He stood, offering his host a hand. “Don’t get too comfortable here in Dublin. It won’t be for much longer.”
Wellesley stood also. His handshake firm, he said, “I most sincerely hope you are right.” He gave his rare, charming smile. “I am fortunate in my friends, St. Aubyn. Whether or not you are successful, you have my deepest gratitude.”
* * *
The meeting with Wellesley was the high point of Gervase’s journey. The rest was the routine business of spying, talking to sailors and smugglers and scoundrels of various stripes, receiving pieces of information, and sending inquiries back along the chain of informants, hoping answers would eventually return.
He worked long hours, as he always did on such journeys, but this time his concentration was broken. He had hoped absence would loosen Diana’s hold on him, but instead he was haunted by images of her. He would see a woman make a graceful gesture and his heart would constrict, even though he knew it couldn’t be her. When he transcribed his notes on what he had learned, her flawless face would come between him and the paper. He would see the intensely blue eyes and the slow smile that always welcomed, as if there were not another man in the world.
Worse than the images were the memories of touch. At night he would waken with his hand curved as if her soft breast were cupped within, or he would feel the warmth of her silken skin. He was obsessed with her, and he hated it.
Gervase had asked what she wanted, she had answered—and she might have been speaking a foreign language. Why couldn’t she have asked for something comprehensible, like jewels or carriages? But if she had desired something obvious, she wouldn’t have been Diana.
Despising himself for his weakness, he tried to hurry his business, knowing that the longer he was away, the greater the danger that she would accept other men, one of whom might promise her whatever it was she craved. Not a day or night went by that he didn’t imagine her accepting another man’s advances, welcoming him to her chamber with that intimate smile, then opening her arms and offering more....
The thought of someone else possessing that matchless body made Gervase ill.
The last night at Aubynwood he had attempted to establish complete dominion over his mistress, and he feared that his failure had shifted the power to her hands. She said power over men was not her goal, but he doubted that. Her beauty was power, and he couldn’t believe that she didn’t enjoy wielding it.
His doubts deepened after a nightmare he had in Bristol, when he dreamed that Diana was a cat, all sleek, sensuous grace, and that she was playing with him. He was a helpless, broken-winged creature attempting to escape, and whenever he nearly won free, she would lazily reach out a paw and drag him back, the cruel needle-sharp claws stabbing just deep enough to draw blood, but never enough to put him out of his misery.
He woke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, fear and despair vivid in his mind. As he tried to remember the cat, it had a dual nature, seeming sometimes like Diana, sometimes like his mother. Was he wrongly confusing the two women, or was the dream a warning that all women were alike; that no matter how gentle and accepting Diana pretended to be, once she was sure of her hold on him, she too would use her power to torment?
He didn’t want to believe it. She had shown no signs of wanting to bend him to her will, or to wound and destroy for no reason. But if he was wrong, he feared he would not know until it was too late, when she was already exacting a subtle, excruciating emotional price that he would be unable to escape.
He had decided to make this overdue journey on impulse, knowing that he needed time to think, but he had not realized how grimly unpleasant those thoughts would be.
* * *
It was early evening when Gervase arrived back in London. During the last stages of his journey he had debated whether he should stop seeing Diana for the sake of his own sanity. He knew he had enough willpower for that, though the mere thought of never seeing her again was gut-wrenchingly painful. But when he went to India he had decided not to live a slave of his past, and if those demons were discounted, there was nothing about his mistress that should make him shy away. And the rewards of keeping her were so infinitely satisfying.
As soon as he arrived at St. Aubyn House he sent a message to Diana, asking if it were convenient to call later. His footman returned with her agreement immediately. It had been almost a month since he had seen her, and a voluptuous sense of anticipation made him move slowly, savoring the prospect as he bathed and shaved, then walked the short blocks to her house. London lay passive under one of its famous thick fogs, and the eddying mists veiled the city like a dream.
The maid said Mrs. Lindsay would be with her son for a little longer, but that he could wait in her rooms. Now that she was so close he was impatient. When the maid left him in Diana’s sitting room, he set the small gift he’d brought on a table, then paced restlessly.
He had never been alone in her rooms like this. They were spacious chambers, with high ceilings and classic proportions, well-furnished but not overcrowded. Fine moldings crowned the walls, deep Persian carpets lay soft beneath the foot, and the colors were harmonious for a total effect both stylish and soothing, rather like Diana herself.
He wandered into the bedchamber, where his gaze fell on the crystal goblet of pearls standing on her dressing table. He walked over and lifted the half-full goblet, admiring the lustrous spheres within as he dropped in another pearl.
He halted, his fingers stone-still on the goblet. Though money was something he thought about very seldom, now he wondered how Diana paid her day-to-day expenses. The pearls were valuable, but they weren’t cash. The money he deposited for her every month was untouched, and he was not sure that she knew it existed. Did she have savings, or did other men support this fashionable household? The thought shattered the unnatural calm that had carried him through the last few hours.
Suddenly, in a terrifying surge of jealousy, he had to know what secrets were concealed here. He stalked to the graceful marquetry desk and rifled through, but its drawers contained no illicit messages, nor any clues of her life before she had appeared in London.
Turning to a wardrobe with shining satinwood veneer, he threw open the doors. Elegant gowns in the rich, subtle colors she favored hung before him, dainty kidskin slippers lined up below.
The dresses were like silent shadow Dianas. He thrust his arms among them, smelling the fragile aroma of lilac as he pushed garments impatiently aside. A gossamer blue shawl shot with silver thread flowed over his wrist and slid to the floor. As he hung it again, he brushed the soft nap of velvet and discovered the cloak he had given her, its dark red surface giving no hint of the sable richness within.
Without knowing what he sought, he plumbed the wardrobe’s depths as if concealed somewhere within was the intoxicating, elusive essence of Diana herself. The only trace of male presence was the luxuriant blue robe she had made for him to keep here. He stared at it, abashed, then straightened her clothing meticulously, not closing the doors until he was sure there was no sign of his trespass.
Unsatisfied, he opened the top drawer of the chest that stood by the wardrobe. Inside lay neatly folded intimate apparel, delicately embroidered shifts and petticoats, fine silk stockings. He saw a pair of rather daring lace-trimmed pantalets that he’d never seen her wear. The sight twisted the knife of his jealousy as he wondered if someone else had seen them.
His heart pounding as if he had been running, he scooped up a fine lawn chemise and buried his face in it. The scent this time was a potpourri blend with lavender. The cool touch of the fabric against his face helped bring him to his senses. He closed his eyes, shuddering. Diana would think he was mad if she came in now. Perhaps he was.
He folded the chemise and laid it back in place, smoothing the garments to their original order, his fingers coarse against the sheer material. He had just closed the drawer when the sitting-room door opened. He was in full view of that door and he turned to see his mistress, her gentle beauty enhanced by a forest-green robe, her glossy chestnut hair falling in loose waves around her throat and shoulders.
The cat whisked in and vanished under a chair as Diana halted, her gaze meeting and holding his across the distance separating them. He wondered if she’d seen what he was doing, and if so, what she thought of his invasion of her privacy.
Her lips curved in an uncertain smile, and at the sight he swiftly crossed both rooms and embraced her. Even though he ached with desire, making love was less important than simply holding her tight, feeling the soft curves of her body fitting against the hard angles of his. His hands roamed over her back and waist and hips, and he rubbed his cheek against her silken hair as the haunting sweetness of lilac surrounded them.
