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

  She did not look at him again, but sat staring into the fire until a door opened and Jozef announced that dinner was ready.

  Then the Count came to Vesta’s side and held out his hand.

  “We are both hungry,” he said. “After dinner we will talk about ourselves, but now let us enjoy a meal that neither of us has cooked and which, if nothing else, will be edible.”

  “I am so hungry,” Vesta answered with a smile, “that to me it will seem like the ambrosia and nectar of the gods.”

  “And what could be more appropriate,” the Count asked, “when there is a goddess—a very alluring and adorable little goddess—to eat it with a man who is worshipping reverently at her feet?”

  He slipped her arm through his and led her towards the Dining Room.

  Chapter Eight

  Dinner was so delicious that Vesta felt positively greedy as she ate everything she was offered.

  Jozef made a speech of apology as they entered the Dining Room because he said there was so little that could be provided at such short notice.

  However the small golden melons were followed by trout, which Jozef said had been caught after their arrival in the lake below the house.

  They were not the same type of trout which the Count had snatched from the Cascade, with their pink flesh they tasted quite different, garnished with homegrown sliced almonds.

  After this there were baby chickens, a whole one each, cooked with herbs and served with all sorts of delectable vegetables, some of which Vesta had never tasted before.

  A kebab of baby lamb grilled on a sword was brought into the room by Jozef flaming from the fire in the kitchen, and finally there were peaches, also from the garden, cooked in brandy and served with thick cream.

  “I do not think I shall ever feel hungry again!” Vesta said with a smile as she finished her second helping of peaches.

  “We have certainly earned everything we have eaten,” the Count answered.

  He sat back in the high carved chair at the top of the table as Jozef brought them fruit and nuts on dishes of Sevres porcelain.

  “Do you realise, little goddess of fire,” the Count asked, “that I have never heard you call me by my name?”

  Vesta smiled.

  “I think I am afraid of pronouncing it wrongly—but I believe it is another form of Nicholas.”

  “It is,” the Count agreed, “and comes from the Greek. It means—‘victory for the people’.”

  Vesta laughed.

  “It should be the name of a Revolutionary!”

  “Which I am where you are concerned,” he answered, “because I am determined, as you well know, to overthrow the existing order!”

  She knew he referred to her position as wife of the Prince and she replied:

  “I was brought up to believe that all Revolutions and all Revolutionaries are ... bad.”

  “Is that what you think of me?”

  She wanted to avoid the Count’s eyes, but somehow he compelled her to look at him and then she was his captive, unable to look away.

  “Answer me!” he commanded.

  “No ... you have been ... all that is ... good and kind to ... me,” she said.

  As she spoke she thought how true that was! What other man could she have slept beside and been with alone, without feeling afraid or even embarrassed?

  For the first time she understood that beside the dangers through which she had passed there had been other more subtle ones.

  “You trust me?” he asked as if he read her thoughts.

  “You know I do,” she answered.

  For a long moment he looked at her and she felt as if he could see deep into her heart.

  “I would never harm you, my sweet life,” he said slowly. “I would never do anything by thought, word or deed which would shock or frighten you.”

  Her eyes dropped and her eyelashes were dark against her cheeks as he went on:

  “But I shall fight, contrive, coax and beguile you to give me yourself and I will never admit defeat until I am utterly and completely vanquished.”

  His voice seemed to echo round the room, and then softly in a voice which charmed her heart from her breast he said:

  “Say my name! Let me hear it on your lips, so that it will seem as soft and sweet as the kisses which at the moment I may not give you.”

  “M-Miklos,” Vesta whispered and felt as if in fact she kissed him.

  Jozef poured the Count a glass of cognac.

  Vesta had sipped the sparkling white wine all through the meal, and when Jozef asked her if she would have one of the sweet liqueurs that were made in Katona, she shook her head.

  “You will enjoy it,” the Count said.

  “I am not used to drinking wine,” Vesta replied.

  “I will not allow you to drink too much,” he said.

  There was a caressing note in his voice which she had noticed before when he was looking after her and attending to her comfort.

  It gave her a warm feeling of security and happiness.

  At the same time she told herself that, since he was so strong, so masterful, it was unlikely she could ever protect him as her mother had said a woman should protect the man she loved.

  “I need him,’ Vesta thought to herself, ‘but how can he possibly need me except just as someone to love?’

  She suddenly felt very young and very unsophisticated.

  Dressed like a man of the world, the Count seemed somehow different from the man who had ridden through the forest in his open-necked shirt or who with shirt sleeves rolled up above the elbow had snatched the trout from the Cascade.

  Vesta was uncertain of herself and of him.

  Here, she thought, was an older and more experienced man who was persuading her to do what she felt in her heart was wrong.

  What could she be to him in the future except a plaything?

  He was so much cleverer, so much more knowledgeable in the ways of the world, and a foreigner! Perhaps after all he was a man she would never learn to understand even though she loved him.

  “A woman should protect, sustain and inspire the man she loves.”

  She could hear her mother saying it, and almost despairingly Vesta thought she could do none of these things for the Count.

  They stayed for some .time at the table with only the candles in tie silver candelabra to light the room. Then the Count rose and with his arm round Vesta’s waist drew her into the Sitting-room.

  The curtains had been drawn while they were at dinner, there were flames leaping above the big logs which filled the open fireplace.

  There were candles, thick heavy white ones in carved stands which lit the pictures, the stag’s antlers and the big bowls of fragrant flowers which stood on several side-tables.

  Vesta would have sat down on the sofa, but the Count said:

  “I want you to see the sunset. It can be very beautiful from the terrace. I have often watched it alone and wished there was someone with me.”

  “When you see something beautiful,” Vesta asked, “do you always want to share it?”

  “Always,” he answered. “And sometimes when there is no-one the loneliness is painful.”

  She looked at him her eyes very wide in her small face.

  “So you ... feel like that ... too?”

  “I think we feel the same about many things,” he answered.

  He looked down into her eyes and she thought for a moment he was going to kiss her. Then he said abruptly as if he forced himself to move away from her:

  “Come, we will go outside.”

  He lifted one of the heavy red velvet curtains but did not pull it back. Behind it Vesta saw the long French window that opened onto the terrace outside.

  They stepped out. The terrace was flagged with square stones between which peeped tiny mauve and white flowers.

  There was a profusion of bougainvilia, purple and enchanting, climbing over the balustrade, and beside it were climbing geraniums, pink, mauve and crimson.


  It was as beautiful as the sky.

  The sun was sinking behind the snow-peaked mountains in a blaze of colour which faded to where overhead there was the first soft dusk of the night.

  Vesta stood still just outside the window.

  “It is lovely!” she exclaimed, “really lovely! I am so glad I am seeing it when I am with you.”

  “I think in the past,” the Count said in his deep voice, “I always knew that one day I would be here at this particular moment with someone I loved. There was an emptiness in standing here alone, and yet I always came out after dinner, leaving the other men talking round the Dining-room table. But however amusing the conversation, the sunset drew me.”

  “And now ... I am here with ... you.”

  “I shall always remember how you look at this moment.”

  His dark eyes were on her face watching the sensitive curve of her lips, seeing the golden rays of the sinking sun reflected in her eyes.

  For some seconds she bore his scrutiny, and then as if he compelled her against her will she turned her face and looked up at him.

  “My heart, my life, my soul,” the Count said very softly.

  She quivered at the deep passion in his voice.

  There was a sudden noise, and almost before they could turn their heads to see what it could be, a man flung his leg over the balustrade and faced them.

  He was a rough, wild-looking man, with long hair and the dark eyes of a fanatic.

  For a moment the Count and Vesta stared at him in astonishment. Then in a loud ugly voice he cried:

  “Death to all aristocrats!” and Vesta saw that he held a pistol in his hand.

  He levelled it at the Count and instinctively without thinking Vesta threw herself in front of him, her arms outstretched.

  Her action took the intruder by surprise. He held his fire for one brief second, and as he did so another shot rang out from behind him!

  As the sound vibrated through the air he sprawled forward on the flag-stones of the terrace.

  But as he fell he pulled his trigger!

  There was a deafening report as the bullet passed through the wide sleeve of Vesta’s robe and shattered the window behind her.

  She stood rigid, the sound of the two shots ringing in her ears, unable to move, unable to breathe!

  Then she felt the Count pick her up in his arms and carry her through the french-windows back into the Sitting-room.

  She hid her face against him too shocked to realise what had happened.

  He put her down very gently on the leather sofa. He looked at the hole in the sleeve of her robe and realised the bullet had not hurt her. Then without a word lifted the curtain and went back onto the terrace.

  Vesta lay still where he had left her. She could hear voices now, several voices outside, though she could not understand what they were saying. It was for the moment difficult to hear anything because her ears were still ringing from the reports of the pistols.

  She began to shiver and realised it was with fright. The warmth of the fire did not seem to reach her and she was very cold.

  Then a wave of relief swept over her as she realised she had saved the Count’s life.

  Had she not thrown herself in front of him the assailant would not have hesitated before he pulled the trigger, and the shot which had come from behind him would have been too late.

  She knew then that if it had been the Count who was lying dead on the terrace, she herself would have wished to die.

  He was right! Love was greater and more important than anything else! Real love, the love which was irresistible and all-consuming, could not be denied.

  ‘I will ... stay with him because he ... needs me,’ she told herself.

  She had thought that he was too powerful, too strong, too imperious for her to be able to do anything for him, and yet in a split second of time she had saved him from dying.

  ‘And, in fact for the second time!’ she told herself with a little smile, remembering how he might have been killed by the Brigands.

  ‘Even Mama,’ she thought, ‘would understand that I am protecting the man I love when I can save his life not once, but twice.’

  She lay back against the silk cushions on the sofa, and now she was no longer trembling and she could feel the warmth of the fire.

  The voices outside had ceased, there was only silence. She wondered what the Count was doing and how long it would be before he returned to her.

  But even as she longed for him, the door of the Sitting-room opened and he came in.

  He advanced into the centre of the room, then stopped, looking at her. His face was very pale. Then slowly, very slowly, as it seemed to Vesta, he came to her side.

  “How could you do such a thing?” he asked. “How could you risk your life to save mine?”

  His voice was very deep and moved with emotion. Vesta looked up at him.

  “It was ... because I love ... you.”

  For a moment he could only stare at her. Then he said, his voice unsteady:

  “Do you mean that? My precious darling, do you mean that?”

  “I mean it,” Vesta whispered.

  He went down on his knees and putting his arms round her he laid his head against her breasts.

  She lifted her hand a little shyly to touch his hair. It was soft, yet firm beneath her fingers, and now with his face hidden against her she felt a strange emotion she had never known before.

  This was her man, one who belonged to her and who needed her love, her care and her protection.

  She wanted to look after him, to keep him safe from all harm, to sustain him. For the moment she felt almost as if he was her child rather than her lover.

  Then he raised his head and asked unsteadily:

  “Do you really mean, my darling, that you love me enough to give up everything else?”

  “I know now I cannot ... live without ... you,” Vesta answered.

  He looked down at her.

  “I swear before God, that I will devote my whole life to serving you and making you happy.”

  It was a vow and as his lips met hers, she knew it was a dedication and there was something spiritual in his kiss which had not been there before.

  She felt an ecstasy sweep her away with all the wonder and rapture that she had known the first time he had kissed her.

  Yet now they both touched the divine and there was something sacred in the wonder and glory of their closeness with each other.

  The Count lifted his lips from Vesta’s and she knew by the expression on his face how deeply moved he was—not only with passion but with something deeper and more tremendous, something which seemed to vibrate between them and light the whole room with a compelling radiance.

  He rose from his knees and sat down beside her on the sofa. He undid the bow of blue ribbon and pulled her hair forward to bury his face in it and then kiss her again.

  “I love you,” he said, “I love you so overwhelmingly there are no words in which to tell you of my love.”

  “I love you ... too,” Vesta said. “I was thinking before you came back to me that perhaps it would be best if you went ... alone to see the Prince to ask him to ... release me from the marriage by proxy that took place in London.”

  “The Revolution is over,” the Count said. “Why should you wish me to go alone?”

  Vesta hesitated a moment and then, as she knew he was waiting for her reply, she turned her face against his shoulder and said very softly:

  “We have to face the ... possibility that His Royal Highness may ... refuse to do as we ... ask.”

  She felt his arms tighten about her.

  “And if he does?”

  She knew by his sudden tenseness that he was afraid of her answer. Then Vesta said very softly:

  “I will still ... come with ... you if you ... want me.”

  “Do you mean that?” he asked. “Do you really mean that, my beloved?”

  “I mean it,” Vesta answered, “because I know that without y
ou I should be, in your own words ... ‘a hollow empty shell’. I believe that God meant us for each other, and you are right, no Statesman can keep us apart.”

  “You would really do this for me?” the Count asked wonderingly. “You will give up everything that has been of importance to you up to now, your social position, the respect in which you believe other people hold you?”

  “Nothing matters ... except you,” Vesta said. “At the same time, if the Prince will not release me, then I must ... cease to ... exist.”

  “I do not understand.”

  “I mean,” Vesta said in a very small voice, “that Lady Vesta Cressington-Font will have ... died on the journey from Jeno to Djilas. You will write to father and tell him I am dead, for I could not bear to hurt him as he would be hurt if he knew I was ... living with you in what to him would be ... sin.”

  She paused a moment and then continued bravely: “And the people of Katona must think I have died too. Perhaps at the hand of the Revolutionaries. The man who fired just now might have killed me.”

  “He could have,” the Count said. “He was an Anarchist, my darling, and the soldiers have been hunting him all day.”

  “Then it would be easy to say that in dying he ... shot me,” Vesta said. “That is, if the Prince will not ... allow me to become your ... wife.”

  She hesitated a moment and then she asked:

  “You do ... want me as your ... wife?”

  “I want you as no man ever wanted a woman before,” the Count answered. “I have told you, Vesta, and I mean it, that without you I am no longer a man because you possess my brain, my body and my soul.” The deep passion in his voice made her tremble and then she cried:

  “You must somehow persuade the Prince to ... release me. Plead with him, beg him, if necessary on your knees, to let us be ... happy ... together.”

  “And if he will not,” the Count said, “if we have to hide away somewhere as social outcasts, what would happen if as the years go by you grew tired of me?”

  “I shall never do that,” Vesta answered with a smile. “I love you, I love you so overwhelmingly that I know that my love will never change but only deepen and increase as the years go by.”