"Perhaps," Diana said quietly. "We shall see." 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 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. 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, but I can't help worrying about how this will turn out for you and Geoffrey. Come what may, you know I'll 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 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. But 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 of wealth if he didn't indulge in an occasional frivolous luxury? And he'd 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. Eventually he prevailed. A lamp waited on a pier table in the vestibule, and he lifted it.
He was restless, not ready for bed, so he stepped into the drawing room. It was a masterpiece of lofty proportions and rich decoration, a room designed for giants or gods. A coffered and painted Italianate ceiling soared two stories above the giant Oriental carpet that had been custom woven to fit the space, and carved marble fireplaces stood at each end of the room. The graceful furniture had been designed by Robert Adam.
He crossed the drawing room to 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.
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 suspected that Britain had acquired her colonies so 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, 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 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, 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 recognized that it was time and past time to face his mother's ghost. He'd invested 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 co
uld 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 a friend had complimented Lady Medora on how well-behaved the boy was and she had said carelessly that her son had been born middle-aged. He often 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 un-malicious, 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 to learn 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'd not been drunk, it would never have happened. But in retrospect, the incident was less disastrous than he'd thought at the time. The girl Mary Hamilton had received an income and probably better treatment than she'd 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. He wondered if the mysterious Mrs. Lindsay might have changed her mind. Dawn rides were not common among her kind.
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. Gervase's pulse increased at the sight of her. It was an effort to keep 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."
She halted a yard away, and he found he was having trouble with his breathing. If she wanted a thousand guineas for a single night, it would be worth it. "You're quite right, Mrs. Lindsay, I dislike being kept waiting."
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. "What 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 some 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. Clearly she'd forgotten 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. As he boosted her 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 a model of courtesy.
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 g
aits and was a joy to ride. 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 glorious moments before slowing into an easy trot. Since St. Aubyn had matched his horse's pace to hers, she called to him, "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?"