But quite aside from its beauty and fragrance, the rose garden held a very special meaning for Nicky. She had first met Charles here, and later it was in the garden that she had realized she was in love with him. Also, he had chosen to propose to her as they had strolled along its paths one evening.
Now Nicky moved forward, breathing in the sweet and heady scent of the roses, and she was almost overcome by it today. Automatically she headed for the old wooden garden seat which stood in a bosky corner under the walls, shaded by a sycamore tree. Sitting down and leaning back, she closed her eyes, and allowed herself to drift with her thoughts. But after only a short while she opened her eyes and looked up.
The sky was blameless, without a cloud, that perfect blue Charles had always called the colour of speedwells, and which he had said exactly matched her eyes. The scent of the roses was more intoxicating than ever, and somewhere nearby a bee buzzed and hummed as it danced on the balmy air. It had been on such a day as this that she had first encountered Charles Devereaux.
Innumerable memories assailed her. Four years fell away. It was suddenly that Friday afternoon in June of 1985 when Charles had entered her life. She closed her eyes once more, reliving that day all over again, remembering… remembering…
A perfect rose, Nicky thought. The most perfect rose I’ve seen in a long time. It was large, a pale pearly yellow, and it had opened fully, but was not yet overblown and fragile, ready to fall. She leaned forward, touched a velvet petal of the rose lightly with a fingertip, and breathed in its lovely scent.
It was then that she heard the crunch of footsteps on the path and swung her head. A man was strolling toward her, a youngish man, obviously in his thirties. As he drew closer, she saw that he was not much taller than she, about five foot eight in height, and slender and compact of build. He was fair of colouring, although when he came to a stop she noticed how tanned he was, and his light brown hair had been streaked blond by the sun. He was good looking in a lean and hungry way, with high cheekbones, sharply chiselled, somewhat gaunt features and a thin, aristocratic nose.
‘You’re Andrew’s daughter,’ he said, staring at her with intensity, not even bothering to conceal his immense curiosity and interest in her.
Thrusting out her hand, she nodded. ‘Nicky Wells.’
‘Charles Devereaux,’ he responded as he grasped her hand in a firm grip.
Nicky found herself looking into a pair of appraising green eyes, the clearest green eyes she had ever seen. The two of them continued to stare at each other, their hands still clasped. Nicky was experiencing an overwhelming and spontaneous attraction to him. His sensitive face and his looks in general were very appealing to her, and at once she wanted to know him better.
His scrutiny was intense, the way he looked at her even a bit suggestive, and she knew that he was as taken with her as she was with him. Her face grew warm at the thought of him, and she felt the colour rising from her neck to suffuse her face.
‘You’re blushing, Miss Wells. Are you not accustomed to having a man look at you with undisguised admiration?’
Nicky gaped at him, feeling suddenly tongue-tied and at a loss. He was certainly direct, and not in the least impeded by social conventions. He got straight to the point. Very brash, especially for an Englishman, and an aristocrat at that, she thought and smiled inwardly. She rather liked his directness; it was refreshing, if a little unnerving. And she found his upper-class English voice a joy to listen to. It was beautiful, mellifluous, the voice of a Shakespearean actor, full of colour and cadences and rhythms. Richard Burton, she thought. He sounds like Richard Burton.
Charles said, ‘You’re very silent… oh dear, I’m afraid I’ve embarrassed you, Miss Wells.’
‘No you haven’t and call me Nicky.’
‘I will. And please, do excuse my bad manners. But you are very beautiful, you know. Undoubtedly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.’
‘Beware of a suave Englishman paying lavish compliments.’ Leaning back, she eyed him carefully, with a certain amusement.
‘I meant what I said. Look here, will you have dinner with me on Monday evening? In London. Just the two of us. I want to be alone with you, Nicky, get to know you better.’
‘Yes, I’ll have dinner with you, I’d love it,’ Nicky found herself saying.
‘Excellent. We’ll have an intimate dinner in a quiet little restaurant. Leave it to me, I know the ideal spot. Are you staying at Claridge’s with your parents?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock. Please be prompt. I can’t bear to be kept waiting by women. And dress casually. The place where we’ll be dining is not very fancy.’
‘Are you always this dictatorial, Mr Devereaux?’
‘Call me Charles and no, I’m not. I do apologize. I didn’t intend to sound so insufferable.’
‘You didn’t, not really.’
‘I have a confession to make.’
‘Oh. So soon in our relationship?’ Nicky quipped, and raised her blonde brows.
Charles chuckled. ‘Ah, a sense of humour, I see, as well as a perfect face. Almost too good to be true.’ He chuckled again, and told her in that mellifluous voice of his, ‘A week ago today I went to fetch your parents from the hotel, to drive them down here for the weekend. In their suite I saw a photograph of you.’ He took a deep breath, and finished with some deliberation, ‘I was utterly bowled over by you.’
Nicky made no comment.
Charles went on, ‘Your mother caught me studying your photograph, and she told me all about you.’ He paused and there was a very direct look in his green eyes when he added, ‘I’m afraid I haven’t been able to get you out of my mind since then. You’ve haunted me.’
‘This is the best line I’ve heard in a long time,’ Nicky said, her tone teasing.
Charles had the good grace to laugh. ‘But I really mean what I say. When I arrived at the house fifteen minutes ago, the first thing I did was ask my mother where you were. And when she told me, I came straight out here to find you.’
‘Charles,’ Nicky began and stopped abruptly. It struck her that he was in earnest, that he was being quite serious, and she murmured, ‘I honestly don’t know what to say, how to respond to you. You’re so outspoken, so blunt, even a bit aggressive. You knock the breath right out of me.’
‘And you take my breath away.’
Very gently, Nicky extricated her hand and glanced down at it. He had held it so tightly there were red marks on her skin and it felt sore.
Charles followed her gaze, and apologized. ‘I’m so sorry! Sometimes I don’t know my own strength. My grip can be far too strong.’ As he finished speaking, he gently caught her hand in his, brought it to his mouth, brushed his lips across it.
Nicky thought she was going to jump out of her skin. His touch was like an electric shock. Swiftly, she pulled her hand out of his and glanced away, conscious of those cool green eyes watching her so intently, so alertly.
There was a silence.
Then Charles asked, ‘And tell me, what on earth were you doing, lingering out here?’
‘Looking at the roses.’ Nicky turned to him, and striving to sound normal, said, ‘In particular, I was studying this one. It’s the most perfect rose of all.’ She touched the yellow bloom, looked at him, and said, ‘Isn’t it?’
Charles glanced at the rose, and then at her and exclaimed, ‘Your eyes are the exact colour of speedwells.’
‘What are they?’
‘Little flowers of the brightest blue.’
Suddenly taking firm hold of her elbow, Charles steered Nicky towards the wooden door at the other end of the garden. ‘I think we’d better go in for tea. That’s the safest thing for us to do right now.’
Charles stayed close by her side for the next hour or so, only disappearing for about ten minutes towards the end of tea, which was being served in the drawing room. Nicky was acutely conscious of his eyes on her for most of this time. So were her m
other and Anne, who kept exchanging knowing and delighted glances. Her father was too busy talking to Philip about Margaret Thatcher and the British political scene to notice anything. The two older men sat off to one side of the room by themselves, and were so deeply engrossed in each other and their conversation they were oblivious.
Later, when she went upstairs to dress for dinner, the first thing Nicky noticed when she entered her room was the yellow rose she had admired in the garden. It was in a crystal bud vase on her bedside table. Propped next to it was an envelope with her name on it. The note inside was written in a neat precise hand. It said, very simply: I didn’t mean to embarrass or offend you. Think kindly of me. C.D.
She dropped the note on the bed, picked up the vase and pressed her face into the centre of the rose breathing deeply of its scent. She felt overwhelmed by Charles Devereaux. He’s going to be my undoing, she thought and sighed, knowing she was incapable of doing anything about that now. It was already too late. She had fallen for him in the space of a few hours, captivated by his looks, his voice, his charisma and even his somewhat domineering manner. He had charm and panache and the most extraordinary nerve. He is unique, she decided, as she dressed for the evening. I’ve never met anyone like him.
A little while later, when she ran into him in the foyer outside the drawing room, she thanked him for the rose. He said, with a slight smile, ‘Perfection deserves perfection,’ and for the rest of the evening he hovered over her so solicitously, so constantly, that even her father became aware of his attentions to her. He even remarked about it to her privately, when they went up to bed. As her mother hurried along the corridor to their bedroom, her father lingered outside hers, and finally followed her inside. ‘I don’t want you to think I’m interfering, Nicky,’ he said quietly, putting his hand on her shoulder affectionately. ‘But I’ve known Charles for several years, and he’s quite the man about town. And used to getting his own way with women.’
‘I can well imagine that, Daddy,’ Nicky said, looking into a pair of eyes as blue as her own, noticing immediately their worried expression. ‘Hey, Dad, relax! I can take care of myself!’ She laughed, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘I’m a pretty tough journalist, remember, and the independent, feisty, capable woman you brought me up to be.’
Andrew Wells nodded. ‘I know that your mother and I instilled the best and bravest instincts in you, angel face. And I know you can look after yourself. You’ve been facing danger for years in your work. But this is not your work, and Charles Devereaux is a special breed of man. He’s Eton, Oxford, and the British Establishment, very much the aristocrat with an august lineage and an impeccable background. Don’t forget, his grandfather was a peer of the realm, his uncle is the present earl, and his mother has a title in her own right.’
‘I’m not quite sure I know what you’re getting at, Dad.’
‘The British aristocracy is a world unto itself, very snobbish, and inbred. And closed to most.’
Nicky burst out laughing. ‘I can’t believe I’m hearing you say this, Andrew Wells! Are you suggesting that I may be viewed as “not suitable”, quote unquote for Charles Devereaux, because I’m an American?’
Andrew laughed with her. ‘Not really. As far as I’m concerned, you’re good enough for anyone, my dearest girl. And probably far too good for most men.’
‘Spoken like a true, devoted, adoring dad.’
‘I’m simply trying to say that he comes from a different world than you. And I merely want to caution you, and to explain that Philip once told me Charles was a bit of a playboy, that’s all.’
‘I can handle myself, Pops, honestly I can.’
‘I know. Just watch your step.’
‘And keep my eyes peeled. That’s what you used to say when I was little. Watch your step and keep your eyes peeled, Nick. And that’s what I always did, and I’ve never forgotten any of your instructions, Daddy,’ she finished with a small grin.
Andrew hugged her to him. ‘You’re the best, Nick. The very best there is, and the apple of my eye. I just don’t want you to get hurt unnecessarily. Now, good night, darling.’
Nicky and Charles spent the entire day together on Saturday; they got to know each other better as he drove her around Pullenbrook estate in his Land Rover. She soon discovered he was well-read, knowledgeable, informed about world politics, extremely intelligent and erudite. And she found herself liking him as a person, quite aside from being attracted to him as a man.
Anne gave a dinner party on Saturday night, and invited several local couples, and it was a pleasant evening. Once again, Charles was assiduous in his attentions to her, and scarcely seemed to notice his mother’s guests or anyone else except her. And she was equally engrossed in him, although she played it a little cooler than he, conscious of her father’s beady eyes on her for a good part of the evening.
By the time she went to bed she was euphoric, floating, and, after she had undressed, she sat on the window seat dreamily gazing out at the moonlit grounds. Her thoughts were only of Charles. There was a sudden, light tapping on the door, and she went to open it, not in the least surprised to see Charles standing there. Without a word he came into the room quickly, closed the door behind him and leaned against it.
‘Forgive the intrusion at this late hour,’ he said. ‘But I couldn’t sleep. I had to come and see you, if only for a moment.’
He took a step forward, reached for her hand, and pulled her towards him. ‘I had the most pressing and desperate need to… kiss you goodnight.’ He gazed at her closely, and smiled a quiet little smile. Without another word he leaned into her, kissed her fully on the mouth. Her arms went around his neck, and immediately he drew her even closer, held her tightly. After a moment he loosened his hold, and said against her hair, ‘I want to make love to you, Nicky. Let me stay with you tonight… don’t send me away.’
She was silent.
He kissed her again, more passionately than before; she could not help responding, and swayed against him, clung to him.
‘Oh, my darling,’ he said, and brushed his mouth against her cheek. ‘Please let me stay.’
‘But I hardly know you,’ she began, and then let her voice trail off uncertainly. She was unnerved by him, and afraid. Charles Devereaux was having a potent effect on her. He was lethal, and she suddenly understood that she could quite easily be devastated by him.
Charles took her face in his hands and looked deeply into her eyes. His voice was tender when he murmured, ‘Oh Nicky, Nicky, don’t let’s play games with each other. We’re both adults, we’re mature, intelligent people.’ Again the faint smile played around his mouth, and he added, ‘And do you honestly think you’ll know me any better on Monday? What difference does it make whether we make love tonight or wait until then?’ He brought his mouth to hers, kissed her long and hard and then released her, left her standing in the middle of the floor.
He went to the door and locked it. As he walked back to her, he took off his silk dressing gown and threw it on a chair, and began to unbutton his pyjama top. When he came to a stop in front of her, he said in his low-pitched, seductive voice, ‘You know you want me as much as I want you, Nicky. It’s written all over your face.’ Very sure of himself and entirely in command, he took hold of her hand and led her towards the four-poster bed.
Nicky sat up on the garden seat, blinked in the bright sunlight, and reached into her pocket for her sun glasses. As she put them on she felt dampness on her cheeks, and she realized, with a little jolt, that she had been crying. But she was not going to cry any more tears for Charles Devereaux. She had used them up years ago.
Pushing herself to her feet, she walked down the path between the parterres, trying to shake off the past, to quench the memories. Climbing the steps, she turned the wrought-iron handle of the old door and went out, leaving the sunken rose garden behind.
Pullenbrook soon hove into view. She could not help thinking how extraordinary it looked, bathed as it was in the late after
noon light. The sunshine brought a warmth to its old grey stone, and the many windows glittered and winked; it was like a living thing to her. Anne had spoken the truth when they had discussed the house the other day; she had loved Pullenbrook from the moment she had first set eyes on it.
On that fateful Friday I’ve just been remembering, she thought, gazing up at the great Tudor edifice so steeped in English history, and the history of the Cliffords. That was the day I was snared by a man, by a woman, and by a stately family home. Yes, she had fallen in love with them all. Instantly. She still loved Anne and the house. As for Charles, her love for him had died three years ago.
Inside the house, the Great Hall was eerily quiet and filled with pale sunshine when she entered a few minutes later. The family portraits that hung on the fireplace wall caught her eye, and she walked over to them, stood staring up at them thoughtfully. Then she moved on, scrutinizing the others as she traversed the length of the huge room.
Suddenly, she thought: Charles Adrian Clifford Devereaux was descended from a great line of noblemen, magnates and warrior knights in service to the Crown of England. He was a true aristocrat, and in the best sense of that word. Honour and nobility were bred in the bone; justice and fair play were inculcated from birth. He was a good man, a decent man. I could not have loved him the way I did, had he been otherwise. Certainly I could not have loved a man capable of shoddy behaviour, a man who could cold-bloodedly fake his own death for reasons of his own, a man who could callously bring pain and heartache to me, the woman he loved, and to his mother. I would never have planned to marry a man like that. Never. Never.
The sound of footsteps caused Nicky to swing around.
Anne was walking towards her, and there was a look of concern on her face. She took hold of Nicky’s arm. ‘Are you all right, darling?’
Nicky nodded and gave her a half smile.