Tempest

by Sandra Dubay

  Dyanna had shivered with delicious horror at those tales. She'd believed them with the unquestioning faith of country folk who were less cynical than their worldly city cousins. As she'd grown older, she'd come to view them with a healthy skepticism, though her interest in Gothick novels was surely an extension of those early beliefs. But now, faced with Justin's uncanny appearance, she wondered if she might not have been left in the clutches of some sorcerer from whom she could neither run nor hide.

  "Is he the one, miss?" Charlotte asked, her voice hushed, as she helped Dyanna into a gown of pink muslin.

  "Yes," Dyanna breathed. "He's the one.

  He's come for me, Charlotte. I am his ward. I am at his mercy."

  "Oh, miss! Surely his lordship and Lord Geoffrey will never let him take you."

  "There is nothing they can do, I fear. I must go with him."

  Charlotte hesitated, then fumbled with the neck of her gown. With trembling fingers, she drew out the only remembrance she had from her long-dead mother. From a long gold chain depended an exquisite gold crucifix. Slipping it over Dyanna's head, she tucked the crucifix down inside the rose-ribboned neckline of Dyanna's gown.

  The two young women gazed at each other for a tense moment and then, with a brief hug, Dyanna left her maid. Squaring her shoulders, she left the room and marched down the corridor toward the stairs.

  Below, in the saloon, Justin listened halfheartedly while the marquess lectured him on the duties and responsibilities of a guardian. His golden eyes roamed the room, admiring the furnishings, storing details of a cornice, a mantel, a chandelier, to be incorporated into the building of Wildwood.

  There had been nothing supernatural or diabolical about his discovery of Dyanna's whereabouts. The information had come to him through that most reliable of sourcesbackstairs gossip.

  One of the marquess's footmen had slipped away the night before and gone to his favorite pub, the Pear Tree. There he could not help repeating the story of the Honorable Miss McBride for the edification of one and all. The story, much repeated and embellished, had been overheard by one of the footmen of the Duke of Queensberry, who happened to be a neighbor of Lord DeVille in Piccadilly. Upon arriving home, the footman had told the butler, who had told the Duke's valet, who was a friend of Bertran, Justin's own valet. Having lost no time in imparting the information, Bertran revealed to his master the whereabouts of his errant ward. Soon after breakfast, Justin began preparations for retrieving Dyanna.

  He was now, as the clock struck mid-day, beginning to wish he had left well enough alone. The marquess droned on and on. It was some time before Justin realized he had stopped speaking and had fixed him with an expectant stare.

  "I beg your pardon, my lord?" Justin said quickly.

  "You were not attending," the marquess scolded. "This is important, m'boy. I said, I wish you to consider relinquishing Dyanna's guardianship to me. After all, her grandfather was my greatest friend. If her father had not borne a grudge against his father-in-law, I have no doubt I should have been named

  Dyanna's guardian. Certainly, had Rakehell died before Lord Lincoln, her care would have been left to me."

  "No doubt, my lord," Justin admitted freely. "But the fact remains that it was not."

  "Still, it was to me Dyanna came for shelter. I'should think that would carry some weight with you. And only think, sir. You are a young man. Unmarried. You have spent much of your time at sea. Surely Dyanna would be better here, in London, where she could enter society and meet the kind of people her breeding and heritage"

  "Yes, yes, my lord," Justin interrupted wearily. "I understand what it is you are saying."

  "Then you will consider my proposal, sir?" the marquess persisted. He had earmarked Dyanna for Geoffrey from the moment she'd appeared at Summersleigh House. Her fortune would go far toward restoring various properties that would one day be Geoffrey's. And, much as the old gentleman hated to admit it, even in the privacy of his own thoughts, the young pup did seem to have a way of letting money slip through his fingers. A fabulously rich wife was precisely what was needed. The thought of a catch of Dyanna's potential going to live beneath the roof of a man of Justin DeVille's looks and his family's reputation was a serious threat to the marquess's plans.

  Justin sighed. Perhaps the marquess was right, he thought. After all, the primary responsibility of a guardian was to see one's ward launched in society, guided into marriage with a suitable husband. For himself, he had no taste for London society. The mad whirl of the Season held no attraction for him. To attend the balls and dinners and breakfasts and theaters and operas for the express purpose of exposing Dyanna to throngs of eligible males was distasteful to him. And yet, would it not be unfair of him to refuse her such opportunities merely because of his own aversions?

  "I see the sense of what you are saying, my lord," he allowed at last. "The matter is worthy of long and serious thought. I will tell you now, however, that the thought of relinquishing Dyanna's guardianship is"

  The saloon door opened on a soft knock, and Dyanna appeared. The pliant, pale pink muslin of her gown whispered over the carpet as she entered the room. The rose satin bows that ran down the front of her gown gleamed as she passed through a shaft of sunlight. Stopping before the marquess and the earl, she sank into a deep and graceful curtsy. As she bent, the long, shimmering ringlets into which Charlotte had coaxed her silvery hair fell forward over her shoulders. They brushed her breasts, which swelled tantalizingly against the low, round neckline of her gown.

  Justin swallowed hard as his tawny eyes followed the gleaming lines of the fine gold chain that disappeared into the lush, ivory valley of her breasts. As Dyanna rose, he caught the briefest glimpse of her aqua-blue eyes before they were concealed by the thick, curling lashes of her lowered lids.

  He could not take his eyes off the vision before him. He had never seen a more beautiful woman. He had thought her lovely at the Angel Inn but now . . . now . . . He knew he could not give her up. He knew that he could not allow someone else to keep her, see her, shelter her beneath another roof. The sudden violence of his possessiveness shocked even him.

  "You were saying, sir," the marquess prompted eagerly, leaning forward in his chair. "The thought of relinquishing Dyanna's guardianship is?"

  "Is out of the question," Justin finished softly. "I was appointed her guardian, my lord, and I intend to remain so." He turned an unrelenting stare at the elderly aristocrat. "Dyanna is my ward. And if you will instruct your servants to pack whatever belongings she has, I will take her home now."

  Chater Seven

  As they rode along South Audley Street toward Piccadilly, Dyanna stole a sideways glance at Justin. The marquess had not tried to hide his reluctance to let her go, even though he knew he could not legally stop Justin. That the old lord had insisted Dyanna take the small but lovely wardrobe his housekeeper had managed to obtain for her was a mark of his kindness, his genuine affection for her, Dyanna thought. The gowns and accessories would tide her over until a dressmaker could provide her with her own things. The two small trunks rode in the carriage behind them and, guarding them, rode Charlotte, whom the marquess had insisted accompany Dyanna over Justin's protests that he had maidservants aplenty to see to the needs of his ward.

  But the mystery that remained, the question that plagued Dyanna, was how Justin had found her so quickly.

  Nervously threading the ribbons trimming-her feathered bonnet through her fingers, Dyanna took a deep breath and said:

  ''My lord?"

  Justin arched his brows, though his gaze never wavered from the street before them. "Hmmm?"

  "How did you find me?"

  A deep crevice appeared in his taut, tanned cheek as he smiled. A low chuckle rumbled deep in his throat.

  "I have my ways, my dear," he said cryptically.

  Dyanna's eyes narrowed as she thought of the book tucked in among the clothing in one of the little trunks.

  "What ways?" she asked, holding her
breath.

  Justin hesitated, loath to tell her the information had come to him via a network of gossiping servants.

  "Oh," he said at last, his tone airy, "I looked into my crystal ball and there you were."

  Dyanna felt her heart thud sickeningly in her chest. Glancing over her shoulder at Charlotte, she saw the girl surreptitiously crossing herself.

  Wondering at her silence, Justin looked at his ward. To his surprise, he found her deathly pale and obviously shaken.

  "Dyanna," he said, amused, "I was only teasing you."

  She said nothing, but as they turned in between the grand iron gates of DeVille House, she wondered at the vagaries of a fate that enabled her to make the perilous journey to London unscathed, only to deliver her into the hands of such an unnerving man.

  The carriage drew up before the elegantly pilastered entrance of DeVille House. Justin leapt down and, before Dyanna knew what was happening, his hands were at her waist, lifting her out of the carriage and setting her on her feet.

  Together they mounted the steps and swept into an entrance hall whose floor was a breathtaking mosaic of multi-colored marble. DeVille stopped as a man in black appeared before them. He bowed grandly, bending low before them as though to Majesty itself.

  "Dyanna," Justin said, stifling the smile that no doubt would have wounded the man's pompous dignity to the quick, "this gentleman is Ipswich, my butler. Ipswich, Miss Dyanna McBride. My ward."

  "The honor is mine entirely, miss," Ipswich said. "Please feel free to call upon me at any time. I am here to serve you."

  "Thank you, Ipswich," Dyanna said. Like Justin, she was more than willing to allow the plump man in black the airs he so obviously believed befitted his position at the top of the household hierarchy.

  "Your pardon, milord, but a gentleman has called upon you. From your solicitor. He is waiting in the morning room."

  An impatient scowl flitted across Justin's sharply planed face. "I'm sorry, Dyanna," he said. "I had hoped to see you settled in myself. But apparently I must attend to business. Ipswich will show you and your maid to your rooms."

  "Honored," Ipswich concurred. "If you will follow me, miss."

  Trailed by Charlotte, Dyanna followed the butler up a gracefully curving staircase and down a wide corridor brightly lit by the sunshine spilling through a tall Palladian window at the end. It was near this window, at the last door, that Ipswich stopped. Pressing down the ornately scrolled latch he swung the door open and stepped back to allow Dyanna to enter first.

  The sitting room into which she stepped was furnished delicately, beautifully, in the finest of taste. It was obviously meant as a lady's room. The delicate furniture, the ornate but exquisite ornaments that lay scattered on tables and shelves, the pretty pastoral scenes hanging on the pale yellow silk walls, were undeniably feminine.

  "It is beautiful," she said honestly. Churlishly eager though she might be to find fault with anything having to do with Justin DeVille, she had to admit it was the loveliest room she could imagine.

  "His lordship will be pleased," Ipswich declared, crossing the room quickly, as though afraid to tread too heavily on the rose and blue and cream beauty of the antique French carpet. "This is the bedchamber, miss."

  Dyanna followed him to the double doors that led from the sitting room to the bedroom. An 'oh!' of delight and surprise escaped her as she stepped past the butler and into the bedchamber.

  The room was a long oval, its gently curving walls painted a rose so pale it was more like the delicate blush of a porcelain-smooth cheek. The ornate plasterwork that encircled the doorframes and windows was outlined in gold leaf. The ceiling, so deeply coved as to appear almost domed, had as its centerpiece a painting of Venus attended by cherubs and adored by a handsome and ardent young lover.

  The furniture in the room was, without exception, beautiful, delicate, and gilded. The bed which dominated the room was hung with pale pink silk shot through with golden threads. The draperies descended from a gilded crown and were held aloft at the corners of the bed by fat golden cherubs. The same glimmering, shimmering fabric adorned the chairs and the windows. Over the fireplace, with its white marble mantel, hung a painting not dissimilar to the one in the ceiling.

  "It's breathtaking," Dyanna whispered, noting the way the crystal lusters of the candelabra scattered about the room caught and reflected the light.

  "His lordship will be most gratified," Ipswich vowed. "Now, if you will follow me"he cast a pointed look at Charlotte"I will show you where your mistress's belongings are to be kept."

  Charlotte followed the butler through yet another door. As they disappeared into what Dyanna assumed must be the dressing room, Dyanna untied the ribbons of her bonnet and laid it aside with her pelisse. In the mirror of the shell-shaped dressing table, she tidied her hair.

  She sighed, sinking onto the golden shell that was the dressing table's bench. Her eyes followed the long, graceful curve of the room, pausing here and there to examine some table or chair or objet d'art more closely.

  It was so beautiful, far lovelier than anything she'd ever known. She felt like a princess in a palace. The thought of waking up each morning in such a magnificent chamber filled her with delight. And yet . . . Should she be happy here? Did she dare ignore what she'd heard about the man in whose hands her future rested? Surely no wicked fiend such as the one described in Geoffrey's aunt's book could create such beauty.

  Ipswich returned and paused before her. "Your maid is acquainting herself with the dressing room, miss. Your trunks were brought up the backstairs. Is there anything you require?"

  "Nothing, thank you," Dyanna assured him.

  But as he bowed and moved toward the sitting room door, she called out to him"Ipswich?"

  He turned, an eyebrow cocked expectantly. "Miss?"

  "This house. Has it been long in Lord DeVille's family?"

  "It was built, Miss, in 1715 or thereabouts, by his lordship's great-grandfather. It has been in the family since, with the exception of some twenty years1750 to 1770during which time it was the London residence of the Viscount Cholmley."

  "How did he acquire it?"

  "In a game of cards, Miss, with his lordship's father."

  The thought of Sebastian DeVille's betting his magnificent London residence on the turn of a card did not overly surprise Dyanna.

  "I see," she murmured. "And then Lord Cholmley sold it to the present Lord DeVille?"

  "Not at all. In fact, Lord Cholmley spurned milord's every offer to buy the house. He had done all this redecorating, you see." With a sweep of his hand, he indicated the splendor surrounding them.

  So much for giving the DeVilles credit for the decor, Dyanna thought wryly.

  "But Lord DeVille did, eventually, convince Lord Cholmley to sell?"

  "Not precisely," Ipswich said. "Lord Cholmley dropped dead. It was quite a shock. He seemed such a vital, healthy man. Lady Cholmley said the house was haunted. She refused to live here."

  "And so she sold it to Lord DeVille?"

  "No. She wanted it to go to her husband's heira cousin, so I remember, from Northumberland. Or was it Yorkshire? In any event, shortly thereafter, Lady Cholmley went mad."

  "Mad!" Dyanna shivered. "Was there madness in heir family?"

  "No one seemed to think so. In fact, there were those who said it was as if a witch had cast a spell"

  "Ipswich!"

  Both the butler and Dyanna jumped, shocked by Justin's exclamation. He stood there, framed in the doorway, his brow furled with grim disapproval.

  "I hardly think the young lady could be interested in such lurid tales, Ipswich," he said tightly.

  "Your pardon, my lord. Excuse me, miss. Excuse me, milord."

  Dyanna's eyes followed the butler as he made his hurried retreat from the suite. When she heard the sitting room door close behind him, she turned her attention to Justin.

  She could not help being struck, as she had been both at the Angel Inn and again at Summersle
igh House, by Justin's looks. His tawny golden coloring was enhanced by the bright blue of his coat, which fitted to perfection over a buff waistcoat and trousers. His black boots were polished to a shine that rivaled the glitter of his coat's golden buttons, and even the spill of lace at his neck and wrists could not detract from the air of masculinity that surrounded him.

  "You mustn't punish Ipswich," Dyanna told him, rising from the dressing table. "I asked him about the house."

  "Even so, there are some matters which are best allowed to fade into the past," Justin replied, a hint of ice in his tone. His eyes scanned the room before coming to rest on Dyanna's face. "Are you satisfied with your rooms?"

  "They're beautiful," she told him freely. "I've never seen anything so lovely as this room."

  "A beautiful setting for an exquisite jewel," he replied, and Dyanna wondered if she detected a note of mockery in his words.

  Flushing, she turned away. There was an awkward silence before Justin said:

  "I have to go out for a little while. I just thought I'd see if you were getting settled before I left."

  "I'm fine," she answered softly. "Charlotte is unpacking my things."

  "We'll have to see about a wardrobe for you. You can't content yourself with so few gowns."

  "I suppose not."

  Dyanna felt his gaze boring into her back, but her tongue was maddeningly tied. He bewildered her, frightened her, and yet attracted her. She wanted to run and hide from those piercing eyes and yet, when she heard his footsteps leave the room, she felt a sudden desire to run to the window and see if she could see him drive off in his carriage.

  Wandering out to the sitting room, she sank into an armchair. Leaning her head against its carved, gilded back, she closed her eyes wearily and tried in vain to push the image of his face from her mind.