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It was late afternoon before they entered what the Comte told her was the Burgundy region of France. His own estate lay to the north-east, he added. The scenery of the Côte-d’Or as they drove through made Hope catch her breath, her eyes rounding in awe, forgetting her tiredness as she saw the vineyards, interspersed with tantalising glimpses of châteaux and weathered farmhouses, with the word clos constantly appearing on signboards. It referred to enclosed vineyards, the Comte explained to her; vineyards which had once belonged to large convents or monasteries, and which still retained their enclosing walls.
‘Are your vineyards like that?’ Hope asked him, suddenly curious to know more about his home.
‘No. The Serivace lands are too extensive to be enclosed, although there is one small clos not far from the … house.’
He didn’t seem disposed to talk any more, and Hope lapsed into silence, tension knotting her stomach, although she was at a loss to understand why.
At last they turned off the main road, taking a narrow, badly tarmacked track, barely wide enough for the Ferrari, and open to acres of vines on either side.
‘The Serivace vines,’ the Comte told her laconically, adding, ‘Serivace is one of the largest vineyards in the area. The ancestor of mine who first settled here said he would own land in every direction from his home as far as the eye could see. Despite the many vicissitudes the family has passed through, that still holds true today.’ He paused and pointed out a long, low collection of buildings in the distance. ‘That is our bottling plant, Jules Duval, my manager, lives there with his family. There are many small growers in the locality who also make use of the plant.’
A large copse suddenly loomed up ahead of them, so alien in the vine-covered countryside that it took Hope completely by surprise. The sun, which had been sulking behind dull cloud, suddenly broke through, glinting on something behind the trees, and then they were among them, and the Comte was telling her that many of the trees were rare and valuable specimens, planted by one of his ancestors to provide parkland, ‘in the English fashion’. Beyond the belt of trees were formal gardens, and at the end of the drive … Hope’s eyes rounded as she saw the lake with the château rising from it, a fairy-tale in spun white resting on the silver water like a mirage. An ancient, wooden ‘drawbridge’ spanned the lake at its narrowest part, the Ferrari wheels reverberating noisily as they crossed it, driving under the stone archway and through into the courtyard beyond, the Ferrari coming to rest beside an arched and studded wooden door.
‘It’s … it’s like something out of a fairy-tale,’ she stammered, bemused by the total unexpectedness of her surroundings. A ‘house’ the Comte had said and she, foolishly, had expected a large and rambling farmhouse, not this airy turreted château with its peaceful lake and formal parterred gardens.
‘Sleeping Beauty, perhaps?’ the Comte suggested, unfastening his seat-belt and opening his door. ‘Rest assured there is no captive princess here, mon petit,’ he told her dryly, adding, ‘Come, I shall collect our cases later.’ He saw her confusion and smiled. ‘You were perhaps expecting an army of retainers.’ He shook his head. ‘Those days are gone. The château consists mainly of unused rooms. I have a small suite in the main building, which is maintained by Pierre my … general factotum, I suppose is the best description. A word of warning, by the way, before you meet him. He worked for my father and was badly injured in the same car explosion which killed my parents. My father had a minor post in the government at the time of the Algerian troubles. A bomb was thrown into the car. He and my mother were killed outright, but Pierre who was driving was thrown free. However, he was badly burned, and since the accident he has never spoken. He has also lost the ability to hear.’
‘Oh, poor man!’ The shocked exclamation left Hope’s lips before she could silence it. The Comte glanced at her sardonically as he helped her from the car. ‘You would do well not to let Pierre become aware of such sentiments. He is not a man who cares for … pity … I was fourteen when it happened,’ he added, as though anticipating her next question. ‘At an age to feel very bitter, but, as all things must, it passed, and of course I had …’
‘Pierre?’ Hope offered, torn by compassion for the pain she had glimpsed in his eyes.
‘Pierre?’ The glance he shot her was sharply piercing. ‘Oh, yes, I had Pierre.’ He crossed the courtyard, leaving Hope to follow, and pushed open the heavy door. Standing inside it, surveying the vastness of the hall, Hope shivered, wondering if the chill was the effect of so much marble. It covered the floor in a black and white lozenge design echoed by the stairs, supported gracefully by marble columns, with polished mahogany doors set at pairing intervals along the walls.
‘This way.’ The Comte touched her arm, indicating one of the doors. ‘This central part of the château is all that we use now. This is the library. Later I shall show you the remainder of the rooms.
The library was heavily panelled with an enormous marble fireplace and a carpet which Hope suspected was Aubusson, the colours faded to muted creams, pinks and greens. Pale green velvet curtains hung at the windows, a large partners’ desk placed where it would obtain maximum benefit from the daylight.
‘This room doubles as my office,’ the Comte explained. ‘It’s where I keep all the vineyard records and data, but I shall now show you the rest and then Pierre can prepare dinner for us.’
Hope’s thoughts as the Comte showed her from room to room were that the as yet unseen Pierre must have his work cut out looking after such huge apartments, but the Comte told her that they received help from the village when it was needed. ‘After the vintage comes the time when we entertain the buyers, and then the château comes into its own. You look tired,’ he added. ‘I’ll take you to your room.’
The marble stairs struck a chill through the thin soles of her sandals, the last rays of sunlight turning the chandelier hanging from the ceiling into prisms of rainbow light, almost dazzling her in their brilliance. The landing was galleried, the walls covered in soft pale green silk, and Hope wondered who had chosen the décor which was obviously fairly recent, and who acted as the Comte’s hostess when he entertained his buyers. He indicated one of the doors off the landing, thrusting it open for her, watching her face as she stepped through it and started into the room.
It was huge, almost dwarfing the Empire-style bed with its tented silk hangings, the fabric drawn back to reveal the intricate pleating and the gold and enamel rose set in the ceiling which supported it. A chaise longue covered in the same cream and rose brocade was placed at the foot of the bed, with two Bergère chairs in front of the fire, and the delicate white and gold Empire furniture made Hope catch her breath in awe.
‘The bathroom and dressing room are through here,’ the Comte told her, indicating another door. ‘I’ll leave you to freshen up while I go and find Pierre. He’ll bring your cases up for you.’
When he had gone Hope wandered over to the window. It was already growing dark outside and she could just about make out the shimmer that was the lake below her window—perhaps originally it had been the château moat—and beyond it the formal parterred gardens, before the ring of trees closed round the landscape obliterating everything else.
While she was investigating the bathroom, Hope heard the bedroom door open and then close again and guessed it must be Pierre with her cases and boxes. The bathroom was obviously a modern addition and rather breathtaking. The walls, floor and sanitary ware were all made from creamy white marble, the huge bath sunk into the floor, and one entire wall mirrored. Hope wasn’t entirely sure that she cared for it. It rather reminded her of something she had once seen in a film the nuns had taken them to see in Seville.
The dressing room which she had to pass through to reach the bathroom was lined with wardrobes and cupboards, all of which were mirrored, and thinking that she could hardly expect Pierre to unpack for her, Hope returned to her cases and started to remove the clothes she would need for the morning. She didn’t plan to change for dinner—she would simply wash and re-do her make-up.
Just when would her father arrive? She quelled a feeling of disappointment that he hadn’t been there to meet them, but then she had guessed that this would be the case, for if he hadn’t been busy, surely he wouldn’t have sent the Comte to collect her. Rather like an unwanted parcel, she thought wryly as she stripped off her suit and returned to the bathroom to wash.
Half an hour later, her hair brushed and her make-up fresh, she opened the bedroom door and walked across the landing. Her shoes seemed to clatter loudly on the marble stairs. As she reached the hall a door underneath the stairs opened and a man walked through. Hope guessed immediately that he must be Pierre. His face bore several livid scars, his dark hair streaked with grey, but there was more curiosity than embarrassment in the look he gave her, and trying not to feel too self-conscious, Hope said warmly:
‘You must be Pierre. I am Hope Stanford and …’ Her voice faded away as she remembered that the Comte had told her that Pierre had been rendered both deaf and dumb by the bomb blast and, suddenly feeling awkward, she was relieved to see the Comte coming downstairs.
Unlike her, he had changed and her eyes widened a little as she took in the thick silk shirt and tightly-fitting dark trousers. Gold cuff-links glittered at his wrists, and she was suddenly and overpoweringly aware of him—not as her father’s friend, but as a man. Her heart started to thud with heavy, suffocating strokes, her body turned to marble, as stiff and unresponsive as the stairs, as she stared at him, barely noticing the signs he made to Pierre, or the comprehension burning to life in the servant’s dark eyes as he turned back to the door.
‘Dinner is almost ready. You need not look like that,’ he assured her, obviously misunderstanding the reason for her shocked expression. ‘Pierre is an excellent chef.’ He opened the door that Hope vaguely remembered belonged to the dining room, her eyes dazzled by the sea of polished wood and glittering glass and silver that swam before her, mentally contrasting the magnificence of the château to the refectory at the convent.
Two courses were served and eaten in silence, Hope merely sipping the wine the Comte had poured for her. She refused any sweet, watching instead while the Comte helped himself to some cheese—a local cheese called Chaource, he told her, offering her some. Again Hope shook her head. The long journey had tired her, her mind exhausted by so many new impressions.
A portrait on the wall behind the Comte caught her eye and she studied it. It looked relatively modern and depicted a dark-haired woman, proud and faintly arrogant so that Hope sensed a wildness beneath the conventionally elegant mask.
‘Is that … was that your mother?’ she asked hesitantly.
The Comte turned his head and studied the portrait for a while in silence, his voice harsh as he said, ‘No. My sister, Tanya. She is dead now, she committed suicide.’
For a moment Hope thought she must have misheard him, the words seemed to hover between them, and Hope looked again at the portrait. What could have driven a woman as beautiful and proud as she was to take her own life? She hadn’t realised she had spoken the words out loud until the Comte said bitterly, ‘A man, of course, mon petit; a man, and the shame of knowing herself discarded.’
Hope shivered, unable to tear her eyes from the portrait. ‘It happened six months ago,’ the Comte continued. ‘I was in Paris at the time, Tanya was in the Caribbean with her lover. I suspect she had hoped that in the end he would marry her, but I knew he never would. I had warned her, but she would not listen. In the end, she preferred to take her life rather than face his dismissal of her.’
‘Had he … had he fallen in love with someone else?’ Hope asked huskily, hardly knowing why she asked the question.
The Comte’s mouth tightened. ‘Hardly. No. Tanya was simply a diversion who no longer fitted into his plans, and so she had to go. She, poor girl, went on deluding herself up to the last that he genuinely cared for her. However, her death will be avenged. He shall not be allowed to shame our family unpunished.’ He said the words so quietly that Hope barely caught them.
‘Tanya,’ she pronounced wonderingly. ‘It is surely a Russian name?’
‘As is my own,’ the Comte confirmed. ‘My mother insisted upon it. She could not hand down to her children her own birthright—she was a Princess; Princess Tatiana Vassiliky—but she gave us her family names. Mine is Alexei, after her father.’
It was his Russian blood that demanded reparation for what had happened to his sister, Hope guessed intuitively, sensing as she had done before the savagery and pride that lay so close to the surface of his French sophistication—a sophistication which was barely more than a cloak.
‘Tanya’s lover?’ she pressed, scarcely knowing why she asked the question and yet somehow compelled to do so.
‘I think you can guess,’ the Comte said slowly, forcing her to meet his eyes and holding her gaze as he stood up and came to stand beside her. ‘Your father was Tanya’s lover, Hope,’ he told her softly, so softly that for a moment she didn’t sense the danger surrounding her.
‘My father?’ She stared up at him in bewilderment. ‘My father … but … You and he are friends … Why did you come for me when … ?’
‘How naïve you are, little one. Your father knows nothing of me apart from the fact that I am Tanya’s brother, but I know a great deal about him. I made it my business to know. I discovered, for one thing, that he had a daughter—a pious, innocent child, who was kept secluded from the world, brought up to be innocent in mind and body; a child who he intended to use as a pawn to secure for himself the power he has always wanted. You are that pawn, Hope,’ he told her softly. In the half-light his eyes glittered dangerously, hard and green as emeralds, and fear choked Hope of breath as she fought to take in what he was saying.
‘I swore when my sister killed herself that she would be avenged,’ he told her slowly. ‘The Russian blood in me demands that she is, even while the French mocks me for my passion, but on this occasion the Russian wins out, although I must admit that the French side of me has helped me to plan my campaign with care and thought. My first instinct was to deprive your father of life as he had deprived Tanya of hers.’
Hope, listening, shivered. She could well imagine this man killing her father, the lean fingers fastening round his throat, demanding that he suffer as Tanya had suffered.
‘But, on reflection, I decided that that was not enough. Besides, I have no wish to spend the rest of my own life languishing in prison. No, there had to be a better way. A way in which your father was vulnerable, and then, quite by chance, at a dinner in Paris, I found it. You will be surprised to know, mon petit, that you were the subject of the dinner-table conversation on that occasion.
‘My female companion, I shall not bore you with her name, was telling me of the marriage your father had planned between the Montrachet heir and his carefully reared daughter. It seems your father has been foolish enough to borrow money on his expectations of becoming the grandfather of the new heir-to-be. The Montrachet name is an old and powerful one, and Montrachet brides are always carefully chosen and vetted. Normally, they are also rich, but the numbers of rich young women who are also virginal in body and character are quickly dwindling.
‘However, your father has taken care to make sure that you fulfil both those latter two requirements. His name is also an old one—you have no fortune, of course, but Isabelle Montrachet, Alain’s mother, prefers a bride for her son who is easily moulded and taught. A healthy young bride, moreover, who will provide her son with children; a bride whose virtue is unimpeachable—and who better than her business partner’s daughter; a girl who can bring as her dowry, all these things. In return for your innocence, your father will receive an increased share in the Montrachet business, provided it and his own share is willed to you, and your children after you, upon his death.
‘As I have just said, he has already gambled heavily on his expectations, investing in a holiday complex in the Caribbean, which is not paying off as it ought. Before the summer is out, Sir Henry intends to capitalise on his only remaining investment—you—or at least he did.’
The Comte walked away, standing by the fire with his back to her while Hope watched him in stunned and appalled silence. Was it true? Had her father intended such a marriage for her? She supposed she ought not to be shocked, after all she knew that was what many of the girls were at the convent for; to be prepared for such marriages but, somehow, she had never imagined it happening to her—and to suggest that her father was responsible for his sister’s death! It was preposterous! Struggling with her feelings, all she could manage was a husky, ‘I don’t believe you, my father would never …’
‘Make love to my sister? Discard her like an unwanted toy? Destroy and humiliate her publicly by telling her he no longer wanted her, so that she was forced to take her own life. I assure you that he did. The newspapers were full of the story—I haven’t kept the cuttings, but I could obtain them for you, I’m sure.’
‘No!’ Hope rejected the suggestion immediately, nausea building up inside her. Could her father have behaved so callously? Hadn’t he in many ways behaved equally callously to her? an inner voice asked. Hadn’t he left her at the convent, more or less ignoring her? He hadn’t told her anything about his plans for her.
She shivered suddenly, wondering if that was why she had never been allowed to holiday with her friends, in case she became involved with someone; a boy to whom she might have given her body and thus de-valued herself in the eyes of the Montrachets. It seemed incredible, and yet Hope sensed that what the Comte said was true.
‘I don’t understand,’ she managed huskily at last. ‘If you are my father’s enemy why did you …’
‘Take you from the convent?’ he supplied for her, turning round to study her pale face and enormous eyes, her expression fearful and yet resolute as she tried to understand what was happening to her.
‘You must understand that I mean you no personal harm,’ he told her quietly. ‘But it is only through you that I can harm your father as much as he harmed Tanya. Oh, I don’t mean to kill him,’ he assured her, seeing her pale. ‘Nor will he end his own life as my poor sister did—he is not that kind of a man. But if this marriage does not go ahead, he will be ruined financially. He will not be able to live the jet-set life to which he has grown accustomed. He will no longer be the darling of the Côte d’Azur; permitted entry into every Casino, the escort of models and actresses, and that will destroy him as effectively as he destroyed Tanya. To see his world turn its back on him—as it surely will—will be all the revenge I need.’
‘But how are you hoping to accomplish this?’ Hope protested. ‘You cannot keep me here for ever, and once I leave …’
‘Your marriage can take place.’ He shook his head and the look in his eyes sent a chill curling icily all the way down Hope’s spine. ‘You haven’t been listening to me, Hope,’ he chided almost softly. ‘I have already told you what Isabelle Montrachet looks for in a bride for her son, and she will accept no less. Alain is a young man who has sown more than his fair share of wild oats, and it is rumoured he is looking forward to the piquancy of a virgin bride. My dear, no matter how lovely you are, without your virginity all you can ever be to Alain is simply another pretty diversion.’
As Hope stared up at him, the implications of his words finally struck home, her eyes widening with shocked comprehension, her husky, ‘No!’ trembling on the air between them.
‘I’m afraid “yes”,’ the Comte corrected gently. ‘And that is not the worst of it. You see, I never liked your father, Hope, and I hated him for what he did to Tanya. She was twenty-one when she met him, young and full of hope. She thought he would marry her and gave herself to him willingly, but once she had done so he let her know that the only place he had for her in his life was as his mistress, and loving him as she did, she accepted it. I had to watch as her pride and respect were slowly stripped from her as he paraded her before the world as his whore. I think it a fitting punishment for him that I do the same to his daughter, don’t you?’
She was going to faint, Hope thought hysterically. She couldn’t really be hearing this; she couldn’t really be listening to the Comte telling her calmly and emotionlessly that he intended first to rape her and then to flaunt her publicly as his mistress. For a moment she contemplated telling him that he was too late and that she had already given herself to someone else, but his voice forstalled her.
‘It’s no use, Hope,’ he told her calmly. ‘You have already betrayed to me in a thousand ways that you are an innocent. You cannot leave the château—Pierre will not help you—and by morning …’ He shrugged, and her appalled senses struggled with the knowledge that he intended to start taking his revenge that night. ‘You need not fear that I shall hurt or abuse you—it is not my intention to punish you personally, and indeed in many ways I am sorry that it has to be accomplished through you. Certainly you will suffer no worse at my hands than you would at Alain’s …’
‘Except for the fact that I would be his wife,’ Hope reminded him bitterly. All her life she had heard the Sisters telling her that sex outside marriage was a sin and never for a moment had she contemplated indulging in it with anyone other than her husband. Even if she was married and in love she would still be dreading what now lay ahead of her, she acknowledged inwardly, but to contemplate the Comte’s hands on her flesh, his body … She shuddered deeply, her panicky ‘No!’ bringing a brief grimace of understanding to the Comte’s mouth.
‘I’m afraid your protests only make it all the more difficult for you, mon petit. Here, in this château, it is my will which prevails. We shall stay here for a week,’ he told her, as though they were discussing something mundane. ‘By that time it is my hope that you will have lost that look of undeniable innocence.’ His eyes mocked her pale face and bruised expression. ‘Then we shall fly out to the Caribbean. I have a villa there, and the crowd your father mixes with will be at his hotel at this time of year. No doubt your father will be in a benign mood, contemplating the wedding he believes is to take place later in the summer. Your appearance at my side, so incontestably mine, will surprise him.’
‘I shall tell him what you have done,’ Hope cried out. ‘You can’t force me to stay with you then, I shall leave you …’
‘And your father will take you in?’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, no, mon petit, he won’t.’
‘How long … how long will I have to stay with you?’
‘As long as it takes.’
‘And afterwards?’ Hope shivered again. The nuns had always stressed to their pupils that once a girl sinned, once she lost her innocence, the downward path was a very steep and slippery one indeed, and a hundred lurid pictures tortured Hope’s mind. ‘After you have … finished with me, what becomes of me? No man will want me as his wife …’
‘I did not say that, nor is it true. You cannot really believe that all men marry virgins—or indeed want to. You are a beautiful girl, Hope, many men will be attracted to you. You have intelligence, and depending on how much you use it, you can be happy and content in your life or not.’
‘Would you marry a girl who has … has had other lovers?’ Hope flung at him bitterly.
‘I would—if I loved her; if she had other assets that I wanted. The confines of your upbringing have been very narrow, Hope. If the Montrachets were not as they are, if your father had not callously traded in your innocence for their wealth, my plans could not come to fruition. In many ways you are an artificial product. Had you been left to grow and develop naturally I doubt you would be a virgin. It is as acceptable for girls to experiment these days as it is for boys.’
‘But you intend to … to ravish me because …’
‘It will not be a ravishment in the terms that you are thinking of,’ he told her calmly. ‘I have no desire to inflict pain or degradation on you. On the contrary, I want your father to see that you come to me willingly.’ He smiled at the expression in Hope’s eyes, and her bitter:
‘Never—I could not. I do not love you!’
‘How little you know,’ he mocked her softly. ‘But you will see. Love is not always necessary for pleasure, Hope.’
She closed her eyes in mute agony, unable to understand what was happening to her. Could she really believe that this cool, sardonic man, talking reasonably, almost lightly to her, actually meant to despoil her body, to deprive her of her virginity?
She saw him glance at his watch. ‘It is getting late, and you must be tired. Why don’t you go to bed?’
Her eyes flew to his face, but he wasn’t looking at her. ‘I have some work I have to attend to. Don’t even think of trying to escape, Hope. The doors are all bolted, the drawbridge raised, and Pierre will not aid you—he was fanatically devoted to my sister. Would you like something to help you sleep?’
For a moment Hope was tempted. Perhaps if he came upstairs and found her sleeping he would … what? Change his mind? Hardly, having gone to so much trouble to bring her here. This wasn’t something done in the heat of the moment; his anger had cooled and hardened, and he wouldn’t be turned aside from what he intended.
‘No, thank you,’ she responded formally, wondering if it was admiration she had seen flicker briefly in his eyes, or if she had imagined it.
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_e0cfb939-2699-5b18-99a1-9a67d42f5808)
IN the end she was not left alone with the torment of her thoughts for long. A warm bath had done little to soothe her jangling nerves, her various plans for escape all dismissed as wildly impossible as she went through them; there wasn’t even a telephone anywhere in sight she could use to contact her father. If she was the heroine of a novel no doubt she would have a knife or a gun to hand with which to defend herself, she thought painfully as she pulled on the old enveloping cotton nightdress she had brought with her from the convent. Not for the world would she wear the fine, silk garments she had bought in Seville. She was glad that the room was in darkness—she didn’t think she could bear to look at the Comte, it would be bad enough to have to endure his touch.
Her fingernails were digging into her palms when she heard the door open. The light was clicked on and the Comte surveyed her, a small smile touching the corner of his mouth as he studied her nightdress, but he made no comment, simply locking the door and pocketing the key, before walking past her into the dressing room.
When he was gone Hope found that she was trembling. She heard the sound of running water, muted by the closed doors, and tried to stop her fevered imagination relaying pictures to her as she visualised the Comte’s body, his undeniable strength and her own weakness. A thousand primitive, feminine terrors tormented her, until she had virtually forgotten what little knowledge she had, her fear reducing her body to a trembling mass of nerves and muscles.
When the Comte came back he was wearing a dark towelling robe, his hair damp and curling slightly into his neck, the sight of the dark hair on his chest and legs making Hope’s stomach clench protestingly in shock at the intimacy he was forcing on her. She had seen photographs of men on the beach, pictures in magazines, of course, but they had not prepared her for the actual physical reality, the raw maleness that emanated from masculine muscle and bone.
‘Monsieur,’ her intention to plead with him, to change his mind, was silenced when he laughed, his teeth gleaming whitely against the tan of his skin. It was the first time she had heard him laugh and Hope coloured angrily, wondering what she had done to make herself the object of his mirth.
‘The good Sisters have certainly taught you to be polite, mon petit,’ he told her, ‘but in view of our … proposed intimacy, I suggest that you use my name instead of calling me Monsieur. Say it, Hope,’ he demanded softly, watching her with eyes that now held no trace of humour. ‘Say it …’
She pressed her lips together firmly, fingers curled into small fists, mutely defying him. If he wanted to hear his name on her lips he would have to beat her first. She couldn’t deny him her body, but this small defiance she could and would make.
‘No matter. You will say it, either tonight or some other night.’ He shrugged off his robe, not heeding her shocked gasp, and Hope comprehended that this might be a subtle form of punishment for her defiance. The sight of his body awed and terrified her, but she couldn’t drag her gaze from the silken ripples of muscles under his skin as he bent to throw back the covers on the bed.
Her immediate urge was to run, but there was nowhere to run to, and she wasn’t going to humiliate herself further. No doubt her panic would only amuse him.
‘So …we are ready.’ He turned to face her, his eyes narrowed as he added, ‘Apart from this.’ His fingers flicked disdainfully at the shabby nightdress. ‘You chose to wear it as a tactical move to deflect me from my purpose, I imagine?’ His eyebrows rose queryingly, but Hope gave no confirmation. ‘Umm …’ He studied her for a moment, his fingers curling smoothly round the neck fastening. ‘I regret the necessity for this, little one, but I do not propose to lose my dignity and possibly my temper in trying to extricate you from it.’
His fingers tightened and Hope tensed, her eyes rounding in stunned horror as he ripped the thin fabric from neck to hem, the violence of his action catching her off balance and propelling her against him, her hands immediately raised to fend him off, her palms resting against his chest for the briefest moment before she withdrew them as quickly as though she had been scorched, barely able to comprehend what had happened until she saw the remnants of her clothing lying on the floor. The knowledge of her nakedness brought her arms to her body in an age-old gesture of protection, and her agonised, ‘the light!’ brought a glimmer of understanding to the green eyes and a hesitation which made her suspect that he meant to torment her still further by leaving them on. He had said he didn’t want to hurt her, but Hope wondered wildly if that was true—he certainly hadn’t shown her any compassion up until now.
He didn’t turn the lights off, but he did dim them. ‘It will be less frightening than the dark,’ he told her, coming back to the bed, adding emotionlessly, ‘there is really nothing to fear, Hope. A moment’s pain, which you will have to endure only once. The nuns did tell you …’
‘Yes, yes,’ she agreed in an agonised whisper, longing now only for all of it to be over and done with. There was no escape and therefore she must bear the inevitable with what fortitude she could. That was what the nuns had taught her.
‘You are cold.’ He was standing in front of her, his hands on her shoulders, sliding them downwards over her skin until they reached her waist—it was a slow, gradual exploration during which Hope hadn’t breathed at all. When he lifted her on to the bed she held herself as immobile as a statue, refusing to look at him as he pushed back the covers and joined her, his hands gliding slowly over her skin, exploring every shivering inch.
She made no attempt to repulse him, forcing her mind into numb acceptance, expending all her energy in trying to keep still, trying not to cry out a protest or give in to the instincts urging her to move away. The shock of his mouth against her skin, exploring the curve of her throat and shoulder, was like fire against ice. She shuddered deeply, tensing as his hand moved from her arm to her breast, her mind cringing away from the implications of his assured touch. She began to shiver uncontrollably, tremors of fear and shock gripping her body, the Comte’s voice reaching her from a distance, the tone low and soothing, although she couldn’t understand what he said, only she wasn’t to call him ‘Comte’ or ‘Monsieur’, but ‘Alexei’.
The touch of his hands on her body wasn’t painful or unkind in any physical way, but her mental anguish blocked out the knowledge that he wasn’t hurting her. He had no right to be touching her like this, to be looking at her and watching her, and she told herself that the strange feelings she could sense stirring within her body came from fear, unable to comprehend why her breasts should swell and harden when they touched his chest, or why she should experience a strange melting sensation in the pit of her stomach when he touched her, as though her bones and muscles had turned completely fluid.
Her mind and body fighting a battle that exhausted her fragile defences, Hope was torn between yielding to the instincts of her body and the knowledge that the man touching her was neither her husband nor someone she loved, but a stranger who was using her as he would doubtless have used anything else that had come to hand in his war against her father. In the end, her mind won, subduing the strange sensations of her body, commanding her to tense every muscle and nerve against the intrusive heat and weight of Alexei’s alien body which was forcing her against the bed as he parted her thighs remorselessly, and her body stiffened in real terror, panic washing over her in ever-increasing waves.
She fought against him in mind and body until she was numb with exhaustion, hysteria edging under the control she had let go when his body covered her, and the cry of pain she had sworn he would never hear was followed by tears that welled from her eyes and shook her slender frame. Her agony of mind was more potent than the ache of her body as he withdrew, and she turned from him curling up into a small foetal ball.
She had known what would happen, but the lectures she had heard, the whispered gossip of the other girls, had not prepared her for the trauma of having her body invaded, violated by this stranger. In some ways she could have borne it more if he had deliberately tried to hurt her, but there hadn’t even been that much emotion in what he had done and her mind cringed from what had happened as much as her body had done earlier.
