But then, he saw the look in her eyes. She was still suspicious, waiting for the catch, the snare, the string that came attached to the paper. There was no good way to convince her that he did not expect a reckoning. If he left her alone, she would live waiting for it. And if he did not? Then it would be all she could think of, on their first night together.
'What do you want from me?' she said, her tone dry and empty.
And so he answered her. 'What do you think I deserve?' If she thought him such a demon, the least she could do was tell him so. Damn him to hell and call him unworthy.
She went to the sofa by the fire and lay down upon it, fumbling with her skirts, spreading her legs.
'Stop that immediately.' She had dropped the paper upon the floor. And without thinking, he picked it up again.
'I do not wish to live a moment longer with an unpaid debt upon my conscience. Knowing that you could come for me at any time? It has been unbearable.' Though she did not rise, she pulled away from him as he approached her, as though the thought that he might take advantage of what she was offering was almost unbearable. Her face showed such pain that he could hardly stand it.
'I asked you.' He pointed a finger at her, in accusation. 'I asked you if you were happy in your job as companion. You assured me you were all right. You were happy. And that it had all turned out for the best. Were you lying?'
'That was before I knew who you were.'
'And now that you do, it is all changed. I understand that you cannot be happy with me. But it appeared you were growing quite fond of Nathan Dale. Was that a lie as well?'
'It was a mistake.' She lay still upon the couch, her bosom heaving and skirts so disarrayed that he could see the slender ankles and shapely calves beneath them. Every movement, every breath, seemed an invitation. But she was looking at him with those wide, innocent eyes. And although the affection in them was gone, there was not a trace of guile. He had been sure that she wanted him, and yet she swore that she did not.
'Then it is a mistake that is easily corrected. Nathan Dale, who you loved, is gone, never to return. And between you and Nathan Wardale, there is nothing?'
She hesitated. It was less than a breath. Less than a fraction of a second. But it was there. And then she said, 'There is nothing between us but the writing on that piece of paper.' And when he looked into her eyes again, he saw it: the bluff that he had been hoping for.
He had broken her heart with his carelessness. She was disappointed and angry and afraid. But she was not afraid of him. She feared what she was likely to do, should he touch her again. And she hoped that a single, weak lie could make him throw down his cards and leave the table.
There was much more between them than she would admit. But if he allowed her to escape, she would never understand. He took a shallow breath, and read the paper, as though the words were new to him, but of little consequence. Then put it back into his pocket. 'Then I lied when I said I did not wish to redeem this. If that is all I am to you, if there is no love between us, then what reason do I have to yield it unpaid?' He patted his pocket. 'It is still on my person, as it has been for ten years. And during that time, I made no effort to hurt you, to hunt you down, to humiliate you with it. And so it will remain, if you wish to walk out of my life. But if it is so important to you, then you must retrieve it from the table beside my bed. Return here, at eight tonight. We will settle what is between us. If you wish to leave afterwards, the marker will go with you and you may do what you like with it. I hope you are happy together. But once you go from here, you will never see me again. Good day, Miss Price.'
He left her, striding out of the study and up the stairs to his room. She was still sprawled on the couch, and if he remained one more moment in her company, he would give in to his desires and fall upon her like the animal she thought him to be.
After what he had suggested, she would not dare to follow. His own words had shocked him. For what gentleman would ever say such to a lady? Especially the woman he loved. But if she did not see his self-disgust, then she could assume what she wished. And since she seemed to expect the evil seducer, that was what he would give to her. He would play her game--and beat her at it, for if he was nothing else, he was good at games.
And what was love, after all, but another game of chance? He was sure she would come back to the house, prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice to conclude her business with Nathan Wardale. But when the door was closed and the lights were out, it would be a different matter entirely.
She had loved him before this morning. And if he had lured her to his rooms two days ago, and asked as Nathan Dale for what she was now willing to barter, she would have given it willingly. If she had the nerve to return to him, he would make her face the fact that she wanted him in the same way that he did her. He would give her the sort of night that any man would be proud to offer the woman he loved. And then, he would see if she was so willing to leave him.
Chapter Fifteen
How could she have been so stupid?
The words echoed endlessly in her mind as Diana sat with Verity and Honoria in the white salon, mechanically jabbing the needle in and out of her embroidery. Had not her father warned her against just such a day as this? Had not she spent the whole of her adult life on guard, always suspecting that someday there would be a knock on the door and a man would come who would know far too much about her past?
Of course, Nathan Dale had not come as a seducer. He had come to speak to Marc and seemed surprised to meet her there. But his initial curiosity should have been a warning. Who would have reason to be interested in a paid companion? It was her own vanity that had led her to believe he fancied her. Nothing more than that.
Of course, her father's description had been totally different from the man who had come to her. He had described Wardale as little better than a boy. Pale of skin, thin of body, and with cold dead eyes. And having met Nell, she'd assumed a greater family resemblance between them than existed.
If Nathan Wardale's life had been as hard as the one that Nathan Dale had described to her, then the person her father had seen was but a shadow of the man to come. Whether he'd enjoyed it or not, life at sea had put muscle on him, changed his colouring and his gait. And hardship had made him serious, and sensitive to the feelings of others.
But those thoughts sounded almost like sympathy in her mind, so she pushed them away. His appearance did not matter, nor his reason for coming. He was still the person who was responsible for her current condition, and she had hated him for years.
Her inner turmoil must be reflected in her face. Verity had put down her work and was looking at her with concern. 'Are you sure you are all right, Diana?'
'I am fine.' Her voice sounded brittle in her own ears, and her smile must look as false as it felt. For now Honoria was staring at her with the same worried expression. 'Well you certainly do not look it. Perhaps this evening, it would be better if we attended the party without you.'
The party. She had forgotten, in her rash promise to Nathan Wardale, that she was already engaged to attend the Carlow girls at a musicale. And now, she must lie to free herself. 'I think you are right. It is probably just the beginnings of a megrim. I should make an early night of it. But that would leave you without a chaperone. And I would never...' She let the thought trail away, waiting for one of the girls to take the bait.
'We will be safe in the company of Lord Keddinton, I am sure,' said Honoria. 'And I promise there will be no ill reports of me tonight, for it would hardly be fair to worry you.'
Verity nodded. 'We will give you no trouble, and will be very quiet when we return, so as not to disturb your sleep.'
Or notice her absence, if she had not yet returned herself. 'Thank you,' Diana said with a smile, ignoring the pang of guilt she felt at how easy it was becoming to deceive her friends.
It was Nathan Wardale's doing. All of it. Until he had appeared in her life, she had worked so hard to resist temptation. But a few short weeks later, s
he was lying, stealing, and preparing to sneak away from the house, coldly contemplating the loss of her virtue to a man she detested. How many other sins would she commit before he was through with her? And did uncontrollable anger count against the total of them?
For she felt angry now. She had never been so angry in her life. Not even when father had lost their house, and sat her down with the tearful explanation of why they must go so quickly. And why she must, at all costs, avoid contact with a man named Wardale.
When that had happened, she'd felt shock. And fear. And for a time, she had been upset with her father. But it had been tempered with love and forgiveness. For what good did it do her to be angry with Father, when his behaviour never changed? She had learned to put anger aside as impractical.
But now? There was no sympathy in her heart for either of the men that had brought her to this. Had she meant so little to Father that he could not put down the cards? And that he would lose her to Nathan Wardale, of all the people in the world. He had become a man she could have loved and respected, had the past been different. Had it not been enough for him to know that he owned her body? Had it been necessary to win her heart as well?
Her response to him was infuriating. She had melted under his kisses and longed for the touch of his hand. Even this morning, when she was furious with him, he had managed to turn the heat in her brain to passion. It was like a red light, burning in her mind, obscuring rationality and smothering the calm and reasoned response she would have encouraged for anyone else. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted him to suffer as she was suffering.
And it was in her power to do so. The red light faded, and in its wake there was a horrible calm, as she saw the weapon of torture, plainly in her grasp.
She knew the location of Helena Wardale.
Had she mentioned the woman's name to him at all in their discussions? Obviously not, or he would have commented on it. If he had even suspected, he would have inquired in an offhand manner, about the birth name of Marc's bride. She had seen the hungry look in his eye as he had told her about his family. If he'd known how close he was to the solution, he'd have dropped his charade and begged her for the truth. He'd have done anything to know, just as he would make her debase herself for her freedom tonight.
But now? She would use his only weakness to her advantage.
She waited until the girls had gone away with Lord Keddinton, accepting their concern with a wan thank you, and a promise to rest well in their absence.
And as soon as the door latched behind them, she went swiftly to her room. She threw aside the dress she had worn as simple Diana Price, lady's companion, and pulled out the green silk gown she had bought with the money he had given her. Blood money, meant to salve his conscience.
She fastened herself into the dress and turned to admire it in the mirror. It was indecently low and the deep green of his eyes. Her breasts all but spilled out of the bodice, creamy white and beautiful. He would want to touch those breasts, she was sure, and felt a shiver run through her. She went to work on her hair, loosening the pins and freeing braids until the curls seemed ready to fall about her shoulders at the least urging. Another way to trap him, if his talk in the park was true.
She had always imagined herself, should she be forced, going to Nathan Wardale as a virgin sacrifice. But now? She would go as a conqueror. When he tried to take her, she would take from him as well. She would tempt him with her body. When he thought his moment of triumph was near, she would ask him what lengths he was willing to go to, to regain his sister.
And then they would see who was master. And who was slave.
Her preparations complete, she pulled on her cloak and crept down the backstairs and out onto the street to hail a cab. Once under way, she settled back into the squabs, revelling in the cruelty of it. How best to hurt him? If she attacked immediately, the shock might prevent the rest of his plans for her. If she offered to trade the information for the marker, she was sure that he would cave to the demand.
Or she could savour the moment, letting him think he was controlling her, all the while knowing that she held the true power. Perhaps she would never reveal the secret at all. She could tell him that she knew, but that he never would. Give hints of the truth, but no more.
She would let him suffer as she had, balanced on the knife's edge for years, never knowing when or if the revelation would occur. Withholding of good news would be as bad as the suspending of catastrophe.
The hired cab pulled up in front of the building that had once been her home. She wrapped the cloak tight about her body, pulling the hood up to obscure her face from the driver, signalled him to wait, stepped down into the street, then hurried up to the front door. Benton answered to her knock. He was the same as she remembered from childhood. He had been unable to contain his joyful, 'Miss Diana!' when he'd opened the door for her earlier in the day, as though her anger with him and Wardale could not extinguish his happiness at seeing her well.
Tonight, she said, 'I am expected.' And he answered with a dispassionate nod.
She gave him no other explanation, but he must have guessed what was about to happen. The shame of it took her in a wave, for it was as though her own father had survived to see her disgrace. He reached for her cloak, but she pulled away from him, as though even the slightest touch were an invasion.
Benton cringed at this, and his hands dropped to his sides. Then he muttered that he would get his master, and led her to the sitting room, closing the door against prying eyes.
The house seemed strangely quiet, for other than the butler, there was not a footman in sight, nor maids, nor any other sign of a servant. But it only took one set of eyes to see her enter the house. It would not be possible to keep the secret, once it got below stairs. How many people would know of her fall, by the end of this night? Could she ever go back to what she once was, after stepping across this particular threshold of her life?
Not possible. Less than a week ago, she had been a woman in love. That feeling seemed a distant memory, compared to the loathing she felt for the man now.
And the house gave her muddled emotions a nightmare quality. Everywhere she looked was familiarity. She knew the rooms as well as she knew her own hand. But it was all wrong. Here was the little marble-topped table she had played under as a girl. But that had been in the upper hall. How had it come here? Where was the chiming clock that had been upon the mantel? The bowl of fresh flowers that stood there now was quite attractive, but shouldn't it be in the foyer?
It was as though her childhood had been altered with time, as the tide might change the sand on the beach. It was wrong, all of it, and nothing like what she had pictured on the few times she had imagined returning here in triumph to oust the usurper.
It was not her parlour. But it was a lovely room, all the same. Under different circumstances, she might have found it comfortable, and the fire in the grate and the flowers above it would have seemed more welcoming than the cold ticking of a clock. She frowned. She had expected to feel more, somehow. Happy, or sad or more likely, filled with righteous anger at the man who had taken her home and worked to wipe the traces of her from it.
Instead, it was as though some portion of her anger was wiped away with the change. This was not her home any more. Even if she returned, a simple rearrangement of the furniture could not bring back the past. Nor could it change any of what had occurred.
The door opened, and Nathan Wardale entered, un-announced. He smiled at her, as though nothing had changed between them. 'Welcome, Diana.' He held out a hand. 'Benton did not help you with your cloak? Here, allow me. And then perhaps, a glass of wine?'
Rage simmered fresh within her. How dare he pretend that this was a normal visit, or that she wished his hospitality? 'Wine will not be necessary. Let us complete our business,' she said through gritted teeth. 'My cab is waiting, and I wish to return home before ten.'
'You told the driver to remain?' He gave her an odd look and then a pitying smile. 'I will go
and send him away again. I would send a servant, but I have dismissed most of them for the evening. I assumed that you would prefer it.'
'The evening?' The insolence of the man was astounding. 'You misunderstand the amount of time I will devote to this enterprise.'
'And you misunderstand the amount of time it will take.' There was the smile, again. 'It is obvious that you have managed to retain the loan's collateral, for you are quite naive. You must allow that I am more experienced in the events that will transpire tonight, and permit me to set the timetable.'
Before she could speak, he stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him. She drew back the curtain and glanced out of the front window to see him offering a bank note to the driver before waving the man off. The view of the street was just as she remembered. But the red silk that framed it was nothing like the green she had been expecting. She closed her eyes against the dissonance, and tried to decide whether his high-handed behaviour made her angrier or just nervous. It definitely added to the sense of disquiet she felt, as she waited for him to return to the sitting room.
It had been easy to plot against him, when not staring into those deep green eyes. And so easy to forget that the man was a master gamesman, adept at disguising his true feelings while parting others from their valuables. She needed to be on her guard. For if she began to think of him as legitimate master of this house, what right had she to be angry?
When he returned, he was smiling again, as though he found her impending downfall to be faintly amusing. 'On this night, of all nights, you wanted to hold the cab, as though you were running an errand. I am curious. Just how long do you expect this to take?'
She wondered if the question was an attempt to draw out the action, or did it have some logical purpose? But then, she'd wondered the same about all his other questions, since the day they'd met. 'The minimum amount of time necessary. It has taken ten years of my life already. I do not wish to spend a moment longer than I must.'
Paying the Virgin's Price Page 15
