by Thea Devine
"And yours is most diverting," he answered in kind. "So shall we proceed to the endgame, madame?"
Jainee threw up her hands. "I will tell you what you wish to know. It comes to this: I seek my father."
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She didn't expect an explosion of understanding, but surely there was something righteous about that, even to someone like Southam.
"And I am to be the instrument of this search?" he inquired very gently.
"You have the wherewithal to ensure my presence where I might most efficiently search for him."
"In London?"
"The season is about to commence, is it not? So everyone will be in London, will they not?"
"Including your father?"
"I assume so, but I do not know for sure. I gamble, my Lord, that the set of facts I know about him will fit the description of someone who travels in the circles you frequent."
"Well, now we have the whole of it," Southam said in an awesomely mild tone of voice. "Very good, madame. Very good—you are a complete hand. A whole concocted story and ten thousand pounds odds-out that you would persuade me to give you entree to the best circles." He stood up abruptly and pushed at the table. "A doxy's virtue in exchange for a voucher to Almack's is no small price to pay. I salute you, madame. You are too clever above half, and with any other man you would have succeeded beyond your wildest dreams.
"The debt is cancelled, madame. I bid you good evening."
And at that, he wondered at how calm he felt, and why the streaming disappointment he felt somewhere in the back of his mind did not come exploding to the fore as he strode to the door.
"Monsieur!"
He froze, and then he turned just as she covered her mouth in dismay.
"Yes, madame?"
Her fine-boned hand slid down her neck and came to rest just at the swell of her breast. "There is more."
He marveled at her talent for facile understatement. But still, in spite of her gaffe, she remained composed and watchful, and that interested him. He shifted his body so he could
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lean against the doorjamb, and folded his arms across his chest. "I am all ears, madame."
She hated him at that moment; all the power lay in his hands. She resented it, and she refused to prostrate herself before him, even verbally.
"You are all temper, monsieur, and it is not a pretty sight," she said waspishly.
"And you are a pretty sight, madame, and you have a temper to boot. I take it you are French."
"I am. I came to England by way of Italy as I have told you. I search for my father who is English. Many years ago, after he had married my mother and she had borne me, he abandoned us and left her to the mercies of the French court. The emperor pursued her, won her, and got bored with her in very short order."
She stopped as she perceived him visibly stiffen to attention. That could not bode well for her. The French were not loved, less so since the war on the Peninsula had begun and everyone of foreign extraction was presumed to be a possible spy.
It was one of the things that made Brighton and the cloister of the gaming house so unusually attractive to her. Brighton swarmed with emigrιs; it had been easy to lose herself here and then to emerge when the time was right. But how did one explain that to Southam, whose face was like stone and who said nothing to encourage her to go on with her story.
She clenched her fists and continued:
"The emperor's generosity was very well known, my lord; even so, we had no recourse as to whether to try to find my father, and certainly not money enough to pay our fare to England, even with the stipend my mother received. I was told that my father was a diplomat and a gentleman who moved in the first circles, and that surely he was devious as well, as a gentleman of foreign affairs must be.
"I last saw him some ten years previously and . . ." And . . . how did she explain the gaps, and Therese's death? 61
" . . . and my mother and I—" she could not tell him about the money—"got on reasonably well until the time she petitioned the emperor for more money. She was a gambler, my lord, and ever after the next game of cards. The need was severe and it caused her death. The Emperor's emissary came and when he found that"—Oh, Therese forgive me for lying!—". . . her destitution was a charade, he made sure that the emperor would never have to pay her another centime."
No, no—he believed none of what she was saying: a lie would have been preferable to the half-truths that tripped so glibly from her tongue. A lie would have been more coherent. She could have embroidered a lie.
The truth, or what she had told of it, was a sinkhole of mud and she was fast being sucked alive into it.
Doggedly she went on: "I was wounded myself, and my mother pleaded with me, on her deathbed, to find and go to my father, that her dearest wish in heaven — " dear heaven, what melodramatic nonsense! But it sounded good—it did, it did and she could see it affected him as well —". . . was to see us reconciled."
She ended her recitation there, not trusting herself to embellish further. Nor did she wish to lay herself open to questions which would require filling in the blank spaces: it was enough that she had obliterated her half-brother for her own purposes.
She lifted her chin as she boldly met his flat black skeptical gaze.
"And your father's name, madame?" he asked silkily.
"He was called Charles Dalton."
"Never, madame. There is no one in service by that name."
Immediately she felt her temper rising. "And how would you know, my lord?"
"Let us say I am connected in that area, madame, enough to know that your story and the name are components of the same lie."
She shrugged. "Believe what you will, my lord. Whatever the truth of the matter, my debt to you still stands and my 62
sole motivating force remains that I am honor bound to find my father."
"You are bound to no one but yourself, madame, that is evident, and you are bold as brass to present me with a name that is pure fiction."
"My lord, you did not say that you were to be judge and jury of the truth," Jainee retorted. "I believe you said you only wished to hear it." She took a deep breath to calm the storm of anger she felt. There was never a more difficult man to deal with. But she had to make him see, she had to convince him to take her to London.
"You must understand, my lord—/ need to find my father."
And she had no idea where that wellspring of emotion exploded from: in her heart, in that moment, she felt a seizing yearning to know and be known by the father who had used her so badly, to have him answer questions, to have him say that all of it was nothing to do with her and he would have done it differently if he could.
Or was that some festering dream she had had a long time ago and had buried in the recesses of her mind?
Her eyes welled with tears and she blinked them back. She had never in her life thought this way about the man who was her father.
Why now?
Or was she so jaded that she would use any trick at her command to sway the judgment of the intractable Lord Southam?
She had no need of her father.
So where had this keening cry of yearning come from?
The man had betrayed her, purely and simply, and in retribution, she would betray him. She had promised Therese, she had sworn on her mother's dying breath.
/ need to find my father.
Those words might haunt her, and yet they were the only real words she had spoken to Southam from the moment she had set out to ensnare him in her scheme.
And he knew it. He heard in those six words the soulful
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cry of something broken and wounded.
He understood it.
Something in the flat black of his guarded gaze glittered with recognition. But he would not let her off that easily.
"The man does not exist, madame. Where do you propose to find him?"
She swallowed down the knot of anger and tears that blocked her throat. She ha
ted him for asking the right and reasonable question, the one she had considered over many months of anguish over Therese's death and the difficulties of her own flight out of the country.
"I can only suppose that he does not go by this name in England," she said finally, reluctantly, "and that I would know him if I saw him."
He smiled then, a small unpleasant little smile that sent a shiver through her. Clearly he couldn't, or wouldn't, make any decision on the basis of what she had told him. Nor would he be gallant or kind.
After all, what had he to work with but a fantastic gothic tale that resonated with her easy familiarity with "the emperor" and "the French court" and how singlemindedly she had pursued her course. It sounded far-fetched, even to her ears, and worse—she had portrayed herself as an adventuress.
But an adventuress was a gambler, and she sat right on the edge of her most audacious play; she felt no romanticism about it —she was asking him to take her story at face value, not probe any of the details, then take her to London all on the strength of a tainted bet and some long buried emotions.
It sounded unimaginable.
It sounded like a ruse.
And she didn't like the speculative look in his eyes. He was looking at her like she was a chameleon, scuttly, furtive, changing color whichever way the light played. Too clever by half, she was, dangling half-truths in front of his nose and expecting he would be led by them.
She was like a hunter, following a faint but discernible trail. The goddess on the prowl —a regular Diana, with all the
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grace, cunning and volatility of an all-knowing who manipulated events out of capriciousness, need and pleasure.
And then there was the story—the lies-by-omission story about a phantom father and life on the rim of the French nobility. It was good, it was very good, and it presupposed a layer of further explanations which she was obviously not prepared to give.
But he could wait, and he could play her game and eventually he would discover who she was and how she fit into the puzzle.
Tell me your name," he said abruptly, startling her out of her thoughts. But he could not shake her composure. She looked up at him inquiringly, her expression calm, serene, almost as if she had been following his thinking and could predict what his next words would be.
Nonsense! Fanciful—he was not a man given over to whimsy, but still he was continually thinking of her in these comparable terms. And it was only a step from that to: "No—don’t tell me." He slanted a look at her. Whoever she was, she was most definitely a goddess. "I will call you . .. Diana, the huntress. For you are on the prowl, are you not, Diana?"
He got a reaction from her then.
On the prowl? On the prowl? Like the veriest cat in the alley! She felt such indignation and for one fleeting moment, she allowed it to show in her eyes. And didn't he like that.
The truth was, he was the cat and she was the prey, and he was playing with her as subtly as any stalking predator.
Then he pounced.
"I accept your challenge, my dear goddess. I accept your terms."
And he caught her completely unaware.
"But" he added softly, dangerously, "you must submit to mine."
She ignored the undercurrent there. She thought she would wilt with relief. The point was to get there. The rest was academic. "I will comply with your conditions," she said evenly,
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refusing to even consider the implication of his words as he so obviously meant her to.
"But I haven't set them, Diana," he reminded her in that hateful haughty way of his.
"I am sure you will correct that oversight immediately," she retorted acidly, reacting to an instant flare of hostility, her gratitude stifled by his heavy upper hand.
It was better thus: from the first he would know that she would never be compliant, passive or subdued in any way. She suspected he had figured that out already, and that he would, nonetheless, make her honor any contract between them.
It was evident in the banked light in his eyes as he paced back into the room and around her chair to loom over her.
"Make no mistake, Diana—my demands are exactly what you offered: your precious body in exchange for my sponsorship of you in London." He grasped her arm and lifted her from the chair, savoring the feel of her bare skin in his warm hard grip.
He liked the fact she was not intimidated by this bold move, that deep in her eyes he could see defiance, and a touch-me-not hauteur that belied the woman in her who was begging to be tamed.
"And how will you determine, my lord, when the ten thousand pounds has been amply repaid?" she asked grittily, as he held her tightly against him and dared her to protest.
"I will forgive ten thousand pounds," he said silkily, "but I will not forgive a default. Understand, Diana, that by accepting my terms, you become mine in every way conceivable, any way you can imagine and some that you cannot. That you will be available to me whenever I want you and that you will never refuse anything I ask of you that is private between us. You are no nun, Diana. You know what is expected. And you surely perceive I am a man who will collect his pound of flesh."
She ignored the tingling of her body, the warning chill that coursed through her veins. "This is all very well for
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you, my lord, but what may I expect in return?"
Oh, the hard-headed daughter of France—strike a bargain . . . yes, he remembered what she had said, the only way to love is to strike a bargain. She did it without thinking, it was so ingrained within her. Nothing touched her, not his words, not the promise of sensual delights. No, she must be practical and tote the rewards for herself on the opposite side of the board. And he did not like that one bit.
"You may expect, Diana, that you will be housed and clothed in a manner that befits an unmarried woman of age, that you will be creditably sponsored by an unexceptional chaperone and you will have full entree to those places where you might expect to see the man you think might be your father.
"I am equally sure that within two months you will captivate every man in London who is not attached, and some who are vacillating, and you will have a parade of lovers lined up outside your door from the steps to the Tower of London, at which time my usefulness will be debatable.
"But until then, Diana, I will have all of you that ten thousand pounds can buy. If I tell you I want to fondle you, you will sit on my lap and allow me the freedom of your body. And if I tell you I want to make love with you, you will disrobe and await me naked on your bed. And if I demand your kisses, goddess, you will part your lips and give me the wet heat of your mouth."
Oh yes, now it was clear to her; he felt her flinch at his words, and he raised his left hand to touch the naked skin above her bosom and he smiled as she allowed his hand to rest there and then to move upwards to cup the arrogant tilt of her chin.
"Your kisses, Diane," he whispered against her resistance. "I want your kisses," and he lifted her lips to his own and covered them with his mouth.
He almost swooned at the jolt of erotic sensation that shot to his loins. He felt primitive, conquering. Her mouth was ripe, innocent, wet, heated with martyrdom, her body stiff
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with combativeness.
He moved his mouth a centimeter from hers. "That is not the way, Diana—that is, if you truly want to go to London and hunt down your quarry."
He watched the indecision play in her eyes, and he wondered if she would back down and cry off.
But she was ever practical; in her mind, in that brief moment, she speculated on all the angles. She knew she was merely playing for time, hoping at the end not to have to give herself to him. After all, this kiss would buy her a trip to London and all that it entailed. She did not have to love him—hadn't Therese, always in love, pounded that into her head? And she had no reputation to lose.
She was a gambler whether she willed it or not, and Southam had become her odds.
The light in her eyes deepened as i
t became clear to her that she could not escape this losing hand. In her mind, she moved on to the next round of play even while she smiled that cat-lapping little knowing smile that he so disliked and said softly, "I am here, my Lord, in honor of my debt. And so, I will try to please you."
"Debt be damned," he growled, enfolding her against him so that she could feel the throb of his desire explicitly. "Here is the truth of the matter," he whispered hoarsely against her mouth, and then he invaded it, the heat of his frustration driving him, and the lush taste of her virgin willing mouth.
He didn't stop to think how that was, because soon enough, under his hot rough tutelage, she was battling him touch for touch, nipping and licking in turn, in pure venom for his treatment of her, understanding finally in this dance of tongues and play between them what it was for a man to wield his power.
And this was only the first dimension of what was in store.
She hated him. She bit his lips, she evaded him, and she attacked when the moment was right, when he thought he had her gentled and quiescent.
And she quelled the furious arousal of her traitorous body,
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the unexpected spume of liquid heat to the very center of her female core; she ignored the thrust of her breasts against his hard chest and the erotic and unfamiliar chafing of her tender nipples against the gauzy fabric of her gown.
In this contest, mouth to mouth, body to body, they were equals: he could not claim her, she would never submit to him.
Still, a man had a potent weapon in his strength. His arms were like steel around her, he was a wall of molten sexuality; he burned with it and not even she could withstand it.
"So much for honor," he muttered, still close to her mouth, almost as if he could not relinquish the tide of his desire to possess it, to master her. "This is the truth of it, Diana. I will have you and your everlasting honor in exchange for your debt and your avaricious wish to conquer society. A shallow thing, honor; it clings to you as lightly as do your silken skirts. And it is breeched as easily, but this is neither the place nor time. This is but a taste of the fullness to come between us. This is but a sample of the bargain between a man and woman that you are pledged to fulfill."
