Gervase stood also and murmured, “How satisfying to know that I have your approval.”
Ignoring the sarcasm, Canning gave him an assessing glance. “Could use a man of your abilities. If you throw in your lot with me, you’ll go far.”
His voice cool, Gervase said, “My hereditary seat in the House of Lords is quite sufficient. You may comfort yourself with the knowledge that I will not let my information sources be used by anyone else for political purposes.”
“Suppose I’ll have to settle for that.”
For the first time Gervase smiled. “Yes, you will.”
Canning nodded acknowledgment, then left, pulling the door closed after him as Gervase subsided behind his desk, feeling very tired. Canning was not the first politician to try to subvert the viscount, and doubtless he wouldn’t be the last.
Pulling out his gold watch, he saw that it was after nine o’clock. It had been three days since that incredible night with Diana Lindsay, and there wasn’t a waking hour when he hadn’t thought of her. He had resisted the urge to see her again too soon. While Gervase reluctantly conceded that he needed women in a general way, he certainly didn’t need any female in particular.
Having proved his willpower, he now had an overwhelming desire to see her again, to bask in her warm, sweet sensuality. Scribbling a quick note, he found one of the porters still on duty and paid the man a guinea to take the message to 17 Charles Street and wait for a reply.
Then he returned to his endless reports, balancing the honesty and accuracy of one agent or informant against another, laying the basis for recommendations that might influence the life or death of hundreds of people he would never meet. He became so absorbed that it was almost a surprise when the porter entered the small office and handed back his original note, which had been resealed with the imprint of a cupid holding a finger to its chubby lips.
In spite of the amusing seal, for a brief, miserable moment Gervase was sure that she had rejected him because she was occupied with another man or for some inexplicable female reason. Schooling himself to impassivity, he broke the wax and unfolded the sheet, then felt his face relax into an involuntary smile.
Across the bottom of the paper, in a flowing elegant hand, Diana had written, “Come and be welcome.”
* * *
Diana had been preparing to retire when the message came from St. Aubyn. She felt a burst of gladness that he was coming. For three days she had wondered if she had done something to give him a disgust of her, either by her refusal to grant him exclusive rights or by the way she made love. Though he hadn’t had any complaints at the time.
Another full-scale seduction scene didn’t seem appropriate, so she hastily dressed in a simple apricot-colored gown and pulled her hair back, tying it with a matching velvet ribbon. She was very aware that if he decided to visit her regularly, tonight would do much to set the tone of their meetings.
All of the servants had retired for the night and she let him in herself. For a moment Gervase took her breath away. She had thought him an attractive man from the beginning, but now that she was intimately aware of the muscle and bone that lay beneath the restrained tailoring, she could hardly keep her hands off him. Perhaps she shouldn’t; Madeline said that gentlemen liked a woman to take the lead sometimes.
She made herself step forward, placing her hands on his shoulders and lifting her face to kiss him. A warm, unexpected smile lit his face and he returned her kiss with interest, encircling her with a hug that threatened her ribs.
Eventually Diana broke off. “I’m sorry, my lord, I need to breathe.”
“I suppose I do, too,” he agreed. He released her, then reached into his pocket. “You said you wanted to be surprised,” and he laid a small brass figurine in her hand.
Diana examined the delicate Oriental workmanship with fascination. The figurine was about four inches high and depicted a graceful, voluptuously feminine woman with a serene face and a flower blossom in her hand. “How beautiful, Gervase. Is she an Indian goddess?”
He nodded. “Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of fortune and prosperity, the consort of Vishnu. That’s a lotus blossom that she carries. I kept her in my office at Whitehall, on the off chance that she might bring good luck. Since it was late, I could think of nothing else to bring you. I’m sorry. The figurine isn’t worth much, but since you were interested in India, I thought she might please you.”
She gave him a glowing look. “She does, but I didn’t mean to rob you of something that you cherish.”
She tried to return the figurine, but he folded it back into her hand, his fingers warm and firm on hers. “Lakshmi is the Hindu goddess of grace and womanly beauty as well as wealth. Clearly she belongs with you.”
He had the most disconcerting knack for compliments. Diana gave him a dazzling smile. He reacted visibly, showing her a face quite different from his more public aspect.
She almost kissed him again, but the practical side that had developed in her years of motherhood took the upper hand. “You said that you came from Whitehall. Did you eat dinner?”
He looked blank. “I had breakfast,” he offered.
Diana rolled her eyes in exasperation, then took his hand and led him downstairs to the kitchen. “You’re under no obligation to feed me,” he said mildly as she sat him down at the long scrubbed deal table.
“Perhaps not, Gervase,” she said with an impish look. “But it is in my own best interest that you keep your strength up.” While he laughed, she went to take stock of the larder. “There’s cold sliced ham and bread and cheese. If you would like something hot, I can make an omelet.”
Gervase hesitated. He hadn’t even known he was hungry, but now he felt ravenous. Hot food sounded wonderful. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like that.”
“No trouble at all.” To keep him from starvation for the next five minutes, Diana set bread and cheese on the table, then poured two beakers of ale, tangy and cool from the pantry.
Gervase felt a remarkable sense of well-being as he watched Diana move gracefully around the kitchen, stoking up the coal fire in what was a very modern cooking range, snipping the ends of a chive plant that grew in a pot below the high, narrow window, then mixing them into the beaten eggs with slivers of ham and cheese. He’d had no idea Cyprians knew how to cook.
