“If you wish.”
Diana glanced up sharply, then thought better of what she had intended saying. As she leaned over to kiss her son’s cheek, Gervase withdrew and waited outside. In spite of the lateness of the hour, he had a great many things to say to his mistress.
Chapter Ten
Diana felt the door panels digging into her rigid shoulder blades as the anger she had suppressed in front of Geoffrey emerged as a glare. Her temper was not improved by the glint of amusement in Gervase’s eyes. Her voice low and hard, she said, “Clearly the rumors of your spying activities were accurate.”
Unalarmed by her expression, the viscount said, “I admit I was curious where you were going at such an odd hour. If he’s been ill, I suppose that explains why you look tired tonight.”
“It’s time you left.”
“Itisvery late,” he agreed, “but not yet quite time to leave. If we’re going to fight, let’s do it downstairs. This corridor is freezing and you must be, too.”
The blasted man was right; her shivering was as much from cold as from anger. Taking the candlestick from her hand, he wrapped one warm arm around her unyielding shoulders and led her back to the bedroom. A few minutes later she was ensconced in a wing chair by the fire, a cashmere shawl wrapped around her and a glass of brandy in her hand. Pampering was a novel and pleasant experience, but she refused to let herself be mollified.
Gervase knelt by the hearth, stirring up the fire and adding more coal until it was burning bright and hot. He had already poured himself a brandy and now he took the opposite chair, lounging back and crossing his long legs at the ankles. In the dim light it was impossible to read his expression; his face was a collection of elegant shadows, hawklike and distant.
She didn’t want to be affected by how he looked, and she certainly didn’t want to think of what they had been doing with such pleasure earlier in the evening, so she stared into the heart of the fire. If he wanted to talk, let him say something.
He regarded her thoughtfully. “Why are you so angry?”
“Need you ask?” she said. “Following me upstairs was an unforgivable intrusion. I have been very careful to keep Geoffrey in ignorance of what I do. Until tonight, I have been successful. Now . . .”
It would have been much easier if he had met anger with anger. Instead, he said after a moment, “You’re quite right. I’ve always had more curiosity than is good for me. It didn’t occur to me that I was putting you in an untenable position, and I’m sorry if that has happened. Still, I doubt any damage was done. He’s young enough to accept my story without questions.”
“He believed it now, but when he’s older, he’ll remember and wonder.” She pulled her legs up under her in the chair, her body tight as strung wire. “How do you think it will make him feel if he deduces that his mother was a whore?”
“Since my mother was one, I know exactly how he would feel.” His bitterness was unmistakable, and she glanced at him, startled. Gervase never spoke of his life before India.
With obvious effort, he said in a milder tone, “Actually, it would be more accurate to say that whoring was her pleasure, not her vocation. No, I don’t suppose Geoffrey would be happy to think that of you. Boys have very high standards for their mothers. But you must know that he is bound to learn the truth eventually, unless you send him away.”
She said tightly, “I don’t intend to do this forever. In a few years my . . . market value will have diminished considerably. By the time he is old enough to start wondering, this life should be behind me. One reason I prefer to live quietly is so there will be few people to connect me with my disreputable past.”
He felt a sharp sense of loss to think she might not always be there in the future. It would be very easy to carry on with her like this forever. Though her spectacular beauty would fade with time, there would still be passion and comfort.
But this was not the time to discuss her future. “I doubt that one night’s encounter will make Geoffrey think the worst of you. If you don’t want me to see him again, I won’t.”
She gave a brittle laugh. “You don’t know much about children, do you?”
“No, I don’t,” he agreed. “Enlighten me.”
She wearily leaned her head against the back of the chair; “The first thing he will do tomorrow is ask when you’ll call next. Then he’ll chatter about how you had seizures, too. It’s a great event in his life to meet someone who had a similar affliction. He will also rehearse, in excruciating detail, all the questions he wants to ask about the army, and he will end by telling everyone how you shook Tiger’s paw.”
Gervase laughed out loud. “As bad as that?”
Diana had to smile. In spite of her motherly qualms, the situation was not without humor. Trying to maintain her righteous indignation, she said ruefully, “It may seem funny to you, but you don’t have to deal with the consequences. Pandora’s box has been opened.”
“You’re right, I don’t know much about children,” he admitted. “But he’s a fine boy. You must be proud of him.”
He had found the perfect way to disarm her, and for a man unused to children, he had done a surprisingly good job of conversing with one. It was getting harder to maintain her irritation, so she changed the subject. “The seizures—I gather you don’t have them anymore?”
“Not since I was twelve or thirteen.” He shrugged, his shoulders wide in the firelight. “While seizures were a feature of my childhood, they were rare, most of them when I was under six. One physician told my father that fits are not uncommon in small children and often go away as they grow up, which was what happened to me. I gather that your son’s problem is more severe.”
She nodded, staring into the glowing coals. “He has fewergrand malseizures than when he was an infant, not even one a week unless he’s ill, but they seem to last longer. He also haspetit malseizures, the staring spells, and they occur more often. They last only a few seconds and aren’t usually a problem, but if he were doing something dangerous—” Her voice broke. “I’ve asked physicians, but no one can say what will happen to him in the future.”
Almost against her will, she found herself speaking her worst fear. “If he gets worse . . .” She swallowed, then finished almost inaudibly, “They put dangerous epileptics in madhouses.”
“Geoffrey is unlikely to end up in a madhouse.” The calmness of his tone was a balm. “There is obviously nothing wrong with his mind. While it is possible that his condition will worsen, he is likely to stay the same or even improve. It’s a hard uncertainty to live with, but all life is uncertain. An accident can turn the healthiest of men into an invalid in an instant. Geoffrey will have to live within limits, but not intolerable ones.”
