She had a knack for disconcerting questions. He'd never considered how matters should look from her point of view. Gervase set his teeth in his lower lip as he thought about the answer. While their relationship was rooted in commerce, if Diana became his mistress there would be more between them than simple business.
The question was, how much more? Slowly he replied, "I want you to be free of financial worries. And I hope you would find our liaison physically satisfying."
Blandly she asked, "And if you don't satisfy me, shall I pretend that you do?"
Stung in his male pride, Gervase retorted, "If you lie, you will have only yourself to blame for dissatisfaction. Even the most skilled of lovers can't read thoughts."
His gaze brushed the lush curves discreetly displayed by her prim dark blue riding habit, then returned to her flawless heart-shaped face, serene in quiet listening. There was too much sensuality in every line of Diana's body to imagine that she would be impossible to satisfy, Her response to his kisses showed that under her ladylike demeanor lay a passionate nature.
Having reached that conclusion, he said more evenly, "I know that it is one of a courtesan's skills to convince a man that he is the greatest lover in the history of mankind, but I prefer to think that you will not have to be an actress with me."
Two could play the game of questions, so he continued, "What do you wish of me? You have made it clear that any number of men are willing to pay your price. What more will it take for you to single me out above your other suitors?"
"I never said I would single you out."
Her musical voice was so matter-of-fact that it took a moment for him to absorb the sense of what she was saying. As angry color rose in his face, he snapped, "You prefer to operate a one-woman bawdy house? That is quite unacceptable to me. I want your exclusive services, and I am willing to pay more than generously for that privilege."
Her wide eyes were still serene, but steel showed in the dark blue depths. "I have no desire to accept all offers, but neither will I promise to be exclusive." After a moment she added, "I do not make promises that I am unsure I can keep."
Gervase stood, his body taut as he brushed leaf mold from the knees of his riding breeches. "If that is how you wish it, then we have nothing further to discuss. I have no intention of waiting in line outside your bedroom door."
Trained to be courteous even in anger, he offered his hand to help her rise even as his mouth set in tight, angry lines. Sharing his woman with any rake or footman who took her fancy was insupportable.
Quite intolerable... and yet his resolve began to waver the moment she laid her hand in his. Her weight was light as she came to her feet with the grace of a forest dryad. She did not release his hand, and the delicate-boned fingers lay within his grasp, radiating a calm that spread through him and soothed his anger.
She stood so close that her breasts almost touched his chest, and he caught the elusive scent of lilac. Her wide innocent gaze lifted to hold his as she asked, "Are you so inflexible that only your way will do? If I am always there when you desire me, why should it matter what I might possibly—only possibly—do in some other hour? What will you lose by that?"
He wanted to say that he was indeed that inflexible. Compromise might be necessary in his public work, but he had found no need for it in his personal life.
Not until now. Just how much did he want this woman with her exquisite face, intoxicating body, and gentle manners?
Too much. Too bloody damned much.
His words were cool, but the edge was gone from his voice as he said, "I find it quite unacceptable that you might make sport of me behind my back with other lovers."
She gave a slight shake of her head. "Either you can trust me to be discreet and honorable, or you cannot—that has nothing to do with how many lovers I might have. I promise that what is between us will always be private, yet if I am not honorable, the promise itself means nothing."
An impossible argument to refute: only time would prove if she was worthy of trust. He wanted to repeat that he would never accept her terms, but against his will, reluctant words formed. "I shall consider what you have said."
In spite of the curtness of his answer, in his heart he knew that it was just a matter of time until he capitulated, and from the slight smile that curved her full lips, Diana Lindsay knew that too. If there had been even the faintest glint of triumph in her eyes, he would have wrenched his hand free and turned his back on her forever rather than place his pride in hands that might prove unreliable.
Instead she turned his hand in hers and pressed a kiss onto it, her lips velvet-warm against his fingers. There was a tenderness in the gesture that he'd never known before. Her shining hair fell away from her graceful neck, and the sweetness and vulnerability of that exposed creamy nape struck him so intensely that the shock was physical. It was unlike any emotion he had ever known, an ache dearer than mere sexual pleasure.
Gervase's grip tightened and he lifted her hand and held it against his cheek, rubbing his face against her fingers as she gazed at him with deep lapis eyes. In that moment he would have agreed to anything she asked.
Bleakly he wondered where this weakness would lead.
Chapter 7
A distant church bell was striking four o'clock when they reined in their horses in the stableyard behind Diana's house, having ridden back to London in near-total silence. Since he doubted that any whore—or any other woman, for that matter—could be as honest as Diana Lindsay pretended to be, Gervase was suspicious that under her honeyed words she was mocking him.
Diana had been equally quiet on the ride, and as he helped her from her horse he saw signs of tension in her face. Perhaps she feared that she had gone too far in her demands and had lost him. The thought was a satisfying one.
She stood in front of him, her hands lightly touching his arms for balance after her slide from Phaedra's back. "You wondered when. If you still desire me, you may call tomorrow evening. I will receive you privately."
Gervase relaxed, feeling that the initiative was once more in his hands. Her invitation was unmistakable, and there was no surer cure for sexual fascination than to dispel the mystery. He had known other beautiful women, and shorn of her riding habit and her innocent air, Diana Lindsay would be no different from the others. After they had made love a few times, it wouldn't be difficult to walk away from her if she proved more trouble than she was worth.
He made a perfunctory bow over her hand, avoiding any closer embrace. "Very well. Will nine o'clock suit you?"
"Perfectly, my lord. I shall await you then."
He escorted her to the back door of the house, then mounted and rode out of the yard. Diana watched his departure as she waited for the footman to open the door. A prickly man, Lord St. Aubyn, accustomed to having his own way. And why shouldn't he be? As a wealthy nobleman, he could do almost anything he chose.
With wry amusement, she recognized the similarity between him and the Count de Veseul. Both of them were intense, commanding, and they desired her. The difference lay in the fact that the Frenchman wished to plunder her and cared nothing for her consent. In contrast, St. Aubyn, though he might be unused to consider anyone's convenience but his own, seemed willing to learn. He had... possibilities. Thank God.
As the footman admitted her to the house, she gave an unladylike snort and lifted her skirts across the threshold. It wasn't anything so abstract as his "possibilities" that attracted her. No, it was other things, such as his controlled strength and rock-ribbed integrity. And, of course, that beautiful, panther-lean body. She wanted to learn the mysteries of love, and his lordship of St. Aubyn should be a most rewarding teacher.
* * *
Having taken a full day for personal pleasure, Gervase spent the evening working in the study of St. Aubyn House. In the last two years he had become a key man in the British government, though few people knew what he did. In theory, he held a minor post in the Foreign Office, a sinecure where he worked only the h
ours he chose and dabbled in dispatches and communications.
In actuality, he coordinated information from different British intelligence gathering organization. During his years in the India, Gervase had displayed an uncanny talent for weaving fragments of information together to create a larger picture. Prime Minister Pitt had personally asked Gervase to turn that ability to the critical European theater of war, where Britain had been fighting France for too many years.
Because the existing intelligence groups were jealous of their information, it was tedious and frustrating work. A combination of tact and firmness was required to convince them to share what they knew.
Gervase also worked with agents and informants on the Continent, evaluating their information and deciding whether their special projects were worthwhile. Spies frequently offered glorious plans that would require them to handle large amounts of British money.
Less tedious and infinitely more dangerous were the occasional trips he made to the Continent when he felt that only his own judgment could be trusted. Since Napoleon had closed all ports to the British, Gervase slipped in with smugglers. Like most of his class, he had been raised to speak French as naturally as English, and he could pass as a Frenchman when necessary. Even so, there was always the chance that his cousin Francis would inherit the title much sooner than expected.
It was an unglamorous business, but vital, and Gervase found it both rewarding and absorbing. Tonight, however, his usual concentration was lacking and everything took twice the time it should.
The last report in the pile was from the Deciphering Branch, an odd little group that had been founded by an Oxford don over a hundred years earlier and which was still run as a family business. Frowning, he studied the decoded translation of a secret dispatch to a French agent in London, then gave a sigh of irritation. He had been excited when it was intercepted, but nothing in the message to the mysterious "Phoenix" gave a clue as to who the recipient might be. The blasted spy had been a dangerous nuisance for years, and this dispatch brought him no closer to knowing the man's identity.
Idly Gervase jotted down the names of half a dozen men who might be the Phoenix, each of them prominent and impossible to challenge without ironclad proof of treachery. He had had them all watched for months, but was no nearer to an answer than when he had begun.
Unfortunately, when he looked at the sheet of foolscap he saw not spies but Diana Lindsay in all her sensual allure. Tomorrow night at this time his curiosity would be satisfied, and he would no longer have to guess at what lay hidden beneath her elegant clothing. Tonight, regrettably, he could think of nothing else. Just the thought of her aroused him to the point where his brain became useless. How ridiculous and inappropriate that a high-class doxy should come between him and the work that gave his life meaning!
He crumpled the sheet of names and tossed it into the fire, since he was making no progress toward the Phoenix. Better to spend the time deciding what kind of gift to take to Diana tomorrow night as payment for her favors. He stared at the flames without seeing them, one corner of his mouth quirked up in exasperation. The sooner he took the witch to bed, the sooner his life could get back to normal.
* * *
Late that night, Diana was wakened by the nursery maid with the announcement that Geoffrey was having another seizure. By the time she had pulled on her green robe and raced up the stairs, the fit was over and Geoffrey was lying still on his bed, a sheen of perspiration on his face.
Edith sat with him. Besides being the housekeeper, she had appointed herself Geoffrey's chief guardian and she slept in the adjoining chamber, ever alert for sounds that might signal an attack. While nothing could be done to stop a seizure, Geoffrey's real and surrogate mothers would watch over him to make sure that he did not injure himself in his convulsions.
Geoffrey's face was pale, but he struggled upright in bed at the sight of his mother. "There was no need for you to get up, Mama," he said matter-of-factly. "It was just another fit."
Diana smiled and climbed up next to him on the bed, leaning against the headboard and circling her son with one arm. For all his protests, he snuggled up to her quickly, burrowing against her side. "I was having trouble sleeping anyway, and now we have an excuse for hot cocoa."
"A good idea," Edith said in her deep northern voice. "I'll make some." She left to go down to the kitchen.
Diana felt Geoffrey's forehead. As she expected, it was too warm. The seizures usually came when he was feverish. Now that he was seven, the epileptic fits were less common, but were usually more violent when they occurred. "Perhaps you'd better stay home from school tomorrow."
"Mama," he said, sitting up with an indignant expression. "I like school. I don't want to stay home."
"I'm glad you like school, but surely they can manage without you for one day," she said, attempting not to sound too concerned. "Besides, if you have a fever you might have another seizure at school, and that could be a nuisance."
He shrugged his small shoulders with elaborate casualness. "Oh, I had one at school. During Latin. Mr. Hardy made me lie down afterward, but then I went back to class."
"Oh?" Diana's eyebrows lifted, a little irritated that the schoolmaster hadn't informed her of the attack.
Sensing what she wouldn't ask, Geoffrey grinned, mischief wreathing his small face. "The other boys in my class are very impressed. They wanted to know if they can learn how to do it."
After a moment of shock, Diana had to laugh. Now and then she needed to be reminded of how resilient small boys were. "What did you tell them?"
"I said they were out of luck. One has to be born epileptic to do it right," he said loftily.
Diana smiled and brushed her fingers through his silky dark brown hair. She was biased, but anyone would admit that he was a beautiful child. Though small for his age, he had a sturdy, growing body, a sunny disposition, and an outstanding intelligence as well. Surely so many blessings would outweigh his disability in the eyes of those he would meet as he grew up.
Her confidence faltered as she saw the way his dark blue eyes, so much like hers, slipped out of focus for a moment. The "staring spells" came more frequently after he had had a grand mal seizure. For a second or two he would lose awareness of his surroundings and not know it, if he was talking, after a silent pause he would continue as if nothing had happened.
It was fortunate that they had found Mr. Hardy's small school, where children could learn in an atmosphere of greater freedom and understanding than was usual. The schoolmaster accepted Geoffrey's problem with patience and understanding. As a result, her son loved school.
Edith returned carrying a tray with a steaming pottery jug and four mugs. Madeline trailed behind her, still tying the sash of her dressing gown. Maddy yawned, then said with a faint air of accusation, "You're having a party and didn't invite me."
Geoffrey giggled and Diana joined in as Edith poured the cocoa. For the next half-hour it was indeed a party, albeit a quiet one. Diana kept a careful eye on Geoffrey's mug since he might spill it if he had a long staring spell, but he managed very well. Sometimes she dared hope that he might outgrow the seizures, but she would be grateful if they got no worse.
By the time the cocoa was gone Geoffrey was almost asleep, so Diana tucked him under the covers and prepared to withdraw. His right hand curled under his chin and his lashes lay dark against his cheek as she kissed him. At moments like this she loved him so much that it hurt her heart. She stood and glanced at her friends. "Good night, Edith. Thank you."
Edith gave her rare warm smile, then returned to her own room. Downstairs, Diana asked Madeline hesitantly, "If you aren't too sleepy, do you have a moment to come in?"
Madeline's shrewd eyes assessed her. "Of course. Is something wrong?"
"Not really." Inside her sitting room, Diana lit several candles from the candlestick she had carried downstairs, then wandered across the room to a window. Pulling back the drapery, she looked down into Charles Street. "I've invited St. Auby
n to come tomorrow night. Or I guess it's tonight now."
Madeline sat down on the sofa and pulled her legs up, tucking her robe under her feet. "Are you sure you are ready for this? You don't look very happy about it."
Diana turned away from the window, letting the drapery fail behind her. "I'm not unhappy. Just nervous."
Madeline eyed her closely. "You don't have to do it, you know, if the idea frightens you. You really haven't had the time to become well-acquainted with St. Aubyn."
Diana shrugged and spread her hands. "I know him as well as many girls know their husbands on their wedding nights, and I have the advantage of not being an ignorant virgin. My experience is very limited, but at least I'm not terrified by the unknown."
"Then what is bothering you?"
Diana sat in one of the chairs, pulling her knees up against her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "I'm not sure, really. I guess it's..." She hesitated, searching for the right word. "...a kind of melancholy. This seems so... so cold-blooded. Such a very long way from the romantic dreams of Prince Charming and love everlasting. The sort of thing every little girl is raised to expect, and almost none of us ever get."
"You're a romantic, Diana," the older woman said in a kindly voice. "You would like to be in love with St. Aubyn and you're not. But if you feel that way, why are you going to bed with him? You're under no financial compulsion."
Diana hugged her knees with a mischievous smile. "While I'm not in love with him, I find him attractive. Very attractive."
"Well, if you are determined to go ahead with this, that is not a bad place to begin," Madeline admitted. "He has the look of a man who knows his way around a mattress."
Diana colored. Despite her maturity, the girl was relatively innocent. Well, that would change, and very soon now. Madeline rose and stretched sleepily. "I'm ready for bed myself, and it's a sign of my age that I'm glad it's an empty one."
As Diana chuckled, Madeline crossed the room, but with her hand on the knob of the door she found herself turning to ask once more, "Are you truly sure this is the right thing to do?"
Dearly Beloved Page 12
