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’d 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 ache 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 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.
Chapter Seven
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. “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, 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 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 actuality, he coordinated information from different British intelligence-gathering organizations. During his years in India, Gervase had displayed an uncanny talent for weaving fragments of information together to create a larger picture. Prime Minister Pitt had personally asked Gervase to turn that ability to the critical European theater of war, where Britain had been fighting France for too many years.
Because the existing intelligence groups were jealous of their information, it was tedious and frustrating work. 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. 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 usual concentration was lacking and everything took twice the time it should.
The last report in the pile was from the Deciphering 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 this dispatch brought him no closer to knowing the man’s 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!
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.
* * *
