalisques in the harem.” There was a trace of disapproval beneath the puzzlement in her voice.

“Indeed. But he does portrait studies when it pleases him. He is secure in his profession — he’s the natural son of old Talleyrand, you know, so official patronage has always been his, leaving him free to pick and choose. It’s true that he scorns to paint vapid society ladies, so you may have to go to his studio to persuade him. Once he has seen you, however, he will be enthralled.”

“You frighten me,” she said, her voice not quite steady.

“It was not my intention,” he answered quietly. “It would never be my intention.”

She drew a quick, painful breath against the constriction in her chest. “Yet if — if our paths should not happen to cross again after all, would you believe, please, that I wish you good fortune?”

He was silent a moment, then he shifted his shoulders in a slight shrug. “Good fortune? Good-bye?” he repeated musingly. “Such words,
cara,
are far too final for us.”

He took her hand, saluting it with the lightest possible brush of his lips and with promise in his eyes. Releasing her, he turned away with precision just as Gilbert strode into the lobby. By the time her husband had made his way to where she waited, Allain had moved to the desk of the concierge, where he was apparently immersed in an amicable and familiar discussion with that individual.

“Who was that speaking to you?” Gilbert asked with a quick glance in Allain’s direction.

“No one,” Violet answered without looking at him as she refastened the holder of pansies. “Just a gentleman kind enough to retrieve my flowers for me when I lost them.”

A scornful expression passed over her husband’s face as he surveyed Allain’s elegant form, but he said no more. Raising a hand to beckon Hermine toward them, he took Violet’s elbow to guide her from the hotel.

Just before she passed through the portal, Violet looked back. She should not, she knew, but she could not help herself.

Allain was watching her. He lifted his hand in the graceful gesture, placing it over his heart as he inclined his head in the most minute of bows. There was yearning in the somber cast of his face, and doubt. But there was no resignation.

He, Allain Massari, was a fool. It was criminal of him to continue to seek to involve himself with the beautiful American lady; he should be shot for his thoughtlessness, if not for his effrontery. But she was so sweet, so lovely, and had fit so perfectly into his arms. He could not help himself.

He would protect her, at all costs, but he hated having to be so careful. He would like to simply drive away with her, take her to Venice. There, in a palazzo with the moonlit waters lapping on the old stones below a window open to the soft air from the lagoon, he would—

But no. It was impossible.

If it was only the husband in the way, he might dare.

There was also this other business. He wanted no part of it; what need had he for such complications, such a dangerous undertaking? These fools who sought to persuade him would not believe it. They had involved him whether he wanted it or not. Or perhaps it was his father who had involved him, long ago.

He would disentangle himself. Then who could say what might happen? It depended on what transpired in Paris. And that depended on the will, and perhaps the courage, of Violet. What a fine name for her, his shy and sweet lady of the flowers. Modesty, yes, so it meant, his Violet. But she had no need of it. None at all.

Bath seemed dreary to Violet, though it might have been the rain that fell without ceasing, making it impossible to walk about the town as she would have wished. Regardless, she drank the requisite three glasses of the warm, mineral-tasting water every morning in the pump room with Gilbert at her side to be certain she did not skimp on the fullness of them. She dipped her fingers into the King’s Bath, saw the head of the goddess Minerva, and was shown some of the tombs of those whom the water had not cured. She admired the abbey with its lovely fan vaulting, viewed the remains of the old Roman aqueduct, and was driven past the Royal Crescent and also the homes of notable past residents, including the exiled Louis Napoléon, who was now Napoléon III. None of it could hold her interest for long.

Everything irritated her, from the cool dampness that made her shiver and the food without noticeable seasoning to the measured drone of her husband’s voice as he read to her from the guidebook he had purchased. In fact, nothing about Gilbert pleased her: the way he combed his hair with slatherings of pomade made it lie too flat to his head, the noise he made as he drank his coffee embarrassed her, and the methodical and endless round of trivial tasks he performed each night before he got into bed set her teeth on edge.

The reason for her state was perfectly apparent, or would have been if she could have brought herself to admit it. She refused. A well-brought-up young woman, once she was wed, did not look at another man, did not think of another man or dream of another man. To compare the person she had married with any other male was vulgar and degrading to both her husband and herself. Women of her kind were expected to devote themselves to their homes, their children, and the extended circle of their families, and to seek solace for any lack in their lives in the rites of the church. She knew the code, had heard it propounded and repeated her life long; it was unthinkable that she should break it.

Yet the endless round of her days made her want to scream, and the nights brought her to the edge of rebellion.

Gilbert, once her monthlies had passed, seemed determined to test the supposed efficacy of the Bath waters for conception. He not only came to her each evening without fail, but remained with her through the night, waking her as often as he was able. Her body grew sore from his repeated usage, her spirits sagged, and dark shadows appeared under her eyes from lying sleepless, thinking, waiting for the next onslaught. She prayed that her husband would become exhausted from his efforts, prayed that he would have the kindness to understand her lack of ardor and spare her, prayed that she might conceive quickly so she could plead the illness of pregnancy to escape his attentions.

Praying did not help.

Then one night she discovered something that did.

Gilbert had reached out for her, closing his hand over her breast. As she felt the heat of his touch the image of Allain flitted through her mind with the vague question of what it might be like if the hand upon her was his, if it was he who lay beside her. She wondered how he would touch her, if he would speak low in her ear, what he would say and do as they lay together on the bed. As Gilbert reared above her she pretended that it was Allain who parted her thighs, whose strength and warmth she took inside her, whose arms held her in a rocking embrace.

She gasped in the sudden intimation of pleasure then, moving by instinct with the rhythm of the joining. She continued moving for long seconds after Gilbert had stopped, seeking some nebulous joy that remained just beyond her reach, just beyond true comprehension.

He rolled from her abruptly, lying in absolute stillness on the mattress. Then he twisted around, sliding from the bed. His footsteps padded across the floor in heavy retreat. The door of the connecting bedchamber closed behind him.

Violet lay staring into the darkness, waiting for her breathing to quiet, waiting for guilt to make its way through the turmoil of her emotions to reach her. It did not come. Slowly, her lips trembled into a smile. The tears came then, rising from a well of desolation deep inside that she could deny no longer.

By morning she was composed again, and though her face was pale, there was a new firmness in the way she held her head, a new directness in her gaze. As she sat at the breakfast table with Gilbert, presiding over cold buns and lukewarm coffee, she sought for a way to bring up the subject in her mind. He gave her no openings; he was singularly quiet, almost ill at ease in her presence. At last, seeing that he had nearly finished making his meal, she spoke.