He made no response, just put more oil on his hands, and continued to manipulate her feet.
She watched him, wondering at the journey that had brought them here, fretting at the controlled calm of his classic features. He needed her, she knew, but she wasn’t sure what the need was, or how she should fulfill it.
She knew what she needed.
When his hands began to slide away she sat up and captured them. “It’s still safe.”
“It’s never completely safe.” His lids rose, and she saw dark, guarded eyes, but she saw the shattering too.
Dear Lord, what should she do?
“It’s as safe as before,” she said, moving closer. “Stay in me this time.”
He wasn’t resisting, but his hands were passive in hers. “I am yours to command in all things.”
If she claimed to need his love to wipe out Lord Randolph, he would comply. But he did not want it. She thought for a moment of demanding it anyway, because he’d come to like it—
Hades. She sounded just like Lord Randolph!
She let go of him. “I simply hunger, Bey. Tell me it’s right for us to go through eternity alone.”
He moved back and stood. “You are a devilishly ruthless woman.”
“Ironhand.” With a prayer to her ancestors, she straightened and took off the shirt. “You mustn’t do anything you don’t want to,” she said, eyes on his. “Remember that.”
Then she slid off the bed and undressed him.
She unfastened the long line of buttons down his silk waistcoat, and pushed it off. Then she undid his cravat, unfastened his collar and cuffs, pulled his shirt out of his breeches, then up over his head. His simple acceptance of what she was doing might have daunted her if she’d allowed herself to be daunted. He could stop her with a word, she reminded herself. Surely it wasn’t wrong to do what he wanted, but couldn’t quite bring himself to do.
When his chest was bare she gave it one quick kiss, then pushed him to sit on the bed. She knelt to remove his shoes and stockings. Scruples won then, however, and she looked up at him with exasperation. “Are you just going to sit there?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s as if I’m raping you!”
“Perhaps you are.”
She stood. “Don’t say that.”
“If we have not honesty, we have nothing.” He stood, however, and removed his remaining garments, revealing physical interest, at least.
“Is it just the body?” she asked. “The most horrible thing about Lord Randolph was that my body responded. I wanted him to be a vile rapist, but he was damnably clever.” Tears suddenly stung, and she glared up at him. “You are not to be swayed by my tears. Never. You understand!”
“Of course not,” he said dryly, and brushed a tear off her cheek. “It’s not the same, Diana. My body and heart want you. Only my cursed will reminds me of other things. You understand, don’t you?”
She rested against his chest, his erection hard between them. “Yes, I understand. This has to be complete, body, heart, and mind or it will destroy us both. But tomorrow we face the king, and the consequence of this mess. Can we not at least have now, imperfect as it is?”
“It would be another burden on the moon.” He took her hand and led her to the bed. When he’d pulled down the covers, he climbed in and said, “Join me.”
She did, and he drew her into his arms, and for her, at least, it was as if the bleeding halves joined, taking away all pain and sorrow. They lay like that for long blessed moments, then kissed, their kiss, and the world was lost.
There was skill in his careful touch, but she didn’t want care or skill. She rolled on top of him, straddling his thighs. “This is my time. The time of the full moon.”
Eyes on his, she seized the vial of oil from the table by the bed. “Flee, Hecate, queen of the dark,” she said, pouring a thin stream onto his chest, “and surrender this poor mortal to Diana, and the light.”
She put the vial aside and massaged him, praying for courage to follow lessons from her books. Praying the lessons were right and would drive him out of his controlling mind.
She massaged the oil into his chest, watching his lids flutter shut, either in relaxed surrender, or in a desperate attempt to hide his reactions. Then she worked lower and lower, dizzying herself with the feel of warm skin over powerful contours of muscle.
Excitement and nervousness built, and part of her wanted to retreat, to accept whatever he was willing to expertly give. She made herself follow her plan, however, and slid her hands at last around his hot, hard erection.
A shudder ran through him, sending a sense of power into her.
“I love you,” she said, and slid one hand up, then the other, loving the hard and soft feel of him, but only too aware that she didn’t really know what she was doing.
“You can play teacher, if you want,” she whispered. “I’ve never done this before.”
“Heaven save me if you learn more.” His chest moved as he sucked in deep breaths and between her thighs, his legs tensed.
“No Socratic method?” she teased, and with a prayer to goddesses everywhere, she lowered her head to touch her tongue to the tip, to swirl around it.
He choked out a sound, and it didn’t seem to be pain.
“You will come inside me?” she asked.
“Or?” His voice was hoarse.
“Or I will do my best to drive you mad.”
She looked down, and suddenly any trace of reluctance fled. She longed to taste him, and put her mouth over and sucked.
“Behold a lunatic!” He surged up and seized her, and she was flat on her back, him deep inside before she caught breath.
With a happy laugh, she wrapped her legs tight around him as he drove in and out. She did nothing more but surrender and let him purge the last tawdry remnant of Lord Randolph’s pathetic assault.
She had to think, when she could think again, to decide whether he was still inside. When she realized he was, she hugged him and said, “Thank you.”
He still lay over her, heavy but welcome, and she ran her fingers through his hair.
“I will never let you go,” she said, rubbing her cheek against his head, “so you might as well surrender to the lunatic moon. Or I’ll just have to seduce you every full moon for the rest of our lives.”
“The full moon,” he said almost sleepily, “is tomorrow.”
“Is that an invitation?”
He didn’t reply, and she realized he was asleep. Despite his weight pinning her, she smiled through tears of love and joy. Surrender at last.
Chapter 30
She woke as if from a dream to bright sunshine shafting through a slit in drawn curtains.
Alone.
Bolting upright, she saw nothing to suggest the night. No oil, certainly no lover. Even the pillow he would have used was smooth.
Had she dreamed it? No. Traces of oil remained on the sheets, in stains and sensual perfume. He’d been here. He, the essence of him, had come within touch of her questing fingertips.
More than that. For a short time he had been hers, mind, body, and soul.
But now he was gone, and his careful obliteration of his presence filled her with despair. The final battle had not been won because it wasn’t a matter of will, after all. That could be changed by a stronger will.
For him, it was a matter of the soul.
What, save God, could help with that?
Muddled last night, she’d assumed she was in his bedroom, but of course she wasn’t. This room, though grand, held no personal items. Anyway, he wouldn’t take her there and risk her reputation. Not the omnipotent, omniscient, infinitely controlled Marquess of Rothgar. She beat her hands on the bed. Damn him. Damn him. Damn him!
Then she sank her head in her hands. She had to face the day as well. The king. Society. Him.
Oh God, oh God. They could end this day forced into marriage to save her reputation. If he’d retreated behind the walls again they’d be in a worse state than
when they’d begun.
She struggled out of bed and splashed her face with the cold water in the bowl. What was known? What would be said? What would the king’s reaction be to this scandal?
Would the king see her as the innocent victim, or as a cause of trouble? She knew Bey would have come up with some clever explanation of the rescue, and for bringing her back here, but what could explain her slipping out of the house in response to a note from a man?
Turning back to the bed, she saw a bloodstain, and burst into wild laughter. At last her courses had begun, but now it might make people think she’d lost her virginity here!
A knock on the door. Diana spun to face it, but only Clara came in, wide eyed and bearing a jug of hot water. “Oh, milady, I’m so glad you’re all right! I didn’t know what to do, and that’s the truth. I kept quiet, but I was so worried!”
The big jug tilted, and Diana rescued it. “It’s all right, Clara. You did the right thing.” So, Clara hadn’t raised the alarm. That might help. “What happened?”
“I couldn’t sleep a wink, of course. And then at first light that Madam Swellenborg came to say you’d been kidnapped, and rescued by the marquess, and I was to pack up your things to move here.” She’d begun to stare at Diana, however. “Is… is that a shirt, milady?”
Diana looked down and felt her face burn. “My dress was ruined,” she said, adding as coolly as possible, “I have my clothes here, then?”
Had she been tossed out of the Queen’s House in disgrace?
Clara’s mouth snapped shut. “Yes, milady. What gown do you want to wear, milady?”
Sackcloth and ashes? “Oh, I don’t care.” Diana turned toward a mirror, reluctant to see what she looked like.
Lud, thank heavens only Clara had seen her like this. The rumpled shirt hung half off one shoulder, the long sleeves rolled roughly up. Her hair was tousled, her eyes, heavy, and she simply looked like a shameless wanton.
“Choose something sober for me.” She tore off the garment, but then held it to herself for a moment, breathing in the blended aromas of sandalwood and sex. Then she tossed it on the bed and called, “Bring my pads, too, Clara. My bleeding’s started.”
No child, she suddenly thought. She didn’t want one from this, but an ache shuddered deep inside because she could not be sure of the future. She ached for the children that might never be, for the father he might never be.
No. She had come close to victory, and would not let it slip away. Even if she did have to seduce him every full moon for the rest of their lives!
She washed herself then put on the things Clara brought her—the long pad of cloth, and the belt and binder that held it in place. At least she didn’t suffer at this time as some women did. She needed all her energy and strength to deal with the coming day.
Clara brought a pale blue dress and all that was needed with it. “Will there still be the masquerade, milady, what with all this?”
The masquerade! Tonight.
It seemed an age since she’d tried on her Diana costume. Would the ball still take place? She didn’t know what she wanted.
As she took the shift the maid passed to her and put it on, Diana asked, “What’s going on in the house? When did you get here?”
“Not long after sunrise, milady,” Clara said, putting the stays over Diana’s head and beginning to lace them up down the back. Rather tightly. Clearly an attempt to restore propriety. “Don’t know if you know, milady, but you’re in the marchioness’s rooms. Not used for ages, of course.”
There was dark meaning in Clara’s words.
“Only fair,” Diana said lightly. “If you remember, Lord Rothgar slept in the countess’s rooms at Arradale.”
“But they’re not exactly short of rooms here, milady,” said Clara with a particularly fierce tug on the stay laces.
Oh heavens. The last thing she needed was Clara deciding to play watchdog.
As she stepped into the petticoat and tied the waist, Diana looked around the bedroom of the Marchioness of Rothgar. Likely, it had last been used by Bey’s stepmother, the smiling woman who’d put a broken family together again, but perhaps failed to completely heal a broken child. She’d probably conceived Lord Bryght early in the marriage and been naturally absorbed with her own children. It was, however, a shame.
Numerous pictures hung on the walls, but she went closer to one. A young child still in skirts sat on a chair in the sprawled way of the toddler, while a boy of about five leaned on the back. Both were dark haired, but while the younger one was chubby and dimpled, the older was slender and sober, and could be said to be hovering protectively.
Bey and Bryght, she was sure of it. She’d never thought how it must have been for him when his first half-brother was born. Had he perhaps hovered, guarding? Or had he avoided?
She looked at that serious child, and he looked back at her, very different to the drummer boy which was a representation of herself at a similar age. As she looked, however, the face seemed to come alive for her, and she saw the hint of a smile and the steady, fierce intelligence, already observing, assessing, remembering.
She wondered if he’d intimidated this portrait painter as much as he’d done the later one. She wished she’d known him then, but that was nonsense. She’d not even been born.
She dragged herself away and stood in front of the mirror to put on the open blue skirt, and the striped bodice. “A good choice, Clara. Becoming, but not frivolous.”
“Thank you, milady.” The maid fastened the hooks down the front, but then looked up anxiously. “Are you ruined, milady?”
Clara was asking a specific question, but Diana said, “I hope not. However, it’s probably time to face the music. Do you know where the marquess is?”
“I believe he’s gone to the king, milady. Lady Walgrave’s here, milady, and hoping to take breakfast with you if you will.”
Elf. A bit of the tension lifted. “Tidy my hair, then bring breakfast and tell Lady Walgrave I will be pleased to see her.”
Perhaps Elf would have some notion how to break through her brother’s final barrier.
And what dangers lurked in doing so.
Rothgar was ushered into the king’s presence where George was working at a desk, reading and signing documents. Apart from a brief nod to acknowledge his arrival, the king ignored him until all the papers were dealt with. It was not a snub. George was thorough about these matters, and took his duties seriously. At last he waved his secretary away and stood. “Shocking matters, my lord.”
“Deeply so, sire.”
“Is Lady Arradale all right?”
“Distressed, sire, but recovering.”
“Your note was not very informative, my lord. I’ll have the complete story, if you please, including why Lady Arradale was not returned here immediately.”
Rothgar had expected displeasure. “The latter is simplest to relate, sire. The countess was distressed and in disorder, and I thought the queen should not be disturbed. Lord and Lady Bryght arrived at my house last night, so she was chaperoned.”
“Is she harmed?”
“We were in time.”
“Thank God, thank God. Damnable business. Damnable. Lord Randolph must be mad!”
“As for that, sire, he was to some extent incited into folly.” Rothgar produced the letter. “He received this.”
The king frowned at the seal, then opened the letter. He turned puce. “By Jupiter, who dared to do such a thing? My signature. My seal. The royal seal. On this!”
“Indeed, sire.” Rothgar rescued the letter from the royal fist. “And the letter that persuaded Lady Arradale out into the night was equally skillful. Somerton doesn’t know where the letter came from, but he was assisted by a Frenchman whom the countess recognized as Monsieur de Couriac. The same de Couriac we encountered in Ferry Bridge.”
The king stared. “What? Why? Even if that maniac is after you, why help Somerton abduct the countess? What? What?”
Rothgar shrugged. “It
is known that the countess is to some extent under my protection, so I would be bound to take action at her injury. I suspect the entire plan was a trap for me. Though it is possible,” he suggested, “the French seek any and all ways to stir discord.”
“We are at peace, my lord.”
“Yet some of your subjects still resent the peace, sire. It is possible some of the French do too.”
“But what is the point?” the king demanded. “Am I likely to go to war over a woman’s abduction?”
It was time, unfortunately, to be blunt. “I believe the point, sire, is to remove me. Clearly some in the French government do not believe that you are firm against French expansion and aggression. They must think that my advice is crucial to your policies. An error, of course. They could be misinformed—by the Chevalier D’Eon, perhaps?”
The king had been pacing, but now he stopped. Rothgar wished he knew what the king was thinking, but his supernatural powers stopped short of that.
The king suddenly turned to glare at the letter in Rothgar’s hand. “What am I to do about that? My hand and my seal, and the content is vile!”
“If we find the forger, we could punish him, sire, but we would have to reveal the nature of it. I have hopes we can keep Lady Arradale’s misadventure from public knowledge.”
“Indeed, indeed. But I want de Couriac hanged. Somerton too!”
“That, too, risks stirring scurrilous talk, sire.”
The king glared. “I am to do nothing about such an affront? I will not see Somerton at court again. Even if he was a dupe of the French, he is a blackguard.”
“I believe the Duke of Carlyle would be happy to see him tied to his properties in Virginia. I could arrange that, if Your Majesty would speak to the duke about it.”
“Good riddance,” the king muttered. “But what of the true villains?”
“I would be honored if you would leave that to me, sire. I will arrange their punishment.”
After a moment the king nodded. “Inform me when it is done, my lord.” But then he added, “And what of poor Lady Arradale? She has lost a suitor.”
“Indeed, sire. Perhaps it would be wisest to put aside this matter of her marriage for some time. It can only distress her.”
DEVILISH Page 33
