The bed, an immense four-posted structure with a massive tester, was covered with beaten silver and hung with scarlet velvet. And every other article of furniture in the room was thickly plated with silver; each chair, from the smallest stool to the great settee before the fireplace, was cushioned in scarlet. The window-hangings were silver-embroidered scarlet velvet. Above the fireplace and sunk flush with the wall was a more intimate and considerably more typical portrait of Amber, painted by Peter Lely. She lay on her side on a heap of black cushions, unashamedly naked, staring out with a slant-eyed smile at whoever paused to look.
The room seemed to possess a violent, almost savage personality. No human being had a chance of seeming important in it. And yet it was the envy of the Palace, for it was the most extravagant gesture anyone had yet made. Amber, not at all awed by it, loved it for its arrogance, its uncompromising challenge, its crude and boisterous beauty. It represented to her everything she had ever believed she wanted from life; and all she had got. It was her symbol of success.
But it was not enough, now she had it, to make her happy.
For though her days were perpetually busy, occupied with a never-ceasing round of gossip, new clothes, gambling, play-going, supper-giving, schemes and counter-schemes, she was never able to make herself forget Bruce Carlton. He would not leave her, no matter what she was doing, and though usually her longing for him was a low-keyed minor unhappiness it surged sometimes into tremendous and monumental music which seemed unbearable. When that happened, always when she least expected it, she would think and almost wish that she would die. It would seem impossible then that she could exist for another moment without him, and her yearning, wild and desperate, would reach out blindly—to inevitable disappointment.
About mid-March Almsbury arrived in London alone to attend to some business matters and amuse himself for a few weeks. Amber had not seen him since the previous August and the first question she asked was whether or not he had heard from Bruce.
“No,” said the Earl. “Have you?”
“Have I?” she demanded crossly. “Of course not! He’s never written me a letter in his life! But it’d seem he might at least let you know how he does!”
Almsbury shrugged. “Why should he? He’s busy—and as long as I don’t hear from him I know everything’s well with him. If it wasn’t he’d let me know.”
“Are you sure?”
Her eyes slipped him a stealthy glance. They were in her bedroom, Amber in a dressing-gown lying on a little day-bed with her trim ankles crossed, while Tansy sat on the floor beside her contemplating the frayed toes of his shoes. Though he could be very amusing, usually he did not speak unless spoken to and was quiet in a way which suggested some strange inner tranquillity, an almost animal self-sufficiency.
“What do you mean by that?” Almsbury’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at her. “If you’re hoping that something’s happened to Corinna you may as well forget it. Hoping for another woman to die will never get you what you want, you know that as well as I do. He never intended to marry you anyway.”
There were times when some suppressed impatience or cruelty in the Earl crept into his attitude toward her. She took him so much for granted that it never occurred to her to wonder about the cause, though she was always very quick to take offense when it appeared.
“How do you know! He might have, now I’m a countess—if it hadn’t been for her—”
Her eyes hardened as she spoke of Corinna and her upper lip tightened stubbornly. But in a sense, she was almost glad to have Corinna as the reason and excuse for all her troubles—she could never otherwise have explained to herself or anyone else his refusal to marry her.
“Amber, my dear,” he said now, and his eyes and the tone of his voice had softened with a kind of affectionate pity. “There’s no use pretending to yourself, is there? He didn’t marry her because she’s rich and titled. Probably he wouldn’t have married her if she hadn’t been—no man in his position would—but if that was all he wanted he’d have married long ago. No, sweetheart—you might as well be honest with yourself. He loves her.”
“But he loves me too!” she cried desperately. “Oh, he does, Almsbury! You know he does!” Suddenly her voice and eyes grew wistful. “You think he loves me, don’t you?”
Almsbury smiled and reached across to take her hand. “My poor little darling. Yes, I think he does—and sometimes I almost think you’d have loved him even if he had married you.”
“Oh, of course I would!” she cried and then, half-ashamed: “Stop teasing me, Almsbury.” She glanced nervously away, feeling foolish. But all at once the words burst forth in a rush. “Oh, I do love him, Almsbury! You can’t imagine how much I love him! I’d do anything—anything in the world to get him! And I’d always love him—if I saw him every day and every night for a thousand years! Oh, you know it’s true, Almsbury—I’ve never loved another man—I never could!” Then, seeing some strange look come into his eyes, she was afraid that she had hurt him. “Oh, of course I love you, Almsbury—but in a different way—I—”
“Never mind, Amber. Don’t try to explain yourself—I know more about it than you do, anyway. You’re in love with three of us: the King, and Bruce—and me. And each one of us, I think, loves you. But you won’t get much happiness from any of it—because you want more than we’re willing to give. There’s not one of us you can get hold of the way you got hold of that poor devil of a young captain—what was his name?—or the old dotard who willed you his money. And do you want to know why? I’ll tell you. The King loves you—but no better than he’s loved a dozen other women and will one day love a dozen more. No woman on earth can hurt him, because he depends on them for nothing but physical pleasure. His sister is the only woman he really loves—but that’s neither here nor there so far as we’re concerned. Bruce loves you—but there are other things he loves more. And now there’s another woman he loves more. And last of all, darling—I love you too. But I’ve got no illusions about you. I know what you are and I don’t care—so you’ll never hurt me very much either.”
“Ye gods, Almsbury! Why should I want to hurt you—or anyone else? What the devil put that maggot into your head?”
“No woman’s ever satisfied unless she knows she can hurt the man who loves her. Come, now, be honest—it’s true, isn’t it? You’ve always thought you could make me miserable, if you ever wanted to try, haven’t you?” His eyes watched her steadily.
Amber smiled at him—the smile of a pretty woman who knows she is being admired. “Maybe I have,” she admitted at last. “Are you sure I couldn’t?”
For an instant he sat motionless, and then all at once he got to his feet; his white teeth were showing in a broad grin. “No, sweetheart, you couldn’t.” He stood and looked at her, his face serious again. “I’ll tell you one thing, though—if there’s any man on earth you could have married and been happy—it’s me.”
Amber stared at him, amazed, and then, with a little laugh, she stood up. “Almsbury! What in the devil are you talking about? If there’s one man I could have married and been happy it’s Bruce, and you know it—”
“You’re wrong about that.” But as she started to protest he began walking toward the door and she strolled along beside him. “I’ll see you in the Drawing-Room tonight—and we’ll raffle for that hundred pound you won from me yesterday.”
She laughed. “We can’t, Almsbury! I spent it this morning—for a new gown!” And then, just as he went out the door, she laughed again. “Imagine us married!”