Evening Star (Star Quartet 1)

“Do remember you said that when you are in my arms tonight. It will give me pleasure to remind you.” He regarded her flushed face a moment, a thick black brow arched upward. “You want me, you know. Whenever I touch you I feel you respond to me. You tremble delightfully. And your bonnet is askew.”

Giana pulled away from him and righted her plum-trimmed straw bonnet. She felt oddly weak and closed her eyes against a pain in her temple.

Alex watched her as she sat stiffly, staring straight in front of her, her cheeks flushed and her fists clenched in her lap. He could not for the life of him figure out why she was still acting the outraged maiden.

“It will be some years before you equal your mother,” he said after a while. “Indeed,” he continued thoughtfully, “I do believe I have given on more points to her than I had intended. A remarkable woman, your mother. But then, she has only Van Cleve interests to think about.”

“She wishes to meet with you again on Monday.”

“Then we will have only three nights together, my love. No matter, there will be other nights, and days too. I enjoy making love in the sunlight, though there doesn’t ever appear to be any in London. Do you?”

“No,” she said shortly, presenting him with her profile again.

“Yes, indeed,” he said aloud. “Aurora Van Cleve is very remarkable. I see now why Raymond and Hammett were leery about dealing with her. You lack her charm, Giana, but perhaps I am not being fair. Are you exquisitely charming to other men?”

“No,” she said.

“Your mother even laughs charmingly. I have yet to hear you laugh, Giana.”

“You never will.”

“I begin to believe that unless I wish to carry on a monologue all the way to Folkestone, I might as well take a nap and garner my strength. Do rouse me if you wish to become more communicative.” He folded his arms over his chest, stretched out his long legs, and closed his eyes. Within minutes, he was snoring.

Giana refused to admit to herself until the porter announced Canterbury that she was ill. She pressed her palms against her cheeks and they were hot to the touch. Her throat felt scratchy and her headache was now a steady pounding. She wanted to laugh, but tears burned her eyes instead. She stared over at Alexander Saxton, peacefully sleeping. Wild thoughts careened through her mind. She could cosh him over the head with her valise. She could strangle him with one of her silk stockings and chuck his body from the moving train. At least it would stop his miserable snoring.

She was ill. Surely he would not want to make love to her if he knew. She reached a hand to his shoulder, then withdrew it. She could easily picture him regarding her with amused disbelief if she told him she was sick. He would laugh and ask if she had any better tricks to try. She tried to focus her mind, but her head seemed to be spinning. She closed her eyes, and when next she was aware, the train was slowing. They were coming into Folkestone.

The porter rapped on their compartment door and opened it.

“Folkstone,” he said, eyeing the slouched gentleman.

Alex gave him a wide smile. “Excellent. At last, my love.” He reached over and patted Giana’s gloved hand intimately.

The porter gave him a disgusting answering grin, almost a leer.

“Forgive me, Giana, for being such a boring fellow and sleeping the whole journey. I promise that you will have my full attention for the next three days.” He yawned and stretched. “I allowed myself to see the more interesting side of London last night in Raymond’s company.”

“I hope that you have caught some vile disease.”

“You will learn, Giana, that I am very fastidious. Indeed, that is the last fate you should wish for me,” he added on a mocking grin. “Such vile diseases are catching, you know.”

Giana allowed Alex to bundle her into a closed carriage and pull its worn wool rug over her legs. She stared out the carriage window as the horse clip-clopped through the quiet streets. She had always liked Folkestone, until now. She sat weakly against the moldering leather squabs, listening to the pounding in her head, and ignoring Alexander Saxton.

The carriage drew to a halt in front of a small whitewashed cottage surrounded by a low wooden fence. There was a slight misty drizzle, and Giana raised her face to it as Alex helped her down from the carriage. She suddenly realized that she was thirsty, terribly thirsty.

She said as much to Alex when he ushered her into the cozy front parlor of the cottage.

“I am too,” he said. “First things first. Sit down, Giana, and I’ll set the fire.”

She could think of nothing else to do, and sank down onto a chintz sofa. There were light dimity curtains on the windows, and thick wool rugs scattered on the floor, held in place by the heavy mahogany legs of solid chairs and side tables. It was a comfortable room, and she did not want to leave it. She did not want to think about the bedroom.

“I’m hungry,” she said.

Alex turned, his task completed, and said cheerfully, “I will give you the biggest supper you can hold, my dear, but not just yet. Think of how romantic it will be to drink champagne and eat a late supper before the fire. A very late supper.”

Suddenly she wasn’t hungry at all. She lurched to her feet and dashed her hand over her forehead. “I don’t want any supper,” she said.

“When it came down to it,” he said, “somehow I did not think you would mind waiting for your dinner.”