Double the Love E-Book

Barbara Cartland

• Herausgeber: Barbara Cartland Ebooks Ltd
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Pink Collection
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 218

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

The beautiful Ariana Dancer is orphaned and has led a cheerless life in London with her disagreeable Guardian, Uncle Konstantin Bardici. He has shown little interest in his niece and she has been left very much to her own devices. One day Uncle Konstantin suggests that Ariana marry an Albanian Prince - one who is seeking an English wife and who claims to have fallen in love with her portrait - and it does not take much to persuade her to agree. Even before she sets out for Albania, she begins to dream of romance and her lonely heart ensures that she quickly fancies herself in love with a man she has never seen. She is sure in her heart that she will find everlasting happiness with Prince Stefan of Dukka in the depths of Albania.! But the journey she must take to fulfil her dreams is longer and more treacherous than she could ever have imagined. When she and her hapless maid are kidnapped en route to Castle Dukka by brigands, the rosy future she dreamed of becomes bitterly compromised. Soon life in the wild mountains begins to exert an unexpected pull, while the King of the Brigands turns out to possess an irresistible charm. Ariana discovers that love can have a double meaning and that image is not all that it seems. Forced to choose between honour and passion and faced with the responsibility of deciding life or death for the man she loves, she bravely makes the ultimate sacrifice. Even then Ariana's torment is not over - Find out how Ariana unexpectedly finds all that she has been seeking, and more, in this exciting and unusual romantic tale by BARBARA CARTLAND

Leseprobe

Double the Love

BARBARA CARTLAND

www.barbaracartland.com

Copyright © 2014 by Cartland Promotions

First published on the internet in March 2015

ISBNs

978-1-78213-652-1 Print 978-1-78213-688-0 Epub

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent.

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronically or mechanically, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval, without the prior permission in writing from the publisher.

eBook conversion by M-Y Books

DOUBLE THE LOVE

She and Lorenc were now sitting at the rough-hewn trestle where the brigands often dined and he slammed his fist down hard on the surface.

“I swear you need a beating, Lady. What other way will they find the money to continue their struggle?”

“What struggle?” asked Ariana.

Lorenc then drew in his breath in the manner of one who has revealed more than he intended.

“Hunting, fishing, growing food, this keeps a man’s body alive,” he said in a low voice. “But then the hope of justice and the means to acquire it needs money. And if you and your companion might prove a means to an end, they will use you.”

“Why, you are no better than – beasts of the field,” retorted Ariana, with no clear thought behind her words.

Lorenc’s eyes blazed. Reaching across the table, he gripped Ariana so hard by the chin that she could not avoid his gaze.

Then he stood, leaned over and brought his angry lips to hers. His kiss was rough, brutal and intense and when he released her she could barely breathe.

“So does a beast of the field kiss!” he said coldly and stalked away.

THE BARBARA CARTLAND PINK COLLECTION

Barbara Cartland was the most prolific bestselling author in the history of the world. She was frequently in the Guinness Book of Records for writing more books in a year than any other living author. In fact her most amazing literary feat was when her publishers asked for more Barbara Cartland romances, she doubled her output from 10 books a year to over 20 books a year, when she was 77.

She went on writing continuously at this rate for 20 years and wrote her last book at the age of 97, thus completing 400 books between the ages of 77 and 97.

Her publishers finally could not keep up with this phenomenal output, so at her death she left 160 unpublished manuscripts, something again that no other author has ever achieved.

Now the exciting news is that these 160 original unpublished Barbara Cartland books are ready for publication and they will be published by Barbaracartland.com exclusively on the internet, as the web is the best possible way to reach so many Barbara Cartland readers around the world.

The 160 books will be published monthly and will be numbered in sequence.

The series is called the Pink Collection as a tribute to Barbara Cartland whose favourite colour was pink and it became very much her trademark over the years.

The Barbara Cartland Pink Collection is published only on the internet. Log on to www.barbaracartland.com to find out how you can purchase the books monthly as they are published, and take out a subscription that will ensure that all subsequent editions are delivered to you by mail order to your home.

If you do not have access to a computer you can write for information about the Pink Collection to the following address :

BarbaraCartland.com

Camfield Place

Hatfield

Hertfordshire

AL9 6JE

United Kingdom

Telephone:  [phone]

Fax:  [phone]

THE LATE DAME BARBARA CARTLAND

Barbara Cartland, who sadly died in May 2000 at the grand age of ninety eight, remains one of the world’s most famous romantic novelists.  With worldwide sales of over one billion, her outstanding 723 books have been translated into thirty six different languages, to be enjoyed by readers of romance globally.

Writing her first book ‘Jigsaw’ at the age of 21, Barbara became an immediate bestseller.  Building upon this initial success, she wrote continuously throughout her life, producing bestsellers for an astonishing 76 years.  In addition to Barbara Cartland’s legion of fans in the UK and across Europe, her books have always been immensely popular in the USA.  In 1976 she achieved the unprecedented feat of having books at numbers 1 & 2 in the prestigious B. Dalton Bookseller bestsellers list.

Although she is often referred to as the ‘Queen of Romance’, Barbara Cartland also wrote several historical biographies, six autobiographies and numerous theatrical plays as well as books on life, love, health and cookery.  Becoming one of Britain's most popular media personalities and dressed in her trademark pink, Barbara spoke on radio and television about social and political issues, as well as making many public appearances.

In 1991 she became a Dame of the Order of the British Empire for her contribution to literature and her work for humanitarian and charitable causes.

Known for her glamour, style, and vitality Barbara Cartland became a legend in her own lifetime.  Best remembered for her wonderful romantic novels and loved by millions of readers worldwide, her books remain treasured for their heroic heroes, plucky heroines and traditional values.  But above all, it was Barbara Cartland’s overriding belief in the positive power of love to help, heal and improve the quality of life for everyone that made her truly unique.

“I have always thought that there was something terribly romantic about being abducted by a tall good-looking brigand and taken away to his cave in the mountains, but be warned, it rarely happens outside my novels!”

Barbara Cartland

CHAPTER ONE 1871

Konstantin Bardici raised an eyebrow as his niece approached the breakfast table.

“You are late, Ariana.”

Ariana looked quickly at the blue ormolu clock on the mantelpiece. Breakfast was at eight o’clock sharp and it was now four minutes past.

“I am sorry, Uncle Konstantin,” she said.

If she had arrived only five minutes early, he would probably have complained that she was intruding upon his few minutes’ privacy before the affairs of the day began.

She glanced at the large pile of letters on the silver salver by his elbow.

She wondered at the small square box sitting amid the envelopes. Had that arrived this morning too?

Her uncle’s voice roused her from her thoughts.

“Since you finished with your schooling you have become somewhat idle in your habits.”

Ariana sighed.

“I would not be idle, Uncle, if I had actually been educated to do something.”

“I’m not sure that I like your tone, Miss Dancer.”

‘Miss Dancer!’ Ariana grimaced to herself. This was the title her uncle used to remind her that she was, and had been for some years now, utterly in his power.

“All I am trying to say, Uncle, is that I have few accomplishments that would afford me a way of using my leisure time to some purpose.”

“You play the piano,” he persisted.

“Every young woman of my age plays the piano.”

He leaned on the table with hands under his chin.

“But not every young woman speaks Albanian.”

Ariana lowered her eyes.

“No, I suppose they don’t,” she conceded, a weary edge to her voice.

Her uncle tapped his fingers together.

“That in itself should remind you that you are not and never will be like every young woman. Neither was your mother. She forgot that fact and paid the price. I do not expect you to make the same mistake.”

Ariana reddened. The mistake that her mother had made was to marry without her family’s permission.

“I don’t consider marrying for love a mistake,” she said with as much defiance as she could muster.

Her uncle snorted,

“Love! What good is love? What did it do for my sister, Mariamne?”

Ariana then drew in her breath painfully. How often was this exchange with her uncle to recur in the future?

“What did it do for Mariamne?” he repeated.

“It made her happy,” returned Ariana softly.

“Happy!” He lowered his hands and thumped the table. “Who was she to have the right to be happy? The daughter of an Albanian aristocrat, who once owned land from Berat to Fieri. Land that was lost when we were driven from our country by all those Ottomans with their fezes and hookahs! It was her duty to marry an Albanian and carry on the sacred blood tie with her country.”

Ariana waited patiently. She was well used to these unreasonable outbursts from her uncle.

How many times had she heard of the flight of the Nationalist Bardiccis in 1862 from political repression in the lowlands of Albania? Her ailing widowed grandfather had arrived in London with only his fifteen year old son, eighteen year old daughter and a bag of jewellery that had enabled him to find a lucrative niche in the banking world.

As her uncle ranted on, her gaze moved from his shaking jowls to the portrait on the wall of her grandfather, Felim Bardici.

Plump and sour, he looked like his son, her Uncle Konstantin. And then next to her grandfather was Ariana’s pretty grandmother and she looked just like her daughter Mariamne, Ariana’s mother.

Ariana knew how her mother looked, as among the meagre possessions she had brought into her uncle’s house was a miniature of her.

It was lovingly painted by the husband for whom Mariamne had relinquished her family almost as soon as she arrived in England – Simon Dancer.

Of Simon, her father, Ariana had no image but the one etched in her memory.

He had been a portrait painter, engaged to teach the restless Mariamne about art. She had fallen in love with him and, when her father objected, the couple had eloped.

In response Felim Bardici had immediately cut his daughter off without a penny and he had died without ever setting eyes on his granddaughter, Ariana.

She had often wondered whether his vengeful spirit would have been gratified to learn that the daughter and son-in-law he had repudiated had barely outlived him, both succumbing to typhoid in the summer of 1866.

Thinking on the short and sad lives of her parents Ariana’s eyes filled with tears.

She barely remembered her father and mother, but the love they had felt for each other burned like a beacon in her heart and she wanted no less for herself.

“Are you listening, Ariana?” Her uncle’s eye was sharp and he had noticed her wandering attention.

“Yes, Uncle.”

“Your mother was educated, as were you, in order to be able to dedicate her future to her ancestral homeland. Her schooling was, if you like, a political strategy.”

Ariana stiffened with sudden alarm. Her uncle had never quite referred to her mother’s education and her own as ‘political strategy’ and she struggled to remember what aspect of her schooling might come under such a heading.

She had been sent away to be educated almost as soon as she had passed into her uncle’s sole Guardianship.

Thirteen years ago he had been a mere twenty years of age and had made it clear that he had no intention of devoting his precious bachelor days, now his father was dead, to the care of his orphaned four year old niece.

Rizgard Academy was a school for the children of European émigrés and Ariana had mixed with the offspring of exiled Princes, deposed tyrants and expelled Ministers. Ariana could not see how any of this befitted her to be part of some ‘political strategy’ unless that aspect of her education was the language lessons during the holidays.

While Uncle Konstantin travelled in Europe, Ariana had spent every summer in his airless study with a crusty old Albanian lady, who taught her to speak the language of a country she never thought she would visit.

She took a deep breath and asked her uncle,

“What did you mean by – ‘political strategy’?”

“In what context?”

“You said that my mother was educated in order to be able to dedicate her life – to her ancestral homeland,” Ariana reminded him. “You said that it was a kind of – ”

“ – political strategy,” took up her uncle. “Yes, yes. What I meant was that in Albania marriages are arranged so as to strengthen ties between important families. So you could say that marriages have a political significance. And arranging them requires political strategy.”

“You mean it was intended that my mother should marry an Albanian, Uncle?”

“Quite!” he said and signalled to the maid to leave.

Ariana met her uncle’s gaze with trepidation. She now sensed that the whole confrontation this morning had a purpose, a purpose that would not be to her liking.

“So when my mother – ran away with my father – it was then a double blow to the family? They lost not only a daughter but – a political pawn?” she asked.

Uncle Konstantin drew back in distaste.

“What a way to put it!”

“How else should I put it, Uncle?” Ariana sighed.

“You could put it this way. Mariamne lost a great opportunity to do her family and her homeland a service. Had she married, as was intended, an Albanian Prince, she would have forged a link between his family and ours that might have served us well.”

There was silence for a moment.

“It is on just such a topic that I wish to engage with you this morning,” he then said and Ariana knew at once that her life and future were at stake.

“Uncle?” she murmured.

“Several months ago I began corresponding with a certain Albanian Prince, a Stefan of Dukka. I had heard already through the émigré grapevine that he was seeking an English wife. One who happens to speak Albanian.”

Ariana felt her hand begin to shake as she asked,

“Why is he looking for an English wife? Are there – no young women in Albania?”

Her uncle narrowed his eyes, wondering if he had detected a note of sarcasm in Ariana’s voice. But her clear eyes looked innocent enough.

“Dukka is located in the Northern part of Albania,” Konstantin replied. “It’s a remote mountainous region and young ladies there tend to be somewhat unsophisticated. Prince Stefan would like someone with a mind congenial to his own, he writes. And he is looking for a rare beauty.”

Ariana relaxed. Surely this eliminated her from the competition!

Her uncle noted her ill-concealed satisfaction.

“Ariana, go to that mirror above the fireplace?”

“Why?”

“Do not question my commands.”

With a sigh Ariana rose and went to the mirror.

“Take a good look at your face, Ariana. Describe what you see.”

She gazed at her reflection. Since her uncle never praised her looks, she had developed little self-regard.

“Describe what you see,” repeated her uncle.

“I see – very pale skin.”

“Translucent. With a rose hue on the cheeks?”

“Y-yes. And yellow hair.”

“Spun gold. Cobalt eyes and dark arched brows. Delicate lips. A pert nose and a tiny waist.”

Ariana flushed under such unaccustomed scrutiny.

“Don’t you see that you are pleasing to the eye?”

“If you say so, Uncle.”

“I do say so. And so does Prince Stefan.”

“But he has never seen me!” Ariana cried out.

“Oh, but he has,” replied Uncle Konstantin. “I sent him the portrait of you that I commissioned last year.”

Ariana had indeed sat for a portrait last summer, the artist being a friend of the lady who taught her Albanian.

“The Prince is much taken with you,” he went on. “I would go so far as to say that he fell in love with your likeness.”

Ariana felt a sudden trembling run through her.

“I-in love?”

“Yes. He says so here.”

Uncle Konstantin picked up one of the envelopes by his elbow and extracted a letter from which to quote,

“She pleases my heart already. God willing that she will please my house and my bed as well.”

Ariana was at once shocked at the Prince’s manner of expression, yet the hint of passion it suggested sent a shiver through her body that she could not explain.

Her uncle continued to read,

“Let Ariana come to me from your hand and please let her accept as a token of my esteem this necklace that once belonged to my own mother.”

Uncle Konstantin put down the letter and opened the box on the table that had aroused Ariana’s curiosity.

Her eyes widened as she saw the glistening pearls that a second later dangled from her uncle’s fingers.

“They – they are for me?” she asked on a breath that was almost as sob.

And never in her life had anyone ever offered her anything as beautiful.

“For you,” nodded her uncle.

Ariana, quite bedazzled, reached out her hand, but he withheld the necklace.

“What do you say, niece? Will you agree to travel to Albania and marry Prince Stefan? Remember it is your duty to please me more than yourself and remember too that I will not otherwise provide for your future.”

Her uncle need not have added that last admonition. Ariana always knew that she had little to hope from him, that his wish was to marry her off with as modest a dowry as he could get away with and return to his bachelor ways.

She had not considered going abroad, but suddenly the idea of it took on an unexpected lustre.

Starved of attention and admiration as she had been for so long, the proffered love of a passionate and far-away Prince overwhelmed her caution.

“Tell him – yes, Uncle,” she whispered. “Yes – I will come.”

*

It took some weeks to organise the details of the journey and it was late March before Ariana set off.

She was to be accompanied by a young girl called Bonnie, who, until her elevation to lady’s maid, had been little more than a general maid in the Bardici’s household.

Bonnie was excited at the idea of travelling abroad and living in a Palace and she thirsted for adventure.

From the moment that she had accepted the pearl necklace, Ariana had been lost in a dream of romance.

She had received only one further communication from her fiancé and that was a formal letter of gratitude that she had accepted his proposal.

Over this letter she had poured for days, searching the terse words for a hidden message. In the end she had argued to herself that it was not so much a personal letter as a Letter of State.

Nevertheless it lived under her pillow and she often stroked the insignia stamped at its head, PRINCE STEFAN OF DUKKA.

Soon she, Ariana Dancer, would be married to a Prince who adored her!

*

The arduous journey across Europe did not dampen her excitement.

Indeed, as the miles passed by, she began to paint for herself a rosier and rosier picture of the life that awaited her, as opposed to the life that she had so far led.

It was Bonnie who soon began to lose heart.

The barely heated inn rooms, the lumpy mattresses, the strange food, the interminable hours spent in railway carriages or cold coaches, quelled her appetite for change.

She was constantly sick and bad-tempered and then Ariana found that it was she who had to look after her maid rather than the other way round.

It was only when they changed coaches for the last time in sight of the tall mountains of Northern Albania that Ariana’s resolve faltered.

Staring at the dark peaks ahead swathed in dense unsettled cloud, she suddenly realised that this landscape was to be her home. It was unlikely she would ever return to London or again set eyes on the one constant she had known for most of her seventeen years – Uncle Konstantin.

He had not wanted her in his life and he had never shown her much warmth or concern. But his was a face she knew.

The face of Prince Stefan she had not seen.

As if he was sensing her sudden unease, their new coachman spat on the dusty ground.

“Lawless country, this,” he said in rough Albanian.

Ariana turned her gaze upon him.

“Lawless?”

The coachman spat again.

“The Ottoman Turks never managed to subdue the mountain tribes. Here there be only rebel Princes and mad Priests from Italy and murderous brigands.”

Ariana regarded the looming mountains again.

“Brigands?”

“That’s right.”

“What’s he sayin’?” demanded Bonnie crossly.

“Nothing important,” replied Ariana quickly. She saw no need to alarm her already excitable companion.

“Well, I wish he’d tell us how long it’ll be before we get to this Palace,” moaned Bonnie.

“It’ll take two more days to get to Dukka,” sniffed the coachman, as if he had understood Bonnie.

“The Prince employed you to meet us here at the border, did he not?” ventured Ariana.

The coachman gave a nod.

“You took your time a-gettin’ this far. I’ve been waitin’ two days already, sleepin’ in that tavern over there. No better than a hutch for dogs.”

“What is the Prince like?” Ariana enquired.

“He’s not a man to cross, if you want to know,” the coachman muttered.

Ariana digested his reply soberly, understanding it to mean that the Prince was a man of strength.

“And is he – handsome?”

The coachman regarded her for a moment and then gave a sudden wink.

“Women say so.”

She experienced an unaccustomed stab of jealousy at the idea that there existed women privileged enough to have already set eyes on Prince Stefan.

They set off and after an hour of so the road began to climb upwards. The track was easily the worst they had yet encountered and the ramshackle old coach rattled and shook over the stones until they felt like dice in a tumbler.

“I’m sure to be sick before we’re done” lamented Bonnie.

Ariana, both hands gripping the passenger strap, did not reply. She felt that she could endure anything if her Prince was waiting for her.

Nevertheless, when she glanced out of the window and saw the steep drop that soon appeared at the side of the track, she felt almost dizzy with terror.

As they ascended, even inside the coach, they felt the air become somewhat rarefied and the scent of damp pine chased out the musty smell of old upholstery.

They had travelled for about four more hours and had reached a section of the route where thin trees rose on all sides when they heard a shout and the coach suddenly juddered to a halt.

Ariana was flung forward whilst Bonnie, who had been fast asleep, slipped to the floor.

“What’s happenin’?” the maid called out dazedly.

Ariana opened the door and peered out.

There straight ahead of them, straddling the track, was a flock of goats. They were so still it was a moment or two before she was convinced that they were real.