by Liana Lefey
“Lady Diana will be there,” his friend murmured, giving him a sidelong look.
Despite his better instincts, Lucas bit. “How can you be certain?”
“I have it on good authority Harrow has accepted the invitation.”
“I see. And what makes you think he’ll bring her along?”
Westing looked smug. “Lords Harrow and Latham are longtime friends, but their wives are not—which all but guarantees Lady Harrow won’t accompany her husband to the event. But Harrow never attends these things alone. Mark my words, she’ll be with him.”
“And you really think she’ll show her face in public after…” Lucas nodded meaningfully at the discarded paper.
“Oh, she’ll be there—if only to spite Bolingbroke. She positively loathes the man. To this day she maintains she was unjustly cast out and was unspoiled until meeting Harrow.” He sniffed. “Grenville, of course, says otherwise. I suppose only the three of them will ever know the truth.”
“Indeed,” agreed Lucas, draining his glass. “Though I doubt it matters much, given the papers have now touted the lady as having participated in ménage à trois.” He shifted and leveled a suspicious look at his friend. “Why did you tell me she’ll be there?”
“Because I knew you’d been invited, and, knowing you as I do, I know you would discover her in attendance and be unable to resist. Now I know to be there, too, if only to stop you from doing anything extraordinarily foolish.”
“Are you my keeper, then?” Lucas asked, unable to help laughing at the dour grimace that subsequently crossed Westing’s face.
“If anyone requires one, old fellow, it’s you.”
As Wednesday approached, Lucas found himself increasingly preoccupied with thoughts of one Diana Haversham. The woman was an anomaly, to be sure. When faced with ruination or other similarly disastrous events, very few ladies of quality chose to become courtesans. Most went for the church or into service for a relative.
Not, apparently, Lady Diana. And that choice made her infinitely interesting.
Given what he’d seen of her thus far—her bold demeanor and seductive manner of dress—she’d made the transition with remarkable speed for a girl who’d only a short time ago been prim, proper, and boringly respectable. He positively burned with curiosity. What did her voice sound like? What was the color of her eyes? He couldn’t remember either detail from their previous meeting.
From the confines of his carriage, he searched for Harrow’s crest on the other conveyances clogging the drive to the Latham estate, but the increasingly inclement weather and general chaos made identification impossible. It began to rain in earnest, and the congestion grew so terrible that nothing moved for over a quarter of an hour.
“At this rate, it will be nightfall before I arrive,” he muttered. Frustration at last prompted him to rap sharply on the roof. “I’ll walk the rest of the way,” he told his coachman through the portal. Grabbing his umbrella, Lucas climbed out and opened it, drawing stares from those who hurried past him, huddled beneath their sodden cloaks. Living abroad had taught him many useful things, including the benefit of keeping one of these contraptions in his carriage. Considering how much it rained in London, heaven only knew why his fellow Englishmen still declined to adopt the use of such a worthwhile device.
Twenty minutes later and dry, with the unfortunate exception of one damp shoe, he entered the ballroom and greeted his hosts while those coming in behind him went off to dry themselves. Circling, he looked for Harrow and, more importantly, his infamous mistress.
“I was beginning to wonder whether or not you’d make it,” said Westing from behind. “Then I saw that bloody tent of yours coming up the walk. A right odd sight, it is.”
“Perhaps, and yet here I stand warm and dry rather than wet and chilled. Is she here yet?”
“Who, may I ask, are you looking for, Lord Blackthorn?” asked Lady Latham, pausing beside them on her way across the ballroom.
Westing’s mouth clamped shut.
Following the story of the alleged ménage à trois, any respectable hostess doubtless would dread hearing the name “Lady Diana Haversham” in connection with her party, but Lucas had no compunction about saying it.
As anticipated, the woman’s smile faltered and died. “She is with Lord Harrow, of course,” she answered flatly, jerking her chin toward a point beyond his left shoulder. “Over by the terrace doors.”
Lucas looked, and there she was, gowned in yellow with pale green ribbons, looking for all the world like a sweet—waiting to be gobbled up. When he turned back, all that remained of Lady Latham was the lingering scent of her overpowering perfume.
“You could have said you were looking for Harrow, you know,” muttered Westing.
“Yes, but that would have been a lie,” Lucas said cheerfully, ignoring his friend’s black look.
“You’re hopeless,” sighed the other man. “Very well. Shall we?”
…
Diana tried not to let her anxiety show on the surface as she watched Lords Westing and Blackthorn approach. Damn me for telling Harrow I’d be fine on my own! He’d gone off with Lord Louden to discuss an investment proposal.
Though Blackthorn was conversing with his friend, she’d seen the way he’d stared at her and knew he was coming for her. That man is trouble. Turning just before they reached her, she tried to make a tactical retreat but wasn’t quick enough to avoid being caught up.
“Lady Diana?”
Damn. She turned, a careful smile on her lips. Not unfriendly, but not overly encouraging, either. “Lord Westing, how delightful to see you again.”
“Likewise,” the gentleman replied, his face pinking slightly. “Might I beg a moment of your time to introduce a friend of mine?”
Flicking a glance at his companion, she nodded. “Of course.”
“Actually, we are already acquainted,” said Blackthorn. To his credit, his gaze remained fixed above her décolletage. “It’s been several years, madam, but your loveliness remains unchanged.”
She barely refrained from snorting. Had they ever met, she would surely remember it. “Thank you, my lord.”
Before she could gracefully extricate herself, he continued. “I understand your uncle, Lord Bolingbroke, has recently returned after retiring from his post this winter.”
Despite her most valiant effort, Diana felt her face tighten. She kept her tone light. “I believe you’ll find that, in truth, he was discharged from it,” she corrected. And may he never recover from the humiliation!
Blackthorn’s lips quirked almost as if he shared in her satisfaction at how badly things had gone for her former guardian. “My apologies. I’m still not yet caught up on the goings-on at court. I’ve been away, you see. In Germany.”
Was that supposed to impress her? “A matter of the Crown or of pleasure?” Alarm bells pealed in her mind at her foolish choice of the word “pleasure.”
“A matter of my father wanting me out of the way, I’m afraid.”
“I see. And now you’re back and once again looking for trouble?” She said it with a smile, but her warning would only be mistaken by a complete fool—and for all his brashness, Blackthorn didn’t seem like a fool.
Now his gaze dropped to appraise her fully. “It would seem so.”
Her face heated, and she had to take a deep breath to calm her traitorous pulse, which had leaped. Damn, but he’s a bold one! “Those who seek trouble often find it less appealing than it first appears—and far more costly.”
“Sometimes. But not always,” he murmured, his rain-gray eyes twinkling. Clearly, he’d understood not only her words of warning, but her silent censure. “Of course, one’s level of enjoyment depends greatly upon the kind of trouble one seeks. As for the cost, I’m always willing to pay the price for the right sort of trouble.” He cocked a suggestive brow.
Indignant shock made her forget for a moment the role she played. Thankfully, before she could fling her fan at his head, the sound o
f a throat rather violently being cleared drew her gaze away to Westing.
“I think I see Marlborough over by the entrance,” said he, fidgeting. “Blackthorn, did you not wish to speak to—”
“May I have the honor of a dance this evening?” Blackthorn asked her, ignoring his friend.
She blinked at his brashness. Normally, a gentleman spent a bit of time on compliments and pleasantries before making such a request. Of course, he probably didn’t feel it necessary to put forth such effort with someone like her.
The thought rankled. She’d like to answer his request with a proper dressing-down but marked that others had now begun to take notice of their conversation. She couldn’t afford to step out of character even for a moment, no matter how tempted. Casting her gaze down, she answered demurely and with all the polish he’d lacked, “My Lord Harrow has, of course, already claimed the first and last dances; however, I shall be pleased to grant you the second.” Better to get it over with quickly.
“As you wish, of course.” His smile was a devilish curl along one side of his mouth as he bowed and took up her hand to hover briefly over it. “Until then, my lady.”
Hot lightning shot from where his fingers slid across hers, traveling straight up her arm and down to slam into her lungs and pool in her belly. She watched his eyes darken and felt a corresponding tug deep inside. Her breath released in an inelegant burst as he let her go, and she looked away, mortified.
To cover her slip, she focused on Blackthorn’s companion. It went completely against all proper etiquette for a lady to ask a gentleman to dance, but she needed to let Blackthorn know where he stood—and besides, she wasn’t exactly a “lady” anymore. “And shall I reserve the third for you, Lord Westing?”
Westing’s eyes widened, and an altogether different sort of smile creased his face: the same a young boy might wear upon being taken into a sweet shop with a newly minted guinea and no restrictions. “Indeed, my lady,” he answered eagerly. “I should be most honored.”
Triumphant, Diana looked to Blackthorn to see his reaction. To her disappointment, his face remained impassive. “I must confess to being immensely flattered at having simultaneously earned the attentions of two such fine gentlemen.”
It was a deliberate reference to the recent gossip. As expected, Westing’s eyes took on a glazed, hungry look. Blackthorn’s gaze, however, was more curious than lustful. Diana bit back a curse. Lust, she could handle. Curiosity was a far more dangerous beast—much harder to tame.
Fortunately, Lord Harrow chose that moment to resurface. “I see you’ve made some new friends,” he said as he approached. His manner was cheery, but she knew him well enough to know he was concerned.
“Lords Westing and Blackthorn have each just engaged me for a dance this evening.”
Harrow’s smile would have melted any other woman’s knees. “I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, my dear. Not that I thought for even a moment that you would languish for lack of company.” He turned to the gentlemen in question. “After all, is she not the loveliest of women?”
The pink stain in Westing’s cheeks became beet red, and even Blackthorn looked a bit chagrined.
Fortunately for them, Harrow’s question was rhetorical. “Forgive me, but I cannot help being prideful,” he continued, slowly lifting her hand to his lips. “That such perfection should deign to grant me her favor is a miracle.”
The look on Blackthorn’s face plainly stated his opinion of that “miracle.”
That’s right. Money can buy anything. The thought was a bitter stone in her heart. If he only knew the truth! Money could buy one many fine things, including status, but it couldn’t buy back a reputation. It could, however, purchase a new name and a clean slate. Just a few more years…
“Come, my love,” said Harrow, holding out his arm. “I wish to show you something extraordinary. Lady Latham is sponsoring a new artist and is currently displaying his latest work in her gallery.” He turned to the men. “Gentlemen, if you will please excuse us?”
Diana shot a coy glance over her shoulder as she moved away. “Until later, gentlemen.” She waited until they were out of earshot. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, but I had no choice but to accept. I did not expect him to be so bold. That Westing fellow is harmless enough, but Blackthorn…” Her stomach still felt strange and fluttery, as if she hadn’t eaten enough. She took a deep breath to steady it.
Harrow’s glance was piercing. “You think he’ll be a problem?”
“I expect that, like most of those inquiring after my favors thus far, he thinks to sample my charms and have done—if only to brag to his friends that he’s achieved the impossible.” She didn’t bother to keep the resentment out of her tone. There was nothing she need hide from Harrow.
“I warned you this would happen, that there would be a few wolves amongst the sheep. I tried to prepare you as best I could.”
“You did,” she agreed. “And I ought to have handled him better, but I let him catch me off my guard.” What was it about Blackthorn that set her so on edge? When she looked at other men, Westing for example, she felt nothing. When she looked at Blackthorn, however, she became all unbalanced and uncertain of herself as she had not been in years. “It’s nothing.”
“What’s nothing?”
His inquiry startled her. Did I say that aloud? “It’s nothing that cannot easily be remedied,” she said briskly. “I shall, as promised, dance with them, and thereafter avoid him—them—as much as possible.”
“Diana…”
Her face warmed, and she averted her eyes. “Yes?”
“If you don’t wish to—”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I accepted his request in front of witnesses. If I fail to follow through, everyone will wonder why. I think it better to leave no room for speculation, don’t you?”
…
Lucas cursed quietly as he watched her saunter away.
“Oh, nicely done,” said Westing, clapping softly. “I think you extraordinarily fortunate to have made it through that without getting slapped—or worse, called out.”
“Enough,” Lucas muttered, though without any heat. His speech with her had indeed been blunt and graceless—offensive, even. His only excuse was that he’d been distracted by the incongruities she presented. The shy girl who’d been unable to look him in the face was now a blazing seductress.
Or is she?
He’d always had a knack for being able to tell when someone was lying or attempting to conceal something. It was what made him a good gambler, and the reason the Foreign Office had approached him just before he’d been shipped off to the Continent for his little mandatory hiatus. That sense was telling him something was “off” with Lady Diana.
The wariness in her sea-green eyes had been unmistakable, as had the outrage that had flashed in them when he’d all but asked her to name her price. For a moment, he’d thought for sure she would slap him—the reaction of a woman of moral fiber, not a courtesan. He’d seen the twitch in her eyelids, had marked the whitening of her knuckles and the trembling of her hand as she’d gripped her fan. And then he’d watched her masterfully hide her wrath behind a cool veil of cynical sensuality. He suspected her provocative words and daring manner were no more than masks. Lady Diana was more a mystery now than ever. One he was determined to fathom out.
As they disappeared into the crowd, Lucas turned and made for the stairs to the gallery.
“It’s no use, you know,” said Westing, alongside him. “Mark my words, you’ll never get more than a dance with that one.”
“I’d lay no wagers, if I were you,” Lucas said absently, moving to the rail to continue to monitor from above.
Westing let out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t even consider it, Blackthorn. He’s put holes in men for far less. You’re lucky he failed to overhear you earlier. Have your dance with her—if she does not renege—and be done with it. It’s not worth it.”
Lucas deliberately i
gnored him in favor of keeping his eyes on the couple below. Their manner together was easy and familiar, as it would be between two people entirely comfortable with each other. But their physical interactions lacked a certain warmth, a certain…intimacy. Clearly, she felt affection for her protector, but he detected nothing deeper. Something was missing.
Lust.
Lucas knew lust. It had been the constant companion of his youth. It had taken him twenty-nine years, several interesting scars, and finally a two-year sojourn abroad to learn not to let it lead him into trouble. Or so he’d thought, anyway. Being near Lady Diana put a definite strain on his self-discipline. Even now his breeches were uncomfortably tight. His reaction to touching her bare fingers had been instant and not a little alarming.
If anyone was worthy of a man’s lust, it was that woman—and yet Harrow had looked at her as one might a sister. Lucas shook his head, dismissing the inane fancy. No man in his right mind would keep a woman like that around and not avail himself of her charms at every possible opportunity. If Harrow looked at her with anything less than raging desire, it was probably because his appetite was already well sated.
A hand suddenly passed before his face, startling him. “Bloody—!” Lucas hissed, turning to face Westing, who wore a grim, disapproving look.
“You’re a damned fool, you do know that?”
“Are you my father now?” Lucas shot back, annoyed.
“Worse. I’m your friend. I know you better than your father, and I know that look,” said Westing, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t do it. I’m telling you, it’s a mistake. Harrow will—”
“Not know a damned thing until it’s too late,” Lucas finished for him. “I want her.” It was a flat statement that brooked no argument. Even so, he knew Westing wouldn’t give up yet. He braced himself for an earful.
“George’s balls, man! Are you serious? There are a thousand females out there just itching to sink their claws into you, yet you decide to pursue the one that is unattainable.”
Lucas felt a grin spread across his lips. “You ought to know by now not to tell me something like that, Westie. No woman is unattainable.”
