by Liana Lefey
“Fine. The one that will get you killed, then.”
“I’m not going to be killed,” Lucas replied with an irritated sigh. “He’s not as in love with her as you seem to think—I can tell.” He intercepted a passing tray of champagne and relieved it of a glass.
“It matters not whether he loves her, she belongs to him,” reasoned Westing, helping himself to a glass as well.
“I saw no wedding ring on the lady’s finger.”
Westing snorted into his champagne. “Remind me again why you were sent abroad? Since when did a wedding ring ever keep you from pursuing a woman?”
Lucas ignored him in favor of moving back toward the stairs.
Doggedly, Westing followed. “My point is that it does not matter whether or not she’s married, she is his. And what’s more, he keeps her in complete luxury. If you think she’s going to give that up for anything, you’re out of your mind. He’s a bloody marquess, and a wealthy one at that. You cannot buy the favor of a woman who wants for nothing.”
“Oh, she wants for something,” Lucas replied. “Every woman wants for something. If not money, then something else. I need only find the proper key, and the door will open.”
Westing let out an incredulous bark of laughter. “You really are mad.” He skipped down a few steps, getting ahead of him and bringing them to a halt before swinging around to face him again. “The only man capable of prying that woman away from her gold mine is the bloody Prince himself.”
Now it was Lucas’s turn to laugh. “Care to lay a wager on that? I can promise you that if such a thing ever happens, there will be a very long line of gentlemen sneaking into the lady’s chambers. For all that he is a prince, a great lover His Royal Highness most certainly is not, despite his boasts to the contrary.”
Westing’s eyes went round. “Have a care, Blackthorn,” he whispered, glancing nervously at the surrounding crush. “The state of things being as they are, what with Perceval’s death, people are scrambling for position and putting heel marks on each other’s backs at every turn, if not outright planting knives in them.”
“I’d first have to become an actual presence at court in order for that to happen,” Lucas whispered, winking. And that was unlikely, given the last thing the Crown wanted was an open association between them.
“I understood you were planning to assume your father’s seat this year, which will require you to present yourself at the palace,” said Westing. “Your father—”
“Is going to have to wait a bit longer before turning me into a replica of himself.” Pushing past, Lucas left Westing behind and headed to the other side of the room. There she was, his Helen of Troy, hovering at her patron’s side. Harrow was speaking with an exceedingly pleased-looking Liverpool. It was no wonder the normally taciturn man was smiling. Lord Perceval’s recent assassination had resulted in his appointment to the position of Prime Minister.
Doubtless, Lady Diana would welcome a rescue. But upon moving closer, Lucas was surprised to see she appeared anything but bored. As unobtrusively as possible, he maneuvered to a position behind a pillar just close enough to overhear the conversation. The words “impending elections” and “gathering support” caught his attention.
“Do you really think he’ll still try to sway the vote?” he heard Liverpool ask.
To Lucas’s surprise, it was Lady Diana who answered. “His recent dismissal from his post as Lord Lieutenant all but assures his continued dissent.”
Liverpool grunted. “I had hoped he would heed the warning and stand down. Instead, he has been more outspoken than ever and has earned the Prince’s displeasure. I fail to see why he’s so determined to stir the pot.”
The lady replied, “With all due respect, my lord, his malcontent began years ago. In truth, his recent dismissal was but the latest in a long line of thwarted ambitions.”
“Oh, indeed?”
“Yes,” she answered. “It began many years ago when the title he’d long anticipated inheriting was instead granted to a cousin whose claim, it turned out, superseded his own. He contested that claim to no avail. Then he was further injured when Paget was appointed Lord Commissioner of the Treasury over him. There have been other perceived slights of less importance to him, but those two he believes grave injustices. If he is unsupportive of the current ministry, it’s because he feels there is little to gain by it. At the same time, there are others promising rich rewards to any who advocate change. Unfortunately, a good many share my uncle’s view. I would not discount his ability to influence others.”
When Liverpool spoke, his tone smacked of indulgence. “And have you any speculation as to how he will contrive to do so when his standing at court is so greatly diminished?”
Again, she spoke with quiet confidence. “It is my belief he will attempt to leverage the recent dispute with the United States as a strong point of contention. Our forces are already engaged in the war against France. Many have no desire to become involved in another conflict.”
Lucas felt his jaw go slack. The Foreign Office had many eyes and ears, himself among them, but he’d not heard of her being under their aegis.
“You must pardon my skepticism,” said Liverpool, “but how can you know all of this when you are no longer a member of Bolingbroke’s household?”
Silence followed for a long, tense moment before she spoke. “Suffice it to say that men don’t often bother to quiet themselves in my presence. As such, I hear many things of interest.” She chuckled, a low seductive sound that trailed heat through Lucas’s vitals. “You may be assured, my lord, that the information I’ve given you is quite reliable.”
“And I shall use it to see that he fails in his efforts to undermine our purpose,” replied Liverpool, his voice grim. “Thank you, my lady. This has been a most enlightening conversation. If you will please excuse me, there are matters to which I must at once attend. Harrow, shall I assume we’ll see you at this week’s meeting?”
“Alas, I’m afraid I’m engaged that evening,” replied Harrow. “Perhaps another time?”
“Of course. I’ll send word to you well before our next one. You are, of course, invited to attend as well, my lady.”
Lucas’s brows inched higher as the niceties were observed, and the three broke company. Well, well. Lady Diana. You’re simply full of surprises. He ventured a peek from around the pillar to see her gliding away alongside Harrow.
If there was one thing he’d learned over the years, it was that all women were dangerous to some degree. This one, it appeared, was no exception.
Chapter Four
Though good sense begged him to leave and forget his growing obsession with the woman, Lucas watched as Lady Diana paired with Harrow for the first dance. Her movements were sure and graceful. He’d expect no less from a gently raised female. Or a courtesan, for that matter.
Her eyes, however, were what interested him the most. They looked everywhere but at her partner’s face. A woman in love ordinarily had eyes only for her lover. Even if she weren’t in love with him, any courtesan worth her salt knew to attend her patron as if she were. Harrow was equally distracted, his gaze flicking back and forth over the crowd. And the two of them talked almost incessantly while they were dancing—a serious and decidedly unromantic discussion by the look of it.
He soon marked his scrutiny had not gone unnoticed, for at the dance’s close the couple at once began to make their way directly over to where he stood.
“My lady,” he said, bowing low before her.
“Lord Blackthorn,” she said, inclining her head politely. “I believe you promised me this next dance?”
“Indeed,” Lucas answered automatically. Half a heartbeat later, he caught himself—he’d asked her to dance.
“I trust my treasure is in good hands, Blackthorn,” said Harrow, his stern tone belied by his amused expression. Turning to the lady, he smiled and took up her hand to kiss it. “Enjoy yourself, my love.”
When Harrow had disappeared into
the crush, Lucas turned to her. “Why did you do that?”
“To what are you referring?” she asked, all innocence.
He marked the appearance of a dimple in her cheek as her smile turned knowing and mischievous. “You deliberately made it seem as though you were the one to request this dance of me rather than the other way around. Why?”
The corners of her mouth curled a bit more. “Perhaps I dislike the idea of my lover risking himself yet again over another man’s impetuous pursuit of that which cannot be attained.”
“Is that what you think I’m up to?” he said lightly. “I know when to leave well enough alone, although your patron seems far less prone to fits of jealous rage than he has been made out to be. In truth, I find him quite agreeable.”
“Don’t let his pleasant demeanor fool you,” she replied just as lightly. “He is neither pleased by your attentions to me nor willing to tolerate more than the utmost propriety on your part where I am concerned. He told me all about you, by the bye.” She flicked a sidelong glance at him. “I know all about your banishment—and the reason for it.”
“Then you have the advantage, for I know very little of you.”
“Save what London’s eager lips have whispered in your ear, you mean,” she said with a low laugh. “You’ll never be able to discern the truth from the fiction, I assure you.”
“I will, if you tell me which is which.”
“How can I, when I myself hardly know?” she quipped. “Are we to dance, my lord? Or would you prefer to retire to a corner and debate the matter until your friend comes to claim me for the next dance?”
Actually, he’d love to do just that and tell his friend to sod off, but he took her point. “I suppose the same may be said of any person—meaning that very few people truly know themselves,” he said, picking up the thread again. He held out his hand, and she allowed him to lead her to the ballroom floor. His hand tingled where she touched it, reaffirming his initial observation. “We all invent ourselves daily, do we not?”
Again, she shot him a sharp glance. “Indeed we do, my lord. Each day comes with just such a decision. Today is very nearly done. When I awake tomorrow, I shall have to decide whether to remain as I am now or choose to become something new.”
“And if you had the choice of becoming something new, what would you choose?”
Her chin lifted, and she assumed an exaggerated expression of hauteur. “I should be a queen, of course. Not here, where women are looked upon as inferior, but of a place where women are revered, worshiped even. I think perhaps Cleopatra had it right.”
It was his turn to laugh. “I think I begin to understand—you cannot abide being controlled by any but yourself, can you?”
An eloquent shrug lifted one shoulder. “What woman does not wish to determine her own destiny? But I’ve already seized control of mine. This is my world, and in it, I’m the ruler of all I survey. There is not a man in this room I cannot summon with a crook of my finger and then bend to my will.”
A bark of laughter burst from him. “My, but we are confident! Pride goeth before the fall, you know,” he tutted. The music began, and he made the first turn to pass her on the left, keeping his gaze fixed on her as they circled each other. He waited until she faced him again. “You name yourself the ruler of your world, yet in reality you’re under the authority and auspices of your patron. If he should grow bored or displeased with you…”
With a soft chuckle, she broke pattern and came to stand before him. The crowd parted around them, creating an island of calm amid a swirling flow of brightly colored silk skirts and jackets. Her smoky sea-green gaze held him.
“My dear Lord Blackthorn,” she said after a moment. “What in heaven’s name makes you think I’m under his authority or that he is any less obligated to please me? As for boredom, I should think not.” Her lips parted in a wicked smile that was as keen as any he’d seen on a man holding a winning hand of cards. “For those who have no fear of it, desire may be expressed in an infinite variety of ways.”
Lucas suddenly found his mouth robbed of all moisture and his loins tightening with anticipation. Never had he encountered a woman as openly sensual as this! And yet… “Have you truly no fear?” he managed at last.
Her chin rose a fraction. “I was not forced to become what I am. I chose this path. After my reputation was destroyed, I could have gone to the church or become a servant, but I saw an opportunity for something better. I took it, and I have no regrets.”
“This is better?” he asked, surprised at the scorn in his voice. “You’d rather this than to marry and have a home and children—a respectable life?”
Her playful, prideful demeanor vanished, and he caught a glint of cool steel in her gaze. “The one who betrayed me taught me a very important lesson, my lord. A so-called respectable life does not guarantee happiness. ‘Happy’ is a highly subjective term. I have a home. I have a lover who is both attentive and kind. My every need—and more wants than most women are granted—is met through our association. Perhaps one day I shall choose to marry, but only if doing so is sure to bring me greater happiness than that which I already possess.”
The memory of her as a shy, nervous debutante flashed in his mind’s eye. One “attentive and kind” lover was nowhere near enough to produce the jade before him now. Every instinct told him she was a lie. “You are a duke’s daughter. You cannot tell me this is the life you desired.”
Her gem-like eyes bored into his for a moment before her ripe lips twisted in a rueful smile. “Indeed not. Like any naive child, I wished for a prince to come and sweep me off to his castle far away, where he would lavish upon me his undying love and devotion. Unfortunately, not everyone is granted their childhood fancy.”
“True, but—”
“I understand you feel I’ve sold myself. You are correct. I have.” Her quiet voice was a razor’s edge. “But so does every woman who marries and trades the use of her body for the sake of security and respectability.”
He laughed a little to lighten the mood, which had grown entirely too tense. “The church would beg to differ, I’m sure.”
“The currency may be different, and the church may sanction the exchange, but a calculated transaction it remains,” she replied coldly. “Unless a woman marries for love, she is no less a whore than I, for she sells herself as surely as any dockside trull. I, at least, have chosen to sell myself to a man who pleases me in addition to providing me with comfort and safety.”
“You have no shame at all, then?”
“Why should I?” she said with an indifferent shrug, and all at once her smooth smile and polite manner were back in place. “I can say with utmost confidence that I have more honor than most of the married women in this room, and I’m certainly more honest. I am a courtesan, my lord. I don’t hide the bargain I made behind hypocrisy and call it by another name.” Backing away, she rejoined the line to resume the dance.
…
Diana felt like kicking something—like kicking him—right in his stockinged shins! Hard.
Why had she let him antagonize her into a response? She was supposed to have danced, smiled, and departed on the arm of another man before he could get under her skin. Instead, she’d practically invited him to ask a thousand more questions. She could see them swimming there, just behind his eyes, waiting.
He had lovely eyes. Gray as winter storm clouds they were, and framed by long, pitch-black lashes. In her opinion, they were far too beautiful for a man. Those eyes observed her now, too closely. It was as though he could see into her, as if he somehow knew the truth that lay buried deep inside her heart.
The music ended, she curtsied and walked away, head high, back stiff. If that did not tell him to leave her be, then he was a blind fool and deserved the slap she had waiting for him.
Just as she stepped off the ballroom floor, someone touched her elbow. She turned, ready to strike her pursuer and be damned the consequences, but it was Westing. In her haste to be away fro
m Blackthorn, she’d forgotten about him.
“Lady Diana,” he said, a bit out of breath but still grinning like an idiot. “What of our dance?”
She glanced beyond him to see Blackthorn still watching her. The look in his eyes told her he would surely come after her if she tried to leave alone. Fixing Westing with a regretful smile, she took the better part of valor. “The truth is I would much prefer to go somewhere quiet and sit for a moment. It’s these new slippers, you see. I’m afraid my foot has become sore. Perhaps you might keep me company while I rest it?”
Westing’s grin widened another increment, and he offered his arm. “It shall be my pleasure!”
Diana didn’t dare to look behind her as they departed. Above all, Blackthorn must never think she cared one whit about what he’d said. Yes, she wanted a home—a real one—and a family. But both were impossible—for now.
They will certainly never be possible with him. Her stomach tightened with unease that such a thought had even occurred to her. Shaking herself to dispel her disquiet proved ineffective. Twice he’d referred to her former life, saying he’d known her. Perhaps that was what bothered her so. She frequently encountered those who’d known her before her downfall, but there were very few who didn’t now look upon her with open contempt.
In fact, there were only a handful: Harrow, his wife, René, and now Blackthorn.
His curiosity was to be expected. Everyone wanted to know what she and Harrow got up to. Along with that, for the men at least, came lust. Blackthorn had certainly looked at her with an appreciative eye, but he’d also looked at her as though she was a person rather than an object—a rare occurrence. He’d seemed genuinely shocked that she might prefer the life she had now over what had been possible before her ruination. Morality was certainly the last thing she’d expected from a man of his reputation.
Reputation. It all came down to that one word. The word that had all but destroyed her. How much truth is there in his reputation, I wonder? Before she could give it more thought, her escort came to a halt before an empty chair. She looked around, surprised at how far away they were from the main gathering. She’d been so lost in thought she hadn’t been paying attention.
