The Cruel Count (Bantam Series No. 28) Read online

  How could they be man and wife, “one flesh”, as the marriage service put it, when their marriage .was entirely of political necessity and they had no real interest or affection for each other.

  ‘Why, oh, why did I not think of this before I left England?’ Vesta asked and knew the answer was very simple: that then she had not been in love!

  The horses were moving higher up the hillside and Vesta realised that they would soon be crossing the crest onto the side of the mountains which looked towards Djilas.

  The Prince would be waiting for her, and now she found herself thinking of him not as a Prince but as a man.

  A man who would kiss her because it was his duty to do so, a man who would be prepared to give her children because they were necessary for the continuance of the Royal House.

  ‘I cannot ... bear it ... I cannot!’

  Vesta almost cried the words aloud.

  Then she remembered the Brigands going down on one knee beside her horse to kiss the hem of her riding-skirt.

  They were paying her homage because she had helped them. Would they have done so if they had known she was not a good woman, but one who turned her back on her obligations and her responsibilities?

  ‘If only there was ... someone who would ... help me,’ Vesta longed again.

  And she knew that she yearned beyond everything else to feel the security of the Count’s arms around her ... an eagle protecting her!

  She looked ahead and saw that they had reached the summit. The Count had drawn his horse to a standstill and was waiting for her. She hurried her own animal on, eager to be beside him, longing to hear his voice.

  “Are you tired, my darling?” he asked as she drew in her horse.

  “A little,” she answered.

  “Then you will be glad to know we have almost no further to go.”

  Surprised at his words, but realising he was looking below and a little to the left of them, she followed the direction of his eyes.

  To her astonishment she saw a house. It was not more than half a mile away, set high on the hillside surrounded by trees on three sides. From where they stood above it she could see it very clearly.

  It was built of white stone and its turrets and twisted chimneys gave it a romantic, almost gay appearance.

  “A house!” she exclaimed. “Who lives there?”

  “It is one of the Royal Hunting Lodges,” the Count answered. “The Prince, or any of his courtiers like myself, stay here when we are hunting or shooting in the forests.”

  He anticipated the question that Vesta was about to ask him by saying:

  “Djilas is still three hours’ ride from here. I told you that the Brigands took us many miles out of our way.”

  Vesta looked across the valley as if she expected to see Djilas in the distance. Then she looked back at the house again.

  “Can we stay ... here?” she asked.

  “That is what I intend to do,” the Count answered. “As a matter of fact I remember that when I was here in March the old couple who had been here for many years were retiring. But they will have been replaced. I think what we both need is a bath and a really civilised meal.”

  “I enjoyed our luncheon,” Vesta said with a smile.

  “So did I,” he answered.

  She knew from the tone of his voice that he was not thinking of the trout they had eaten, but of the moment when he had kissed her.

  She flushed a little and they descended the hill towards the house.

  As they grew nearer Vesta could see that it was very lovely. Outside the shining windows there was a terrace with a stone balustrade, and below it dropping a little down the hillside there was a cultivated garden with a fountain playing in the centre of it.

  Everywhere there were Azaleas, yellow and flame, flanked with shrubs of pink, white and purple blossom.

  It was so beautiful that Vesta felt it must be a fairytale castle, and her eyes were shining as she turned to the Count and said:

  “It is lovely! I would adore to live in a house like this.”

  “As I have already told you,” the Count replied, “it belongs to the Prince.”

  The thought made her shiver, and now the house did not seem as attractive as before.

  The door was at the back and they rode up a short drive and drew their horses to a standstill outside a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron studs.

  It had a porch which carried the Royal coat-of-arms which Vesta glanced at a little apprehensively before the Count dismounted and pulled a long chain which hung outside the door.

  It was only a few moments before the door opened and a middle-aged man in native dress stood there.

  Vesta heard the Count explain who he was and instantly the door was opened wide. Leaving their horses they entered a small hallway.

  “I will send a groom, Honourable Ban, for the horses,” the servant said.

  “They will not wander away,” the Count answered, “and see that they are well attended to.”

  “It shall be done, Honourable Ban.”

  As the man spoke a woman appeared who Vesta guessed must be his wife, followed by a young girl.

  They were both dressed in native costume, a black velvet bodice over a puffed white blouse, a full red skirt and white apron edged with lace.

  They curtseyed to Vesta and the Count, who asked their names and then explained that baths were needed as quickly as possible and afterwards a good dinner.

  Vesta found the servants were a little difficult to understand, but there was no difficulty in recognising the smiles on their faces or their willingness to please.

  The women led Vesta upstairs, showed her into an attractive bed-room which overlooked the front of the house, and told her they would arrange a bath.

  While she was waiting she pulled off her hat and walked to the window to look out on the garden and beyond it the beautiful view into the valley.

  There was a small lake not far away and the land was thickly wooded.

  Then Vesta turned from the window and crossing to the bed lay down on it while she waited for the servants to bring in the bath.

  She felt tired and at the same time excited. The reason for her excitement she knew was the realisation that she had one more night alone with the Count.

  She had half been afraid as they rode away from the Brigands that they might reach Djilas that night. When he had told her that she had twenty-four hours to make up her mind, it was a reprieve from her own fear of reaching the Palace.

  ‘We shall be alone ... we can talk together,’ she thought and knew it was something wonderful to look forward to, especially as she had never before dined alone with a man.

  They had been alone in the Inn that first night. But that could hardly be counted as a proper dinner when she had cooked it herself, and had been too busy hating the Count to realise it marked an important milestone in her life.

  But tonight they would be together in civilised surroundings!

  Vesta drew in her breath at the thought of it and wondered, though she knew she should not do so, whether he would kiss her.

  She shut her eyes and lived again that moment at the side of the cascade when he had pulled her into his arms and she had felt his lips on hers.

  “I love him!” she whispered to herself.

  It was only with difficulty a little later that she roused herself on being informed that the bath was waiting for her.

  A fire had been lit, and in front of it the women servants had set down a large tub and filled it with warm water.

  There were two cans waiting beside it and Vesta guessed that one would contain hot, the other cold water so that it could be mixed to her liking.

  She rose from the bed and took off her clothes. When the elder maid saw how creased and dusty her riding-skirt was, she said:

  “I will wash and clean this for you, Gracious Lady. In fact everything you are wearing will want washing, for I hear you have come a long way.”

  “A very long way,” Vesta ans
wered.

  It was a joy beyond words to sink into the warm water.

  It was scented with flowers and the big towels with which Vesta dried herself smelt of lavender and made her think she might be back in England.

  The Duchess had always insisted on her daughters cutting the lavender every year and putting it into little purple bags which they tied with purple ribbon, to distinguish them from the pink ones which held pot-pourri made from rose-leaves.

  When Vesta had bathed, she explained to the younger maid that she wished to wash her hair. A basin was filled with warm water and she washed the dust from her golden head.

  Then the young girl rubbed it for her in front of the fire, while the other woman disappeared, murmuring she must see about dinner.

  Vesta’s hair took a long time to dry, and only when it fell over her shoulders, soft and fluffy and sparkling with light, did she realise suddenly that she had nothing to wear.

  The elder maid had taken away all her clothes, and it was with a little throb of disappointment that Vesta realised that she had nothing in which she could dine with the Count.

  “Will you fetch my clothes, please?” she said to the young maid.

  The girl curtsied and went from the room. Vesta went on drying her hair, aware that she was beginning to feel very hungry.

  The young maid came back.

  “I have spoken to my mother,” she said, “and she said it is impossible for the Gracious Lady to wear the dirty clothes that must be cleaned and washed. She has therefore spoken to the Honourable Ban and he suggests that you should wear these.”

  She held away her arms and Vesta saw that she carried two garments, the first a night-shirt made of thin white silk, the second a robe with wide sleeves not unlike those worn by monks.

  She put out her hand to touch it and realised that it was of the softest white wool, a wool so fine, she guessed that it came from the very special sheep of Hungary whose wool was the rarest in the world.

  “They will certainly be comfortable,” Vesta smiled.

  She allowed the maid to help her into the silk nightshirt which was very soft against her skin and then she slipped the white wool robe over her head.

  There was a cord that she tied tightly round her small waist. She realised that the wool was so fine that large though the robe was it did not make her look fat, but clung to her body outlining the curves of her small breasts.

  It was however much too long. Then to her horror she saw the maid bring a large pair of scissors and kneel down at her feet.

  “You cannot cut this robe!” she cried.

  “The Honourable Ban told me that I should do so,” the maid answered.

  “It seems almost sacrilege,” Vesta thought.

  But as the Count had suggested it she allowed the maid to chop away at the hem until both the night-shirt and the robe just reached the floor to cover her feet.

  “I have no shoes,” she now remembered and knew it would be embarrassing to walk downstairs without them.

  But at that moment the older woman came into the room. She smiled at Vesta standing in the white robe.

  “I have brought you a pair of sandals, Gracious Lady,” she said. “They are not very grand for I purchased them for my youngest child who is only ten. But the Gracious Lady’s little feet will, I think, just fit them. They are new and have never been worn.”

  “How kind of you!” Vesta exclaimed. “I shall be very pleased to wear them.”

  The sandals were roughly made with a strap round the ankle and one to hold the toes. They were the type which had been worn by the peasants in the Mediterranean countries since the days of the Ancient Greeks.

  Because they had been made for a child they fitted Vesta comfortably.

  “I must do something about my hair,” she said turning to the mirror on the dressing-table.

  “It is not yet quite dry, Gracious Lady,” the young maid replied.

  It was indeed still a little damp, and when the maid brought her a piece of blue ribbon Vesta thought that she looked so strange anyway that to wear her hair loose made little difference.

  So Vesta merely tied it at the nape of her neck as if she were a school girl.

  She turned back the wide monk’s sleeves so that they made a frame for her hands and wrists. Then feeling very shy she went from the bed-room down the staircase and into the hall.

  Now she had time to look about her and to realise that the panelled walls were covered with stag’s antlers of every shape and size.

  There was the stuffed head of a large bear over the fireplace, and as she entered the doorway which she was certain led to the Sittingroom, she saw once again there were antlers covering the wall.

  Even at a first glance it was obviously a man’s room, with a huge open fireplace and a big leather-covered sofa, but she had eyes only for the Count who was standing with his back to the fire.

  He too had changed his clothes, and Vesta realised.it was the first time she had seen him looking elegant and dressed as a gentleman should be.

  His white cravat was as high as those worn by the Dandies in London. His evening coat of blue velvet and his tight-fitting pale yellow pantaloons were both in the latest fashion.

  Somehow he looked different, she thought, so different that she felt shyer, both of him and of her own appearance, than she had ever been before.

  He walked across the room to meet her and taking both her hands in his raised them one after another to his lips.

  “Do you feel better?” he asked.

  “I feel ... embarrassed,” she answered. “It was most kind of you to send me these ... clothes but...”

  “You look beautiful!” he interposed. “Is that what you want me to tell you? And do you realise I have never seen your hair down before? It is very lovely.”

  The feeling in his voice made her blush a little as she walked towards the fireplace.

  “I think,” the Count went on, “that I should put you in a shrine and burn candles in front of you!”

  “You are ... making me ... shy,” Vesta protested. “I am so grateful for your thoughtfulness in lending me this beautiful robe and I much regret it has been spoilt by being cut off at the bottom.”

  “Unfortunately we seldom have women guests in the Hunting Lodges,” the Count said. “But even if I found a Parisian couturier here, he could not have designed anything that would have suited you better.”

  He walked away from her to a table in the corner where he poured out a glass of wine.

  “This will taste very different from what we drank last night,” he said.

  Vesta sipped the wine, golden and with a slight sparkle, and it made her think of the sunshine.

  “It is very different,” she agreed.

  He was looking at her with an expression in his eyes which she half feared, but which at the same time made her thrill. And because she was nervous she looked round the room.

  “It is very ... cosy here,” she said, “but very much a ... bachelor establishment.”

  “Have you seen many with which to compare it?” the Count asked with a smile.

  “It is what I imagine a man would choose if he arranged a house to suit his own taste,” Vesta replied.

  “That is true,” the Count said. “I have stayed here many times, but there has never been a woman to distract my mind from the sport.”

  “And now I am here,” Vesta said, “will you feel my ... disturbing influence when you ... come here ... again.”

  “Are you quite certain you will not be coming with me?” the Count asked.

  She turned her face away from him to look at the fire. Not for a moment could either of them forget the decision she had to make tomorrow.

  It hung over them like the sword of Damocles, making her feel unsure and frightened of herself, even while it was a joy beyond words to be alone with the Count, to be able to talk to him.

  “Tell me why the servants call you ‘Ban’?” she asked, wishing to change the subject. “It is a word
I have never heard before.”

  “It is Hungarian. It means a High Dignity,” he answered. “Jozef, that is the man’s name, and his wife have worked, they tell me, in a nobleman’s house before they came here. He was originally Hungarian before he came to Katona, as are the majority of important people in the country.”

  “I have always longed to meet a Hungarian,” Vesta said. “I have heard so much about them.”

  “What sort of things have you heard?” the Count asked.

  “That they are very good horsemen,” Vesta replied remembering what the Aide-de-camp had told her.

  “And have you also been told they are good lovers?” the Count enquired.

  The colour rose in her cheeks.

  “There is a Hungarian song,” he continued, “which says: ‘our men are gallant, brave and passionate, but they can also be very tender and gentle to those they love’.”

  From the way he spoke, Vesta knew that he had Hungarian blood in him.

  ‘What he has said is true,’ she thought.

  He was passionate and yet he could also be tender and gentle as he had been when he tied the strings of her hat under her chin and lifted her on her horse.

  He had also been gentle to her last night when she had thrown herself into his arms for his protection and he had let her sleep all night against his shoulder.

  The Count was watching the expression on her face.

  “Am I any of those things?” he asked softly.

  “All of ... them,” she answered.

  She turned her face to his and once again their eyes met and they were spell-bound.

  The Count rose to his feet.

  “I told you not to look at me like that!” he said. “I am trying to behave as a gentleman should because you are here alone. But it is difficult, my darling, and you must not tempt me too far.”

  “And ... if I ... do?” Vesta asked in a whisper.

  “Then,” he answered, “I shall love you as you wish to be loved, I shall make you mine, and after that there will be no escape, now or ever.”

  There was a depth in his voice which told her that he was keeping himself under control with difficulty. If she drove him too hard, he would break like a dam bursting its wall and nothing she could say or do would hold him in check.