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 spent 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 gaits 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?”
“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.
“I think I have just been complimented,” she said lightly. “You need have no fears on that score. I was twenty-four last June twenty-fourth.”
“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.”
