Just For Her. Katherine O' NealЧитать онлайн книгу.
under strict limitations. But one week, when I was visiting a cousin in Belgium, he went to the casino at Juan-les-Pains and—despite his promise to avoid the tables in my absence—he was coaxed into a game of baccarat by DeRohan. In half an hour, Father had lost this house. A few minutes after that, in a frantic effort to win it back, he threw a marker for the jewels into the pot and lost them as well.”
“Lady Luck is a cruel mistress.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it. DeRohan cheated, just as he’s cheated in every other venture of his life. He’s always hated my family. Like so many people, he unfairly blamed us for the war—”
He cut her off. “After all, it was the assassination of a Habsburg archduke that started the war.”
“Was that our fault? That some maniac in Sarajevo gunned down my uncle?”
“Seems to me I recall hearing that certain of your family members pushed for a war for self-serving reasons.”
“I’m not here to argue history with you. My point is, DeRohan hated the Habsburgs—and he hated us long before the war. There was something more personal in his prejudice toward us, as if he harbored some private grudge. In any case, he deliberately lured Father into a fixed game so he would lose the few possessions he still had to his name. He wanted to destroy him.”
She heard him shift restlessly in his chair. “Where does the marriage come in?”
“It wasn’t enough that he had my father completely on his knees. It occurred to him that he could make his defeat even more humiliating. DeRohan—a commoner, scoundrel, and profligate rake—could marry the daughter who’d been groomed to marry a prince. He came to me and coldly told me he would allow us to retain the house and jewels under the condition that I give myself to him in marriage.”
“Obviously, you agreed.”
“What else could I do? I couldn’t allow Father to be thrown into the street like yesterday’s rubbish.”
“And then, too, there were the jewels.”
“Yes, I admit that was a consideration. I’ve told you what they meant to us. I married DeRohan in a private ceremony. Even Father didn’t attend. But in the end, it was all a terrible mistake. Just days later—here, in this very house—DeRohan went into Father’s study. He said something to him—I don’t know what it was. But that evening, Father shot himself. I heard the shot and ran down to his study. And there he was…lying in a pool of his own blood…and I felt someone beside me…I looked up and there was DeRohan…I’ll never forget his face. His lips were curled in the coldest, cruelest, most cynical smile…it was almost as if he were laughing to himself. My father was dead and this Lucifer I’d married was smirking!”
She put her face in her hands, reliving the awful memory. But once again pride rose to the fore. Fighting to control her emotions, she composed her face, then lifted her head. “Later, the authorities told me it was DeRohan’s pistol Father had used. DeRohan must have left it there for him when he went in to see him. He must have said something to Father to make him do it.”
“With your father dead, why didn’t you just leave him?”
“We’d signed a legal contract. DeRohan had agreed to put this house and the jewels in my name and to pay for the upkeep and running of the house until my death. In return, he insisted that I make my residence in London. So after Father’s funeral, I kept my word and sailed for England with DeRohan. But our agreement failed to specify where in London I had to live. So when we arrived at Victoria Station, I informed him that I intended to take my own house in Mayfair.”
“He agreed to that?”
“He didn’t have much choice. I’d found a loophole he hadn’t foreseen. Too, he was so busy in this particular period expanding his business empire that he didn’t have time to contend with my rebellion. But to keep him pacified, I allowed him to present me as his wife—his Habsburg trophy—at three or four social functions a season. This went on for three years. I expected it would continue forever. I was married to a stranger I detested, but at least I didn’t have to put up with him except occasionally in public. I’d long since given up any girlish hopes for happiness. But then, unexpectedly, I met someone I cared for.”
“The other man your husband—killed, you said. Your lover?”
She blushed slightly. “His name was Edwin. He was a tender, kind man—a poet—who understood the loneliness of my life and befriended me. Gradually, our friendship blossomed into a deeper sentiment. It wasn’t lewd or unseemly, I assure you. It was lovely and pure—a meeting of two minds who cherished poetry and beauty above all else. When we met, we were always careful and discreet. But somehow DeRohan found us out. He goaded Edwin into a duel—poor Edwin, who didn’t know one end of a dueling pistol from another. Before he’d even aimed, DeRohan had shot him squarely between the eyes. They say he had a sneer on his face when he did it.”
“That’s when you left London?”
She brushed away a tear. “Yes. I just didn’t care what happened to me anymore. I had to get away—away from that dreary town, away from him. And suddenly all I could think of was Rêve de l’Amour.”
“Rêve de l’Amour. Dream of Love?”
So he did speak French. “That’s the name my grandmother gave this house. The place I’d come to every winter as a child, the place I loved. Even the fact that Father had died here so tragically didn’t spoil my memory of it. He’d been part of this house, as had my mother and my grandmother through the years. It was infused with the spirit of our family. Here I could be a Habsburg once more, instead of a bought-and-paid-for DeRohan. I wanted to be myself again, if only for a week, or a day, or even an hour. I knew it wouldn’t last. I fully expected him to turn up at any moment—to take me back, or take the house away from me—something.”
“Did he?”
“No. That was the most frightening thing of all. He didn’t do a thing. That was a year ago. At first, I lived day by day, always looking over my shoulder, feeling as if I had a sword hanging over my head. But gradually, as the months passed, I began to relax and even hope he’d decided I was more trouble to him than I was worth. I made new friends, built a life for myself here, and found—if not happiness, at least some measure of peace.”
“But something must have changed for you to ask me what you did.”
“A few days ago, I received a telegram—the first communication I’ve had from him since I left. He said he was coming here. To discuss our future.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. It could mean anything. He’s had a year to coldly plot his revenge. He’s a diabolically clever man. I don’t know what evil sorcery allows him to know the things he does, but he has a way of knowing the exact punishment that will debase his victim most. He could force me to go back to London with him, force me to live under his roof. But I’m very much afraid that what he really means is that he’s coming to force me to do the one thing that would disgust and horrify me the most.”
“Which would be…?”
She shuddered, feeling mortified. “To…give him his…” she swallowed, choking on the words, “…conjugal rights.”
“My, my,” he scoffed, “you are a damsel in distress.”
She whirled toward him, facing the dark corner where she knew he sat, watching her like a phantom. “Please don’t make light of me. I’ve only told you this because you insisted. I don’t want your sympathy. I want your help.”
For several moments, he pondered her words. Eventually he said, his tone softening, “Look, lady, I’d like to help you. I know who Dominic DeRohan is. I know he’s a ruthless, miserable bastard. A man capable of anything—even with his wife. A man who, Lord knows, deserves to be dispatched to his just reward. But I also know he’s a spectacular shot. And I have no intention of putting myself