DEVILISH

by Devilish (lit)

  Breath caught. A planned meeting after so many days apart? Even if it was chance, clearly it provided an opportunity for the marquess to distract himself from any minor effect she, Diana, might be having on him.

  Damn him. Damn them both.

  What she should do was dress in her finest, go downstairs, and find someone to flirt with. Instead, a sick hollow feeling pinned her in her chair. One thing was sure. She would not barge into the dining room tonight, and she did not wish for a hole in the wall.

  She didn’t want to know.

  She made Clara play cards with her, and lost. So she drank a couple of glasses of the inn’s adequate port, and went early to bed.

  Rothgar poured port for Sappho. “I’m sorry Lady Arradale didn’t come to dinner. You would like her.”

  “You like her?” Sappho asked.

  “Very much.” It was a shame Sappho was heading north. He suspected he was going to need a friend he could talk to. He hadn’t been aware until he’d seen her arrive here how tense he’d been all day.

  “Why?” she asked.

  Ah, the trouble with old friends. They saw too much. “Why do I like her? For the usual things. Courage, honor, spirit, intelligence.”

  “For most men it would be breasts, hips, lips, and generosity.”

  He smiled. “I am not most men. She has the requisite parts in pleasing form, but those are not the things that matter.”

  She leaned back in her chair, sipping her wine, the candlelight playing on her unusual, beautiful face. Her skin had the soft duskiness of well-creamed coffee. Her cheekbones were high and her eyes the large, dark almonds of Byzantine art. She had all the other usual parts and in magnificent form, but it wasn’t what had made a relationship which had lasted over ten years.

  It might be useful to let her probe. She knew him as well as anyone, and as a surgeon of the soul she had some skill.

  “It is an attraction of the spirit?” she asked.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She studied him. “Does your resolve crumble at last, Bey?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Pity.”

  They had spoken of it before, of course, and with her, he did not react with sharpness. “Self-indulgence is a virtue now?”

  “Flexibility is. Sometimes, even, to retreat is wise.”

  “Only in order to fight another day.”

  “Sometimes peace is made.”

  “After a retreat? A peace with great concessions and losses.”

  She drained her glass. “Who is your enemy?”

  “In this, madness.”

  “You fight a phantom.”

  “No.”

  She looked at him steadily. Though they came together physically when it suited them, their deepest connection was of the mind. For her, because few men loved her sensuality and her intelligence equally. For him, because with her he did not need to accommodate, pretend, or compete. And of course, she could be assumed to be barren after twenty sexual years without conception.

  She placed her hands, loosely linked, on the table. “Many years ago, you decided that the enemy was dire and the battles minor. Now, that balance has changed.”

  He felt the scalpel’s sting, and an instinct to flinch away. But he said, “Why do you think anything has changed?”

  “Not because of this Lady Arradale, Bey. Over the past few years things have changed around you.”

  “A plague of marriages and births? She noted the same thing.”

  Her eyes sharpened. “Ah, then I do wish I had met her. What happened today to cause her headache?”

  “Travel,” he said, but then realized that he’d looked down. He picked up his neglected glass and drank from it to cover the act, but knew she would not be deceived.

  “You have been cruel to her?” she asked.

  “Only to be kind.”

  She made a tsk of disapproval.

  “Yes, there is something,” he said sharply. “But my resolve has not weakened, so it were better it died now.”

  “Died young. Like your sister.”

  He hissed in a breath. “That was crude.”

  “Sometimes crudeness is necessary. As in amputation.”

  “What bit of me should I lose?”

  “Your iron-clad will.”

  “Never.”

  “Then, Bey, I fear you will die.”

  “We all die in the end.”

  “And yet life doesn’t have to be a tragedy.”

  He stood then, moved away from the table and from her. “My life is not a tragedy.”

  “Not yet.”

  He turned. “Enough, Sappho.” He meant it to be a warning, but could hear for himself that it sounded like a plea.

  Like a good surgeon, she ignored both threat and plea. “You are a wonderful man, Bey, but you are incomplete. If you die incomplete, it will be tragedy.”

  “There are worse things than tragedy. One is weakness. Another is stupidity. A third is self-indulgence. A fourth,” he said, feeling his temper snap, “is friends who don’t know when to stop.”

  She rose, perhaps in response to the challenge. “I don’t want you to die.”

  “You said that before. You are not God. Even I am not God.”

  “Bey, I fear that one day, in the not too distant future, you will kill yourself.”

  He stared at her, anger washed away by blank surprise. “That’s absurd. What sign have I ever given of self-destructiveness?”

  “You fought Curry.”

  “That was for other reasons entirely. I wasn’t looking for death.” When she continued to look at him, he said, “I give you my word, Sappho. I will never put a pistol to my head.”

  “Of course you won’t,” she said with what looked like a frown of impatience. “It would leave a mess for someone else to tidy up.”

  “I won’t put an end to myself in any way. I promise.”

  She walked around the table toward him, moving with that special grace which was neither studied fashion nor erotic sway. He loved the way she moved. For the first time he wondered if she would want to make love tonight, and was surprised by an unwillingness that had nothing to do with this battle they engaged in now.

  If she asked, however, he would oblige. It was part of the nature of their friendship.

  Instead, she put a hand to his cheek. “I worry, Bey. I worry that one day you will, like a machine, just stop.”

  “I am not a machine.”

  He put an arm around her waist and drew her close. Perhaps sex wasn’t a bad idea after all. It would put an end to this and might shake him free of uncomfortable reactions to Lady Arradale.

  “No, but you share some of the properties of a machine.” She neither encouraged nor resisted his hold. “You require to be wound up before you can function.”

  A laugh escaped him at that. “Then thank God you’re good at it.”

  She smiled, but continued. “Now your family is all settled, who will wind the spring so the machine can go through its paces day after day?”

  He put her aside. “Family problems won’t end. They never do.”

  “But they all have someone else to take care of them now.”

  “I am not exactly short of occupation.”

  She approached again, and he found he’d let himself be backed into a corner. Short of obvious flight, he could not escape.

  “You need passion, Bey,” Sappho said. “Do you not know you are a man who cannot live without passion? No,” she said as he drew her against him again, hoping to shut her up. “Not sex. Passion. Your family has been your passion since you were nineteen years old. Everything you have done since then has been directly or indirectly because of them.”

  “Even you?” He used it as an attack.

  “Of course, even me. I am safe. I have a full life and other lovers. I am happily undemanding. What we have physically is delightful, but most of what we have is of the mind. I have been necessary to you, because even without your concerns over your mother�
�s blood, you could not have married until now. You could not have weakened the completeness of your dedication to your brothers and sisters.”

  With hands on her arms, he pushed her away. “What book does all this nonsense come from?”

  She smiled. Pityingly?

  “Take comfort then,” he said, stepping sideways and away. “For at least a few weeks I will have the Countess of Arradale to fret over.”

  “With passion?” she queried, still calm.

  “Not if I can help it.”

  He heard the desperate edge in his own voice, and saw her smile widen. Devil take her.

  She held out a hand. “Come, kiss me, Bey.”

  For the first time ever, he refused. “The mood is awry.”

  “Just a kiss.” She came to him, and took his hands between hers. “I think it might be the last.”

  With a shake of his head, he carried her hands to his lips. “I do not intend to marry, Sappho. Nothing has changed. And Lady Arradale has equally excellent reasons to stay single.”

  “I know,” she said, but without losing her smile.

  “So this will not be the last time unless you choose it to be so.”

  She stepped close, and with one hand, drew his head down to hers. “I will not refuse you if you come to me for love, Bey. Ever.” Then she put her lips to his and asked for their familiar kiss. She was mistress of the art and he was her equal. It was long, and as satisfying as a favorite meal.

  When it ended, however, she drew back. “However, if you come to me again for love, I will be very disappointed. Good night, my dear.”

  He stared at the door as it closed behind her, very tempted to pick up his glass and hurl it against a wall.

  Chapter 13

  The next morning, Diana ventured warily to the private dining room for breakfast, but was still shocked to find a tall, handsome woman in the room. The stranger was dressed in a conventional plain traveling gown of rust-colored cloth, hair hidden by a cap and hat, but no one would think her conventional.

  Her smooth skin had a dusky tone, and high cheekbones and dark eyes suggested the East.

  “Lady Arradale,” the marquess said, not apparently discomposed by being found with his mistress. “May I present the poet, Sappho?”

  Diana would be within her rights to refuse to acknowledge such an unusual creature, but that might send the wrong message. How, she wondered, did one address a stranger with only one name? “Good morning, madam. You are traveling to London?”

  “From London, Lady Arradale.” The woman seemed happy. Contented? Satisfied? Damn them both! “I am to join a literary house party in Nottinghamshire, and I must be on my way. If you are still in London when I return, I do hope you will honor one of my salons with your presence.”

  Diana made polite noises—though inside she was muttering, “When the moon falls from the sky, madam.”

  Sappho took leave of Lord Rothgar without any intimate gestures at all. Despite their conventional behavior, however, a connection flowed between and around them, and as a parting shot, she said to him, “Very disappointed.”

  Diana stared at the door. She had to ask. “You have disappointed Mistress Sappho in some way?”

  He came to hold out her chair. “Not yet. She was talking of future matters.”

  His future with the poet. Perhaps they would marry. If the woman was barren, why not? Knowing she was likely to say something spiteful and revealing, Diana put a large piece of ham into her mouth and forced herself to eat it with an appearance of relish.

  When she’d swallowed ham and ill-temper, she asked, “Will we reach London today?”

  “If the day goes smoothly. That will give you a soothing night’s rest before the Queen’s Drawing Room tomorrow.”

  Tomorrow. Tomorrow her trial began. That did give her more important matters to think about. She ate quickly then rose. “We had best be off.”

  Heading for the coach yard she gave thanks that this would be the end of this difficult journey. Much more and she would embarrass herself. Then she paused in surprise to see Clara climbing into the second coach.

  “Clara, what’s happening?”

  The maid turned. “Me and Mr. Fettler are to travel in the baggage coach today, milady. The marquess’s orders.”

  Diana thought she could see a speculative light in her maid’s eyes, and speculations were buzzing inside her as well. She turned to the main coach with little bubbles of excitement starting to fizz.

  Not, of course, that she had any intention of allowing him to seduce her—especially straight from another woman’s arms!—but still…

  Perhaps he wanted to talk more of this feeling that burned between them.

  Perhaps he would rub her feet again.

  Perhaps…

  Only as she entered the luxurious coach did she notice that the opposite seats had disappeared. It took only a little investigation to see that they folded up into the front wall of the carriage. An ingenious design, especially for an owner with long legs.

  Had he sent the servants to the other coach merely to be able to stretch his legs? He climbed in and did stretch his legs out. “A more comfortable arrangement, my lady. Don’t you agree?”

  She just might scream. “I was not particularly cramped, my lord, though it is a useful feature for a coach.”

  “My own design. What is more, those seats can be rearranged to make the entire carriage a bed.”

  She glanced at him sharply, but managed to resist any further reaction. “So,” she said as the coach rolled out of the inn yard, “is that your sole reason for the change, my lord? To stretch your legs?”

  “Not at all. We must rehearse you for your role in London.”

  Thank heavens she’d said or done nothing to reveal the way her mind had run! She gathered her composure. “I do believe I know how to act the lady without practice, my lord.”

  “But can you maintain it under fire? What do you do, for example, when the king tells you that women are put on this earth to serve men and bear their children, and nothing more?”

  Diana felt her jaw tense, but she inclined her head. “Sire, I think women blessed who achieve such a happy situation.”

  “So,” he said, his voice changing a little to a sharper, higher pitch, presumably in imitation of King George, “you wish to marry, Lady Arradale?”

  She fluttered her lashes. “What woman would not wish to marry, sire, if she could find a man worthy of her true regard?”

  “And in what direction does your inclination lie, my lady? What? What?”

  She stared at him. “What? What?”

  His lips twitched. “A mannerism of his. What would you answer?”

  Diana thought. “Sire,” she said, lowering her head again, “my inclination lies toward a man of courage, honor, and strength.”

  “A soldier, then, what?”

  “Not only soldiers are brave, sire. A man of intelligence, with an understanding of the world. Someone able to advise me on my many responsibilities, but also kind and gentle, and considerate of all. One who will love me to the exclusion of all others. Especially that,” she said, looking up at him. “I require a husband who will be as absolutely faithful to me as I will be to him.”

  In his own voice, the marquess asked, “You think you are setting an impossible standard? Brand will be that kind of husband to Rosa.”

  “I had not finished, my lord.”

  “Ah, continue.”

  “I require a husband, sire, who will not need me to act a docile part, not protest at my determination, or try to restrict my actions.”

  His brows rose. “And that, of course, is why we are going to spend today in rehearsal.”

  She realized with annoyance that indeed she had fallen out of her role. “I would not say that to the king.”

  “And a drunkard will give up brandy tomorrow.”

  “I am not addicted to independence and power.”

  “Are you not?”

  “No more than you!”
/>
  “But for me, Lady Arradale, it is permitted.”

  She resisted the urge to protest the unfairness of it. As he’d said before, that would be childish.

  “So,” he continued, “when the king inquires about the state of your estates and affairs, what will you say?”

  “I am able to explain them, I assure you.”

  He shook his head. “No, Lady Arradale, you profess ignorance and confusion.”

  “But then he will feel justified in imposing a man on me to manage them!”

  “He will feel justified in that anyway. Any sign of manly expertise will only alarm him further.”

  She turned to face forward again. “You’re right. I can’t do this.”

  His fingers touched her cheek, turned her to face him again. “I believe that is where we started. Now, let’s try again…”

  By evening, as they left Ware for the last stage to London, Diana was worn out. She was ready to hate her taskmaster, even though she saw that he had at times lightened the lessons and practices with humor. The stressful day had been even longer than expected, because of a loose wheel pin which had required a stop at a village wheelwright.

  Beneath irritation and exhaustion, however, ran fear. If the marquess had planned to teach her that she faced a grueling time, that she could fail and plunge into disaster, he had succeeded.

  In the ruddy light of the setting sun, she put a hand to her weary head. “My lord, I think you wish quite desperately to marry me.”

  He was lounging back, but she thought perhaps he looked as tired as she. “Why would you think that, Lady Arradale?”

  “You are close to convincing me that I cannot do this. If that’s true, I might as well abandon the effort now, and throw myself on your mercy.”

  “You have more fighting spirit than that.”

  She turned to look out of the window at the intense pink of the sky. “But you have succeeded in teaching me that I must not fight.”

  “There are many kinds of battles, and different strategies. And weapons beyond the imagining of ordinary souls.”

  She rolled her head back. “You think me extraordinary?”

  “Don’t beg for compliments.” But his tired eyes were warm.

  “I need some.”

  She realized then that they had reached a different place during this grueling day. Not friendship exactly. Perhaps camaraderie? Certainly all barriers of formality had gone.