Dearly Beloved

by Mary Jo Putney

  He moved on quickly, before Diana's thoughtful glance could become a question. "It's interesting that our birthdays are exactly opposite, each at the end of the solstice, after the sun has paused for three days and is on the verge of turning."

  She nodded. "When I was little, I thought it rather special to have been born on Midsummer Day. The solstices were honored in all pagan cultures. What is Christmas but our own version of the Saturnalia, the celebration that the sun is returning and life will continue instead of dying in endless night?"

  Gervase looked up from his pheasant pie with amusement. "Where on earth did you learn that?" Diana's magpie assortment of knowledge never ceased to amaze him.

  She colored slightly. "Oh, I read it somewhere. Do opposite birthdays mean that we are also opposites?"

  "Of course," he said softly, his clear gray eyes flaring with the intensity she had come to recognize. He laid his fork down and turned sideways on the bench to face her. "I am male and you are female. How much more opposite can two people get?"

  He put one hand under her chin and lifted it for a warm, pheasanty kiss. "Haven't you ever heard that opposites attract?"

  "What do they attract?" she asked in a voice as husky as his. Undoing a button on his shirt, she slid her hand inside, feeling his quickened breath.

  "If you've forgotten so quickly, it appears that I must remind you." He wrapped his arms around her, his weight carrying her back until she was lying on the bench beneath him, laughing.

  Because the bench was hard and narrow and the stone floor would be cold, they adjourned to her bedroom before matters proceeded further. Six days of separation had fanned the flames of desire to a bonfire and they made love at fever pitch. Gervase couldn't get enough of Diana, wanting to bury himself in her, to know every secret of her body and mind. Diana's own kisses were equally fierce and she clung to him with a fervor that went beyond passion to deep need.

  After the explosive climax, there was a lazy interval when Diana retrieved the abandoned supper from the kitchen, bringing it upstairs for cold consumption in bed. When they made love again, it was a slow savoring as she lay on top of him, controlling the tempo with the gentle pulsation of her hips.

  Later they lay curled up together, her back nestled against his stomach, his hand cupping her breast as the slow rhythm of his breathing stirred tendrils of her dark hair. Outside, raw wind whistled down the streets of Mayfair, but Gervase couldn't remember when he had felt happier or more content.

  If six days resulted in such a spectacular experience, he wondered lazily what kind of reunion they would have if separated for a fortnight. That might be beyond his powers of survival. Still, one could hardly ask a better end....

  He dozed off, hoping Diana would fall so deeply asleep that she would forget to send him home. At that moment, the height of his ambition was to spend a full night with her.

  When the faint tapping on the door came, he was so relaxed that he didn't stir as Diana stiffened to alertness, then slipped from his arms. He heard the faint rustling as she donned robe and slippers, but the low-voiced conversation with the person at the door was unintelligible.

  Contentment shattered when she left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. Gervase came fully, angrily awake. Good God, could she possibly have another lover calling at this hour? Perhaps some damned gamester who had just left the tables was stopping by to complete the evening's entertainment. His fury left no room for common sense and he dressed swiftly, yanking on his clothing by the ruddy glow of the coal fire.

  Stepping into the hall, he heard the distant footsteps of Diana and the servant and he followed, driven by a sick need to learn who had the influence to rouse her at this hour. In the shadowed silence, he easily located the stairwell she had climbed and he took the steps two at a time, quiet as a hunting cat.

  Odd that she would meet someone up here, but she could hardly bring another man into her regular bedroom with Gervase there. Bitterly he wondered how many beds she kept in readiness. The upstairs hall was dimly lit by a partially open door halfway down the length, and he softly went to gaze in, even as he damned himself for pursuing an action that could only cause pain.

  The sight that met his eyes was indeed shocking, though not in the way he had expected; convulsions are a terrifying sight, particularly in a child so young. The little boy's body arched, shaking the whole bed, and his desperate gagging sounds filled the corners of the room. Diana was beside him, her face anguished, her hands deft and gentle as she steadied his body from twisting onto the floor. Gervase registered the fact that a stern-faced older woman and a young maid were also in the room, but his attention was riveted by the drama on the bed.

  Then the seizure ended. The silence was profound as the child's body relaxed and his desperate breathing returned to normal. Diana leaned over, holding him with infinite gentleness.

  Gervase was immobilized by a contradictory blend of relief that she had not come to another lover, and pure infantile jealousy; seeing her lavish so much tenderness on another person left him feeling diminished. He knew how contemptible he was to begrudge a child love, but the part of him that ached at the sight was also a child: a wounded child.

  Invisible in the dark of the hall, he could have taken his small-minded resentment and faded away to nurse it alone, burying it so deeply that he could deny its existence. Instead, after hovering on the brink of flight, he stepped into the room.

  Everyone turned to him, but he saw only the two figures on the bed as they stared with identical lapis-blue eyes. The boy's face was questioning, but Diana, gentle Diana, who always welcomed and never reproached, was gazing at her lover with furious vigilance, like a tigress whose cub was threatened. If looks could kill, Francis Brandelin would be a viscount. Gervase was momentarily rocked by her hostility, wondering why his entrance caused such antagonism. Was this virago the true Diana and the gentle mistress only the practiced mask of a courtesan?

  In spite of his internal questions, Gervase continued walking toward the bed. The tension in the room had a gelid, explosive quality, and only the child was oblivious of it. Secure within Diana's arms, he asked, "Who are you?"

  Gervase sat sideways on the bed opposite his mistress. The bed was so low that it must have been custom-made, perhaps to save the boy from a dangerous fall if a seizure hurled him to the floor. "My name is St. Aubyn. I'm a friend of your mother's."

  The child gravely offered his hand. With those vivid blue eyes, it was quite unnecessary to hear, "Good evening, sir. I'm Geoffrey Lindsay," to know that this was Diana's son.

  The boy's small hand gripped firmly. Looking the visitor up and down, he asked, "Why are you calling so late?"

  He saw Diana's body grow even more rigid, if that were possible. Did she think that Gervase would call her a whore to her own child? That would explain her anger.

  Directing his words to Geoffrey, Gervase answered, "I know it's past the fashionable hour for calling, but I've been out of town. I stopped by hoping your mother would feed me."

  Geoffrey grinned. "Mama likes feeding people."

  "She does it well." As one would expect of Diana's child, the boy was beautiful, with dark hair, a bright intelligent face, and a maturity in his eyes unusual in one so young. From the looks of that smile, he'd inherited her charm as well.

  Geoffrey's face darkened. "Did... did you see what happened?"

  Gervase nodded. "Yes. That was quite a seizure you had. A wretched nuisance, isn't it?"

  The expressive eyes widened. "Do you have fits too?"

  "Not now, but I did sometimes when I was a boy."

  Now both pairs of blue eyes were studying him intently. Even though she kept a protective arm around Geoffrey, Diana's hostility was lessening. Her eyes shifted from Gervase to someone beyond; then she nodded in response to a silent question. Behind him he heard the other two women withdraw from the room, leaving Diana alone with her son and her lover.

  With cautious excitement Geoffrey asked, "You mean...
I'm really not the only one who has seizures?"

  Speaking for the first time, his mother said, "Of course you aren't, darling, you know better than that."

  Geoffrey shook his head stubbornly. "You say that I'm not, but I've never met anyone else who has them."

  So the boy thought that he was the only one, some kind of freak or monster? It was an emotion Gervase understood all too well. "It's not that uncommon. When I was in the army, I had a corporal who had seizures occasionally. A physician once told me that anyone can have a seizure under the right—or rather wrong—conditions. I had them when I had fevers."

  Geoffrey almost bounced on the bed, fascination written on his face. "That's what happens to me! Mama hates it when I'm ill, because I have more fits."

  Gervase glanced up, but Diana was avoiding his gaze. If her son had been ill, that might explain her fatigue and tension when he came earlier. "I can see why it would upset her," he said in a matter-of-fact voice. "They say my mother wouldn't come near the nursery when I had even the mildest case of sniffles."

  Geoffrey was inching toward his visitor, the blankets a tangled drift around him. "What did it feel like for you?"

  Gervase cast his mind back twenty years. "I never felt anything during the actual seizure—it was like being asleep. But I remember that when one began, it felt like... like someone had tied a strap around my forehead and was pulling it backward."

  "That's it exactly!" the boy exclaimed. "Like a giant, tugging at me. Sometimes I fight him off and don't have a fit."

  Diana stared at her son in surprise. "Sometimes you can stop the seizure from starting? You never told me that."

  He fidgeted, glancing askance. "It doesn't work very often."

  Shaking her head, she straightened and said, "I guess a mother is the last to know." She still wouldn't look at Gervase.

  Another memory surfaced now, and the viscount said abruptly, "The worst of it was the eyes. I'd blank out, then the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground. People would be gathered around, staring at me. All those eyes..."

  He stopped speaking as he saw that Geoffrey's face was very still, and etched with more knowledge than a child should have. Any epileptic knew those stares, the eyes avid with curiosity, or fear, or disgust, or perhaps the worst of all, pity. Geoffrey knew, but would not speak of it in front of his mother.

  Instead the boy said after a brief hesitation, "Did you learn to ride even though you had fits?"

  "Of course."

  Geoffrey gave his mother a speaking glance. Diana headed off the "I told you so" hovering on her son's tongue by saying briskly, "Isn't it time you got to sleep, young man?"

  "No! Not tired at all." His remark was undercut by a wide yawn. As if it were a signal, a young tabby cat jumped on the bed. Geoffrey lifted the little animal in his hands. "When I had the seizure, Tiger was frightened and jumped off. I've only had her a few weeks, and she's already learned to sleep on my bed."

  "Clever cat," the viscount said, suppressing a smile.

  "It wouldn't be a bad idea if you tried sleeping on the bed too, young man," Diana said firmly as she pressed her son back, then tucked the blankets around boy and cat. "This is not the right time for a lengthy discussion. Lord St. Aubyn must be getting home himself."

  The blue eyes flew open. "He's a real lord?"

  Gervase almost laughed out loud; he couldn't remember when he'd impressed someone with so little effort. "Yes, a real lord. A viscount, to be exact."

  The boy eyed him doubtfully. "Where's your purple robe?"

  "I only wear that on special occasions, when I can't avoid it. Usually it's a nuisance, always getting stepped on and knocking vases off tables," Gervase said gravely. He stood and proffered his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lindsay."

  This time Geoffrey's grip was a good deal less firm, but he still had the energy left to offer the kitten's paw for shaking.

  Gervase accepted the thin striped forepaw with fair aplomb. The cat appeared to have no opinion. Then the viscount looked more closely and said in surprise, "Good Lord, the cat has thumbs." Tiger had a long extra toe that projected almost exactly the same as a human thumb, though it was less flexible.

  Geoffrey smiled mischievously as he fought a losing battle to keep his eyes open. "Mama says that it is scary to think what cats will get into once they've developed the opposable thumb."

  Gervase gave Diana an amused glance but she was looking down at her son, her expression obscured. Even with his eyes closed, Geoffrey was unready to call it a night. His voice blurred with fatigue, he asked, "Will you tell me about the army sometime?"

  "If you wish."

  Diana glanced up sharply, then thought better of what she had intended saying. As she leaned over to kiss her son's cheek, Gervase withdrew and waited outside. In spite of the lateness of the hour, he had a great many things to say to his mistress.

  Chapter 10

  Diana felt the door panels digging into her rigid shoulder blades as the anger she had suppressed in front of Geoffrey emerged as a glare. Her temper was not improved by the glint of amusement in Gervase's eyes. Her voice low and hard, she said, "Clearly the rumors of your spying activities were accurate."

  Unalarmed by her expression, the viscount said, "I admit I was curious where you were going at such an odd hour. If he's been ill, I suppose that explains why you look tired tonight."

  "It's time you left."

  "It is very late," he agreed, "but not yet quite time to leave. If we're going to fight, let's do it downstairs. This corridor is freezing and you must be too."

  The blasted man was right; her shivering was as much from cold as from anger. Taking the candlestick from her hand, he wrapped one warm arm around her unyielding shoulders and led her back to the bedroom. A few minutes later she was ensconced in a wing chair by the fire, a cashmere shawl wrapped around her and a glass of brandy in her hand. Pampering was a novel and pleasant experience, but she refused to let herself be mollified.

  Gervase knelt by the hearth, stirring up the fire and adding more coal until it was burning bright and hot. He had already poured himself a brandy and now he took the opposite chair, lounging back and crossing his long legs at the ankles. In the dim light it was impossible to read his expression; his face was a collection of elegant shadows, hawklike and distant.

  She didn't want to be affected by how he looked, and she certainly didn't want to think of what they had been doing with such pleasure earlier in the evening, so she stared into the heart of the fire. If he wanted to talk, let him say something.

  He regarded her thoughtfully. "Why are you so angry?"

  "Need you ask?" she said. "Following me upstairs was an unforgivable intrusion. I have been very careful to keep Geoffrey in ignorance of what I do. Until tonight, I have been successful. Now..."

  It would have been much easier if he had met anger with anger. Instead, he said after a moment, "You're quite right. I've always had more curiosity than is good for me. It didn't occur to me that I was putting you in an untenable position, and I'm sorry if that has happened. Still, I doubt any damage was done. He's young enough to accept my story without questions."

  "He believed it now, but when he's older, he'll remember and wonder." She pulled her legs up under her in the chair, her body tight as strung wire. "How do you think it will make him feel if he deduces that his mother was a whore?"

  "Since my mother was one, I know exactly how he would feel." His bitterness was unmistakable, and she glanced at him, startled. Gervase never spoke of his life before India.

  With obvious effort, he said in a milder tone, "Actually, it would be more accurate to say that whoring was her pleasure, not her vocation. No, I don't suppose Geoffrey would be happy to think that of you. Boys have very high standards for their mothers. But you must know that he is bound to learn the truth eventually, unless you send him away."

  She said tightly, "I don't intend to do this forever. In a few years my... market value will have diminished considera
bly. By the time he is old enough to start wondering, this life should be behind me. One reason I prefer to live quietly is so there will be few people to connect me with my disreputable past."

  He felt a sharp sense of loss to think she might not always be there in the future. It would be very easy to carry on with her like this forever. Though her spectacular beauty would fade with time, there would still be passion and comfort.

  But this was not the time to discuss her future. "I doubt that one night's encounter will make Geoffrey think the worse of you. If you don't want me to see him again, I won't."

  She gave a brittle laugh. "You don't know much about children, do you?"

  "No, I don't," he agreed. "Enlighten me."

  She wearily leaned her head against the back of the chair; "The first thing he will do tomorrow is ask when you'll call next. Then he'll chatter about how you had seizures, too. It's a great event in his life to meet someone who had a similar affliction. He will also rehearse, in excruciating detail, all the questions he wants to ask about the army, and he will end by telling everyone how you shook Tiger's paw."

  Gervase laughed out loud. "As bad as that?"

  Diana had to smile. In spite of her motherly qualms, the situation was not without humor. Trying to maintain her righteous indignation, she said ruefully, "It may seem funny to you, but you don't have to deal with the consequences. Pandora's box has been opened."

  "You're right, I don't know much about children," he admitted, "but he's a fine boy. You must be proud of him."

  He had found the perfect way to disarm her, and for a man unused to children, he had done a surprisingly good job of conversing with one. It was getting harder to maintain her irritation, so she changed the subject. "The seizures—I gather you don't have them anymore?"

  "Not since I was twelve or thirteen." He shrugged, his shoulders wide in the firelight. "While seizures were a feature of my childhood, they were rare, most of them when I was under six. One physician told my father that fits are not uncommon in small children and often go away as they grow up, which was what happened to me. I gather that your son's problem is more severe."