Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (best books to read all time .TXT) 📗

At that moment, Elsbeth was saying to the comte, “Thank you, Gervaise. I do much enjoy dancing and parties. My aunt was rather retiring and did very little entertaining.” Elsbeth paused a moment before continuing, a hint of guilt in her voice, “I really should write to my aunt Caroline.

She has shown me only kindness, you know. She will of course wish to visit us after we are married.” How odd that sounded to her ears, somehow unnatural, somehow forced.

He said nothing, but there was a quiver in his hands. “Yes,” he managed to say finally. He gazed down at his half-sister, her dark eyes bright and almond-shaped, as were his. He knew her simple innocence, her unquestioned trust of those about her. If only that wretched old servant Josette had told him sooner that he was not the natural son of Thomas de Trécassis, indeed, that he and Elsbeth were born of the same mother.

Thank God he hadn’t made love to her that last time, after Josette had screamed at him that Elsbeth was his half-sister.

He would be gone soon, gone with what was rightfully his. Yet, somehow, he wanted to lessen the pain Elsbeth would feel upon his leaving. He missed a step in the dance and trod upon her foot. He was instantly contrite. “How very clumsy of me, Elsbeth, do forgive me, petite. You see, there are many things I do not do well.” She smiled up at him, but her smile faltered. She sensed a sadness in him, and replied quickly, “It is nothing, Gervaise. Do not speak like that, I beg you. You do yourself an injustice.”

“No, Elsbeth, it is true. I—I am really quite unworthy of you.” He paused, realizing they were dancing in the middle of the dance floor.

“Come,” he said, taking her hand. “I wish to speak to you. Let us go out on the balcony.”

Elsbeth followed the comte without hesitation, unaware that every member of her family was watching them closely.

It was chilly outside this evening, but Elsbeth didn’t feel it at all.

She turned to look at him, lifting her face for a kiss, but he took a step away from her. “No, Elsbeth, you must listen to me. I have done much thinking, little cousin. Our plan to go away together, it is impossible.

You must see that, Elsbeth. I would be the most dishonorable of men to take you from your family, to expose you to a life full of uncertainties and that would be all that I could offer you.” She could but stare at him, her mouth agape. “No,” she whispered, “no.

Why are you saying this? Gervaise, no, you cannot mean it. How can you say there will be uncertainties? There will be no uncertainties. Have you forgotten my ten thousand pounds? As my husband, the money would belong to you. You are very wise, Gervaise. We would have no uncertainties.”

“Husband,” he repeated, his voice low and harsh. “Your husband? Come, Elsbeth, it is time that you learned more of the realities of life. It is time you became a woman. You can no longer behave as a child.”

“I don’t know what you mean. What is this? What is in your mind? If there are any problems, I can help you. I am a woman now, you made me into a woman. Did you not teach me what it was to be a grown woman?” Without thinking, she took a step toward him.

He held up his hand. “You are such a romantic child. Just listen to yourself.” He managed a fine sneer and forced his voice to mockery. “All I did, Elsbeth, was take your virginity, caress your girl’s breasts, and provide you with a romantic summer idyll, nothing more.” Her face paled with shock at his words. “But you said you loved me,” she whispered. She shivered, not from the chill of the air, but from the burgeoning fear deep inside her.

He shrugged, such a Gaelic gesture of indifference, of contempt, she didn’t know. “Of course I told you I loved you. If you were a woman and not a child, you would have known that passionate words of love make an affaire all the more exciting and pleasurable.” There was such darkness, such emptiness, she couldn’t bear it. No, he couldn’t be saying these things. She wetted her lips. “But you told me you loved me and you meant it, I know it, just as I know you.”

“Of a certainty I love you,” he said coldly, “as my . . . cousin. It would be unnatural were I not to care for you in that way.”

“Then why did you tell me we would elope together? Do you not recall your promises to me?”

He laughed unpleasantly, a sound that made her shrivel, made something die deep inside her. She didn’t move. She didn’t think she could move, no matter what. He shrugged again, dismissing her as anyone even deserving of love, “I said only those things you wished to be told, Elsbeth. A wife will never be a part of my plans. That you chose to believe otherwise must show you that you are naught but a romantic child. Come, my dear, it is time for you to emerge from your sweet cocoon of innocence. Thank me for telling you the truth now. It’s kinder than leaving you to uncertainty. You would never have heard from me again, you know.”

“Was I really such a child to give myself freely to you?” He hated the tears brimming in her eyes, hated them, but he held firm, his voice as cool as the evening breeze that was making gooseflesh rise on her bare arm. “Yes, you were. Listen to me, you desired substance and reality when there was naught but dreams and phantoms. You must learn to face life, Elsbeth, not cower and weep like a helpless child. You will thank me one day. Hearts do not break—another piece of