TemptressofTime

by Dee Brice

  Diane could picture the scene even if she hadn’t a clue about the reason for the anger. “Go on,” she prompted, nodding encouragement.

  “Da-blast you to hell-vid.”

  At last she had a name and repeated it aloud as if to validate it. “David de Bourgh.”

  “Oh no, m’lady. You never took his last name, nor he yours.”

  “I-I didn’t?” slipped out before she thought. If she kept blurting out questions like that she’d end her days in Bedlam for sure. “I didn’t,” she repeated in her most assertive voice, wanting to ask why not, but afraid to push her luck.

  “Told him—your husband, I mean—that your name went with the title. He was welcome to keep his own name, but any heirs would have yours. De Bourgh, I mean,” Margaret added with a so there nod.

  “That must have set ton tongues wagging.”

  “For a while. Not that it’s all that common. But ‘tis not all that uncommon either, you being the last de Bourgh and all.” Margaret glanced at the clothing she’d laid out, then at the ormolu clock on Diane’s marble mantelpiece.

  “I think I need to get a move on,” Diane said, heading for the water closet that, in turn, led to her bathroom.

  “Will you bind your breasts or wear a corset?” Margaret called.

  Diane surveyed her naked body in the many mirrors on her bathroom walls. Her breasts were full and almost as firm as when they first developed. Perhaps not as perky as she might like, but her nipples still paralleled the floor and appeared in no danger of drooping any time soon.

  “Have I a waistcoat?” Receiving an affirmative, she said, “Then I shall go au naturel.”

  Margaret appeared in the bathroom doorway. “Is that wise, m’lady?”

  “Probably not. But if I can provide His Grace and Lord de Vesay an excuse to fight here, it shall be for my pleasure and by my rules.”

  * * * * *

  She found them in the billiard room, ten or twelve younger gentlemen lounging about with brandy snifters in one hand, cheroots in the other. One young buck noticed her immediately and sent her a slow, seductive smile. In another life she might have taken him up on his unspoken invitation. In this life, however, she had two too many men to deal with as it was. Besides, she couldn’t imagine playing cougar to the young son of the Marquess of…whatever the father’s full title was.

  That she knew that much no longer surprised her. Just how she knew the lad’s parentage was another question best left unanswered for now.

  Seeing Adrian and Walker glaring at each other from opposite sides of the billiard table, she called, “I challenge the winner. Unless, of course, one of these gentlemen has already claimed that right?”

  She looked at the young bucks lounging around the billiard room. They had discarded their coats, waistcoats and cravats, obviously not expecting any feminine company for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Some of the young men gaped at her, others looked disapproving. She didn’t care what they thought of her or her attire. She had a point to prove and would prove it as she saw fit. As Adrian turned slowly to face her, Walker shifted so he also had a clear view of her.

  Adrian’s fingers tightened around his cue stick, his knuckles white as he thumped the cue bumper on the carpeted floor. His free hand settled at his waist, his arm akimbo, making him look bigger, wider, more menacing. In truth, he reminded her of a Komodo dragon flaunting its corona in a display of dominance. Scary for something smaller and helpless. Which she wasn’t.

  Walker, on the other hand, stood straight and still as a corpse in full rigor. Only his eyes moved, raking her from head to booted feet and back again, their dark depths stripping her naked. Her heartbeat raced. Her mouth went as dry as dust while her pussy seeped juices over her folds.

  Damnation! She hadn’t even gotten to the best part, where she removed her waistcoat and made her breasts jiggle so the men would know she wasn’t wearing any underpinnings. How unfair was it that Walker had only to look at her to make her ready to bed him?

  Attempting to distract herself from lust, she imagined how she must look to them.

  She’d tied a crimson ribbon around her hair, creating a waterfall of curls down her back. Margaret had trimmed her bangs, leaving them long enough to tangle in her eyelashes if she tilted her head down to rest her chin on her chest. Wispy corkscrew curls dangled in front of her ears like an insubstantial veil worn solely to entice a lover to strip it away.

  Her crimson waistcoat, heavily embroidered with gold dragons and bright-pink peonies, hid her sheer linen shirt. Knowing she needed to draw attention to her lack of corset and binding, she strode to the cue rack. With one hand holding the vest aside, she studied the cues, selecting one after the other until she found one that could have been crafted especially for her. Since no one was playing a game, she leaned over the billiard table and ran the cue through her thumb and forefinger like a cock plumbing a pussy.

  Aware of several indrawn breaths, she decided the men needed a more flagrant display. Resting the cue stick against the table, she shrugged off her waistcoat then handed it to the young lordling who’d flirted with her earlier. His gold-flecked brown eyes flicked to her breasts clearly outlined by the shirt she’d tucked into her hip- and leg-hugging britches. To give the young devil his due, his gaze soon returned to her face and, before turning to fold her waistcoat over a nearby chair, he winked.

  Smothering an impulse to smile, she rolled her shoulders. Which made her breasts jiggle and the young men groan louder than before.

  “Get out,” Walker said without so much as a glance at anyone but her.

  “It’s my house,” she reminded him, knowing the order was to the other men—even Adrian.

  “Then you tell them to leave,” Adrian said, his voice and expression claiming his right to stay as well.

  “Afraid to let these gentlemen watch you lose to a woman?” Ignoring Adrian’s growl, Diane studied the billiard table and swallowed a dismayed gulp. Two white balls and one red one sat in various locations on the smooth green felt. At least the felt was familiar. So were the balls although—when she played snooker at her parents’ club—she remembered there being more balls in play, including a pink one.

  Okay. Maybe winning here wouldn’t be as easy as she’d imagined. Still, she knew enough about angles and bank shots to score a few points at least. And some of the rules flitted through her mind. After lagging to see who would break—in snooker, who’d take the first shot—the idea was to hit the opponent’s ball and sink it. What she couldn’t remember was which ball, the red or the other white one, belonged to the opponent. Did she need to hit the red ball when she hit the second white one? Damnation, she wished she could remember.

  A way to solve her problem occurred and she said, “Please finish your game, gentlemen.” She directed the comment to Walker and Adrian as she sauntered to the brandy decanter and clean snifters on a marble-topped sideboard. Spotting an oblong crystal box along with another holding long matches, she lifted the lid on the first.

  Wow, so this is where they’d gotten the cheroots! Another opportunity for her to shock all the men. Especially Adrian who still stood there with his chest puffed out like…oh, someone or something stuffy.

  As for Walker…he still stood as still as a corpse. Not that she’d ever seen a real live—um, dead—person. His eyes, however, glittered with a dare you gleam.

  Allowing herself a small smile, she lowered her lashes and eased a cheroot from the box. In her peripheral vision a man’s hand removed a match, lifting that container to expose the striking surface. Her smile widening, she raised a cheroot to her mouth while looking at Walker as she took a deep drag then blew out the match her young swain had held for her.

  Adrian growled again. Walker just grinned.

  “Your game, my lords,” she said, narrowing her eyes against the sting of cigar smoke and the burn in her throat and lungs. Taking a sip of brandy only made the fire burn worse. This time she met the young lordling’s amused eyes and smil
ed at him.

  “I know you don’t mean anything, Lady de Bourgh. Should you change your mind, however, I am more than willing to serve you.”

  She nodded, murmuring a soft, “thank you”.

  Sketching a brief bow, he headed for the cue rack, saying, “I believe the next game is mine, Your Grace.”

  Darling boy, giving me the chance to observe how the game is played. Perhaps she might take him as a lover after all. Any woman worthy of the name would appreciate a man attuned to her feminine needs. Especially if he knew how to meet her sexual needs as well.

  Crushing out the cheroot, she made her way back to the billiard table, then leaned against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other. Adrian glared at her, but she focused on Walker as he lined up his shot and, of course, sank both the red and white balls. At last Adrian gave her a half-grin as he tallied the score.

  Not to be outshone, Lord Jason Leveson—his name whispered by a crony watching her more than the game—returned the scoring favor, giving Diane more opportunity to study the tactics each man employed to leave his opponent snookered—or as close as one could get with only three balls on the table. Since one had to hit the balls in a certain sequence, the game was more difficult than a novice would credit.

  “Your turn, Lady de Bourgh,” Lord Leveson said a long while later, strolling from the room with a brief salute and a cheeky grin in her direction. His friends followed him out.

  Diane retrieved her cue stick from the rack, once again testing its weight and balance. Sweet. Advancing to the pool table, she rolled one white ball to the baulk cushion. With a quick glance to see where Walker was, she bit her tongue to keep from laughing. Walker stood at the head of the table, one leg hip-cocked, his tight breeches showing off his manly assets to perfection.

  Two could play at that game. Bending over the table, her billowing neckline revealed an expanse of her chest and breasts. In case anyone stood behind her, she wiggled her ass. To her chagrin Walker threw back his head and let out a roar of laughter.

  Adrian, looking puzzled, joined in Walker’s laughter, then said, “Let the game begin.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I believe Lady de Bourgh is foxed,” Adrian observed, wending a serpentine path from the billiard table to a chair halfway across the room.

  Diane used her cue stick to steady herself. “If you mean befuddled or confused…I admit to that. On the other hand…” She leaned against the billiard table side. “If you mean drunk—hic—I believe I am that as well.”

  Not surprising since they’d imbibed from late afternoon to these early morning hours. Her servants had brought foods—mostly cheeses, thin-sliced roast beef, some chicken legs and breads—that required using damp and dry towels to keep the cue sticks clean. From time to time, her guests wandered in to take their leave. At first she offered to see them off, but she sounded so disinterested, her butler soon took over on her behalf. More fodder for the London scandal rags.

  The Marchioness of Goldsborough could not bother to see her guests to her door let alone to their carriages. One can only speculate which game held her attention—billiards or her noble and handsome adversaries?

  The thought of her salacious behavior now when compared to her past brought on a giggling fit. Which in turn became quiet sobs of self-pity. Men didn’t have to worry about their reputations. In truth, it seemed men were expected to sow their wild oats both before and after marriage. Women on the other hand…

  Remembering the fortuneteller’s words, she wailed. “I don’t belong here.” Doubled over her knees, tears sliding down her cheeks and dribbling off her nose and chin, she sobbed louder. Pathetic. Ignoble. Ignominious. She never giggled, seldom cried, but this…this life, not even her own, had reduced her to sobs.

  Two sets of hands helped her straighten. Four strong arms guided her to a chair. One snowy linen handkerchief appeared in her hand. A brandy snifter wafted under her nose like fiery smelling salts. Shoving it away, she swiped at her tears, aware of the men hovering over her while clearly not having a clue what to do for or with her.

  At last they hunkered at her knees and patted them.

  “What do you mean,” Walker said, his voice so gentle her tears fell harder, “you don’t belong here?”

  Glaring at him, she muttered, her tone accusing, “That’s what the Gypsy shouted at me…in the fortuneteller’s tent. And don’t claim you don’t remember! You were there—both of you! Just like you were there when that…that other Diane had wanted to throw the Days off de Vesay’s property and…” All through her tirade her tears fell as if that other woman had saved them for centuries and only now let them out. This Diane continued to swipe them away.

  Gape-mouthed, the men stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. Yet they darted glances at one another that all but shouted they did know what had happened. Confound it, they likely know what will happen next!

  Knowing hysterics only made them more disinclined to give her straight answers, she repeated in a more reasonable tone, “I don’t belong here.” That phrase had worked for the seer, yet not for Diane in the here and now. Perhaps she should click her heels and repeat Dorothy’s words from The Wizard of Oz—“There’s no place like home.” Or she might say to the men, “You don’t belong here,” the exact words the crone had said to her. Except…what if Walker and Adrian disappeared? What would she do then?

  She pushed that horrifying thought aside. Given time she could—and would—get herself out of this predicament. In the meantime…

  “Oh, do get up!” she snapped at them.

  Seeming grateful, they stood, looking undecided about what to do next.

  “I have questions I believe you can answer,” she went on, waving them to nearby chairs. They sat, their long legs stretched out, feet crossed over ankles. Damnation, she wished she could sprawl like that and still look elegant. How in hell they could look so damn relaxed when she wanted to pull out her hair added to her growing frustration. Moreover, with her eyes no doubt puffy from crying, her hair no doubt sticking out in a dozen directions, her shirt pulled out and sagging around her hips, a pretty picture fell beyond her ability to produce.

  “Can your questions wait until we’ve slept?” Adrian’s wide yawn had both Walker and her yawning as well.

  “Not all of them, no.” Her tears seemed to have washed away the effects of alcohol from her system, leaving her calmer, stronger, fit to face whatever else she must face.

  “First, I want to know my late husband’s name.” She looked from one to the other, then focused on her hands folded in her lap. “First and last names.”

  When they remained silent, she glanced up and intercepted that silent communication men were so adept at. No eye rolls, thank God, but quirked brows, thinning lips or puffed-out cheeks that apparently made sense to them.

  “David St. Clare,” Adrian muttered.

  “No title? A plain Mr. David St. Clare?” she asked in so mild a tone it surprised her. Still… Despite her incredible situation, she retained her ability to think. For the most part rationally.

  “An honorary Sir,” Walker provided, sounding as if he’d swallowed something vile. Looking down his aristocratic nose at her and her mere mortal Sir spouse, no doubt. “He apparently did something in the way of spying for the Crown, so the king knighted him.”

  “Any clue as to why I married Sir David St. Clare?” Whatever that something in the way of spying was, Diane found it both exciting and appealing. Small wonder the woman had married him.

  “Perhaps because you—and he—were caught in a compromising position?” Adrian’s cheeks flushed red and his gaze jittered away.

  “In flagrante delicto?”

  “No,” Walker told her, “but almost.” His gaze shifted to somewhere behind her then back to her face. “Marrying him was the most conventional thing you’d done in your life. The haut ton speculated you were in the family way and married him to give the child a name.”

  Diane snorted. “According to m
y maid, I refused to take his name and insisted any children would bear mine.”

  “You believed a servant?” Adrian said.

  “So far Margaret is the only person who’s told me the truth!” And I know this, how? Margaret could have lied to me as well. But at least her lies—if any—made sense. Neither Diane had bowed to conventional rules in her previous lives, so why would she in this one? Believing a servant over lords suited her rebellious personality.

  “How could he afford to keep a mistress?” she wondered aloud.

  Both Adrian and Walker cleared their throats.

  “A question whose answer lies in speculation,” Walker said as he stood to stretch.

  Even with his shirttail hanging out and his shirt laces half undone, he resembled a great, dark cat. When his half-hooded gaze caught hers, her breath caught in her throat and her heart fluttered like a schoolgirl with her first crush.

  Adrian’s hand on her shoulder added to the flame Walker had kindled.

  “Damnation! I am not going to bed you,” she vowed. For once her voice held no hint of lust. “Neither one nor both together.” She wanted answers and she wanted them now. Arms akimbo, she glared at them. Encountering the wings on her wingback chair, she tucked her elbows to her side.

  “Yet you intend to bed Leveson.” Adrian’s stormy gaze betrayed an anger his mild voice kept hidden.

  “I haven’t decided.” Whether she bedded the lordling or didn’t was none of their business. Realizing her swearing betrayed her growing frustration, she gulped a deep breath.

  “Before you do decide, I suggest a contest,” Walker drawled, his tense posture at odds with his flippant tone.

  Why did it matter to either one of them who she bedded? Had the fortuneteller told the truth? Did Walker and Adrian have lessons to teach her? Had she lessons to teach them? And if so, what?

  “What kind of contest?” she demanded, her chin thrust upward. A quizzing glass would have served her better, but with none at hand, an imperious look would have to suffice.