Читать книгу Just For Her - Katherine O' Neal - Страница 12

Jules left the gathering in a stupor. Not wanting to see anyone, or answer any questions, she went through the gardens to the front courtyard, where the autos were waiting. Finding the Rolls, she saw to her dismay that Hudson wasn’t there. He had no way of knowing when she’d want to leave, but in her present state it made her feel frantic to find him gone. She wanted to get away, and fast.

She reeled toward a group of chauffeurs playing cards in the cloistered portico, asking if they’d seen him. They shook their heads dumbly, embarrassed at having been caught at their sport. No one had seen him.

She returned to the car and banged her open palm against the window. I have to get hold of myself.

Just then, she heard hurried footsteps and turned to find Hudson sprinting her way. “Where were you?” she demanded.

“Highness, what’s happened?”

“Don’t ask anything,” she told him shortly. “Just take me home.”

As he opened the car door for her, the inside light illuminated her. “Highness, your necklace—”

“Hudson, I swear if you ask me any questions, I’m going to scream.”

He knew when to keep his peace, so he helped her inside with solicitous care. “You close your eyes and rest, Highness. We’ll have you home in no time.”

As he drove along the coast road in the dark, Jules laid back her head and closed her eyes. She couldn’t believe what had happened. He’d actually taken the necklace! Played her for a complete and utter fool.

I am a fool—a stupid romantic imbecile!

The worst of it was that he’d been right about her. She knew that now. Oh, she’d wanted him to help her with DeRohan, certainly. But she’d also wanted—without admitting it to herself—to see him again, to feel his touch, to experience the wild ecstasy she’d found with him that first night. He’d been able to dupe her so easily because her treacherous body—starved for so long—had craved that riotous bliss. The danger. The excitement. And yes…even the temporary rebellion against everything she was—her background, the expectations on her, the farce of a marriage.

She’d behaved like a whore and now she was paying the price.

She slept fitfully that night. The next day, her stomach in knots, she refused breakfast and lunch. The smell of the food made her feel nauseated. She couldn’t seem to keep still. She paced the Louis XVI salon like a caged animal. The sounds of the maids working grated on her nerves, so in the afternoon, she walked in the gardens, filled with self-recriminations.

That evening, she still couldn’t face the idea of food. She told Mimi to inform the chef that she would skip dinner as well.

Finally Hudson, who’d been quietly keeping an eye on her all day, and who seemed to understand what had happened, approached her, saying, “Highness, I know you’ve had a blow—a loss—but you must eat.”

She ran her hands through her shortened hair, brushing it back off her face. “Oh, Hudson, why didn’t I listen to you? I’ve let my romantic fancies get the best of me and—because of it—I’ve lost Antoinette’s pearls. How could I be so irresponsible? I’m only glad Father isn’t here to witness my shame.”

Carefully, Hudson asked, “Do you wish me to call the police, Highness?”

The police? It would serve the Panther right if she reported the theft. He was probably smiling confidently to himself even now, certain she would hold her tongue.

If she told the police, the story would be plastered all over the newspapers and would increase the pressure to bring the Panther to heel.

But even as she considered it, she knew she’d never do it. Because she really was a fool. Taken in as she may have been, she still didn’t want him caught. And she didn’t even know why.

“No, Hudson, we’ll tell no one. I shall write it off as the cost of a valuable lesson learned.”

The next morning, she awoke to the sounds of angry male voices—an argument flaring somewhere in the house. She pushed herself up and peered at the clock across the room. It was past ten.

She rose and padded groggily through her sitting room in her nightgown and bare feet, coming out into the hallway. One of the voices booming from the reception hall below belonged to DeRohan. He must have returned in the night.

Jules went to the upper gallery where, running the entire length of the second story on four sides, twenty-four columned arches—six on each side—enclosed a carved, filigreed marble balcony that topped the larger arches around the perimeter of the reception hall below. Looking down, she could see her husband arguing with Father Siffredi, the priest who’d been at the La Napoule ball two nights before. He had a rolled-up scroll tucked under his arm. It was clear from the rigidity of their stances that both men were furious.

“How dare you invade my private quarters!” DeRohan snarled. “Who do you think you are, the Spanish Inquisition? You have no authority here and your turned-up collar means nothing to me. If you don’t remove yourself from these premises, I shall personally throw you out.”

It appeared to Jules as if that might not be an easy task. The priest was a solidly built northern Italian of the same height as DeRohan, with dark blond hair and blazing blue eyes. There was nothing meek or liturgical in his manner. He glared at his opponent as though he might be on the verge of charging him and seizing him by the throat.

“I have brought with me a petition signed by every family in Cap Corse,” he said in Italian-accented English. “A thousand signatures imploring you to do the right thing.”

“Haven’t you caused enough trouble?”

“It is you who have caused the trouble, my friend.”

“Me?” DeRohan cried. “I’ve been nothing but reasonable in the matter. You’ve organized a strike that’s closed down my Corsican gold mines—the most valuable property of the mining division of DeRohan Enterprises. You’ve initiated a lawsuit in the names of the miners that’s prevented me from selling the ore that’s been excavated there for the past year—a stockpile that’s collecting dust in a warehouse in Bastia. My prestige and the public’s confidence in my company has been shaken everywhere I do business—and you call me unreasonable.”

Siffredi hurled back, “Your company is systematically exploiting the people of northern Corsica. They work for a fraction of the wages miners get in other parts of Europe. The conditions are unsafe, and the work shifts punishingly long. The housing you provide is unspeakable. You may have a piece of paper giving you mineral rights to their land, but in the eyes of God and all reasonable men, you have no justification whatsoever to exploit them as you do. That gold represents their heritage and their future—and you’re stealing it from them. How can even you be so heartless?”

DeRohan was unmoved. “The lawsuit will eventually come to trial. You will lose, I shall win—and then you will see how heartless and vindictive I can be.”

“Yes, you may win because you will bribe the French officials and courts, but you will still not get your gold. These people are Corsicans—and now that they have been mobilized, they will fight you to the death to keep it on their island. And then, my friend, you will see what it is to be at the receiving end of a Corsican vendetta.”

“Even Corsicans have to eat. I shall merely wait them out.”

The priest pointed the rolled-up petition at his hostile host. “I happen to know that you do not have that luxury. All three divisions of your business empire—mining, real estate, and shipping—are in jeopardy. You desperately need the infusion of cash and renewed business confidence that will come with the sale of that stockpile of gold ore, and you need it quickly. You cannot afford to outwait us.”

DeRohan smiled cagily. “That may have been true a few weeks ago. But things have changed. I now have a deal nearly in my pocket that will ensure my future and catapult my company into an entirely new league of global power and influence. So you and your Corsican Bolsheviks can all go to hell!”

Dramatically, Siffredi threw the petition at DeRohan’s feet, saying, “Hell, sir, is where you belong.”

DeRohan picked it up, ripped it to shreds and said, “And when I’ve won, Siffredi, I’ll not forget your part in this—nor all the other actions you’ve initiated against me. I’m not without friends in the Vatican. When this is over, I intend to make sure you spend the balance of your career converting cannibals on some godforsaken island in the Indian Ocean.”

Squaring his shoulders, Siffredi told him, “If that happens, I will leave the Church. Because come what may, for the rest of my life, I intend to devote every breath I take to fighting your incomparable evil.”

He stormed out.

Jules returned to her suite, stirred and inspired by the priest’s fiery resistance. Too, she realized now why DeRohan was so intent on this deal with the Shah: His empire was troubled. He desperately needed those oil leases. And since—to get them—he needed her help, maybe—just maybe—she could use this need to her advantage.

She dressed in a pale pink summer frock, and then, because she didn’t want to antagonize DeRohan, wrapped a silk scarf about her hair so he wouldn’t know she’d cut it. She went downstairs, made arrangements with Hudson, and put on a sober pleasant face. Then she entered what had once been her father’s study, a smaller salon where DeRohan had set up headquarters, with Hudson following behind, carrying a tray.

DeRohan looked up from the desk, where he’d been reading his mail. “Ah, my loving wife,” he drawled.

“I heard you’d returned. Since it’s such a hot day, I thought you might like some citronade.”

Hudson laid the tray on a crescent-shaped table below her father’s portrait, then left quietly.

DeRohan was watching her with the trenchant glare that always made her want to turn her back, lest he see too much in her eyes. “To what do I owe this extraordinary reception?”

“I’d like to speak with you. Calmly, unemotionally.”

He tossed his mail aside. “That should be a novelty. I’ve had my fill of histrionics for one day.”

She poured him a drink from the icy pitcher, then turned to find him standing by her side. Repressing the instinctive urge to draw back, she handed the glass to him, and indicated the formal sitting area, offering, “Please, have a seat.”

He dropped into one of the petit point chairs, took a sip, then looked over at her as she sat across from him on the settee. “I confess, you’ve piqued my curiosity.”

Jules sat with her back straight, folded her hands in her lap, and took a deep breath for courage. “DeRoh—” she began, then corrected herself carefully, “Dominic.”

She waited to see if the never-before-used familiarity aroused his cynicism. It didn’t. He seemed poised to listen.

Heartened, she continued. “I’ve done a great deal of thinking since you arrived the other day. And I’ve decided to do what you’ve asked. I shall help you with the Shah.”

His eyes narrowed. “Will you now?”

“Yes.”

“You will willingly help me.”

“Yes.”

“But you want something in return.”

“I do.”

“And what is that?”

“My freedom.”

“Your…freedom.” The ice tinkled in his glass as he swirled it in his hand. He took another sip, idly, then set the glass on the table next to him.

Jules rushed on. “Somehow, through no fault of our own, we’ve fallen into a tragedy. I don’t have to tell you this so-called marriage that’s existed between us for four years is a cruel farce. It’s never been consummated. It’s been a prison for the both of us. Surely your feelings for me have been every bit as acrimonious as mine have been toward you. There’s no use raking over the past and hurling accusations at one another as to how we fell into the situation. None of that matters now. What matters is that we end it. Peacefully. Amicably.”

She looked up to see that his face hadn’t changed. He considered her words for a moment, then asked, “How would you suggest we do that?”

“A simple annulment.”

“I see,” he said quietly. “You want me to admit, for all the world to know, that our marriage was never consummated.”

“A divorce, then. I’m certainly willing to protect your reputation in return for my freedom. I don’t want anything from you. I shall take my house and my jewels. Only what’s truly mine. We’ve been apart for a year now. Surely during this time you’ve come to realize that we have no future.” She leaned forward, pressing her clasped hands together. “Please, Dominic. Can’t you be reasonable and see that this is the only solution for us?”

For an entire minute, he didn’t move. Then he reached over, took another sip of the citronade, and sat back in the chair, thinking deeply about all she’d said. Another interminable time passed as Jules pressed her hands together so tightly, they went numb. She forgot to breathe. She waited, encouraged by his thoughtful silence, but afraid to hope.

Finally, his eyes turned to her and he said, “Never. Not in a million years.”

All her hopes came crashing in around her. “You cad! You let me go on, knowing you never had any intention of—”

“You listen to me carefully, Juliana. I—will—never—let—you—go. You made a bargain with me. I’ve coddled you long enough. You’ve had your year of ridiculous mourning. Now you’re going to start living up to your responsibilities.”

“My responsibilities,” she spat out at him, “ended when you pushed my father into blowing out his brains with the gun you left for him in this very room. Our end of the bargain was paid for with his blood.”

“Whatever your father did—and why—has nothing to do with the bargain you made with me. You belong to me. And you always will.”

It was too much. Vaulting to her feet, she ripped the scarf off her head, displaying the bobbed hair that was the symbol of her rebellion. “I don’t care what you do or what you say. I will never belong to—”

He rose up and sprang on her, gripping her arm and wrenching it until she cried out, cutting off her words. “What did you do to your hair?”

“I cut it not two minutes after you praised me for not having done so. I hope you hate it. Every time you see it, I hope it will remind you that all your wife wants in all this world is to be free of you.”

He twisted her arm. “Your Habsburg fairy tale is over. You’re no longer the spoiled and pampered princess. You’re my wife, and by God, you’re going to start acting like it. So let me tell you what you’re going to do: In two weeks—on the ninth of July—I’m giving a reception for the Shah. You will plan it. To give face to the man, you will see to it that every one of your titled friends who happens to be anywhere near this coast is present. I want none of your flighty American friends in attendance. And if it isn’t the most lavish gathering ever seen on this blasted coast, you will answer to me. Throughout this bacchanalia, you are going to be hanging onto my arm, smiling adoringly up into my face, and oohing like a smitten schoolgirl at every word that ruddy Hottentot says to you. I don’t care if it kills you.”

She pulled on her arm. “I won’t. I don’t care what you do to me. If you think you’re going to waltz into my house and give me orders, you’re even more demented than I thought.”

“Demented?” he snarled, his face black with fury. “I’ll show you demented.” He dropped her arm, picked up the glass of citronade, and hurled it with all his might. It shattered against her father’s portrait, ripping a tear across the canvas.

She stood staring at it, shaking uncontrollably. It was the only portrait she had of her father. And now, like the man, it too had been destroyed by DeRohan.

She couldn’t find the words to express her revulsion. After several moments she settled for a whispered, “I despise you.”

In a flinty tone, he replied, “Hate me all you want, so long as you do as I say.”

“You can’t even conceive of the depths of my hatred for you.”

He yanked her around to face him. “And if you ever again think to defy me—if you cut your hair or shave your head or whisper something you shouldn’t to the Shah—I may just have to punish you in such a way that you’ll understand I’m not to be crossed again.”

“And how’s that?” she asked scathingly. There was nothing he could possibly promise that could be worse than what he’d already done.

“You’ve broken your word with your rebellion. I may just have to break mine.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning, Juliana, that I may just decide you’re right. This charade has gone on long enough. It may be high time that I claimed my true rights as your husband by taking my lawful place in your bed. Not because I especially want you. But because I know how it would make your flesh crawl.”