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’s 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’s 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 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.
