Love is Innocent E-Book

Barbara Cartland

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

Seitenzahl: 274

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2015

Beschreibung

Wealthy, popular and famously handsome and dashing, Draco, the Duke of Atherstone has the world and most of its Society beauties at his feet. Yet, as his arrives on his yacht in Algiers he is dissatisfied. If only he could find the woman who would complete the other of him - as has his wise and supremely contented Russian friend, Nicholas Vlastov. Visiting what appears to be a slave market in the Kasba, the Duke notices that among the drugged girls being callously auctioned is a beautiful young waif who is utterly different from the rest - and when she whispers, "save me!", he knows that she in English and that he must rescue her. So begins his and Selina's flight from the evil slavers to Monte Carlo, then from murderous kidnappers who hold them for ransom and then from the Society beauty determined to claim the Duke in marriage. Not once, but twice, the dashing Duke puts his life on the line to save Selina, as he falls wholeheartedly in love for the very first time. But how, Selina wonders desperately, can a noble Duke, possibly marry a girl he has found in a harem?

Leseprobe

Author’s Note

The traffic in young girls to North Africa continued all through the nineteenth century and is now, according to reliable reports, centred in the Lebanon.

The arrangements of sale described in this book still take place in the brothels.

Every year hundreds of foolish young women answer advertisements or accept positions in cabarets, theatres or dancehalls without being assured of a return ticket home.

That the majority are enticed into becoming drug addicts is known to the Police of every European country.

Notre Dame de Laghet is exactly as I have described and the medallions I carry always with me have, I am convinced, protected me against many accidents.

Chapter 1 1887

The Duke of Atherstone stood on the deck of The Sea Lion as his yacht steamed into the harbour of Algiers.

It was early in the morning and there was that strange translucent light which in North Africa preludes the full force of the sun.

The bay with its terraces of dazzling white and the emerald hills in the background blending with the haze in the azure blue of the sea seemed almost unreal.

But the Duke had a frown on his forehead and his eyes were hard as he watched his yacht move slowly towards the quay and saw the usual crowd beginning to congregate with the arrival of a newcomer.

He had slept little the night before and was still angry with the fury that had driven him down to the harbour at Monte Carlo where he had ordered his Captain to put to sea immediately.

It was typical of the perfectly organised manner with which the Duke ran his life that everything was always ready for a change of mood or a quick decision.

In his numerous houses his servants needed no announcement of his arrival.

Three months might elapse before he revisited any one of them, but when he did everything was exactly as he expected it to be.

He travelled without luggage as his clothes were duplicated in his various residences. Although his secretary and his valet were part of his personal entourage they had underlings to take their place should the Duke travel without them.

Already the Duke had the reputation of being a perfectionist, which was unusual in a man of thirty-four, and conscious of his own consequence he ensured that his comfort was a first consideration with those he employed.

At the same time his life, which should have been without a cloud on the horizon, had unexpectedly run into a storm.

It was indeed a storm that had made him lose his temper the night before and which had brought him quite without forethought into the centuries-old port of Algiers.

It had been deservedly called ‘The Garden of the Gods’, but this did not lessen the frown on the Duke’s face or the hard line of his lips.

With a great deal of noise from the boatmen and sailors on the quay, who looked a piratical and cut-throat gang and whose instructions were ignored by His Grace’s crew, The Sea Lion was tied up alongside.

The Duke went below.

Breakfast was already laid for him in the Saloon and he seated himself with an expression of one who would be surprised if he found anything to tempt his appetite.

The Stewards served him in respectful silence. They were too well trained to speak unless they were spoken to.

But gradually, as he sampled the half-dozen dishes that had been prepared for him by his superlative chef, the Duke appeared to relax a little.

When breakfast was finished still without a word uttered, the Stewards withdrew and he sat alone in the luxurious Saloon of his yacht, which had no equal in the world.

The Sea Lion had been delivered to His Grace only the previous year and last night when he had turned to leave the Casino he had remembered in the midst of his anger that she was in the harbour.

His carriage was waiting outside and, as he stepped into it, his secretary and Comptroller of his household, Colonel Grayson, had come running down the steps of the Casino just before the coachman drove off.

“Are you leaving, Your Grace?” he had asked in a voice that held a note of incredulity in it.

“Yes!” the Duke replied in a monosyllable.

“Have you forgotten your supper party? It is arranged as you requested.”

“Cancel it!”

Colonel Grayson looked at him in surprise, but merely murmured,

“I will do that, Your Grace!”

“Tell the coachman to take me to the yacht,” the Duke said, “and what is more, Grayson, get all those people out of my villa. With the exception of Mrs. Sherman of course.”

It seemed for a moment as if Colonel Grayson would protest and then he asked,

“Are they to leave at once, Your Grace?”

“First thing tomorrow morning,” the Duke replied.

He spoke in a manner that told his Comptroller he had no more to say on the matter.

Colonel Grayson stepped back and the footman, wearing the Atherstone livery that was as well known in England as that of the Royal Family, shut the carriage door on which was emblazoned the Atherstone crest.

The footman obviously awaited instructions and Colonel Grayson with an effort told him,

“His Grace desires you to take him to the yacht immediately.”

“Very good, sir.”

The footman sprang up onto the box, the coachman whipped up the horses and they started off down the steep hill that led from the Casino to the harbour.

As the yacht put out to sea, nosing its way between the other ships moored in the small basin lying between the high rock on which was perched the Royal Palace and the white-domed Casino that looked like a wedding cake, the Duke stood on deck staring ahead.

He did not see the lights of Monte Carlo, which gave it a Fairytale-like appearance or the stars glittering overhead in the sable sky.

Instead he was concerned only with the darkness of his own anger, which filled his mind to the exclusion of all else.

How could it be possible, he asked himself, that he should be in such an intolerable position and at the same time not have foreseen that he was running into disaster?

The Duke had been well aware ever since his boyhood that he was one of the greatest matrimonial catches in the whole of the British Isles.

The state his father lived in was comparable only with that of a Royal personage and, while he was still in the nursery, he had known that it was all to be his one day.

The great broad acres of land that surrounded Atherstone Castle, the grouse moors in Scotland, the hunting lodge in Leicestershire, the ancestral ruins in Cornwall and the lands surrounding them, besides Atherstone House in London, would all be his.

And they were but a part of the incredible number of possessions, so many that it was impossible to remember them all.

Pictures, furniture, tapestries, treasures that had been handed down through the family for generations, besides a racing stud, carriage and hunting horses and every other possession that a man could think of and desire.

Besides all this there were properties abroad, a house in Paris, a château in the Ardennes where he could hunt wild boar, a palazzo in Venice and a villa in Monte Carlo.

Was it possible to own so much and not be happy?

The fly in the ointment of course lay, he learnt as he grew older, in the number of women who wanted to own it with him.

By the time he left Eton there were already innumerable mothers contriving with every bait and lure to inveigle him into a position whereby he must become their son-in-law.

When the Duke was in a good mood, he would laugh at some of the tricks they employed to force from his lips the fatal invitation that would tie him to one woman for the rest of his life.

He had made up his mind that he would not marry until he himself positively wished to do so and nothing would induce him to be captured like a lassooed steer in the manner that some of his friends had been.

The protocol of Victorian Society made it very difficult for an eligible bachelor to avoid the ambushes that were set for him.

To talk to any unmarried young lady alone for more than a few moments was tantamount to offering her marriage. To dance with her twice was to set the gossips’ tongues wagging and a third time was the equivalent of an announcement in the Engagements column of The Times.

It was little wonder that gentlemen who wished to preserve their freedom avoided debutantes like the plague and fixed their affections on married women.

It was far less dangerous to risk the jealousy of a husband than the ambitions of an aspiring Mama.

Moreover Society adjusted itself to making it easier for discreet liaisons between those of more mature years.

Following the example set by the gay Prince of Wales, the jeunesse dorée found that beautiful young women after ten years of marriage, when they had presented their husbands with a son and heir, were only too willing to evoke the light of admiration in another man’s eyes.

The Duke naturally had not refused an invitation when it was offered to him in the shape of provocative, sophisticated lips and questioning glances from under long dark eyelashes.

He had moved from one beautiful woman to another or as one critic put it “from boudoir to boudoir”, until he had encountered Lady Millicent Wealdon.

‘Millie’, as she was known to everyone, even the adoring fans who bought postcards of what were known as the ‘Professional Beauties’, had excited him from the moment they met.

She was dark and willowy and with a full figure and tiny waist in the admired fashion of the moment.

The daughter of a Duke, she had been outrageous in many ways ever since she had left the schoolroom. But then Lady Millie’s beauty had made her sure that the world was there for her to walk on and accordingly she stamped on it!

Her parents, sensing that only to look at her was to be certain that there was trouble ahead, married her quickly when she was only seventeen to a man thirty years her senior.

Lord Wealdon was rich, important, persona grata at Court and a crashing bore!

He was, however, proud of his wife’s beauty and Lady Millie was clever enough to make him believe that all she enjoyed was the adoration of her admirers en masse and was not in the least interested in them individually.

There might have been some truth in this until the Duke came along.

The moment they looked at each other, there had been a fire in their eyes that was unmistakable and the passionate desire that drew them together was impossible to control.

The Duke had made love to many women, but he had never found anyone so insatiable, demanding or fiercely stimulating as Lady Millie.

It was impossible to conceal their infatuation for each other and the world knew about their liaison from the very moment of its inception.

As long as Lord Wealdon was prepared to turn a blind eye, there were few who condemned their behaviour, although there were quite a number of smiles and sly innuendoes.

Then unexpectedly Lord Wealdon died of a heart attack.

Lady Millie was in deep mourning, Queen Victoria having set an example of heavy and prolonged gloom that every widow was expected to follow.

It had therefore been difficult for the Duke to see much of Lady Millie although there were a few snatched assignations during the first six months.

During the second period things became easier.

They had been invited to the same house parties and their hostesses made quite certain that their rooms were not too far distant from each other.

Lady Millie could not yet attend full Court functions, race meetings or garden parties, but she was staying in London at a home that was only a stone’s throw from Atherstone House.

Their love affair renewed itself with all the fire, excitement and drama that had been theirs when they first began it.

And yet the Duke found himself chafing a little, not only at the secrecy that must surround their meetings and which bored him but also the fact that Lady Millie tried to tie him to her side.

He was used to roving freely as the spirit moved him from London to the country, from race meeting to cricket week, from Cowes, where he invariably won several races, to Epsom where he had a number of horses in training.

Lady Millie began to pout when he left her and pout again when he returned.

And he found it rather irritating.

Finally, when the prescribed year of mourning was almost at an end, she decided, without his having expressed the wish for her to do so, to join him in Monte Carlo.

The huge white villa above the town with its fantastic and exotic tropical gardens had been built by his father and it was large enough to house fifty guests.

There was really no reason why the Duke should not fill the villa with his friends except that he had looked forward to a few weeks’ quiet after what had been a strenuous winter.

This was partly owing to his many sporting activities, but also because he was deeply concerned with the political situation. Although many of his friends did not realise it, he had great influence in the House of Lords.

“It will be fun to be in Monte Carlo again!” Lady Millie said firmly, “and we cannot go on playing this ridiculous game of hide and seek any longer! Besides in a month’s time I can put away my black gloves and know that I am a free woman!”

There was no mistaking what she meant by ‘free’ and the look that she gave the Duke was an open invitation for him to declare himself.

And yet the words had not come to his tips.

He had supposed vaguely at the back of his mind that it was inevitable that he should marry Lady Millie, but somehow something prevented him from saying so.

His friends made it quite clear, in fact too clear, that they thought it was a foregone conclusion.

It irritated him when his name was linked with Lady Millie’s obviously and then hostesses said with meaning behind the words,

“I have put you and dear Millie together – of course!”

He told himself it was foolish to expect an element of surprise after the love affair had gone on for so long. Yet he felt that, because it was so obvious, some of the mystery and some of the thrill was lacking.

It had been there at first, but now they were moving along the path that all his other affaires de coeur had taken, a path that had grown familiar through the years by the tread of too many feet.

Millie would make him an acceptable wife and Society preferred that there should be no surprises where their ranks were concerned and that members of one aristocratic family should marry a member of another.

From this point of view Millie would be the right wife, the Duke thought. She would also look very beautiful in the Atherstone diamonds and would undoubtedly make him an excellent hostess.

At the same time deep in his heart he knew that something was missing, although he was not certain what it was.

When Millie was in his arms, when her lips sought his greedily, he felt himself drowning in her sensuous exotic fragrance, which seemed to numb all criticism.

Then he could forget everything except the passion she aroused in him.

When they reached Monte Carlo, he found that he had an unexpected aversion to making love to her under the very noses of his other guests.

He could not explain this sudden revulsion even to himself.

It was just that he did not like the knowing look in his men-friends’ eyes, the faint smile on the lips of the other women, the manner in which they took it for granted that he would spend the night in Millie’s bedroom.

There was something in the way they said ‘goodnight’ just as there was something in the way they said ‘good morning’ that annoyed the Duke.

Also something fastidious in himself rebelled against creeping along his own corridors after everyone was supposed to be asleep to enter Millie’s bedroom surreptitiously and close the door quietly.

He knew that she would be waiting for him almost like a tigress in her lair, her arms reaching out to hold him captive and make him forget everything but her insatiable desire.

For the first two or three days after their arrival in Monte Carlo, Lady Millie said nothing.

He knew that she looked at him with speculation which gradually became resentful and he knew too what words were hovering on her lips.

But she was too astute and too experienced to reproach him directly.

At the same time there was an accusation in the very manner with which she spoke to him and the occasional sharp little note that crept into her voice.

The Duke could be very obstinate and very ruthless if he wished.

He told himself he would not be coerced or bullied into doing anything he did not wish to do.

It was one thing for a woman to attempt to excite his desire, another to demand it as if it was her right.

And yet he knew that Lady Millie believed she had a right over him – a right that she expected would soon be expressed for all the world to recognise by an invitation to their wedding.

The sunshine was golden and warm at Monte Carlo, the garden was a dream of loveliness, the Casino filled with friends and acquaintances.

The Emperor and Empress of Austria, the Dowager Empress of Russia, the Kings of Sweden, Belgium, Serbia and the Queen of Portugal were all staying at the Hôtel de Paris.

There were in the Casino an inordinate number of Russian Archdukes and Maharajas with the demi-monde of Paris dazzlingly bedecked with ospreys and incredible jewels.

The Beau Monde rubbed shoulders with them as they stood around the roulette tables and listened for the click of the white ball.

“Gaming is a great leveller,” someone said to the Duke ironically.

But the evenings were an excitement of win or lose that never failed to enthral.

Then last night in the Casino the Duke had run into the Countess of Minthorpe, a grande dame of the old school and a close friend of Queen Victoria.

She was one of the few hostesses in London who were important enough to declare openly their disapproval of the ‘Marlborough House Set’. This was the fast and raffish collection of rich, gay and beautiful people who circled round the Prince of Wales and his lovely Danish wife.

The Countess had, however, greeted the Duke most affably and he had responded with his usual courtesy until she said in her distinct well-bred voice,

“I hear that you danced with my granddaughter, Daphne, at the Marchioness of Salisbury’s ball last week.”

With some difficulty the Duke remembered a rather nondescript and shy debutante to whom he had been introduced by his hostess and had therefore been obliged to ask her to dance.

“You also had supper together, I believe,” the Countess of Minthorpe continued.

Again after a distinct hesitation the Duke remembered that he had taken a married woman down to supper, but the girl he had danced with at the beginning of the evening had sat on his other side.

He could not recall now whether he had spoken to her or not, but he was quite prepared to believe that she had been there.

“Yes, yes, of course!” he said. “She is just out this Season, I believe.”

“That is right,” the Countess of Minthorpe confirmed, “and I was telling His Royal Highness of your interest in Daphne. He very graciously intimated that both he and the Princess Alexandra would expect to be the first to be told the good news!”

The Countess of Minthorpe smiled, inclined her head graciously and moved away to leave the Duke staring after her bemused.

What she had intimated could not be true! Yet he knew that it was and that the Countess could make life very difficult for him.

He had not forgotten that his friend the Marquis of Dorset had been pressurised into marriage in just such a manner by an ambitious mother enlisting the co-operation of the Prince of Wales.

The Marquis had done no more than take the girl in question for a walk in the garden during a house party.

“You are getting the girl talked about,” His Royal Highness had been prompted into saying. “You must behave like a gentleman and ask her to marry you.”

Dorset had obliged, but the Duke of Atherstone told himself that he had no intention of being caught in the same manner.

At the same time it infuriated him. He had been so careful not to get involved with any young woman or to give any match-making Mama the excuse of taking him to task.

Because he was upset, even though he did not show it, by his encounter with the Countess of Minthorpe he walked over to the roulette tables in search of Lady Millie.

She was standing watching the wheel spin, looking, he thought, extremely beautiful.

There was a spray of ospreys in her hair. She wore an emerald green gown that was daringly décolleté and the diamonds around her neck and in her ears echoed the glitter in her eyes.

Someone had once told Lady Millie that she sparkled like champagne and she had not forgotten it.

She was always sparkling like a fairy on a Christmas tree and invariably the men who clustered around her laughed at her witticisms, at her remarks with their risqué innuendoes, and the double entendre she could make of the most simple sentence.

To the Duke, feeling as if he had received a body blow from the Countess of Minthorpe, she seemed safe and familiar, part of the world he understood – a world that was very far removed from the Social marriage market in which debutantes were paraded like horses in an arena.

He joined a group of men talking to Lady Millie and they moved aside for him in a manner that showed they thought that he had a proprietary claim.

“Oh, there you are, Draco!” Lady Millie said as the Duke reached her. “I have been looking for you. Give me five thousand francs, I have lost all my money!”

The Duke drew a wallet from the breast pocket of his evening suit.

He drew out the francs and gave them into Lady Millie’s hand.

She took them from him slowly and without haste.

Then she looked up into his eyes and sighed,

“At least – you are rich!”

There was no mistaking the meaning behind the words or the look of frustrated resentment.

Just for a moment the Duke was still and then he turned and walked away and out of the Casino.

He knew quite well that Millie was striking at him because she had waited for him the last four nights in vain.

She knew in asking for the money in such a manner she was asserting her authority, showing the other people present that she had a claim on his wealth and that she could command it.

Perhaps if he had not already been incensed by the Countess of Minthorpe’s words, Lady Millie’s taunt would not have inflamed him to the point when he knew that if he stayed in the Casino any longer he would lose his temper openly.

The Duke had always prided himself on his self-control. He never raised his voice to a servant, he never quarrelled with anyone in words.

Instead if he was annoyed he assumed an icy detachment, which was more effective than if he shouted or stormed at the person he was incensed with.

His voice could be like a whiplash even though the words he actually used were not offensive. Generations of pride and authority made him more awe-inspiring in his silence than anything he said.

At the moment he hated Lady Millie and the whole social structure that seemed to be encroaching on him, pressing him, harrowing him, forcing him into a corner, to escape from which he would have to fight his way out!

He stood for a long time on deck until the ship was well out to sea and Monte Carlo looked like a fallen star in the distance, then he turned and went below.

Not to sleep, but to lie thinking of himself and a future that seemed unpleasantly full of hazards and obstacles.

Now, coming into Algiers it was somehow a relief to think that he had put the whole width of the Mediterranean between himself and the tiresome Social world he lived in.

He had been there before and it seemed to him that he needed the contact between the glittering, superficial, flamboyant Society playground of Europe and the oriental mystique of Algiers.

It was as if the Kasba called to him after the sophisticated luxury of the Casino.

He knew well the narrow alleys that were so dark at times that a pedestrian was compelled to feel his way, and in them the men and women in their native costumes were buying, selling, eating, sleeping, praying and gambling. All in the tiny confined spaces of their booths where they sold jewels and silver, carpets and leather goods and the more primitive requirements of an uncivilised people.

He knew the smell there would be of heavy Arab perfume thick with musk, of the strange dishes fried in the open, of smoke from incense drifting through the airless bazaar and the dry acid scent of the desert that seemed to come from the people themselves.

In his imagination it all seemed to welcome him, but he knew that before he explored the City he must visit his friend – a friend of many years who was to him an intrinsic and indivisible part of Algiers.

Although it was still early for calling, the Duke went from the Saloon to tell the Stewards to hire him a carriage and then he drove off from the quay.

He journeyed not towards the Arab part of Algiers where once the bloodthirsty Barbary pirates imprisoned thousands of Christian slaves working in chain gangs, but up through the modern French town to where the white villas were encircled like jewels in a shrine of green.

There were palm, orange, plane and pepper trees everywhere and finally, as he drove through them the carriage turned up a short driveway to a modest-sized villa, white and simple, with an incredibly beautiful view overlooking the bay.

The garden was full of blossom and, seated on the terrace where the Duke was shown by a servant, were a man and a woman.

For a moment they stared at him incredulously and then the man jumped to his feet with an exclamation of delight.

“Draco! Is it really you?”

“You are surprised to see me?” the Duke asked, holding out his hand.

“Surprised? I am astonished!” Nicholas Vlastov replied. “Astonished and overjoyed.”

The Duke’s friend was a man little older than himself. Good-looking, with that indescribably Russian charm that made him fascinating to men and women alike.

He covered the Duke’s hands with both of his and then, with his arm around his shoulders, led him nearer to the table.

“Fatimat, my dear,” he said, “here is our friend, Draco Atherstone, whom I could not be more delighted to see.”

“I too am delighted to see you,” Madame Vlastov replied.

Although the Duke had known Nicholas Vlastov for many years when he had been in the Diplomatic Service, he had only met Madame Vlastov once and that was soon after they had run away together.

It had caused a great scandal at the time.

Nicholas Vlastov had been Russian Attaché at the Court of St. James’s, where he had gained a great deal of popularity and a considerable amount of respect.

He had returned to Russia on leave and inexplicably and without any warning left with the wife of a senior diplomat who he met in St. Petersburg for the first time.

They had fled to Algeria and it was five years before finally her husband agreed to divorce Fatimat and she was able to marry the man she loved.

They had been years of ostracism and persecution, years when nobody would speak to either of them, when they were denounced for their outrageous behaviour and they found it hard to live.

The Duke, however, had never lost touch with his friend and had in fact assisted him financially during the first years when at times it was hard to know where their next meal was coming from.

Then Nicholas Vlastov had begun to write.

He gave his first book to the Duke who had read it and taken it personally to a publisher who was a friend. He had expected to have to use his influence to get it published, but the publisher realised when he read Nicholas Vlastov’s book that here was a hitherto undiscovered genius.

The first book was a huge success and a second and third which followed it were bestsellers not only in England but all over the world.

They were even translated into Russian, which was a personal triumph.

There was no doubt that Nicholas Vlastov was now a rich man with every prospect of becoming very much richer, but he would never forget those who had stood by him in trouble and there were very few of them.

As the Duke sat down at the breakfast table and accepted a cup of coffee, he asked him,

“Why are you here? Why did you not let us know you were coming?”

“It’s a long story and not a particularly interesting one,” the Duke replied. “Tell me about yourself. What are you writing?”

Before Nicholas Vlastov could answer, he added another question.

“Are you both happy?”

Madame Vlastov put out her hand and laid it on the Duke’s.

“We live in a special Paradise of our own,” she said. “I wish I could describe to you how wonderful it is.”

She was very beautiful in a Russian manner and the Duke raised her long thin fingers to his lips before he said,

“Nicholas is a very lucky man. I am jealous of him!”

“I shall have to try and find you someone as alluring as Fatimat,” Nicholas Vlastov said with a smile.

The Duke put up his hands in mock horror.

“No, no!” he said. “No more scheming, manoeuvring women! To be honest that is why I am here!”

“I half guessed it,” his friend said, “seeing that you have come alone.”

He, perhaps better than anyone else, knew how the Duke was pursued, importuned and harried by women.

They had spent some very gay and raffish times together both in London and Paris.

Sometimes it had only been his Russian ingenuity that had extracted the Duke from almost impossible situations or imminent scandals.

“I want to be immersed in Africa,” the Duke said. “What are the latest amusements to delight a bored and jaded man, to titillate the senses of someone who is satiated with the pleasures of European life?”

Nicholas Vlastov threw back his head and laughed.

“Draco, you will have to write a book,” he said. “Such a flow of language would make you a bestseller the moment it appeared!”

“Like you!” the Duke answered. “Are the shekels rolling in?”

“He is such a success!” Fatimat Vlastov said proudly in her soft musical voice. “He is translated into almost every language in the world and his reviews are so flattering that I am half afraid he will become conceited!”

“Not when I have a wife like you,” Nicholas Vlastov said, “you are my severest critic. You always discover even the tiniest faults, so that I never get too puffed up with myself!”

She laughed at that, but her eyes were full of love as she said,

“I may criticise, but you know as well as I do that I touch your feet in admiration.”

For a moment it seemed to the Duke as if the two people on either side of him had forgotten his existence.

They were looking at each other with an understanding and a closeness that made everything else supremely unimportant.

‘That is what I want,’ he told himself. ‘That is what I am looking for in life.’

He had a sudden vision of Millie’s beautiful face, but with a very different expression in her eyes.

It was, he knew, the hunger of physical desire, the fire of passion and also a hungry possessiveness – a struggle for power and supremacy, which was something he would never tolerate from a woman.

“What shall we do about you?” Nicholas Vlastov said. “Algiers, as you know, is full of all the curiosities and the sensations that the Arab world can devise.”

“I have no desire for you to take me to the dances of the Aissaoui again,” the Duke said. “Once was quite enough where they were concerned.”