DEARLY BELOVED

by Mary Jo Putney






Published by:
New American Library,
a division of
Penguin Books USA Inc.,
1633 Broadway,
New York, New York 10019.
Further reproduction or distribution
in other than a specialized
format is prohibited.













Copyright 1990
by Mary Jo Putney


BOOK JACKET INFORMATION

"A PAGE-TURNER, A FRESH, STRONG,
COMPELLING STORY."
--Jennifer McCord, Romance
Consultant

Diana's body melted to his touch. But
suddenly she was afraid, not of this dark man with
cool eyes and warm hands, but herself ....

Beautiful Diana Brandelin entered into a daring
masquerade when she came to London posing as a
dazzling courtesan. All she knew of men was
meaningless, forced marriage to a visiting lord--and
gold to take the place of love. That lord was the
dark and handsome Viscount Gervase St. Aubyn,
whom she vowed to make pay for the past. But try as
she might to be heartless in weaving a web of
desire, passion tore away her defences and her
disguise ... and gave Diana and Gervase an
irresistible second chance at love. ...

"Wonderfully crafted ... articulate and
perceptive ... sets a new standard of
excellence for historical romance ... one of the
best books of this or any other year!"--
Romantic Times

MARY JO PUTNEY, WINNER OF THE
ROMANTIC TIMES REVIEWER'S CHOICE
AWARD FOR BEST REGENCY NOVEL AND
THE ROMANCE WRITERS ASSOCIATION'S
1989 GOLDEN LEAF AWARD FOR BEST
HISTORICAL FICTION FOR THE RAKE
AND THE REFORMER.

"An enthralling novel that uses sparkling wit
and devastatingly perceptive characterization to paint a
compelling portrait of one of the most enduring
creations of romantic fiction--the Regency
rake."
--Romantic Times

PASSION REVISITED

"I want tonight to be special," Diana said.
Her face looked earnest and very young.
Gervase laid one hand on her waist, feeling
her slim warmth through the layered silk. "It will


be. I promise that."
She smiled briefly, but her smile didn't
reach her eyes. "Tonight, let's pretend to be young
lovers. I will play the maiden, and you the man who
teaches me the wonders of first love and the awakening
of passion."
He bent forward, closing the distance between them. This
time his kiss was not hungry and demanding, as when he
had first arrived, but leisurely and probing, bent
on exploring every surface and texture of her
yielding mouth.
And Diana had her first taste of the passion of this
night that would be an endless lesson in love. ...

October 10, 1989

Dear Reader,
DEARLY BELOVED is a special book for
me, and I hope it will be for you as well. Much as
I've loved writing Regencies, I wanted
to do a story with greater depth and intensity, a book
about emotional devastation and the healing power of love.
DEARLY BELOVED is the result. On the
surface, the plot is a simple one: a
wealthy lord chooses a beautiful mistress and they
fall in love. But what seems like chance is
really the working of a strange and challenging fate.
A bitter past had turned Gervase
Brandelin into a man without dreams. Then he
meets Diana Lindsay, and her warmth and
compassion soon melt his icy defenses. But a
dark secret lies between them, a secret will
shatter Gervase's hard-won trust once it is
revealed.
Diana Lindsay's dangerous beauty had
cost her dearly in the past, and it seemed only
fair that she use that beauty to earn security for
herself and her child. But the moment she met Gervase
Brandelin, calm calculation crumbled. She
knew that destiny had brought them together--and that that
destiny was love.
The characters are part of me, their tears and laughter
and striving rooted in my own emotions. I hope
Gervase and Diana will be as real to you as they are
to me, and that when you read DEARLY BELOVED you will
laugh, and cry and end up feeling happy and
satisfied as well.
Happy reading!
Mary Jo Putney













To my fishy friend John,
who was the first one to notice
that I could tell stories


DEARLY BELOVED

Prologue

Isle of Mull, Scotland, 1799
The young man in the corner of the smoky taproom
drank alone. It was not just that he was solitary: a
nearly palpable wall separated him from the
islanders. It had been over fifty years since
Bonnie Prince Charlie had led the clans
to destruction on Culloden Moor, but Scots
have long memories. Though their hospitality was
legendary, none felt compelled to seek out a man
who was obviously rich and English, particularly
not a man whose cool gray-eyed glance conveyed no
welcome.
Being alone bothered the Honorable Gervase
Brandelin not at all; he preferred it. He
swallowed the last of his raw Scotch whiskey,
feeling it burn even though it followed numerous
earlier drafts. There was nothing subtle about either
the spirit or the effect it produced, but after a month
in the Highlands and Islands he'd begun
to develop a taste for it.
The tavern was replete with the signature
scents of farmers and fishermen, the acrid,
eye-stinging bite of burning peat predominant.
Glancing across the low-ceilinged taproom,
Gervase caught the eye of the barmaid and
signaled for another whiskey. He was drinking
too much, but after a day of riding through Mull's
relentless rain he was in the mood for warmth and
comfort. This inn was an unexpected find, its
English owners having created an un-Scottish
air of conviviality.
The barmaid sauntered over to him. She could have
left a bottle at the beginning of the evening, but then
she wouldn't have had an excuse to parade her
wares. Every time she poured a new drink, her
bodice was pulled lower and the swing of her hips was
more deliberate. "Will yer lordship be wanting something
more?" she asked, her tone suggesting a wealth of
possibilities.
Gervase responded with a half-smile,
enjoying the warmth spreading through his loins. Their
courtship, if it could be termed such, had been
progressing for the last two hours, and clearly she
had heard that he was a rich English aristocrat.
Gervase was not a lord yet, but his man Bonner
would have mentioned that the master was heir to Viscount


St. Aubyn. The remark ensured the
maximum in deference and service for both man and
master; it would also add a few crowns to the price
of bed and board, but both were still cheap by London
standards.
"What more do you have to offer?" he asked lazily,
brushing his dark hair back, grateful that it had
finally dried. He had begun to wonder if anything
in the Hebrides was ever dry.
Taking her time, she leaned across him as she
poured more of the dark amber whiskey into his glass.
Her full breast brushed his cheek and shoulder, and
he could smell the musky, not overclean scent of
her body. Gervase preferred a more refined kind
of doxy, but he hadn't had a woman in weeks
and this one was clearly available and willing. The
girl was roundly attractive and he ran an
appreciative hand down the curve of her hip.
Confident of her allure, she smiled
provocatively. "We have anything you might
want."
His gaze fell to her low-cut bodice, where
half-exposed breasts were ripe for the plucking.
"Anything?"
"Anything." The barmaid clearly had
experience and enthusiasm for this sort of private
business, which should make for a rewarding night.
Under the clatter of tankards and conversation,
Gervase asked softly, "Do you know which room
I'm in?"
"Aye."
"What time will you be through here?"
"Another hour, my lord. Will it be worth my
while to visit you then?" Her tone managed
to imply that while tall, dark, and handsome fellows
like him were exactly to her taste, she was a poor
working lass who needed to be practical.
Expecting this, Gervase had a gold coin
ready to flip to the girl. She caught and hid it
expertly before anyone else in the taproom could have
noticed. "Will that suffice as a ... token of my
esteem?"
Her smile revealed strong, irregular
teeth. "Well enough ... as a beginning."
The price of the barmaid was inflated even more
than the whiskey and the room, but since he was in a
mood to buy, he raised his glass with a
half-smile. "Until later, then."
Her hips moved in lazy circles as she
strolled away. Gervase enjoyed the show,


wondering if she could duplicate that motion
in bed, then tossed back half the whiskey. This
would be the last one, he decided, or he would be in
no condition to avail himself of his purchase later.

The barmaid poured ale behind the bar, a
satisfied expression on her face. Betsy
MacLean, a cousin and the inn's kitchen maid,
recognized the look. "Made an arrangement
with the Sassenach lord, Maggie?"
Maggie MacLean smiled with satisfaction.
"Aye, I'll be visiting him later. Handsome
devil, isn't he? And generous."
Betsy looked across the room at the
Englishman. He was a good-looking lad, no
denying, lean with broad shoulders and a spare,
muscular frame that looked incapable of fully
relaxing. His lordship was in his early twenties,
dressed with a simple, expensive elegance
seldom seen in this remote corner of Britain.
Though his features were regular, to her they were set
too sternly to be considered handsome. His face
gave nothing away, and in this crowd of drinkers he
looked cool and distant.
"I dunno, Maggie, I seen him earlier
close up and those gray eyes of his gave me a
cold grue. You can have 'im. I like that man of his
better."
"Have you been busy in that direction, Betsy?"
Maggie asked, her eyes still fixed on her
conquest.
"Aye. We're meeting later. He may not
pay as much, but at least when he looks at me
I feel warm, not cold."
Maggie snorted. "His handsome lordship's just
a man, isn't he? I know what he wants, and
he'll have to please me to get it."
"Suit yourself." Betsy shrugged and returned
to the kitchen.

Gervase finished his whiskey, then decided to go
out for fresh air. His head spun dizzily when
he stood. He had stopped none too soon;
another two drinks and he'd have been under the table.
The rain had ended, but even in mid-May there was
a cold damp bite in the night air, and he
shivered as he stepped outside. Ambling the
hundred yards to the water's edge, he listened to the
soft slap of waves on the narrow shingle beach,
then leaned against a boulder as he idly tossed


pebbles into the dark water. Behind him the sounds
of revelry gradually faded as the locals headed
back to their stark stone cottages.
His present mood of not unpleasant
melancholy was a great improvement on the taut
anger that had driven him away from his father in
Edinburgh. In retrospect, Gervase realized
that he should have delayed informing Lord St. Aubyn that
the viscount's only son and heir had bought a
commission in the army and was about to leave for India.
By speaking up too soon, he had earned three
weeks of constant hectoring as he and his father toured
the far-flung St. Aubyn estates. The
viscount allowed that the army was all right for
expendable younger sons, but was no place for the heir
to the enormous St. Aubyn wealth and
responsibilities.
Since Gervase had inherited enough money from his
mother to do as he pleased, Lord St. Aubyn had no
leverage to change his mind. The two men were joined
only by blood and duty; affection played no part
on either side. It would have been pleasant if the
older man had expressed a more personal interest
in his son's continued existence, but that question had never
arisen.
Gervase leaned over to scoop up more pebbles and
almost lost his balance. Straightening, he swore
softly as he resolved not to underestimate the power
of the local whiskey again. The benefits of self-
discipline had appealed to him from an early age and
he disliked the loss of control induced by too much
alcohol. Not that this remote corner of the
Hebrides presented many threats, but he
preferred keeping his weaknesses at bay.
How long had he been outside ... perhaps
three-quarters of an hour? It was late and the
taproom was silent behind him. Time to return
to his room; perhaps the buxom barmaid was waiting.
The inn was claustrophobic after the fresh night
air, and he felt another wave of dizziness as
he climbed the stairs and tried to find his way
back to his room. Damn the whiskey! The
stone building had been built at random over
several centuries, and was a rabbit warren of
haphazard corners and uneven floors. The
landlord had left him an oil lamp in the entry
hall, and odd shadows swayed as Gervase
carried the lamp upstairs.
When the upper hall split, he had to stop and
think which direction to take; his tour of Scotland


had encompassed other rambling inns much like
this one, and they ran together in his mind. After a
moment's thought he turned right, fumbling the iron
key into the lock when he reached the room at the end
of the hall. Either the crudeness of the hardware or his
own jug-bitten state made the lock
difficult, and the key required considerable jiggling
before the door would open.
Any worry that the whiskey had inhibited his
ability to function disappeared at the sight of the
rounded form waiting in the bed. With a surge of
anticipation, Gervase set the lamp on the
small bedside table and quickly stripped off his
outer clothes. The barmaid was dozing when he
slipped under the blanket; he must have been
outside longer than he had thought. She wore
only a thin lawn shift, and as he ran his hand
down her body, Gervase was dimly aware that the
girl seemed less voluptuous than he had
expected. But she was also cleaner, and her fresh
female scent increased his arousal.
The reasoning part of his mind was almost totally
disabled by lust and whiskey, and he hoped she would
waken quickly since he was in a hurry. Surely
the down payment he'd given the doxy entitled him
to her conscious participation; she'd seemed warm and
willing enough downstairs. This first time wouldn't last
long, but there was a whole night before them and he would
rather she didn't lie there like a poleaxed steer.
As he pulled the shift above her waist, he was
glad to see her eyes opening. He leaned over
for a kiss, and her soft lips parted easily under
his, though her reaction was drowsy and without
expertise. As his hand slid between her thighs, the
slight body stiffened under him and began moving,
inflaming him to the point where he no longer thought at
all. He began kissing his way down her neck,
and as he did, she twisted violently and
screamed.
Her first cry was a breathless gasp, but she
gained her wind and let loose with a high-pitched,
mindless shriek so close to his ear that he thought the
drum would shatter. Cursing himself for not taking the
time to waken her properly, Gervase lifted his
head and said soothingly, "Relax, sweetheart,
it's just me. Quiet down before you wake everyone in
the inn."
He tried to kiss her again as the one guaranteed
way of quieting her, but the girl twisted her head
away for another scream. The body under his was thin,


not at all like the ripely curving
barmaid, and he was just beginning to realize that something
was horribly wrong when the door burst open and a
harsh, angry voice filled the room. "Ye
filthy, rutting beasts!"
Gervase whipped sideways away from the
girl, turning to face the intruder. The entrance
to the room was blocked by a tall rawboned man
dressed all in black. As Gervase stared in
shock, the whiskey slowing his reflexes, the
innkeeper and his plump wife appeared in the
hallway behind the intruder, both of them wearing
hastily donned robes and appalled
expressions.
The black-clad man's hoarse breathing
filled the room. In one hand he held a candle
and in the other was a cocked double-barreled pistol.
The weapon alone would have commanded caution, but what
transfixed Gervase was the man's eyes. The
whites were visible all around the dark irises and the
gaunt middle-aged face shone with the unhealthy
glow of a furious fanatic.
For an endless moment the mad eyes raked the
scene, finding some obscure satisfaction in it.
Beside Gervase, the girl's screams subsided
to gulping sobs as she gripped the blankets
tight around her, her dark hair obscuring her
face.
"So ye succumbed to her whorish lures.
She's been my punishment, Mary has." The
man in black stalked toward the bed, his
Scottish accent adding rolling power to his
denunciation. "My name is Hamilton and I'm
an anointed minister of the Lord. I've done my
best to keep my daughter pure, but even my
prayers can't save a female who was damned before
she was born. I've seen how she looks at
men, how they sniff around her. She's a bitch in
heat, sent to tempt men to their doom. God knows
I've tried to save her from her own vile
nature, but no more. Now she's yours."
The voice dropped to a harsh whisper and the dark
figure repeated, "Aye, she's yours," with
vicious satisfaction. He stopped by the bed,
looming so near that a hot spatter of candle wax
scalded Gervase's chest. Oddly,
Hamilton's clothing was that of a gentleman, in
spite of the severe cut and color.
For the first time in his life, Gervase was frozen
to immobility, his mind a jumble of sexual


frustration and whiskey-sodden confusion. For the
last ten years nightmares had haunted him, and for a
moment he wondered if this was another. But then the
self-proclaimed cleric prodded him with the
pistol, and the steel barrels were too cold and hard
to be a dream.
"Oh, yes, she's yours, my pretty lord."
The words were almost caressing. Then he exploded,
"You whoreson aristocrat! You couldn't
control your lust and now she's yours for life, in
all her corruption." The vicar was so close that
Gervase could see spittle on his lips as he
gloated. "You deserve each other, you do, and
I'll be free to live a godly life again."
Fear began to clear Gervase's mind,
closely followed by fury. "For God's sake,
man, I don't know how this female got into my
bed, but it was none of my doing. Your little trollop
is as intact as when I found her. If she's your
daughter, get her the hell out of here."
The man's eyes shone and the cocked pistol
stayed centered on Gervase's heart. "Oh,
no, you whoreson," he said, his voice harsh and
uncanny. "You'll marry her. She may have the
soul of a slut, but in the eyes of the world she's an
innocent."
The madman paused to draw a breath, then
continued with heavy sarcasm, "Even gentlemen such
as you are not permitted to despoil gently bred
girls. It's no' my fault you succumbed to her
sly, insinuating ways. You'll marry her and
you'll do it now, this very hour. And then I'll be
free of her."
The words snapped the scene into nightmare focus
and Gervase realized two inescapable facts.
First, Hamilton was quite insane, a fanatic
obsessed by sex and sin. And secondly, with the
cunning of his madness, he had very cleverly trapped
the Englishman in a compromising situation.
Gervase cursed himself for his own stupidity. The
only worldly caution his father had ever given was
to beware of entrapment: rich young men with more randiness
than sense were vulnerable to the schemes of those who
wanted to share their wealth. It was one reason
Gervase limited his roving to round-heeled sluts
like the barmaid; wellborn girls were dangerous.
The barmaid must have cooperated in the plot.
She had been very bold with her lures; once he
had taken the bait, she had only to step aside,
doubtless for more money than she would have received for a


routine carnal transaction. Since he
expected his bed to be occupied, he hadn't thrown
this other girl out when he'd found her. Something
similar had happened once at a country house,
but he'd been sober, not expecting company, and had
gotten rid of the bitch before her mother could "happen"
upon them.
Gervase glanced across the bed at the girl whose
screams had triggered the trap. She was playing the
role of outraged virgin to the hilt, her face
invisible behind a dark tangle of hair from which
artistic little sobs still emerged. Her father had
surely planned the whole business, and the sight
of the man's obscene pleasure in his handiwork
destroyed the last shreds of Gervase's control.
Attempts at domination had always infuriated
him; damning the consequences, he leaned forward
to grab the pistol with both hands and twist it from
Hamilton's grasp.
In his arrogance the vicar was caught off-guard and
Gervase was able to wrench the pistol away. The
triggers were spring-operated and both barrels
fired, jerking the weapon violently under
Gervase's hands and sending the balls into the bed
by his side. If the angle had been slightly
different, half his chest would have been blown away;
as it was, one ball grazed his right forearm,
scorching without drawing blood.
Continuing his forward velocity, Gervase rolled
off the bed and onto his feet, glad that he hadn't
removed his drawers; he was at enough of a
disadvantage without being stark naked as well. The
pistol in his hand was an expensive weapon,
elegant and deadly, the sort carried by a
gentleman in London's meaner streets. An
odd choice for a Hebridean madman. Now that the
gun was discharged and harmless, Gervase hurled it
across the bedchamber to a corner where it would threaten
no more.
Hamilton had lost none of his
self-possession, even now that he was disarmed and his
victim upright and able to look him in the eye. In
his harsh, panting voice he said, "Ye'll not
get away from me that easily. You've compromised
my daughter and there are witnesses to prove it.
She's yours."
Gervase would have given half his inheritance to have
a clear head. Glancing at the landlord in the
doorway, he said tightly, "For God's
sake, get this madman away from me. I don't


know what kind of rig he's running, but
I'll have none of it."
Hamilton said with mad cheer, "Aye,
Hayes, come in. You and your wife can be
witnesses to the marriage."
The landlord and his wife had been out in the hall,
but they stepped in now, their faces stiff and
wretched over the disaster befalling their inn. More
figures hovered back in the passage,
prudently keeping their distance.
Gervase drew a deep breath, then said in his
most aristocratic voice, "We can talk about this
in the morning. I can't marry the girl in the
middle of the night."
"Oh, no, my pretty lad, it will be now."
The wild eyes were implacable, and carried a
mesmerizing air of conviction. Money may have been
the motive behind this charade, but the cleric had
convinced himself of the virtue of his cause. Perhaps he
thought persecuting the ungodly was his duty, or that
this was a profitable way to dispose of a daughter he
clearly despised.
"If it's money you want for the injury to your
darling daughter's nerves, I'll pay it,"
Gervase snapped. Much as he loathed being
compelled, giving in to blackmail might be the
better part of wisdom.
"Keep your filthy money." Hamilton
sneered. "Nothing less than your name will redeem
your wickedness." The gaunt face grimaced with
vicious satisfaction. "Ye couldn't marry her
so soon in England, where the established church is
just another name for the Whore of Rome, but this is
Scotland. No banns, no archbishop's
license required. These God-fearing people know me,
and they'll stand witness. They know how hard I've
tried to keep her pure. They know it's not my
fault I've failed."
The nightmare was worsening. The ease of getting
married in Scotland had made Gretna Green,
the southernmost corner of the country, the destination of
eloping couples for years. By ancient tradition,
a man and woman could wed with a simple declaration
in the presence of witnesses, so a ceremony
performed by a legitimate clergyman would surely
be valid.
But beyond the legal questions was a devastating
realization that tightened the sick knot in
Gervase's stomach. A clergyman was
by definition a gentleman, and the nubile daughters


of the upper classes were sacrosanct.
No matter that it was entrapment, Gervase had
been caught in bed with the girl, and by the code of his
class, there could be only one honorable solution.
In the struggle between confusion, fury, and his own
inflexible sense of duty, duty won.
The details of the ceremony were never clear in
Gervase's mind. Holding a candle,
Hamilton recited the words of the marriage rite
from memory, pausing only long enough to ascertain the
groom's name before beginning. The bride stayed in the
bed, held fast by modesty or hysteria, while
Gervase stood a dozen feet away, taut and
bare-chested, his back to the wall.
Mary Hamilton mumbled the responses in a
halting, almost inaudible voice as the landlord and his
wife shifted uneasily in the background,
wanting the sordid business done and forgotten before
it ruined the good name of their house. After the
ceremony Hamilton produced pen, ink, and
wedding lines so speedily that it confirmed
Gervase's furious conviction that he had been
entrapped, a rich pigeon for the plucking.
As he withdrew, the vicar's eyes glittered with
triumph. "I wish you joy of the slut,
Brandelin." He licked his lips with his pointed
tongue; then, with a last satisfied chuckle, he
was gone.
Before the door closed, Gervase snapped
to Hayes, "Get my man up and tell him
to prepare the horses and baggage. We're leaving
within the hour."
The landlord stared as if the order confirmed that
Gervase was the madman, but nodded obediently before
he scuttled away. Then the door closed and
Gervase was alone with his bride.
With angry deliberation he turned the key in the
lock, as he should have done when he first came in.
If he'd had enough sense to do that before ripping his
pantaloons off, perhaps this whole bloody-minded
farce could have been avoided. The only light was from
the lamp he had brought up earlier, the guttering
flame testifying that it was almost out of oil.
He stood over his bride and studied her with
cold-blooded contempt. The nondescript
figure was turned away, the blanket pulled
armor-tight against him. Grabbing her shoulder, he
pulled the girl around to face him, exposing a
pinched face swollen and blotched with tears.
Hardly surprising that her father had married her off


the way he had; no one else would ever
want her. And only a man as obsessed with sex
and sin as Hamilton could imagine that this
unappealing waif would attract men's admiration.
Gervase had been played for a fool, and this little
bitch had been a party to it or she wouldn't have been
in his room. How many other beds had she slithered
into during her career in extortion? How many times
had she screamed with outraged virtue? Her act
was well-polished, and her father's was downright
inspired. Gervase was doubtless the richest prey
to come their way, so he had been awarded the dubious
honor of marrying her. Unless this scene had been
played identically before, and little Mary Hamilton
was a bigamist?
The line between anger and passion can be very thin. As
he gazed at the girl, Gervase's fury
rekindled the appetite that had been suppressed
during the bizarre wedding, and the whiskey he had
drunk blurred any inconsistencies in his
logic as it hardened his desire. He said
harshly, "Well, Mary Hamilton, you wanted
a rich husband and you've got one. Unless you're
a bigamist, someday you'll be the Viscountess
St. Aubyn. Was it worth this sordid little
game? Or were you just doing your fathers bidding?"
The dark eyes watched him warily from behind the
veiled hair but she said nothing. Her silence
infuriated him as much as anything else this ghastly
night, and Gervase ripped the blanket away,
exposing the thin, shift-clad body. She gasped
and reached vainly for the bedclothes, and he grabbed her
wrist, feeling his wife's sparrow-delicate
bones under his fingers.
It was hard to believe that a girl so young could
behave with such duplicity, but she made no
attempt to deny the charges, and the flickering light
revealed a smirk behind her tangled hair. Her
smugness fanned his outrage and contempt, and in a
soft menacing voice he said, "Oh, no, my
lady, it's too late to play the innocent.
You've gotten what you wanted, and a good deal more.
You already know how to be a whore. Now I'll show
you what it means to be a wife."
The girl shrank back, her eyes wide and
dark, but made no real effort to escape as he
joined her on the high bed. Releasing her wrist,
Gervase rolled over and covered her slight
body with his own hard, muscular frame, pinning
her against the mattress while he pulled up her


shift. Her figure was scarcely more than
a child's, quite unlike the lushly feminine type he
preferred, but in his present mood of mindless
fury Gervase didn't care. She was female,
and he was in the mood to take the traditional
revenge for a woman's treachery; the bitch would
pay for what she and her father had done. She was,
after all, his wife, and just this once he would claim
a husband's rights.
At first she was passive, her legs separating
easily, the thin body shifting beneath him as she
gasped words too muffled for him to understand. Perhaps
she was excited. Gervase neither knew nor cared;
he had never had less interest in pleasing a
partner. All his anger was concentrated into vengeful
lust, and with one hard thrust he forced his way inside
her.
Her dry, tight passage resisted, and
penetration hurt him, but his pain was minor compared
to hers. Mary Hamilton jerked violently and
screamed, her shrill anguish assaulting his ears
from mere inches away. He automatically
clamped one hand over her mouth to stop the outcry,
his rage pierced by a horrified realization of what
was happening. Her teeth tore at his hand, but it was
too late to cease what he had begun. His body
was out of control and in a dozen furious strokes
he was finished.
As his seed spilled into her, his anger splintered
and dissolved. Gervase had never before had sex with a
virgin, but he knew enough to recognize what he
had done. There was blood on him as he withdrew,
and he was sickened by the knowledge that whatever Mary
Hamilton's other crimes might be, she had
never before lain with a man.
His wife's blank apathy had been shattered,
and she shook with racking sobs as she wrenched herself
away from her tormentor, her body convulsing into a
tight knot of slender limbs.
His head whirling with sick vertigo, Gervase
rolled onto his back and threw one arm over his
eyes as he gasped for breath. In the ashes of
fury lay guilt and disgust as reason reasserted
itself. He had behaved no better than an
animal, abusing a helpless female. The girl
had conspired to entrap him and was doubtless a slut
at heart, but she did not deserve this kind of
revenge.
When his dizziness subsided he sat up,
swinging his legs over the side of the bed and burying his


face in his hands as he struggled with
self-contempt. Finally, feeling unutterably
tired, he raised his head and contemplated the
girl he had married.
Though inexperienced with virgins, he saw that
action was necessary, so he stood and picked up a linen
towel from the washstand. After folding it, he handed it
to her and said curtly, "Put this between your legs and
press your thighs together." She stared through her
tangled hair, then took the towel in a
trembling hand and did as he bade her.
Drawing the blankets over the girl, he
realized how very young she was, perhaps only
fourteen. When her father put her to this scheme, had
she known what marriage meant? Or did she
think this just a game that would get her jewels and
fine clothes?
"Look at me." Though Gervase's voice
was neutral and free of inflection, she cringed
away. He reached down for her chin, turning her
face toward him. The girl was completely
broken, without even the spirit to close her eyes against
him.
Wearily he said, "Stop crying, I'm not
going to do anything more to you. Listen carefully, because
I will say it only once. I don't ever want
to see you again. My lawyer is John Barnstable
and you can write to him at the Inner Temple in
London. I will inform him of this hell-born
"marriage" and he will arrange for you to receive an
allowance. It will be a generous one, and you and your father
can live in comfort on my money for the rest of your
life. But there is a condition."
The girl's dark eyes were still dull.
Exasperated, he asked, "Do you understand what I
am saying? Surely you speak English." Many
of the island Scots spoke only Gaelic, though
he would expect the daughter of a clergyman to have
some education.
When her head nodded, he continued with icy
precision. "I never want to see or hear from you
again in my life. If you ever come near London
or any of the St. Aubyn properties, I will
cut off your allowance. Am I making myself
clear?"
Again she nodded faintly, but as Gervase
studied her with suddenly narrowed eyes, he
realized with shock just how strange her face was.
The girl wasn't normal; there was a slackness
in her expression, and something indefinably wrong


about the eyes. The child he had raped was
simple, too crippled in mind to understand what her
father had arranged for her.
Releasing her chin as if it were a hot coal,
he stood up, fighting down nausea as he
grasped the extent of the crime he had committed.
To force a scheming young virgin was despicable, even
though she was legally his wife; to rape a creature
too afflicted to know why she had been abused was a
sin as unforgivable as the one he had committed when
he was thirteen.
With cold, shaking hands he dragged his clothes
on, wanting only to escape this hellish place.
The girl had curled into a tight little ball on the
bed, the only sign of life her strange,
unfocused eyes. Since an incompetent was
hardly likely to remember his words, Gervase
reached for the ink and pen that had been used for the
marriage lines. On the back of one of his cards
he printed his lawyer's name and address, then
wrote, Hamilton: Don't ever bring her
near me again. She may not use my name. After a
moment's pause he added, Take care of her
well; when she is dead, you will receive nothing more from
me.
That should ensure the girl decent treatment from her
father, since it would be in the man's best interest
to keep her safe and healthy. She had smelled
clean; perhaps her father already had some kind of keeper
for her. A full-time nursemaid must cost almost
nothing in this godforsaken part of the world.
Gervase stood, placing the card on the table.
The girl was shivering, and he took a moment
to rummage in the wardrobe for a blanket. She
cowered fearfully away as he spread the blanket
over her, and his mouth tightened at the sight; it was
no more than he deserved.
Her dark unfocused gaze followed him to the
doorway, where he paused. His legal wife was
like a frightened woodland creature frozen in panic
as a predator waited. His throat tight with
guilt, he whispered, "I'm sorry."
The words were more for his benefit than hers, since
she seemed to have no idea what was happening. Though
he had never had grounds to believe in a
benevolent Deity, Gervase prayed she would
soon forget what had happened. He knew
better than to hope that he would do the same.

Five hours later Gervase and his servant


Bonner were in a fishing boat carrying them
toward the mainland. Bonner was a tight-lipped
former military batman who nodded without comment when
ordered to discuss the events of the night with no one,
ever, and he had efficiently taken charge of
packing his master's gear. Gervase had waited
outside, unwilling to be in the same room with his
bride a moment longer than necessary.
As the boat threaded its way between the islands,
Gervase's face was set in granite lines, his
attention focused on rebuilding the mental
walls that prevented his self-hatred from
overwhelming him. Logically he knew that the
events of the previous night were of no real
importance. The thousand pounds a year he would
settle on the girl would keep her and her
appalling father in luxury without making a
significant dent in his own fortune. Though most
men would curse the loss of their freedom to marry
whom they chose, it made no difference to him. He
had known for the last ten years that he could never
marry.
But no logic could dispel his implacable guilt
when he thought of the hapless child he had abused. No
amount of legitimate anger or whiskey was great
enough to justify those moments of violence, and the incident
was one more cross he must learn to bear. His
remorse taunted him, mocking the resolution he
had made to become his own man in India, to free
himself from the past by building a new life. Perhaps
Hamilton was right, and men were damned before they were
even born.
Gervase had always distrusted intuition, but as he
watched the dark shore of Mull fall away behind
him in the misty dawn, he could not escape a
heavy sense of doom. Somewhere, sometime in the
future, he would pay a price for last night's
disastrous stupidity, and for his own unforgivable loss
of control.



Yorkshire, January 1806
The wind blows without ceasing on the high
Yorkshire moors, in the spring bright with
promise, in the summer soft as a lover's
caress, in the autumn haunted with regret.
Now, in the depths of winter, the wind was ice-edged
and bleak, teasing the shutters, threatening the doors,
taunting the impermanence of all manmade


structures. But High Tor Cottage
had held firm against the wind for hundreds of
seasons, and its thick stone walls were a warm
haven for those sheltered within.
As her son's lashes fluttered over his dazed
lapis-blue eyes, Diana Lindsay gently
touched his dark hair, feeling the spun-silk
texture before settling in the bedside chair
to wait until he was soundly asleep. Most
days, as she dealt with the demands and occasional
irritations of an active five-year-old, her
love for Geoffrey was not on the surface of her
mind, but at times like this, when he had suffered a
bad seizure, she was so filled with tenderness that
she ached with knowing how precious life was, and how
fragile. For all the worry and occasional
despair it occasioned, her son's disorder gave
Diana a greater appreciation of the wonder that was a
child.
When Geoffrey's breathing was steady, Diana
rose to leave the room. She could have spent all
night quietly watching him, yet to do so would be
mere indulgence on her part. Even now, years before
he would leave her to make his own way in the world,
Diana knew how hard it would be to release him
when the time came. Walking out this night was just one more
of a thousand small disciplines she performed in
preparation for the day when Geoffrey would belong to himself
more than to her.
As she walked from her son's small bedchamber
into the hall, she heard the wind beginning to gust, the
windows rattling to protest the oncoming storm.
Though it was only four in the afternoon, the light was
almost gone and she could not see the small farm shed
across the yard when she looked out.
Usually Diana enjoyed the winter storms,
loving the solitude and peace of the high moors when
the weather was too harsh for trips to the village.
It made her feel safe, for if the
inhabitants of the cottage could not get out,
surely no dangers could get in. Security was
a fair compensation for the lonely simplicity of
life in this remote corner of Yorkshire. But
tonight the cottage was too quiet, in spite of the
wind, and she felt anxious for reasons she
couldn't explain.
In the kitchen Diana brewed herself a cup of
tea and sat down to savor the solitude. The
third member of the household, Edith Brown, was
suffering from a heavy winter cold and Diana had


packed her off to bed for a rest before supper.
Edith was officially housekeeper, but she was equally
friend and teacher, and the two women shared all the tasks
of the household, from cooking and milking to child-rearing.
There was no need for Diana to rush to the milking;
apart from that and a little mending, there were no other chores
and she would be free to spend the evening reading or
quietly playing the piano. The prospect should
have pleased her, but tonight she felt restless without
understanding why. The solid gray stone walls had
stood firm against the wind for over two hundred
years, and there were food and fuel enough for weeks if
need be.
Yet still she found herself crossing to the window
to gaze out, seeing only whirling snowflakes.
Absently brushing strands of dark chestnut hair
from her face, she tried to analyze her deep
sense of unease. Over the years she had learned
that such feelings could be ignored only at her
peril. The last time she had felt a warning this
strong, Geoffrey had been two years old.
Diana had thought he was napping, and then blind
panic had driven her frantically from the house
barely in time to pull her son from the stream where he
had crept out to play, and where he had slipped
into a drowning pool.
Just remembering the incident made her heart
beat more quickly, and she made herself sit down again in
her Windsor chair by the fire. Closing her
eyes and relaxing, she tried to analyze what she
felt, patiently sorting out the threads of concern
for Edith and Geoffrey and the other minor worries
of daily life. What was left was a hazy,
unfamiliar perception that she was hard-pressed
to name. It wasn't danger that approached; she was
sure nothing threatened her small household.
But she felt in her bones that something, or
someone, was coming with the storm. Diana's fingers
tightened around each other, and she forced herself once
more to relax. In a flash of intuition she realized
that what approached was something she both feared and
welcomed: change.

Madeline Gainford had been born and bred here
on the rooftop of England, but she'd forgotten how
bitterly the wind blew. She had been only
seventeen when she left, and her blood had
pulsed with the fires of youth. Now she was past
forty, and when the carter had set her down on the
small village common of Cleveden, her home


village looked strange to her. Yet
Cleveden itself had changed very little; the differences were
all in her.
The cart had been nearly full and the driver
allowed her to bring only the small soft bag now
slung over her shoulder. She had left her
trunk at an inn in Leyburn, not wanting
to wait for different transport because the coming storm
might have trapped her for days among strangers.
And more than anything else on earth, Madeline
had wanted to die among friends.
She pulled her fur-lined cloak tightly
around her as if she could blot out the aching
unpleasantness of the interview she had just had with her
widowed sister. They had been friends once, until
Madeline had left home in disgrace. The
occasional letters the two women exchanged had been
terse and to the point, but Madeline thought she had
sent back enough money over the years to buy a
welcome back into her family home. Isabel
had been widowed early, and had it not been for the
funds Madeline sent, it would have been hard times
for her and her four children.
When Isabel opened the door, her body had
stiffened at the sight of her younger sister, her
expression of surprise quickly followed by anger
and disgust. Then, in a few vicious sentences,
Isabel Wolfe had made it clear that while
she had graciously accepted her sister's
conscience money, she would not let her children be
corrupted by having a whore under her own roof.
Her last bitter words still rang in Madeline's
ears: You made your own bed, and a whole
legion of men have lain with you in it.
Madeline would not have thought words could hurt so
much, but then, she had never been called a whore
by her own sister. Only now that the hope was gone
did she realize how much she had counted on finding
refuge here, and her despair and pain were so great
that she might have crumpled to the ground where she stood
if the impulse to escape had not been stronger.
Shelter could be bought in one of the other cottages,
but there was no point to it, no point at all. Why
buy a few more months of increasingly painful
life surrounded by disapproving strangers?
Slinging the strap of her bag across her shoulder,
Madeline continued walking uphill along the rough
track that followed the stream to the top of the dale.
As a child she had followed this path when she could
escape her chores, finding empty dells where


she could dream of a world beyond Cleveden. It
was only fitting that she escape along this track
for the last time.
The wind sharpened outside the shelter of the
cottages, and icy snowflakes bit her face
before whirling down to whiten the ground. Though it was
almost dark, the meager available light diffused through
the snow to lend a soft glow to her progress. In
spite of the years that had passed, Madeline
recognized the moist heaviness of air that heralded
a major blizzard, the kind that could cut off the
high country for days or weeks.
Madeline had heard that freezing was a painless
way to die, though she wondered who had come back
from the grave to recommend it. The thought produced
a faint smile and she was glad that a ghost of
humor was left to her. It had been foolish
to hope Isabel would be different than she was,
and Madeline had no strength left for
recriminations.
It was surprising how far she was able to walk before
fatigue finally stopped her in the protection of
one of the few stubby trees, her tired body
slowly sinking to the ground. She could have chosen a
tree nearer the village, but she had always
preferred action to waiting, and even now that was
true.
The snow was beginning to drift, and its silence was
as pure as she remembered from childhood;
Madeline could have been as physically alone in the
world as she was emotionally. The warm, heavy folds
of her cloak cushioned the hard earth. She had
missed the snow; there was little in London, and it
never stayed clean for long. And of course London
was never quiet.
Resting her back against the tree trunk,
Madeline closed her eyes against the night and
wondered how long it would be until she fell into the
final sleep. One was supposed to see scenes from
one's life when dying, but mostly she thought of
Nicholas. In her mind she could see the hurt
and the anger that would have been etched on his thin face
when he discovered that she was gone. Even now he would
be attempting to find her, but apart from her lawyer,
no one knew where she had gone, or even where she
had come from in the beginning. A courtesan never
burdened her protector with the mundane details
of childhood.
For the first time she felt tears on her face,
icy in the bitter wind. There had been more than


business between her and Nicholas or she would
not have gone away. But if she had stayed in
London, he would never let her dismiss him, and
she had her pride; the thought of him watching her
waste away, losing what remnants of beauty
she had, was unbearable. Nicholas might have
abandoned her, which would have hurt dreadfully. Much more
likely, he would have remained with her to the end. The
agony on his face would have multiplied her own
hurt. Far worse would be knowing the intolerably
high price he would be paying to watch his mistress
die. Loving him, she could not ask that he pay it.
Her breath escaped in a sob and Madeline
pressed a hand to her breast, uncertain whether the
pain there was physical or emotional. The lump
was hard under her fingers and she quickly dropped her
hand, unwilling to feel the alien growth that was eating
her life away; soon it would no longer matter
whether the pain was in her body or in her spirit.
Only the soughing wind broke the silence, and there
was all the peace one could wish for. Her dark blue
cloak was now frosted with white and she wondered
absently if anyone would find the pouch of jewels
and gold slung under her dress, or whether
animals would scatter her bones first. Better that
a needy person find her treasure trove and
use it than have it go to Isabel. After all,
Madeline thought with dry amusement, she didn't
want to corrupt her sister any more than she already
had.
There was a certain poetry in the image of the
ravaged beauty dying peacefully alone in the
snow. It was one of life's anticlimaxes that as
the long minutes passed and strength returned,
Madeline found she wasn't ready to die just
yet. Had she been the sort to give up
easily, she would have died in a workhouse before she was
twenty. Waiting for death turned out to be a
bloody boring business, and she had never
welcomed boredom.
There was a little breath available for laughing at
herself as Madeline grasped the lowest tree
branch to pull her chilled body upright. Her
feet were entirely numb and she had doubtless
left her change of heart too late; she would
never make it back to the village and there were few
houses out this way. Still, she would try. Vaguely
she remembered a cottage that had been inhabited
by an old lady when she herself was a child. After the
old woman died, High Tor Cottage had


been left vacant. Perhaps it was still
empty, although surely even it was too far.
But there was no other possible shelter and
Madeline continued along the track, now nearly
invisible under the snow. Only vague memory and
an occasional stunted tree marked the trail, and
she doubted that she would find shelter, did not even
really care. But at least the Reaper would have to work
to cut her down; she'd be damned if she would do the
job for him.
Of course, Isabel would say she was damned
already.

It was full dark when Diana stepped outside
to go to the shed and the vicious wind shoved her back
against the door, snatching the warm breath from her
mouth. She clung to the doorknob as she peered
into the swirling snow, where visibility was no more
than an arm's length. Thank heaven Edith
insisted that during the winter they tie a guide
rope between house and shed. The rope was essential
tonight and Diana followed it slowly, sliding her
left hand along as she carried a lantern in her
right. The snow was more than ankle-deep and had
drifted against the shed door, making it difficult
to pull open.
In the shed, the animals' bodies produced
an agreeable warmth and there were soft clucks from the
chickens as Diana entered, hung the lantern on
a ceiling hook, and stripped off her gloves
to begin milking. While she rubbed her hands together
to warm them, she glanced around the rough stone walls,
checking that everything was in its proper place. Even
this small amount of farming had been alien, and
Edith had educated her as if she were a child,
introducing Diana to the cows with the assurance that the
beasts meant no harm, for all they were so large.
Now Diana could enjoy the pungent smell of
healthy livestock that blended with the fragrant
sweetness of summer hay.
The wind worsened while she was milking, and it
grabbed her as she stepped outside, nearly
spilling the pail of milk. Diana edged her
way carefully along the rope with the pail in one
hand and the lantern in the other. She had reached the
back door when she heard the voice above the
wind. She almost dismissed it as just another sound of the
wild night, but it came again as she opened the
door.
Diana looked doubtfully into the darkness,


seeing nothing but swirling flurries of
snow. Surely it was only the wind, crying around
the buildings. As she stepped into the house, the cry
came again, this time hauntingly human, and she
stopped. She would be lost in minutes if she
ventured into the snow, yet she could not leave any
creature to die in the storm.
After a moment's thought Diana put the milk
pail inside the back door, then returned to the
shed. Like most smallholders, she kept a good
supply of rope, and she was able to knot together a
line perhaps a hundred yards in length. She went
outside again, the rope in her left hand, the
lantern held high. Pitching her voice against the
wind, she called, "Is anyone there?"
Once more the cry came twisting along the wind,
so Diana felt her way down the track toward
the voice. The lantern was useless to illuminate
the formless drifts beneath her feet, so she held it
high above her head, hoping it might be visible
to anyone approaching. Even on her own land, it was
nearly impossible to find her way through the blinding
whiteness, and once she stumbled to her knees,
barely saving the lantern from smashing to the ground.
At the end of the rope, she waved the lantern and
called until her voice hoarsened. Just when she
was ready to give up, a dark shape reeled out of the
night, a woman swathed in a hooded cloak.
Diana put an arm around the frail exhausted
body and pitched her voice to carry over the
piercing wind. "Can you keep walking? It's not
far."
The woman nodded, then with obvious effort
straightened herself and took hold of her rescuer's
arm. The journey seemed endless in the bitter
cold and Diana was numb to the bone by the time they
reached the shed. God only knew how the other
woman kept moving. How far could she have come on
such a night?
The last hundred feet was accomplished at a
snail's pace, and Diana was near collapse
as she dragged the two of them into the kitchen.
Alerted by the unusual sounds, Edith was entering the
kitchen, hastily tying her robe. "Diana,
what on earth ...?"
"I heard her calling when I finished milking.
She must have seen the lantern," Diana gasped,
lowering the woman onto a chair by the fire. Even
frosted with snow, the richness of the velvet cloak was
obvious. What was a lady doing out on such a


night?
Diana pushed her hood back and leaned against
the wall by the wide stone fireplace, working
to catch her breath. She had never been so
grateful for the welcoming warmth of her spacious
kitchen, gleaming with copper pans and scented with
braids of onions and bunched herbs that hung from
the ceiling.
Faced with an emergency, Edith was swift and
sure as she set water to boil, peeled off the
snow-encrusted cloak, and gently began chafing the
visitor's white hands. When the water was
boiling, Edith brewed tea, adding sugar and a
generous dollop of brandy. The housekeeper was
near fifty, her grayed hair falling in a
braid over the shoulder of her dark green dressing
gown, her austere features marred by a livid
scar across the left cheek. She was a woman of
few words, but those held wisdom, and there was
kindness behind her fierce visage.
Diana wrapped cold fingers around the hot
mug Edith gave her, grateful for the internal and
external warmth it provided. Then the
housekeeper spooned some of the mixture down the
woman from the storm. The stranger choked at first,
but soon was sipping from the mug Edith held to her
lips.
Diana studied her visitor curiously as
tendrils of steam curled from the saturated
cloak. The woman was too thin, but she must have
been a great beauty in her youth. The oval face
was still lovely in early middle age and her dark
brown hair showed only a little silver. She was
nearly unconscious and her large brown eyes
showed dazed incomprehension.
"Put her in my bed," Diana said, her
voice faint even in her own ears. "I'll lie
down with Geoffrey." She finished her tea and
made her way upstairs, knowing Edith would do what
was needful. Shivering, she stripped to her shift and
crawled into Geoffrey's bed. His warm,
almost-six-year-old body snuggled against her, and
soon she was adrift in dreams.

If Madeline hadn't seen her past life
when sitting under the tree waiting to die, she made
up for it in her feverish dreams. She alternated
between raging, helpless nightmares and occasional
periods of semiconsciousness when she was
vaguely aware of female voices. Gentle


hands fed her and gave her medicine,
sponging her when she was drenched with sweat, wrapping
her with blankets when she shook with chills.
Then she was lucid, so weak she could barely
raise her hand from the bed, but free of the racking
chest pains. She was in a small room with
whitewashed stone walls. It was night, and the only
light came from a candle on the bedside table.
First she fixed her eyes on the flame, then
gradually extended her focus to the woman sewing
beyond the light.
Madeline's first thought was that she was still dreaming,
or perhaps she had died. After death, did one wake
up in heaven with an angelic guide? It must be
so, because the woman by the bed was surely the most
beautiful being Madeline had ever seen. But one
wouldn't expect an angel to be so ripely
erotic; more likely Madeline had gone in the
other direction.
Hearing her patient's movement, the young woman
looked up, revealing eyes the intense,
mesmerizing blue of lapis lazuli. Flawless,
exquisitely sculpted features were set in a
heart-shaped face, and her rich hair shone with the
burnished red-brown of true chestnut. The
plain, practical blue wool dress could not
disguise a small-boned figure that combined
slimness with a lavishness of curves that would command a
fortune in London. Madeline chided herself for
her vulgar thoughts; while the woman had a beauty
and sensuality that could match or surpass any
demirep in England, the perfect face glowed with the
unstudied sweetness and innocence of a Madonna.
Seeing her patient's eyes open, the young
woman smiled and set her sewing aside, placing
a cool hand on Madeline's forehead. "You're
back now, aren't you? We were very worried."
Her low voice was as lovely as the rest of
her; though her dark, high-necked dress had a
Quaker's simplicity, her manner and speech
would not have been out of place in a London drawing
room. "Would you like something to drink?"
Madeline nodded, conscious of the dryness of her
throat. The woman raised her and held a
glass of lemon-scented tea to her lips. Its
honey-sweetened taste was soothing, and after several
sips Madeline whispered, "Thank you, that is
much better."
The young woman laid her back on the pillows
and set the glass down. Anticipating


Madeline's questions, she said, "My name
is Diana Lindsay and you're at High Tor
Cottage, near Cleveden. You've been
feverish for three days."
"The last thing I remember was seeing a light
through the snow and trying to find it. Was that you?"
Diana nodded. "Yes, I had been milking.
When I left the barn, I heard you call out and
went to investigate."
It was hard to imagine such a lovely creature
milking cows, but the hand on Madeline's forehead
did not have the silky softness of a woman unused
to manual labor. "Surely you don't live
alone here?"
"No, my son and housekeeper live here
also."
Unusual to find a household in this remote
place without a man, but Madeline was too tired
even for curiosity. She whispered, "My name is
Madeline Gainford and I grew up in
Cleveden. I had come back ..." Her voice
trailed off, lacking the strength to explain why she
had been out in the storm.
Diana's lovely face was shadowed with concern.
"Hush now, and rest. There will be time to talk
later."
Obediently Madeline closed her eyes and
drifted off again. This time there were no troubling
dreams.

It was morning before the patient woke again.
Diana entered the room to find Madeline
Gainford just opening her eyes. At this time of day
sunshine flooded the room with warmth and the
whitewashed walls glowed. The older woman's
gaze scanned the oak chest and wardrobe, the
oval hooked rug and pretty watercolors of
flowers. Though it must seem humble after what she was
accustomed to, her face showed no disdain.
Diana said, "Would you like something to eat?" At
her visitor's nod, she went to the kitchen and
returned with a steaming bowl of richly flavored
cream soup, thick with small pieces of chicken
and leek. After propping her patient up on the
pillows, Diana spoon-fed her like an infant.
When the bowl was empty, Madeline said,
"Thank you, Mrs. Lindsay. You are very kind."
Her voice was stronger now and there was healthy
color in her face. Edith had braided the dark
hair and dressed her in a white flannel


nightgown. Her large brown eyes were
calm, though there was sadness in their depths. "I
don't know how to thank you. I would have died in the
storm."
"Much better this way," Diana said with a
smile. "It would have been unnerving to find your
body during the spring thaw."
That drew a smile in response. Diana
had been right that the visitor had been a beauty in
her youth; when she smiled, she was still beautiful.
Madeline's dark eyes met her hostess's
gaze squarely. "If you can get a wagon from the
village, I will leave. I shouldn't be here."
She sighed and her gaze shifted away. "I never
wanted to be a burden to anyone."
"The roads won't be passable for some time, so
there is no need to rush. Don't worry about being
a burden--you're the most interesting event here in
years." Diana hesitated before succumbing
to curiosity. "Why were you lost in the storm?"
Madeline's eyes closed and she looked sad
and tired. Her voice almost a whisper, she said,
"I wasn't lost. I wanted to die." When the
dark brown eyes opened, she gazed past
Diana. "Then I decided it was too soon
... I'm not ready yet."
It must have taken a good deal of strength for her
to add in that level voice, "I am dying, you
see. I came back to Cleveden to be with my
family, but my sister wouldn't let me into the
house." She pressed her hand to her breast with the
absentness of habitual gesture before finishing
less steadily, "What I have is not infectious.
Your household is in no danger from me."
The words and gesture told Diana all she
needed to know about the disease. Instead she asked,
"Why did your sister not want you?"
Madeline paused and Diana wondered if she
would refuse to answer, or would lie. Doubt and
regret were reflected in the thin face before her
expression became resolute, and when she
replied, Diana knew the truth had won out.
Instead of answering directly, the visitor
said, "You must have found the pouch I wore under my
dress." When Diana nodded, Madeline
continued, "Did you open it?"
"No. Shall I get it for you?" At
Madeline's nod, Diana crossed to the oak
chest and took out the small, heavy leather pouch
Madeline had carried. Diana and Edith had


discussed opening it, but decided not to do so
unless their visitor succumbed to the lung fever.
"Open it now," Madeline directed, waiting
impassively as Diana untied the leather thong
and opened the pouch to find a number of irregularly
shaped objects wrapped in velvet. After
glancing at the woman on the bed for permission,
Diana unwrapped the package on top, then
gasped in awe at the magnificent necklace
spilling out of her hand, the interlaced gold chains
set with huge rubies that flared blood-red in the
sunshine.
The next velvet packet revealed
brilliant sapphire earrings with blue fire in
the depths. Her eyes wide and startled, Diana
continued unwrapping until her lap blazed with
barbaric splendor, with diamonds and emeralds and
opals and other gems she could not name, all in
superbly wrought settings. They were jewels a
queen might wear, and after unwrapping them all in
wordless wonder, she lifted her gaze to her
visitor.
Madeline smiled without humor. "They weren't
stolen. Whatever my other sins, I'm not a
thief."
"I didn't think you were," Diana said
quietly as she studied her visitor, waiting for
an explanation.
Madeline's gaze focused on a splash of
sunlight on the wall and she said in a voice
empty of expression, "I earned those the only
way a woman can, though most would say it isn't
honest work. My sister didn't want me
corrupting her household."
It took Diana a long moment to understand what
Madeline meant. Even then, she could not connect
what she knew of prostitution with this frail
woman whose slim hands knotted on the quilt,
who waited bleakly to be condemned. The idea of
selling one's body was alien and repugnant,
yet Madeline herself was neither of those things.
Diana held silence until she was sure her
voice would be composed. "Who is your sister?"
"Isabel Wolfe."
"Really?" Diana knew the name, though they had
never met; the Widow Wolfe would cross the
street if she saw Diana coming, as if
proximity would contaminate her virtuous self.
Studying Madeline's face, Diana shook her
head. "I see little resemblance. Is she much


older than you?"
Madeline stared at her, surprised by the
mundane question. "Only three years older."
She sighed. "It's hard to imagine now, but she was
pretty once. She was always rather ... righteous,
though not so bad as she is now. But I really can't
blame her for not wanting a whore in her house."
Though the words were said in a matter-of-fact
voice, Diana could see the tension in
Madeline's body. Did the older woman think
her hostess had not comprehended the earlier
oblique reference and was making sure there was no
misunderstanding? It was an act of courage and
honesty, and Diana warmed to both qualities.
She sensed no wickedness in Madeline, no
matter what her past. Moreover, Diana was
fascinated to meet someone who had lived in such an
unimaginable way.
Diana would have asked more questions, but her guest's
face was gray with fatigue. Rewrapping the
jewels in their velvet, Diana said dryly,
"Perhaps you can't blame her, but I can. For a
woman who prides herself on her virtue, your
sister failed the test for Christian charity rather
badly. Someone should remind her of Jesus and
Mary Magdalene."
The tension went out of Madeline's face and she
smiled faintly. "You are very kind not to condemn
me." She sighed. "I will leave as soon as the
roads clear."
Diana frowned. Madeline Gainford was in no
condition to travel; more than that, Diana was
powerfully drawn to the older woman and wanted
to learn more about her and the mysterious world from which she had
come. "Where will you go?"
"I don't know. Perhaps I'll rent a house
in a south-coast village, where the weather is
milder. I won't need it for long."
Diana was moved by a flash of pure
impulse, impossible to justify but feeling so
powerfully right that it could not be denied. "There is no
need for you to leave."
Madeline stared, her face openly vulnerable
and her brows knit with puzzlement. "Would you have
me, a ... a fallen woman, under the same roof
with your child? I am nothing to you."
"Ah, but we have something in common. Your sister will
cross the street to avoid me." Diana gave
a smile of melting warmth as she reached out and
clasped Madeline's hand. "We are all


outcasts here. You may stay as long as you
wish."
The older woman closed her eyes against the
sharp sting of tears, torn between accepting and refusing
the offer. Madeline had been turned away by her
own flesh and blood; was it really possible that she
might find the sanctuary she sought in the house of a
stranger?
In the end, she did not have the strength to refuse
what she wanted so desperately. Grasping
Diana's hand as if it were a lifeline,
Madeline whispered, "God bless you."



Taking a break from her gardening, Diana sat
back on her heels and viewed her former patient
with pride. It had been over a year since
Madeline had appeared from the storm, and instead of
wasting away she had gained in strength and spirit. Now
Maddy was a glowing, attractive woman in the
prime of life, an integral member of the
household who cheerfully performed her share of the
chores. Today she knelt on a square of
tattered carpet and helped Diana transplant
April seedlings in the garden. Diana had the
odd fancy that the older woman had also been
transplanted, from an unwholesome spot to one in
which she could flourish.
Madeline was now so much a part of the family that
it was hard to remember life without her. Geoffrey
had immediately accepted the newcomer as an honorary
aunt, put on earth to dote on him. Edith had
been wary at first, but she and Madeline shared a
rural Yorkshire upbringing and soon they were friends
in spite of their surface differences.
Diana felt the recklessness of spring tingling in
her veins, and on impulse she decided the time
had come to ask the older woman about her past; with
Geoffrey napping and Edith in Cleveden, they had
the privacy such a discussion required. Over the
last year Maddy had talked freely of the snares
and delights of London, of fashion and
politics, manners and mores, yet never of her
own career as a woman of ill-repute.
Hesitantly Diana asked, "If you
don't mind talking about it, could you tell me what
it was like to be a ... a ladybird? I can't even
imagine ..." Suddenly bashful, she leaned
forward and thrust her trowel into the earth for the next


brussels-sprout plant.
Madeline glanced up, her brown eyes bright
with merriment. "I've wondered when you would ask.
When I first came here and told you what I was,
not only did you not condemn me, you looked as
fascinated as if I were a ... a pink
giraffe."
Diana blushed, digging deeper than necessary.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass
you." She should not have spoken; once again she had
betrayed her ignorance of how normal people acted.
"Surely you know by now how difficult it is
to embarrass me." Madeline chuckled. "I
don't mind talking in the least, if you really
want to hear, but I thought it best to wait until
you raised the subject." She considered where
to begin. "For me it was not a bad life: I was
lucky and never had to walk the streets. I was one
of the company of Cyprians, the Fashionable
Impures, and was usually kept by one man at a
time."
She moved her carpet three feet to the left
and started on a new series of holes.
"Actually, I've bedded fewer men than many of the
great society ladies, but they are respectable
and I am not, because they sold their bodies with vows
in front of a priest."
"How did you come to be a ... a Fashionable
Impure?" Curiosity was rapidly replacing
Diana's discomfiture; this was a priceless
opportunity to learn more about the mysterious half
of the human race that was not female, from a woman
who must surely be an expert.
"In the usual fashion," Madeline said
wryly. "At sixteen I got in the family
way with a lad from the next village. I couldn't
believe he would betray me, but he was only
seventeen, too eager for life to want
marriage. When I told him my condition, he
ran away to the army." She shrugged. "Besides, his
family didn't like me. They said it was my
fault for wearing my dresses too tight and
chasing after the lads."
"It's always the woman's fault, isn't it?"
Diana heard the bitterness in her own voice as
she lifted a seedling and set it in a hole,
carefully crumbling the soil to remove lumps and
stones before patting the plant into place.
Madeline glanced over, surprised at
Diana's tone, but she said merely, "Yes, my


dear, it is always the woman's fault,
at least in the eyes of the world. My mother always said
I had a disposition to sin--something needed only
to be forbidden, and I would immediately try it. When I
told her I was with child, she threw me out of the house
for the parish to take care of. My sister Isabel
was angry and disapproving, but she gave me what
little money she had saved toward her own wedding."
She sighed. "I remind myself that even though she
condemns me now, she was kind when I most needed
it."
Her voice harder, she continued, "As often
happens, the parish didn't want to pay for any
more bastards and they sent me to London on the
cheapest, slowest transport available. In
London, abbesses meet the wagons from the
country." Glancing up, she clarified, "An
"abbess" is a woman who keeps a
brothel."
Diana nodded, her face averted. She had
come across the term in her reading and deduced the
meaning.
"I was as green a girl as ever was, and
London was bigger and noisier and more frightening than
I had imagined. When a well-dressed woman
offered me a position in her house, I was glad
to accept. I didn't know then what kind of house
she meant ..." Madeline's voice trailed
off as she remembered her naivet`e and her shock
when she learned what she was expected to do.
She sat back on her heels, her hands
loose in her lap, the planting forgotten. "I was
luckier than most. Madame Clothilde ran
a decent brothel as these things go, catering to a
wealthy set of men. She kept her girls
healthy and well-dressed because it was better for
business. I could have fallen into much worse hands.
Except ..." Her voice broke and she
stopped speaking.
Diana looked up at the sound, saying
softly, "Please, you needn't say any more."
"No, really, it's all right," Madeline
said, her voice steady again. "It was a long time
ago. It's just that ... of course Madame
Clothilde didn't want any pregnant
girls. She called in an apothecary and ... and
they took the baby. I didn't even understand what
was happening until it was too late." Her face
twisted at the painful memory. "I was very ill
then. I almost died. And when I recovered ...


I could never have a child."
Diana reached across, gently touching the older
woman's hand in silent comfort. "I'm sorry,
I never should have asked."
Madeline smiled, her fingers flexing under
Diana's. "No, my dear, I feel better
for having said it. It was a great sadness at the time,
but like most things, there was a good side to temper the
bad. Not having to worry about having a baby was
an advantage in my profession."
Diana looked at her searchingly until she
was satisfied with the older woman's equanimity.
Though adversity did not always improve character, it
seemed to have had that benefit in this case.
Madeline was a woman of great wisdom and
tolerance, both of them Christian virtues.
Ironic that her high-minded sister did not share
them.
Maddy continued, "The rest of the story isn't very
dramatic. Clothilde was quite vexed that I
couldn't work for several weeks, but she didn't
turn me out, and I was adequately cared for by the
other girls. If I had been on the streets,
I never would have survived. Of all the
sisterhood, the streetwalkers have the hardest
lives. They age a decade every year, if they
survive at all. But as I said, I was much more
fortunate than that.
"I was given a new name when I was recovered.
It was one of Clothilde's affectations to give
all her girls French names. She was from
Greenwich herself, and that was the closest she ever
came to France, but no matter; in the world of the
demireps, you can be what you wish to be. I was
christened Margaret, but since the house had a
Marguerite, I became Madeline. I liked
it, and later I realized how appropriate it
was. Madeline is French for Magdalene, you
know, a perfect name for my trade." She smiled
with genuine amusement. "After a few months working
for Clothilde, I justified her faith in my
looks when an elderly banker took a fancy
to me and bought me for his own use."
"Bought you?" Diana gasped as she looked
up. She had expected to be shocked, but not in this
particular way.
"That's what it amounted to." Madeline
shrugged. "It wasn't as bad as it sounds. I was
quite happy to go with him, since it was a much easier
life. He set me up with lodgings and clothes,


everything I needed. Though it sounds like
slavery, the payment to Madame Clothilde was
merely compensation for loss of my services. Not
an unusual arrangement.
"He was very indulgent and treated me like a
daughter most of the time, except when he was
actually ..." Madeline halted, unable to think
of a discreet way of finishing the sentence. Hastily
she went on, "He kept me for three years, and
at the end made a generous settlement. He was
moving down to Brighton for his health, and he said he
was getting too old for a mistress anyhow. I quite
missed him."
She looked back for a moment, a fond smile
on her face, before continuing briskly, "After that,
I became one of the aristocrats of the trade, able
to pick and choose my lovers. I was careful in
my choices, and with my money as well, so I never
had to go with a man I disliked."
Madeline's pragmatic words made her
scandalous past seem natural, even desirable.
Diana asked hesitantly, "Would you do it over
again if you had the choice?"
Madeline's dark brows knit together. "Do you
know, I have never considered that? I did what I
had to do to survive. After my fall from grace,
my choices were very limited." She pondered
further before saying slowly, "Being a fallen
woman was a way out--out of Yorkshire, out of
poverty, out of a narrow life that never suited me.
The great courtesans must have not just beauty, but
personality and wit. I had the opportunity
to grow, to use my mind to its fullest. I met
fine men I could never have known otherwise, and lived
a life of comfort and luxury."
As Madeline fell silent, one phrase
reverberated in Diana's mind. A way out.
A way out. A way out of Yorkshire. The
words pulsed with significance for her, a
significance she was not yet ready to face. Not
yet, but soon, soon. ...
Diana's thoughts were interrupted as Madeline
continued her narrative. "The first months in the
brothel were ... difficult, but I escaped with my
health and sanity intact. After that, since I was a
femme entretenue, a kept woman, I
lived very well. It was rather like having several
husbands in succession. The chance of catching some
vile disease was slim, and I had much more freedom
than a respectable woman. If a man became


unpleasant, I could refuse him.
Yes, if I had to live my life over, there
is little I would change. I felt no shame for
what I did. The only shame was in how others
saw me."
She laughed suddenly, her face showing the charm
that had made her such a success at her trade.
"Most of the Fashionable Impures had nicknames
like the Venus Mendicant, or the White Doe,
or Brazen Bellona. Because of my dark hair
and eyes, I was known as the Black Velvet
Rose. Silly, but rather sweet. It's strange,
the influence women like us had. Men who would treat
their wives like imbeciles would talk politics
with their mistresses. My salon was usually much
livelier than the respectable ones, because men would
speak so much more freely."
Madeline gestured expressively. "Because
I preferred being kept by one man, I lasted
longer than most Cyprians. Of course, when
I was between lovers, I would ... shop a bit
until I found someone who pleased me. I
enjoyed all the best aspects of courtship and
marriage, without the problems wives have."
Muffled almost to unintelligibility, Diana
asked the question that burned beyond all others. "Did you
actually enjoy the ... the physical part of the
life?"
The strain in Diana's voice confirmed
Madeline's guess that the girl's introduction
to sex had been the sort of crude fumbling that
made so many woman despise the act.
Carefully she said, "Making love can be quite
lovely. It's best if you care deeply for your
partner, but it can be enjoyable with any man you like who
treats you well. Many women never learn that, of
course. We are raised to protect ourselves from
all men's advances, to fear being touched. It
becomes difficult to relax and enjoy loving."
Watching Diana to make sure her words did
not give offense, Madeline continued, "It is very
agreeable to know and appreciate one's body as a
potential source of pleasure. A more
experienced woman at Clothilde's told me
to explore myself by touch, to take different
textures like silk, velvet, rough linen, cool
china, and to rub them over myself to see how my body
responded.
"I followed her advice and found that I was a
sensual creature. I would also study myself in the


mirror, trying to understand what made a
woman's body desirable to a man. And in time,
I learned the kind of power a woman can have over a
man."
Diana had gone beyond wondering at the
strangeness of this conversation, though she was still too shy
to meet Madeline's eye. She sensed that the
older woman's words were a gift to her, an
attempt to explain things beyond Diana's
experience. Indeed, there was an intuitive logic
to what Madeline said. Diana loved to touch,
to hug her son's warm body, to express her
feelings with a soft brush of her hand, to evaluate
the fabric she bought or the bread she kneaded by its
texture and consistency. If these other forms of
touching were enjoyable, surely the most intimate could
be also?
Madeline hadn't finished yet. "Sex is
one of the most powerful and double-edged gifts God
gave to humankind. It can be a source of pain
and for women even death, yet is also the source of
new life. At its best, it becomes a way of
expressing the deepest love a man and woman can
share." Her dark eyes were reflective. "It
is hardly surprising that sexual knowledge was the loss
of innocence that forced Adam and Eve from the Garden
of Eden, or so a vicar once said when he was
visiting me." She smiled wickedly. "He was
not the sort of man of the cloth to preach against
life's pleasures."
Her smile faded as she tried to define what
she had never spoken aloud. "Sex can be used as
a cruel weapon, with one person dominating
another. That can work either way, with a woman or a
man controlling the partner. It is one of the few
ways a woman can hold power over a man, though
it is chancy and dangerous. Some people are too
cold to be ruled by their senses. Others can be
brought to their knees, with all their pride and honor
broken by the ones they love. ..."
She smiled disarmingly. "It isn't usually that
way, of course. More often, physical love is
a way of giving and receiving pleasure and
reassurance. Still," she said, narrowing her eyes as
she looked at Diana, "a woman as beautiful
as you could become truly powerful if she chose
to."
Diana met Madeline's gaze, brushing her
forehead with one wrist and leaving an earthy smudge
as she asked with grave curiosity, "You really


think I am beautiful?"
Madeline nodded. "Yes, perhaps the most
beautiful woman I have ever known, and I speak as
one who has seen most of the great and notorious
beauties of England. If you wished, you might
become a duchess, or the greatest of
courtesans. Don't you think of yourself as
beautiful?"
Diana shook her head. "Not in the least. But
I have seen how men look at me, and sometimes
wonder what they see. They don't seem to look
at other women the same way. Often men ...
try to touch me, as if by accident." She bent
over and dug a stone out with unnecessary violence.
"I've wondered if that is why so many women
glare at me as if I were their enemy."
Madeline sighed. "Beauty, like sex, is a
double-edged sword. It can make you a victim,
or it can help you acquire what you want from
life, whether that is love or wealth or power."
Diana looked up, knowing that what her friend had
told her this afternoon could change her life. "You are
telling me all this so that I can see myself as others
do."
"Yes, my dear, that is the reason."
Madeline looked at her with compassion. "You
saved my life, in more ways than one, and I would
like to repay you in a way more meaningful than
jewels, though you may have those too. While I
know that you have found a certain contentment here at the
edge of the world, I have thought that you are restless
sometimes, as I was. If you ever choose to leave,
you must understand the power of your own beauty, how
to wield it and how to protect yourself. Otherwise you
risk being used and destroyed by those who desire
you."
She made a wry face. "I, too, have been
blessed and cursed with more than my share of the kind of
beauty men desire. That fact set the pattern
of my life." Her gaze became earnest. "There
is nothing shameful in what happens between men and
women, and much that is wonderful. Don't be shy of
asking me questions."
Diana nodded gravely. "Thank you.
Certainly I will have questions later when I have
absorbed some of what you have told me. You are
right; I have been content here, but I don't want
to spend the rest of my life in Yorkshire, both
for my sake and for my son's. It wasn't so bad
when he was an infant, but Geoffrey needs


to meet other children, to study with boys as
intelligent as he is, to learn how far he can go
in the world." She gave a twisted smile. "He
even needs to face prejudice and rejection though
I hate to think of that."
She spread her hands outward in a gesture of
helplessness. "Until you came, I didn't know
how to imagine another kind of life. Sometimes,"
she said with a return to shyness, "I feel that God
sent you to me, to be my teacher and friend."
Madeline smiled a response. There was
fatigue in her face, but also gratitude, and a
shyness to match Diana's. "I think perhaps he
did. I hope so. I would like to give back some
of what you have given me."
"Oh, you have," Diana said huskily, her
lapis-blue eyes glowing jewel-like with inner
light. Madeline was reminded not of a Madonna
but of a pagan enchantress, Circe perhaps. "You
have given me far more than you can imagine."

The capricious spring weather changed that night,
turning cold and damp as gusty winds blew
pale clouds across the midnight sky, concealing and
revealing the bright passionless face of the full
moon. The rest of the household slept when
Diana quietly donned her cloak and went
into the night. Madeline had been right to sense
restlessness in Diana. This was not the first time that she
prowled alone across the moors, glorying in the wind
whipping against her body, needing to burn away the
fierce impatience that would not let her sleep.
Restlessness had been as much a background to her
life these last seven years as the wind itself.
Madeline's words earlier had struck a chord
deep inside Diana, and now they circled in her
head as her swift strides carried her across the
moor. Being a fallen woman was a way out--out
of Yorkshire, out of a narrow life that never
suited me. It was mad for Diana to consider such
a life for herself, even for a moment. Madeline had
had no real choices; unthinkable that Diana should
follow the same path voluntarily. Unthinkable
--and yet she could think of nothing else.
She argued with herself. After all, it was not as if
the only two possibilities were living on the
edge of the world and becoming a high-priced whore.
Diana had occasionally considered moving to some
provincial city and presenting herself as a widow of
modest means and unimpeachable respectability.


Yet the prospect had not inspired her,
quite apart from the fact that she hated the idea of living
a lie.
She had reached the highest hill in the area, and
beneath her gaze Yorkshire rolled away to the
south. Moon-touched mist lay in the valleys and
dales, the dark hills rising above like floating
fairy isles. Diana had found peace here,
healing the wounds of the spirit that might have destroyed her
if she had not had her child to love and care for. The
love that connected her to Geoffrey and Edith had
brought Diana back from the brink of pain and
despair so great that it was nearly madness; more
recently Madeline had come to enrich their lives.
But on wild restless nights like this one, Diana
wanted more.
Madeline had said that Diana's beauty gave
her the potential to become a duchess or the
greatest of courtesans. With Diana's
unspeakable past she would never be a duchess; even
the most modest of respectable marriages was out of
her grasp. She could never be respectable, so why
not become a courtesan, a woman without shame
or apologies? Diana wanted a man in her
life; since he couldn't be a husband, then he
must be a lover.
The thought was a seductive one. A lover need
not know about her past; he would likely not even
care. And since she could only hope for an
illicit love, why not aim for the best and most
profitable liaison possible? The very idea should be
abhorrent to a respectable female. Yet what
had respectability ever gotten her except
pain and loneliness?
Beauty, like sex, is a double-edged sword.
It can make you a victim, or it can help you
acquire what you want from life, whether that is
love or wealth or power. Unfortunately, a
woman is more likely to become a victim.
All her life she had been the victim of men;
they had brought her to the edge of destruction, without
even the sweet, passionate lies that had given
Madeline pleasure before ruining her. For
Diana, there had been only ruination. Now there was
something irresistibly enticing about the idea of
dealing from a position of strength herself, for power would
give her freedom.
She did not want power to punish or
to victimize; her fury had faded over time. The
magnitude of love she felt for her son had


left no room in her heart for malice
or bitterness. If her baby had been a girl,
perhaps she would have turned from men forever. But
Geoffrey was male and there was no evil in him.
And occasionally Diana had seen marriages based
on caring; somewhere there existed men who would love and
cherish a woman rather than abuse her.
No, it wasn't men that she wanted; it was one
man, one who would love and protect her in
spite of her past, one who could initiate her
into the profane, earthly delights that Madeline
had described. At the thought, Diana smiled
wryly, knowing what a romantic fool she was.
It was a sign of how much she had healed that she
dared to dream again.
Her cloak billowed out behind her, the heavy
fabric snapping from the force of the gusting wind, and
she felt almost as if she could spread out her arms
and soar far to the south, to the city that was the bright,
corrupt heart of Britain. As always, the wind
was shredding and dispersing her doubts and confusions, and
she gloried in its cleansing strength.
When a drift of cloud darkened the moon,
Diana began the long trek back to the
cottage. Even in the dark she knew her way
across the trackless heights as well as any
native Yorkshire woman, though she had been
raised far from these moors.
The greatest danger in becoming a courtesan was
the risk that her choice might damage
Geoffrey, since to leave him behind was entirely out
of the question. She would have to separate the two sides of
her life in London; surely that would be
possible. Quite apart from the fact that she could not bear
to be parted from him, London would expand his
horizons as much as her own.
The drifting clouds unveiled the moon again as
Diana neared Cleveden Tarn, a darkly shining
circle of water. Level earth ran up to the
edge, as if the tarn was a mirror that some goddess
had dropped in the coarse grasses.
Impetuously she knelt by the edge and stared into the
moon-silvered waters. Though better-educated
than most women, Diana had always been driven
by emotion and intuition rather than logic. Logic
whispered to stay here, where it was safe, but intuition
called her to leave, to dare the dangerous,
mysterious world that Madeline had revealed to her.
The world where a beautiful woman might have power.
As she gazed into the dark water, calm


certainty flowed through her, dissolving
doubts. It was not chance that had brought Madeline
into her life; the older woman was not only a friend
but also an essential link to the future. Somewhere
there was a man who was Diana's destiny, connected
to her by a thread of undeniable fate, a man whom
she would find only if she dared the unthinkable.
Caught in the spell of the full moon, she
whispered, "Great goddess, will you show my lover's
face to me?" then laughed at her own foolishness.
That she, who had been raised in a far-too-
godly home, should indulge in superstitious
nonsense!
Her laughter died. As clearly as if words
had been spoken, Diana sensed that it was better
not to know what fate held for her; if she knew the
shape of the future, she might turn away from it.
She must go blindly, trusting that her intuition and the
hard-won faith that guided her life would carry
her through.
Diana stood and slowly retraced her steps
to the cottage, pulling her cloak tight around her
slim body. The years of life in the safe
shallows were over. Ahead of her lay her destiny,
and that destiny was love.



Diana's hands were not quite steady as she applied
her cosmetics. Madeline had spent many hours
training her to make herself as subtly
provocative as possible, and Diana could almost
do it with her eyes closed, but this time the makeup was
in earnest. Tonight they were going to an informal gathering
at the home of Harriette Wilson, queen of the
London demireps, and for the first time Diana would
be offering herself in the market.
Laying down the hare's foot she had used
to add subtle color to cheeks paled by nerves,
Diana studied her reflection in the mirror.
The image that faced her was that of a sophisticated,
worldly female whose heart-shaped face and
delicate features were too flawless to be real.
It was not the face of the young woman who had lived
on the moors and baked bread and played with her
son in the mud of a streambed.
Half a year had passed since she had
hesitantly broken the news to her friends that she
intended to go to London and become a courtesan.
Not surprisingly, that simple statement had


provoked a storm of protest. What was
surprising was that Edith, the very picture of rural
conservatism, had supported Diana's goal,
pragmatically saying that the plan had much to commend
it.
The real opposition came from Madeline, who
had lived the life of a demirep without regret
or apology. It was one matter to sell oneself when
there was no choice; it was quite another to do so
voluntarily. Maddy had mustered every available
argument, pointing out that they were not in financial
need, asking how Geoffrey would be affected,
warning that Diana did not realize what she was
getting into. Diana had conceded all her friend's
points, her voice faltering when they discussed
Geoffrey, but had refused to change her mind.
In the end, Madeline had thrown up her hands
in defeat and promised to help Diana in any
way she could. Without her aid, her endless
lessons about men, society, and how to be
alluring, Diana could never have come so far. While
it remained to be seen whether she would be a success
at her new trade, the fraudulent image in the
mirror was a good beginning.
The low-cut blue silk dress Diana
wore was the exact lapis-lazuli shade of her
eyes, and her glowing chestnut hair was piled on
her head in richly tousled curls before cascading
down her back. Not accidentally, the style
implied that her thick tresses would fall around
her bare shoulders with unrestrained abandon if a
man touched them.
As she made a minor adjustment to her hair,
a soft knock announced Madeline's entrance.
Since coming to London, the older woman had dyed
the gray out of her brunette hair, and in the
candlelight it was impossible to believe that she was more
than thirty years old. Tonight Maddy was stunning
in a burgundy-red dress, ready for her role
as guide and guard.
Once she had agreed to support her young
friend's ambitions, she had shared everything with her
adopted family: her income, the fashionable
Mayfair house where they lived, her knowledge of
London and its ways. She had located the
small school where Geoffrey was flourishing, and
she had introduced Diana to her friend Harriette
Wilson, an introduction which had resulted in
tonight's invitation.
Diana turned with a smile, grateful to be


distracted from her anxiety. Rising from her
chair, she slowly turned around for her friend's
inspection, her chin lifted to an angle that conveyed
pride without haughtiness. Like every other aspect of
her appearance, that angle had been carefully
learned.
Madeline studied her, then nodded approval.
"Perfect. You have hit the exact balance between the
lady and the wanton."
Diana's smile was crooked. "In spite
of all your thorough and embarrassing lessons on
what gentlemen expect of mistresses, I
feel more like a lamb pretending to be a lioness."
"We don't have to go tonight if you don't want
to," Madeline said gravely.
"But I do want to, Maddy," Diana
answered, her soft voice resolute. "Of
course I'm nervous, but I'm eager too. Tonight
I will enter a world that would otherwise be closed
to me. Perhaps I won't like it and tomorrow morning I will
be ready to fly back to Yorkshire. Then you can
say, "I told you so," and I will nod in
meek agreement as I embroider by the fire."
The older woman laughed with loving exasperation
as she surveyed her prot@eg`e. The girl had
never looked lovelier. Though she was twenty-
four, older than most aspiring courtesans, she
retained the dewy freshness of a seventeen-year-
old. At first Diana had found the crowds and
clamor frightening after the Yorkshire moors, but
after three months in London she had a superb
wardrobe and a sense of ease in the bustling
metropolis.
Madeline shook her head in admiration. If
she knew anything about men, they would be clustered
around the girl tonight like bees around a honeypot.
Perhaps Diana would dislike the sensation enough to retreat
before it was too late. "You'll do, my dear," she
said judiciously. "You'll do very well indeed."

Harriette Wilson's home was filled with
men of the utmost respectability, and women with no
respectability at all. All of the males
present were rich or titled or fashionable, often
all three, while the females were the cr@eme
de la cr@eme of the demireps. Harriette
herself waved casually as Diana and Madeline
entered, then turned back to her court. Unlike
most of the courtesan breed, "The Little Fellow"
was confident enough of her own charms so that even


Diana's stunning beauty did not make
her resentful.
As they paused in the doorway to Harriette's
salon, Diana suddenly froze with panic. For
months she had worked toward this goal, questioning
Madeline, trying to absorb the sometimes shocking
answers. She had acquainted herself with her body,
done strange exercises to strengthen internal
muscles, and learned how to throw a knife for
self-defense. But even though she had been a
dedicated student, the goal had seemed distant,
dreamlike.
Now reality was upon her. Until this moment she
could have turned back at any time to safe
respectability. But once she set foot in this
room, a fallen woman among other fallen
women, the die was cast; she would be a whore, even
if she never took a penny from a man. For an
instant she considered flight; Madeline would
take her away and she could abandon her insane
ambition.
Diana's fearful pause was as effective as
a planned grand entrance. Men were turning to look
at her, their expressions running the gamut from
simple admiration to naked lust. There must have been
at least twenty men staring at her, all of them
richer, stronger, and more powerful than she, and
Diana was terrified to immobility.
Then Madeline touched her elbow, silently
offering support, and Diana's fears ebbed. Her
breath eased out, her heart returned to its
normal rhythm. Her entrance into this room might
brand her a prostitute, but no man could have her
without her consent. Lifting her chin, Diana entered
the salon, Madeline half a step behind her.
Within seconds men were approaching, eager smiles
on their faces as they vied to introduce themselves.
The voices jumbled together: "I'm Clinton
...," "Ridgleigh, ma'am, very much at your
service ...," "Major Connaught, m'dear,
may I get you a glass of champagne?"
As she looked into their admiring faces, the
evening suddenly seemed so simple, so enjoyable,
that she could not imagine why she had been frightened.
With a peal of delighted laughter she offered her hand
to the nearest one, a short redheaded fellow with
bushy side whiskers. "Good evening, gentlemen,
I am Mrs. Diana Lindsay, and I would very
much enjoy a glass of champagne."
The redhead reverently kissed her hand while a


balding gentleman rushed off for
champagne. The third man, dark, poetic-
looking, and very young, simply stared at her, his mouth
slightly open. They really did think she was
beautiful, and for the first time in her life Diana
felt the power of her own beauty.
The next hour or so passed in a blur. She
and Maddy sat by the wall, surrounded by men vying for
her attention. She needed to say very little, and every word
she did utter was greeted as a brilliant
witticism. It was delightful and she felt as
bubbly as the champagne, but she was in no danger
of forgetting what kind of gathering this was. Across the
room, a dark woman and a man in an army
uniform were engaged in such astonishingly intimate
caresses that Diana was hard-pressed not to stare.
Seeing the direction of her gaze, Madeline
whispered that the dark woman was one of
Harriette's sisters; the Little Fellow was
merely the most successful of a notorious clan.
Eventually the couple slipped out together. Half
an hour later they returned separately, the
woman looking well-used but pleased with herself.
Diana forcefully turned her thoughts from what had
happened; if and when she did go with a man, it would
be as a result of more than fifteen minutes'
acquaintance.
"My dear Mrs. Lindsay ..." The voice
in her ear was gruff and a little hesitant, and she
turned to look up into the face of the balding man
who had stayed very close since she arrived. He
was Ridgleigh, she recalled. She smiled with
slow promise, the way Madeline had taught
her. "Yes, Mr. Ridgleigh?"
He smiled back with fatuous delight.
Incredible that her mere existence inspired such a
response. After a long, dazzled moment, he
said, "Lord Ridgleigh, actually." Clearing his
throat, he added hopefully, "Are you looking
for a protector, my dear girl?"
She studied him thoughtfully. He was middle-
aged and stout, not repulsive, but certainly no
Adonis. Still, he had kind eyes. When the time
came to take a lover, she could do worse, but
Diana was a long way from making that decision.
She laid a light hand on his arm. "Perhaps I shall
be soon."
Ridgleigh swallowed hard. "When you do ...
pray think of me."
The poor man looked as if he were about


to melt, so Diana smiled again. "Would you
be so kind as to get me another glass of
champagne?"
He hastened off, eager to please her. At the
same time, a Gypsy fiddle and a roar of
encouraging voices sounded at the far end of the
salon. A buxom black-haired beauty leapt
onto a table and began to dance, her skirt swishing
around her legs and her breasts threatening to burst from
their restraints at any moment. A young man who
wished to join her on the table was being held back
by his friends, who were far more interested in watching the
woman than a would-be partner.
During the moments when general attention was fixed
on the dancing, Madeline leaned over and
whispered, "You are doing splendidly, my dear.
You could have your choice of any of these men. Did
Lord Ridgleigh offer you a carte
blanche?" At Diana's nod, Madeline
continued, "You could do much worse. He's a
pleasant man. Very generous."
Her eyes widening, Diana asked, "Was
he one of your protectors when you lived in
London?"
"Let me just say that we are not
unacquainted." Maddy opened her fan and
fluttered it as she chuckled. "You seem to be
enjoying the worshipful attention."
"Is that wrong?" Diana said defensively.
"No, but remember that this is only one small
part of the game of hearts. Those men don't just
admire you, most of them want to bed you, and your
presence here gives them every reason to assume you
are beddable," Madeline warned. "Be careful.
Don't let yourself be alone with any of them unless
you are sure that is what you want. Most of these
men would not force you, but they will certainly do their
utmost to seduce you."
Diana smiled. "I shan't make a proper
courtesan if I am too prim to run that
risk."
A small line appeared between Madeline's
brows, and Diana knew that her friend still doubted the
wisdom of this course. However, Maddy knew
better than to discuss it further. She stood and
said, "Will you be all right if I leave you for a
while? I want to talk to an old friend who just
arrived."
"I'll be fine, Maddy." Diana gave a
reassuring smile. "Truly, I'm a big


girl now, well-trained by you to deal with
all these mysterious male creatures."
After Madeline left, Diana spent a
moment scanning the room. There must be thirty or
so men present, and perhaps a dozen women. The
crowd around her had eddied between three and a dozen, and
four men were staying close in spite of the Gypsy
dancer's lures. Lord Ridgleigh brought her the
glass of champagne, murmured a fulsome
compliment, then subsided into a nearby chair,
content to admire her.
Now her attention was claimed by the young
Byronic-looking Mr. Clinton. Turning his
back on the dancer, he gazed at Diana in a
manner much akin to a puppy's. He had said almost
nothing to her, but now he managed to stammer out, "You
are a ... a goddess."
Laughing, she replied, "Quite right, Diana was
a goddess, of the hunt and of the moon."
His reply was ardent. "You are justly named, for
you have captured my heart. I shall call you the
Fair Luna."
Diana was absurdly reminded of Geoffrey
by Clinton's youthfulness. Despite his handsome
face, she felt more like feeding him gingerbread than
taking him as a lover. As she sought a reply that
would kindly acknowledge his worship without encouraging
him further, she felt a prickly sense of
unease.
Glancing up, she saw a dark man in the
doorway staring at her, his gray eyes as cold
and sharply edged as a blade. Perhaps thirty years
old, he was broad-shouldered and above average
height, with an air of command and a taut
intelligence visible clear across the room. He
stood utterly still, and the unwavering intensity of his
gaze was shockingly out of place in this crowd of
light-minded dilettantes.
Diana caught her breath, disturbed by those
relentless eyes. She had been a focus of
attention ever since arriving, but no other man had
watched as if he wished to draw out her soul. His
concentration was like a hammer blow, and it struck an
answering spark deep within her, a spark of
uncanny connection.
Then, as she absorbed the details of his stern
figure, time stopped. The two of them might have
been alone in Eden and Diana was aware of nothing
but the dark man and her own fiercely beating heart.
That austerely handsome face was as familiar to her as


her own nightmares, and in a flash of fear
and awe and tremulous anticipation she knew why
intuition had decreed that it was better not to know her
fate.
Just as surely, she knew beyond the shadow of a
doubt that this was the man she had come to London
to find.

The seventh Viscount St. Aubyn had been
brought to Harriette Wilson's much against his will.
Two blocks before reaching her house, he had said
abruptly, "I've changed my mind. I'll
let you off and send my carriage back to wait for
you."
His cousin Francis Brandelin grinned. "Oh
no you don't, Gervase. It's taken weeks
to get you this far, and you'll not elude me that
easily. You spend far too much time on whatever
it is that you do in the Foreign Office. The
government won't fall if you take an evening's
pleasure, and Harriette has one of the best wine
cellars in London."
"I don't doubt that--it's a requirement for a
demirep of her standing," Gervase commented dryly.
"However, if it's good wine I want, I can
get it at home more easily."
Francis laughed outright, undeterred by his
lordship's attitude. "Perhaps you can get wine, but
if you want a replacement for that opera dancer of
yours, you'll do much better at Harry's than at
home."
Though not sure that he agreed with Francis,
Gervase did not dignify the remark with an
answer. The opera dancer, Colette, had been
no great loss. She had made it clear that she
preferred more gaiety in her life, then been
disconcerted at how quickly Lord St. Aubyn had
agreed that he neglected her shamelessly and she
could do better elsewhere.
Still, any demirep Gervase found at
Harriette Wilson's was apt to have
Colette's faults--volatility and greed--
in spades. The most successful courtesans were
even more temperamental and demanding than society
ladies, not at all the kind of mistress he
sought. He knew exactly the sort of woman
he wanted; she should be reasonably
attractive, undemanding, and uncapricious.
Perhaps a woman with children who would occupy her
attention, so she would not always be pining for her


protector's company. He had no
objection to children so long as he needn't see them.
Well, it wouldn't kill him to spend an evening
sipping Harriette's wine, and he owed it
to Francis. The younger man was a sociable sort,
and he had undertaken to ensure that the new viscount
didn't become a hermit. His cousin was his
heir, an easygoing, intelligent young man whose
light brown hair and slight, elegant figure
came from his mother's side of the family, not the dark,
intimidating Brandelins. As a child Francis had
looked up to his older cousin, and they had
corresponded all the time Gervase had been in
the army in India.
When the new viscount returned to England after his
father's death, he had felt very alone and
Francis' genuine welcome had been like
sunshine on a rainy day. It had been
gratifying to find someone who cared whether Gervase
lived or died. Though they were very different, they had
developed a friendship that went well beyond mere
blood kinship. Gervase asked idly, "Have you
given any thought to marriage?"
In the flickering lamplight Francis'
expression was more than shocked, and it was a moment
before he replied in a tone whose lightness seemed
forced. "What makes you ask that, cousin?"
The viscount said reasonably, "Well, you are
my heir and you will inherit someday. Life being
uncertain, I would like to know that the succession is
assured for another generation."
After a narrow look, Francis said with
amusement, "Isn't taking care of the succession
your responsibility?"
The carriage halted at their destination and
Gervase was glad to let the subject drop. It
sounded like Francis was disinclined to matrimony;
perhaps it was a family failing. Someday the viscount
would have to explain exactly why he himself would never
have legitimate heirs, but it was a topic he
preferred to avoid as long as possible.
The butler bowed them in without comment since
Francis was a regular visitor to the
establishment. Sounds of laughter and music
floated down the stairs as Gervase followed his
cousin up to the main drawing room.
Just before they entered, Francis asked, "Shall I
introduce you around, or would you prefer not to stand on
ceremony?"
"No need to put yourself out," Gervase


replied. "I'm sure I know most of the
men, and more than a few of the women."
On entering the large salon, Francis made
an immediate line for his hostess, whose curly black
head was barely visible amongst her admirers.
Gervase lingered in the doorway, scanning his
surroundings with the automatic caution of a soldier
who has campaigned in hostile territory.
He had met Harriette Wilson before, and
privately considered her to have the manners of a
rude schoolboy, though there was an undeniable charm
in her exuberant vitality. At the far end of the
room, a dark Gypsyish dancer stamped and
whirled with a young officer of a Highland regiment who
should have known better than to dance on a table in his
kilt. Or perhaps he was merely advertising himself
in the same way that the women were.
Then Gervase's casual gaze reached a
cluster of people directly opposite the door and
he stopped dead, feeling a constriction around his
heart. The girl in the center of the group was half
turned away from him, and there was a purity in that
flawless profile that answered every man's dream of
innocence. Eve before the serpent, the virgin who
lures the fierce unicorn to her hand, the loving
maiden who comes chaste to her marriage bed. ...
She was all of those things, and none of them. Even
as he stared in helpless admiration, his mind echoed
with the harsh words, "'Tis a pity she's a
whore."
The emotion he felt was a complex mixture of
grief and anger that such sweet innocence was a lie
and a delusion. What right had this girl with tumbling
chestnut hair to imply that dreams could take
flesh? Because, of course, she was a whore; in this
company, she could be nothing else. There was no
innocence in the lush body alluringly concealed and
revealed in clinging blue silk, or in her
posture, which made it amply clear that she was
available if the price was right.
He put aside anger, reminding himself that he
wasn't here to find a dream, a virgin, or a
wife, but a mistress. The woman's presence in
this place meant that he might have her without any of the
complications and disillusion that dreams entail. The
primitive male part of him that was so deeply
aroused would have carried the girl off like the Romans
did the Sabine women. Only slightly more
civilized was the impulse to cross the room and
ask, "What is your price?"


But the great courtesans were
notoriously fickle and would scorn a man who
assumed that money alone could buy them. Just as a
beautiful woman was a prize that a man could
parade before his fellows, the demireps flaunted
their own conquests to each other. Gervase had never
bothered with such women, having no interest in playing
the flirtatious games required, but as he saw
the girl lay a graceful, teasing hand on the arm
of a youthful admirer, he decided that this time he
would make an exception.
Then she turned, her deep blue eyes
meeting his with an impact that reverberated through his
entire body. A beauty, a whore, and a mystery
all at once. With no further thought he cut
across the salon. She watched him come, those
incredible blue eyes holding his as if they were the
only two people in the room.
Gervase scarcely noticed the men he pushed
between. The girl stood as he approached, her
posture erect and graceful as she held out one
slim hand. He clasped it for a moment, feeling the
coolness of her tapering fingers before he bowed and
brushed his lips lightly above her knuckles.
A slight tremor ran through her hand and he
wondered if she too felt something like the tidal
wave engulfing him. More likely her silence was
merely clever policy, the queen allowing the
suppliant to speak first.
Retaining his grip on her hand, he straightened
and stared down into her face. She was below average
height, the top of her head not quite reaching his chin, and
she had a slim waist that emphasized the ripe
curves of breast and hip. Close up she was as
flawless as she had appeared at a distance, her
features exquisitely sculptured, her
silken skin begging to be touched. As she regarded
him gravely, her full lips were a promise,
even though she neither talked nor smiled.
Her cheekbones were high and dramatic under
wide, delicately tilted eyes, and one
glossy ringlet fell forward to emphasize her
bare shoulders and the soft swell of breasts revealed
by her low-cut dress. He had never seen hair
of such color, a rich shade like polished
antique mahogany. She wore no jewels and
required none; like a perfect lily, she needed
no gilding.
They stood like statues for an endless moment.
Gervase saw a pulse beat under the creamy skin


at her throat, and her eyes widened, the
lapis-lazuli depths showing some emotion he could
not identify. Tightening his hold on her hand, he
drew her from her circle of admirers, saying
only, "Come."
Murmurs of protest, half-amused, half-
angry, sounded around him. Without turning his eyes
from the woman, he said, "I shall return her
shortly." He led her into the relative
privacy of a window embrasure, where others could
see them but not overhear. She moved with the effortless
grace such beauty deserved.
Gervase still held her hand, and her nearness was
playing havoc with his ability to think. Beginning with the
most basic of information, he said, "I am St.
Aubyn. And you?"
"I am Mrs. Diana Lindsay."
Her voice was as lovely as her face,
sweet and musical, unmarred by a provincial
accent. She could have been a duchess, except that
no duchess had ever been so beautiful. An
elusive fragrance of lilac surrounded her, and
it reinforced the illusion of innocence that she
simulated so well. The part of him that was not quite
overpowered by her presence noted cynically that she was
going to be very, very expensive, but Gervase
didn't care. Instead he asked a more polite
version of what he had thought earlier. "What does
it take to win you?"
His voice was deep and resonant, equally
suited to caress or command. Diana's heart beat
with unnatural speed and she inhaled deeply,
struggling for the composure that she desperately
needed. What had she expected him to do, ravish
her? Accuse her of harlotry? Declare love
undying? While she had instantly known this man was
her fate, clearly the recognition wasn't
mutual.
It was better this way. She disengaged her hand
without haste. "You may court me and find out."
The strong dark brows arched up. "Court you?
I have not come here for a wife."
"Nor did I come for a husband," Diana said
blandly. "You and I have simpler aims. If you
don't like the word "court," choose another.
Phrases are unimportant. What matters
is that if you want me, you must please me."
Lord St. Aubyn's gray eyes narrowed, the
skin tightening over the high, wide cheekbones, and
she felt his withdrawal. "So you can amuse yourself


watching suitors scramble for your
pleasure while you set one against another, like
cocks at a fight? No, thank you, madam,
I will not play that game."
So he had pride, more than was good for him. That
was no surprise; pride was written in every line
of the lean body that moved with the deadly smoothness of a
hunting cat. There was not an ounce of spare flesh
anywhere on him, from broad shoulders to flat waist
to muscular legs. Everything soft and unessential
had been burned away, leaving only unyielding
masculine strength.
Diana wondered if his lordship knew how
to smile; and if he did, whether amusement would
provide the life that could make those cool,
regular features handsome. Commanding herself not to be
intimidated by his overpowering closeness, she said
calmly, "I have met many men tonight, and you are the
only one whom I have invited to come closer."
As he relaxed fractionally, she added, "I will
make you a promise, my lord. On further
acquaintance I may decide that you will not suit
me, but I will never make sport of you."
He smiled faintly and the lightening of his dark
features did make him austerely handsome. "I
hope that is true. There is a great deal that I
will not tolerate, even from a woman of your quite
remarkable beauty."
"And there is a great deal I will not accept,
even from a man of your no-doubt-remarkable
wealth," Diana answered with an edge of
irritation in her voice.
Surprise touched his dark face for a moment.
Then his smile widened. "You have a high-handed way
with you, Mrs. Lindsay."
"It is merely wise commerce, my lord," she
said, shifting her weight gracefully from one foot
to the other. Motion rippled the silk dress across
her body and she could see by his tension that he
noticed, and was affected by, that subtle display.
With a mischievous desire to discomfit him
further, Diana shifted the conversation to a more
intellectual plane. "Like any merchant, I
seek to sell what customers demand. Since the
market can be a profitable one, I would be foolish
not to negotiate the best possible terms for what
I sell."
His lordship's mouth quirked with amusement. "But
surely your price is threatened by too large a
supply of cut-rate goods? They say that in


London, one woman in ten is selling
the same product that you are, and that doesn't count
women who supply the same service for free,
or under lifetime contract."
Diana laughed. "You are confusing two
different commodities. Many women sell their
femaleness, but women of unusual beauty sell
dreams."
There was an odd, disconcerted look in his eye
as he murmured, "Not only bold but vain."
Diana raised her brows. "Is it vanity
to know one's worth? I am a merchant, with only
a few short years to sell my wares before time
diminishes the value. Why should I not seek the
best price?" St. Aubyn had alarmed her at
first, but she was beginning to enjoy the discussion. She
had never talked to a man this way, and the combination of
intellectual banter and erotic undercurrents was
powerfully stimulating. "Money is important,
but most of the men here will pay well, so why should I
not choose to please myself in other ways?"
"It's a compelling argument," Lord St.
Aubyn said dryly, "but if your standards are too
high, perhaps I will be unable to meet them. I should
regret that very much."
In spite of the lightness of his words, there was an
intensity about him that Diana found threatening. It was
only the primitive part of her that believed in
fate; on the surface, this was a business
transaction and the choice to proceed was hers. With a
coolness to match his, she said, "Then try
to meet my standards, Lord St. Aubyn. Charm
me, make me feel beautiful and desirable.
Or is charm not an attribute that you have
cultivated?"
He reached out one hand and touched her cheek. His
fingers were warm and strong, and Diana was acutely
aware of his powerful masculinity. Her body
responded with a melting warmth that spread and weakened
her, that made her wish to open her arms and yield
to his wishes. It was utterly different from anything
she had ever experienced before, and she was suddenly
frightened, not of this dark man with cool eyes and warm
hands, but of herself.
St. Aubyn said softly, "No one has ever
accused me of charm, but I do have other
attributes." Then he lifted her chin with one
finger and bent his head to kiss her, his mouth warm on
hers, undemanding but infinitely promising. Their
bodies did not touch, and the fierce current of


mutual attraction was concentrated between
their lips with a force like wildfire.
Diana had feared her first kiss, both the
intimacy itself and the risk that she would betray her
inexperience. Now her heart began pounding. She
had not known a kiss could be like this. Oh, no, most
certainly she had not expected this. His clear
gray eyes were so close and intent that surely he
must see her dizziness, must know that she desired
to press against him, to discover if that hard body was
as warm and welcoming as his lips.
There was no room in her for fear, and Diana was
both relieved and bereft when he lifted his head
and dropped his hand. She stepped back, wanting
to put more distance between them. Grateful that her voice
was steady, she smiled faintly, as if such
kisses were as common as breathing. "I will set that
to your account. It goes some way toward compensating
for other lacks."
There was a flash in his eyes and she wondered if
she had angered him, but then he chuckled. "When you
retire from your present trade, you can become a
clerk in the city, keeping accounts and totaling
figures."
Amusement still in his voice, he surveyed her
lazily. "You are clearly something of an expert
when it comes to figures." Before she could respond
to the double entendre, he asked, "Do you ride?"
Diana hesitated. "I have, but it was some
years ago and I do not keep a hack in
London."
"That is easily remedied. I can mount you if
you consent to go riding with me."
More double meanings. Diana colored faintly,
but she was determined to be his equal in aplomb.
"In that case, I should be delighted to join you."
"Tomorrow morning, then, at seven o'clock?"
Usually Diana breakfasted with Geoffrey before
he went to school, but she had known that her new
enterprise would cause changes in her domestic
schedule. She would compensate by spending more time with
him later. "Very well, my lord, seven o'clock tomorrow,
number seventeen Charles Street."
He gave a nod of satisfaction. "I shall
bring a horse suitable for a lady who has not
ridden in some time."
"Thank you, my lord." With a slow, teasing
smile, she added, "It is not necessary that the beast be
a complete slug."
"I shall bear that in mind: one horse, gentle but


not sluggish. Now, let me return you
to your admirers."
St. Aubyn offered his arm and Diana tucked
her hand into the elbow of his dark blue coat. Even
through the layers of heavy fabric she felt the
taut power of that arm and she shivered slightly.
Madeline had told her that the drug of sexual
desire could bring a strong man to his knees, but
surely that was not true of a man such as this. His
strength was not merely physical; there was
determination and quiet control behind those clear, icy
eyes. He might desire her, but it was
impossible to imagine that he would let any woman
hold power over him.
Uneasily she remembered that Madeline had
also said that desire might equally bind a woman
to a man. Diana had not believed that could happen
to her, who had lived so well without physical
passion, but now she was not so sure. Glancing up
at St. Aubyn's stern profile, she thought of
Lord Ridgleigh, with his kind eyes and obvious
desire to please.
Diana shrugged fatalistically as St.
Aubyn returned her to her chair, then bowed and
took his leave. On one level, she had the
freedom to choose whomever she wished as a lover,
but on another level, she had no choice at
all. There was no wisdom or calculation in her
response to the dark lord; she knew only that
fate had bound them together.



Some of Diana's admirers looked
reproachfully at her for having permitted another
man a kiss; more attempted to lure her into a
quiet corner where they could take similar
liberties. Resisting their blandishments, she quickly
teased them into good humor again. Getting Madeline
into a good mood later in the evening was another
matter. The older woman had seen the byplay with
St. Aubyn, and as soon as they left in their
carriage she gave vent to her feelings. "For
heaven's sake, Diana, why did you let him
single you out in such a public manner?"
"I'm not a seventeen-year-old with a spotless
reputation to protect. Quite the contrary," Diana
said mildly. "Besides, I was in full view the
whole time."
"Yes, and in full view of everyone, you let


him kiss you."
"I didn't precisely let him."
A torch outside the carriage briefly
illuminated Madeline's exasperated countenance.
"That makes it worse. If you wish to succeed as
a courtesan, you must be in control of what is
happening, not succumb to every passing advance."
"I succumbed to only one."
"But with St. Aubyn, of all people!"
"Is there something wrong with him?" Diana asked
curiously. "Did you know him when you lived in
London before?"
"No." The shake of Madeline's head was
felt rather than seen in the dark. "I made
inquiries this evening after he left. He was in
India for some years in the army, returning home
a couple of years ago when he inherited the
title."
"Well?" Diana prompted. "What did you
learn? Is he a gambler who has lost the
family fortune, or a scoundrel despised
by honorable men?"
"Nooo," Madeline said slowly, "nothing quite
so obvious."
"I am going riding with the man tomorrow morning, so
if you wish to persuade me to avoid him, you had
better speak more clearly." Diana spoke with a
trace of unaccustomed sarcasm.
Madeline sighed. "People react oddly when he
is mentioned. He seems to be a cold man,
respected, but perhaps not much liked." After a long
silence she added, "They say he is the
principal spymaster of the government, and that he
drove his wife mad and keeps her locked in a
castle in Scotland."
"Heavens," Diana said with a lift of her
brows. "How gothic! Is there any evidence for
such charges?"
"Not really," Madeline admitted. "I questioned
as many people as I could, and no one is even sure that
he is married, but since the rumor is persistent
it must mean something. St. Aubyn seldom goes
out in society, and there was considerable comment when he
appeared at Harriette's tonight." As an afterthought
she added, "He's very rich."
"Of the things you have just told me, what makes him
an unsuitable choice as a protector?
Certainly not his wealth."
The carriage pulled up in front of the house
and Madeline didn't answer as they entered and


climbed up to the older woman's
rooms. The third floor contained two suites,
each with bedchamber, sitting room, built-in
closets, and bath chambers with the incredible luxury
of fitted tubs. In the past the front suite
had been Maddy's, but now she preferred the back
because it was quieter. Geoffrey and Edith had the
floor above, and the female servants lived in the
attics.
Diana felt compunction when she saw the
fatigue on her friend's face. In spite of her
restored health, Maddy was no longer young, she had
been very ill, and this return to her old life must
be a strain even without her concern for her
prot@eg`e. Sitting Madeline down, Diana
poured a glass of sherry for her, then pulled the
pins from her friend's dark hair and began brushing it
out.
When Madeline was more comfortable, Diana asked
again, "Why would Lord St. Aubyn be such a poor
choice for a lover?"
"Because of the kind of man he is: cold and
unloving. Even if he is not a spy and never had
a wife, he is unlikely to make you happy."
Madeline sighed and closed her eyes. "You will
allow that I know more about men and love than you do?"
"Of course I will admit that." Diana
unfastened Maddy's dress, then helped her into a
soft red wrapper. With a sigh of relaxation, the
older woman curled up in the chair while
Diana poured a glass of sherry for herself, then
sat on the sofa opposite Madeline and began
to unpin her own hair. "Now, tell me, why
does St. Aubyn disturb you so much?"
Maddy absently twisted the stem of her sherry
glass. "My strongest objection to your entering this
life is that you are too emotional, too loving.
I doubt your ability to let your head rule your
heart where a lover is concerned. A successful
courtesan must have some detachment. The worst thing
she can do is to fall in love with her
protector." With a crooked smile she added,
"I did that. I can't recommend it."
Diana gazed into the amber wine. "Can love
ever be wrong?"
Madeline shrugged wearily. "It may not be
wrong, but it is often painful. It won't keep
you warm and comfortable in your later years when your
lover has discarded you for a younger woman or
retired to live piously with his wellborn


wife."
Diana had always suspected that something more than
illness had driven Madeline from London two
years ago. She said with gentle compassion, "I'm
sorry. Is that what happened to you?"
Madeline was silent for so long that Diana
thought she would not answer. Finally she said, "Not
really. Nicolas was my last protector, for
over seven years. His evil-tempered wife
lived in the country so we were able to spend much of our
time together in London. He was the one who bought this
house for me, and he was here more often than in his own
home."
She sipped her sherry, lost in her
memories. Then she said bleakly, "He wanted
to marry me. Isn't that droll?"
"Not in the least," Diana answered quietly,
drawing her fingers through her long tresses to loosen
the snarls. "You are lovely and kind, a
desirable wife for any man."
The candlelight caught a gleam of tears in
Madeline's eyes. "It is not quite unknown for a
man like him to marry a woman like me. After all,
Emma Harte became the British
ambassadress to Sicily by marrying Sir
William Hamilton, and she was no better
born or behaved than I. Society's high
sticklers might have cut Nicolas and me, but that
wouldn't have bothered either of us."
Her face tightened. "But Nicolas was not
free to marry. His wife was far too cold a
woman to be guilty of misconduct, so there was
no possibility of divorce. Still, we were
happy until his wife decided to end his
relationship with me, threatening to ruin him with his
family and their children.
"He was badly torn. He did not want
to give me up, but everything in his life was being
weighed on the other side of the scales." She
rotated the fragile stem of her sherry glass
between stiff fingers. "I have wondered if my grief
at the situation had something to do with my illness. I
have seen it before, how unhappiness leads to bad
health." Lifting the glass, she drained it, and
Diana silently rose and poured more.
In a stronger voice Madeline said, "I
left London, partly so that he would no longer have
to choose between me and the rest of his life, partly so that
he wouldn't have to see me die. You know the rest."
"I see." Diana was silent for a moment.


"Is your Nicolas still in London?"
Madeline shook her head. "No, that is the
first thing I inquired about once we arrived here.
He is living entirely at his estate in the
country now. I would not be going out in public if
there were any chance of meeting him." With sad
finality she whispered, "I couldn't bear to see
him again. Nothing has changed. Or at least, I
haven't. Perhaps he has. I hope so. It would
be easier for him if he no longer loves me."
Diana's face reflected her compassion. It
was typical of the older woman's generous spirit that
she wished her lover free of the sorrow that she herself
still suffered.
Maddy sighed. "Do you understand better why a
courtesan shouldn't fall in love with her
protector? There may be moments of joy, but those
are few compared to the pain. There are so many ways in
which a grand passion can be disastrous, and almost none in
which it can bring happiness. It is far better to have a
protector who is a friend, or one whom you love
only a little."
"If St. Aubyn is as cold as you
believe, do you really think I could fall in love
with him?"
"I think you will fall in love with any man you
choose as your lover," Madeline said bluntly.
"It is a bad habit women have, and you are more
vulnerable than most. You yourself don't know how much
you are crying out to be loved, and to love back."
"But I have a great deal of love in my life
... Geoffrey, Edith, you," Diana stated with
maddening calm. "Why are you so sure I will fall
headlong for a man just because we are lovers?"
"Sexual love is very different from love for a
child or a friend. No matter how powerful those other
loves are, they don't fill the basic need of a
woman to have a man." Madeline leaned forward a
little, her voice earnest. "Please, trust my
judgment on this and don't become involved with St.
Aubyn. Choose a man like Lord Ridgleigh.
He isn't half so handsome, but he will adore you.
Or that lovely boy Clinton, who will write
poems to your eyebrows. Even if there is pain
at the end, it won't be devastating and you will have some
happy memories of the affair."
She shook her head wearily. "I've known
men like St. Aubyn. Certainly he is
attractive and can afford to pay generously for the
privilege of keeping you. He may even


provide pleasure in bed. But he will
give you little kindness, and less love."
Diana drew her knees up on the sofa and
linked her arms around them, leaning her head forward.
Her voice low, she said, "I'm sorry,
Maddy. I daresay you are right, but ... this is
something I must do."
"Good God, Diana, why?" Madeline
exclaimed. "Whenever something really important
is at issue, you just look mysterious and say that
it is something you must do. We are supposed to be
friends, yet I have no more idea what is in your
mind than if you were a Chinaman. You have
intelligence--why the devil can't you use it?"
Diana's face paled and her voice was
unsteady when she replied. "I'm sorry, I
know this is hard for you, and I know that you are doing your
best to save me from unnecessary grief."
She stopped, trying to find some way to explain.
Eventually she replied, choosing her words
carefully, "It isn't a matter of
intelligence, you know. I can read the poets and
philosophers and talk about them wittily, but that
is just the mind.
"Underneath, I am all emotion and instinct, and
they are what rule my life. I can no more understand
why there are some things that I must do than I can
explain why the wind blows. I knew that I must
come to London and try the life of a demirep, and
I know now that I must see more of Lord St.
Aubyn. I'm sorry." Her voice broke and
she finished in a whisper. "I would be different if
I could be."
Madeline could feel the younger woman's
unhappiness as sharply as if it was her own. She
thought of Diana as the daughter she had always longed
for, and knew the grief of all parents who wish
to save their children from suffering. Maddy sighed.
Diana was vulnerable, but she was also strong, with her
own deep wisdom. She had already survived
grief and loss, and doubtless she could survive
another unfortunate love affair. Most women
had more than one broken heart in their past.
"I'm sorry, my dear, I'm trying to make
you wise, when I failed so miserably at it
myself. If you must, you must." She smiled,
remembering how the Viscount St. Aubyn had
reacted to Diana. "Sometimes men like St.
Aubyn have fire under the ice. If any woman
can find it, it will be you."


"Perhaps," Diana said quietly.
"We shall see." Tightening her arms around her
knees, she gazed into space for a time. Maddy was
justified in her charge that she hid the inner workings
of her mind. Diana had never been able to talk
about what was deepest and closest to her heart;
only when the issue was resolved could she discuss
it. But there were some things that could be shared. "For what
it's worth, after months of pondering I think that
now I understand why I was so determined to pursue the
life of a courtesan in the first place."
Madeline shifted to a more comfortable position.
"Yes?" she asked encouragingly.
"You yourself gave me the idea. When you spoke
of the life, it sounded ... free, in ways I have
never known," Diana said. "And ... I didn't
want to live the rest of my life without a man.
You know how limited the prospects were in
Cleveden. In London, there are choices,
both in men and way of life, and I found the idea
exciting." Her smile flashed mischievously.
"I also liked what you said about sex and beauty
giving a woman power. I found that most
appealing."
"So appealing that you are comfortable exposing your
son to this life?"
"You know better than that, Maddy," Diana
retorted sharply. Her voice faltered. "That
above all concerned me. Success as a courtesan
would mean money for his future, perhaps influence if
I meet powerful men. He is happier here in his
school than he has ever been, and with luck I can
retire and return to respectability before he
is old enough to realize what I am doing."
She could hear the defensiveness in her voice,
and she ducked her head to conceal tears. If it
hadn't been for Geoffrey, becoming a courtesan
would not have been the agonizing decision that it was.
Not a day went by when she didn't worry about the
possible long-term consequences to her son.
"I'm sorry, my dear," Madeline said
apologetically. "I shouldn't have said that. It's just
that I can't help worrying about how this will turn out
for you and Geoffrey. Still, come what may, you know that
I will always be here to help you put the broken
pieces together again."
Diana subsided wearily into the corner of the
sofa, suddenly exhausted by the night's events.
For better or for worse, forces had been set
into motion that could not be recalled. She could only


pray that her intuition was not leading her
astray.

Leaving the carriage for his cousin, Gervase
chose to walk back to his Curzon Street
town house. London at night was not the safest
of places, but veterans of the Mahratta Wars
were not easily intimidated. As he walked through the
cool night air, he wondered why he was
reacting so strongly to a pretty face.
Francis was right: it was time he took a new
mistress.
A pity he could not be free of females
entirely, but Gervase needed a regular woman
in his life. While temperance in food and drink
came naturally to him, his body's other fierce,
compelling desires could not be suppressed or
ignored. Some men could live comfortably as
monks; although the viscount envied them, he was unable
to do the same. The deity who had given him so much
in the way of worldly goods had also condemned him to a
regrettable amount of sexual passion.
In India he had kept a slim native
girl with dark almond-shaped eyes and an
astonishing sexual repertory. Sananda spoke
seldom, waited on him like a servant, and asked
nothing for herself. The viscount had supported her and
her entire family for years, and left them with enough
money to buy two thriving shops. The girl had
been properly grateful for his financial
generosity, but if she had personal regrets about
his departure, she concealed them well.
In many ways, keeping Sananda had been
ideal, since she made none of the emotional
demands an Englishwoman would. Here in London
it would be easy to find a dissatisfied wife of his
own class for an affair, but such women required
time and effort for wooing, and wanted lying words of
love that he had no desire to speak. Gervase
disliked the lower grades of prostitutes, both
for the possibility of disease and the bleak expression
sometimes seen in their eyes, a resignation to pain that
reminded him uncomfortably of the pathetic child he
had married.
Rationally, he knew that he should look for a
mistress who was unfashionable and grateful for
financial security. He was a fool to waste
time on an exotic, expensive ladybird like
Diana Lindsay. Still, as he remembered her
sensual body and the flawless face with its deep,


beckoning eyes, he acknowledged that one
could overdo rationality; what was the point in having
money if he didn't indulge in an occasional
frivolous luxury? And he had never seen a more
attractive frivolity than Diana
Lindsay.
St. Aubyn House was a dull but imposing
pile, far too much space for a single man.
Gervase let himself in with his own key. It had
taken him months to convince his servants that he
often preferred privacy, but he had eventually
prevailed. A lamp waited on a pier table in
the vestibule, and he lifted it.
He was restless, not ready for bed, and rather than go
upstairs, he stepped into the drawing room. It was
a masterpiece of lofty proportions and rich
decoration, a room designed for giants or
gods. Overhead a coffered and painted
Italianate ceiling soared two stories above
the giant Oriental carpet that had been custom
woven to fit the space, and there was a carved marble
fireplace at each end of the room. Scattered
about were groupings of graceful furniture that had
been built to the designs of Robert Adam.
Crossing the drawing room, he entered the
book-lined study. This had been his father's
particular haunt, and when Gervase had returned
from India the faint scent of the late viscount's
pipe tobacco had still lingered. Yet there had been
no sense of the man himself. It was not surprising,
really; even in life, father and son had touched each
other only in fleeting and formal ways.
On impulse Gervase began silently
prowling through the house he had inherited. The
servants were in their own territory at this hour,
and the endless halls and chambers were deserted as he
paced their lengths. The high ceilings and hard
floors reflected his quiet footsteps as
hollow echoes. No denying the place's
splendor, with its elaborate molded ceilings and
restrained classical detailing. The ballroom
was immense and silent, unused since his mother had
died fourteen years earlier. The main staircase
curved to the ground floor in two wide, opposing
arcs and was allegedly the grandest in London. His
mother had looked magnificent sweeping down it,
jewels sparkling in her golden hair and on her
white shoulders.
Though Gervase owned this building and everything in
it, he felt no sense of kinship or pride of


possession. If this splendid
mausoleum truly belonged to anyone, it was to the
anonymous housemaids who polished the
furniture and sanded the floors and kept it in this
state of sterile perfection.
Even after two years, he felt like a stranger
here. It had been depressing to return to this cold
house under England's damp skies; he sometimes
thought that Britain had acquired her colonies so
that her citizens could live in warmer climes and still
be under the British flag.
On the five-month voyage home, Gervase
had toyed with the thought of selling St. Aubyn
House and seeking more modest accommodations
elsewhere, but had reluctantly decided against it.
This house was part of the St. Aubyn inheritance and
must be passed to Francis or his heirs when the
time came. His cousin had a sunny,
uncomplicated disposition; in time he would marry
and have a family to warm these cold rooms.
And they were cold, in spite of the carved marble
fireplaces, cold with a chill deeper than the
physical. Gervase wondered idly who had
built this mansion and lived in it, and whether anyone
had ever been happy here.
For himself, the viscount expected neither warmth
nor happiness. In India he had learned
to expiate his sins with the rewards of work well
done, of duty and honor fulfilled, and that must be
enough. He had built a useful life for himself,
regulating the welfare of his dependents and
participating in the affairs of the nation. Much had
been given to him, and he had a responsibility
to use it well.
Only gradually did Gervase realize his
true goal in this late-night prowl: his mother's
rooms, which lay behind the master's apartments. Perhaps
because he had been thinking about women, he decided that
it was time and past time to face his mother's ghost. He
had invested the last eight years in developing his
strength so that he would not be afraid to face anything
in his life.
Medora, the Viscountess St. Aubyn, had
been the daughter of a duke. She was as graceful
as she was charming, as corrupt as she was beautiful.
It was eighteen years since he had seen her,
eighteen years since he had set foot in these
rooms, yet even now he could almost see her
floating across the chamber, hear the echo of her
bright, heartless laughter.


As a child he had adored his mother, and was
grateful for the casual gestures of affection she
sometimes made, despairing when she would turn
angry or petulant. He had been too young
to realize how little her moods depended on him, and
had blamed himself for his failures to please her.
In his mother's sitting room, still decorated with
faded panels of the rose silk she had favored,
hung the portrait. Gervase stood in the
doorway with one hand braced against the frame and
studied the painting. It had been done by Sir
Joshua Reynolds and was full-size, so
lifelike that it seemed Medora could step down from
the wall. The viscountess was dressed in figured
white silk and had disdained hair powder to let her
natural golden hair fall in ringlets around
her shoulders.
Gervase was also in the picture, six years
old and gazing up at his mother with his dark head in
profile. The child's presence lent a false
impression of maternal feeling. The real reason
Medora wanted him there was for his worshipful
expression; she was a woman who needed to be
worshiped.
Even after twenty-five years he remembered
the sittings vividly, how her friends came
to visit and she would laugh and joke with them,
to Reynolds' intense disgust. Gervase himself was
silent, happy to spend so many hours in her
presence and determined to do nothing that might cause
him to be sent away. Once one of her friends had
complimented Lady Medora on how well-behaved
the boy was and she had said carelessly that her son had
been born middle-aged. Many times he wondered
if that was a compliment or an insult; even now he
didn't know. Doubtless it was merely a quip, with
no deeper meaning.
For all her look of white-and-gold innocence,
Lady St. Aubyn had been a wanton, an
expert at indulging her appetites within the
broad range permitted the nobility. She had
dutifully given her husband two male heirs.
The elder had died in early childhood, and the younger
now stood and studied his mother's face, trying
to understand what had made her what she was.
Medora Brandelin was the only person
Gervase had ever loved, and that fact had meant
nothing to her. Less than nothing. Thinking back,
he believed that her crime against her son had been
unthinking and unmalicious, a casual product


of curiosity and boredom. It was
doubtful that she ever knew or cared what she had
done to him.
It was gratifying that he could finally look at
her dispassionately, the scars so well-healed that
he felt no more than a distant ache. Now he
could bury his mother in the same dark well of
memory that held the farce of his marriage. That
lesser catastrophe had haunted him on and off
for years, but he had done what he could
to mitigate the damage. According to his lawyer, the
afflicted child he had married was alive and in good
health.
Even now, he hated to think of what a fool
he had been to let himself be trapped into a
travesty of marriage; if he had not been
drunk, it would never have happened. But in
retrospect, the incident was less disastrous than
he had thought at the time. The girl Mary
Hamilton had gotten an income and probably
better treatment than she had known earlier in her
life, and Gervase had learned a bitter
lesson in self-control. In the years since,
he had governed himself with an iron hand, never
once overindulging in drink or any other disabling
vice.
The marriage was also a perfect excuse for
withholding himself from the mating rituals of society.
If he were single, Gervase would be considered
highly eligible, a tedious and time-consuming fate
that he was now spared. While he revealed to no one
the true facts of his marriage, a few discreet
hints about a mad wife in Scotland had
discouraged fortune hunters.
He was tired now, ready for bed, but he took
one last look at his mother's portrait and found
himself snared by the mocking eyes. Her full knowing
lips were slightly parted, as if about to divulge
secret thoughts, thoughts he had no desire
to hear.
Gervase turned sharply away. Tomorrow he would
have the portrait boxed and shipped to Aubynwood.
The housekeeper could hang it somewhere, anywhere, as
long as Gervase would never see it again.

A night's sleep cleared Gervase's
gloomy thoughts, and he was filled with anticipation
as he rode through Mayfair, leading a trim
gray mare behind him. Briefly he wondered if
the mysterious Mrs. Lindsay might have changed


her mind; dawn rides were hardly common
among her kind, who usually had ample reason
to lie abed in the morning.
The Charles Street address she had given
him was a handsome, discreet house nestled in a
street of aristocratic residences only a few
blocks from his own mansion. On the outside there was
nothing to indicate the occupation of the inhabitant;
Mrs. Lindsay must be very good at her trade to have
earned such luxury. Or perhaps a man leased it for
her, a thought that didn't please Gervase.
As he swung from his gelding and looped its
reins over the iron railing, the door opened and
she came down the short flight of marble steps.
Gervase had wondered if she could really be as
beautiful as he had thought the night before, but in the
clear morning light she was even lovelier than
he remembered.
If the glow in her deep blue eyes meant
anything, Diana Lindsay had slept the sleep
of the just. Her darkly shining hair was primly
pulled back into a chignon and she wore a
severe navy-blue riding habit with a matching
hat, its curling cream-colored plume the only
frivolity in her appearance. The very simplicity
of her dress emphasized her stunning face and
sensual figure, and Gervase could feel his
loins tighten at the sight of her. With some effort
he kept his voice even. "Good morning, Mrs.
Lindsay. You are very prompt."
She glanced up demurely. "I guessed that
one of the many things you do not tolerate from your
inferiors is tardiness."
As she stopped three feet away, he found that
he was having trouble with his breathing. If she wanted
a thousand guineas for one night, it would be worth it.
"You are quite right, Mrs. Lindsay, I dislike
being kept waiting." Turning, he gestured to the
gray mare. "Here is your mount."
Her eyes widened, as well they should. The mare
was as fine a thoroughbred as any in Britain.
"Oh, she's a lovely lady. What is her
name?"
"She's called Phaedra, but you may change
that if you wish."
Diana turned to him questioningly. "What do you
mean?"
"She is yours." Gervase was gratified by the
widening of the woman's eyes; her confusion was a
small compensation for the havoc she was wreaking on him


by her mere existence.
Diana withdrew the admiring hand she had laid
on the mare's neck. "I cannot accept her. There
is no agreement between us, and I wish no
obligation to you before I make my decision."
Gervase was amused by the way she was playing
Miss Propriety; she clearly forgot the first
lesson of whoring, which was to take any and all
gifts offered. "The mare is a gift, not a
payment. There is no obligation."
She gave him a long look, level in
effect even though she had to look up to meet his
eyes. "We shall see. Please help me mount."
Gervase bent over and laced his fingers as
Diana put one hand on the second pommel and
lifted her skirts to ankle height, then set
her left foot on his hands. Lifting her up
into the sidesaddle, he noticed that her feet and
ankles were as shapely as the more visible parts of
her.
It was customary for a man to help a woman
adjust her skirts when she mounted, and that simple
task was fraught with possibilities. Diana
tensed, wondering if her escort would touch her
leg or knee. As he hesitated, she could almost
see him weighing his desire to do so. She wondered
what it would feel like to have those strong tanned hands
on her, but he merely adjusted her skirt without
brushing the limb beneath the fabric. She was both
relieved and disappointed.
St. Aubyn spend a moment shortening her
stirrup, then swung onto his own mount. He
might be as cold as Madeline said, but he was the
model of politeness. He also rode with the
unconscious skill of a centaur. Diana
resolutely concentrated on her own riding, but
could not help thinking that a man on a horse showed
to the best possible advantage.
At this hour the fashionable streets of
Mayfair were almost empty, which was a blessing for
someone who had not been on a horse for years. The
mare had beautifully smooth gaits and was a joy
to ride, and after they had traversed the short distance
to the green precinct of Hyde Park, Diana
threw back her head and laughed from pure
pleasure. The dark man beside her was as frightening as
he was attractive, she was a country girl far
out of her depth in dangerous waters, yet it was
good to be alive.
Signaling the mare into a canter, Diana


enjoyed the wind in her face for half a
mile before slowing into an easy trot. St.
Aubyn had matched his horse's pace to hers, and
she turned to him and said gaily, "Phaedra is
perfectly named. It means "the bright one,"
doesn't it?"
The dark brows rose fractionally. "You know
Greek?"
Diana hesitated, wondering if she had
made a mistake, then decided not. The more of an
enigma he found her, the better. She gave him
a teasing smile. "Small Latin and less
Greek."
"You are a woman of parts, Mrs.
Lindsay."
"Even a demirep doesn't spend all her
time on her back, my lord," she said with a hint of
acidity.
That drew a smile from him. "Of course not.
Time must be spent at the opera, being noticed, and
driving in the park, being ignored by respectable
ladies. There must also be time to pamper your
priceless face, and to gossip with the other
Cyprians about who is worthy of your
attentions."
Coloring slightly at the accuracy of his
words, Diana said stiffly, "You seem to know a
great deal about women."
"On the contrary, I know nothing at all about
them." There was no mistaking the cool withdrawal in
his voice.
Surprised at how quickly his mood had
changed, Diana studied him unobtrusively as
they trotted their horses side by side along the
wide path that would be jammed with horses and
carriages later in the day. St. Aubyn's
profile was as stern and handsome as a marble god's.
Madeline was right, it would be far more reasonable
to choose a simpler man. A pity that Diana was
not a reasonable woman.
It was late September, and the leaves were
coloring in the loveliest and most fragile
season of the year. As they turned their horses for the
ride back, St. Aubyn asked, "How old
are you, Mrs. Lindsay?"
"You want to know my age?" she asked in
surprise. After a moment's thought she said,
"I'm not sure I should tell you. A
demirep's age is a professional secret."
"I'm not interested in chapter and verse," he


said impatiently. "I merely want
to be sure that you are over sixteen. I prefer not
to take children to bed."
So he didn't like to seduce children. An
interesting fact, and to his credit, since there were so
many men who lacked his scruples; a lord had
seduced one of Harriette Wilson's own
sisters away from home when the girl was only
thirteen. Lightly Diana said, "I think I
have just been complimented. You need have no fears on that
score. I was twenty-four last June 24."
"Midsummer Day?" he reflected. "That would
explain it. You must be a fairy changeling, for you
have more than mortal beauty."
Diana flushed. His matter-of-fact tone
made the compliment more meaningful than any of the
lavish words whispered in her ear the night before.
"Thank you, my lord, but I assure you that I am
quite mortal. Mundane, in fact. If you look
beyond the surface, there is nothing at all
unusual about me."
"But it's the surface which interests me," he
murmured, his gray eyes lazily surveying
her, lingering on her breasts and waist. It was the
most thorough examination she had ever received, and did
nothing to reduce the color in her cheeks.
Well, such looks were part of her new life.
She had given up the right to wax indignant at a
man's insolence, though St. Aubyn's
appraisal was not so much insolent as frank. Very,
very frank.
"To get the surface, my lord, you must also
accept the rest of me," she said in a tone between
warning and amusement.
They were leaving the park, and the streets were busier
now, as wagons and peddlers began their rounds.
"I have a name, you know. Whenever I hear "Lord
St. Aubyn," I think someone is looking for
my father."
"And what is your given name, my lord?"
Diana asked, though Madeline had already told
her.
"Gervase Brandelin. I would prefer you to use
that ... Diana."
"I have not given you leave to use my Christian
name, my lord, nor am I ready to use yours."
Diana's voice was firm, but mentally she
considered the name "Gervase." It had a soft
romantic sound that didn't fit the hard-edged
man who rode beside her. Or did he have a tender


side that he showed only to intimates?
As they rode into the stableyard behind her house, she
decided there was only one way to find out if that were
true. But not yet.
It was still early enough that the little yard was empty, the
groom inside eating breakfast. Dismounting from his
own horse, St. Aubyn went to Phaedra's
side and reached up to help Diana down. His
hands were firm on her waist as she slid off her
mount, and he didn't let go even when her boots
were solid on the ground. Tartly, Diana said,
"I can stand without aid, my lord."
"I have no doubt of that," he said softly, his
voice deep and husky. "But don't you know why
men take ladies riding? It creates ...
opportunities."
She was mesmerized by the cool fire of his eyes
as he loomed above her. His body was mere inches
away, and she felt his warmth radiate through the
chill morning air. He bent over to kiss her
upturned face, and she permitted it, ready for
another lesson in the trade she had chosen.
At first his kiss was as undemanding as the one he
had given her the night before, and even so the effect
was unnerving. She learned that a hard man could have
soft lips. Diana closed her eyes, savoring
the pleasure of what was happening and slowly working
her mouth against his, tasting its contours.
Her simple response had an explosive
effect on St. Aubyn, and his arms slid around
her, pulling Diana close as his kiss
intensified. The multiple sensations were dizzying
and Diana clung to him, captivated by his
explorations. She learned now how it felt
to press against his muscular body, and the experience
was as exciting as it was alarming. Her breasts
crushed against his chest with a sweet ache that demanded
freedom from the heavy riding habit.
His hand slid down her back, kneading her
buttock and pulling her tight against him, and this
new intimacy made Diana feel suddenly
trapped, helpless in the face of his overpowering
hunger. She tried to break free, but his arms
held her too tightly. Pure panic set
in, and Diana pushed violently at St.
Aubyn, shoving at his chest with all her strength.
Releasing her immediately, he dropped his arms and
stepped back, then turned away, placing both
hands on the saddle of his own horse. His head was
bowed and she could hear the unevenness of his breathing as


she herself struggled for air, her lungs as
strained as if she had been running across the
moors.
Finally he turned back to her, his dark face
bleak and controlled. "I'm sorry, I didn't
mean to frighten you." He inhaled a deep, shuddering
breath. "You have a ... disconcerting effect on
me."
She accepted his apology with a quick nod. It
had been an excellent lesson in the power of
male desire. Remarkable how a simple
response on her part had triggered such a
reaction from him. However, she had had quite enough
lessons for one day. Nervously fingering her riding
whip, Diana said quietly, "Please believe
that I am not trying to play the coquette. I had
not expected events to move so quickly."
His composure regained, St. Aubyn made a
quick, impatient gesture with his hand. "Why can't
we reach an agreement right now? You know that I
want you, and you are not wholly indifferent to me.
Name your price. If you want an allowance,
tell me how much. Or if you prefer, I will
make a lump-sum settlement. But let us
waste no more time on preliminaries."
As she stared at him in all his male strength and
arrogance, Diana was suddenly furious. "What
you see as a wasteful preliminary is essential
to me," she snapped. "If that is unacceptable,
find another woman. As you yourself said, at least
ten percent of the women in London are for sale."
Lifting the skirts of her riding habit, she
marched away from him. Without looking back, she
said, "And take your gift horse with you."
She was almost to her back door when the deep
voice called after her, "Wait."
Turning, she watched him tether the two
horses before walking over to her. His face was
twisted into a scowl, but she felt that his irritation
was more with himself than her. He stopped an arm's
length away and said haltingly, "I'm sorry;
I told you that I know nothing of women."
The clear gray eyes were apologetic as they
searched hers. "Until now, there has been no
real reason to learn."
Diana softened. It could not be easy for him
to apologize twice in as many minutes. Though
she had looked forward to holding power over a man,
the reality made her uncomfortable.
Encouraged by her expression, the viscount


continued, "When and if we become
lovers, I promise that some of my rough
impatience will disappear." With the ghost of a smile
he added, "Even if ten percent of the women in
London are available, I don't want them,
I want you. And your beauty is no longer the
only reason."
If St. Aubyn meant to be disarming, he
succeeded brilliantly. Diana released the
breath she hadn't known she was holding and smiled in
return. "I think we shall reach an agreement in
time, my lord. Only, please do not rush me too
quickly. I am not a woman of the streets who
might earn a hundred guineas in a day at one
guinea per man."
A touch of distaste showed on his face: a
fastidious man preferred not to think of such things.
Raising her eyebrows, Diana said, "Do not show
contempt for my less-fortunate sisters, my lord.
Remember that when the Empress Messalina
challenged the greatest whore in Rome to see which of
them could service the most men in a night, it was the
empress who won."
He actually chuckled, the lightest expression
she had yet seen from him. "I've never bedded a
woman educated in the classics. Have you learned
anything new from Ovid and Sappho?"
Diana realized that she was getting into very
dangerous territory. Primly she said, "In
some areas, there is very little new to be learned."
"Are you sure, Mrs. Lindsay?" There was
definitely a mischievous glint in his eyes
now. "I have lived in India. They are quite
imaginative. Perhaps I might even be able to teach
you a thing or two, despite your professional
expertise."
If only he knew just how little expertise she
had! Diana was finding this repartee more than a little
alarming, so she said hastily, "I do not doubt that
I can learn much from you, my lord." Extending her
hand, she said, "If you will excuse me now ..."
He took her hand and held it, his amusement
gone and his dark face serious again. "When might
I see you again? Tomorrow?"
She hesitated, trying to remember if she should
seem willing or unavailable. Oh, the devil
with it. "Tomorrow will do very well. were you thinking of
another morning ride?"
"I was thinking of something a little longer, perhaps a
ride out to Richmond. We could make a day's


expedition of it."
"I must be back before four, my lord."
Geoffrey would be home from school and Diana
always spent the late afternoon with him.
"Very well, Mrs. Lindsay, I shall call
at ten o'clock." Still holding her hand firmly, he
cocked a dark brow at her. "Do you have room for the
gift horse in your mews?"
The blasted man was trying to pressure her. With
less than total graciousness Diana said,
"Since I shall be riding her tomorrow, she might as
well stay here tonight. But she is a loan horse,
not a gift horse."
St. Aubyn had the sense not to look
triumphant as he bowed over her hand. "Until
tomorrow, then."
His lips were a light, teasing touch that sent a
shiver up Diana's right arm, leaving a memory
of warmth. As she entered the house, she realized that
his lordship was not at all what she had expected.
Under that fearsome control lurked surprising
tenderness and consideration. Would she still feel bound
to him if he had turned out to be harsh through and through?
Perhaps not, but she was glad that the reality of him was so
much more appealing than the first terrifying impression.
Well, Diana thought with wry fatalism as
she removed her riding hat, she had wanted a
life more exciting than she had led in
Yorkshire, and it certainly looked like she was
going to get it.



When Diana entered the sunny breakfast
parlor, Madeline and Edith both eyed her as if
she were a wayward child. However, they refrained from
questions as the younger woman returned their greetings,
then helped herself to the eggs, toast, and tea on the
mahogany sideboard. Their forbearance lasted
until she had finished eating. Then Madeline
asked with admirable restraint, "How was your
morning ride?"
"Quite delightful." Diana smiled
beatifically. "It is lovely to be up so
early, before the city is stirring. Almost like being in the
country again."
Knowing that her answer did not address
Madeline's real concern, Diana replenished
all three teacups, then replied more to the point,
"Lord St. Aubyn was very gentlemanly."


Edith, who had a lively sense of
humor under her dour exterior, gave a small
chuckle as Madeline said with exasperation, "Of
course he would be at this stage. But what
happened? Did he make you any kind of offer?"
"Yes, but I told him it was premature."
Diana poured milk, then stirred her tea.
"He also brought a marvelous thoroughbred mare
to give me. I told him that was premature as
well."
Edith, who knew livestock as well as any
man, was disappointed. "You turned down the mare?
Pity, I would have liked to see her."
Diana tried sipping the tea, but it was still too
hot. "Actually, the mare is in the stables now, but
it's only temporary because we're riding out
to Richmond tomorrow."
"It would appear that Lord St. Aubyn pleases
you." Madeline's tone was carefully neutral.
Diana dropped her levity, knowing that
Madeline's questions came from genuine concern.
Gazing into her tea, she tried to summarize her
impressions. "He is a moody man, but not
perhaps as unfeeling as you think. I think he has
been very unhappy."
Madeline said gloomily, "It's already too
late, then."
Diana took a deep swallow of tea, then
raised her eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Once a woman like you starts feeling sorry
for a man, you're already on the way to being in love with
him."
"Am I so predictable?" Diana's brows
arched. "I thought I was looking for a lover, not
another child to care for."
"Sympathy is the beginning of caring. Next
comes the desire to heal the wounds cruel fate
has caused." Madeline gave a wry smile.
"It's not too far from there to believing that no one
else can possibly love him as well as you do.
And then you're lost."
Diana looked mutinous, but before she could
reply, Edith said, "Finish your tea and I'll
look at the leaves."
Diana obediently drank the rest of her tea
in two long swallows, then closed her eyes and
twirled the cup gently, thinking of Gervase,
Lord St. Aubyn. It was very easy to visualize
that taut face, the gray eyes that were usually
cool but could warm with humor, the lean, muscular


body. ... Hastily she opened her
eyes again and handed the cup to Edith, sure that she
had given the tea leaves plenty of energy to work
with.
Edith gazed into the delicate china cup, her
scarred face solemn and her eyes drifting out of
focus. She claimed a Gypsy great-grandmother,
and when the spirit moved her she would offer a glimpse
into the future. While the readings were officially
entertainment, they were always heard with great interest.
Her voice was deeper than usual when she
said, "Fate," the word drawn out and distant. After
a pause that went on too long, she continued
disjointedly, "Anger, a veiled face,
secrets that join and divide. Lies and
betrayals." Then, in a whisper, she repeated,
"Lies and betrayals ... and love."
Diana felt chill fingers on her spine.
Though she chose to make light of Edith's words,
in the past they had been uncannily accurate.
Madeline glanced over and asked quietly,
"Are you still sure you want to become involved with
St. Aubyn?"
Before Diana could answer, Edith said in her
otherworldly voice, "The lies and secrets are not
all on one side." Then she shook her head and
said in her pragmatic Yorkshire accent,
"Whatever that means."
"I doubt it means anything at all,"
Diana said crisply, rising from the table. "And
if neither of you has any more ominous hints or
threats for me, I think I'll go throw
knives."
As an exit line it wasn't bad, and it was
also the literal truth. When Madeline had
taught Diana what a courtesan should know, the
curriculum had included many things, one of which was
self-defense. Maddy always had a knife ready
at hand in her reticule, in a sheath on her
leg, or concealed near her bed. Three times the
weapon had saved her from great unpleasantness, and
once it might have saved her life; the man who
threatened her had later strangled another
mistress before killing himself.
The lessons had included how to grasp and how
to stab. Hold it underhand and stab upward. If
you stab down, you're too easy to block and the
blade will glance off the shoulder or ribs and not do
enough damage. The knife-throwing lessons were
intended to make Diana more comfortable with the weapon;


throwing was not usually recommended for
self-defense, since it left the thrower disarmed.
Also, if the distance was too great, the knife lost
force and might not strike hard enough even if it hit
the target.
Even though Diana hated and feared violence,
knife throwing turned out to have a hypnotic
fascination. It required concentration and was a
soothing activity when she felt disturbed, as she
did this morning.
During her earlier years in London
Madeline had turned a long narrow room on the
fourth floor into a practice range. One end
of the chamber was covered with soft pine boards
to protect the wall, targets of various sizes
and heights were fixed to it, and several swinging
targets hung in front. The room was used
only for knife throwing and the carpet and sparse
furnishings were old, but a large window made the
place bright and cheerful. Diana and Madeline
practiced here regularly, with the room kept
locked the rest of the time. Edith had tried her hand
at knife throwing but found that the sport had little
interest for her.
The special knives were made by an old
Syrian man who lived in East London.
While shaped more or less like a normal dagger,
they were made of one solid piece of steel, with
no separate haft. Because of that, the weapons were
balanced so that they could be thrown by holding either the
blade or the hilt, a most unusual characteristic.
Both women had a set of six knives, in
three different sizes. The lighter knives were
easier for a woman to handle and to conceal, while the
heavier ones struck with a more dangerous impact.
Diana thought with amusement how incongruous she
would appear to an onlooker. She had changed to a
white muslin morning gown, her hair was still
primly woven back in a chignon, and she
looked as ladylike as anyone could wish.
Stepping up to the eight-pace mark, she swung
her knife lightly to get the feel, then hurled
it at a target. Thunk! It slammed dead
into the center.
Diana wore strapped to her leg the
embroidered sheath Madeline had given her.
Turning her back to the target, she whirled,
pulling the knife free and throwing it in one motion
without stopping to aim. It landed half an inch from the
first knife. For the next quarter of an hour she


threw from different positions as quickly as
possible; if she ever needed to do this in earnest, she
was unlikely to have ideal conditions.
Knives spin in midair, and part of the skill
lay in learning how to hit the target with the point rather
than the hilt or edge. Different distances from the
target allowed for a differing number of spins; a
throw that might be accurate at five or eight
paces would bounce off the target if thrown from
six or nine. With time, a good knife thrower
learned how to adjust for any distance and could hit the
target every time. Diana Lindsay, for all her
angelic appearance, was very, very good.
After she had warmed up, Diana started throwing
at moving targets, which swung like pendulums and were
a real challenge. Nonetheless, she hit nine out of
ten in the center circle. When the door opened,
she didn't turn until Madeline's amused
voice said, "Are you imagining that I am the
target?"
"Good Lord, Maddy, don't even joke about
such a thing!" Diana went down the range
to remove the six knives. It took time to wrench
the two largest blades out; the heavier they were,
the deeper they struck. Walking back
to Madeline, she said, "I do find this relaxing,
though I'm not sure I could ever throw a knife
at another person, even to save my life."
"Would you be able to throw to save Geoffrey's
life?"
"Yes," Diana said without hesitation.
"If a situation ever arises where you are
threatened--which, God willing will never happen--just
remember how much Geoffrey and the rest of us would
miss you." Though Madeline's voice was
matter-of-fact, her underlying emotion was apparent.
"Save yourself first and make peace with your creator
later."
Taking a knife from Diana, she hefted it,
then hurled it at the largest target, where it
struck quivering three inches from the center. Not
pinpoint accuracy, but still a good throw.
Smiling mischievously, Diana took
another knife and hit the same target dead
center. Madeline chuckled. "I've created a
monster. You have the best eye I've ever seen."
Taking another knife, she placed it less than
a half-inch from Diana's.
Diana laughed. The tension that had existed between
them earlier had vanished. "You've never told me


how you got started with this. I can understand
having a weapon around for self-defense, but why
knife throwing? It's such a strange, barbaric
skill."
Madeline smiled wickedly and threw at the
moving target, which was swinging back and forth. Her
weapon hit off-center and the target spun wildly
on its rope, but the knife held. "I thought the
story too warm for your innocent ears. Now that
you've entered the trade, I suppose I should
enlighten you."
"How can the story be warmer than some of your other
lessons?" Diana asked in amusement as she
sat down in one of the worn chairs at the end of the
room opposite the targets. "I still can't look
at a parsnip with a straight face."
Both women laughed. Madeline had used a
parsnip as a teaching aid when describing what a
courtesan would be expected to know, reducing first
Diana, then herself, to helpless giggles. The
lessons had been most enlightening, though Diana
sometimes had trouble believing all that Madeline had
told her.
"In the past, I talked mainly of what is
considered normal." Thunk! Another of
Maddy's knives hit a stationary target. Though
she complimented Diana's extraordinary
natural skills, she herself was very nearly as good.
"However, some men have tastes that are extremely
... unusual." Thunk!
As Madeline went to the end of the range
to retrieve the knives, she continued, "I once
knew a gentleman who was incapable of sexual
congress in the usual way. However, knives
excited him enormously. The first time he
visited me, he pulled out two Indian
kukris and started waving them around. They're
wicked, great curving knives, and I thought I was
going to be murdered."
Diana inhaled sharply. Though Maddy was
telling the tale with humor, it must have been
terrifying. No wonder her friend was so adamant that
her prot@eg`e learn to protect herself.
Returning to Diana's end of the room,
Madeline laid the knives on the side table and
sat down. "After the gentleman threw both of the
kukris into my washstand, which did it no good, he
could perform in quite the normal way.
"The first time that happened, I was alarmed, but he
was a pleasant man apart from this oddity." She


brushed a tendril of dark hair back
from her face. "He suggested that watching me throw
the knives would be even more exciting for him. Being
an obliging sort, I learned how. It was an
interesting and useful pursuit, so I continued even
after we parted company."
Diana was round-eyed with wonder. "I hadn't
realized quite how far one had to go to please a
customer."
Madeline grimaced. "Believe me, this
particular idiosyncrasy was harmless compared to some.
There are things even the most hardened streetwalker
will refuse to do. I'll tell you more about that sometime,
so you will be better prepared for what might be
asked. Don't ever let a man talk you
into something you find distasteful. It isn't worth
it."
She chuckled suddenly. "The only real
danger in throwing knives for my friend's pleasure
was the risk of getting lung fever in midwinter.
He liked me to do it naked, you see--I always
had the fire built up when he was coming."
"It all sounds very ... interesting," Diana
said faintly. At times like this, she wondered if
she was capable of performing as a courtesan. At
heart, she was really a conventional creature.
Sobering, Madeline said, "There aren't many men
like that, and soon enough you will know how to deal with them. The
most difficult part will be your first time. No amount
of my teaching will compensate for lack of experience."
"I've been thinking, and I have an idea about
how to obscure my lack of skill," Diana
said tentatively. In a few sentences she
described what she had in mind.
Madeline nodded, impressed. "An
excellent idea. You may have a natural
talent for this trade after all." She stood and
stretched her arms wide over her head. "I'm
walking to Oxford Street to look for some plumes.
Care to come with me?"
"That sounds delightful," Diana said.
"I'll fetch my shawl."
The rest of the day was equally uneventful, with time
spent sewing, discussing the week's menus with
Edith, and listening to what Geoffrey had learned that
day. But that night, after putting her son to bed,
Diana once more entered the world of the demirep.
Several of Madeline's old friends shared a
subscription to an opera box, paying two
hundred pounds a year for the privilege of having


a shop window for their charms, and Maddy
had secured an invitation to join them.
As they entered the first-tier box, Diana saw
heads swiveling toward them. She wore shimmering
gold silk tonight, a luxurious color that made
her hair darkly bright and her skin glow like a
peach. The outfit was designed to be noticed, a
task it accomplished very effectively.
Society ladies ostentatiously turned their
heads away, though some took furtive glances,
studying the kind of women who lured men away from
their homes.
The men were much bolder, staring or squinting through
their quizzing glasses in open appraisal. As
she slipped into a velvet padded chair,
Diana's attention was caught by a man seated
directly across the pit in a box on the same
tier. He stared with a dark intensity that reminded her
of St. Aubyn, but closer study showed that he was
a stranger. The man caught her looking at him
and gave a slow, knowing smile. She flushed and
turned away before remembering that a Cyprian should
encourage such interest.
The people in her own box were a merry crew. A
regular subscriber, Juliette, was there with her
protector, an aging dandy who kept one hand
possessively on his mistress's bare shoulder.
Juliette had a circle of regular
admirers, a fact that afforded her protector
great satisfaction.
Some of the men Diana had met at Harriette
Wilson's came to pay their respects, and each
of them brought friends who begged an introduction and
hovered until Diana could scarcely breathe. It
was both flattering and alarming. She was learning how
to smile and chat with several men at a time, but it was
an effort, and she worried about appearing rude
by accidentally ignoring someone. Young Mr.
Clinton, for example, was so shy that she made a
point of drawing him into the conversation.
Diana was beginning to feel faint from the heat and the
crowding when a sibilant French-accented voice
cut through the babble. "A flower of such perfection will
wilt if not allowed air. Would you care to take a
turn in the corridor, ma belle?"
Glancing up, Diana saw the man who had
caught her eye across the opera house. He was
darkly handsome, with hooded black eyes, and an
exotic, un-English air. Except for his
immaculate white shirt and gold-headed cane,


his broad, powerful frame was clothed
entirely in black, with an elegance just short of
foppishness. Inclining her head, Diana said,
"Sir, I do not know you."
Without taking his gaze from her face, the
newcomer commanded, "Ridgleigh, introduce us."
Lord Ridgleigh, Diana's middle-aged
admirer of the night before, performed the introduction
unenthusiastically. "Mrs. Diana Lindsay,
the Count de Veseul."
"Now will you walk with me, little flower?" the count
asked lazily, extending his arm.
Eager to escape the crush for a few minutes,
Diana rose and placed her hand on his black-
clad arm. "If you gentlemen will excuse me,
I will be back shortly," she said with a warm
smile that included her entire court.
Ridgleigh and the others drooped a bit at her
defection, then began discussing horses, that
never-failing topic of masculine interest.
Since it was between intervals, the corridors were
almost empty. Diana inhaled deeply. "I am
grateful for your suggestion, my lord. It is much
cooler out here."
"Do you enjoy your first visit to the opera, ma
fleur?" His voice was sibilant, and for a large
man, he was very light on his feet. Though wide
and solid, the count gave the impression that his
exquisite tailoring concealed muscle, not fat.
Diana glanced up, catching the black gaze
intent on her face. "How did you know this was my
first visit, my lord?"
"I attend often," he said, directing his
attention to the corridor ahead. After another
dozen paces he mused, without looking at her,
"You are quite the most beautiful woman I have ever
seen. I would surely have remembered you."
"You do me too much honor, Monsieur le
Comte."
They reached the end of the corridor, where it
curved around the outer edge of the building. No one
else was in sight. Remembering Madeline's
warning about being alone with a man, Diana felt a
touch of uneasiness. Though the Frenchman was
attractive, something about him disturbed her. She
turned, anxious to go back to other people, but
Veseul blocked her retreat, effectively
trapping her in a corner.
"Stay a moment, ma fleur," he said
softly, his dark eyes examining her in intimate


detail. "I have a small matter of
business to discuss with you."
His broad, black-clad bulk seemed
enormous as he loomed over her, and Diana
suppressed a faint tremor, telling herself not
to be childish. Veseul was being perfectly
polite. Besides, he was hardly likely
to attack her in such a public place. Though
if he did, the music and conversation were so loud in
the opera house that a scream might go unheard.
...
Concealing her unease, she smiled coolly.
"I am listening, my lord. Do you have a
proposition for me?" After a mere twenty-four
hours as a courtesan, she had already received
several such offers and could feign nonchalance.
Sliding his hand to the middle of his ebony cane,
he raised the stick and, with the delicate grace
of a cat playing with a mouse, caressed her face
with the gold knob. The warmth of his hand was still in the
metal, and the intrusive intimacy of it revolted
her. She tried to withdraw from the cane, but her
back was already against the wall. As she stood
rigid with distaste, Veseul drew the gold
knob across her cheek, tracing the line of her
jaw, then ran it across her throat with just enough
pressure to suggest what it would be like to have her
breathing stopped.
"If you wish to win my approval, stop doing
that," she snapped. Ignoring her words, he
stroked the cane across the creamy skin exposed
by her low-cut gown before pressing it hard into her
breast. The knob was skillfully wrought into the head
of a serpent, its polished shine almost matching the
golden silk of her dress. Diana gasped and
shrank back, feeling more assaulted and soiled
than if Veseul were mauling her with his hands.
Grabbing the cane with both hands, she pushed at it
with all her strength, but his wrist was as unyielding
as iron.
The count's eyes followed the path of the gold
serpent as it traced a circle around her left
nipple, but at her angry gesture they
flickered up to meet hers. Without withdrawing the
cane, he murmured, "I really must have you.
What is your price?"
Revolted and furious, Diana snapped,
"Accustom yourself to disappointment--it is too late
for any business between us. I do not give myself
to mannerless men." She stepped sideways and


tried to walk around him, but the cane shot
out, hitting the wall with a sharp crack and blocking
her with a breast-high barrier.
His sibilant voice heavy with menace, he
said, "I have not given you leave to depart."
Diana lifted her chin and glared at him. "I
am not subject to your wishes or desires, nor
ever will be. Let me pass."
He smiled then, a lazy smile all the more
chilling for its genuine amusement. "If you dislike
me so much, you would be wiser to yield to me immediately.
When I was introduced to you, an hour of your
company would have sufficed. After just this little
interchange, I will want a full night to have enough of
you."
Lifting the cane away from the wall, Veseul
pressed it above her heart. Diana sucked in
her breath, trying to pull as far away from him as
possible as he drew the golden serpent down across
her belly, then pushed it into the juncture of her
thighs in a quick, obscene gesture. The wall was
cold against her bare shoulders and she clenched her
hands against their trembling.
His musical French accent was quite lovely as
he continued, "The longer you withstand me, the more I will
want of you. It is quite simple. Come with me now.
In the morning you will be the richer, and I will have
satisfied my desires."
Diana's breath came in shallow gasps.
She was insane to put herself in a position where she
must endure this, and a fool for not having one of the
knives she had learned to use so well.
Madeline's warnings had not seemed quite real to her,
but now, for the first time, Diana could imagine doing
violence to another human being. The thought of slashing
Veseul's complacent, evil face was less
unbearable than the idea of submitting to him.
She struggled to sound calm and unafraid, but
there was a tremor in her voice as she shook her
head and whispered, "No. Not tonight, not ever. I will
never give myself to a man I despise."
He laughed lightly, the cane holding her to the
wall like a pinned butterfly, his black eyes
mesmerizing. "Your wishes have nothing to do with the
matter. I promise that I will have you. And the more you
despise me, the sweeter it will be."
Diana drew her breath in for a scream, but before
she could make a sound, he dropped the cane and
stepped back. As calm as if he had not just
threatened her, he executed a graceful bow.


"Many thanks for your company, ma
fleur. I look forward to our next meeting."
Diana darted away around him and fled down the
corridor. The Frenchman watched her disappear
around the curving wall with a faint smile of
satisfaction. He was glad that she had resisted
him; the more she prolonged the waiting, the more
exquisite his ultimate satisfaction.
She really was extraordinarily beautiful, with
her Madonna face and perfect, sensual
body. He looked forward to savoring every silken,
resisting inch of her.



Strolling couples were emerging from the boxes for the
interval, and Diana slowed her flight, trying
to regain her composure as she mingled with the laughing,
flirting crowd. The incident with the Count de
Veseul was so bizarre that she wondered briefly
if her fear was a wild overreaction to what had
happened. After all, he had merely
propositioned a courtesan and touched her with his
cane. Was that so very dreadful?
Shaking her head, she rejected her doubts.
A sense of horror lingered from the encounter, and she
had learned more about perverse desires in the last
ten minutes than in all Madeline's
lessons. She stopped outside the box for a
moment, her hand pressed against her solar plexus
as she tried to master her nausea. Even now,
knowing that she was placing herself in a position where her
worst nightmares might become reality, she could
not turn back from what she had begun. The
intuition that ruled her life insisted that her only
hope for a complete, happy life lay in
London, pursuing the life of a fallen woman.
Diana's admirers greeted her
enthusiastically when she entered the box. With an
effort she smiled, trying to appear as if nothing
had happened. These men appeared so simple and
wholesome compared to the dark depravity of the French
count. Clinton gazed at her with his sweet,
puppyish adoration and Ridgleigh shyly asked
if he could get her anything to drink.
Before Diana could answer, Madeline's clear
voice said, "Diana, my dear, would you mind
terribly if we left now? I have a bit of the
headache."
Madeline looked perfectly healthy, but her


shrewd eye must have seen Diana's
distress. Diana willingly seized the excuse
to leave, and the full complement of admirers
escorted the two women downstairs and kept them
company while the carriage was called.
On the ride home, Diana haltingly
described what Veseul had done, her voice
breaking entirely when she described the horrible
violation of his cane. Madeline held her
until the trembling ended and Diana could finish,
sketching out the rest of the incident in sparse,
painful words.
At the end of her recital, Diana said,
"I'm being childish, aren't I, to be so
frightened?" She craved reassurance and would have
welcomed a light dismissal of the incident.
Madeline's response was very grave. "I'm
sorry this happened to you so soon, my dear. Six
months from now, you would have been better prepared for
such outrageous behavior." She tightened her arm
around Diana protectively. "As I've often
said, sex can arouse dark and dangerous emotions.
Veseul sounds like the kind of evil man that is every
courtesan's nightmare."
The older woman sighed before continuing with
determined optimism, "Still, in spite of his
threatening words, Veseul will probably forget your
existence quickly, especially if you avoid
public places where he can see you and be
tantalized."
With a touch of acid, she added, "Demireps go
to the opera for admiration and new customers, so
there's no need to advertise yourself further if
you've set your heart on St. Aubyn."
"I'm not sure yet if I will accept St.
Aubyn," Diana said wearily. "At the
moment, retiring to a convent looks appealing."
Shrugging with a rustle of fine cashmere,
Madeline replied, "While I wouldn't
advocate a convent, it's not too late to change
your mind about becoming a Cyprian."
Taking Diana's silence as encouragement,
Madeline continued with growing enthusiasm,
"Returning to the moors is not the only choice,
you know. We can take a house in a provincial
city where no one will ever know of your flirtation with
infamy. We can find Geoffrey another school
just as good as Mr. Hardy's. You can make friends,
become part of a society that is less grand, but
perhaps more honest. Even I might pass as


respectable."
"No, Maddy," Diana said, gently breaking
into her friend's planning. "I will continue what I
am doing, at least for a while. Veseul is
despicable, but he is only one man and I should
be able to avoid him easily enough. All the other
men I've met have been most kind, not frightening like
him." She stopped a moment, then added with a note
of surprise, "Do you know, I rather enjoy being
admired."
Madeline laughed. "It is pleasant, so
long as one doesn't take it too seriously."
"Never fear," Diana said dryly. "I've
heard too many sermons on vanity and how
physical beauty is inevitably doomed by the
passage of time to let my head be turned."
Madeline smiled in the dark of the carriage.
Perhaps that comment explained Diana's remarkable
lack of conceit. If the girl had always been
admired and made much of, she might not have become
such an unassuming and generous person. Madeline
had had her share of both admiration and vanity, and
knew very well that she lacked Diana's
essential sweetness. But while she herself would
never be mistaken for a saint, she could protect
her prot@eg`e from the wickedness of men like
Veseul.

Though Diana's state of mind improved after
a night's rest, she was less than enthusiastic
about her proposed expedition with Lord St.
Aubyn. Still, since she wanted to discover what
manner of man lay behind that stern, controlled
mask, spending most of the day with him should be very
instructive.
When he called precisely at ten o'clock,
Diana was waiting in the salon with Madeline, and
she thought that the viscount looked singularly grim
for a man embarking on a day of pleasure. She was
disconcerted, but reminded herself that on the previous
day he had become more relaxed and less forbidding as
time passed. If he had done that once, he could
do it again.
She stood and offered her warmest smile, and his
cool gray eyes softened as he bowed over her
hand. Good; his lordship was willing to be pleased,
although perhaps it was the fit of her riding habit and not
her smile that affected him.
"You are very punctual," she said. With a
gesture of her hand, she added, "I don't


believe you met my friend Miss Gainford
the other evening. Madeline, Lord St. Aubyn."
The viscount and Madeline eyed each other rather
warily but exchanged polite greetings. Since
St. Aubyn might be underfoot in the future, it
seemed advisable that they become acquainted.
Perhaps if Madeline approved of him more, she would
drop her regular pleas for Diana to retreat
to respectability.
Outside, the viscount helped Diana mount
Phaedra, then asked as he stood by her
stirrup, "Are you suffering ill effects from
yesterday's ride, Mrs. Lindsay?"
Diana glanced down with a rueful smile.
"Some unmentionable parts of my anatomy are
reminding me of how long it had been since I
last sat on a horse."
The taut planes of his face relaxed a little,
and his gray eyes twinkled. "I'm not surprised
to hear that. After I'd been five months on a
ship, I noticed the same thing myself."
The twinkle became more wicked as he gravely
added, "If you think that massage might help
any of your unmentionable parts, I will be delighted
to offer what assistance I can."
With equal gravity Diana murmured, "A
noble and generous offer, my lord, but I prefer
to struggle bravely on unaided."
With that, he chuckled and swung onto his own
horse. "There was nothing the least bit noble or
generous about my offer, and well you know it."
Effortlessly he brought his horse next to hers,
so close their knees almost touched. "I should have
realized you would be sore today. If you prefer, we
can do something other than ride, perhaps hire a boat
and go up the river."
Diana was touched; she wouldn't have expected him
to be so considerate. "You are very kind, but I shall do
well enough when I've warmed up. I hadn't
realized how much I missed riding until
yesterday. My body will just have to become accustomed
to it again."
"Does that mean that the loan horse is now a
gift horse?" he asked as he started his mount
down Charles Street.
"No, but riding her does weaken my
resolve," Diana admitted as they headed west
toward Richmond. "Phaedra is by far the finest
horse I've ever been on. I'm surprised you
let a rider of unknown skills on her back."


"So am I," Gervase said with more
honesty than tact; he had suffered a pang
giving Phaedra to a virtual stranger. Too
late he realized that his companion might be
offended by his doubts of her skill and he gave
a questioning glance.
The wonderful blue eyes were brimming with
mirth. "I assume you don't believe in wasting
time on fine false phrases?"
"No, I don't, though I try not to be
rude." He thought a moment, then qualified,
"At least, I prefer my rudeness to be
intentional rather than accidental."
She laughed outright, a chime-sweet sound that
made him want to join in. "That is honesty with a
vengeance, my lord. Are you intentionally rude
often?"
Impossible not to smile at her. "No, not
too often. I prefer to use rudeness only when
I wish to make a point."
They were riding through a street market, and
conversation stopped as they carefully threaded their
horses through the crowd. Though Mrs. Lindsay
seemed to enjoy his company, Gervase felt
off-balance and unsure of himself. None of his
previous mistresses had required anything
resembling a courtship, but then, he had never
pursued a high-level Cyprian like this one, and
he had no idea what she expected of him.
For the first time in his life, the viscount wished he
had studied the art of flirtation. Did the lady
want witty repartee? Florid compliments?
Declarations of undying passion? He hoped not;
while she certainly inspired physical passion,
he had no intention of perjuring himself with lies of
love. A major reason for consorting with
lightskirts was to avoid untidy emotions.
The streets were less crowded as they headed
away from the commercial districts, and Gervase
slanted a look sideways at his companion.
The woman was so heart-stoppingly beautiful that his
brain seemed to go blank whenever he was around her.
Riding showed off her profile to great
advantage, both the classic symmetry of chin
and brow and the less classic but charming little nose.
Diana's shining mahogany hair swept back
from her face before falling in a riot of curls
down her dark blue riding habit, and she looked
misleadingly young and innocent. Even in repose,
her full lips seemed on the verge of smiling.


Gervase remembered how those lips
felt beneath his, then forced his attention back to the
road. He would never make it through the day if he
didn't suppress his lu/l thoughts. She was
undermining his prized self-control with remarkable
ease, and he didn't like it one damned bit.
With the iron discipline that he had been perfecting
all his life, he forced his mind into other
channels. Fortunately, Diana now offered a
topic that helped distract him from contemplation of
her charms.
"Where did your five months on shipboard
take you?" she asked as they slowed their horses
behind a small flock of sheep.
"India. Five months out and five months
back--almost a year of one's life just to go and
return."
"India!" she said dreamily, her eyes
distant. "I've always been fascinated by it. were
you there a long time?"
"About five years. I was in the army under
Wellesley." As oncoming traffic thinned, they
circled the sheep and moved into a trot. "I
returned two years ago, after my father died."
"Did you like India?"
Gervase hesitated before replying. "It's
difficult to talk about India in terms of like and
dislike. Everything is so very different. Even the
sunlight is different, harsh and yellow, not like the
cool blue light of England." His voice
trailed off as he thought of how much he had changed
in those years. He had gone to India in anger and
depression, lived with danger and discomfort, and
returned to England his own man at last.
When Diana's soft voice said, "Tell me
about it," Gervase began to talk. For the rest of the
ride to Richmond, he spoke of India's
wonders, her killing heat and poverty, her
teeming cities, her strange religions with their
sometimes moving, sometimes sickening rites. None of
his acquaintance, even his cousin Francis, had
shown more than a passing interest in India, but
Diana's grave attention led Gervase to say
more than he would have thought possible. As he talked
of his one expedition to the north, where he saw the
mountains called the Roof of the World, it occurred
to him what a strange conversation this was to have with a
whore.
Even as he thought the word, he winced away from
it. While the term might be accurate, it was too


coarse a description for Diana, who
displayed the elegance and erudition of a great lady.
Underneath she was undoubtedly as crude and grasping
as the rest of her breed, but she concealed it well.
When he came to the end of his discourse, she
sighed happily. "I am reminded of the kingdom of
Prester John."
Gervase was surprised that she knew the
medieval legend. Prester John was the
mythical ruler of a fabulous Oriental land of
gold and marvels, a Christian king surrounded
by barbarians. The story was probably inspired
by Ethiopia, but had been romanticized far beyond
any earthly kingdom.
"Yes, India is as exotic as any
medieval legend," he agreed. "As a boy,
I was always fascinated by such tales. I had a
book about Prester John and I used to dream about
him and his solid gold throne. Perhaps that is one
reason I went to India."
Diana absorbed his words in silence. So the
hard-eyed man of the world had been a boy who
dreamed of marvels? It was an endearing image,
one that made her think of Geoffrey.
They were entering Richmond Park now. A great
palace had once stood here, and the forested land had
been a royal hunting preserve. Now people came
to walk in the woods or gallop their horses with a
freedom impossible in the city parks. Autumn
marked the trees, where the first leaves glowed yellow
and gold in the bright midday sun. Abruptly
Gervase said, "Where do you come from, Mrs.
Lindsay? There is a hint of the north in your
voice."
Diana threw him a teasing glance. "Women like
me have no past, my lord, nor a future either.
We exist solely in the moment. Shall we see if
Phaedra can outrun your horse from here to the end of
this trail?"
Without waiting for an answer, she urged the mare
to full speed down the open park trail.
Gervase was caught unawares and she had a lead
of fifty feet before he started after her. As he
kicked his horse into a gallop, he felt a
mild irritation at the way she had evaded his
question. In the past he had never been curious about his
mistresses, but he found himself wondering about
Diana Lindsay, about what background could
produce such dazzling beauty and apparent
refinement, about what had led her to practice the


oldest profession.
Shrugging off his questions, he concentrated on
catching up with her. Diana's long chestnut
hair flared back like a banner and she coaxed a
very pretty turn of speed out of Phaedra without
using her whip. While it was not to be expected that
either the mare or her rider could match Gervase and
his mount, Diana did surprisingly well, and
he defeated her by only a short head.
She was unconcerned at her loss. "You have the
advantage of me, my lord. What shall you claim
as your prize?"
"I will think of something," he said absently,
admiring the glowing color that the wind had brought
to her cheeks. Glancing at the sun, he said,
"It's past noon. If we ride down the right
fork here, we'll come to the inn where I've bespoken
a meal."
Amiably they trotted to the riverside inn.
Diana admired the effortless way that her escort
had arranged the details, from the private parlor
that overlooked the Thames to the excellent food and
wine, perfectly chosen to feed active
appetites without being too heavy for people who would be
riding back to the city.
As she finished the tangy raspberry fool that
ended the luncheon, she wondered if he would take
advantage of the privacy to press his attentions
on her. The thought held more appeal than alarm;
she had covertly watched him through the morning's
ride, admiring the grace and strength of his
whipcord body.
Smiling at one of his remarks, Diana
sipped at her wine before making some light
rejoinder. Most of her attention was focused on
the man across the table. Since she had decided that
he was to be her fate, she might as well enjoy
what destiny offered. The planes of his face were
beautifully sculpted, the cheekbones high and
wide. The light gray eyes were clear and
penetrating under rather heavy brows, his dark hair
too thick to be entirely under control. For all
his seriousness and sometimes fierce expressions, she
had seen signs of kindness in him, and sometimes
laughter as well.
The reality of Gervase Brandelin was
tantalizing. She could imagine his deep voice
soft with endearments, his hard body fitting against
hers, his desire flaming hers. Nervousness laced
her anticipation, but that touch of disquiet increased


the excitement she felt at the
prospect of giving herself to him. The question was no
longer if, but when.
In the same tone that he might have used to a
ninety-year-old grandmother, he said, "Would you like
to walk in the oak forest before we ride back
to London? The trees are some of the oldest and
finest in Britain."
Abruptly Diana realized that she was a little
drunk. The three glasses of wine must be
responsible for her vivid fantasies. How
embarrassing; while she was sitting here melting with
anticipation, the wretched man was stone-cold
sober and perfectly collected. As if she cared
a fig for oak trees.
Her daydream crashed into anxiety and her hand
trembled slightly as she finished her wine and set
the goblet back on the table, sure that she had done
something wrong and St. Aubyn no longer desired
her. Though Madeline had explained the facts,
the essence of what made a woman desirable must
lie beyond Diana. The idea that he didn't
want her was surprisingly hurtful, and it took
an effort to shape her lips into a polite
smile. "I would like that. I've never been
to Richmond Park before."
The shady woods were as lovely as Gervase
had said, a green cathedral of ancient oaks where
fallow deer flitted across the trails and drifting
motes of dust were illuminated by shafting
sunlight. Her wine-volatile spirits lifting
amidst such beauty, Diana stooped to pick up
a bright yellow oak leaf. Rolling the stem between
her hands, she said dreamily, "I half-expect
to see a ghostly procession of druids coming toward
us."
"There may be some druid shades here, but more
likely the ghosts are royal Plantagenets, and
Tudors, hunting for deer."
Gervase's voice was prosaic, but her glance
showed that his face was not; his usual impassive
expression had given way to undisguised
desire. With intense relief Diana knew that
her fears were unfounded, that he was no more indifferent
to her than she was to him. Still a little giddy with wine,
she said playfully, "Were deer the only
creatures hunted in this forest?"
"Oh, no," he said softly, "there is fairer
game than that." He reached out to her, but she
lightly whisked herself away behind the massive


trunk of the nearest oak, then peeked out
at him from behind the tree, laughing and wondering where this
unexpected vein of flirtatiousness had come from.
"How do you capture this fair game?" she
teased. This was a new Diana, even to her, and she
found that she enjoyed abandoning her usual gravity.
St. Aubyn didn't seem to mind her
silliness. His eyes rested on her warmly and a
faint smile was playing over his lips. Stepping
up to the tree, he replied, "If I knew how
to do that, I would have done so already."
His smile faded as he extended one hand toward
her. They were on opposite sides of the tree
trunk, partially concealed from each other by the curving
bark. His hand caressed her cheek, then slipped
into the curls tangled by her riding.
"Did you know that you are being called the Fair
Luna?" As she looked at him questioningly, he
explained, "Because you have the most heavenly body
anyone has ever seen in London."
Diana's eyes widened and she laughed. "That
sounds like young Mr. Clinton's poetic fancy.
Still, it is a compliment."
"It is indeed." Gervase's eyes darkened and
she could feel the tension thrumming between them. Warm
against the side of her head, his fingers made slow
circling motions, setting off ripples of sensation
that spread throughout her body. Rapt at his touch,
her lips parted in unconscious invitation.
"How long must I wait, Diana?" His
voice was barely more than a whisper, but his gaze
was hypnotic.
Delicately he toyed with her ear. She
hadn't known that such a mundane part of the body could
feel so exquisite, and her right hand on the tree
trunk was needed to steady her in the face of her
body's quickening response. Stroking down her
neck, his touch was so light that she could feel the
whorls of his fingertips, like the brush of butterfly
wings. Who would have thought that a man with such strong
hands could be so gentle?
"I can understand that you wish to know me better," he
said huskily, "but the more time we spend together, the
harder it is to keep my hands to myself. In fact,
it is quite impossible." Moving around the tree, he
captured her, sliding his arms around her waist and
drawing her into a kiss.
Dizzily Diana decided that she must be
getting the knack of kissing, for the depth and
intimacy grew between them every time they embraced.


Her eyes closed and she lost herself in the
warm interchange of lips and tongues. It seemed
entirely natural to explore his mouth just as he
was discovering hers, and it was a whole universe of
tender, wild touching.
They sank to their knees, their bodies pressed
together. He brushed a light trail of kisses
across her cheek, finding an exquisitely
sensitive spot below her left ear. Sliding his
hands down the gentle curves of her back, he
caressed her buttocks, hips, and thighs,
molding her against him. Her hips began pulsing in
a primitive rhythm and she was shocked by her own
response.
I shouldn't have had so much wine. Diana
realized that if he wanted to take her here, in a
public park, she would have no will to stop him. A
seductive thought, to have this first encounter take
place right now, with no time for her to worry about her
limited experience and skill. But even through the
haze of wine and desire, she knew that this was not
how she wanted to begin. Gervase Brandelin was
already too important in her life for casual
coupling on the forest floor. She must use her
mind, establish some control as Madeline had
taught her, not slide into submission like a
love-struck dairy maid.
Besides, she was unprepared to prevent
pregnancy. Much as she loved Geoffrey, she
had no intention of giving him a younger brother or
sister in such a casual, heedless way.
She broke free of Gervase's embrace and
sank back on her heels, her knees touching
his, her breathing uneven. Before he could embrace
her again, she said softly, her voice as unsteady
as her breath, "What do you want from me, my
lord?"
He hesitated and she continued, unable to resist
a smile, "Apart from the obvious, that is."
Realizing that he faced another test, Gervase
also sat back on his heels, his hands spread on
his thighs as he thought about her question. First he had
to cool the fires she raised in him, no mean
feat when just kissing her made the blood shout in his
veins. What did he want of Diana
Lindsay, apart from the opportunity to bury himself
in her, to lose all his dark memories and
regrets in the immediacy of passion?
An excellent question, one that deserved an honest
answer. After his breathing had steadied, he


replied, groping for the right words, "I like
order in my life, so I want a regular
mistress. I would like to know that you would be available
when I want you, and would act no angry scenes
about my neglect."
She nodded calmly, her lovely face showing
no hint of whether she approved or disapproved of
his statement. "And what do you wish for me?
Long-term sexual intimacy is complicated, as
you must know. What pattern would you wish ours
to take?"
She had a knack for disconcerting questions; he had
never considered how matters should look from her point
of view. Gervase set his teeth in his lower lip
as he thought about the answer. While their relationship
was rooted in commerce, if Diana became his
mistress there would be more between them than simple
business. The question was, how much more? Slowly he
replied, "I want you to be free of financial
worries. And I hope you would find our
liaison physically satisfying."
Blandly she asked, "And if you don't
satisfy me, shall I pretend that you do?"
Stung in his male pride, Gervase
retorted, "If you lie, you will have only yourself
to blame for dissatisfaction. Even the most
skilled of lovers can't read thoughts."
His gaze brushed the lush curves discreetly
displayed by her prim dark blue riding habit,
then returned to her flawless heart-shaped face,
serene in quiet listening. There was too much
sensuality in every line of Diana's body
to imagine that she would be impossible to satisfy,
particularly for a man of Gervase's experience.
Her response to his kisses showed that under her
ladylike demeanor lay a passionate
nature. Having reached that conclusion, he said more
evenly, "I know that it is one of a courtesan's
skills to convince a man that he is the greatest
lover in the history of mankind, but I prefer
to think that you will not have to be an actress with me."
Two could play the game of questions, so he
continued, "What do you wish of me? You have made it
clear that any number of men are willing to pay your
price. What more will it take for you to single me out
above your other suitors?"
"I never said that I would single you out."
Her musical voice was so matter-of-fact that
it took a moment for him to absorb the sense of
what she was saying. Then, as angry color rose


in his face, he snapped, "You prefer
to operate a one-woman bawdy house? That is quite
unacceptable to me. I want your exclusive
services, and I am willing to pay more than
generously for that privilege."
Her wide eyes were still serene, but steel showed in
the dark blue depths. "I have no desire
to accept all offers, but neither will I promise
to be exclusive." After a moment she added, "I
do not make promises that I am unsure I can
keep."
Gervase stood, his body taut as he brushed
leaf mold from the knees of his riding breeches.
"If that is how you wish it, then we have nothing
further to discuss. I have no intention of waiting in
line outside your bedroom door." Trained to be
courteous even in anger, he offered his hand to help
her rise even as his mouth set in tight, angry
lines. Sharing his woman with any rake or
footman who took her fancy was insupportable.
Quite intolerable ... and yet his resolve began
to waver the moment she laid her hand in his. Her
weight was light as she came to her feet with the
grace of a forest dryad. She did not release his
hand, and the delicate-boned fingers lay within his
grasp, radiating a calm that spread through him and
soothed his anger.
She stood so close that her breasts almost touched
his chest, and he caught the elusive scent of
lilac. Her wide innocent gaze lifted
to hold his as she asked, "Are you so inflexible that
only your way will do? If I am always there when you
desire me, why should it matter what I might
possibly--only possibly--do in some other
hour? What will you lose by that?"
He wanted to say that he was indeed that
inflexible. Compromise might be necessary in his
public work, but he had found no need for it in his
personal life. Not until now. Just how much
did he want this woman with her exquisite
face, intoxicating body, and gentle manners?
Too much. Too bloody damned much.
His words were cool, but the edge was gone from his
voice as he said, "I find it quite unacceptable that
you might make sport of me behind my back with
other lovers."
She gave a slight shake of her head. "Either
you can trust me to be discreet and honorable, or you
cannot--that has nothing to do with how many lovers I
might have. I promise that what is between us will always


be private, yet if I am not
honorable, the promise itself means nothing."
An impossible argument to refute: only time
would prove if she was worthy of trust. He
wanted to repeat that he would never accept her
terms, but against his will, reluctant words formed.
"I shall consider what you have said."
In spite of the curtness of his answer, in his
heart he knew that it was just a matter of time
until he capitulated, and from the slight smile
that curved her full lips, Diana Lindsay
knew that too. If there had been even the faintest
glint of triumph in her eyes, he would have
wrenched his hand free and turned his back on her
forever rather than place his pride in hands that might
prove unreliable.
Instead, she turned his hand in hers and pressed
a kiss onto it, her lips velvet-warm against
his fingers. There was a tenderness in the gesture that he
had never known before. Her shining hair fell away
from her graceful neck, and the sweetness and
vulnerability of that exposed creamy nape
struck him so intensely that the shock was
physical. It was unlike any emotion he had
ever known, an aching dearer than mere sexual
pleasure.
Gervase's grip tightened and he lifted her
hand and held it against his cheek, rubbing his face
against her fingers as she raised her head and gazed
at him with deep lapis eyes. In that moment he
would have agreed to anything she asked. Bleakly he
wondered where this weakness would lead.



A distant church bell was striking four o'clock
when they reined in their horses in the stableyard behind
Diana's house, having ridden back to London
in near-total silence. Since he doubted that
any whore--or any other woman, for that matter
--could be as honest as Diana Lindsay pretended
to be, Gervase was suspicious that under her honeyed
words she was mocking him.
Diana had been equally quiet on the ride,
and as he helped her from her horse he saw
signs of tension in her face. Perhaps she feared that
she had gone too far in her demands and had lost
him. The thought was a satisfying one.
She stood in front of him, her hands lightly
touching his arms for balance after her slide from


Phaedra's back, her eyes wide and
stark. "You wondered when. If you still desire me,
you may call tomorrow evening. I will receive you
privately."
Gervase relaxed, feeling that the initiative
was once more in his hands. Her invitation was
unmistakable, and there was no surer cure for
sexual fascination than to dispel the mystery. He
had known other beautiful women, after all, and
shorn of her riding habit and her innocent air,
Diana Lindsay would be no different from the
others. After they had made love a few times, it
wouldn't be difficult to walk away from her if she
proved to be more trouble than she was worth.
He made a perfunctory bow over her hand,
avoiding any closer embrace. "Very well. Will
nine o'clock suit you?"
"Perfectly, my lord. I shall await you then."
He escorted her to the back door of the house,
then mounted and rode out of the yard. Diana watched
his departure as she waited for the footman to open the
door. A prickly man, Lord St. Aubyn,
accustomed to having his own way. And why shouldn't he
be? As a wealthy nobleman, he could do almost
anything he chose.
With wry amusement, she recognized the
similarity between him and the Count de Veseul.
Both of them were intense, commanding, and they desired
her. The difference lay in the fact that the
Frenchman wished to plunder her and cared nothing for her
consent. In contrast, St. Aubyn, though he
might be unused to consider anyone's convenience but his
own, seemed willing to learn. He had ...
possibilities. Thank God.
As the footman admitted her to the house, she
gave an unladylike snort and lifted her
skirts across the threshold. It wasn't anything
so abstract as his "possibilities" that
attracted her. No, it was other things, such as his
controlled strength and rock-ribbed integrity. And,
of course, that beautiful, panther-lean body.
She wanted to learn the mysteries of love, and his
lordship of St. Aubyn should be a most rewarding
teacher.

Having taken a full day for personal
pleasure, Gervase spent the evening working in the
study of St. Aubyn House. In the last two
years he had become a key man in the British
government, though few people knew what he did. In


theory, he held a minor post in the
Foreign Office, a sinecure where he worked
only the hours he chose and dabbled in dispatches
and communications.
In fact, he coordinated the various
branches of British intelligence gathering.
Short weeks before his untimely death, the Prime
Minister, William Pitt, had personally
asked Gervase to undertake the thankless task of
liaison, based on recommendations Pitt had
received from General Sir Arthur Wellesley, the
viscount's commander in India. During his years in
the East, Gervase had displayed an uncanny
talent for weaving fragments of information together
to create a larger picture, and now he turned that
ability to the critical European theater of war,
where Britain had been fighting Napoleon for
too many years.
Because the existing intelligence groups were jealous
of their information, it was tedious and frustrating work,
and a combination of tact and firmness was required
to convince them to share what they knew. Gervase also
worked with agents and informants on the Continent,
evaluating their information and deciding whether their
special projects were worthwhile: such spies
frequently offered glorious plans that would
require them to handle large amounts of British
money.
Less tedious and infinitely more dangerous were the
occasional trips he made to the Continent when he
felt that only his own judgment could be trusted.
Since Napoleon had closed all ports to the
British, Gervase slipped in with smugglers.
Like most of his class, he had been raised
to speak French as naturally as English, and he
could pass as a Frenchman when necessary. Even so,
there was always the chance that his cousin Francis would
inherit the title much sooner than expected.
It was an unglamorous business, but vital,
and Gervase found it both rewarding and absorbing.
Tonight, however, his usually formidable concentration was
lacking and everything took twice the time it should. The
last report in the pile was from the Decyphering
Branch, an odd little group that had been founded
by an Oxford don over a hundred years earlier
and which was still run as a family business. Frowning,
he studied the decoded translation of a secret
dispatch to a French agent in London, then gave
a sigh of irritation. He had been excited when
it was intercepted, but nothing in the message to the


mysterious "Phoenix" gave a clue
as to who the recipient might be. The blasted spy
had been a dangerous nuisance for years, and even
with this dispatch they were no closer to knowing his identity.
Idly Gervase jotted down the names of half
a dozen men who might be the Phoenix, each of
them prominent and impossible to challenge without
ironclad proof of treachery. He had had them
all watched for months, but was no nearer to an
answer than when he had begun.
Unfortunately, when he looked at the sheet
of foolscap he saw not spies but Diana
Lindsay in all her sensual allure. Tomorrow
night at this time his curiosity would be satisfied,
and he would no longer have to guess at what lay
hidden beneath her elegant clothing. Tonight,
regrettably, he could think of nothing else. Just
the thought of her aroused him to the point where his brain
became useless. How ridiculous and
inappropriate that a high-class doxy should come
between him and the work that gave his life meaning.
Finally he crumpled the sheet of names and
tossed it into the fire, since he was making no
progress toward the Phoenix. Better to spend
the time deciding what kind of gift to take
to Diana tomorrow night as payment for her favors.
He stared at the flames without seeing them, one
corner of his mouth quirked up in exasperation. The
sooner he took the witch to bed, the sooner his
life could get back to normal.

Late that night, Diana was wakened by the
nursery maid with the announcement that Geoffrey was
having another seizure. By the time she had pulled
on her green robe and raced up the stairs, the
fit was over and Geoffrey was lying still on his bed,
a sheen of perspiration on his face. Edith sat with
him. Besides being the housekeeper, she had appointed
herself Geoffrey's chief guardian and she slept
in the adjoining chamber, ever alert for sounds that
might signal an attack. While nothing could be
done to stop a seizure, Geoffrey's real and
surrogate mothers would watch over him to make
sure that he did not injure himself in his convulsions.
Geoffrey's face was pale, but he struggled
upright in bed at the sight of his mother. "There was no
need for you to get up, Mama," he said
matter-of-factly. "It was just another fit."
Diana smiled and climbed up next to him on
the bed, leaning against the headboard and circling her


son with one arm. For all his protests,
he snuggled up to her quickly, burrowing against her
side. "I was having trouble sleeping anyway, and
now we have an excuse for hot cocoa."
"A good idea," Edith said in her deep
northern voice. "I'll make some." She
left to go down to the kitchen.
Diana felt Geoffrey's forehead. As she
expected, it was too warm. The seizures
usually came when he was feverish. Now that he was
seven, the epileptic fits were less common, but
were usually more violent when they occurred. "Perhaps
you'd better stay home from school tomorrow."
"Mama," he said, sitting up with an
indignant expression. "I like school. I
don't want to stay home."
"I'm glad you like school, but surely they can
manage without you for one day," she said, attempting
not to sound too concerned. "Besides, if you have a fever
you might have another seizure at school, and that
could be a nuisance."
He shrugged his small shoulders with elaborate
casualness. "Oh, I had one at school.
During Latin. Mr. Hardy made me lie
down afterward, but then I went back to class."
"Oh?" Diana's eyebrows lifted, a little
irritated that the schoolmaster hadn't informed her
of the attack.
Sensing what she wouldn't ask, Geoffrey
grinned, mischief wreathing his small face. "The
other boys in my class are very impressed. They
wanted to know if they can learn how to do it."
After a moment of shock, Diana had to laugh.
Now and then she needed to be reminded of how
resilient small boys were. "What did you
tell them?"
"I said they were out of luck. One has to be
born epileptic to do it right," he said loftily.
Diana smiled and brushed her fingers through his
silky dark brown hair. She was biased, but
anyone would admit that he was a beautiful child.
Though small for his age, he had a sturdy,
growing body, a sunny disposition, and an outstanding
intelligence as well. Surely so many blessings
would outweigh his disability in the eyes of those he
would meet as he grew up.
Her confidence faltered as she saw the way his
dark blue eyes, so much like hers, slipped out of
focus for a moment. The "staring spells" came more
frequently after he had had a grand mal


seizure. For a second or two he
would lose awareness of his surroundings and not know it.
If he was talking, after a silent pause he would
continue as if nothing had happened.
It was fortunate that they had found Mr.
Hardy's small school, where children could learn in
an atmosphere of greater freedom and understanding
than was usual. The schoolmaster has been very
matter-of-fact about Geoffrey's problem, neither
impatient nor overconcerned. Judged by how much
her son loved school, the approach seemed
to work.
Edith returned carrying a tray with a steaming
pottery jug and four mugs. Madeline trailed
behind her, still tying the sash of her dressing gown.
Maddy yawned, covering her mouth with one hand, then
said with a faint air of accusation, "You're having a
party and didn't invite me."
Geoffrey giggled and Diana joined in as
Edith poured the cocoa. For the next half-hour it
was indeed a party, albeit a quiet one; it was not
the first time the nursery had seen this kind of
impromptu midnight gathering, and doubtless it
wouldn't be the last. Diana kept a careful eye
on Geoffrey's mug since he might spill it
if he had a long staring spell, but he managed
very well. Sometimes she dared hope that he might
outgrow the seizures, but she would be grateful if
they got no worse.
By the time the cocoa was gone Geoffrey was almost
asleep, so Diana tucked him under the covers and
prepared to withdraw. His right hand curled under his chin
and his lashes lay dark against his cheek as she
kissed him. At moments like this she loved him so
much that it hurt her heart. She stood and glanced
at her friends. "Good night, Edith. Thank you."
Edith gave her rare warm smile, then
returned to her own room. Downstairs, Diana
asked Madeline hesitantly, "If you aren't
too sleepy, do you have a moment to come in?"
Madeline's shrewd eyes assessed her.
"Of course. Is something wrong?"
"Not really." Inside her sitting room,
Diana lit several candles from the candlestick she
had carried downstairs, then wandered across the room
to a window. Pulling back the drapery, she
looked down into Charles Street. "I've
invited St. Aubyn to come tomorrow night. Or I
guess it's tonight now."
Madeline sat down on the sofa and pulled her


legs up, tucking her robe under her
feet. "Are you sure you are ready for this? You
don't look very happy about it."
Diana turned away from the window, letting the
drapery fall behind her. "I'm not unhappy. Just
nervous."
Madeline eyed her closely. "You don't have
to do it, you know, if the idea frightens you. You really
haven't had the time to become well-acquainted with
St. Aubyn."
Diana shrugged and spread her hands. "I know
him as well as many girls know their husbands on
their wedding nights, and I have the advantage of not
being an ignorant virgin. My experience is very
limited, but at least I'm not terrified by the
unknown."
"Then what is bothering you?"
Diana sat in one of the chairs, pulling her
knees up against her chest and wrapping her arms
around them. "I'm not sure, really. I guess
it's ..." She hesitated, searching for the right word.
"... a kind of melancholy. This seems so ...
so cold-blooded. Such a very long way from the
romantic dreams I had as a child."
She smiled ruefully. "You know the ones:
Prince Charming and love everlasting. The sort of
thing every little girl is raised to expect, and almost
none of us ever get."
"You're a romantic, Diana," the older
woman said in a kindly voice. "You would like to be
in love with St. Aubyn and you're not. But if you
feel that way, why are you going to bed with him?
You're under no financial compulsion."
Diana hugged her knees with a mischievous
smile. "While I'm not in love with him, I
find him attractive. Very attractive."
"Well, if you are determined to go ahead with this,
that is not a bad place to begin," Madeline
admitted. "He has the look of a man who knows
his way around a mattress."
Diana colored and the older woman reminded
herself that for all her maturity the girl was still
relatively innocent. Well, that would change,
and very soon now. Madeline rose and stretched
sleepily. "Well, I'm ready for a bed myself,
and it's a sign of my age that I'm glad it's
an empty one."
As Diana chuckled, Madeline crossed the
room, but with her hand on the knob of the door she
found herself turning to ask once more, "Are you


truly sure this is the right thing to do?"
In the candlelight it was impossible to read
Diana's expression, but there was no mistaking the
determination in her soft voice as she said, "Oh,
that's one thing that I am very sure of. For all my
doubts and dallying, taking Gervase Brandelin as a
lover is most definitely the right thing to do."

Diana forced herself not to stand at the window like an
anxious schoolchild. It was five minutes before
nine o'clock, and if there was one thing she had learned
about Lord St. Aubyn, it was that he was prompt.
When he arrived, the footman would escort him
to her chambers, and then, and then ...
She had her hands clenched tight, as nervous as
any seventeen-year-old virgin on her wedding
night. She had already inserted the vinegar-soaked
sponge that Madeline said was the best available
protection against pregnancy, and she wore a
discreetly provocative gown and robe of
translucent silk in a shimmering blue-fire
shade that echoed her eyes. Her hair was twisted
into a simple style that would fall about her shoulders
with the removal of just two pins, and she had set the
stage in a manner that was richly seductive without
being vulgar. The night was cool, and coal burned
merrily in the grates of the sitting room and the
adjoining bedroom, where the massive shape of the
canopied bed could be dimly seen. Madeline had
helped her prepare, then withdrawn, satisfied that
her prot@eg`e was ready.
Diana had been able to convince Maddy that her
anxieties were no more than normal, but now that she
was alone she admitted to herself that she was terrified.
No matter that intuition urged her forward, that St.
Aubyn had treated her with kindness, that she was
fiercely attracted to him; in spite of all those
things, the thought of trusting herself to him chilled her
hands and made her heart beat with the rapid pulse
of panic.
Her thoughts returned to the night on the moor
when she had decided to try the courtesan's
life. Truly, if she had known that the future
held Gervase Brandelin, she would never have left
Yorkshire. But it was too late to turn back;
the tie that bound them was stronger than her
individual will.
Just as her mind started to spiral once more
into dark fears from her past, a knock on the
front door sounded through the quiet house. Her


nerves taut as newly tuned piano
wire, Diana flinched, then glanced at the
ormolu clock on the mantel. Two minutes
before nine o'clock. Either the timepiece was slow or his
lordship was impatient.
In less than a minute the knock sounded at
her own door. Now that the moment had arrived, a
fatalistic calm descended and she opened the
door. For a moment they just gazed at each other, the
air thrumming with tension between them. Gervase was
dressed in the dark blue coat and buff
pantaloons that were almost a uniform for men of his
class, but expert tailoring, a beautifully
fit body, and his forceful personality gave him
the air of distinction that he wore so casually. His
taut, fine-drawn face had the fierce and
lonely beauty of a proud hawk, and he was frightening
in his masculinity.
Then he smiled and extended one hand to her, and it
was suddenly easy to grasp it and draw him
inside. She closed the door, and before she had
fully turned to face him, Gervase was
embracing her, his mouth hungrily pressed to hers
and his arms pulling her tight against him. From the
feel of his hard body, he had no need for
preliminaries, and for a moment panic returned.
In most ways he was still a stranger, and though his
fire warmed her, she needed more time; Diana
knew that if they proceeded too quickly she would be
too stiff and fearful to convince him that she was
experienced.
She broke away, laying one finger over his
mouth. "There is no need to hurry, my lord," she
said softly.
He smiled, the clear gray eyes wry.
"I'm sorry. I know I'm too impatient,
but I have been thinking of you all day. And all last
night too." He placed his hands on her
shoulders, gently kneading the muscles, and she could
feel some of her nervousness depart, to be replaced
by a different kind of tension.
"In fact, I've hardly thought of anything
else since I met you." His hands slid up her
neck into her hair, expertly finding the hairpins
and removing them. The thick chestnut masses
tumbled down past her shoulders in wanton
abandon.
"There. That is how I have been imagining you."
He stepped close again and leaned over, kissing
her throat through the silken strands of hair. For a


moment Diana reveled in the sensation,
amazed that so many distant parts of her body would
resonate to that gossamer touch.
It was time to put her plan into effect. Stroking
the dark head that lay so close to hers, she
whispered, "Gervase, there is something I would ask
of you."
He tensed, thinking that it was a singularly
inappropriate time to discuss money. Still, she had
a right to raise the issue, since their relationship
was one of business. But it was hard to think of anything
other than how ravishing she was, clad in blue
silk so sheer that the curves and shadows of her
body were clearly visible beneath it.
He stepped back and reached into his pocket
for the velvet jewelry box and handed it to her. She
opened it and gasped, as well she should. The
sapphire pendant was magnificent, of a deep
lucent blue, and the setting and chain were beautifully
wrought. He had spent some time in selecting the
gem, and it was lavish enough to pay for a good deal of her
time. "It is almost the color of your eyes, though
less brilliant."
"It's beautiful! I've never had anything like
this." She looked up shyly. "Shall I put it
on?"
He lifted the gem from the box, then circled
behind her to fasten the chain around her neck, careful not
to pull any of the delicate hairs at her
nape. A mirror hung between the windows and she
walked over to it, lifting one hand to touch the
pendant admiringly. Gervase stood behind her, and
her gaze met his in the mirror. "Thank you. It
is very lovely. You chose well."
Her voice was soft and inviting, and the cynical
part of him commented on how expensive presents had
that effect on women. "I'm glad you like it," he
said, then parted her hair again to unclasp the chain.
When she looked at him questioningly, he smiled.
"It will be in the way and could be rather painful."
She nodded in acknowledgment, then turned to face
him as he replaced the pendant in its box and
set it on the pier table. In the candlelight her
eyes were almost black. "Actually, that was not what
I wanted to discuss."
While her expression was calm, her words
came hesitantly and her clasped hands betrayed
tension. He found it odd that a woman of her
calling was so nervous. "You will think that I am
foolish, but ... there is only one first time for


any pair of lovers." Her face was
earnest and very young as she lifted it to him. "I
want tonight to be special."
He laid one hand on her waist, feeling her
slim warmth through the layered silk. "It will be.
I promise that."
She smiled briefly, but it didn't reach her
eyes. "There are only so many ways of making
love. What makes it special is what is
here"--she reached up and touched his forehead--"and
here." She laid her hand on his heart.
Speaking carefully, as if using words she had
rehearsed, she continued, "Tonight, let's pretend
that we are young lovers, coming together for the first time. I
will play the maiden, and you the man who guides and
teaches me."
Lifting her hand to caress his cheek, she said
softly, "In a way, it is true, since this
is our first time, so why shouldn't we enjoy the
fantasy? Let us imagine, just for an hour or
two, that the world is a simple place and that we can
rediscover the wonders of first love and the awakening
of passion."
Then she smiled with deep promise. "Best of
all, we can capture some of the wonder without the
fear and awkwardness that curse real innocents."
Gervase hesitated. While taking one's time
increased the pleasure, it hardly seemed necessary
to playact as well. Diana was so exquisite
that he needed no layer of dreams to increase his
desire. But as he studied her hopeful,
anxious face, it seemed no great chore to act
such a role. Women were different from men, and if it
pleased her to spin a fantasy, it would cost him
nothing to indulge her. With her Madonna face and
air of gentle refinement, it was easy to imagine
her a maiden giving herself for love, yet because she
was a woman of experience, there would not be the fear of
hurting her.
As he thought about it, the idea became exciting
and he began to smile. "Your wish is my command.
Since I have never had quite the experience you
describe, I shall have to think a moment how I would
begin." He clasped his hands below her shoulders, his
thumbs making slow circling motions through the silk
on the tender flesh of her inner arms.
"I would start with talking," he said thoughtfully,
"perhaps over a glass of wine. Would you happen to have
some wine?"
Her eyes sparkled up at him. "Will brandy


do, my lord?"
"It will do very nicely." As she crossed the
room to where a decanter and goblets waited, he
added, "Next, I would insist that you use my name.
Titles don't lend themselves to intimacy."
She carefully poured three fingers of brandy
into a goblet, then glanced up. "Very well ...
Gervase."
He hadn't realized how musical his name could
sound. Before she could pour a second goblet, he
took the decanter from her hand, replaced the
stopper, and set it on the sideboard.
"We need only one. Also, it would be time
to introduce a note of greater informality." He
peeled off his coat and untied his cravat,
tossing them casually over the back of a chair.
Under the white shirt his shoulders were very broad, a
striking contrast to his narrow hips and waist. A
few strands of curling dark hair were visible at the
open throat of his shirt.
Lifting the brandy glass, he guided her to the
sofa with a light hand on her back, and they sat,
their bodies close but not quite touching. He offered
her the goblet and she sipped from it, her eyes
holding his over the rim, then handed it back. He
turned the goblet so that he drank from where her lips
had touched. "We would begin slowly."
He rolled the brandy around in his mouth, savoring
the smoothness of it before he swallowed, then held the
goblet up to her mouth, tilting it so she could drink.
"I would encourage you to drink enough that you would relax,
but not so much as to make you unwell or unsure of
what you are doing."
He watched the column of her throat flex as
she swallowed, a motion he had never consciously
noticed, but which was now deeply erotic. Drinking
more of the brandy himself, he stretched his arm along the
back of the sofa and toyed with her hair, running his
fingers through the dark glossy strands. "Then I would
tell you how deeply beautiful you are."
"Would I believe you?" she asked, a smile
in her eyes.
"I would be prepared to swear on any number of
Bibles." He set the goblet in her hand and reached
out to sketch her features as he described them.
"I would extol your night-blue eyes, your
satiny skin, your ruby lips."
Diana's face sparkled with appreciative
humor. "Do lovers never use more imaginative
metaphors?"


He chuckled. "I doubt it. If
they did, they would be poets. Lovers are more
involved with each other than with fine phrases."
He took another mouthful of brandy, no longer
able to distinguish its fire from his own. "Since you are
young and modest, I would avoid talking about your
enticing breasts, your slim tantalizing waist,
your rounded inviting hips."
A becoming hint of rose colored her face as
his fingers lightly followed his words. "Quite right not
to mention them--a modest maiden would find such talk
too suggestive."
"Perhaps about now," he mused, "I would think it
time to make different use of the brandy." He
pulled aside the top of her robe, exposing the
low-cut gown underneath and an expanse of gently
swelling flesh. Dipping his forefinger in the brandy
glass, he trailed it from the pulse point at the
base of her throat toward the shadowed valley between
her breasts. Then he leaned over and kissed along
the brandied path, his mouth hot and firm against her.
As his lips moved to the edge of the gown,
Diana's body quivered and she gave a shuddering
gasp. "An innocent maiden would find this all very
surprising." He paused and she hastened to add,
"But not unpleasant. Not in the least."
He raised his head and smiled, his mouth mere
inches from hers, his eyes soft and amused. The
deep timbre of his voice a caress, he
murmured, "Then I would retreat a little, to give
you time to accustom yourself to the newness. But I would not
retreat too far."
He leaned forward, closing the distance between them.
This time his kiss was not hungry and demanding, as when
he had first arrived, but leisurely and probing,
bent on exploring every surface and texture of
her yielding mouth.
With such a myriad of things to learn just about
kissing, Diana wondered if she would ever live
long enough to master all the other subtleties of
making love. Since they had eased back against the
arm of the sofa, balance no longer required her
attention and she lifted her hands and buried them in
the thick springiness of his dark curling hair.
After an endless, delicious embrace,
Gervase pulled back and smiled, brushing a
lock of hair from her cheek. "An innocent
maiden might not know how to kiss that well."
So far, so good. He found her convincing, and even
if her mind held doubts, her body seemed


to know what to do. Diana laughed rather
breathlessly. "Surely kissing would be one thing we
would have practiced before now?"
"Mmm, doubtless you're right." He lifted her
away from the sofa and slid the robe from her shoulders
to pool on the cushions. Above her waist, the
wisp of gown covered scarcely more than her
breasts, and the silk was so sheer that the dark areolae
were faintly visible.
Gervase's breathing was no longer even when he
bent forward and took her right nipple in his mouth,
the heat of his kiss scorching through the gauzy
fabric. With his right hand he cupped her left
breast and began to tease the nipple between thumb and
forefinger. The combined assault created sharply
pleasurable sensations and Diana's body tightened
in response. Deep within her there was spreading
fire, and her breath was a low moan as she pulled
his head closer.
His own breathing uneven, Gervase stood and
scooped her into his arms, her pliant body
molding to his chest. "About now I would decide that
you were ready for the next step." She felt the
vibrations of his deep voice as she put her arms
around his neck and pulled his head down for another
kiss. His muscular arms held her effortlessly,
and the kiss lasted as he carried her through the door and
laid her on the high bed.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he
stroked the silk-clad curves of her body, the
coolness of the fabric belied by the warm body beneath.
Diana lay back against the pillows, one slim
arm entwined with his, her fairness a dramatic
contrast to his dark skin. She might have been a
shepherdess, giving herself trustingly to her beloved
in some Elysian field where fear and betrayal
would never be known; her lapis eyes held
exactly the shadow of anxiety that might be found
in an innocent girl who both yearned forand feared
the act of ultimate intimacy.
A five-branch candelabrum burned on the
bedside table, andwitha hand that trembled slightly,
Gervase reached over and began pinching the candles
out. "Now," he said huskily, "it would be time
to extinguish the light so that your maidenly shyness would
not be offended." After snuffing four candles, he
stopped. "Here, I think, I will diverge from the
script. It would be a crime to hide your beauty
in the dark."
The candle left burning was sufficient


to illuminate the scene. Diana's
blue eyes were vulnerable and intimate in the
candlelight, bidding him enter an unknown world of
warmth and welcome. Her lips were parted and the
rapid rise and fall of her breasts testified
to her response. One of her knees was drawn
up, and shadows played suggestively under the
skirt of her gown.
As Gervase absorbed the grave sweetness of
her gaze, he was suddenly and completely
overwhelmed by emotions unlike anything he had ever
felt before. He had never been in love, his only
experience with a virgin had been a searing disaster that
haunted him still, but now Diana's fantasy
came alive for him. Her gentle, sensuous
beauty touched a vein of romanticism so
deeply buried that he had not known it existed, and
fiercely he wanted to believe in innocence, that
one could begin again.
Bending over, he cupped her face in his hands
and kissed her with a hunger that went far beyond the
physical. For once in his life he would throw
away the guilty chains of living and imagine that
he was worthy of loving and being loved. In reality
such joy was forever unattainable, but for this handful of
moments he would dream. "Oh, God, Diana,
don't ever let me hurt you," he whispered, his
voice rough with tenderness and passion. "You are so
rare."
Her arms encircled him and he came down
full length beside her for a kiss in which each of them
gave and received equally. Only the thought that too
much clothing separated them enabled him to eventually
release her and sit up. As he undid his
cuffs, she reached up to unbutton his shirt.
"Am I acting too boldly for my role?"
she whispered as her hand slipped inside the shirt
to caress his chest. Her palm brushed his softly
bristling hair as her fingers made delicate
explorations.
"Perhaps," Gervase gasped, "but don't
stop." Amazing that such a light touch could excite
him so.
Her face showed a mischievous pleasure in his
reaction, and it took a major act of will for him
to stand and remove the rest of his clothing, leaving it in
a heedless pile on the floor.
He slid one arm under her thighs to raise her
as he removed her gown, leaving her fully
exposed for his admiration. Her loveliness made


him grateful that he had left the candle
lit; such beauty deserved to be savored.
Lowering himself to her side, he laid one leg
across hers to keep her close, then gave her
breast the attention it deserved now that it was free of
all restraint. The tautness of her nipple
teased his tongue. When he was sure that it could be
roused no further, he lifted his head to murmur,
"I would be very careful that no part of you would feel
neglected," before giving the same thorough treatment
to her other breast.
Diana whispered, "You, too, are
beautiful," stroking his wide chest, caressing the
hard planes of muscle and bone, the ridged
battle scars. There was no spare flesh on him
anywhere, every part of his lean body honed to taut
strength. As her hands glided over his head and
shoulders, her hips began an involuntary
pulsing against him.
His hand stroked down her body, kneading and
caressing her waist and stomach before reaching the silky
triangle of hair at the juncture of her
thighs. Gervase raised his mouth to kiss her
lips at the same tune that his fingers
delicately penetrated to her sensitive, hidden
depths. Her legs tensed and her sharp inhalation was
so convincing that he could almost believe she was as
innocent as the maiden of her fantasy. Lost in
his own role, he murmured, "Just relax. We
will take as long as you need." Raising his hand to her
knees, he caressed her silken inner thighs,
slowing massaging his way lower until she opened
to him.
He summoned all his skill to bring her to the
final readiness, and when her body was hot and moist
and her breath rough and urgent, he moved between her
legs and slowly, gently entered. She had acted
the virgin so convincingly that it was almost a surprise
that no barrier blocked his passage.
Diana gasped and her muscles tightened around
him with such fierce sweetness that it took all of
Gervase's will not to culminate immediately. Instead
he held very still, his arms supporting him so that his
weight wouldn't hurt her. Remembering the roles
they played helped him maintain his control. "Now
I would give you a few minutes to get used to how
it feels to have a man inside you," he said with a
teasing half-smile, "and for me to calm down."
Diana shivered in delight and pressed her
hips upward, rotating them to deepen the sensation.


She had not known how empty she was
until he filled her, and it was impossible to get
enough of him. He inhaled sharply. "And I would warn
you not to do that unless you are impatient to be done."
Diana stilled, whispering, "Oh, no, not
yet, I most certainly do not want this to end."
Gervase's dark hair tumbled over his forehead and
she could see a film of perspiration on his face
and torso. She had never dreamed that his dark face
could show such openness and intimacy, and she lifted
one hand to caress his cheek and the corded strength of his
neck.
Even the touch of her hand inflamed him, and it
took time to regain his control. Only when he was
sure did he begin moving inside her, exploring
her secret depths. Still careful to be gentle,
he murmured, "Now I would tell you to move
against me as we find a rhythm together."
She obeyed, and he started deepening his
strokes, pushing harder and longer, his eyes searching
to catch every nuance of feeling as it rippled across her
face.
She moaned and her eyes closed, the better
to savor the sensations consuming her. For all that
Madeline had told her, Diana had never
dreamed that pleasure could be so exquisite and
tormenting. She drew him as deep into her as was
humanly possible, her nails digging into his
back as her thrusting hips took on an
uncontrollable rhythm of their own.
It was unbearable and she pleaded incoherently,
"Please, Gervase, please ..." without knowing
what she asked for. And then, just when she could endure
no more, her body convulsed in a series of shuddering
explosions. She cried out, her voice drowned in
his as he plunged and erupted within her, their
bodies joined in ultimate closeness.
They lay tangled in each other, the only
sounds their deep, uneven breathing. Diana's
arms were wrapped tight around his torso, unwilling
to release him even now, and she could feel tears
seeping from beneath her closed eyelids.
Gervase raised his head from the pillow as he
eased his weight from her. As he did, she felt
him brush the tears from her cheek. "Did I
hurt you?"
She shook her head, opening her eyes to smile
reassuringly at him. "No, not at all. It was
just that it was so ... so wonderful. I'm afraid that
I cry at everything that makes me feel


deeply, whether I'm happy or
sad."
He relaxed, then rolled onto his side,
holding her tightly so they were still joined. Cradling
her head, he said softly, "I've never
experienced anything quite like that. Your suggested
fantasy was brilliant--it added a whole new
dimension." He chuckled. "You were very convincing. It
was easy to believe that you were an innocent, until
the very end."
"Oh," she asked, wondering if she had somehow
betrayed herself, "did I act wrongly?"
"Say rather that you forgot to act, and responded quite
unlike a virgin." He kissed her lightly
on the forehead. "Do you think you will have to pretend
satisfaction with me?"
Diana laughed and snuggled against him.
Madeline had devoted quite a bit of time
to explaining masculine arrogance. Well, he had
earned a bit of arrogance. "You are very cocksure
about your performance, Gervase," she teased.
His gray eyes narrowed in amusement.
""Cocksure"? That sounds like the right word."
Diana laughed so hard that their bodies
separated, leaving her with a sense of regret for the
loss. "It is quite a talent to be vulgar and
clever at the same time."
He grinned, then pulled the bedcovers over
them. The fire was dying down and there was a chill in
the air that they hadn't noticed earlier. Diana
was content to lie against Gervase, her head on his
shoulder, her arm across his waist. Her lover; what
a marvelous reality the words had taken. Once more
intuition had guided her truly. The thought of this
joining had been terrifying, and only faith that they
were meant to be together had given her the strength
to accept him.
Now, like mist on the moors, her fears had
vanished, and not just because passion had burned them
away. Deeper than desire lay some
inexplicable quality in Gervase that made her
feel peaceful and protected with him, a kindness that
had disarmed all her buried angers. She sighed and
snuggled closer. Dark secrets might still lie
between them, but tonight they had begun a journey together that
must surely, in time, lead them to light.
They lay languid until he said, "We still
haven't determined how you are going to be
compensated. If you thought that offering a sample would
raise the price, you are correct." She


rolled over on her back and he raised
himself on one elbow, playing with her long hair.
In the dim light it looked black, with only an
occasional hint of chestnut richness.
"Do you want to have all your bills sent to me?
Or would you prefer to have a regular allowance, perhaps
three hundred pounds a month?" He formed her
hair into patterns on the pillow, arcing out like
willow leaves.
Diana felt a flash of irritation at his
assurance. It was a very generous offer, but ... did
he assume that after a satisfying tumble, she would
automatically fall in with his wishes?
Maddeningly, his confidence was not far off the mark, but
she wasn't going to let him know that. Far better
to keep him off balance. "Need we be so formal?
Bring me presents instead. Surprise me.
If I satisfy you and you pay a just price, that
will work well enough."
He frowned, his dark brows drawing together as he
looked down at her. The comfortable intimacy was
fading. "I prefer that matters be settled."
"I am not a "matter to be settled," my
lord." Diana let her lashes flutter down
over her eyes, consciously casual, as if what
he did was of no account to her. "Have you never
learned that with people you must be flexible or you will be
infuriated?"
He snorted, caught between irritation and
amusement. "I want a mistress, not a
philosopher."
"You have both, and a thousand other things as well.
If that does not please you, you are quite free
to look elsewhere."
"Perhaps I will in time, Diana. But not yet."
He laid one hand on her breast and moved it in
slow circles, teasing the nipple as he
captured her mouth with his. "Definitely not
yet."
Catching her breath, Diana was surprised
to find herself responding; she would have thought that she had
had quite enough for one night. But apparently she
hadn't, and by the growing pressure against her thigh,
Gervase hadn't either. He whispered, "Once more
I will diverge from the script. If you had really
been a virgin, a gentleman would refrain from
doing this again so soon. Fortunately you are not the
former, so I need not behave like the latter."
Diana learned that knowing what to expect added
to the pleasure. This time their lovemaking was shorn


of the pent-up desire that had driven them
earlier, and it lasted for an endless, languorous
time, with Gervase bringing them both to the edge again and
again, then retreating. The prolonged buildup led
to a powerful, long-lasting climax, subtly
different from the earlier one, but equally intense.
After, Diana lay with her head on his chest,
her hair spilling across them both like a veil as
their slow breathing matched in rhythm. At this
rate, her lack of experience would be eliminated
in no time. His strong hand cradled her neck and
he was so still that she wondered if he slept. It
would be very easy to drift into dreams, but she
preferred not to. With an effort, she lifted herself
so she could look down into his face.
"Gervase?"
"Yes?" His eyes opened and there was a very
strange expression in them, one she could not
analyze. Contentment? Satisfaction? Doubt,
or perhaps even fear? Diana was usually very good at
sensing others' emotions, but this was too complex a
blend to define. She reminded herself that while sex
was in some ways a simple act, this was not a
simple man.
"I think it is time you left. It is very
late."
She felt his hand tense on her neck. Had
he expected to stay? According to Madeline, some men
liked to sleep with their mistresses, whereas some
did not; it was an individual taste.
His voice was cool and detached, remote from the
intimate tangle of their naked bodies. "How
fortunate that you reminded me. I prefer to sleep
alone myself."
If that was true, why did she feel that he was
angry at being asked to leave? Though Diana had
never spent the night with a man, she didn't doubt
that she would enjoy having Gervase's warm, solid
body next to hers. But occasionally Geoffrey
came down in the early morning, and she would not
risk her son finding a man in her bed.
As he pulled his pantaloons on, Gervase
asked curtly, "What are your other rules?"
Though his withdrawal hurt, there was nothing she could
do about it. Lifting her chin a bit, she said
calmly, "Always inform me in advance when you wish
to visit."
"So you can chase your other lovers out of your
bed?" His voice was definitely hostile as he
tugged on his wrinkled shirt.
"If that is what you choose
to believe." Diana felt shy about climbing
naked out of the tumbled bed, but modesty seemed
ludicrous after what had passed between them. She
got up quickly, then retrieved her silk robe
from the sitting room. Wearing it could be justified
by escorting him downstairs.
"What other explanation could there be?"
His gray eyes were chilly and his height and
broad shoulders made him an intimidating
stranger as he loomed over her. It was hard
to remember how close they had been short moments
earlier. Diana quailed inwardly, but didn't
drop her gaze. "You might try believing that I
have a life apart from my ... work. I might be out,
I might be busy with something not easily
interrupted. If I am expecting you, it will be more
convenient for both of us."
Her logical answer relaxed him. Crossing
the room, he put on his coat, shoving his
cravat into his pocket. At this hour, there would
be no one to criticize his mode of dressing.
Lifting a candlestick, Diana led the way
downstairs and unbolted the front door. The
rest of the household was long since asleep, and in
the distance she heard a clock strike three times.
The deepest, darkest hour of the night.
Before she could open the door, he took the
candlestick and put it on a table before embracing
her, making his good-night kiss as thorough as any
they had yet shared. Her arms went around his neck
as he pulled her close, his strong hands shaping
her soft curves. In spite of her fatigue,
she realized that if he was ready for another round,
she would be more than willing to cooperate.
Even as he kissed her, Gervase knew how
foolish it was to try to claim a woman of her
kind, to attempt to move her so thoroughly that she
would accept none of the other men who desired her.
There might be an expression of dazed delight
on her face when he lifted his head away, but
she was, after all, a whore.
Even as he told himself that she was not worth the
effort, an inexplicable surge of
possessiveness came over him. Seeking the
entrance to her robe, he slid his hand between the
silken panels, low, between her thighs. "I want
you to be mine, Diana," he whispered, caressing
her most secret places with the edge of his hand.
"Only mine."
She shook her head wordlessly, her
flawless face mysterious and unreadable even as he
felt the hot, involuntary response of her
body. He wanted to take her again, right there, with
only the thin Oriental carpet between them and the cold
marble floor. Since Diana wanted that too,
perhaps his purpose would be better served by not
satisfying their mutual desires. Releasing
her, Gervase turned, opened the door, and went
alone into the night.

Diana shivered as she bolted the door,
feeling the dark side of what joined them. In her
bedchamber she changed to a high-necked,
long-sleeved flannel nightgown, the antithesis
of eroticism, then crawled into bed. She had
slept here for three months, but never before had the
bed seemed so large or so empty.
Tired though she was, sleep proved
elusive. Sex is a double-edged sword.
Madeline's long-ago words haunted her.
Diana had thought she understood, but only now was the
meaning clear. Never having experienced passion,
she was now unprepared for its power. The night had
been a shattering experience for her, not just because of the
new physical worlds revealed, but because of the
emotions stirred. She had given and received
pleasure, and so had Gervase, and that magical
sharing created a closeness quite different from her
feelings for her son and friends.
Clearly the viscount desired her, but she
desired him equally. She wanted to yield to his
wishes, to promise to be only his, to talk and
laugh and love with him so that the hard lines of his
face would soften into the irresistible tenderness he
had shown her tonight. The only power she wanted over
him was the power to make him happy.
It would be treacherously easy to center her world
around him and his demands, but that was not what she had come
to London for. Diana already understood some of the
complex currents that lay between them, and sensed that there
was far more beyond her comprehension. Like her, Gervase
had been gravely wounded by life, and he had done
less healing than she had. Until she understood
the origins and depths of his pain, there could be no
worthwhile future for them.
She drew herself into a tight little ball, her
arms wrapped around herself in an attempt to regain
the warmth she had felt earlier. No matter how
hard it was, she would resist that insidious
desire to surrender. Someday, God
willing, she could safely surrender to Lord St.
Aubyn, but much must change first. She wanted them
to be equals in their loving, not master and slave.
Diana shivered uncontrollably, knowing that it
was not simple fate that had joined them, but the
goddess Nemesis herself. Nemesis, the
goddess of retributive justice. Had
Diana known what was to be, she would have stayed at
High Tor Cottage, but it was far too late
for retreat. The thread that joined her to Gervase was
now too powerful to be denied.
In the days ahead, she would play the role of
independent woman and he could accept that or not, as
he chose. Even as she made the silent vow, she
wondered if she could keep it. As she had told
Gervase, tears came easily to her, and when she
buried her face in the pillow, she was unsure
whether she wept from joy or sorrow.












By Skye Melki-Wegner
An inferno of memories roared mercilessly, flaming with the ferocity of a cornered tiger. It radiated 
fiery destruction, a maze of blazing fronds, winding its way purposefully through every inch of 
reminiscence. Phosphorescent oranges and varying shades of scarlet attacked viciously. The mass 
of flame suddenly jolted in shock, as a miniscule, insignificant breeze wandered carelessly across 
its surface and kidnapped a tiny spark, carrying it away towards an unknown future.

Robin sighed heavily as the last ray of sunlight sank dreamily behind a wisp of murky cloud. 
"Hey Mum, you'd better help me bring the washing in before it gets too dark. They say we're in for 
a storm tonight," she called in the direction of her mother, watching TV in the back room. 
"Whatever. We really need to think about getting the dryer fixed. Did you know that the washing 
machine nearly conked out as well this morning? Hopeless machines!" 
"Stop complaining Mum. Sitting around watching quiz shows doesn't help," Robin grumbled.

Robin heard the droning of the TV show host suddenly evaporate and a creaking noise replace it. 
That would be her mother, struggling up off the couch. Her mum was incredibly attached to that 
old moth eaten lump, but Robin privately thought it was likely to disintegrate the next time anyone 
sat on it. 
"Coming boss," her mother muttered sarcastically, as she appeared in the doorway. She swept her 
long, dusty coloured hair behind her ear, as she searched through her pockets for the house keys. 
"Had one of those days, huh?" asked Robin sympathetically, noticing the dark bags under her 
mother's pale green eyes.
"Tell me about it. First thing, Old Dafto comes storming into the shop looking for a tin of baked 
beans. So I tell him, only as a joke, that he doesn't need the extra jet propulsion, so he goes ballistic 
and starts waving his walking stick in my face. He was blabbing on for ages about how nobody 
respects pensioners  these days, and how he was going to report me to the nursing home, and how-"
"Yeah, okay, tell me later Mum. We've got to get the washing in now."

Robin's mother located the keys and opened the dead-locked door, not that there was anything 
worth pinching. They wandered across the stony courtyard of their rural property and began 
snatching the washing from the clothesline, partially illuminated by the porch light. 
"Hey Mum, would you mind if I went for a walk? I feel like stretching my legs. I'll take a torch, 
and you don't need to give me that usual safety lecture about walking around at night alone, I've 
got it memorised by now." 
Her mother didn't even look up from the peg basket, where she was sorting the wooden pegs from 
the plastic ones. 
"Okay Honey, but remember, don't stray from the walking tracks and don't cross anyone else's 
paddock, and-" she began.
"And don't talk to any strangers, and stay away from dangerous looking branches that might fall on 
my head and squash me into a gooey mess. I know Mum!" Robin interrupted impatiently. 
She walked over to the tumbledown shed and took an ancient cob-webby torch off its hook. 
"Hey Mum, we need to clean out this place. It's drowning in cob webs!" she yelled to her mother, 
who was carrying the washing basket inside on her hip. Robin wandered away from the house, 
towards the bush.

Bright, jagged tendrils of flame sliced open the atmosphere, smothering recollections and 
memories that even the one who experienced them had forgotten long ago. Reminiscence 
smouldered and burnt, being reduced to a charred, ash blanket. Old emotions were recycled as 
kindling for the ever starving fire. Another wispy breeze blew past and stole a speck of the inferno's 
dignity, as another miniscule spark of vibrant carmine was washed away by the wind.

Robin glanced at the threateningly dark and oppressive night sky. It towered over her mockingly, 
like a cat taunting a helpless mouse. She shuddered. Robin felt uneasy in the darkness. She 
preferred bright, flowing swirls of colour, like reds and yellows. It was this very fact which had 
started her fascination with fire. Robin was obsessed with philosophy and loved to explore the 
world of human emotions. She held the belief that a raging fire was the only true metaphor of a 
human's spirit, and it kept burning steadily until the moment of their death. Sometimes, it was 
reduced to a single smouldering spark during times of great illness or depression, but leapt 
ferociously when the person was excited or happy. 

"Perhaps I'm just mental," she muttered angrily to herself as she hiked at a brisk pace along the 
path. She reached a barrier of bush and halted abruptly. Before her lay a vast group of shadows and 
varying shades of black. She sensed a sugar glider soar from tree to tree, as silent as the darkness 
which smothered its silhouette. Then she glanced back at the house, several paddocks away. Robin 
knew that her mother was considering selling the land around the house and having a smaller 
property. The money would go towards renovating their home, but Robin was still dead against the 
idea, even though she wasn't sure why. The house certainly needed some work, and money was 
tight. 

Suddenly, she felt a drop of rain splash onto her face and trickle slowly down her nose. "I'd better 
get back," Robin thought, turning on her heel towards the house. Several more heavy raindrops fell 
as she began to jog. 

Suddenly, the sky burst open in a torrent of thunder and lightning. The wind picked up, stinging  
her exposed face and hands. Visibility was poor as she crouched down to try to shield herself from 
the wind as it bit and tore at her.  Robin faintly detected a blustery silhouette, running towards her, 
getting buffeted from side to side. The shape was approaching, yelling something to her that was 
inaudible over the howling of the storm. As the figure appeared more clearly, Robin realised it was 
her mother, carrying an umbrella.
"Mum, it's you!" she cried in relief.
" I can't hear you! Grab my hand," her mother shouted in reply. They hobbled together across the 
paddock and back to the house.
 
The moment they were safely inside, Robin slammed the door shut and they both collapsed onto 
the old couch. The sudden weight of them both was too much for it to bear, and it caved in, a cloud 
of dust and splinters. They both lay there stunned for a second. Robin was the first to recover and 
suddenly started to giggle.
"It isn't damn well funny!" her mother snapped, "That couch was an antique!" Robin continued to 
cackle, until her mother calmed down and saw the funny side, laughing too. 
"Oh well. But what were you thinking of Robin, for heaven's sake? The moment you felt a drop of 
rain, why didn't you sprint back home?"
Robin stopped giggling. "Sorry Mum. I was thinking about other things. Anyway, who're you to 
lecture me about safety? You went out to the middle of a paddock in an electrical storm with an 
umbrella up? An ideal lightning conductor, don't you think?"
Her mother looked suitably shocked, and then began to laugh again. "Well, to tell you the truth, I 
was so worried about you, I didn't even think about the umbrella! What a couple of duffers we 
are!"
Robin put on the kettle to make hot chocolate, and then settled down to watch the storm from 
behind the safety of a window.

An eruption of feral scarlet wrapped its delicate traps of flame around every recollection. But his 
time it could sense a new force, a blinding cold blast of damp, murky darkness which was 
beginning to consume its flame. A cool wind breathed its chill over the flames, and several sparks 
grew dim and then died out. 

Robin lay still as the sun rose, groaning with a severe, blinding headache.
"Rise and shine Robin, you've got school today. Do you want to be late?" her mother called.
"I feel really sick Mum," she moaned, "can I stay home today?"
Her mother hurried into her room and looked at the pallid shade of her daughter's face. 
"I'll call the doctor straight away," she said, bustling over to the phone. 
"Why Mum? It's just a bad headache."
"I 'd like you checked out," her mother snapped.
"But Mum, the nearest doctor is miles away! As if they'd drive out here just for that!" Robin 
reasoned. Her mother ignored her, and picked up the phone to dial. She frowned as she held it to 
her ear, and then shook it slightly.
"No signal. The lines must have come down in the storm," she muttered in frustration.
"Good. Now you can stop fussing. Anyway, don't you have that meeting with the insurance 
company today? That rep was coming all the way out here from Melbourne, remember? You 
wouldn't want to be late and miss the chance to nag about the higher premium," Robin grinned, 
despite the nauseous feeling plaguing her.
"Good lord, you're right! Are you sure you'll be okay? I've got to run darling! There's 2-minute 
noodles in the pantry if you feel up to eating anything. Catch you later. If you feel any worse, take a 
Panadol and keep up your fluids. See you tonight!" She gave her daughter a peck on the cheek, not 
registering her elevated temperature, and ran out the door. 
 
Robin sighed and tried to get out of bed, using the table to steady herself. Her head was reeling in 
agony and she felt dizzy. The room seemed to be swimming in heat waves before her eyes. She 
wandered into the back room, only to see the pile of splinters and shredded fabric of the old couch. 
She smiled wryly at the sight of it, remembering her mother's indignation the previous night. She 
lowered herself slowly onto the carpet, and turned on the television, stretching out her arm to grab a 
pillow from the wreck of the couch. 

Robin stared blankly at the television screen for a while. She felt numb, but forced herself to stay 
awake. The television was screening one of her mother's favourite trashy quiz shows. This one was 
called Endurance through Knowledge, and had one of the most ridiculous sets Robin had ever seen. 
The set was supposed to be a tropical island, and the contestants were standing at a long plastic log, 
where they had to push buttons painted to resemble mangoes. She watched for a while, then slowly 
drifted off into a world of shadowy, murky dreams, filled with sugar gliders and coconut palms.

When Robin awoke, the first thing she wondered was what she was doing on the floor. Then 
suddenly a sickening wave of nausea swept across her, and she clutched dizzily at the carpet. She 
had been dreaming about being engulfed by deep black chasms of darkness. They were absent of 
any life or hope, except for a distant red speck of flame on the horizon, like a beacon illuminating 
the heavy, oppressive world. She pulled herself up, and stared hollowly at the television set, which 
had gone black. 
"Either there's been a blackout or the stupid TV's conked out as well," she muttered to herself, as 
she struggled across the room towards the kitchen. Eventually she grabbed the door frame with 
both hands and trusted all her weight to it as she hobbled out to the pantry. She grabbed a packet of 
2-minute noodles, her favourite Oriental flavour, and emptied them into a bowl, thinking that it 
might give her some energy. She attempted to boil the kettle, but it didn't work. 
"It must be a blackout then. At least that'll cheer Mum up, otherwise she'd come home and think 
everything was broken," she said to no one in particular, just the humid air which flowed in wisps 
across her face. She covered the bowl with cling wrap to put back in the pantry, but then hesitated.
She stared at the cling wrap. That was just how she felt, she thought miserably. Just like those 
noodles. In a packet, compressed and lifeless, awaiting someone to open the packet, giving her the 
experience of fresh air and sunlight and joy, but then being suffocated in cling wrap. She stared 
moodily at the cling wrap and then emancipated it. She tipped the dry noodles out the window for 
the birds.

The flames lashed across the air, and pitifully attempted to re-kindle themselves. There was a 
strong wind, as well as cool, sharp, water falling in a torrent over them.  Vibrant carmines and 
scarlets desperately tried to reach out, towards glowing embers that held the hope of the fire's 
future. But the wind continued to blow, carrying more and more sparks away on pilgrimages of 
their own.

Robin lay panting on her bed, clutching a pillow close to her. She felt that she would give anything 
to be free of the invisible chains which bound her to an endless world of nightmares. Everywhere 
were shadows and varying shades of grey, ranging from almost white to deep inky black. Every 
time she attempted to reach out her hand to brush away the plague of darkness, her hand was too 
heavy to move. Robin felt that she was at the mercy of the shadows, drowning in them. If she tried 
to cry for help, the plea was lost in the endless waves of despair. She had no free will, and only her 
lost, swirling dreams to keep her company, as they were yanked away from her, one by one. Robin 
felt her hope slowly ebbing away towards oblivion as she was being smothered and suffocated in 
harsh, cruel reality. 

"Robin?" she distantly heard a voice calling her name. "Robin, it's me, Mum."
Robin managed to pant, " Mum� I feel terrible."
"That's it Honey. I'm driving into town to fetch the doctor. Just stay in bed. I'll be back in about an 
hour with a doctor. Here, I bought you a new book. It's an encyclopedia of names and their 
meanings. I thought you could look up your friends, take your mind off things," her Mother coaxed 
in a panicky tone as she tried to be reassuring.

Her mother ran out of the room, fumbling for the car keys as she went. Their car was an ancient 
Holden Astra  that hadn't been serviced in about a decade. As soon as she heard the characteristic 
chugging noise of it leaving the driveway, Robin struggled to open the book. Through a fog, the 
first name she looked up was Jennifer, her mother's first name. She discovered it meant 'a white 
wave.' Robin's father had been killed several years ago, in a tractor accident. She looked up his 
name, Justin, and found it meant 'the best and fairest'. That fitted her memory of him. After that 
she searched for 'Robin' with trembling, sweaty hands, and discovered that it was in a small group 
of similar names with the same meaning. Roberta, Robyn, Robin and Ruperta all meant, 'A bright 
flame.'

Robin closed the book and with an effort, reached across to place it on her bedside table, though it 
fluttered noisily to the floor. She closed her eyes and felt herself slowly sliding towards the dark 
shadows that were grasping eagerly for her. She wondered what would happen to her. Robin had 
always been a firm believer in hope, and wasn't about to abandon her optimism now. She clasped 
the frilled corner of her sweat drenched pillow case in her frail hand, and forced herself to open her 
eyes. The window was open, and she could see out towards the pale azure sky, mottled with clouds 
in tie-dye style.
 
Suddenly she heard the unmistakable sound of her mother at the door. Robin strained her ears to 
hear the sound of someone else with her, but to no avail. Her mother burst into her bedroom, 
looking distressed.
"I'm sorry Darling, but the road to town is still blocked by trees which came down in the storm. 
Lucky the insurance guy came the other way. I couldn't get to the doctor's surgery. I only got as far 
as the nursing home.Then, just when I thought it couldn't get any worse, Old Dafto had to choose 
just that moment to walk out the door. He saw me and started yelling about the baked beans thing 
again from yesterday. I'm really sorry, but hopefully you just have the flu anyway," she blurted out 
without taking a breath. 
"It's �.okay Mum," Robin whispered with an effort, and then closed her eyes again. She felt like 
she was drowning in an endless ocean of dark shadows, and no matter how hard she struggled to 
reach the surface, there didn't seem to be one.
 
"Are you sure you're alright honey?" her mother asked in a worried tone. Robin couldn't find the 
strength to reply. Her mother suddenly turned pale, saying, "I'll get out the medical dictionary and 
look up your symptoms. Perhaps we can see what's wrong. When are they going to repair the 
blasted phone line?" 
" Mum�" Robin choked out, struggling to breathe. Her head was ringing with pain, echoing agony 
through her thoughts. She gasped for breath, and clutched at the pillow case. She stared out the 
window, and watched the swirling streaks of cloud as they danced across the sky. She closed her 
eyes and felt herself dance with them.


A tiny spark attempted to roar mercilessly, flaming and burning with the ferocity of a cornered 
tiger. The pile of ash suddenly jolted in shock, as a miniscule, insignificant breeze wandered 
carelessly across its surface, and kidnapped the last memory of flame, the smallest, most 
insignificant spark, carrying it away towards an unknown future. 






After leaving the Gypsies, Gervase had made
his way through the French army disguised as a dealer in
cigars and chocolate. When he finally reached
General Romana on the Danish island of
F@unen, it had taken time to convince the Spaniard
that he was a genuine representative of the
British government.
Once convinced and apprised of the situation in his
homeland, Romana lost no time in accepting the
Royal Navy's offer to return his army
to Spain. Making the arrangements gave Gervase
a profound sense of satisfaction; this one act
had justified his entire life. Deep in his
bones he knew that the Peninsula was
Napoleon's Achilles' heel. It might be
years before the French emperor was defeated, but his
end had begun.
The viscount could have joined Romana's army on
the voyage to Spain, but preferred to return the
way he had come. It would be faster, and on his
journey he had learned things that should reach
Whitehall as soon as possible. Besides, he had
personal reasons for wanting to go home. The
sight and sound and feel of Diana haunted him,
both waking and sleeping. Traveling through one dark
and dangerous night, he had stopped dead in his
tracks mere yards from a French patrol,
immobilized by a sudden flood of feelings about
her. It had taken time and painstaking analysis
to realize that the bush he hid behind was lilac, and that
its fragrance was bringing his mistress
irresistibly to mind.
Every time they were separated, he wanted her more.
But this time, threading through his desire and longing was a
dark strand of suspicion. The French had been
expecting him; Diana was one of the four people who
knew anything about his journey, and the other three were
government officials. Though it was hard
to reconcile her sweet loving with betrayal, on
this he would not allow his emotions to cloud his
judgment.
Fearing the worst, he racked his brain
to remember what he had told her about his work, but
doubted there had ever been anything of significance.
For that he was grateful; it would hardly be
surprising if a woman who sold her body would


also sell information if the price was right.
If she had done so, he would learn the truth from
her. What he had not yet decided was what he
would do about it.

The passage across the Channel was slow and
hazardous as the brandy-laden boat was buffeted
by heavy summer storms. Gervase was already bone-
weary when he arrived at dawn in Harwich, but
he immediately hired a post chaise and set off for
London, rain, muddy roads, and all. It was
a slow journey, and toward the end he was so
exhausted that he hired a postilion rather than
drive the final stages himself.
It was late in the evening when they reached
London, and he had intended to go directly to the
cold grandeur of St. Aubyn House. Instead,
surrendering to an impulse impossible to deny, he
directed the postilion to Diana's house, even
though he was asking for trouble, even though he was
breaking her rule of always asking permission
to call.
Climbing wearily out of the chaise with the small
shoulder-slung pack that was his only baggage, he
paid off the postilion. The rain had diminished to a
damp mist that saturated clothing and chilled the
bones in a manner more like November than
August, and the streets of Mayfair were almost
deserted. Light showed in Diana's window and he
wondered dully if she was entertaining another
man, and what he would do if she were.
He climbed the marble steps slowly, hoping she
was alone, for even the short blocks to his own
house seemed too far to walk. The housemaid
who eventually answered the door said to wait in the
drawing room while she went to see if the
mistress was receiving. Dropping his pack by the
door, he wandered aimlessly, refusing to sit because
it would be too hard to stand again.
And then Diana was standing in the doorway, one
hand on the frame for support as her wide
lapis eyes encompassed him. She was fragile
and lovely in a blue dressing gown, her hair
loose as if she had been preparing for bed. Was that
shock on her face, surprise that he was
alive? Perhaps dismay?
Before he had finished his despairing thoughts, she
had covered the short distance between them, embracing him
with such force that he staggered back a pace before he
enclosed her in his arms. Diana was everything that was


soft and warm and clean, fresh and
fragrant as a spring morning as she tried
to wrap his tall body with her small one. The
dense core of exhausted tension that had been winding
tighter and tighter since he left England began
to dissolve, and as he rested his cheek against her
sleek burnished hair he felt like smiling for the
first time in two months. "You'd best be careful,
Diana. Too much enthusiasm and I may
collapse on you."
She turned her face up to his, and he was
shocked by the tears coursing down her face. "I was
so worried," she whispered. "It's been so long
since you left--I was afraid something must have
happened."
When was the last time anyone had been this concerned
about his fate? Even weeping, she was so beautiful
it hurt to look at her. Words fled and he was
content to stare, feasting on the sight and feeling of her
pliant body against him. She was so warm. ...
Eventually he remembered another of his failings.
"I didn't bring you anything," he said
apologetically.
"Idiot," she said, her deep blue eyes
bright through her tears. Then, with a teasing smile that
caught at his heart, she said, "I think that I can
extend you credit for tonight. But you'll have to kiss me
as surety."
Even for an exhausted man, it was an
irresistible invitation. Her soft lips were
welcoming, and he fully savored the familiar
shape and taste and pressure. She made a soft
sound in her throat as she responded, and his world
narrowed down to the woman in his arms. There was no
past or future, no one and nothing but Diana,
and she was more than enough.
His energy was reviving in her presence, and when the
kiss finally ended he stepped back. "I'm
sorry to call in such a disgraceful state.
I've been traveling steadily for weeks and have
had these clothes on longer than I can remember."
She didn't dignify his remark with an
answer. Instead, she rang for a maid, then came
back and slipped an arm around his waist.
Abandoning his pack in the drawing room, Gervase
circled her shoulders with his arm and willingly
surrendered to her guidance. Diana ordered the
maid to bring food and wine to her bedchamber; then
they climbed the stairs, linked together in a manner
inefficient but rewarding. As they entered her rooms


she said, "You're in luck. I was just about
to bathe so the hot water is already here."
"That sounds like a good idea, but I warn you, I
may fall asleep in the water."
She smiled impishly. "I'll make sure
you don't drown." Diana's suite of rooms
included a small chamber with one of the only
fitted baths Gervase had ever seen. The long,
deep tub was large enough to accommodate a
full-grown man, and was full of steaming water with a
faint floral scent.
Working with the efficiency she had learned raising a
son, Diana began to undress Gervase. He
accepted her actions with amusement, content to be
passive. "You've lost weight," she commented,
her hands skimming his ribs as she unbuttoned his
battered shirt.
"The meals were not always regular."
Then she stopped and sucked her breath in, her
fingers poised just above the raw, barely healed scar
on his left arm. "Your journey must have been as
dangerous as you expected," she said with a catch in
her voice.
"It was."
She touched her lips to the scar, butterfly-
light in case it still hurt, and he saw that there were
tears in her eyes again. He completed his
undressing in silence, too moved by her tenderness
to speak, but feeling the stirrings of desire in
spite of his utter exhaustion.
None of Gervase's houses ran to the
sybaritic luxury of a fitted tub, and the
unaccustomed pleasure he felt on sinking into the
hot water was so sharp that it was almost pain. The
maid knocked at the door of the sitting room and
Diana left to exchange his filthy clothes for a
tray of food and a bottle of wine. She poured
a glass of the wine and handed it to him, and he sighed
with unmitigated bliss. "I think it is
entirely possible that I have died and gone
to heaven."
Laughing, she said, "Your body is reacting in
a way that they say is denied to angels."
He smiled and laid his palm briefly on
her cheek, then sipped the wine and tilted his head
back against the wall. The hot water loosened
sore muscles he hadn't realized he had, and
he felt weak as an infant. Tomorrow he would think
about his government and personal
responsibilities, and the question of who had warned the


French of his coming, but for now he would
mindlessly absorb the pampering Diana gave so
well.
She had taken off her dressing gown and wore
only a sleeveless low-necked shift made from a
fine cotton that was far from opaque. With
facecloth and soap in hand, she knelt by the tub
and began washing him, the feel of rough fabric like
a massage. Her deft touch was not overtly
erotic, but she was gently thorough and the effect was
seductive in the extreme.
As the wine warmth spread through his veins, he
observed that it was impossible for her to be
ungraceful, no matter how she moved or bent
or turned. She was scrubbing his legs now, her
bare arms plunged deep in the water. Knowing the
words inadequate, he said, "I haven't felt
this well since I left your house in May. Not
even then, because I was leaving you." Reaching out, he
brushed her slim neck with his fingertips as she
leaned over the tub, saying quietly, "You are a
pearl beyond price."
She looked up with a brief shy glance, her
face glowing with pleasure at his words, then
returned to her self-appointed task. He
finished the wine, tucking the glass into the corner
between tub and wall, luxuriating. When the rest of
him had been roundly scrubbed, Diana moved to the
top of the tub to soap his hair, her strong fingers
giving his scalp pleasure undreamed-of. Her
full breasts were tantalizingly revealed by her
water-splashed shift, and as she leaned over him
Gervase surrendered to temptation and took one
into his mouth, feeling the immediate hardening of her
nipple through the sheer fabric.
Her eyes widened and met his as she trembled
under the warm movement of his mouth. Abandoning her
task, her fingers tightened spasmodically in his
hair, then relaxed with pleasure. Her arms
slid down to lie loosely around his neck as her
eyes closed and her breathing quickened. Raising both
hands to her slim rib cage, he held her steady
as he moved his lips up above the low neckline
of the shift to the cleft between her breasts, brushing
kisses to the hollow at the base of her throat.
The warm steamy atmosphere of the bath chamber
gave her skin a moist, delicate tenderness,
and the desire that had been a low smolder became
flame.
As their mouths met in mutual hunger,


Gervase slid his hand up her shapely
leg to the hem of her shift, raising the gauzy
fabric. He had to break the kiss to lift the
shift over her head, but that deprivation was
justified by the uncovering of Diana's full,
stunning beauty. Her glossy chestnut hair
tumbled loose in wanton tresses and her
slender waist emphasized the rich womanly
curves. Of their own accord his hands reached out
to touch and caress as he tried to touch every silken inch
of her.
As he gathered her in his arms to draw her into the
tub, she laughed, torn between amusement and misty
desire. "Do you really think this bath is large enough
for two people?"
"It's a subject that deserves investigation,"
Gervase replied as she joined him, her body
resting lightly on his in the buoyancy of the water.
Her taut nipples teased his chest and their thighs
brushed before her legs settled outside his.
Her wet skin was sleek and smooth as satin, and
he understood why sailors dreamed of mermaids.
When kisses and closeness were no longer enough,
he cupped her round buttocks in his palms and
lifted her easily onto him, sliding deep,
deep into her body. She gasped and melted
bonelessly against his chest, her long chestnut hair
floating fanlike across the surface as their
bodies pulsed together in a slow, exquisite
underwater dance unlike anything Gervase had ever
known. For these moments they were one in body and mind,
their feelings so attuned that as they catapulted
to rapture he was unsure which of them led the way and
which followed, or if there was any difference.
They came down from the peak slowly, still joined
while their rough breathing caused ripples in the
water. What Gervase felt was far more than
satisfaction, or even ecstasy; it was as if he
had crossed into some strange new country with
Diana, and his emotions were too new and profound
to understand.
It was safer to say, "I'm surprised we
didn't raise the water to the boil." One arm
tight around her shoulders to support her above the
surface, he brushed wet hair from her face
tenderly as her cheek nestled against his collarbone.
"I'm going to have fitted tubs installed in every
house I own."
He could feel the vibration of her laughter as
they lay breast-to-breast. Raising her head, she


replied, "I hadn't realized how
enjoyable a bath could be." Cautiously standing
up, she climbed from the tub, wrapping herself in one
of the large towels folded in readiness. "There
seems to be almost as much water on the floor as in
the tub."
The water was cold and lonely without her, so
Gervase ducked under the surface to rinse his
hair, then climbed out and they dried each other with
towels and laughter. With both affection and lust
satisfied, he was almost unconscious with
fatigue. His last memory before falling into the
deepest, most re/l sleep of his life was
enfolding Diana in his arms to hold her by his
heart through the night.

As the young mistress and her lover slept, the
French cook efficiently examined the contents of the
viscount's abandoned pack with an experienced
eye, carefully copying his cryptic notes before
returning everything to where she had found it. After
months of time wasted here, she finally had something of
value to report. Most of what she wrote
meant nothing to her, but she did not doubt that the
Count de Veseul would understand.

When Diana woke, it was early morning and
Gervase was still sleeping soundly. The gray
stranger's face he had worn when she first saw
him the night before was gone, and he looked young and
peaceful. It pleased her enormously to have that
effect. She didn't have the heart to wake him, so
she broke another rule, letting him sleep
while she had breakfast with Geoffrey.
After her son had gone, she went to her chambers
and found Gervase beginning to stir. When she
ventured close to see if he was awake, he
seized her and pulled her into the bed for a morning
greeting that left them both flushed and laughing
breathlessly. Afterward they lay face-to-face, his
hand cradling her head as he drifted toward
sleep again. Then, abruptly, his gray eyes
snapped open. "What time is it?"
"About ten o'clock."
"Good Lord, half the day is gone." He sat
up and ran one hand through his dark hair, which was in
dire need of a cut. Then he slid out of bed and
located his clothing, which had been cleaned,
pressed, and left neatly folded on a chair.
Diana sighed and got up also. She should have


known it wouldn't last. She put her
rumpled dress into some semblance of order, then
pulled the bell twice as a signal for
breakfast to be brought up. She enjoyed watching
Gervase dress. Even his shabby clothes couldn't
hide the beauty of his lean body. Wide
shoulders, narrow hips, long muscular limbs,
and that lovely masculine grace of movement.
... She gave a sigh of pleasure.
"What are you smirking about?" he asked with a quick
smile as he buttoned his shirt.
"I do not smirk," she said with dignity. "I
was merely admiring your body."
He rolled his eyes. "I shouldn't have asked."
She chuckled, delighted to see him in such a
lighthearted mood. He pulled on his worn
jacket, looking every inch a man of distinction. She
supposed that when he was skulking around Europe
he changed his manner, but now he was
unmistakably on his home ground. Breakfast
arrived and the smell of hot country sausages
persuaded him to stay long enough to eat. In fact,
he ate ravenously, having been too tired--or
busy--to eat the night before. Having breakfasted with
her son, Diana wasn't hungry, but she had
tea to keep Gervase company.
When he finished eating, he scooped her up in
a playful hug, lifting her off her feet in
sheer exuberance. "I'm sorry I have to leave, but
as you can imagine, I've a thousand things to do after
being away so long."
"Are you sorry you lingered here?" she asked,
hoping he wouldn't say yes.
He grinned. "I should be, but I'm not."
"Will you come tonight?"
"Yes. Late, but I'll be here." He put
his hands on her shoulders and pulled her toward him
for a quick kiss that momentarily threatened to get out of
hand. Then he was gone.
Diana had her own day's tasks ahead of
her, but for a few minutes she curled up in one
of the wing chairs with a contented smile on her face.
No matter what Gervase said or didn't
say, this morning she felt like a well-loved
woman.

Gervase's feeling of well-being was short-
lived. He had intended to go directly
to Whitehall to find the foreign minister, but his eye
fell on the apothecary shop whose owner had watched


Diana's house. After the warmth of her
welcome, it seemed absurd that he had set a
spy on her; time to pay the fellow off.
The shop was empty at the moment, and the
apothecary, a dusty little man, greeted the
viscount without surprise. "Good morning, my
lord. I trust you enjoy good health." Then, with a
knowing look, he added, "Yon ladybird is a
popular wench."
The words were like a solid blow, puncturing
Gervase's warm glow. Schooling his face
to blankness, he said coolly, "Indeed?"
"Aye. Mind, I can't vouch for the nights, after
I've gone home. During the day, things were
quiet at first, but the last few weeks, she's
had a fair number of visitors." Malice
glinted in his colorless eyes. "Gentlemen
visitors."
Gervase reminded himself that it was the apothecary's
gossipy interest in his neighbors and his knowledge of
prominent Londoners that made him so well-
suited to spying; that and his location. And a caller was
not necessarily a lover. "Did you recognize
any of them?"
"Oh, aye. There was a gentleman we don't
see much in London nowadays, Lord
Farnsworth. He scarcely left the house for a
week or more. And there's a young fellow, comes by in
the afternoon. Saw them kissing in the window myself,
bold as brass."
Gervase felt ill. Had she taken other
lovers from boredom, or because she had reason
to believe that he wasn't coming back? It hardly
mattered. "Do you know who the young fellow was?"
"Aye. Lad called Francis Brandelin."
The apothecary's gaze was voracious as he
looked for a reaction; he was a man who fed on the
griefs of others. Though Gervase had never
identified himself by name, he didn't doubt that
Soames knew who he was, and that Francis was
his cousin. He'd be damned if he gave the old
vulture the satisfaction of a response.
"Was there anyone else?"
Soames scratched his head. "Well, in a
manner of speaking."
"What does that mean?"
"There's a fellow I've seen hanging about when
I've left for the night, a Frenchman."
"Why is he only "in a manner of
speaking"?" Gervase asked, unable to stop


twisting the knife in his gut.
"Never actually saw him go in. I expect
he was waiting till he was sure she was alone.
He'd want her to himself." Soames gave a
lewd chuckle. "He's a lord, the Count de
Veseul."
Gervase had thought nothing could be worse than
hearing that his best friend was one of Diana's lovers,
but he had been wrong. The Count de Veseul was
his own best guess for the French spy known as the
Phoenix, a man of power and depravity. So
he too visited Diana. Had he come as a
lover, or as a French agent buying information about
Gervase? Or both? If she had told
Veseul that Gervase was heading to the Continent, she
might very well have been shocked by his return.
Blindly Gervase reached into his wallet and
took out his last gold pieces and set them on the
counter. He was grateful that a customer came
in, for it spared the necessity of comment.
As he turned toward Whitehall, he
wondered what in all the holy hells he was going
to do about Diana.

Gervase had said it would be late when he
came, and the rest of the household was already in bed as
Diana waited in the drawing room. She felt
a nagging sense that something was wrong, even though he
would surely have sent a message if he was unable
to visit her. When the knock finally came, she
set down her book and flew eagerly to the door.
But her welcoming smile chilled at the sight of
him. Checking her usual greeting, she looked
at him searchingly, trying to decide what was
wrong. The exhaustion of last night was gone, and
so was the lighthearted openness of the morning. Instead,
Gervase was remote, with the cool distance he
maintained when matters between them were strained.
"May I come in?"
She had been staring rudely, she realized.
"Of course."
She stepped aside and he walked past her.
He was in his normal well-tailored attire,
a London gentleman again.
"Have you eaten?" She faltered, trying
to reestablish the pattern that had been between them for so
long.
"Thank you, but I am not hungry." He
walked into the drawing room and she followed.
"Then ... do you want to go to my room?" she


asked uncertainly. Over the months they
had been together, food was optional, but the bed was
constant.
"Again, no, thank you. I wish to talk to you,
and a bed might interfere with that." He stayed on his
feet, prowling, as if using one of her chairs would
be a commitment.
"Gervase, what is wrong? Is it something
I've done?" With growing dread Diana wondered
if the crisis she had been anticipating was at
hand.
"Perhaps." He leaned against a heavy mahogany
table, his hands resting on the edge and one knee bent
with a casualness at odds with the tension that radiated from
him.
Under her defensive fear, Diana felt a
stir of irritation. Choosing a chair, she sat and
said crisply, "It's late. If you wish
to pick a quarrel, please begin before it gets
any later."
"It's not really a quarrel I'm after. It's
just that ..." He paused, searching for words.
"Matters cannot continue as they have been. Whenever I
have asked that you accept my protection, you have always
refused, so I really have no right to complain that you have
been seeing other men. I could live with the idea of
... sharing you, as long as it was just a possibility.
Now that I know it for a fact, I find it quite
unacceptable.
"In the past you have laid down the
ultimatums, and after due consideration I always
accepted them. But this time the ultimatum is mine:
if you will not promise me fidelity, I will have
to end our arrangement."
Such cold words for what had been so warm. It
was only when she looked deep into his ice-gray
eyes that she saw the passion and the pain under the
surface calm. Linking her trembling fingers
together, she said carefully, "Why are you so sure that
I have been seeing other men?"
He shrugged. "You were being watched in my
absence."
"What!" Her hurt and confusion were burned
away by pure outrage. "You set spies on
me?"
"Not seriously, the way I would have done if I
thought you were a foreign agent." He was so
impossibly calm. "Just a casual
surveillance that noted several men, though I
suppose there could be a good number more, since you were


not watched at night. Considering the length
of my absence, it's hardly surprising that a
woman of your passionate nature felt the need
for ... diversion. Perhaps I should be glad that you were
sleeping with several men rather than becoming deeply
involved with one, but I find myself curiously
ungrateful."
For the first time his voice was uneven, an edge of
pain appearing. "But you were quite straightforward about
wanting what I couldn't give you, so I can
hardly blame you for pursuing your goals. Since
Lord Farnsworth's wife died recently, and
newly widowed men are often very persuadable, you
might well become Lady Farnsworth. That would
have the advantage of being immediate, but the disadvantage
that he already has heirs, so a child of yours would he
unlikely to inherit."
A china shepherdess sat in the center of the table
and he lifted it, studying the detail as if
fascinated. "In most ways, my cousin
Francis is a much better choice. He is
young and attractive, of an age to be
romantically in love, far more personable than
I, and he is my heir. But you might have to wait
thirty or forty years to become Lady St.
Aubyn, and you will never be that if he dies before I
do."
He set the shepherdess back on the table.
"Actually, I've never quite understood what you see
in me. There's the money, of course, but you've
never seemed overconcerned with that, especially not
for a woman of your calling.
"Then there's the sex--you certainly seem
to enjoy it, and I don't think it would be possible
to counterfeit such responsiveness--but any number
of men would be delighted to give you as much sex as you
want. Of course, you know that already."
"Stop it!" Aghast, Diana stood
abruptly. "Gervase, have you gone mad? You are
talking rubbish about so many things that I have no idea
how to reply."
His eyebrows arched eloquently. "Oh? I
thought that I was being perfectly reasonable."
She felt like swearing, but lacked an
adequate vocabulary. "That is exactly the
problem! You are talking about matters that are
inherently emotional with all the passion of ... of a
watchman calling the hours. More than that, you are
wrong about almost everything you are saying."
"Am I? I stand willing to be corrected."


Her hands balled into fists of sheer
frustration. "To begin with, neither Lord Farnsworth
nor Francis is my lover. Farnsworth was with
Madeline."
"Really?" After a moment's surprise, he
said consideringly, "I suppose that is possible.
She's an attractive woman."
"Possible has nothing to do with it," she
snapped. "It's the truth. They have loved each
other for many years. They had to separate, but now that
his wife is dead, I don't think anything short
of death will ever part them again."
He smiled faintly. "I suppose that
pleases your romanticism."
"Yes, damn you, it does!"
"Why are you so angry?" he asked, genuinely
curious.
She shook her head and turned away, pacing
nervously across the drawing room. How could she
properly convey how much his every word and attitude
mocked what was most important to her? How much
his spying violated her cherished privacy? How his
cool, detached reasoning infuriated her
emotional nature?
She stopped and pressed her hands to her
temples. Gervase could no more help being rational
and detached than she could help being emotional and
intuitive. And, God help her, she loved
him, even though at the moment she had trouble
remembering why.
Turning to face him across the length of the room,
she tried to match his calm. "We have joked about
being opposites, my lord, but it is sober truth.
We speak different languages, even when we
say the same words, and I don't think I can
explain my anger. At least, not without thinking about
the reasons for a few weeks, then translating my
thoughts into words you might understand. Since you seem
to prefer facts, we will confine ourselves to them. Lord
Farnsworth is not my lover, nor is your cousin
Francis. We are friends, no more."
He looked so skeptical that her anger began
rising again. "Do you assume that no man could
possibly have any interest in me when I am not
on my back? Don't judge everyone by yourself."
His lips thinned. "Oh, I don't doubt there
are men willing to talk with you and no more. But since
you and Francis are given to embracing each other
in windows in broad daylight, I may be forgiven
for thinking your "friendship" an unusually warm


one."
His words jolted her. So someone had seen that
embrace, that innocent gift of comfort. A
simple thing, yet not easily explained, given
Francis' circumstances.
"Is my information wrong?" he inquired
gently.
"It is not wrong, but it is ... misleading.
If you don't believe me, ask your cousin.
No doubt you will believe him sooner than me."
"I really would like to believe you," he said
bleakly, the yearning in his voice unmistakable.
She lifted her hands in a gesture of
helplessness. "Have I ever done anything to make you
doubt my word?"
"Not that I know of." The qualification was an
insult, yet Gervase's voice was matter-of-
fact. "That is what has stopped me every time I
considered leaving you. I knew I wanted you more
than was sane or wise, but you have always been so
sweet, so undemanding, asking only for love. And
moderate remuneration, of course. Whenever I
pulled back, I would remember that you had given
me no cause to doubt your honesty, and would
return to become more besotted than ever."
Settling his weight on the table, he crossed
his legs in front of him. "But there is another
matter that raises a few questions in my mind. You
guessed I was going to the Continent. Did you sell
the information to a French spy, or merely mention it
to another of your lovers without knowing he was a spy?"
Diana gasped, stunned by his words. "What
on earth are you talking about?" she gasped. "Although
I have reserved the right to take other lovers, I
did not do so in your absence. And I don't know
any French spies. I told no one where you were
going, though I think Madeline and Edith might have
guessed."
He cocked his head to one side and appeared
to consider. "I suppose that is a possibility
--that one of them casually mentioned something to someone
else. I am constantly amazed at how far and
fast information travels."
His gray eyes met hers again, as clear and
cold as a winter sky. "I would much rather think the
information got out by accident than that you sent me off
with that touching farewell to what you knew would be
certain death. If I had not been very lucky, I
would not have returned. In that case, cultivating
Francis could have made you Lady St. Aubyn


very soon."
He paused to let the import of his words sink
in before continuing. "Perhaps it was my imagination, but you
seemed quite surprised to see me alive last
night, though afterward you managed to allay
suspicion most effectively."
Diana felt caught in a nightmare, unable
to assimilate the sheer, cold-blooded
cynicism of his words. Her voice shaking, she
asked, "Do you honestly think I could make love
with you, then sell your life? That after arranging your
death, I could set out to seduce your heir in
hopes of achieving a title?"
He lifted his wide shoulders in a shrug.
"I hope not, but that may be just my wishful thinking.
I really do not know."
It was incomprehensible that he could stand there and
coolly say such wounding words. Diana's knees
would no longer support her and she sank into a
deep chair, gripping the arms with numb fingers.
"If you think me capable of such vileness, how can
you sit there and talk so calmly? How can you bear
to be under the same roof with me?"
"I don't know what I believe. That is why
I am here. So, Diana, what is the truth?"
She buried her face in her hands, saying
dully, "What is the point of saying anything?
If I could deliberately betray you, my
protests of honesty are worthless. If I did
not, you have only my word on it, and you appear
to value that very little."
"Actually, I prefer to give you the benefit
of the doubt."
"How generous of you, my lord," she said without
raising her head. She wished he would go, but even
worse than the pain of his presence and his accusations
was the fear that if he left, he would never come
back.
She did not hear his soft footsteps, and it was
a surprise to feel his warm hands take her
shivering ones as he knelt before her. "Diana,
I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It has not
been my intent to hurt you, simply to learn the
truth. Whether or not you have had other lovers in the
past, the way the French learned of my journey--
those things are less important to me than whether
you will promise not to see other men in the future."
She raised her head and looked at him
wearily. His face was a scant foot away, the
sculpted lines and planes more familiar than her


own features. In some ways she knew
him better than she knew herself; in others, he was
alien and incomprehensible. "Why does it matter
so? Is it because you are so possessive that you can't
bear to think of another man playing with your toys?"
His hands tightened on hers, but he didn't
look away. "It matters because ..." He drew
a steadying breath, his gaze locked to hers, "...
because I love you."
She had wanted desperately to hear those words,
and now she was so drained that she wasn't sure what
they meant. Trying to suppress her tears, she
whispered, "How can you love me if you don't
trust me?"
She was so close that the anguish in his eyes was
unmistakable. After a long pause he said, "I
didn't know that love and trust had anything to do with
each other."
"They do to me." Gently disengaging her hands,
she sat up straight. "Do you really mean what you
said, or are you just saying that you love me so I'll
do what you want me to?"
His dark skin drew sharply taut over his high
cheekbones. Sitting back on his heels, he
said, "I suppose I deserved that."
She had no more intended to hurt Gervase than
he had intended to hurt her. The fact that neither of
them wished to wound did not make it any less
devastating.
"I spoke the truth, Diana. I love you
as I have never loved any other woman." His
sincerity was too raw to be feigned. "If it were
possible, I would marry you. Since it is not, I
hope love is enough to hold you, because it is the most
I can give."
The room was utterly silent. Diana felt
faint as the blood drained from her face. He had
come the entire distance that she had wanted, and now that
he had, she was terrifyingly uncertain how
to proceed. Finally she said unevenly, "It is a
compliment that you contemplated marriage, but of
course a man of your position and consequence could not
possibly take a courtesan to wive."
His detachment shattered and he stood, looming
over her as he gripped her chin with one hand and forced
her to look at him. All the passion she knew
he was capable of burned in his eyes as he
swore, "Consequence be damned! Make no
mistake, Diana, if I could, I would marry
you tomorrow."


As Madeline had said, passion was
dangerous, a double-edged sword, unpredictable
in its consequences. Diana had wanted to break
through Gervase's hard shell of control. Now,
terrifyingly, she had. He had always been
gentle, careful with his formidable strength, but now he
was frightening in his intensity. His clear gray eyes
were no longer like ice, but were windows to the fierceness
of the emotions burning inside him.
"I would most certainly marry you"--his grip
tightened convulsively, and a dozen heartbeats
passed before he could continue--"because that would give me
the right to kill any other man that touched you."



His fingers tight around Diana's jaw after those
too-revealing violent words, Gervase felt the
pulse in her throat. She closed her eyes for a
moment, the thick dark lashes shadowing her
delicate skin, then opened them again. She had
been bewildered and defensive, but now she
challenged: "If you feel that strongly, then why
won't you marry me? A wife swears
fidelity, and I would honor my vows."
He let go of her and spun away. Nine
years ago he had known that someday he must pay the
penalty for his unforgivable crime against an
innocent, and now the price was being exacted from his very
marrow. He kept his back turned to Diana
to conceal how difficult it was to answer. Taking a
deep, deep breath, he replied, "I can't
marry you because I have a wife."
The silence stretched, unbearably empty,
until finally he turned to Diana. She was
curled tightly in the chair, her knees drawn
under her, her face unreadable but her body tense
and rejecting. "So the rumors of the mad wife in
Scotland are true?"
Except for the barest explanation to his lawyer,
he had never once spoken of that black night in
the Hebrides, but he owed Diana the truth of
why he could not make her his wife. Besides, he
felt obscurely that having to confess his crime
to the person he cared most about was part of his
punishment. "She is in Scotland, but she's not
mad. She's ... simple."
Diana's beautiful eyes widened in
astonishment. "You mean ... you married a girl
who is mentally deficient?" At his nod, she


continued, "Why on earth did you do that?"
His fingers raked his dark hair in agitation; then
he sat opposite Diana, knowing he must tell
her the full damning story. "I married her at
the point of a gun, or close enough."
As she sat in waiting silence, he leaned
forward and braced his elbows on his knees, his head
bowed over his linked fingers. "It happened nine
years ago. I was touring the Hebrides and
stopped at an inn on the Isle of Mull. One
of the barmaids was easily persuaded to visit me
after she finished work."
His fingers tightened. "I'd had too much
to drink, and when I went to my room I didn't
realize that the woman in my bed was not the barmaid.
The girl who was there started screaming and her father
burst in. He was certainly mad, a crazed,
sex-obsessed vicar named Hamilton who
insisted that I had compromised his daughter and must
marry her."
"I suppose this is where the gun comes in,"
Diana said in a voice of studied neutrality.
"Yes, although I was drunk enough and angry enough that
I took the pistol away from him." The viscount
stared down at his interwoven hands, remembering the
hoarse voice and compelling eyes of the mad vicar,
who believed his witless daughter was an
irresistible temptress luring men to sin. The
mad vicar, who had been his father-in-law for all
these years.
"Why do you say the girl was simple?"
Diana asked, curiosity overcoming her
detachment.
"She could hardly speak. The few words she said
were almost incomprehensible. And her eyes and face
were ... wrong. Empty. As if there was no one
there."
More wondering silence. Then, "Under the
circumstances, why on earth did you go through with the
ceremony?"
Gervase shook his head. "I'm not really
sure. I didn't realize something was wrong with
her until later. At first I believed
Hamilton and his daughter had arranged it all
to trap me, and perhaps they did--I still don't know.
But then I found out he was a clergyman, a
gentleman of sorts, so his daughter could be
considered gently bred." He shrugged helplessly.
"Even though it was unintentional, I had
compromised her. And so, because I was confused,


uncertain of the right thing to do, raised to be
a "gentleman," I married her." With bitter
humor he added, "I have never gotten drunk from
that day to this."
Diana still sat in that tight withdrawn knot,
her eyes hooded and inscrutable. Ironic that they
were reversing their earlier roles; now she was composed
but he was distraught. Her gaze strangely
intent, she asked, "When you had had time to think
clearly, why didn't you have the marriage
annulled? After all, it took place under
coercion."
Shaking his head, he returned his gaze to his
hands. "I never thought I would want to marry, so
an annulment didn't seem important." He
gave a twisted smile. "I never imagined that a
woman like you existed. But even if I had wanted
it, an annulment was impossible."
"Why?" Her gentle voice was relentless.
"Because ... the marriage was consummated."
"So you seduced a girl of feeble mind? I
suppose it wouldn't have been difficult." Her
cool voice had a knife-sharp edge. "Few
women could resist you when you are in a persuasive
mood."
"I didn't know then that there was anything wrong with
her." The blank child's face, slack and swollen
with tears, was vivid to his inner eye. Then his
guilt forced him to add, "And I didn't
seduce her."
"Oh, she seduced you?" Diana said,
caustic now.
"No, that isn't what happened." Gervase was
unable to sit still any longer and he stood, his
agitation needing physical release. "I was
angry, she was my wife ... and I forced her."
He turned to Diana, willing her to understand,
to extend some of her infinite compassion to help him,
but she simply stared at him, wearing the blind mask
of Justice.
"She was scarcely more than a child, she didn't
really understand what was happening, and I raped her."
His anguished voice rose. "In my anger and
wounded pride and drunkenness, I overpowered and
injured a helpless innocent."
He closed his eyes, trying to block out the
memories of the girl's pain and panic as the
walls reflected echoes of his guilt and
self-loathing. Hoarse and low, he said,
"Don't bother to say anything. I've already said


it to myself a thousand times."
He whirled away again, covering the length of the
room in angry strides, wishing as he had so
often before that he could repeal that moment of time, that he
had left the girl without touching her, that he did not
have to admit such base behavior to the woman he
loved.
Diana's caustic voice followed him.
"How nobly you are suffering for your sins. I'm
sure your guilt has been a great comfort to the child you
ravished and abandoned."
Gervase swung back to face her, shocked
by the bitter condemnation of her words. Defensive,
he said, "I couldn't undo my actions, but I
made a settlement on her behalf, contingent on
her being properly cared for. I could do no more."
"Oh?" Diana inquired with a mockery of
sweetness. "You have visited her, seen to her
welfare, made certain that her mad father hasn't
abused her?"
He flushed at her sarcasm. "I went
to India within a fortnight. My lawyer took care
of the arrangements. He would have informed me if
anything was wrong."
"And of course you didn't want to know more. You
signed over some money, then left her to rot."
Her voice was a whiplash. "Or does your
lawyer visit her, to see for himself that she is
well-treated?"
"I don't think he has ever gone in
person," was the reluctant acknowledgment.
"All your guilt and regret are for your
unhappiness, your failure to live up to your own
standards of honor." Diana uncoiled from the
chair, her slim body radiating fury.
"Nothing you have said shows genuine concern for the girl you
married. Nothing! Her mad father may be keeping
her locked in a stinking cell. He may have sold
her to a brothel. She may be dead. How would you
or your precious lawyer know?"
"Why the devil are you so outraged?" Gervase
said incredulously. He strode across the room,
stopping a scant arm's length away from her. "I
should think you would be praying that she's dead. Then you
could be a viscountess. Isn't that what you want
--position, security, comfort?"
In their months together, he had never seen her
truly angry, and it was shocking to see such rage
in the woman who had won him with her gentleness.
In a voice that trembled on the edge of hysteria,


she cried, "In a world where men rape
innocents and abandon them without another moment's
serious thought, you wonder why I am outraged?
Ask any woman who has ever been victim of a
man's selfishness and violence why she is
angry. Ask Madeline. Ask Edith. Ask
the child you married."
Gervase had wondered how a woman like
Diana had turned to harlotry, and now he
knew, not in detail, but in essence. She, too,
had been grievously injured, and her grief and
hard-earned compassion made her a champion of
all women's anguish. Her fury came from some
well of torment buried deep inside her.
Understanding that, he could not return anger.
And Diana's accusations were just; the thought of what
he had done to Mary Hamilton had tormented
him, but more because it was proof of his own deeply
flawed nature than because of empathy with his
victim. After making a minimal reparation, after
handing over money he would scarcely miss, he had
thought no more about the girl's welfare, not really.
No matter that their marriage was a mockery; the
girl was his responsibility, one he had not
properly discharged. He closed his eyes,
shuddering; he had dismissed her as barely human.
In its way, that was a crime as wicked as the
initial act of violence. God only knew
what kind of life she lived with that evil father of
hers.
Gervase had faced black truths about himself
before, and he did not let himself turn away from this
one. He took a deep breath, then said
flatly, "You are right. I have behaved as badly
over the last years as I did at the beginning."
Diana had been staring at him, her fists
clenched with the force of her feelings, but his words
undercut her anger. Calmer now, she asked,
"Are you going to do anything about it?"
"I'll find out from my lawyer where she is
living and visit her myself. I imagine I will know
what to do when I see her condition." He thought a
moment. "The sooner it is done, the better. I
can leave the day after tomorrow. I suppose I'll be
gone a fortnight or so."
Even though she was under control again, Diana still
looked unapproachable, her face set and
remote. Now more than ever Gervase wanted
to hold her, to forget his transgressions in the
sweet depths of her body, but there was still too much


anger in the air. Nor did he
deserve comfort or reward until he had discharged
the debts of the past.
Instead, he picked up his hat and left. As
he went out the front door, he humorlessly
considered the irony of having a mistress who was so
concerned about the welfare of his wife.

As the door closed, Diana sank back
into her chair, her shaking body huddled in the
circle of her arms as the scene with Gervase
replayed in her head. You were watched in my
absence. ... Did you sell the information to a
French spy, or casually mention it to one of your
other lovers? Did he really think that she could
betray him? Or give herself to another man when
there was such intimacy between them?
I have a wife ... she's simple. ...
She was scarcely more than a child, and I raped
her. Diana had known that some crisis was
imminent, that long-buried secrets would erupt from
the depths like lava, but still his words astonished her.
She had never anticipated such a confession, nor
had she expected the shattering fury that had
possessed her.
Because I love you ... because I love you.
The words she had longed forwith hope and uncertainty
echoed in her mind, and she let the tears she had
been fighting flow unchecked. The crisis was far
from over, there was still much to be resolved--but he
loved her, as she loved him, and surely that would be
enough to carry them through what lay ahead.
Exhausted though she was by emotional storms, when
Diana returned to her rooms she began
to pack.

Gervase made no attempt to sleep that
night, knowing that his feelings were strung too
tightly to permit rest, and that he had much to do before
he headed north. He wrote a short note
to his lawyer, asking for his wife's current
direction, and no more; it would be better to learn
everything else himself.
Through the rest of the night and into the day, he
swiftly dealt with the most urgent of his business.
Though all of it was important, nothing
unexpected appeared until late in the afternoon,
when he received a dispatch from one of his agents.
Enclosed were documents taken from an enemy courier
captured in Kent just before embarkation to France.


Under the seal of the Phoenix, Gervase
found a neatly coded summary of the information that he
himself had just brought back from the Continent.
He stared at the tiny, cribbed notations on the
thin sheets of paper as a wave of nausea
broke over him. He had been back in England
for less than three days, and already the Phoenix
had learned what he had discovered and was alerting his
masters. Perhaps the information had been sold by a spy
at Whitehall, but with cruel clarity Gervase
recalled leaving his pack in Diana's drawing
room. He had slept late the next morning,
and when he woke his cleaned clothes and pack had
been waiting by her bed.
There had been ample time for her to search his
belongings, to copy the terse notes he had made.
There's a fellow hanging about, a French lord,
the Count de Veseul. He had asked her about
Farnsworth and Francis, but they had not discussed
Veseul. She had denied selling information or
taking any new lovers in his absence, but perhaps
Veseul was an old lover. Or perhaps she was
simply a liar, beginning to end, and he was a
gullible, passion-poisoned fool.
Sitting at his desk, Gervase buried his
head in his hands, achingly aware that he had had
only one good night's sleep in weeks, had not
slept at all the night before. He was in no
condition to judge Diana's truth or falsity.
All he could do was face his problems one at a
time.
First the trip north to locate his wife and
make what provisions seemed necessary; Diana's
outrage had shown him that this was a task that must be
accomplished for its own sake, as well as
to demonstrate his remorse and good faith
to Diana. He must assure himself that Mary
Hamilton was alive and well-treated, and as
comfortable as possible.
He must also talk to the mad vicar. Though he
had not mentioned the possibility to Diana, it was
conceivable that he could buy off Hamilton and
purchase his freedom, though he would not do it at
the price of the girl's welfare; not again. While
technically the marriage was not eligible for
annulment, it would be a simple lie to say that it
had not been consummated.
He would continue to support Mary
Hamilton, so she would not be injured by an
annulment. A lie that hurt no one was a small


price to pay to have Diana his wife,
always by his side, always in his arms ... always
assuming she was the woman he thought she was, rather
than the traitorous bitch that the evidence pointed
to. ...
The viscount rubbed his eyes and sat up,
battling his fatigue. The work he did for his
country was more significant than his tangled
personal affairs. The endless wars with France were
entering a new phase now that Britain had
troops on the Iberian Peninsula, and if
Veseul was the Phoenix, he needed to be
stopped once and for all.
Gervase thought for a while, then gave a smile
of bleak, humorless satisfaction. There was a
way to bring the pieces together. It was time for an
Aubynwood house party. Once a year he would
invite a number of government ministers and other
prominent folk to his estate to relax and discuss
politics and make policy without the distractions
of London. This year the list would include the
Count de Veseul. He would also invite
Diana.
He began jotting down names of persons for his
secretary to write. If Diana were innocent and
loving, he would have her with him, and could begin
to introduce her to society. And if she were a
traitor, perhaps she would betray herself with
Veseul.
At the thought, he halted, a drop of ink
poised on the tip of his quill until it fell
on the paper in a black, spreading stain. If
Diana were not what she seemed, it would be, quite
literally, unbearable.

Traveling only with his servant Bonner, who
could act as both valet and groom, Gervase
headed north early the next morning. The location
his lawyer had given him was a surprise, but of
course the Hamiltons would not have been staying at
an inn if their home had been on Mull. At
least the journey would be shorter than he had
expected. They traveled fast and long, changing
horses at every posting stop, taking turns at the
reins. In the silences, there was ample time to think
of Diana, to wonder what the future held.
The farther north they went, the more optimistic
Gervase became. Quite simply, he could not
believe his mistress to be dishonest; he had seen
her with her son and her friends as well as himself, and


no actress could counterfeit such warmth
over so many months. And there was no real proof that
she was anything other than what she appeared to be;
Veseul had not been observed entering her house;
the sly apothecary might have been incorrect in his
identification. The stolen information had probably
been copied at Whitehall by an underpd clerk
who was looking for extra income. It had been
foolish to think otherwise.
He even permitted himself to imagine what life
would be like if he bought himself free of his marriage.
Though technically a courtesan, Diana had
never lived the public and flamboyant life of a
Harriette Wilson and she should be accepted in
most social circles. For Gervase that was not
an important consideration, but he wanted
Diana to receive all the respect due his wife.
They could have children together. He was genuinely fond
of Geoffrey and would see that the boy was well-
established. But he also wondered, with increasing
urgency, what it would be like to have children of his own,
sons and daughters like Diana, whom he could
give the constant love and guidance he had never
had.
The bright dreams grew through three days of
travel.
His wife's residence was not in the village
proper, and Gervase was directed out a narrow,
rutted track that wound ever higher, ending at an
isolated cottage. Wondering what the devil
had led Hamilton to bring his daughter to such a
remote spot, he left the reins to Bonner and
knocked on the heavy oak door.
As he waited for a response, he listened to the
wind whispering through the gorse and heather. It seemed
a peaceful place, well-tended, with masses of
cheerful flowers planted. Perhaps Mary
Hamilton was happy here; if she was, he
certainly wouldn't take her away, merely
assure himself that she was well-cared-for. He
wondered suddenly if she would recognize him.
If so, he hoped she wouldn't recoil in
terror; this was going to be difficult enough as it was.
The young woman who opened the door was a
pretty country lass with dark hair and a face that
looked ready to smile, though now she studied the
visitor gravely. When he asked for Mary
Hamilton, the young woman nodded, then directed
him through a door on the left. His first quick glance
showed that it was furnished in a simple country


style of plain wood and colorful
fabrics, cozy and unpretentious, but most of his
attention was drawn to the woman standing in front of the
window, her back to him. The light was bright
outside, obscuring detail, showing only erect
posture and a slim figure.
At the sound of his entrance, she slowly turned
to face him. It took time for his vision to adjust,
for him to see enough to confirm his first, impossible
impression.
The woman was Diana.



Gervase stared at her, startled and more than a
little angry. "For God's sake, Diana, what
are you doing here? Did you wheedle the direction out
of my lawyer and come to check that I was doing what
I said I would?"
Her face was pale over a soft brown dress
whose simplicity emphasized her graceful
figure and rich coloring. She shook her head.
"No, Gervase. I am here because this is my
home. I lived here for eight years, and I still
own it."
He tried to make sense of her words. "Then
... you know Mary Hamilton? Have you been the one
taking care of her?"
"No." She moistened dry lips with her
tongue, then spoke, her voice almost too low
to be heard. "I was christened Mary Elizabeth
Diana Lindsay Hamilton. I am your
wife, the girl you married against your will."
The silence stretched, then snapped.
"Impossible." Gervase felt the numbness of
shock even as his voice denied her words. "You are
intelligent, normal. You look nothing like her."
"Do you really remember what the girl you
married looked like? Think back, then say she
couldn't be me." Diana's voice was level, but
she was braced against the window frame for support,
her fingers white-knuckled on the sill.
As they stood separated by the width of the cheerful
room, he tried to connect his memories with the
woman before him, the woman he knew so
intimately. He had thought the girl in the inn had
dark brown hair and brown eyes, but Diana's
chestnut hair and lapis eyes were dark in dim
light. Surely he would have remembered
Diana's exquisite features, her heart-


shaped face? But the face of the girl he
had married had been veiled in dark hair,
distorted with fear and weeping. She had not had
Diana's lush feminine body, but she had been
scarcely more than a child, her body just beginning
to develop.
A slow chill of horror began deep inside
him even as he spoke the key denial. "Her
mind was afflicted. She could barely speak. Her
face was slack, her eyes strange. You could
never have looked like that."
"No?" Diana's voice was bitter. "It
isn't difficult when one has been drugged
into unconsciousness. You were wrong about me, but
correct about my father--he was quite, quite mad. When
he traveled, he took me along for fear I
would lie with half the parish in his absence. When we
stayed at an inn, he would force me to take
laudanum, waiting until I swallowed it.
Then he would lock the door from the outside to be
sure I couldn't leave."
She waited for the beginnings of belief on his
face before continuing. "Mind you, I can understand why you
decided there was something wrong with me. I had
difficulty waking up, and when I did, at first
I thought you were one of the horrible nightmares that come
with laudanum. I couldn't understand or believe
what was happening."
Diana halted, unable to continue as she
recalled the night in full, agonizing detail.
Waking up to the terror of a stranger's invasion;
her father's indecent delight at the thought of ridding
himself of his loathsome daughter; the strange, unreal
ceremony. Then her husband's fury, his
implacable strength as he ripped and defiled her
body in unimaginable ways.
She shuddered, then spoke with rapid sarcasm,
trying to bury the memories. "Of course, if
one is going to be raped, there is something to be said
for being drenched in laudanum first."
The memories were horrible, but they came from the
past and were of much less importance than the
present and future. Deliberately she slowed
her breathing, which had quickened in remembered panic.
"When our paths crossed in London, I was
terrified that you recognized me, the way you stared,
then came over and took me out of that group. But you
never showed any sign of knowing who I was. I
suppose that was because you were so sure you had married a
simpleton."


He asked flatly, "Did you
recognize me?"
"Oh, yes, my lord husband," she said
softly, "I recognized you the moment I saw
you." The furious face of the man who had so
reluctantly married her had been burned
indelibly on her brain--the wide cheekbones,
the clear light eyes, the chiseled lips twisted
into a thin line. She would have known him anywhere, even
if half a century had passed.
There had been times in the past when she thought
Gervase remote, but they were nothing compared to the
bleak withdrawal in his face now. Speaking more
to himself than to her, he said, "And so you devised the
perfect revenge. You trained yourself in harlotry
and sought me out, knowing that no man could resist you."
He was staring as if he had never seen her before,
as if she were some unspeakable creature from the
depths of the earth. "How long did it take you
to discover the finest, cruelest method of injuring
me? Did you know in advance, or did you only
realize it when you came to know me better?"
"Neither!" Diana was startled and suddenly
frightened. "I didn't seek you out for revenge.
When I came to London, I had no thought--no
desire--to meet you. But then I did, and since
you wanted me, it seemed like a God-given
opportunity to become acquainted, to learn what
kind of a man I was married to. And when I did
..." Her voice faltered. It was difficult
to continue in the face of his revulsion. "And when I
did ... I came to love you."
"You lying, traitorous bitch." The
viciousness in his voice was scalding. "You can
actually stand there and play the innocent, even after so
many lies."
He paced a few steps closer, his lean
body explosive with fury. "And I thought your
father mad for saying you had a vile nature.
Tell me, Diana, how many men have you lain with,
or are there too many to count? How many times have you and
your friends laughed and mocked me for my incredible
stupidity? were you working with the Count de Veseul
all along? Or did he approach you and you
decided that compromising my work as well as my
soul would be a delightful and profitable bonus?"
"None of that is true!" she cried. "No
one, not even Madeline or Edith, knows that we
are married. I have never given my body
to Veseul or to any other man. Only to you, my


husband. And the first time, I didn't
give it even to you--you took it, against my will."
Even in her fear at how disastrously wrong this
confrontation was going, she could not restrain the
bitterness of her last sentence.
"Do you honestly think I will believe a word you
say when you have been deceiving me since the moment I
met you?" he asked incredulously. "Only my
blind, mind-warping lust kept me from seeing through you.
You always seemed too perfect to be true, but I
wanted to believe in you." Pain roughened his
voice. "My God, how I wanted
to believe."
"Of course I deceived you at first," she said with
exasperation. "Don't you remember saying that if
I ever came near you or any of your
properties, or used your name, that you would revoke
the settlement and leave me penniless?"
"Ah, yes, I should have known that money was at the
bottom of it," he said scathingly, "even though you
did such a fine job of pretending to be less
grasping than most of your kind."
"That's exactly why I wouldn't let you
settle a regular income on me," Diana
said, hoping that he would see this as a proof of
integrity. "It seemed wrong to be taking your
money twice over when you didn't know who I
was."
"So instead of asking more for yourself, you had your friend
Madeline do it, preserving your facade of
saintly unconcern."
"What are you talking about?"
His mouth curved up cynically. "Stop playing
the innocent. It won't work anymore."
Bewildered, Diana said, "Gervase, the
only money I have is the thousand pounds a year you
settled on me, and I've saved as much of that as
possible for Geoffrey's future."
"Ah, yes, Geoffrey," he said, his voice
soft and deadly. "Do you know who the little bastard's
father is?"
Quicker than thought, she struck him. Her palm
hit his cheek with a flat slapping sound, the force of
it rocking him back. She recoiled, aghast not just
at the rage in Gervase's eyes but in horror
at herself, that she could be physically violent
to someone she loved. For a moment she feared that he
would offer violence in return, but with visible effort
he held himself absolutely still.
"Another veil falls away," he said


sardonically, the mark of her hand reddening
on his cheek. "I thought you honest, kind,
intelligent, gentle. There isn't much left of
my illusions."
Shaking her head in distress, she whispered,
"Gervase, I'm truly sorry. But how could you
say that about your own son?"
He raised his brows in disbelief. "You want
to pass your bastard off as my son? I suppose
you can try--he looks so much like you that anyone could
be his father. And I suppose that is literally true
--any man could be his father."
"Don't you ever look at anyone?" she
exclaimed furiously. "If you really saw
Geoffrey, you would know how much he resembles you.
That's one reason I didn't want you to meet
him. But you no more recognized him than you did
me."
His mind worked, trying to find the resemblance.
"He's too young. A child of mine would have to be
eight years old now, and what is Geoffrey
... six? ... seven at the outside?"
Her hands were clenching and unclenching as she said with
careful precision, "He was born on the tenth of
February in the year 1800--nine months after
our farce of a marriage. He's small for his
age, but he's eight and a half years old now.
I couldn't bear to name him for his father, so I chose
Geoffrey because it had the same initial as
Gervase. Shall I show you the registration of his
birth?"
He looked unbearably torn. She knew
then how much he wanted a son, in spite of his
belief that he was unworthy of children. "That would
prove nothing. You could have borne a babe who
died in infancy, with Geoffrey the child of a later
liaison."
Defeated, Diana covered her face with her
hands. She had known that her identity would be a
shock to Gervase, but had never imagined this
total, tormented repudiation. If he did not have
the desire to believe her, proof would mean very little.
Ignoring her withdrawal, he asked, "Tell
me, did you pay the barmaid to disappear so you could
take her place? I've always wondered just how
big a fool I was that night."
She dropped her hands wearily. "You still
don't know? It was my room you entered. Since you
were drunk, you must have gotten lost in those rabbity
passages."


"I should have known it was a waste of time
to ask you for the truth," he said caustically. "It
couldn't have been your room--the door opened with my
key."
There was a chair behind her, and Diana folded
into it, too drained to stand. When Geoffrey was an
infant, she used to sit in this chair to nurse him.
"Those were old, crude locks. Any one of the
keys would probably open every door in the inn."
That gave him pause. Then, "You really are a
clever little liar, knowing how to raise doubts. I
shouldn't fault myself for having believed you for so
long."
She looked up, wondering if there was a way
to break through his anger to the underlying fairness. Perhaps
it was too soon to expect him to be fair. Too
soon, or perhaps too late. "Didn't you ever
wonder where your luggage was? Not in my room."
He simply looked at her impassively,
then turned to leave. She jumped up and went after
him. "Gervase, wait! What are you going to do?"
His hard stare kept her at a distance. "I shall
walk out and get in my carriage and return
to London. If I am very lucky, I will never
see or hear from you again."
She lifted one hand to touch him, then dropped it
again. "How can you just leave? We are married, we
have a son."
He laughed bitterly. "You are truly an
extraordinary woman. Did you honestly think that
after you made your grand announcement, told me how
much of a fool you had made of me, how our time
together was a lie from beginning to end--did you really
think I would welcome you as my wife and install
you as Lady St. Aubyn for all the world to see?"
Contemptuous lines showed beside his mouth. "You
wouldn't like the change in status. The gentlemen who
now pay for your favors would expect them for free
if you were of their class."
"Will you stop talking as if I'm the Whore of
Babylon?" she cried. "I didn't tell you
the whole truth, but I never lied to you, not once."
As silence lengthened, a muscle twitched in his
jaw. Finally he said, "Your whole life was a
lie."
The desolation in his voice was so profound that she
could no longer suppress the tears she had been
fighting. As they flowed unchecked down her
cheeks, she made a last desperate attempt
to remind him of what they had had. "I love you,


and you said that you loved me. Doesn't that
mean anything?"
"Oh, yes, it meant something," he said
softly. "But apparently the woman I loved
never existed."
"Gervase, please!" Her cry came from the
heart.
He put one hand on the doorknob, but turned
back to look with the bleakness that lies beyond hope.
"Strange. I was willing to make a whore my
wife, but I find it quite unacceptable that my wife
is a whore. Good-bye, Diana."
The quiet sound of the door closing was a death
knell.
Diana stood very still in the center of the room,
knowing that when her numbness wore off, the pain would be
overwhelming. Carriage noises sounded outside,
the jingle of harness, the clopping of hooves, as
Gervase left her for the last time.
She had thought often of how he might react when
he found out that she was his wife. Certainly he would
be shocked. Possibly he might be a little
angry, but it had been equally possible that he would
be amused, that the idea that he had taken his wife
as a mistress might tickle his dry sense of
humor.
Most of all, Diana had thought he would be
relieved. When they had married, he had committed
an unpardonable assault, but after his fury had
died down he had been remorseful and gentle with
her. When she came to know him in London, she
had learned how honorable he was, and how
unworthy he felt himself to be. She had thought he
would welcome the news that his wife could forgive
him, and that, against all the odds, they had a real
marriage.
The one thing she had never expected was that
revealing the past would destroy what was between them.
How could it, when they loved each other? She had
always known him to be logical and fair-minded; she
had never dreamed that he would react to the discovery of
her identity with such furious condemnation.
When the sound of wheels had faded, she walked
out of the sitting room. Madeline's niece
Annie waited, her expression concerned.
Annie was the eldest child of Isabel Wolfe and
she had fallen in love with a young man
insufficiently godly for her mother's taste. It
had pleased Madeline and Diana to offer the use
of High Tor Cottage so the girl could marry


her sweetheart.
Annie must be speaking, because her lips moved,
but Diana heard nothing. Shaking her head as a
sign that she wanted to be alone, she went out the
front door, across the marks of carriage wheels
and horses' hooves, and down the hill to the
stream.
Sitting on the grassy bank, Diana took
off her slippers and stockings. Still moving with
unnatural calm, she dabbled her feet in the
small pool where Geoffrey had almost drowned when
he was a toddler. In happier times they had
played here, her son exhibiting the normal child's
affinity for mud.
Gervase was gone. He was not a man to love
lightly, or to leave lightly. Or to change his
mind once he came to a decision. She had known
they were opposites in temperament, but had not
realized all that implied. For her, love was
enough, would always be enough. She had thought that if
Gervase came to love her, the bond between them would
be unbreakable.
She had been wrong. Instead, she had injured
him grievously, had destroyed his love and
trust, perhaps irrevocably, given him a wound from
which he might never recover.
Where had she made her mistake? Numbly
she reviewed the past months. Perhaps it had been
at Aubynwood, when they had weathered their first
crisis. Instinct had urged her to tell
Gervase the truth then, but she had not; it had been
easier to let matters drift. She had thought it
better to wait until he could admit that he was in
love with her, thinking he would more easily accept the
truth then.
Instead, the reverse was true. Loving her, he
was far more vulnerable than he had been at
Aubynwood; the result was his conviction that he
had been betrayed. The thought of his agony was as
devastating as her own; more so, because of her guilt.
Rolling over on her stomach, she buried her
head in her arms and let anguish take her.

The return to London was accomplished in dead
silence. Except for the barest speech required
to change horses and stop for the night, Gervase
spoke to Bonner only once, when he asked
what the servant had found when he had packed his
master's possessions that fatal night on
Mull.


Without twitching an eyelid at the
question, Bonner replied, "One of the tavern girls
was there. She'd been waiting quite some time and was
incensed at your neglect. I took the liberty
of giving her a small douceur for her
inconvenience, from the funds I carried for travel
expenses."
"And my luggage was there?" Gervase pulled in
the horses to negotiate heavy ruts. He was
doing all of the driving; the concentration helped keep
thought at bay.
Bonner nodded. "Aye. Appeared to be
untouched, but I didn't check because the island
Scots are an honest lot. Was something missing?"
The servant acted as if the incident had been the
previous night, not over nine years before. But of
course, it had not been the sort of night one would
forget.
"No, nothing was missing." Except his wife,
who had not, apparently, been in Gervase's
room, but in her own.
He thought back over months of lovemaking and
realized that while Diana had always been
sweetly responsive, she had never shown the
hardened professionalism of the true courtesan.
He had been so besotted that he had never even
noticed. She might indeed be as innocent as she
claimed--or this might be one more example of her
brilliant talent for falsehood.
It was only a slight detour to Aubynwood,
and the upcoming house party made a convenient
excuse for stopping. The necessary orders required very
little time; then the viscount asked his housekeeper where
his mother's portrait hung. The painting held
pride of place in the servants' hall, where its
quality was much esteemed. Sir Joshua
Reynolds would have been amused, perhaps, to know where
his masterpiece had come to rest.
Gervase ignored the beautiful, amoral
face of his mother to study the dark-haired boy who
looked up at her so wi/lly. After he had
scrutinized the profile, the shape of the ears, the
line of nose and jaw, the conclusion was
unmistakable: the picture could almost have been of
Geoffrey. The viscount remembered the tenant
farmer whom he and Geoffrey had visited at
Aubynwood, who had looked so sharply at the
boy, and then at his landlord.
Though he had half-forgotten it, Gervase had
been small for his age as a child. Only when he


reached twelve had he begun to grow,
matching and overtaking the height of other boys his
age.
And the seizures. He had had a few;
Geoffrey had more. were such things inherited? Quite
possibly.
So Geoffrey, with his intelligence and courage
and sunny nature, was his son. Thinking of his
wife as abnormal, not quite human, Gervase had
literally never considered the possibility that that one
brief, violent act of sexual union might
produce a child. Gervase set the thought aside,
not yet able to face it. The fact that Geoffrey was
his son didn't make Diana any less a
liar or a whore--but it was another complication in the
hell of his marriage.

It was late evening when Diana arrived home,
exhausted by the long coach journey. After the scene
with Gervase, she had spent more than a week at
High Tor Cottage, craving the peace as a
balm for her misery. Now it was good to be with her
family. Geoffrey was already in bed, but
Madeline and Edith took one look at
Diana's haggard face and wrapped her in
affectionate care. She had not told her friends why
she went north and they had not asked, but the time had
come to reveal her history.
After she had bathed and eaten, the three women
gathered in Maddy's sitting room. Over endless
cups of tea laced with brandy, Diana
described her past in a long monologue, from
her childhood in Scotland to her bizarre forced
marriage, including how her father had abandoned her
to her husband's nonexistent care, and ending with the
disastrous confrontation with Gervase.
When she ran out of words, Madeline exhaled
with sympathetic wonder. "I knew you were a
woman of mystery, but this is much more than I
bargained for. May I ask questions?"
Diana sighed. She was curled up in the
corner of a sofa, wrapped in a shaggy Highland
blanket as much for emotional comfort as for
protection against the cool evening. "Ask whatever
you like. I've always had trouble talking about what
affects me deeply, but not talking has caused
worse trouble."
"What happened to your mother?"
The teacup Diana was sipping from clicked
sharply against her teeth. Setting it down


carefully, she said, "She killed herself
when I was eleven."
"Oh, my dear girl," Madeline breathed,
then changed the subject. "It's hard to believe
your father would just abandon you in the inn the day after your
marriage."
"If you knew my father, you would know it was quite in
character. He was convinced that all women were evil,
especially his daughter." Diana's deep blue
eyes looked black. "The sooner he got rid
of me, the better for his own immortal soul."
A thought had occurred to Maddy during the younger
woman's story. She hesitated, wondering if
it was appropriate, before deciding to speak.
"Diana, is it possible your father was ...
unnaturally attracted to you? And he loathed himself
for such feelings, and you for being the source of them?"
Diana's expressive face was stricken as
she replied, "It would explain a great deal.
He used to glare as if he hated me. And the way
he carried on about how men lusted after me ... it
made no sense. I suppose I was a pretty
child, but not so mature as to attract attention from
most men. He used to pray over me all night,
both of us on our knees as he asked God
to purify my evil nature. Other times he
tried beating the ungodliness out of me." Shuddering,
she pulled her blanket around her shoulders.
"I'm sorry, my dear. Perhaps I shouldn't have
spoken."
"No, I'm glad that you did," Diana said
wanly. "As revolting as the idea is, at least
it is a reason. My father always seemed like ... like
a force of nature, mysterious and implacable. I
would rather think there were reasons for the way he despised
me, things that weren't my fault."
"Is he still alive?" Edith asked.
Diana shrugged. "I have no idea. There has
been not one word of contact between us since he left
me at the inn."
Madeline was amazed that a man, a clergyman
no less, could have so thoroughly dispossessed his
daughter; truly, he must have been mad. Turning
to something she had always wondered about, she asked,
"How did you and Edith meet? You didn't mention
that."
"My sister Jane Hayes and her husband own
the inn where the marriage took place," Edith
answered in her broad Yorkshire accent. "I
had married a drunken bully. Both my boys


were grown and gone, one to the army, one
to America. Jane thought I should leave my
husband before he killed me, but I didn't know
how, or where to go." She absently traced the
livid scar along her left cheek. "I
suppose I could have gone to Jane, but I had no
money for the journey. More than that, I had no will
left after twenty-five years of bullying."
Madeline glanced at Edith with new insight.
She knew about the older woman's sons, who
wrote to their mother regularly, but not about the husband.
It appeared that Edith had developed her quiet,
rock-ribbed strength in a hard school.
Diana took up the story. "Mrs. Hayes
decided that if Edith had someone to take care of,
it would give her sister an incentive to leave her
husband. I had just turned sixteen and was
pregnant and terrified, but after I contacted
Gervase's lawyer, I had money. So Mrs.
Hayes packed me down to Yorkshire. Together
Edith and I found High Tor Cottage. We
both wanted to be alone, as far from other people,
especially men, as possible. And Edith has been
taking care of me ever since."
She smiled affectionately at the woman who
had helped her survive the most difficult time
of her life.
Edith chuckled warmly. "It's worked both
ways, lass."
"After all that has happened to you, why did you
want to come to London and become a courtesan?"
Madeline asked. "A nunnery would appear more
likely."
Diana topped up the tea in their cups. "I
know it must seem strange, but it felt so strongly
like the right thing to do," she replied. "Despite
what my father and ... my husband had done to me,
I knew not all men were like that. In the village
where I grew up, there were happy marriages, and
men who knew how to be kind. Since I had a
husband, I couldn't marry, but ... I wanted
to find a man of my own, someone to love me."
Lost in thought, she sipped her tea, then added
with a guilty shrug, "I must admit, I liked
what you said about beauty giving a woman power over
men. I thought it would be nice to have power for a
change, to have the choice to give or withhold."
"I also said that it was dangerous," Madeline
reminded her.
"I know," Diana whispered, her eyes


closed against sudden tears. "I had no
idea what I was doing. I guess I am not the
stuff of which sirens are made."
"No, my dear, you are not. You are the stuff of
loving wives and mothers and friends."
Madeline had meant the words as comfort, but they
nearly fractured Diana's control. Burrowing
her head into the blanket, she said brokenly,
"What am I going to do? He hates me. He
said he doesn't ever want to see me again."
There was silence until Edith said, "You're our
expert on men, Maddy--you'd best answer that."
Madeline sat next to Diana and put her
arm around the younger woman's shoulders. "St.
Aubyn may hate you in some ways, but his
feelings are surely far more complicated than that.
Love, hate, desire, anger--all those
intense emotions must be mixed together in his mind. It
would be far harder to win him back if he were
indifferent to you."
Her voice muffled in the blanket, Diana
asked, "Do you think there is any chance that I can
change his mind?"
"Yes, I think so, if you'll come out of that
blanket and fight like a woman." Madeline
made her voice teasing and was rewarded by the sight
of Diana's tear-stained face emerging.
"What does it mean to fight like a woman?"
"Think what he likes about you and use it on
him. Love, desire, laughter--you would know
better than I. And also try to understand all the
reasons why he is so angry."
The hopelessness of Diana's expression
changed to thought. After lifting her cup for a sip of
tea, she asked, "Do you think it's because I have
injured his pride? That he thinks I
deliberately set out to humiliate him?"
Madeline considered, weighing what she knew
about St. Aubyn with what she knew about men in
general. "Pride would certainly be part of it, but
not all," she said slowly. "From what you said, he
thinks you betrayed his trust. That is one of the
gravest injuries that can occur between man and
woman, and St. Aubyn doesn't seem like one
who would trust easily. More than that, he had bent
over backward to give you the benefit of the doubt,
which would make apparent betrayal all the more
unforgivable."
Diana thought about that. "You're right, as always,
Maddy. I don't quite know what to do about it, but it


is a beginning."
Then she remembered a remark of Gervase's
that she hadn't understood. "He accused me of
setting my friend Madeline to ask for money
indirectly. Do you know what he was talking about?"
"Yes," her friend replied. "I asked St.
Aubyn for regular payments to an account in your
name. He was quite willing, so you're the richer by two
hundred pounds a month since last
September." At the stricken expression on
Diana's face, Maddy asked anxiously,
"Did it cause a problem?"
"I'm afraid so. He assumed that I was behind
it, and was pretending innocence."
"Oh, no! Diana, I'm so sorry,"
Madeline said with horrified remorse. "Life
is uncertain, and since St. Aubyn was prepared
to be generous it seemed foolish not to save toward
your future. It worried me, how casual you were
about financial security. And now he blames you
for what I did?"
Maddy had had to earn her own security, so it
wasn't surprising that she had been concerned for her
less experienced friend. Now her well-intentioned
deed became one more reason for Gervase to think his
wife was a liar ... Diana drained the last of the
tea. "It doesn't much matter," she said
wearily. "I had ample other sins to be blamed
for."
She swished her teacup, then held it for a
moment with her eyes closed before handing it to Edith.
"Please, can you tell me if ... if everything
is over between Gervase and me?"
Edith looked doubtful. "It's not good to look
at matters that are too close to the heart. You
care too much about this."
"Please," Diana pleaded, "I must know if
there is any hope."
After a moment's more hesitation, Edith took the
cup and stared into the bottom with unfocused eyes.
Her breathing slowed and when she spoke it was in a
distant voice. "It has not ended. There is much
between you, both dark and light." She frowned and
swirled the cup. "The end has not yet been
written. There is danger, and not just to you. Darkness
threatens." Then, in a low, uncanny voice,
she finished, "Darkness, death, and desire."
The soft intake of Diana's breath broke
Edith's mood and she looked up, her voice
brisk again. "You'll get a deal more use from this


cup by putting tea in it, lass," she
said, pouring the last of the tea from the pot and reaching
for the brandy.
"I'm not sure I need it," Diana
protested. "I'm almost asleep right here on
Maddy's sofa."
"You're exhausted, and we're keeping you up with
our questions," Madeline said with compunction. Offering
a friendly arm, she guided Diana to her bedroom,
leaving her after a hug.
Back in Maddy's room, Edith sat with a
thoughtful expression on her scarred face. "Do you
know, it's time I paid a visit to my sister
Jane on Mull. It's been too long since
I've seen her."
Knowing the older woman's oblique manner of
speaking, Madeline poured a dollop of brandy
into both their teacups. "I suppose it's only
a coincidence that the route to Mull would take you
near that Lowland Scots village where Diana
grew up."
"Aye, just a coincidence." Edith sipped her
brandy pensively. "I should think everyone in the
neighborhood knows about the mad vicar."
"Very likely," Maddy agreed, curling her
feet up beneath her. "It probably isn't
important, but it would be interesting to know more about
him. To know if he's even alive." She glanced
at her friend sternly. "If he is still on this
mortal coil, I trust you will not aid him to his
heavenly reward?"
"Of course not," Edith said with dignity.
"I've never raised a hand to anyone since I
parted my husband's hair with a poker the night I
left." She halted, then added the laconic
explanation, "The gaffer didn't want me to go."
"Did you really?" Madeline asked in
astonishment. Then she broke down into giggles.
"I think I've had more than enough brandy, because that
sounds very amusing. Did you kill him?"
"No," Edith said with regret. "Wasn't a
heavy poker."
"Is he still alive?"
"No. After I left, he found another
woman to take care of him. He beat her to death
one night, so they hanged him."
Maddy gulped, sobered by Edith's dispassionate
words. After a long silence she said, "All three
of us had our secrets about men. Strange how they
are all surfacing at the same time."


"Aye. I just hope matters work out
as satisfactorily for Diana as they have for you and
me."

Diana's facade crumbled after Madeline
left her. She tried to be calm and controlled,
but she had wept almost continually while she was in
Yorkshire, and humiliating tears kept
escaping on the journey home. As she had once
told Gervase, she was a crier, not a thrower.
It would be easier if she could be angry, but she
couldn't. The declaration of love that she had wanted
so much had made him utterly vulnerable to what he
perceived as betrayal, and the horrible things he had
said were products of his pain. In retrospect,
she guessed that he could have accepted her confession
much better before he had opened himself up to her. It
was easy to be wise when it was too late.
Grief threatened to swamp her again. Determined
not to cry, she sat at her desk and looked at the
letters that had come in her absence. There were bills for
fabric and shoes, for Geoffrey's school
fees, a note from Francis Brandelin saying that
he was going out of town but would call when he
returned.
There was also a small package addressed in
an unfamiliar hand. Thinking it some item she had
ordered and forgotten, Diana unwrapped it
absently, then stopped dead, fighting a shock
wave of dizziness at the sight of the contents.
Inside the velvet-lined box were the rest of the
pearls from the necklace Gervase had been giving
to her a pearl at a time. There was no note, no
message of any kind, even an insulting one.
She wondered if sending the pearls was a gesture
of contempt or of indifference.
She didn't want to think about it. Her hand
trembling, she closed the box and set it to one
side on the desk, then picked up the last letter.
The envelope was of heavy cream-colored paper
and the flap bore the seal of St. Aubyn. Her
heart hammering, she drew a deep breath before
opening it, only to be bitterly disappointed that the
note was in a stranger's hand, the same writing that
had addressed the package of pearls.
Gervase's secretary, presumably. In the
past, the viscount had always written himself to say
when he could come.
It was an invitation to a house party at
Aubynwood, sent before Gervase had met her in


Yorkshire, before he had said that he never
wanted to see her again. It had been waiting here
ever since, a bleak reminder of what might have
been. Diana made a move to crumple the
invitation, then stopped. A house party meant a
number of guests, probably government people,
since he sometimes invited political
associates to Aubynwood.
Checking the dates, she saw that the gathering would
begin at the end of the next week. She absently
smoothed the heavy paper, thinking hard. By rights,
she was the Viscountess St. Aubyn. Would
Gervase throw her out of Aubynwood if she
walked in? He might if he met her alone,
but his sense of propriety made it unlikely that
he would do so in front of other guests. If she
arrived a day late, when others were already there ...
She stared unseeing across the room, torn between
temptation and terror. She was willing to fight for
Gervase, to do everything possible to persuade him that
her love was genuine, but to do so, she had to see
him. She might never have another chance to get so
close.
No conscious decision was necessary. Diana would
to go Aubynwood.



Knowing that her son needed attention from her to soften
the impact of the fact that she was leaving again,
Diana breakfasted with Geoffrey the next
morning, then rode with him in the park. He
reveled in her company, chatting, telling her about
the books he had read, and showing how much his riding
had improved. On horseback, or rather
ponyback, he was clearly his father's son; even
though he had been riding for less than a year,
he had the natural grace of the born
equestrian.
As the groom took charge of their mounts,
Diana eyed Geoffrey covertly. She
wondered what Gervase's feelings were now that he
knew the boy was his son. In spite of her
husband's denials, she was sure that he would
accept the relationship once he had time to think the
matter through. She had watched their growing
acquaintance with trepidation and hope, wanting them
to get on, fearing they would not.
The viscount had seemed fond of Geoffrey
and the boy was his heir. Would he hold Diana's


imagined perfidy against his son? Knowing
Gervase's basic fairness, she didn't think
so, but his bitterness had been so great that she would not
let her husband near Geoffrey until she was
sure he would do nothing injurious. She was
ambitious for her son, wanted him to have the title
and wealth and power to which he was entitled, and which she
knew he would carry well. But she would not let
him become a pawn in a war between his parents; she
would take him to the colonies and raise him alone
before she would let that happen.
Usually Geoffrey groomed his pony himself, but
today Diana told him to let the sta2oy do it so
they could talk. Looking at his mother askance, he
dutifully accompanied her inside to the morning
room. Stripping off her gloves and laying them
aside, Diana said, "Next week I'm going
away for another few days, Geoffrey. I'm
sorry, but it can't be avoided."
He scowled. "Can I go with you?"
She shook her head. "No, I'm afraid
not." Not when anything might happen between his parents.
"Why not?"
How to answer that perennial child's question? While
Diana debated, Geoffrey continued
pugnaciously, "You're going to visit Lord St.
Aubyn, aren't you?"
She had guessed that Geoffrey's hero
worship of the viscount existed side by side with
jealousy that the man had so much of his mother's time, and
her suspicion was confirmed by her son's
expression. Deciding to be casual, Diana
took off her hat and jacket and sat down.
"Yes, I am. I'm sorry I have to leave again
so soon, but this trip is necessary."
Her son's carefully instilled manners were
clearly at war with his desire to throw a
tantrum. Diana extended a hand, wanting him
to come sit with her so she could talk away some of his
anger, but then his head started tilting back in the
first phase of convulsion. He crashed to the floor,
his body arching and his tongue protruding. Diana
dropped by his side, feeling the terror that always
possessed her when he had a seizure.
She was reaching out to brace his body when her hands
froze in midair. She had seen many seizures
in her life and this one looked wrong; the
desperate gasping sounds and jerking motions were
subtly different than usual. For a moment
suspicion immobilized her. Then she grabbed


his shoulders, half-lifting him from the
floor as she cried, "Geoffrey, are you
pretending?"
The deep blue eyes that had been rolled
back focused on her guiltily and his body
flexed normally, without rigidity. More furious with
her son than she had ever been in his life,
Diana pulled him over her lap and administered
several swift, hard slaps to his backside.
She had never struck Geoffrey before, and he
responded with a howl of hurt and outrage.
Within seconds they were in each other's arms,
both of them sobbing, Diana harder than her son.
Rocking him back and forth, she whispered
brokenly, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have hit
you, but don't ever do that again. Yell at me, throw
things if you must, but don't ever, ever pretend to have
a seizure. You don't know what that does to me.
It's ... it's not playing fair."
Digging a handkerchief out of his pocket,
Geoffrey blew his nose, then twisted the
fabric in his hands. His voice conscience-
stricken, he said, "I did know. That's why I
did it." He swallowed hard. "I'm sorry,
Mama. It was a rotten thing to do."
"It was rather rotten." Diana blotted her
eyes with her own handkerchief, then tried to smile.
"I suppose that if we didn't want to do
rotten things sometimes, we'd be angels, flitting
around heaven with harps and wings."
Geoffrey's glance held a glint of
mischief. "The wings sound rather fun, but there wouldn't
be any horses, would there?"
"I don't think so."
"Then I prefer being here."
The moment of levity ended. Diana watched her
son mauling the handkerchief and made a decision.
Sooner or later Geoffrey must be told
Gervase was his father. She had intended to do it
later, but perhaps now was the time; knowing the truth might
make the situation easier for him. Putting an arm
around her son, she drew him back so they sat
against the sofa, their legs stretched on the floor.
"There's something I must tell you."
In spite of her resolution, it was hard to find
the words; the subject was one that had always been
avoided. Stalling, she asked, "You like Lord St.
Aubyn, don't you?"
Her son nodded, looking away from her.
Diana drew her breath, then said baldly,


"St. Aubyn is your father."
Geoffrey's head whipped around and he stared at
her, shock in his wide blue eyes as he
absorbed her words. The silence stretched until
he said with stiff lips, "So I'm a bastard?"
"No!" she said, startled. Obviously her
son was learning more than Latin and literature in
school. "No, he and I are married, and you are
as legitimate as any boy in England."
"How come you never told me before? Why don't
you live together? And why doesn't he act like a
father?" Shock was quickly translating into a stubborn
determination to know.
Diana hugged his shoulders. "It's a long
story, love." She thought for a moment, deciding
how to edit the truth for an eight-year-old. "We
were staying at the same inn in Scotland. Your father
wandered into my room by accident. It was most
improper, and ... he decided he must do the
gentlemanly thing and marry me. However, he
didn't really want to be married, so he left
after making sure that I had enough money to be
comfortable."
"Why didn't he want to be married to you?"
her son asked belligerently.
"It wasn't so much me as that he didn't
want to be married to anyone," she said
cautiously, not wanting Geoffrey to blame
Gervase for everything. "Your father was set to leave for
India to join the army. He hadn't planned on
a wife."
Her son nodded, able to understand that, and Diana
almost chuckled at the sight of perfect male
agreement.
"So I went to Yorkshire and met Edith, and
you know about our life there. It was fine at first, but
when you reached school age it seemed like time to move
to London, so we could all see something of the world."
The need for editing increased. She was ready
to admit a great deal, but not that she had chosen the
life of a harlot, even though she never actually
acted as one. Picking her words carefully, she
said, "By chance, I met Lord St. Aubyn one
night when we visited a friend of Aunt
Maddy's. He'd forgotten what I look like and
I wasn't using the name Brandelin, so he
didn't recognize me."
"Why didn't you tell him who you were right then?"
Just like his father. "I didn't want to. He
hadn't shown any interest in us. He didn't


even know that you had been born."
"And you were angry?"
"I'm afraid so," she said ruefully. "I
wanted to get to know him better, so I didn't
identify myself. But since we had become very good
friends, last week I told him who I was."
Geoffrey swiveled around to face her, his arms
around his drawn-up knees. "And he got angry
because you hadn't already told him you were his wife?"
Diana was startled at the accuracy of his
perception. Was there something here that men understood and
women didn't? She nodded. "Yes, he's very
angry at me." In spite of her best efforts,
her voice trembled. "He doesn't ever want
to see me again. That's why I'm going
to Aubynwood. He's having a house party and
I was invited, so I've decided to go and
apologize."
"He's making you unhappy," Geoffrey said,
belligerent again.
"Yes, but don't blame him too much," she
said swiftly. "I made him unhappy as
well, even though I didn't intend to."
Her son gazed at her with wise blue eyes.
"It's like you are always telling me; good intentions
aren't enough."
"Exactly so," she agreed.
Looking very young again, Geoffrey asked, "What
... what did he say when he realized I was his
son?"
Knowing how vital her answer was, Diana
thought a moment, combining what she had observed with
what she had sensed. "He was surprised, of
course, and because he was angry, he wasn't quite
sure he believed me."
Catching her son's eye, she said earnestly,
"But he wanted--very, very much--to believe that you are
his son."
More silence. Then, "If you and Lord St.
Aubyn become friends again, does that mean we would
be a family?"
Diana was shocked by the naked longing in his
voice. "I hope so, darling," she said
unsteadily, "I surely hope so."
Geoffrey's brows knit together in calculation.
"If you are visiting my father, why can't I go?"
He was no longer jealous; now he, too, had a
stake in Lord St. Aubyn, and a need for him that was
as great as Diana's own.
For a moment she wished she had said nothing. "Lord


St. Aubyn is very, very angry at
me. There will probably be a lot of
unpleasantness."
His jaw set. "He's my father, and I want
to see him."
"This isn't the best time, Geoffrey. It would
be better to wait until he finds his temper
again."
Geoffrey simply sat looking stubborn.
Then, craftily, "Maybe he won't be as
angry if I'm there."
Diana sighed and thought about it. Perhaps she was being
overprotective again. Geoffrey was intelligent
and levelheaded, and he did have a right to see and know
his father. And though it seemed calculating to consider
it, having their son with her might soften
Gervase's anger. "Very well, you can come, but you
must promise to be polite to Lord St. Aubyn,
not get angry with him on my behalf. Things are
very complicated between him and me, and both of us have
made mistakes." Since her son looked
unconvinced, she repeated, "You must promise
me, Geoffrey."
"Very well, Mama. I'll do my best
to behave." The wording was rather equivocal, but before she
could object, he said pensively, "If he's
Lord St. Aubyn, you must be Lady St.
Aubyn."
When she agreed, he asked with interest, "Do
I have a title?"
"Not while your father is alive, but you are the
Honorable Geoffrey Lindsay Brandelin," she
offered.
Disappointed but philosophical, he said,
"No one else in my school is even an
Honorable. Jamie Woodlow's father is a
knight, but that isn't as good as a viscount."
"Geoffrey, you must not take this title
business seriously," Diana said emphatically.
"Are you any different today than you were yesterday,
when you didn't know who your father was?"
After a moment's thought, her son's face
split into a grin. "Yesterday I was just an
epileptic. Today I'm an honorable
epileptic." The idea tickled his sense of
humor and he went off into whoops of laughter.
Joining him in his merriment, Diana leaned over
to give Geoffrey a hug. With every fiber of her
being, she prayed that the breach with her husband would be
healed, not just for her and Geoffrey's sake, but because


for too many years Gervase had been
deprived of the joy of his son.

Since Edith had gone to Scotland to visit her
sister, Madeline volunteered to accompany
Diana as nurse and maid. Diana had been
reluctant to treat her best friend as a servant,
but Maddy pointed out that they were always helping each
other with their hair and clothes anyway, and didn't
Diana want someone at Aubynwood who was on
her side? Besides, Madeline was restless since
Nicholas wouldn't return to London for several
weeks.
In the face of so many good arguments and her own
undeniable desire for support, Diana finally
agreed. Maddy happily pulled her hair into a
knot and dug out her most conservative clothes; in
spite of her best efforts, she could not be
unattractive, but at least she wouldn't draw
many second looks.
Rather than make the trip in one day, they spent
the night at an inn two hours south of
Aubynwood. Diana calculated that if she
arrived at the estate about noon, the chances were good
that there would be guests around, making it harder for
Gervase to refuse her entrance. The idea of
forcing herself on him was a terrifying one, both because
he could hurt her so badly and because she must
confront again how much she had hurt him. She
spoke little on the journey.
The next morning Diana dressed carefully
in an elegantly simple muslin gown with blue
trim that matched her eyes. Maddy pulled her
hair to the back of her head in a soft, thick
twist with small curling tendrils around her neck
and face to soften the effect. She looked every inch a
lady and a viscountess.
Too soon they had passed the Aubynwood
gatehouse and pulled to a stop in the horseshoe
drive in front of the main entrance. Madeline and
Geoffrey would wait in the carriage until it was
clear whether Diana had gained entrance for them.
Wiping her damp palms on her skirt before
donning gloves, she said with nervous resolution,
"Wish me luck." Maddy nodded gravely.
Less aware of what was at stake, Geoffrey was
cheerful and excited.
Then Diana stepped from the carriage and
climbed the stairs to her husband's house.


Since Gervase was too grimly
unhappy to be a good host, it was fortunate that
events on the Peninsula kept his guests in a
ferment of excitement. Mere days after landing in
Portugal, General Sir Arthur
Wellesley had won a major battle against the
French at Vimeiro, completely unaided by the
two hidebound senior officers who were technically
his superiors. Britain had reacted with joy at
the victory, then with shock when details of the
ensuing treaty were received. The treaty, called the
Convention of Cintra, removed the French from
Portugal, but also repatriated the captured
French army in British ships and allowed the
enemy to take all of their loot with them.
Wellesley's brilliant accomplishment was
overwhelmed by public furor at the treaty
terms, and all three British commanders were being
recalled for a military inquiry. Gervase
cursed with exasperation as events developed. As
the most junior of the commanders, Wellesley had not
done the actual negotiating even though he had
signed the Convention, and it was bitterly ironic that
the general's career might be lost in a
political melee not of his making.
At Aubynwood, events were no better.
Gervase's guests ate and flirted and rode,
enjoying country pleasures while settling
affairs of state. The Count de Veseul
drifted about with an expression of secret
satisfaction. In a fit of perversity,
Gervase had invited the decorative and
predatory Lady Haycroft, since he was in
need of a new mistress; unfortunately, he
found that her highly practiced overtures
repelled him. He had also invited Francis
Brandelin because he felt the need of having a friend
near, yet even that was a mixed blessing because he
couldn't see his cousin without wondering if the younger
man was one of Diana's lovers. He could have
asked but did not; he didn't want to hear the
answer.
The viscount and George Canning had been in
the upstairs gallery and were standing at the head of the
main staircase, talking about the possible
political repercussions of the Convention of
Cintra. Below them, in the two-story-high entrance
hall, a dozen guests milled about, talking and
waiting for others to arrive for a group walk in the
gardens.


Gervase did not notice the sound of the
knock or the opening of the door. Then he heard
an unforgettable voice say with a soft clarity that
carried, "Good day, Hollins. Please inform my
husband that Lady St. Aubyn has arrived."
Musical though Diana's voice was, a
cannon shot could not have produced a stronger
impact. Gervase wondered for a moment if he was
hallucinating, if he had been thinking so much of
her that his mind had conjured up a phantom, but
everyone below was staring at the newcomer, so she must be
real. Beside him, Canning said, "Well, well,
well," on a note of rising admiration.
Diana stood serenely indifferent to the effect
she had produced, a shaft of sunlight gilding
her hair, her head high and a slight relaxed
smile on her exquisite face. Gervase
watched in paralyzed shock, feeling a gut-
wrenching mixture of black fury that she had
invaded his home, reluctant admiration for her
effrontery, and aching desire at the sight of her
loveliness.
Hollins recognized her from the Christmas
visit, and there was a palpable pause while he
evaluated her words. Everyone in the household
had known what was going on between the master and the
beautiful Mrs. Lindsay, and most had
approved. It was well within the realm of
possibility that the closemouthed viscount had
married his mistress without mentioning the fact to his
staff. Deciding to err on the side of caution, the
butler bowed. "I shall inform his lordship." He
turned and disappeared from view.
Lady Haycroft was in the group below.
Strange how vulgar her overgroomed blondness
appeared next to Diana's gentle beauty. In
a voice harsh with surprise, the widow said,
"Impossible! St. Aubyn isn't married."
Diana turned to her with an expression of
mild surprise. "Have you ever asked him if he
is?"
"Why ... well ... of course not." Lady
Haycroft stopped, temporarily at a loss.
"Have you just married?"
"Not at all," Diana said with undiminished
good nature. "We have been husband and wife any
time these last nine years. Of course, I've
spent much of that time living quietly in the north.
Our son's health was delicate when he was younger,
but he is so much stronger now that finally I can join


my husband."
So there was a son. Her voice acid with
malice, Lady Haycroft said, "It's been
said that St. Aubyn has a mad wife locked
up in Scotland."
Diana gave a sweetly humorous laugh,
and Gervase watched the men below respond to it like
flowers following the sun.
"Heavens, is that what people say?" She shook
her head in quiet amusement. "I never cease
to be amazed at how word of mouth can alter even the
plainest of facts. I did grow up in
Scotland, but I have never been either mad or
locked up."
Then, with delicate suggestiveness, she added,
"My husband has often said how much he would like
to keep me to himself. Perhaps that is where the rumor
started."
As Lady Haycroft stared in defeated
astonishment, Diana smiled graciously. "It
was very bad of me not to be here to greet our guests,
but I was delayed in Yorkshire. I do hope
you'll forgive me. Surely you are Lady
Haycroft? My husband has mentioned you to me, and
there could not be another blond guest as lovely."
Game, set, and match. Lady Haycroft
inclined her head in acknowledgment, her hostility
undiminished, but unable to say anything more without
appearing churlish. Gervase might have laughed at
Diana's deft handling of the situation if he
hadn't been so furious. If he had ever wanted
proof of his wife's ability to warp the truth, she
was providing it.
Forgetting his companion, he started down the
stairs. At the same time, Francis came
into view. He must have heard most of the conversation,
because he walked up to Diana and gave her a
light cousinly kiss. "Diana, how wonderful
to see you. Gervase was not sure when you would
arrive."
Such a greeting by St. Aubyn's cousin sealed
her acceptance. The guests began to coalesce
around Diana, eager to make her acquaintance and
delighted to have been present at an occasion with such
gossip potential. Gervase reached the bottom
of the stairs and walked toward the group. People turned
to stare at him, wondering if something even more
interesting would take place. Well, he would be
damned if he would air his dirty linen in
public. Inclining his head to his wife, he said


coolly, "I trust your journey was a
pleasant one, my dear."
Diana's head snapped around at the sound of his
voice. Their gazes struck and held, and for an
instant he forgot the guests that surrounded them,
forgot his wife's treachery. He wanted to take
her in his arms, taste her lips and loosen her
hair, and make slow intense love to her. She
made a movement toward him, then checked it,
fearful of her welcome.
Closing the distance between them, Gervase took her
arm in a punishing grip and led her away. From the
calmness of his face, the onlookers would have
assumed that he was giving a quiet, husbandly
greeting, but his voice was low and furious as he
demanded, "Just what the devil are you trying
to accomplish with this? Whatever it is, you will not
succeed."
Diana's drowning blue eyes met his,
pleading and apologetic, but before she could speak, the
door opened again and Geoffrey marched into the tense
silence. Everyone in the hall looked from the
dark-haired boy to the viscount, then back. It was
possible to doubt Diana's identity, but not that of the
heir to St. Aubyn.
With a temerity to equal his mother's, he walked
through the guests to Gervase and offered his hand. "Good
day, sir. It is good to see you again." Not an
affectionate greeting, but quite in line for a well-
mannered son of the nobility.
Geoffrey's eyes were very like Diana's, both
in lapis-blueness and the anxious question in them.
Gervase studied the boy's dark hair, the
jawline, the wide cheekbones, and wondered how
he could have been so blind. There was much that Gervase
could have said, but not here, in front of others. "Good
day, Geoffrey. I trust you have been working on
your Latin." His greeting was prosaic, but his
handshake far from casual as he welcomed his son
to Aubynwood.
Responding to the expression in his father's eyes
rather than the actual words, Geoffrey beamed.
"Yes, sir. And my Greek too."
Hollins returned with a footman. Perhaps he
had listened at the door and knew in which quarter the
wind lay. "Get her ladyship's baggage from the
carriage," the butler ordered.
Diana gave her husband a grave look.
"Pray excuse me. The journey has been so
long and I am a little weary. I shall see you all


later." She gave the other guests a
charming smile.
As her glance circled the room, Gervase
saw Diana tense for a moment. Following the
direction of her gaze, he saw that the Count de
Veseul had entered the hall and was regarding
Diana with ironic amusement. Veseul, almost
certainly a spy, likely his wife's lover.
One of the reasons Gervase had invited both the
Frenchman and Diana was to see if they would give
each other away; his original plan might well
succeed.
His expression rigidly controlled, Gervase
watched his wife climb the stairs after Hollins.
It took a moment for him to recognize that the
meek maid following her was Madeline Gainford,
who had entered unobtrusively. So his wife had
arrived with her allies; Edith Brown was
probably driving the damned carriage.
For a moment Gervase considered following
Diana to her room and having the great blazing row
she was asking for, but he refrained, knowing he needed
more time to control his emotions before he confronted his
wife and forced her to leave.
He turned to the accusing glare of Lady
Haycroft, the eager widow who had taken her
invitation to Aubynwood as encouragement. "How
nice that your sweet little wife could join us, St.
Aubyn," she said through gritted teeth. "I
hope that she doesn't find society too much a
strain after life in the provinces."
"Lady St. Aubyn is remarkably
adaptable." He spoke without inflection, then
excused himself to his guests and went to the stables.
Despite the fact that he was not in riding clothes,
he took his fastest horse out for a furious
gallop across Aubynwood. The physical
activity helped a little, but he still churned with
bleak anger and despair. Having Diana among
his guests, having to be courteous, knowing that she would
be sleeping under the same roof--the prospect was
unendurable.
As he allowed his blown and sweating horse
to slow its pace, he wondered what the devil his
lady wife wanted.

Hollins led her to the mistress's room, the
same she had stayed in before, with its hidden
passage to the master suite. After he left, she
removed her bonnet and sank onto the bed,


shaking with reaction. She had carried off
the scene downstairs well, until Gervase had
appeared, his eyes like shards of angry ice. How
many of her airy explanations had he heard? And
how much had he resented them?
Massaging her temples, she tried to be
happy that she had surmounted the first hurdle and had
a precarious foothold at Aubynwood, but
much worse lay ahead. As she had guessed,
Gervase would try to avoid a public scene, but
he might well have his servants bundle her off
in secret. Or would he consider that too
cowardly, and feel he must deal with her himself?
He had been as angry as she expected, but
there had been desire in him as well. She was
sure of that, and in private, passion might
build bridges that could not be forged in public.
Veseul's presence had shocked her almost
to immobility. Now that he knew she was
Gervase's wife rather than a courtesan, he would
undoubtedly leave her alone, but he still frightened
her. Memories of his obscene liberties and his
behavior at the Cyprians' Ball were so
vivid that she shuddered, then brushed her fingertips
across the haft of her knife, where it lay quiet
and deadly in its leg sheath. She had worn the
knife because they were traveling; ordinarily she would
not have gone armed at Aubynwood, but with Veseul
on the premises, she would wear a knife all
day and sleep with one under her pillow. And she would
lock the door whenever she was alone in her chamber.
The thought made her rise. If Gervase
walked in now, ready to do battle, she would be
unprepared. She went to the nursery wing in
unabashed flight and helped Geoffrey and Maddy
settle in, taking pleasure in the illusion of
normalcy. Her son was delighted to be at
Aubynwood, satisfied with the viscount's
reception, and in short order he went off
to visit the stables. Madeline gave tea and
bracing talk to Diana; then, taking her maid's
role seriously, she went off to ensure that
Diana's clothing was properly unpacked,
brushed, and bestowed.
Diana considered sending a footman to find
Gervase's cousin, but Francis found her first.
She almost hugged him for the kind concern on his face
when he intercepted her on the main staircase.
She settled for squeezing both of his hands in
hers. "Francis, I am so glad you are here!"


"So am I," he said with a warm
smile. "Obviously you are in need of
allies." Tucking her arm under his elbow, he led
her across the hall. "Difficult to find privacy
anywhere in the house. Care to walk with me while you
explain what is going on?"
Avoiding the formal gardens, they took a winding
path down to the ornamental lake. Though they had not
known each other for long, what had passed between them
had created an unusual degree of intimacy,
and it was a profound relief for Diana to talk
to someone who knew and cared for both her and
Gervase. She gave an expanded version of what
she had told Geoffrey, but Francis was an
adult, and he understood what she was not saying.
He listened in grave silence until she was
done. "So you really are married to Gervase, in
love with him, and he can't forgive you your
deception. What a tragic, ironic waste."
There was a rustic wooden bench at the edge of the
little lake and he steered her to it so they could sit
down, his hand resting on hers with light comfort. She
glanced into his blue eyes, then looked away
quickly, afraid his sympathy would cause her
to break down. "You've known him all your life,
Francis. What made him react so strongly?
Some anger I can understand, but not this blind, unforgiving
fury."
"I don't know, Diana." Francis shook
his head. "He has been a good friend and cousin
to me, but in some ways he is a mystery. Most
English gentlemen keep their emotions hidden far
from the sun, but Gervase goes beyond that."
He plucked a sprig of speedwell from the
ground and rolled it between his fingers, considering. "In
spite of his competence and success, there is a
quality of tragedy about Gervase. He has
always served others, in both small things and great,
but never because he expects gratitude. In
fact, he can't even accept thanks. I think
he feels unworthy of anyone's good opinion."
"I have felt that too," Diana said slowly.
"Do you have an idea what could have made him that
way?"
"I could make some guesses." He glanced
at her with a wry smile. "Lately I have thought
a good deal about the many kinds of love, I think a
child who is not loved early and well may later have
trouble understanding or accepting any kind of love."
He cast his mind back to all the bits of


family gossip he had heard over the
years. "Gervase's father was a reticent man who
did his duty, but never more than that. Duty
required him to beget an heir for St. Aubyn,
so he married and produced one. Two, actually
--Gervase had an older brother who died at the
age of six or seven. That was before my time, but my
mother said once that his parents regretted that
Gervase would inherit. He was small, too
quiet, and he had seizures. They considered him
flawed."
After thought, Diana asked, "What was his mother
like?"
"Ah, the glorious Medora." Francis
sighed and looked across the lake. "As beautiful and
amoral a woman as ever walked the earth. She
could charm the birds from the trees when she wished,
then forget your existence in the space of a
heartbeat. She fascinated and daunted everyone
who ever crossed her path."
"It might not be easy to have such a woman for a
mother."
"No, I don't think it was," he agreed.
"It would have been simpler if she were evil-
tempered, or deliberately cruel. Instead,
she was ... supremely self-absorbed. So
concerned with her own desires that the rest of the human
race had no real existence to her. One could no more
judge her by the standards of ordinary mortals than
one could judge a falcon or a cobra."
"What happened to her?"
"She died in a fire when Gervase was about
seventeen. She was staying with one of her lovers in
his hunting box in the Shires. The man died
too. It was quite a little scandal, I understand.
Lovers are all very well if one is discreet,
but it was considered bad form to be caught dead with
one."
So Gervase's mother had been a fickle,
selfish creature, by turns charming and heedless, and
she had died in a flagrant and scandalous way.
No wonder Gervase had a passion for privacy
and an inability to believe in a woman's
constancy. It began to make sense, a little, though
Diana was not sure yet what use she could make
of the information. But if she could understand Gervase's
tortured emotions, perhaps she could learn how to heal
them. "Thank you, Francis, for explaining this.
Perhaps it will help."
He turned to look at her, his handsome face


grave. "Gervase needs you, Diana,
more than he can begin to understand. You could love and be
loved by many different men, but Gervase is not like
that. If he cannot bring himself to forgive and love you,
I'm afraid he will withdraw so far that no one
else will ever be able to find him. For his sake, I
hope you persevere."
She closed her eyes against aching tears.
"I'll try," she whispered, "but I don't know
how long I can endure."
It took time to master her grief; her deepest
emotions were very near the surface these days.
Eventually Diana raised her head and blotted
her face with the handkerchief Francis produced.
Smiling shakily, she asked, "Are your affairs
of the heart prospering any better than mine?"
He smiled, an expression of pure,
expansive joy. "They are. After you and I
talked, it became easier to talk to ... my
friend. We found that we shared not just thoughts and ideas,
but ... infinitely more. In a few weeks we will
be taking ship to the Mediterranean. It will be a very
long time before we return."
She asked hesitantly, "And your family?"
"We have not spoken of it directly, but I
think my mother has guessed. And like you, she
forgives."
Diana leaned forward and kissed him on the
cheek. "There is nothing to forgive, only
to accept. I am so happy for you."
Francis gave her a hug and she relaxed in
the warmth of his embrace as he said, "I thought
once it was impossible to find the love I
craved, but I was wrong. Even in this imperfect
world, sometimes one can find a way to happiness.
Things may look black now, but if any woman
on earth can reach Gervase and win the passion and
loyalty he is capable of, it is you."
She whispered, "I pray to God that you are
right."
Neither of them realized how visible they were to a
horseman on a high hill.

The Count de Veseul escorted a fuming
Lady Haycroft toward the folly, avoiding the
others who wandered through the gardens. The two were
occasional lovers and they had a certain cold
selfishness in common; they could be considered friends.
After listening to her ladyship rail about St.
Aubyn's perfidy in letting people think he was


eligible, with vicious side comments on the
insipid prettiness of the viscount's wife,
Veseul drawled, "The little trollop may not be
his wife. Even if she is, they may not have been
married any nine years."
"What?" Lady Haycroft stared at him.
"St. Aubyn didn't deny her. Besides, the boy
certainly looks like both of them, and he must be
six or seven."
"Oh, he may well be their child," Veseul
said lazily, "but not necessarily a
legitimate one. She must have been his mistress
before he went to India. More recently, the alleged
viscountess has been living in London as a
courtesan, using the name Mrs. Lindsay. I
saw her myself at the most recent Cyprians'
Ball. In fact, you saw her with St. Aubyn,
too, one night at Vauxhall. They were in one
of those dark little alcoves, so I'm not surprised
you didn't recognize her today."
As Lady Haycroft went pale with shock at
his news, Veseul stopped to pluck a yellow
rose, sniffing it before presenting it to his
companion. "Among the Cyprians, she was known
as the Fair Luna. I'd heard she was St.
Aubyn's mistress, among others. Many
others. Perhaps her bed magic is strong enough that he
married her, or perhaps he wanted an heir and
decided it was easier to pretend an existing son
was legitimate than to gamble on getting another
in marriage. Who knows? He's a cold,
calculating man; were it not for his wealth, you'd have
no interest in him yourself."
"Very true," she snapped, "but the wealth would be
ample reason to tolerate him. He seemed like a
perfect choice as husband: rich, influential
without being fashionable, and likely indifferent to what
his wife would do once he had an heir."
Half to herself, she muttered, "He was showing
signs of warming up before that strumpet arrived.
If they really are married, I'll have to give up
my hopes of him. There's no point in taking him
as a lover if marriage isn't possible."
Her lips pinched together, warping her handsome
features with mean-spiritedness as she shredded the rose
petals in her angry fingers. "But with what you have
just told me, I can ruin her forever and make St.
Aubyn a laughingstock. So Miss Butter-
in-the-Mouth is just a high-priced London
whore! When that gets out, she'll have to go back


to Yorkshire or Scotland or whatever
godforsaken place she came from."
Veseul watched with pleasure at the sight of the
mischief he'd sown. When Lady Haycroft's
vicious tongue was done, both St. Aubyn and his
woman would be miserable, possibly estranged from
each other; the viscount was too proud to forgive his
wife the ridicule her past would bring on him.
If he repudiated her, Diana Lindsay
might be eager to bed one of her husband's enemies
for pure spite. There was a myriad of
delightful possibilities.
He shrugged mentally. Whether she came
willingly or not, she could not escape him if they
spent the next week under the same roof. And if
she was unwilling, he would do much more than simple
rape. An ugly smile curled his lips and he
caressed the gold serpent's head on his cane.
He hoped she would resist; the mere thought of that was
enough to arouse him.



Even at a great distance, it was easy
to identify the couple embracing by the lake as
Diana and Francis. Had she come here in
pursuit of his cousin? If so, she had made an
easy capture. In spite of the sick fury the
sight aroused in him, Gervase could not bring himself
to blame Francis. Diana's sensual beauty
and illusionary sweetness were enough to win any man who
had the strength to draw breath.
He stayed out until a dull, aching fatigue
had replaced his first uncontrollable rage, and
he hoped that he and his weary horse would be able
to slip back into the stables unobserved by his
guests. It was a hope doomed to disappointment; as
Gervase led his horse into the barn, he saw the
figure of his son peering into a box stall, then
turning to look up. As the viscount dismounted, he
felt Geoffrey's steady regard and guessed that
the boy would not approach without some signal.
In its way, this meeting would be as difficult as
the one with Diana, but at least there would be a
positive side as well as awkwardness. Waving
off an oncoming groom, Gervase unsaddled his
mount himself, then led it into the barn toward
Geoffrey. "Care to help me groom
Firefly?"
The boy nodded and followed his father into the stall.


After tying Firefly, Gervase took
a handful of straw and began wiping off loose
dirt and sweat while Geoffrey did the same
on the animal's other side. After a few
minutes of silence, Gervase said, "I'm not quite
sure what one says in these circumstances."
His son gave a wisp of a chuckle. "Neither
am I." His head didn't reach the top of the
horse's back.
Gervase had the inspired thought of asking about his
son's pony, and this unleashed a torrent of
conversation. By the time they had gotten to vigorously
brushing the horse's hide, they were as easy with
each other as they had become over the Christmas
visit. In spite of Geoffrey's short
stature, Gervase should have realized the boy was more
than six years old. Knowing that this small,
intelligent person with his quirky individuality
was his own son gave the viscount a glow of
pride, even though he could take none of the
credit. Whatever Diana's other sins, she had
been a good mother to their child.
Finally Geoffrey touched on how things were between his
parents. As he brushed out Firefly's tail,
blithely indifferent to the animal's back
hooves, he said obliquely, "I used
to wonder what my father was like. Mama would never say
a word."
"It must have been hard not knowing," was the best comment
Gervase could come up with.
"Sometimes. But I could pretend that he was like
Lord Nelson or Dr. Johnson or Richard
Trevithick or Beethoven."
It was nothing if not a varied list. Bemused,
Gervase said, "Reality is never quite as interesting
as imagination."
Wide blue eyes glanced up to him.
"Reality isn't so bad."
Gervase felt absurdly pleased at the
statement. "How do you feel about Aubynwood now
that you know you'll own it someday?"
Startled, Geoffrey stopped brushing. "I
hadn't thought that far," he said in a small
voice. "It's very large, isn't it?"
"Yes, and there are other properties as
well," the viscount admitted, "but you should have
years to get used to the idea, and to learn your way
around." Since his son still looked doubtful, he
added, "Just think of all the horses you'll have."
It was the right thing to say. Smiling, Geoffrey


went back to work. They had almost finished
the grooming when the boy said tentatively,
"Mama said you were very angry with her."
The easy atmosphere vanished. Gervase was
cleaning the frog of Firefly's right hoof and his
tension affected the horse, which shifted uneasily.
"Did your mother ask you to talk to me?"
"No, she said not to. But I want to understand
what's wrong. Why you didn't care about us at
all."
Gervase drew a deep breath and finished
cleaning the hoof, then released the horse's
foreleg. "I didn't know that I had a son--your
mother never told me. Did she mention that?"
There was a stubborn tilt to Geoffrey's jaw.
"Yes, but you knew you had a wife. How could you
abandon Mama?"
Gervase knew that Geoffrey would not take
kindly to aspersions cast on his mother, but it was
impossible to speak calmly of her. Instead he
asked, "What did she say about it?"
"That you didn't really want to be married
to anybody." Then, his tone accusing, Geoffrey
added, "She said everyone makes mistakes, and not
to blame you. So why are you blaming her?"
Gervase started to reply, then stopped. Of
course Geoffrey was loyal to his mother; she had
been the center of his life since he was born.
Diana had been too clever to poison
Geoffrey's mind against his father in an obvious
way; her facade of long-suffering generosity was
far subtler and harder to combat. Unsteadily he
said, "We will not talk about your mother."
When Geoffrey opened his mouth, Gervase
performed his first really parental act by saying
sharply, "Don't."
In spite of the rebellious gleam in his eye,
Geoffrey obeyed. The viscount laid a
blanket over Firefly and tied the straps.
"I have to go in now. Would you like to go riding tomorrow
morning? There's a new pony you might like
to try."
"Yes, sir, I'd like that." Geoffrey was
polite, even enthusiastic, but as the boy turned
and left the stable, it was clear that his allegiance
lay firmly with his mother. Not surprising; when
Gervase was eight, he had adored his own mother, not
knowing or understanding that she was a monster. The viscount
prayed that when the time came, his son's disillusion
would not be as devastating as his own had been.



Diana dressed for dinner with great care. As
Madeline helped her into the gown of dusty-rose
silk, Diana felt the unusual sensitivity
of her breasts, then resolutely pushed away the
implication of what that meant. She had enough things
to worry about just now.
They decided on a sophisticated coiffure,
piling her glossy chestnut tresses high on
her head to reveal the perfection of her features.
Rather than feathers or ribbons, Maddy wove tiny
dark red rosebuds into Diana's hair. A
jeweler had strung Gervase's pearls into the
magnificent necklace they were meant to be and
Diana wore them tonight. The lustrous sheen of the
pearls harmonized with her oyster-white underskirt
and drew attention to the smooth curves visible
above her deep d@ecolletage.
By the way heads turned and conversations stopped as
she entered the salon, Diana knew she looked
her best, but even so she paused on the threshold,
frightened of so many curious strangers. Then
Francis Brandelin came forward, moving
calmly through the unnatural hush. Giving her a
small private smile of encouragement, he
took her arm and began introducing her to the two
dozen or so guests that chatted and drank sherry
before dinner. There were more men than women, many of them
famous names like Castlereagh and Canning, and from their
admiring bows, they were happy to have her among them.
The only dark note came from the Count de
Veseul, who accepted his introduction with a
mocking smile and a long kiss on her hand that
made her skin crawl in revulsion. When she
tried to pull away, he held on, his powerful
grip hurting her fingers as he whispered, "What
a magnificent whore you are."
His voice was too low for anyone else to hear
and Diana knew that he was playing with her, hoping
she would show discomfort or fear. Instead, she showed
no reaction at all, simply meeting his black
gaze and letting her hand go limp.
Veseul released her just before the length of time
might have aroused comment. Francis, who had caught
the latter part of the byplay, spirited her away with a
low-voiced warning about Veseul's unsavory
reputation. His words were quite unnecessary; Diana already
knew far too much about the Frenchman's nature.
The women were another kind of ordeal, ranging from
watchful neutrality in the wives to outright venom


in Lady Haycroft. Lord St.
Aubyn himself ignored her, not acknowledging her
presence by so much as the flicker of an eyelid.
Since fashionable couples were not supposed
to live in each other's pockets, he could avoid
her all evening and no one would think anything was
amiss.
Gervase's neglect was like an icy wind from the
north, and it took every ounce of Diana's control
not to flee to some private place where she could cry
in peace. It was infinitely difficult to see his
familiar face, to watch the controlled power of his
movements, yet be so utterly estranged.
At dinner, she was given the hostess's place
at one end of the table as was her right; Gervase had
probably approved that arrangement because it put the
full length of the shining mahogany table between them.
The meal seemed endless, a mosaic of countless
dishes appearing and disappearing, footmen presenting
bottles of wine, the two gentlemen next to her
vying for her attention. She spoke little, but then,
she had always been better at listening, and her dining
companions liked that very well. Throughout, she sensed
Gervase's gaze on her, yet when she glanced
toward him his eyes were always elsewhere.
Dinner was easy compared to the session with the ladies
while the gentlemen sat over their port. Even the
most congenial of the women were curious, and less
inclined than men to approve of her. Most were too
well-bred to ask direct questions about her origins,
but Diana felt their curiosity and measuring
glances.
Oddly, Lady Haycroft said nothing,
simply sitting with watchful malice. Wanting the
largest possible audience, she did not bring out her
guns until the gentlemen joined the ladies.
Then, as people circulated and looked for new
conversational partners, she attacked. In a
clarion voice she asked, "Tell me, Lady
St. Aubyn, is it true that you were a London
courtesan?"
Her words cut through the babble of voices, leaving
absolute silence. Dismayed but unsurprised,
Diana curled her hands around the carved arms of
her chair as she gathered her defenses. She had
guessed that Veseul might give her away, and
that Lady Haycroft would be a willing ally. The
other women drew back, and she felt the avid
curiosity of everyone in the room. Gervase was
part of the nearest group of men and she saw his


shoulders tense as speculative glances
were sent in his direction. If she did not answer
well, her disgrace would reflect on him; he
would not easily forgive her for shaming him before his
friends.
Humor was the best defense; if she showed fear
or guilt, the good ladies would rip her character
to shreds. Raising her chin, she laughed with complete
unconcern. "Where on earth did you hear such a
foolish tale? It is even more absurd than the
story that I was mad and locked up in Scotland."
Glancing at her husband, she said, "You were right,
my dear, I should have joined you sooner. The tales
that have sprung up are quite remarkable."
Her eyes narrowing, Lady Haycroft spat
out, "Do you deny that you lived in London under the
name of Mrs. Lindsay and that you earned the nickname
the Fair Luna? Or that you visited
Harriette Wilson and danced at the
Cyprians' Ball?"
Without hesitating, Diana widened her eyes.
"Ah-have-have, I see. You have my sympathies,
Lady Haycroft. Some mischievous person
told you a few tidbits of truth, just enough to lead
you to false conclusions."
She raised her silk fan and casually wafted
air across her heated face. Her eyes limpid
with sincerity, she said, "It was very bad of me to go
to such places. Growing up in the country, I had
always heard ladies had more freedom in
London, and I decided to use that freedom
to satisfy my curiosity."
She sighed, letting her long lashes flutter
for a moment. "When I went to the Cyprians'
Ball, I realized I had greatly misjudged
and gone far beyond the line of what is pleasing."
Raising her gaze again, she glanced innocently
at the other ladies, the ones who would be her true
judges. "I must confess that, like every respectable
woman, I wondered what our rivals are like.
Surely some of you have done the same?"
Lady Castlereagh, a very conservative
matron with an unusually devoted husband,
chuckled a bit. "What decent woman
hasn't? The stories one hears ..." Shaking
her head, she added the indulgent warning, "Still, it
is quite unacceptable to actually visit such
places, my dear."
Diana smiled at the older woman with real
gratitude. "You're quite right. I would never do so


again."
Another woman whose name Diana didn't
recall leaned forward intently. "Did you
recognize many of the gentlemen?"
This time a number of the men tensed; several had
been at the ball. Without looking away from her
inquisitor, Diana promptly said, "I fear
I know very few members of the fashionable world.
Most of the men at the ball were young bachelors, I
believe." Her words produced a palpable wave
of relief.
"How did you gain admittance? Did you go
alone?"
"I went with my husband's cousin." Diana
looked apologetically at Francis, who was
watching with fascinated amusement. "Francis was
absolutely against it, but reluctantly agreed
to escort me when he saw that I was determined
to go."
She cast an anxious glance at her husband.
"I quickly realized how foolish I was and we
left early. St. Aubyn was away and didn't
know, of course. I'm afraid you are bringing my
husband's disapproval on me, Lady
Haycroft."
While Gervase watched with the angry stillness
of white-hot iron, Lady Haycroft
returned to the attack. "What about living as
Mrs. Lindsay? One would think that if you were
Lady St. Aubyn then, you would have used your
title."
Diana laughed with a touch of shy embarrassment.
"I fear you have found us out. It amused my husband
and me to ... play at just what you are
suggesting." With delicate suggestiveness, she
continued, "Surely you know the games lovers
play, Lady Haycroft, pretending to be what
they are not, for the pure pleasure of it."
Most of the listeners knew exactly what she
meant, their faces reflecting their own fond
memories of games they had played when they were in
the bright throes of love. When the moment had
stretched long enough, Diana moved to the
offensive. It was time to wield her strongest
weapon in this social battle. "I called myself
Lindsay because it was my mother's name, and unlike
Brandelin, it is common enough to go unremarked. My
mother was the only daughter of General Lord
Lindsay, you know."
The famous name struck the room like thunder.


Alisdair Lindsay had been the
greatest soldier of his generation, ennobled by the crown,
a much-loved warrior who had fallen while winning
his greatest victory against the French in the Seven
Years' War. The younger son of an ancient
family, he and his achievements were legend.
Diana shot a quick glance at Gervase, but his
impassive face showed no surprise; no one
would guess that her ancestry was as much a
surprise to him as to the other guests.
One of the older women, Mrs. Oliphant,
said with interest, "We must be related, my dear.
My second cousin married into that branch of the
Lindsays. Who was your father?"
"James Hamilton, a clergyman in
Lanarkshire," Diana replied.
That stirred more interest among the genealogically
inclined. A man asked, "Any relation to the
Duke of Arran?"
Diana shook her head modestly. "A mere
connection. My father was from a cadet branch, the
Hamiltons of Strathaven."
Mrs. Oliphant smiled with pleasure.
"Strathaven! I think I met your father there once
when we were all young. A tall, dark man with
piercing eyes?"
Diana nodded. "That sounds like him.
Unfortunately, I remember little of Strathaven
myself, though we visited there when I was very small.
My father later became estranged from his family.
To my regret, I know none of my cousins."
The moment of crisis had passed; Diana had
survived the test and been accepted as a woman
worthy of moving in these exalted circles.
Visiting the Cyprians' Ball would have utterly
ruined an unmarried girl, but a matron had more
freedom, and proper remorse had gained
Diana forgiveness for her scandalous actions. It
helped, perhaps, that none of the women present seemed
to like Lady Haycroft; the obvious malice of the
widow's attack had worked to Diana's
advantage.
As Lady Haycroft stalked away in
furious defeat, the guests broke into smaller
groups. Women clustered around Diana to ask
eager questions about what she had seen, whether
Harriette Wilson was as vulgar as rumor
said, about what transpired at the infamous ball.
Lady St. Aubyn was regarded as very dashing.
Diana was glad when the tea tray had come and


gone and she could excuse herself. Some of the
guests would be up late playing cards and
politics, but she could now retire to her room and
recruit her strength. Remembering her
resolution, she locked the door behind her, forbidding
entry to Veseul or any other straying man who
thought that such an adventurous female was worth
attempting. After undressing and unpinning her
hair, she lay across her bed, her eyes open but
unseeing, wondering if Gervase would come to her,
or if she must go to him.
It was after midnight when she accepted that he would
not come. He was the fortress, grimly defiant,
and she the attacker who must breach his defenses.
She must go to him.
Dressed in a simple blue silk robe,
neither plain nor provocative, her shining hair
brushed long and loose, she took a candle and
entered the passage that led to Gervase's room.
It was quiet and dusty, haunted by ghosts of
happier transits.
It was possible that he would have locked the door
against her or that he would not be in his own chamber, but
somehow she knew Gervase would be waiting for her,
and he was. He lounged in a wing chair near the
bed, his feet casually resting on a low
footstool, his coat off and his bright white shirt
outlining his broad shoulders. Even the candlelight
that polished his dark hair could not soften the harshness
of his face.
He was unsurprised by her entrance. "Good
evening, Diana. I have been expecting you. Let
me congratulate you on a magnificent performance
this evening. I'm sure the tales of your exalted
birth can be confirmed--you're far too clever to lie
about what could be easily disproved." His shirt was
open at the throat, exposing a triangle of
dark hair on his chest. "Another piece falls
into place. Your speech and education are now
explained and you have been accepted as the lady you are
not."
A nearly empty decanter of brandy stood
near his elbow and he lifted a goblet to take a
deep swallow of the spirits. His words were clear and
unblurred as he said, "I haven't been this
drunk since the regrettable night that I met
you," but she saw a hard, unfamiliar glitter in
his eyes.
She tensed at the sight; there had sometimes been
discord and conflict between them, but only once had


he looked like this: that infamous night on
Mull. Drunk then, he had been violent, and
now there was risk in staying and confronting him.
Nonetheless she must speak; she could not spend another
day like the one just past, with Gervase ignoring her very
existence.
Choosing another armchair half a dozen feet
from him, she sat, placing her candle on a small
table as her gown fell in soft blue folds around
her. "Good evening, Gervase. Thank you for not
exposing me to the condemnation of your guests."
His dark brows rose ironically. "How could
I without showing myself as a fool? You are the
subtlest witch I ever met, Diana. You have
found depths of revenge I could never have
imagined."
She must remain as calm as he, no matter
how difficult it was. "As I told you before,
I do not want revenge."
"And as I said before, I do not believe you."
He watched the candlelight refract through the cut-
glass goblet, then said without raising his eyes,
"What do you want, Diana? Why not just tell
me, so that we can end this farce?"
"I want to be your wife."
"You are my wife, remember? Therein lies
the problem."
There was barely controlled savagery in his
tone, and she could hear him struggle to steady his
voice before he continued. "I want a legal
separation. My assets are not limitless, but I
will give you an income sufficient to support
any degree of fashionable life except
becoming a gamester. I hope that you will not do
anything to utterly disgrace the name, but short of
murder, there is no way I can constrain you, so I
must rely on your nonexistent sense of honor."
Trying to ignore the insult of his last sentence,
she took a deep breath before answering. "I
don't want your money and I don't want a
legal separation." Summoning all her sincerity,
she tried to catch his eye. "I would rather be your
mistress and have your love than be a legal wife
forever separated from you."
He flinched. "Certainly the situation was more
satisfactory when you were acting the role of
mistress than it has been since you revealed
yourself as my wife," he agreed, his level tone
belied by a tightening of the skin across his high
cheekbones.


"Unfortunately, I cannot go back
to that state of halcyon ignorance. If you are
wise, you will accept the separation--it's my best
offer. If you fight me, I may decide to sue
for divorce. Doubtless there is an abundance of
evidence to prove your adultery, but I would rather not
expose Geoffrey or you or myself to that.
Especially not Geoffrey."
"There is no evidence of infidelity,
Gervase. I have never lain with any man but you."
Diana's fingers locked together in her lap, the
nails biting deep.
"This very afternoon I saw you and Francis
embracing in the gardens. My own cousin, at my
own home. And you expect me to believe your
lies?" He leaned his head against the chair back,
as if too weary to support its weight.
"It was the embrace of friends. Why don't you
ask Francis what the truth is, my lord
husband?" Her resolution to be calm was shredding
away in the face of his relentless distrust.
"I have not wanted to hear him admit you are
lovers." He drank the last of the brandy in his
goblet. "Fond though I am of Francis, I
doubt I would be able to forgive him, and I can't
afford to lose any more friends."
She flung her hands up in exasperation. "Why
are you so sure he will confirm your suspicions?"
His eyes finally met hers, the gray depths
bleak with pain. "If he doesn't, I will know you
have corrupted him with your lies, and that would be even
worse."
"So you have already judged and condemned me," she
said unsteadily, frustration stabbing deep inside
her. "In your eyes I am already damned."
"Undoubtedly," he agreed, pouring more brandy.
"When we first met, I thought you looked like an
angel of innocence, but now I know that you came from
another direction entirely."
He drank off half the goblet at one gulp,
his throat working against the fiery liquid. "I
knew I was damned from the age of thirteen, but with
time the knowledge faded. I began to think there might be some
kind of salvation for even the worst of sinners. So
you were sent from hell to drag me down again. And I
..." His mouth twisted. "Fool that I am, I
desire you so much that even now, in spite of
everything, I want you."
She stared. "God help you," she whispered,
chilled and repelled by his words, "you sound like my


father."
"I'm not surprised. The esteemed vicar thought
that women were the source of evil and suffering, and I
am inclined to think he had the right of it."
"Stop it!" Her voice was nearly a scream.
"I can't bear it when you talk that way. What have
I done that you despise me so? I didn't
tell you who I was at first because I was fearful, and
wanted to know you better. What is so dreadful about
that?
"I never meant to hurt you." Her voice was
between pleading and anger. "Why am I asking you for
forgiveness when it is you who have wronged me, most
horribly?"
"Neither of us seems capable of forgiving the
other," he answered with dry precision. "You can't
forgive my violence, and I can't forgive your
duplicity. And judging by the splendid performance you
are putting on, you are no more capable of being honest
with yourself than with me."
"I don't know what you are talking about!" she
cried.
Gervase banged the goblet on the table so hard
that brandy splashed on his hand. His face ablaze
with angry pain, he leaned forward and said with harsh
precision, "You found a man who had the strongest
of reasons to doubt that any woman could be trusted,
seduced him with sweet loving lies to the point where
he believed that trust was possible. Then when he was
utterly vulnerable, you betrayed him."
Breathing hard, he ended with a denunciation the more
bitter for its softness. "Only a woman could so
thoroughly and ruthlessly betray. No man would know
how to be as subtly, treacherously cruel as you."
Diana noted that even now, he could not name himself
as the man betrayed, and supposed that was a gauge
of his pain. All she could do was repeat numbly,
"I never wanted to hurt you. One reason I
didn't speak was that the more time that passed, the harder
it was to explain why I had not spoken earlier. It
was easier to drift, to let events take their own
course."
She stopped to marshal her arguments, trying
to find words for what she had done by instinct. "I
thought that if you came to love me, we could put the
past behind us, that how our marriage began would be
unimportant compared to how we had come to feel about
one another." She spread her hands helplessly.
"I never imagined that you would think I had trapped
and betrayed you from a desire for revenge.


Obviously I was wrong, but is that so
unforgivable? I never claimed to be perfect."
He leaned back in the chair, his face lost in
shadows, his voice tragic. "Ah, but you see,
I thought you were."
For a moment she was shocked and unbearably moved
by his words. Then anger came. "I can't help
that! It isn't my fault if you thought me more than
I am. To love is to accept the whole person,
imperfections and all." She tried to penetrate
the shadows with her gaze. "Why can't you accept that
I love you in spite of my misjudgment? I
know you are not perfect, that you can be cold and
suspicious, even violent, but I love you
anyhow."
"Then the more fool you are, Diana." He
downed more brandy. "I could never understand why you
claimed to love me. God knows I don't
deserve it, but I wanted to believe you, and you were
so convincing." His eyes filled with weary
resignation, he continued, "It is far easier
to believe that you are a liar than that you ever really
loved me."
His statement filled Diana with despair.
If he truly believed himself unworthy of
love, how could she persuade him of her sincerity?
Words were not enough, would never be enough.
Gervase gave a tired shrug. "Since you
are a creature of emotion, not reason, perhaps you
believe your own lies. Perhaps I should take
advantage of that and retain you as a mistress."
She could see the hunger and the longing in his eyes,
could sense his barely controlled passion, but his
voice was inhumanly detached. "You are the most
beautiful of women, superlatively gifted in
bed, able to make a man forget his very soul. It would
be a pity to waste such talent, especially since
I have already bought and paid for it several times over.
"You were a matchless mistress"--his gaze
traveled the length of her body, lingering with
insulting deliberation--"and the bed was always the most
important thing between us. What say you, Diana,
shall I continue to call several nights a week and
avail myself of your delightful body?"
"And you say that I know how to be cruel! I
never felt like a whore before this moment, when you
propose to use me as one." She shrank back
in her chair, hating the very idea of what he was
suggesting. Bitterly she finished, "Anything I
know of cruelty, I have learned from you."


"Much better," he said approvingly.
"We have no illusions about each other. Didn't
you say something about knowing each other in our
imperfections? The truth is that I am a rapist
and you are a whore. In its way, a perfect
marriage."
His words triggered a degree of fury greater
than any she had felt in her life. "Damn
you," she cried, "demean yourself if you will, but
don't put me on your level, for I am
better than that. I have tried to forgive, to give
love in the face of evil, but you are not worth
it."
Helpless tears poured down her face. "In
the beginning I hated you. The only being I hated
more was God himself, for permitting such a thing
to happen. When I first met you in London I was
terrified. If I had not been raised to believe
that a wife must submit to her husband, if I had
not felt compelled to know you better, I would never have
allowed you to touch me.
"Then I learned to love you, in the face of your
distrust, even when you tried to dominate and
possess me." Her voice caught in anguish.
"Now, because you believe yourself unworthy, you have
destroyed all the love I felt for you. Only
hatred is left, and you have only yourself to blame."
Even as she hurled the words like weapons, she
knew that she still loved him, but that the hatred was real
too. "The morning after our hell-born
marriage, my father abandoned me in that inn,
delighted to be rid of me, with not a single
backward glance. I was fifteen years old,
Gervase, raped, confused, and frightened, and he
left me there penniless, with only the clothes I
stood up in, because he said I was now my
husband's responsibility. If the innkeeper's
wife had not taken pity on me, put me to work in
the kitchens, and paid for the letter to your London
lawyer, God only knows what would have become of
me."
The remembered panic of a child's abandonment
lanced through her voice. "Because I was not full
grown, I almost died when Geoffrey was born.
For two days and nights I was in labor,
screaming until I had no more voice to scream."
Having started, she could not stop, even though she
knew mere words could not convey the sheer terror she
had known. "I had never wanted wealth or status
or fame. My greatest dream in life was a


simple one: to marry a husband who
loved me, to have children to love and cherish."
Then, with infinite bitterness, "In one
casual, drunken act you tore that dream away
from me, along with my innocence. Then you left me,
neither wife nor maid, forbidding me to see or
get in touch with you. My only choices were to live
as a spinster for the rest of my life or take a
man in adultery. Finally, turning my back on
everything I was raised to believe in, I chose
to do the latter and went to London, hoping to find a
man who would love me in spite of my past.
And the devil in all his humor sent me to you, my
husband, and I was fool enough to love you."
There was satisfaction in seeing that her words
affected him like physical blows, that he felt
some shadow of her suffering. Contempt in every
syllable, she finished, "As if your damned
fortune could ever compensate for what you have done to me.
There isn't enough money on earth to buy you a clear
conscience."
"I know that. If there were anything on earth I
could do to make amends, I would do it. You are
angry and have every right to be." Gervase's face
contorted with despairing guilt, bruised shadows
underlining his light eyes. He drew in a shuddering
breath, then finished in a voice raw with pain,
"Can you listen to your own words and still deny that you
wanted revenge?"
His question was like a splash of ice water in the
face of her fury. Hearing the echoes of her
words, Diana was appalled by her own bitterness.
Shaking her head in vehement denial, she buried
her face in her hands, her curtained hair
isolating her with her thoughts. She had thought that she
had transcended the anger about her marriage, that
she had become a loving, forgiving woman, and now
she stood condemned by her own words.
Terrified that she was not the person she had
believed she was, Diana searched the darkest
corners of her heart with harsh, relentless will,
to learn if vengeance had truly been her
motive. It was one of the most difficult things she
had ever done. She found anger, some of it for
Gervase and her mother, more directed at her father.
She found guilt, the tormented doubts she had
known at bringing Geoffrey to London when she
embarked on a life of shame. But she found no
malice toward anyone, no desire to torment and
destroy her husband.


When she was sure, Diana raised
her head and said with the stillness that comes after storm,
"In the years between our marriage and our meeting in
London, I despised you, and had no desire
to see you ever again." Then, with utter conviction, "But
vengeance I left to God."
He shook his head, able to believe her anger but
not her conclusion. "Finally, the ugly truth that
lies at the bottom of the well, the rage you had
hidden even from yourself. You should thank me for helping
you discover it. You hated me and sought revenge. And
you achieved it beyond your wildest dreams."
"You are wrong, Gervase." She brushed her
hair back wearily. "Yes, there was anger--
only now do I see how much--but that is only part
of the truth. Though I hated you in the beginning, that
passed. I swear before God that I never truly
wished to harm you in any way. I wanted you to be
sorry, to regret what had happened, but that is
far from the viciousness you think me capable of."
"You can't have it both ways, Diana. How could
I fully comprehend the injury I did to you and
not suffer from the knowledge? You have sown the seeds of your
hatred, and I will be reaping the harvest as long as
I live." He closed his eyes for a moment, then
opened them again, their gray depths transparent in
the candlelight. "You wanted your pound of flesh, and
you got it. It was just bloodier than you
expected."
At first she wanted to disagree, but then the truth
of his words hit her. Indeed, she could not have it both
ways. A just man like Gervase could not turn
aside from the consequences of his actions; because he was
strong and honorable, his torment at betraying his
fundamental values was all the more acute. And as
much as she hated to admit it, she could no longer
deny that she had wanted to hurt him, just a little.
Then, after he had shown proper remorse, she would
have graciously forgiven him and they could have lived
happily ever after in their love and she would have the
added satisfaction of knowing how generous she had
been.
Instead, because there were already deep wounds in his
soul, she had injured him far more profoundly than
she had intended, and that injury had rebounded on
her. She wished she had not come here, had not opened
this Pandora's box of dark and twisted motives,
but too much had been said to retreat; she could only
go forward. The past and present were unbearable;
only the future held hope, and that meant


driving away all the dark shadows.
With sudden insight, she knew what must be done.
Quietly she asked, "What is the truth that
lies at the bottom of your well, Gervase?
Who convinced you that you were unworthy of being loved,
who made it easier to believe that I was a liar
than that I could love you?"
She stood and stepped toward him, remembering
what Francis had told her the day before. "Was
it your father, who neglected you and considered you an
inferior heir? Or was it your mother? You never
speak of her." Her voice catching, she continued,
"My mother killed herself, and I felt betrayed.
What did your mother do that wounded you so deeply you
cannot trust another woman?"
She raised one hand tentatively, then
dropped it, afraid to touch him. "Why are you so
terrified that you will send me away rather than risk
love?"
"My God, you are a witch." He twisted
away from her, his long muscles rigid with
anguish as his words came forth reluctantly, one
by one, admitting the accuracy of her guess.
"Before I met you, my mother was the only woman I
had ever loved, and it meant nothing to her. Less
than nothing."
Covering his face with taut hands, he said
savagely, "I only wish that she had killed
herself. It would have been a blessing by comparison."
"What did she do to you?" Diana pursued him
implacably, stopping so close to his chair that
the soft folds of her gown brushed his leg. "As
you yourself have just shown me, wounds that are hidden from the
light of day turn poisonous."
As he gasped for breath as if he had been
running, his ragged voice came from behind his hands.
"You don't want to know. I swear before God,
Diana, you ... do ... not ... want ...
to ... know."
Diana placed her hands on his and gently
pulled them from his face. As he flinched from her
touch, she was shocked to see tears, his features
distorted by unbearable memories. He was a grown
man, but his expression was that of a devastated child.
Softly she asked, "What did she do to you,
Gervase, that you are letting it destroy your whole
life?"
"You really want to know, mistress mine?" He
knocked her hands aside, using fury to disguise
his agony. "I warned you, but you insist on knowing the


darkest secret of my soul, so I will
make you a gift of it."
Hoarsely, painfully, his eyes not meeting
hers, he said, "The first woman I ever lay with was
my mother."
Diana stared at him in horror. Nothing had
prepared her for this, and she was shocked to the depths of
her being.
He could not stop now, his words pouring out with
chaotic power. "Do you think only women can be
raped? You are wrong. My mother raped me, though
not with force. She did it casually, because it amused
her at that moment. Because she was unhappy about the
loss of a lover. Because she had drunk too much
wine. Because it never occurred to her to deny her
impulses."
He shook his head violently, as if
to dislodge the memories. "I was thirteen years
old. At first I didn't understand, then I
didn't believe, and finally I could not stop my
body from responding even though I knew how
unspeakably wrong it was."
He stood suddenly and she jerked back,
uncertain of what he meant to do. Grasping the
brandy decanter, in one smooth, furious motion
Gervase hurled it across the room to shatter against
the wall. As crystal shards spun across the
polished hardwood floor and the sharp tang of
brandy filled the room, he cried out, "Is that
ugly enough for you? Is that a powerful enough reason
to doubt that women can be trusted?"
He had been avoiding her eyes, but now he
turned to face her, all vestige of control
vanished. "It repulses you, doesn't it, knowing
that your husband is a man who committed incest with his
own mother? Incest is the vilest, the most forbidden of
crimes. Oedipus was hurled down from his throne,
blinded, and cast out into the wilderness for it."
Half-wild with devastation, he finished in a
hoarse whisper, "It is more than a crime, it
is an abomination, a sin against God. There is
nothing, nothing at all, that can absolve that."
His agony was a fiery, tangible thing, and it
struck Diana to the heart. She didn't want
to believe that any mother could do such a thing to her son,
that the man she loved had lived most of his life with
such grief and shame, but the intolerable truth was
written in every tortured line of his face.
With instinctive desire to offer comfort, she cried
out, "It wasn't your fault! She was a woman


grown, but you were scarcely more than a child.
It is horrible that any woman could abuse her child
so, but you are not horrible for having been a victim
of her. Don't let your guilt destroy you."
Then, with fierce entreaty, she begged, "And
don't punish me for your mother's sin."
His raw gaze met hers. He stood a bare
foot away, the fevered warmth of his lean body
palpable. "I may have been more sinned against than
sinning at thirteen, but I can't escape the knowledge that
I am far more her child than my father's."
His mouth twisted. "My father was as dry and
unfeeling as dust--it is my mother's passionate,
wanton nature I inherited, and I am no
better than she was. You of all women know what
I am capable of. I have tried to control myself,
to spend passion where it will do no harm, to expiate
my sins by working for goals greater than myself." His
shoulders lifted in a gesture of despair. "I
have tried to believe that I am no worse than
other men, but in spite of all I have done, I have
been unable to escape the truth: I am flawed
beyond redemption."
"That's not true! No one is beyond redemption.
You are no more flawed than any other mortal
man." In her fierce desire to defend him from
himself, she grasped his upper arms, trying to break
through his guilt and self-hatred.
She knew instantly that she had made a
disastrous error. Her touch dissolved the fragile
control that held Gervase's violent emotions in
check, and his taut muscles spasmed under her
hands. Then he pulled her into a fierce, painful
embrace, his mouth devouring, his arms crushing her
against his hard body. She felt nothing of love and
tenderness, only anguish and a bitter desire
to strike mindlessly at the darkness within him.
In two steps he had dragged her to the bed and
thrown her onto it, trapping her body beneath him,
bruising her lips as he invaded her mouth.
Wrenching the neckline of her silk robe, he
exposed her breasts to his hungry grasp.
Diana fought him, trying to get enough leverage with
arms and knees to free herself, but he was far too
strong, far too lost in his own private hell,
for her to escape. If he had wanted her in any
other way she would have given herself gladly, but not like
this, not in an act of violence that would sear them both
beyond the possibility of healing.
He half-lifted himself to get a better grip


on her robe, and she used his shift in
weight to reach down to the knife sheath on her leg.
Lost in darkness beyond thought, Gervase didn't
even see the bright flash of blade as she raised
her knife and slashed it across his left forearm.
Pain penetrated his madness as words could not have
done. As blood dripped onto her bare
breasts, Gervase rolled away, his features
contorted with horror at what he had almost done.
His rigid body was an eloquent reflection of
his despair as he buried his face, his hands
clenching the heavy quilt. Even though his assault
on his wife had been unsuccessful, the attempt
was bitter confirmation of his own worst beliefs about
his nature.
Diana raised herself on one arm and stared at
Gervase, too shaken to know what to do or say.
Trembling with shock, she laid the bloodstained
knife on the bed and used one hand to pull her
robe together as she struggled to draw breath into her
lungs. The room seethed with the force of the emotions
that had been unleashed, and she wondered helplessly
how a man and woman who had loved could hurt
each other so profoundly.
After an endless time Gervase spoke, his
voice dead, devoid even of pain. "Don't
speak to me of redemption. Some souls are beyond
forgiveness. Surely even you will admit that now."
When language failed in the past she had always
used touch to convey what words could not, but when she
laid a compassionate hand on his shoulder he
twisted violently away from her. "Don't touch
me. In the name of God, don't touch me!"
Shocked, she jerked back, huddling on the edge
of the bed, her arms clenching across her. Trying to be
matter-of-fact, to bring this nightmare scene back
to normal, she said, "Your arm needs bandaging."
He had rolled onto his back, his good arm
screening the upper half of his face. Utterly
hopeless, he said, "Not by you. Get out, Diana.
Just get out."
She stood, clutching her torn robe around her
as she gazed down at him. She had never been more
aware of his strength than now, when he was on the
verge of breaking. Diana had known more than her
share of suffering, but she had also known love, from her
mother, even from her father when she was very young. Later,
Edith and Geoffrey and Madeline had warmed her
life. In spite of receiving so much love, she
saw now that she had not fully recovered from her


experiences.
Gervase had had no one, ever. A father who
wasn't there, a mother who abused him in the most
unpredictable and poisonous ways. Yet even
so, he had not succumbed to cruelty. He had the
wealth and power and intelligence to cause great
evil, yet he was fair and honorable to those who
depended on him. As a lover, he had been more
than fair; he had been generous and kind, even
tender. Repeatedly he had risked his life for the
greater good, both in the army and in the mysterious,
thankless work he did now.
Never having known real warmth and love, no
wonder he feared accepting it, feared the power she
might gain over him. As starved as he was for
intimacy, no wonder he had been desperately
jealous and possessive, unable to believe in her
constancy. No wonder he had been shattered by her
apparent betrayal. It wasn't just that he
believed her to be treacherous; her actions had
released the dark trauma that lay at the very roots
of his soul.
She had never loved him more than now, when she was
aware of the full dimensions of his valor. It is
not hard to be good when circumstances encourage it;
how incredibly more difficult it must have been for
Gervase, who had been raised by the examples of
selfishness and neglect. Yet he had done it,
become a far better man than his upbringing had
decreed. If not happy, he had been content,
had known his place in the world and was living an
honorable life.
And in her heedless self-righteousness, her
unacknowledged desire to exact a subtle
payment for what he had done, she had brought him
to this. She remembered the words Madeline had
spoken long ago in a sunlit garden: Some people
... can be brought to their knees, with all their pride
and honor broken by the ones they love.
Diana was bitterly ashamed for having played
on Gervase's uncertainties. To feed her own
desire for power, she had refused to promise
fidelity when he had so desperately craved it.
Yes, she had been injured by him, but she had been
in a position to know better than to injure him in
return, and she had failed.
Diana sensed that he was now in some black
place beyond light or hope, and feared that nothing
she could do or say would make any difference at
all. But she could do no less than try. Her


voice shaking, she said softly, "No
matter what you have done, or how much you hate
yourself, I love you, because you are worthy of being
loved."
Her mind was numbed by all that had passed, and
choosing words was an immense effort. "I think it
was fate that drew us together. We have both been
wounded, but together, if we try, we can heal each
other. You are part of me, and I will love you as
long as I live, and beyond."
She could see a quick, convulsive tightening in the
part of his face that was visible, but his harsh breathing was
his only reply. The abyss between them was too
wide to be bridged, and she feared that the damage
was beyond repairing. There was nothing more to be said, so
she lifted her candle, now burned low and
guttering.
She also took her knife. If he wanted
to destroy himself rather than live in his pain, she
knew he could find a way, but she would not make it
easy for him.
Only the knowledge that her presence was hurting him
made it possible for her to leave.




For Gervase it was a night without end. After
improvising a crude bandage to stop the flow of
blood, he had lain in the shadow-haunted room,
unable to face full dark. He had been too
profoundly scarred by the fact of his mother's
seduction to have forgotten, but for years he had
walled off the event in his mind, rigidly
suppressing all memory of the details. Now his
spinning head was full of her beautiful, corrupt
face, her amused murmurings, her mocking
incomprehension of his horror. Medora was a form
of the name Medea; Medea, the sorceress who had
murdered her own children. He had wondered sometimes
if she would have been different if she had carried a
different name.
He had never seen her again after that afternoon.
Instead, he had run away, blindly, heedlessly.
When his father's men had found him weeks later, he
refused to go back unless it was understood that he would
never, ever set foot under any roof that sheltered his
mother. His father had raised his brows in mild
surprise, but had no desire to know more. It had
been a simple matter to leave his son at


school or send him to remote
properties where Lady St. Aubyn would never
go.
Gervase had been seventeen when his mother died,
an age when young men are most fascinated and
caustic about sexual peccadilloes. In spite
of his youth, he had fought two duels before his
classmates realized just how unhealthy it was
to refer to the late, notorious viscountess within
earshot of her son. Gervase had been careful not
to kill, since nothing could be said about his mother that was more
insulting than the truth, but the duels increased the
sick, angry ache deep inside him.
His nightmarish marriage had confirmed his
unworthiness to ever live a normal life. It
had been fitting to think himself tied to a mental
defective, with the punishing guilt of how badly
he had used the child. But in spite of his remorse,
he had never truly thought of his wife as a person
in her own right. Now, in this night of purgatory,
he could not escape the face of the girl he had
known as Mary Hamilton, with her dazed,
drugged, terrified eyes. More and more clearly, he
recognized under the terror the soft features and
haunted loveliness of Diana.
The harsh realities and savage beauty of
India had burned away any remnants of his
youth; military service had hardened him, and it
had been a blessing to feel less. Since
returning to England, he had built a
satisfactory life, honoring his obligations and
finding the chesslike challenges of intelligence
work quirkily gratifying. Until Diana had
appeared, weaving sweet illusions of warmth and
happiness, then tearing them asunder. His wife, whom
he had raped and abandoned, who had returned
to become the love of his life, who even now,
incredibly, heartbreakingly, claimed to love
him.
He had never been more grateful to see a
dawn, though it came with glacial slowness, giving
the promise of light long before fulfilling it.
When Bonner appeared, the valet bandaged his arm
with military precision and no comments or questions.
Diana had done an excellent job; the slash
was long and shallow, messy but causing no real
damage. Briefly he wondered where she had
learned to use a knife, then shrugged; there was much
he would never know or understand about the woman he had
married. He bathed, as if hot water could wash


away the stains of ancient evil, then
wrote a note to Geoffrey, postponing their
ride with apologies. He was unable to face
innocence this morning.
There were advantages to having a reputation for
silence, for no one seemed to notice that he was
any different than he had been the day before.
Except perhaps Francis, who looked at him with
furrowed brow. Diana, thank heaven, kept
herself out of his sight. At the moment, being in the
same room with her would have been more than Gervase
could bear.

Breakfast in the nursery was a cheerful affair,
or would have been if Diana had not looked so
drained, her fair, fragile skin shadowed with
fatigue. It took no great intelligence for
Madeline to guess that there had been a clash, and
she wondered how his lordship of St. Aubyn
looked this morning.
Maddy and Geoffrey engaged in a tacit
conspiracy to cheer Diana, talking back and forth
merrily. After breakfast, Geoffrey slipped
off to visit some of the estate children whom he had met
on his Christmas visit. Madeline wondered
how they would regard him now that it was known that the boy
was the heir to Aubynwood; it was bound to make a
difference. Shrugging, she turned to read two letters
that had just been delivered, while Diana gazed
blankly into space, her hands clasped around her
teacup.
The first letter was from Nicholas, full of the most
marvelously improper suggestions, and with the happy
news that he would be able to return to London
sooner than expected. He was also pressing for a
definite wedding date, and Madeline was inclined
to let him have his way. A year and a day after the death
of his wife, perhaps ... in a very quiet ceremony.
She read the letter three times before setting it
aside.
The second letter was from Edith, who had taken the
mail coach and made fast work of the trip
to Scotland. In a firm, inelegant hand, she
laid out her findings:

Dear Maddy,
I'm sending this to you since you will know the situation
and can judge when it is best to tell Diana.
Learning about her father has been easy--the local
doctor, Abernathy by name, was most forthcoming when


I said I was a friend of Diana's. She
was well-regarded here, and he talked fondly of
what a bonnie puir wee lassie she was.
First, James Hamilton died last year,
of the same disease that made him mad--the French
disease. (also called sifilis?) Abernathy
says the vicar was quite the gay society lad in his
youth, drinking and wenching and gambling and all the
rest. Even after his marriage, he did not
entirely reform--he contracted the sifilis after
Diana's birth.
Abernathy says Diana's mother killed herself
the day after the doctor confirmed that she was
pregnant again. The poor woman already knew she
had contracted her husband's illness and couldn't
face bringing a diseased baby into the world, nor,
likely, seeing herself go mad like her husband was
beginning to. So she drowned herself. Even among the
stern godly Scots, sympathy is on the side
of the lady, and her husband was universally condemned.
After his wife's death the vicar went all
queer, getting madder and madder. His daughter had
always been called Diana but he started calling
her Mary, since he said Diana was a pagan
name. When he came back from a trip to the
Hebrides without Diana and a faradiddle about her
marrying, there was some fear he'd done away with her,
but everyone was afraid of him and nothing was done about
it. At the end of his life, Hamilton was
locked up and raving mad, all his clerical work
done by a curate.
Abernathy was delighted to hear that Diana was
alive and well and urged her to bring her husband and
bairn for a visit. Or if not that, to write to him
anyhow, because as her father's sole heir she
inherits a tidy fortune. The madder Hamilton
got, the less money he spent. Apparently her
parents were quite wellborn, but you and I had guessed
that.
I'm for Mull and my sister Jane now.
Give my love to Diana and Geoffrey.
V'truly yours, etc.
Edith.

Madeline read the letter once, then again, before
glancing speculatively at Diana. On
balance, she thought her friend could do with a distraction,
even a melodramatic one. "Here's a letter from
Edith. She's been to your village in
Lanarkshire. You'll want to read it yourself."


Her words startled Diana out of her
abstraction and she accepted the letter. As she read,
she turned very pale and was silent so long that
Madeline finally asked if she was well.
Diana said, "I'm all right, Maddy." She
buried her face in her hands for a time, but there were
no tears. Finally she raised her head, her
features sad but resigned. "So all of those
years my father was suffering from venereal disease. No
wonder he cursed lust and considered women a
source of contamination."
"He must have been guilt-ridden as well,"
Madeline ventured. "For contracting the disease through
adultery, for giving it to your mother, for being the cause
of her suicide."
Diana nodded slowly, her eyes distant.
"It would have been enough to drive him mad even if the
disease didn't. After my mother's death, he
terrorized me with his ravings about sin and corruption
and the evils of worldliness. And yet, as the letter
says, he'd been very fashionable in his youth. After
going into the church he gave up silks and
velvets and all the other trappings of wealth,
except for a gentleman's pistol that he carried
for protection."
She sighed, her face deeply sad. "He was
very quick to condemn others, yet he succumbed
to temptation himself. For a few moments of carnal
pleasure, he destroyed himself and his family.
Such a tragic waste."
Her voice broke for a moment before she could
continue. "He must have suffered greatly from his
guilt. And he must have known that he was going mad."
"It's generous of you to feel compassion after all
he did to you," Madeline observed.
Diana smiled wryly. "It's far easier
to be compassionate now that he's safely dead.
Besides, it was a long time ago. I've lived a
whole lifetime since I saw him last, and it
has been a much better life." She folded the
letter into precise quarters. "When I was little, he
wasn't a bad father; stern, but not unkind.
Sometimes he was even affectionate. I'll try
to remember him like that. I hope he is at peace
now."
"And your mother?"
Diana closed her eyes in pain at the question.
"Now I understand why she was so distraught before ...
the end. She left no note. I think she must have
decided on impulse that she just couldn't face the


future, and walked into a pond. Wearing
heavy winter clothes, it wouldn't have taken long."
She shivered, then opened her eyes. "The
official verdict was death by misadventure so she
could be buried in holy ground, but everyone knew that
she couldn't have drowned there unless she wanted to."
"Can you forgive her for leaving you?"
Diana nodded, biting her lip. "Mama
knew how to love, generously and wisely. She
taught me to read, to love music and books.
Most important, she gave me a sense of
spirituality quite different from my father's harsh, condemning
religion. It was from her that I learned that love
is more important than hatred or revenge. It
was because of her that I was able to survive my farce
of a marriage as well as I did." She smiled
wryly. "Not, mind you, that my conduct was all that
saintly. I was angrier than I knew. But it
wasn't hatred or anger or desire for
revenge that dominated my life, in spite of
what my husband believes."
Gently she clasped the folded letter between her
palms, her eyes distant. "I would never have
emerged from my childhood with any health or
sanity if it hadn't been for my mother. You remind
me of her." While Madeline absorbed the
compliment, Diana drew a shuddering breath, then
ended unsteadily, "That's why it was so hard
to comprehend why Mama would kill herself. With what
Edith writes, finally I understand. May God have
mercy on both their souls." Then her face
crumpled and she began to cry, with the healing tears of
release.

The Count de Veseul deciphered his letter with
mixed emotions. He had proposed a plan
to his superiors that was so brilliant and subtle
that he would carry it out whether they approved it or
not, just because of the pure, wicked pleasure he would
find in the execution. Only the imbeciles at
the Horse Guards would have wasted Arthur
Wellesley's talents for so long, and only those
same imbeciles would actually bring the Victor
of Vimeiro up before a court of inquiry for a
treaty that the general had not negotiated. The
fools did not deserve Wellesley; in France
he would have been a marshal by now.
Veseul admired Wellesley; his
accomplishments in India had been breathtaking.
The general was perhaps the only soldier in Britain


who might conceivably threaten the
emperor, and that knowledge made it so much more pleasing to bring
him down. The details were hazy in the count's
mind, but it would be simple to manufacture
evidence that would taint the general's name so
thoroughly that he would never hold another military
command again. Wellesley was very vulnerable now--any
scandal would do--and when Veseul was done, the best
the general could hope for would be a lifetime rotting
in Ireland, mediating potato wars.
It was gratifying that Veseul's superiors were
properly impressed with the count's proposal, but
their enthusiasm meant that he would have to return
to London prematurely--the very next day, in
fact. He had only a few hours left
to seek out the elusive Lady St. Aubyn and
take his pleasure of her.
Veseul knew he should have attempted Diana
Lindsay the night before, but Lady Haycroft had
come to his room and, what with one thing and another, the
night had passed quickly. Her ladyship liked
pain as few women did, and there was a special
pleasure in that, though her willingness removed the
joys of conquest.
This morning, when he was ripe to try an
unwilling woman, the blasted viscountess had
sent a message down that she was indisposed, though
more likely she was avoiding her stone-faced
husband. The count knew she was not in her chamber
because he had expertly picked the lock, only
to find the room empty.
It would take time to locate her. He had
planned a far more elegant campaign, spinning
a delicate web that only she would see, and now
he would have to move in haste. The crudeness would be
unaesthetic. But not, however, without enjoyment.

Gervase looked up wearily when his cousin
entered the estate office. He had been busying
himself with routine matters that would be better handled
by his steward, but it was a convenient excuse
to remove himself from his guests, who were having a fine
time and hardly noticed his absence.
Francis, however, was not so easily avoided.
Choosing a chair right in front of the desk, he
sat down. "Good day, Gervase. Do you have time
to talk for a few moments?"
"If I don't, will you leave?" Gervase
asked dryly.
"No," was the cheerful reply.


His expression lightening, the viscount
settled back in his chair and prepared to hear what
Francis had to say. He had never considered it
before, but his cousin had a quality of calm
acceptance that was like Diana's. Abruptly he
changed the direction of his thoughts; he could not bear
to think of his wife. "I'm glad you could come
to Aubynwood. I haven't been at my most
social, and I appreciate the fact that you've
been acting the host in my absence."
"Quite all right." Francis waved his hand
casually. "I know you've had other things on your
mind, such as having your wife and son here
publicly for the first time."
Gervase stiffened. "I do not wish to discuss my
family."
"Don't give me that look, cousin. I mean
to have my say, and the only way you can avoid hearing
it is to run faster than I." Francis' tone
was light but his blue eyes were intent. "I know and
value both you and Diana. Since you are each
looking quite miserable, I wanted to offer my
services as a mediator. Sometimes another
person helps. She's very much in love with you, you
know. You seem hardly indifferent yourself, so whatever
the problem is, it should be soluble."
The viscount pushed away from his desk, distancing
himself from the words. Venom in his voice, he asked,
"Did she tell you that over a pillow?"
"Good God, no! Surely you don't think
Diana and I are lovers?" Francis seemed
genuinely shocked by the assumption.
Gervase felt his mouth twisting. He had not
wanted to begin this conversation, had known instinctively
that nothing good could come from it, yet now it could not be
stopped. "It's a logical assumption. I know
that you visited her when I was away, on the most
intimate of terms."
It took a moment for Francis to understand the
reference, and then he frowned. "Good Lord, were you
having Diana watched? Why on earth would you do
that?"
"The woman's a whore by profession,
remember? I wanted to know how good her business
was." Even as he said the bitter words,
Gervase hated himself, but his tongue would not stop.
"Don't speak of your wife that way,"
Francis snapped. "It does you no credit.
In fact, it's utter nonsense. Apart from a
couple of visits to the sort of function any


man can attend without comment, she has been
living in London as quietly and respectably
as any woman could. There is no impropriety
in having male friends call."
"Before you dig yourself any more holes, I should
warn you that yesterday I saw you with her by the lake."
His cousin's narrowed eyes were colder than
Gervase had ever seen them. "She was upset--because
of you--and I offered her what comfort I could. As a
friend. No more, certainly no less."
"Do you expect me to believe that?"
Francis was absolutely still. "I will let
no man call me a liar, Gervase, not even
you."
"Oh, I don't blame you for being entranced
by her," the viscount said wearily. "What man
wouldn't be? She could tempt a monk from his vows
simply by walking into a room, and young men are
notoriously unmonkish. Just don't lie
to me."
Francis slapped his hand down on the desk so
hard that the pens jumped. "Damnation, Gervase,
you are slandering both Diana and me. She is a
gentle, loving, beautiful woman, and you don't
deserve her." Then, his voice breaking, he
added, "If I could love a woman, it would be
her. But I swear before God that there has been
nothing the least bit improper between us. Or are you
too blind with jealousy to believe me?"
Gervase stared at the younger man, feeling pain
shifting deep inside him. Francis was his
closest friend; he was also notoriously truthful.
Would his cousin really lie about this? More than that,
did Gervase himself really believe that Diana was
a liar, or was his own bleak despair distorting his
image of her? There was no evidence that she was
disloyal, except for his own belief that any
woman he cared about must be.
Setting his elbows on the desk, he massaged
his temples, where anguished confusion stabbed deep
into his brain. He had tried to avoid all thought
of Diana, and in the face of Francis'
challenge he understood why. It was easier
to believe in her anger than in her love; easier
to condemn her than to accept that she was as loving and
true as he had believed, and that he was wholly
unworthy of her.
Now he could no longer avoid the knowledge that
Francis was damnably, undeniably right:
Gervase didn't deserve the woman he had


married. On some deep level he had
always known it, but that didn't make his present
recognition any less agonizing.
Because Gervase was lost in bitter self-
condemnation, it took time for the full import of
Francis' words to penetrate his mind, and then he
didn't grasp the implications. If he had,
he would never have asked without thinking, "What do you
mean, if you could love a woman?" There was a
long taut silence, and Gervase saw that his
cousin's face was ash pale.
"I meant exactly what I said." In
spite of his pallor, Francis' gaze was
unflinching. "I'll be leaving England soon, with
... a friend. I believe that in the future, I will
be making my home in Italy. Or perhaps
Greece. The ancient world is more tolerant of people
like me."
Considering how emotionally drained he was, it was
surprising how much shock Gervase could still feel.
Shock, and revulsion. He knew that men who
preferred their own kind existed, but to the extent that
he ever thought of them, it had been as depraved
creatures slinking about the edges of society; men
whose perversion would somehow be visible on their faces.
They could not be men like Francis, who were
intelligent and honorable. They could not be friends.
"No," he said harshly, rejecting belief.
"It's not possible."
"It's not only possible--it's undeniable.
If I could be different, I would be, but I had
no choice." In spite of the calmness of
Francis' words, a pulse beat visibly in his
throat. "You are the head of the family as well as
my friend. I thought you should know that you cannot count on me
for any heirs after Geoffrey."
Gervase realized that he was clenching a
Venetian-glass paperweight in his hand, and he
forced his cramped fingers to loosen and set it down.
In the chaos of emotions that jammed his mind, one
oblique sentence emerged. "If you lay a hand
on my son, I'll kill you."
Francis flushed violently at first. Then the
blood drained from his face, leaving it a deathly
white. Standing with such sudden fury that his chair
tipped over, he said in a voice scathing in its
softness. "I knew that you could be blind and
insensitive, but I never realized you were a
bloody damned fool."
He spun on his heel and stalked out, the


echoes of his words hanging heavy in the
room.
Gervase rose halfway from his chair,
stretching one hand toward his cousin as if to call
back his words, then sank down again. He felt
such a crushing weight on his chest that for a disoriented
moment he wondered if his heart was failing under the
strain of all that had happened. But his heart
continued to beat, his blood to pulse, his lungs
to draw in air and to force it out. His body, in all
its rude health, continued to function even though his
life lay crashed in ruins.
Once more he buried his face in his hands,
trying to come to terms with the unspeakable truth about his
cousin. Francis was no different today than he
had been yesterday; only Gervase's perception
of him had changed. His cousin had trusted him enough
to make a devastating confession and Gervase had
failed him, offering insult instead of understanding.
Desiring men was not the same thing as desiring children;
it was Gervase's own experience of being molested
by a trusted adult that had made him utter such an
unforgivable insult.
As he had failed Francis, so had he
failed Diana. She, too, had trusted him
to understand, and instead he had overreacted wildly,
accusing her of every kind of betrayal and dishonesty.
No matter what you have done, or how much you
hate yourself, I love you, because you are worthy of
being loved.
Gervase wished he could believe her words,
wished he could go to her and beg her forgiveness,
bury his head against her soft breast and absorb her
warmth until the anguish went away, but the gulf
between them was too vast, too many unpardonable words
had been said. Last night, in momentary pity, she
had offered him comfort, but her fury and hatred had
been real, as had been her appalled reaction to the
story of his mother's seduction. She had been unable
to disguise her revulsion, and that was something else that
would always be between them in the future.
His mind painfully sorted through the options for the
future. He had offered her a legal separation,
but since their marriage had been the result of
coercion it might be possible to obtain an
annulment; money and influence would help there. As
Diana had said with such contempt, there wasn't enough
money in the world to buy him a clear conscience; the
only gift he could give her that might make
amends would be her freedom. Without the stigma of


divorce, she could find the honorable,
loving husband she had dreamed of as a child; a man
who might be good enough for her.
Utterly alone, Gervase accepted the
hopeless knowledge that his loneliness would last a lifetime.

Diana spent a quiet day in the nursery,
sewing shirts for Geoffrey and letting the
repetitiveness of the task soothe her as
Madeline kept her company in undemanding
silence. She felt suspended in time, not knowing how
to go forward, yet knowing that it was impossible to go
back. She ached for Gervase's pain, could feel
it even through the barrier he had erected against her,
but could do nothing to leaven it. In time, he would bury
his ravaging memories at the bottom of the well
again and get on with his life. He was a man of
incredible strength to have survived what he had, and
she didn't doubt that his strength would bring him through
this crisis as well.
Unfortunately, she doubted that Gervase would
ever be able to see her without reviving the pain of
everything that lay between them. He must hate her for
forcing him to admit what he could scarcely admit
to himself. She wished that she could retract the
furious denunciation she had hurled at him.
Yes, she had been angry and she had the right
to be; nothing could justify his initial rape. But
her father was the greater villain; it was he who had
forced the marriage, then abandoned her even though he
knew that her new husband had left the inn.
Nor were her hands clean; if she had been
half as saintly as people thought her, she would not have had
that unacknowledged desire to see her husband pay
for what he had done. She had not wanted
to crucify him, but the difference was only one of
degree. And had it not been for her cowardice and
secretiveness, she and Gervase would never have come
to this.
Her sewing lay neglected in her lap as her
thoughts continued in their ceaseless round. It was a
relief to have an early dinner in the nursery, and
when Geoffrey suggested a walk in the gardens,
she accepted in the hopes that her son's
liveliness would hold her depression at bay.
The fresh evening air was a pleasure after a day
inside. Gervase's houseguests would be gathering
in the salon for predinner sherry now, and there was no
one outdoors to whom she would have to be charming. At
the moment, she was not sure she could manage even the


barest civility.

High above her, a pair of avid dark eyes
watched from the house. The Count de Veseul
didn't see the boy who skipped ahead of his
mother; he saw only the woman, with her distinctive
grace and slim, alluring body. The vast
gardens were empty at this hour, and Diana,
Lady St. Aubyn, would not escape him this time.
He must be quick about it, since he would have to join the
other guests before his absence was remarked.
He would also have to ensure that she was unable
to report the rape; St. Aubyn might be
estranged from his wife, but he would certainly take
a very dim view of someone else damaging his
property. Veseul absently stroked the
serpent's head. It was a delicious prospect.
He would take and destroy St. Aubyn's
wife, then go to London and destroy the
viscount's hero. And St. Aubyn would be
helpless either to prevent or to retaliate.

Geoffrey was like a playful puppy, ranging
ahead, then back to point out items of particular
interest. The Aubynwood gardens had developed
over centuries, and included everything from herb and
knot gardens to a maze. It was the maze that
Geoffrey led her to now. "Cheslow, the head
gardener, says our maze is the best in England,"
he said proudly. "Even better than the one at
Hampton Court."
For a moment his identification of "our" maze
stabbed her; it belonged to her husband and would someday be
her son's, but there was no place for her at
Aubynwood. She had belonged more truly as a
mistress than as a wife.
Nor was there a place for self-pity; she put
her thought aside. "Did Cheslow say how old
the maze is?"
"It was planted in the time of Queen
Elizabeth. The outside is a perfect
square, but inside is all tangled. There is
one route to the center, and another, shorter one
leads out. Did you know that you can find your way through
a maze by keeping your hand on the left wall, and
always taking the left turning? Or you can go to the
right," he added conscientiously. "As long as you
always turn the same way."
"No, really?" she said with interest. She thought
about it for a moment. "I see. One would have to go down


all the blind alleys and doublings-back,
but there would be no chance of getting lost and eventually
one would get through. Rather like the tortoise and the hare."
They were at the maze entrance now and it was
undeniably a fine sight. The yew bushes were
incredibly dense, clipped with mathematical
precision and towering well above a man's head.
The entry was flanked by a Greek god and
goddess who seemed up to no good; Diana
recalled reading somewhere that ancient mazes were
associated with fertility, which explained the
anticipation on Apollo's face. "Have you been
through the maze before?"
"Oh, yes, lots of times." Geoffrey's
eyes lit up. "Would you like to try to catch me
inside?"
She chuckled. "You want to take advantage
of my ignorance."
He smiled mischievously, knowing it was unnecessary
to admit the truth of her statement. "Very well,"
she said with mock resignation. "Make a fool of
your mother. But if I can't find my way out, you have
to come back and rescue me."
"Don't worry, I'll wait in the center
till you find me, so I can guide you out," he
offered magnanimously. Then he raced into the
maze, giving one squeal of delight before
remembering that his cries would give away his
location.
Diana decided to give him a one-minute
head start and began counting while she studied the
statues more closely. They appeared to be
original; just another pair of priceless
Aubynwood baubles. Absorbed in her thoughts,
she didn't hear the quiet footfalls on the
grass, or realize that she was not alone until
her bare neck was grasped by a large male hand.
As long fingers stroked and caressed with insulting
familiarity, she froze, knowing instantly that it was
not Gervase who touched her.
Pivoting away from the interloper, she found herself
face-to-face with the Count de Veseul. He was
dressed all in black and looked so
nonchalant, so elegantly evil, that a bolt
of panic ran through her. But she was the mistress of
Aubynwood now, not a demirep, and he would not
dare to coerce her. In her best grande dame
manner she said, "Good evening, Monsieur le
Comte. You are not dining with the others?"
"I shall join them soon," he said lazily, "but


I saw you walking in this direction and
decided to ... pay my respects. Business
calls, and I must leave in the morning."
"What a pity. I trust you have enjoyed your
visit here." He stood too close for comfort and
she edged away.
"The best part is yet to come." Lifting the
cane he always carried, he laid the golden
serpent's head against her cheek.
Jerking away, she said, "Monsieur, you
take unacceptable liberties. Do not do so again."
"I shall do whatever I wish." He laughed with
gentle amusement, his dark eyes a fierce
contrast to his languid tone. "I shall take what
I have desired since the first moment I saw you at
the theater. You are a work of art, ma petite,
and great art should not be kept for the pleasure of only
one man."
In the face of his unmistakable meaning, she
stepped back again, beginning to be frightened. "My
husband would not appreciate your impertinence any
more than I do," she said sharply. "If you do not
leave immediately, I shall tell him of your insulting
behavior. A wise man would not wish to incur
St. Aubyn's displeasure."
"You will tell him nothing, ma petite." The
civilized mask began slipping. "I will take
my pleasure of you, and when I am done, no one
else shall ever have you again."
He reached for her, laying one hand on the
juncture of neck and shoulder, his thumb stroking
her throat with threatening pressure as he raised
the cane with his other hand, his physical strength
overpowering at such close quarters. The underlying
evil she had always sensed in him was fully visible
now, and she had no doubt that the count was capable of
raping and murdering her, then joining the other guests
for a blithe dinner. That thought was instantly followed
by the horrific realization that if Geoffrey
returned to find what delayed his mother, he would have
to be murdered too.
Forcing down her panic, she twisted free of
Veseul's hand before he could get a firm grip.
Her mind racing at lightning speed, she knew
she could not outrun him across the grassy lawn, and
he was so close that if she reached for her knife
he could easily disarm her. With no perceptible
pause in her actions, Diana gave one
scream, hoping someone might be near, then whirled
and darted into the maze.



Gervase circulated among his guests, using
his host's duties to avoid getting into lengthy
conversations. He noted that Veseul was missing from
the crowd; the count had sent a graceful note
apologizing for the fact that he must leave in the
morning. Gervase would have said good riddance,
except that he had made no progress toward
exposing the treachery of which he suspected the
Frenchman. Over the last few days Veseul's
sociability had had a smug quality, as if
he knew that he was under suspicion, and was thumbing
his nose at the man who wanted to expose him.
At times like this Gervase could see the appeal of the
French police state; it would be pleasant just
to throw Veseul into prison. In Britain,
however, that wasn't feasible, especially not when the
suspect was wealthy and well-connected.
He smiled automatically at Mrs.
Oliphant, who was saying that she hoped dear
Lady St. Aubyn was feeling better; such a
lovely young woman. Murmuring something suitable,
he made his escape as quickly as possible.
Gervase was grateful that his wife was still keeping out
of his way; his decision to give Diana an
annulment was the wisest course, but if he saw
her again it would be very difficult to hold to his
resolution.
Since he had decided what to do about his wife,
it was time to make amends to Francis. He began
working his way through the crowd toward his cousin. When
Francis saw him, the younger man's lips
tightened and he deliberately turned back
to his discussion with a man from the Foreign Office.
Impatiently Gervase waited for a break in the
conversation, then said in a low voice, "Could you come
out in the hall for a moment?"
Francis gave him a stare that could have chipped
ice. "Afraid I'll contaminate your
guests?"
"No! Please, just come." Apologizing was
going to be hard enough without having an audience.
Together they made their way through the milling,
good-natured crowd.

The entrance passage to the maze was short; then
it turned to the right and split with paths to both right and
left. Without stopping to consider, Diana ran
to her left over the short-clipped velvety
grass, hoping that she could be out of sight before


Veseul reached the intersection. Another
intersection, another turn to the left. This one led
to a dead end, and she raced back the way she had
come, hoping that the scream she had given would bring
Geoffrey to her without alerting Veseul to the fact
that a third person was present.
When she was halfway down the passage,
Geoffrey appeared at the far end and dashed toward
her. He was about to call out when she put her finger
to her lips in a frantic demand for silence. He
was surprised but obedient, and in a moment Diana
was beside him, dropping to her knees and putting her
lips by his ear to speak in a breathless whisper.
"Geoffrey, there's a bad man behind me in the
maze. Do you know the way well enough to lead us through and
out the other side without any wrong turns?"
He considered, then whispered, "No." He was
intrigued by her words, not yet fearful.
Diana thought rapidly. If she and
Geoffrey stayed together, it was likely they would
both run into Veseul and neither would escape
alive. Her glance fell to the base of the thick
green hedge. The heavy yew branches grew
almost down to the ground, but at the very bottom there was
a little space between the hedge and the earth. Not enough for an
adult to wiggle through, but adequate for a small
child. With a swift prayer that Veseul would not
appear, she asked urgently, "Could you crawl
under the hedges and get out of the maze the shortest,
quickest way?"
After a quick look, Geoffrey nodded. "Yes,
but I might ruin my clothes."
"That doesn't matter!" Diana caught at
the note of hysteria in her voice, wanting her
son to be alert but not panicky. "Go as quickly as
you can and try not to let Veseul see you. He's
a very, very wicked man. If he catches you, shout
and I'll come. When you're outside, run as fast
as you can to the house and bring back help. Do you
understand all that?"
Geoffrey nodded. Grasping some of the danger,
he gave her a grave, searching look, then
threw his arms around her for a quick hug before burrowing
under the hedge nearest the perimeter.
Diana spared a moment to send a fervent blessing
with her son, then lifted her skirts to ankle
level and ran, her thin kidskin slippers
silent on the grass. At the next intersection
she turned left again. The sky above was still
sunlit, but here in the maze all was cool shadow


as dusk approached. There was still no
sight of the Frenchman, but she heard a rustling
sound on the far side of the right-hand hedge. In his
confidence, the count moved at a leisurely
pace, scorning both silence and speed.
Wanting to distract him from any chance of hearing
Geoffrey, Diana gave a small gasp, just
loud enough for him to hear before she plunged down the new
path. A thick evil chuckle pursued her.
"I am so glad you are trying to escape, ma
petite, it is more exciting this way." His
voice was a confident, threatening hiss, like his
golden serpent come to life. "You will not succeed, you
know. It is just a matter of time until one of your
turns will bring you right into my arms."
The frightened whimper she gave was only partly for
effect. Was Geoffrey out yet? Pray God
he wouldn't come back to investigate. Another
dead end, the dense green hedge a blank barrier
in front of her. She turned and ran back.
At the next junction she stopped and listened.
She heard heavy breathing and the soft rustle of a
body brushing the shrubbery, but within the tangled
pathways of the maze it was impossible to tell where
the sounds came from. Veseul could be almost anywhere.
He could have gotten ahead of her and be lying in
wait, or be as close as the other side of the
hedge. The uncertainty was almost as terrifying as his
actual presence.
She moved down the next aisle. The maze
seemed much larger on the inside than it had from the
outside, and the fragrance of a late-summer garden
was an ironic contrast to this nightmare game of
hide-and-seek. How long until she came to the
center and found the path out? If she could escape the
maze with even a minute's head start, she could win
free of the Frenchman.
She paused again at the intersection, listening
intently as her lungs struggled for breath. Then,
with shocking suddenness, a black-clad arm shot through
the dark yew wall and grabbed her upper arm with
vicious strength. This time there was nothing
calculated about her scream.

Geoffrey wriggled out from under the outside
hedge, leaving his coat tangled in the yew
branches. As he sprang to his feet, he
heard his mother's terrified cry, and he
instinctively moved toward the maze entrance. Then
he stopped. He couldn't fight the bad man


alone; he must go for help as Mama
ordered.
Running as never before, he cut through the formal
rose garden toward the main house. The gardens were
too large, the house impossibly distant. A
stitch stabbed at his side and he was gasping for
breath but he refused to slow down. Then, as he
came to the edge of the gardens, he felt a tugging
on his forehead, the invisible rope that would pull him
backward into an epileptic seizure.

The Frenchman's grasp was cruelly tight.
His other hand emerged from the hedge and fumbled blindly
at Diana's body, squeezing viciously when
he found her breast. The clawing hands revolted
her, and her only comfort was knowing that the hedge
temporarily blocked his passage. But he could
disable her, then follow through the maze to her location.
At the thought, she struggled harder.
Veseul crooned his threats in a low,
sibilant voice. "First I shall cut off your
clothes so I may see if the whole of you is as
perfect as what is visible. Then I will ravish
you, invade every depth of your body while you fight
me." He was panting with eagerness now, his perverse
visions stimulating him out of his cool savoir
faire. "So fortunate that no one is around at
this hour--I won't have to gag your screams."
His depraved excitement infuriated Diana,
and she managed to lean over and sink her teeth
into his wrist, biting as hard as she could. He
gasped and his fingers loosened, permitting her to tear
free. She fled down the aisle, pursued by the
hissing threat, "You should not have done that, ma
petite." His voice and hoarse breathing filled
the whole maze, coming from every direction at once, and
she could hear his heavy steps, no longer
leisurely as he pursued her.
Another intersection. Another left turn.
Terrifyingly, another dead end, at the same
moment that Veseul appeared behind her, a scant
twenty feet away. A vicious, satisfied
smile spread across his face, all handsomeness
eradicated by his emerging madness. With the
desperation of a cornered rabbit, Diana saw that
the gap at the bottom of the hedge was unusually
wide here, and she dropped to the ground and wriggled
frantically under.
It was possible to force her body through, just
barely. The thick, ancient yew limb gouged


her back painfully, ripping the light
muslin of her dress. She lost one slipper but
won a brief reprieve; a man the size of
Veseul could not squeeze through the gap, though his
furious curses pursued her.
As she ran once more to the left, her heart
thundered, as if it would burst from her body. Her
strength was fading, and with it any faint hope of
escaping. She considered stopping and waiting for her
pursuer, knife in hand, but she didn't know if
she could kill a man, even to save her own
life. And she didn't dare find out.

Geoffrey fought the seizure with every iota of will
and concentration that he had developed in his demanding
childhood. "No!" he shrieked, bending forward
at the waist, clutching his temples as if to hold
on to consciousness. "No!"
Fueled by desperation, his willpower succeeded.
The tugging at his forehead receded, though not very far.
As he straightened up dizzily and staggered across
the drive toward the house, he could feel the
seizure at the edge of his consciousness, waiting like
a predator for his concentration to fail so that it could
take away his mind.

Behind her, Veseul was panting, no longer
suave. His hissing threats had deteriorated
into a string of French obscenities, words that
mercifully she did not understand. Another turn,
then ahead of her lay the circular heart of the
maze.
Light-footed, she plunged into the clearing.
When she was halfway across, she heard the
sibilant voice exult, "Now I have you, little
whore."
She hurled herself forward with all her remaining
strength, but just as she reached the far exit a hard
blow between her shoulder blades knocked her to her
knees, leaving her gasping for breath. Veseul
had hurled his cane at her, and from the corner of
her eye she saw the golden serpent's head shining
bright and evil against the green grass. For a moment
she was too spent to move; then she scrambled to her
feet frantically.
Before she could flee again, before she could even reach
down for her knife, he had crossed the clearing and
seized her.


24

Grim and uncompromising, Francis waited
for Gervase to speak. Though a hum of conversation
came from behind the door to the salon, they were alone in
the soaring two-story entrance hall, joined
by blood and divided by tension.
Not knowing where to begin, Gervase examined the
fourteenth-century suit of armor standing by the wall
and wondered why the devil it was there. His grandfather
must have liked it. Or maybe his great-great-
grandfather. He laid one hand on the visor, and
without looking at Francis, he said haltingly,
"I'm sorry for ... what I said earlier. It
was unpardonable."
"Yes, it was."
Francis would not make this easy for him.
Blindly staring at distorted reflections in the
polished helmet, Gervase forced out the words:
"What I said ... had nothing to do with you, or with
Geoffrey. Only with me."
This time, there was an arrested quality to his
cousin's silence, and Gervase turned to face
him.
Francis watched him with an uncomfortable
amount of perception, and with diminished hostility. His
cousin undoubtedly saw more than Gervase would have
wished, but said merely, "Very well. Consider it
forgotten. The news I gave you would shock
anyone out of good sense. But surely you know"--
his voice dropped as he glanced around to be
absolutely sure of their privacy--"I would
no more molest a young boy than you would rape a young
girl."
The viscount flinched; he did not doubt that
Geoffrey would be far safer with Francis than the
young Diana had been with Gervase. Trying
to conceal his reaction from those too-watchful blue
eyes, he said after a moment, "I doubt you will ever
be able to match me for disgraceful conduct."
Suddenly Francis chuckled, lightening the
atmosphere. "We'll have to get together at my
club one night before I leave, and trade lies
about our wickedness."
This part of his life, at least, could be mended.
Gervase offered his hand. "I'm going to miss you."
"And I, you. I will come back to England
occasionally. And you can visit me as well, when we
have settled somewhere." Francis clasped
Gervase's hand in both of his and they stood locked


together for a moment, joined not only by blood
but also by happy memories, from the time Francis
had shadowed his large cousin's footsteps, to this
moment of poignant acceptance.
Then Geoffrey hurtled into the hall, pelting
across the polished marble floor before skidding into his
father as he tried to stop. The boy was coatless and
dirty, with a bleeding scratch across one cheek and
frantic eyes. "Please, you must help
Mama," he gasped. "She's in the maze and
there's a bad man after her."
Gervase froze for a moment as lingering
remnants of jealousy made him wonder if his
wife had met a lover and the boy had
misunderstood. Suspicion dissolved when
Geoffrey grabbed his hand, shaking it in his frenzy.
"Veseul, she said. She sent me for help.
Mama screamed. He wants to hurt her."
Then, to the horror of the two men, the boy's
eyes rolled back and he pitched to the hard marble
floor in the first stages of seizure, his breathing
a harsh rattle in the empty hall.
Swearing, Gervase knelt by his son,
pulling off his coat and shoving it under the boy's
head for whatever protection it might give.
Frightening as the seizure was, Geoffrey needed
him far less than Diana did. Cold with
terror, the viscount saw fragments of information
click into a terrifying new pattern. It
wasn't spying that had brought Veseul to loiter
near Diana's house, but her extraordinary
beauty and her closeness to Gervase. The
Frenchman had been barred from London brothels
for his violence; he would not dare attack Diana
here unless he intended to leave no witness to his
crime.
Springing to his feet, Gervase said in
staccato sentences, "The fit will be over in a
minute or two--make sure he doesn't
hurt himself. Get his nurse, Madeline--
she'll know what to do. Then send someone after me to the
maze--Veseul is dangerous."
As the viscount tore across the hall toward the
door, Francis knelt by the convulsing child, his
hands gentle and a glowing warmth in his heart in
spite of the circumstances. By the simple act of
entrusting his son to his cousin, Gervase had
atoned for his earlier insult in a manner far more
meaningful than any spoken apology.


Veseul grabbed Diana in one
powerful hand, looming over her in all his broad
muscular strength. He was panting, the wildness of
his eyes showing the beast that had always lurked beneath his
polished surface. With great deliberation he used
his other hand to give a hard, open-handed blow to the
side of her head. "That should take some of the fire
out of you, little bitch."
Diana's head snapped sideways and she
nearly blacked out. She was helpless as a doll
as he lowered her to the ground and straddled her body,
his heavy weight on her thighs completely
immobilizing her. His violence had subsided again
and, ignoring the feeble brushing motions of her hands,
he laid one heavy palm against her cheek and
crooned, "So exquisite, so entirely
perfect. If you had only been more
accommodating, I could have shown you delights you have
never reached with an Englishman. Cold of heart,
cold of hand, the English."
The fingers of one hand slipped into her hair and his
other palm cupped her breast. "Silk and softness
... everything a woman should be. In a way, it
is a tragic waste to kill you, but destroying
beauty is a high, pure art, and I will draw
strength and power from the destruction. No one else
will ever know, which will give me all the more power."
His madness was nearly as paralyzing as the weakness
of Diana's body. Almost casually Veseul
ripped the bodice of her gown, exposing her
breasts to his touch. As his hand moved back and
forth, he sighed, his lower body beginning a slow,
voluptuous pulsing against hers.
"A pity there is so little time, but it will be enough,"
he said in the same eerie, conversational tone. "I
am an artist of destruction, you know. Today I will
destroy you, the purest essence of woman I have
ever seen. Then I will go to London and weave a
web of brilliant lies that will destroy
Wellesley, the purest warrior of our age after
Bonaparte himself. And the destruction of the first two will
destroy your husband, the purest form of cold,
hard Englishman."
All her life Diana's beauty had
attracted unwanted attention and violence, but
never had she felt so helpless and victimized as
she did now. As she struggled, Veseul
easily caught both her wrists and pinned them to the
ground above her head with one of his hands. He wore
a faint tangy cologne that turned her stomach


with nausea, and the serpent-quick tip of his
tongue darted out to lick his lips. Her legs
numbed beneath his weight, and his bright, blank eyes
bored into her with hypnotic intensity.
"And when I have accomplished all that, perhaps I
shall destroy myself," he said reflectively.
"For the rest of my life will be anticlimatic, and
I abhor anticlimax."
Diana began to scream, hoping that someone,
anyone, was within earshot. She had scarcely begun
when he bent over and forced his mouth on hers, smothering
her gathering voice easily with his thick lips and
pointed tongue. She was far too thoroughly
caught to fight free, and for all the good her
struggling did, she might as well be lying
utterly passive.
Hopeless with despair, she felt the demon of
violence that had stalked her for a lifetime closing in
for the kill.

The maze had been his playground and retreat as
a child, and Gervase forced himself to slow enough to remember
the route, not to waste precious seconds on dead
ends. For the whole of his relationship with Diana,
he had gone down blind alleys, running in fear from
what was so freely and generously offered. He would
not let himself do that again at this moment of greatest
crisis.
Even though he knew the path, his progress
seemed slow as he raced between the tall hedges,
barely slowing as he hurtled around the corners.
He was halfway through when he heard Diana's
voice raised in a scream that was suddenly,
terrifyingly, cut off.
Gervase froze for an endless moment,
paralyzed with anguish, convinced beyond doubt that he was
too late. Lost in the selfishness of his guilt,
he had rejected his salvation, and the one bright light
of his life was extinguished. He had failed
Diana, himself, and their son, and for his sins he was
cursed to spend eternity in darkness.
In the aftermath of catastrophe, there was nothing
left except the absolute need to avenge her.
When Gervase burst into the clearing at the heart
of the maze, in the gathering dusk he saw the Count
de Veseul's broad body pinning Diana to the
cold earth. So total was Gervase's certainty
that his wife was dead that at first he disbelieved the
evidence of his eyes, did not accept that she was
alive, still fighting her attacker. When he saw


her move, joy lanced through him, an
instantaneous awareness that this time he had not
failed, that redemption was still attainable.
He did not pause to savor the exultation of his
relief. His body moved forward unchecked,
possessed by fierce warrior's instinct. In
three strides he crossed the clearing, bellowing
a wordless challenge to Veseul.
The Frenchman knew who came without even
looking up, and with the speed of a wolf he leapt
to his feet. With swift calculation he kicked
Diana in the ribs to weaken her so she would not
interfere. Then he turned to face his attacker,
his burly frame crouched in the stance of an
experienced fighter.
Gervase recognized that skill and slowed,
knowing that a headlong charge could put him at a
lethal disadvantage. He had perfected his knowledge of
hand-to-hand fighting in the unforgiving school of
combat, and he moved lightly toward Veseul, his
eyes narrowed in concentration as he circled
sideways, watching for a weakness. To test his
opponent he threw a single blow with his left
hand, watching how easily Veseul blocked it and
riposted with a blow of his own.
To Diana, dazed and gasping for breath on the
soft turf, there was a nightmare silence as
Gervase and Veseul circled each other, each
probing the other's defenses before risking an all-
out attack. A swift blow smashed Veseul's
face, opening up his cheek and rocking him off
balance, but before Gervase could follow up his
advantage the Frenchman responded with a kick
that grazed the Englishman's knee and sent him
staggering.
In the advancing darkness they started to close with
each other, their blows beginning to do damage.
Diana saw how equally matched they were,
Gervase lighter and quicker, Veseul with a
bearlike power that would be disastrous if the count got
a grip on his opponent and could use it fully.
Doubling over after a pulverizing blow in the
ribs, Gervase faltered in his defense, his arms
dropping. Veseul moved in for the kill, aiming a
granite fist at the Englishman's jaw, but
Gervase's weakness was a feint. Seizing
Veseul's forearm in a wrestling hold, he
levered the larger man from his feet and sent him
spinning to crash heavily onto the ground.
As the Frenchman lay in stunned silence,


Diana managed to regain her feet,
her ribs aching with pain. Gervase turned toward
her, taut and muscular. Even across the width of the
clearing she could see the desperate love and concern
in his gray eyes.
As their gazes locked and held, Diana could
actually feel the breach between them close. Like a
rainbow of love, the emotional bond that connected
them sprang to full shimmering life once again,
joining them heart-to-heart.
"You're all right?" he asked urgently, his
dark hair in disarray, his chest heaving from exertion.
Unable to speak, she nodded. Then, from the corner
of her eye, she saw that Veseul had fallen
by his cane. In the brief moment that Gervase's
attention was on her, the count unscrewed the
serpent's head, revealing a long, wicked
blade, dull and deadly in the fading light.
Aghast, Diana screamed a warning as Veseul
leapt to his feet and lunged at Gervase, his
sword aimed directly at the Englishman's
heart.
Seeing his danger, Gervase dodged, but he was
too close to the thick hedge and it blocked his
retreat. Off-balance, he flung himself
sideways, Veseul's blade pursuing him.
Diana saw with hideous clarity that Gervase would
be unable to avoid the fatal thrust of the sword for
more than a few instants more.
There was no time for thought, only instinct. With the
skill born of hundreds of hours of
practice, Diana lifted her hem and drew
her knife from its sheath. Then she hurled it across
the clearing with all her trained strength. The knife
spun in the air, hilt over blade, too
swift for the eye to follow but implacable in its
murderous accuracy.
The force of her throw drove Diana to her
knees. With paralyzed horror she saw the
knife intersect Veseul's throat, saw
gouts of blood gushing from severed arteries, saw the
count's body, dead but not quite aware of it, crash
into Gervase, carrying them both to the ground.
As they fell, Veseul's weight knocked
all the breath from Gervase, and the edge of the
swordstick grazed his ribs as the count's blood
sprayed over him. The mad black eyes glared
as life flickered out, but no words could escape that
ruined throat. Gervase lay stunned for a moment,
not quite believing that he was still alive. Then he shoved


the Frenchman's body violently
aside. Veseul had no more importance; what
mattered was Diana.
Gervase staggered to his feet, then darted to where
his wife crouched in a numb little ball, shock and
horror indelibly clear in her frantic blue
eyes. Dropping beside her, he pulled Diana
into a crushing embrace. She was trembling
violently and he felt the frenzied beat of her
heart against his chest as she burrowed into his
shoulder, whispering his name over and over.
"It's over, love, it's over," he whispered
raggedly. "You're safe now." As Gervase
shook with the reaction that follows battle, his mind
became a broken jumble of thankful prayers.
Even as he held Diana's slim body tight
in his arms, he had trouble believing that she was
truly there, alive, not seriously injured, and as
desperately grateful for his presence as he was for
hers.
The dark, deprecating part of his nature jeered
that she would have clung to any rescuer the same
way, but he rejected the thought instantly. No
longer would he allow his life to be ruled by doubt
and self-hatred. He had read once that grace
was being loved despite one's sins and weaknesses.
Gervase had not truly understood then, but he did
now; Diana offered him that kind of love, and he
would accept it as the miracle of grace that it
was.
As he held her, a kaleidoscope of
images flickered through his mind: that first heart-
stopping sight of Diana at Harriette
Wilson's; the first time they had made love, when
she had taught him to rediscover innocence; the
soul-deep need that grew stronger every time they were
together. Even the bitter estrangement of the last days
had value, tearing away the lies and secrets
until the two of them were fully revealed to one
another.
Diana was cold with shock, her lapis-blue
eyes dazed as she clung to her husband, her mind
rejecting the scene of violence. A few minutes
later, that was how Francis found them when he ran
into the clearing, followed by two of the larger footmen.
Without loosening his embrace, Gervase glanced
up at his cousin. "Veseul tried to kill her.
Have someone ... take care of the body. May I
have your coat?"
Wordlessly Francis took off his finely


tailored wool coat and handed it over.
Gervase wrapped the garment around his wife for
warmth and for modesty, then stood. She was light and
fragile in his arms, her eyes closed now as her
head rested against his shoulder, her loosened hair
veiling her face.
"I'll take her inside," he said
to Francis. "Please look after the guests,
give them my apologies or whatever--anything but
the truth. Keep them eating and drinking. I'll
worry about the legal aspects of this later."
"Of course." As the viscount left with
Diana, Francis was issuing crisp orders
to the footmen.
Gervase entered a side entrance where there would be
no one to see or ask questions. He had reached the
upstairs corridor when he was intercepted
by Madeline, her eyes wide with fright as a dazed
Geoffrey tugged her down the hall. Understanding the
boy's need for reassurance, Gervase knelt,
bringing Diana within Geoffrey's grasp. The
boy reached for his mother, his blue eyes questioning.
"Mama?" he asked, touching her hair.
His voice penetrated the mists of Diana's
mind and she gave a crooked smile, reaching up
to clasp her son's hand briefly. "I'm ...
fine. ... You did ... well."
Geoffrey's small hands brushed her face
before he glanced up at his father. "She's not hurt,
just shocked," Gervase assured him. "She'll be
all right. The blood is Veseul's, not hers
or mine." Shifting Diana's weight, he
stood, adding with grave commendation, "If it hadn't
been for you, she would have been killed."
His fears allayed, Geoffrey sagged against
Madeline, who swiftly steadied him.
Looking at Diana's friend, Gervase said,
"Don't worry, Madeline, I'll take
care of her."
The older woman evaluated him with a
penetrating stare. Approving what she saw in his
face, she nodded, turning to guide Geoffrey
back toward the nursery.
Gervase took Diana, not to his room,
scene of their alienation, but to hers, where they had shared
so many hours of joyous intimacy. He laid her
on the bed and tried to stand, but she said, "No!" with
sudden urgency, her arms tight around his neck,
unwilling to let go for even a moment.
They were both stained with Veseul's blood, but


bathing and fresh clothes were trivial
compared to Diana's need for warmth and reassurance.
Besides, Gervase shared her primitive desire
to stay in close physical contact. Carrying his
wife to a deep rocking chair, he cradled her
in his arms, gently stroking her back and slender
neck, feeling the tension slowly dissolve from her
body as the room darkened.
Gervase had been twenty-five when he had
first killed a man in battle. His attacker was
a wild-eyed stranger intent on slaying an
Englishman, and even so Gervase had been
sickened and haunted afterward. Difficult though the
experience had been for him, he still could not imagine
the full dimensions of the shock Diana had
suffered. Her whole nature was love and
gentleness, for her son, her friends, her husband.
He had seen her capture a trapped
butterfly so she could release it again to freedom.
And this evening she had killed a man.
He began to talk again, surrounding her with sound,
telling her that the danger was past, that Geoffrey was
well, and how much he loved her. Eventually she
stirred, her breath quickening. Her eyes were still dark
with shock, but no longer unseeing. "I killed
him, didn't I?"
Nothing but the truth would do. "Yes. I'm
sorry it had to be this way." He pressed an
infinitely tender kiss on her forehead. "You've
taught me much about forgiveness, Diana, both
by words and by example. Weep, or curse, suffer
if you must, but in the end, forgive yourself. To take a
life is tragic, but you saved my life and your
own. That can't be wrong."
She began to cry then, burying her face against
his bloodstained shirt, her hands knotting in the
fabric as her body shook. The paroxysm of
grief passed quickly and her sobs faded
into silence as her head tucked under his chin, her
glossy chestnut hair falling across his chest.
Finally she raised her tear-smudged face
to Gervase. "I want you to make love to me."
For a moment he hesitated, wondering if
Diana really knew what she wanted. She was
bruised and bloody and had been the target of far
too much violence in the last day, from him as well
as from Veseul.
"Please, love," she whispered huskily,
"I need you so."
When he looked into the depths of her eyes,


Gervase understood, his heart leaping to a
perception beyond logic. She needed to forget, and they
both needed to be joined in love, to seal their
unspoken reconciliation in the most profound and
intimate of ways. He stood and carried her to the
bed, pulling back the covers before he laid her
gently on the smooth, cool sheets, then lit a
candle so they could see each other. Holding her
gaze with his own, he said, "Nothing heals as
swiftly as love, and no one, not the friends of your
heart, not even the child of your body, can ever love you
as much as I."
Without moving his eyes from hers, he continued,
"You are my salvation, and in your love I see the
reflection of the loving God whom I never
believed in."
He stripped off his clothes, making himself
vulnerable in nakedness, careful that part of his body
was always touching hers so she would not feel alone,
even for a moment. Then he removed her
bloodstained clothing, still talking softly, the words
less important than the tone. The fair
silken skin over her ribs was turning dark and
ugly where Veseul had kicked her. There were other
bruises and scrapes as well, and he gently
kissed each mark as it was revealed, worshiping her
with touch.
She was passive at first, watching him
trustingly, drinking in the words that flowed over her as
a healing balm. They had not made love in
nearly three months except for that one joyful
night when he had returned from the Continent and his
body hungered for her. But strangely, this time there
was none of the frightening obsession he had felt before
when they had come together after separation. Now that he had
accepted her love, his desire was
uncontaminated by desperation.
Gervase lay down beside her, admiring how
exquisite her slim body was in the soft light,
a harmony of curves and shadows. Laying one hand
on her heart, he whispered, "You are beautiful,
but only now do I see how beautiful. Mere
perfection of face and form are only the beginning.
You have the beauty of soul that will not fade, but grow
greater with the years."
Then he lowered his head to kiss her, his lips
gentle and undemanding. Her mouth welcomed him,
first with sweetness, then with increasing urgency as her
passivity faded.
Diana raised her hands, stroking his arms and


back, wanting to feel his warmth and firm
strength against her. With delicate sensitivity,
Gervase made slow love to her, using all his knowledge
of what pleased her. She was aware of how
carefully he moved, how he supported his
weight, never trapping her beneath him in a way that
could remind her of the terror of Veseul.
With unhurried skill he worked his way down the
length of her body, tasting her mouth, bringing her
nipples to tingling delight, trailing kisses
across the soft curve of her belly. With his warm
expert lips and tongue he brought her to the edge of
ecstasy, but she did not want to make that journey
alone; she wanted to feel Gervase buried
deep inside her, to know that he was as open and
trusting and needful as she.
Understanding her wordless signal, he rolled onto
his back and lifted her on top of him. She
gave a soft cry as he entered her, wanting
to weep at the rightness of their joining, at the
exquisite sensation of her breasts pressing against
the hard muscles and softly textured hair of his
chest, at all the differences of surface and
firmness between his body and hers.
For all his practiced control, she knew from his
sharp, involuntary gasp and sudden tightening that he
was as aroused as she, as close to the edge of
explosion. Prolonging their intimacy, for long
minutes they lay wrapped almost motionless in each
other's arms, on a high plateau of pleasure,
so close together that it was impossible to tell one
pulsebeat from the other.
When floating was no longer enough, she began
moving her hips against his, wanting to feel him
deeper and deeper. She was in control, setting the
pace of their lovemaking, and it was perfect for this
night. In a distant part of her mind she marveled
that a man who had so long been severed from his
emotions could now understand hers with such uncanny
perception.
And then reason and logic were swept away, and
there was only the primal rhythm of love,
building to an unbearable pitch of intensity before
shattering like a shower of stars. Once before she had
felt their souls briefly touch, but tonight they soared
far beyond that, their spirits as intertwined as their bodies,
discovering levels of passion and fulfillment that
neither of them had ever reached before.
In her release Diana escaped the horror
of the maze, unwinding the fearful tension that had


knotted deep inside her. Only this
closeness mattered, and she knew beyond doubt that
nothing in the future could separate her from
Gervase again.
It was marvelously comfortable to lie cradled on
top of him, their bodies fitting perfectly together
and his arms around her. Eventually she turned her
head, propping her chin on her arm to look into his
face. His eyes opened at her movement and he
smiled up at her.
Diana caught her breath in wonder; she had
never seen him look quite like this, the spare, chiseled
lines of his face utterly relaxed, his gray
eyes as transparent as quartz. "I love you,"
she whispered, knowing how inadequate the words were,
but having no others.
His hands linked securely around her waist,
Gervase raised his head to kiss her. "I'll
never know why," he said huskily, "but I no more
intend to question it than I would question the sun or the sea
or the wind for existing."
After the kiss he settled back on the pillow
and chuckled ruefully. "In spite of what I
just said, I find that I do want to question. Wanting
to understand is my besetting sin. Or at least, one
of them."
She laughed and slid down beside him on the
mattress, tugging him until they lay face-
to-face. "Ask away, love, though I
don't promise a rational answer."
His shadowed face was somber. "You said that ...
after our marriage, you hated me, and then you
didn't anymore. I can understand the hatred--you
had every right to it. What I can't understand is why it
ended."
She closed her eyes for a moment, remembering
that time. "The answer to that actually is logical,
at least to a woman. I hated you until I
began to feel my child move inside me. It was such
a wondrous thing that there was no more room for
hatred."
She sighed, then opened her eyes. "And to hold
my son in my arms ... it was a miracle. I
decided then that any man who could father so sweet a
baby couldn't be all bad. That while you had
behaved wickedly, that did not make you a wicked
man."
Her eyes distant, she searched for words. "When
I came to London, it was with the desire to find a
man I could love. Though technically it meant that


I would be an adulteress, you were not quite
real to me; I did not feel like a wife.
"Then I met and recognized you as my
husband. I knew I must learn to know you better,
that I could not seek another man until I was
absolutely sure that my marriage was meaningless.
And when I came to know you"--she smiled with deep
joy--"I fell in love."
He pulled the blanket up to tuck it around
her shoulders tenderly. "I still can't understand that."
Perhaps if he had some idea of what she loved
about him, he could accept it more readily. Diana
had never tried to define the reasons, even to herself,
but after a moment's reflection she said, "Around you,
I feel ... safe and protected. I knew that
if you could ever bring yourself to love me, you would never
stop. That you would always be there for me in the future.
That I will always be able to rely on you."
A dark expression showed in his eyes, and she
knew he was remembering both Mull and his blind
assault of the night before. She raised a hand and
laid it along his cheek, feeling the slight
roughness of whiskers under her palm.
"To be human is to be capable of violence under
extreme circumstances," she said gravely.
"I am no more a saint than you. I abhor
violence and am a coward. I doubt that I could have
killed Veseul to save my own life--yet I
could kill for the life of someone I love. Yes,
there has been violence between us, but that is past."
Diana inhaled sharply, struck by a sudden
insight. "I never thought of it in these terms before, but
I would not change what happened on Mull even
if I could. If it hadn't happened, I would not
have had Geoffrey, and I would not have you. No one
voluntarily chooses pain and anger, but by having
them forced on me, I have gained the love and the life
that I had dreamed of as a child." She gave
Gervase a smile of infinite sweetness. "I
always knew that if you would let me in behind those
walls, you would shelter me forever."
He rubbed his face against her palm. "You were quite
right--you knew a great deal more about how my mind
works than I did."
"Not your mind," she said gently. "Your
heart."
His expression was very still before he answered.
"Once more you are right. I didn't realize myself
how much I had tangled lust and love together."
He toyed with a strand of her hair, twining it around


his finger as he thought. "You became an
obsession. It frightened me because I felt that I was
losing control, that I would be at your mercy. And the
fear came out as jealousy and possessiveness."
He stroked back a larger tress of hair,
exposing her shapely neck. "You have a dangerous
kind of beauty, Diana. It's almost impossible
for a man to think clearly near you. For months I
persuaded myself that my need for you was only
physical desire.
"Instead"--he bent over for another kiss, his
breath mingling with hers--"what really drew me was
your warmth ... your endless, blessed warmth, like a
lifesaving fire in a night of eternal dark and
cold. Even now, when desire is temporarily
exhausted, I want and need you as much as I ever
have. That has nothing to do with lust, and everything to do with
love."
"Your strength and my warmth." She lifted her
hand and lightly touched the shallow scrape on his
ribs where Veseul's sword had grazed him.
Oh, yes, Gervase was strong, his strength so much
a part of him that he was not even aware of it. But she
was aware, and felt safer now than she ever had
before. "Today we saved each other. Now do you
believe me about fate? That as unlikely as it
seemed when we first met, we were meant to be
together?"
With wry humor he said, "This is all too
improbable to be chance, so I think I must
believe you." Then, more seriously, "The first time
I saw you in London, you touched my heart, but
I had to call it by a different name. Chance might
have produced the wedding in Mull, but perhaps only
some divine plan could have made ours a real
marriage after such a disastrous beginning."
Wrapping one arm around his chest to pull herself
even closer, she said what should have been said months
earlier, when he had needed to hear it. "You need
never be jealous about me, Gervase. I came
to London to find a man, and after we met, I
knew that man was you. There had never been anyone
else before, and there never will be again."
"And because I believe that," he said, his deep
voice thick with emotion, "the obsession is gone.
Jealousy came from fear of losing you--it has
vanished in the presence of love and trust."
Diana raised her face for another kiss,
then rolled over, her back fitting against his
front in the way that was so particularly comfortable.


As she was settling in, she remembered
some of what the count had said, and realized that it
might be important. "I'm not sure what he
meant, but Veseul was raving about destroying
Wellesley."
As closely as possible she repeated what he
had said, adding, "Do you think it means anything?"
There was a lengthy silence as Gervase
evaluated her words. "Though I hadn't the
evidence to prove it, I've been convinced for a
long time that Veseul was the most dangerous French
spy in England, a man who called himself the
Phoenix. Veseul was clever and he was received
everywhere. It's quite conceivable that he was plotting
against Wellesley--the general is very vulnerable just
now. I think the army inquiry will acquit him and
he will be given another command, but Veseul could
easily have fabricated some scandal that would
discredit Wellesley permanently."
His voice hard, he added, "There will be no more
damage from that direction." One of his hands cupped
her breast as his mind continued to work. "I suspect
that he overheard us talking in Vauxhall that
night before I left, and that is how the French
knew that I was coming. As for the information that I left
overnight in your drawing room being discovered ...
is there any servant in your house who might be
an informant for Veseul?"
As pleasurable sensations spread from her breast,
it was hard for Diana to think clearly, but she
tried to oblige. "We have a French cook. She
talked her way into the position and I've never
understood why. She is good enough to command the kitchen of a
much larger establishment."
"Perhaps that is the answer," Gervase agreed,
his hand stroking lower on her body. "Now that
Veseul is dead it probably doesn't
matter, especially since you will be leaving the
house on Charles Street."
She rolled on her back, making it easier for
his hand to rove over her, and for hers to rove back.
"Does that mean you want me to move in with you?"
"Was there any question?" he asked with
surprise. "I assumed you and Geoffrey and
Edith would come to St. Aubyn House. It could
use some life and laughter." He smiled. "I
imagine that Lord Farnsworth has other plans for
Madeline."
She laughed. "I just wanted to hear you say it.
I enjoyed being your mistress, but I am looking
forward even more to being your wife."
"Not half as much as I'm looking forward to that,"
he said, his voice rich with happiness. "I
don't ever want to spend another night apart from you
in my life."
He leaned over to capture her mouth as his hand
probed the moist, waiting depths of her. She
moaned, wanting to dissolve in the rising tide of
pleasure, but knowing one more matter must be mentioned.
"There is something I must tell you."
His hand stilled and she opened her eyes to see
him regarding her questioningly. Before his imagination could
conjure up anything too lurid, she said shyly,
"I ... I think I'm pregnant again. I know
that it is too early to be sure"--she
unconsciously touched a sensitive breast--"but
I felt the same way with Geoffrey."
She had thought he would be pleased, but seeing the
expression on his face, she was no longer sure.
"I'm sorry," she said uncertainly. "It was the
night you returned from the Continent. I wasn't
expecting you, and was not prepared. Are you angry?"
"What right do I have to be angry? We are
equally responsible." His voice was light, but
when he raised his hand to her cheek his fingers were
cold and she saw the fear in his eyes. "You said you
almost died when Geoffrey was born."
Understanding, she relaxed. "That was because I was young
and small for my age, still growing. It won't be like
that this time. The midwife said that since I was strong
enough to survive that first delivery, I shouldn't have
problems in the future."
She saw the shadow of anxiety still in his eyes,
and laid her hand over his. "I promise it will
be all right."
His answering smile was sheepish. "I have the
feeling this pregnancy is going to be much harder
on me than on you. But this time I will be there at the
end as well as at the beginning."
"I talked to Geoffrey's physician about
whether another child of ours might have seizures."
"And ...?"
She shrugged. "He said it was possible. Not
likely, though there is no way to be sure."
Gervase relaxed. "If another child turns out
half as well as Geoffrey, I'll be
satisfied, seizures or no seizures.
Whatever comes, together we can deal with it."
Worries allayed, he became more enthusiastic.
"It would be nice to have a girl this time," he said
thoughtfully. "With lapis-blue eyes and the
ability to enchant any man who comes near her."
Diana linked her arms around his neck and
pulled him down for a kiss. "Or with gray eyes
and a stubborn streak. Or twins. It doesn't
matter." Sliding her hand under the blanket, she
gloried in the passionate response that she found.
"At the moment I am far more interested in the
present than the future. Aren't you?"

In the morning they joined Geoffrey in the
nursery for breakfast. Their son beamed, as proud
as if he had been the one to invent the idea of
"family." He beamed even more when he learned that
soon he would no longer be the smallest
Brandelin.
With half the government under Gervase's roof,
all of them indebted to him in one way or the other,
it was easy to put out the story that the distinguished
French royalist, the Count de Veseul, had
succumbed to an unexpected heart seizure.
No one was anxious to let it be known that a spy
had been intimate with so many important men. In
the secret corridors of power, there was great
thankfulness that the Phoenix was no more. When she
heard the news, the French cook hastily
decamped from the town house at 17 Charles
Street.
Francis Brandelin and his friend left England
unshadowed by scandal. His letters from Greece were
filled with the usual tourist talk of temples and
antiquities, but their real subject was
happiness.
In late autumn Madeline became Lady
Farnsworth in a quiet ceremony, attended by the
Viscountess St. Aubyn. Although the new
Lady Farnsworth's past was obscure, her
disposition was so agreeable that only the most
ferociously snobbish refused to receive her. And
Maddy and Nicholas didn't give a damn about
them.
General Sir Arthur Wellesley was cleared
in the military inquiry in November and sent
back to the Peninsula. After his tremendous
victory at the Battle of Talavera in
July 1809, he was created a viscount. The
title he chose was Wellington.
Gervase gave Diana a free hand to make
St. Aubyn House more welcoming, a task she
accomplished to his complete satisfaction. One
of her first acts was to install a fitted
tub in the master suite.
Several months later, when browsing in the
library, Diana came upon a verse written
by Jonathan Swift. The lines had been
scribbled on the certificate of a marriage
Dean Swift had performed, and they were so
perfectly, ironically amusing that Diana had
them engraved inside the lid of a silver box, which
she gave to Gervase for their second Christmas
together. The lines read:

Under an oak, in stormy weather,
I joined this rogue and whore together;
And none but he who rules the thunder
Can put this rogue and whore asunder.









Historical Note

Gervase's mission to Denmark was based on an
actual event. However, instead of a tall, dark,
and handsome aristocrat, the real hero was a "short,
stout, merry little monk," a Scottish
Benedictine named James Robertson. Sir
Arthur Wellesley, the future Duke of
Wellington, himself commended Robertson to Foreign
Minister Canning. Later Robertson did
diplomatic work for Wellington; later still, he
was known for his pioneering work with the deaf and the blind.

A Note on Epilepsy

Even in the late twentieth century,
epilepsy is a little understood condition that arouses
fear and prejudice. Nonetheless, in the past as
well as the present, many people with epilepsy lived
reasonably normal lives.
In Great Britain the terms "seizure" and
"fit" are both used, and that usage is
reflected in this book. However, I would like
to note that in the United States, the preferred
term is "seizure." I would also like to give a
special thanks to the staff of the
Epilepsy Association of Maryland for their
help.

THE END