“Then there’s the sex. You certainly seem to enjoy it, and I don’t think it would be possible to counterfeit such responsiveness. But any number of men would be delighted to give you as much sex as you want. Of course, you know that already.”
“Stop it!” Aghast, Diana stood abruptly. “Gervase, have you gone mad? You are talking rubbish about so many things that I have no idea how to reply.”
His eyebrows arched eloquently. “Oh? I thought that I was being perfectly reasonable.”
She felt like swearing but lacked an adequate vocabulary. “That is exactly the problem! You are talking about matters that are inherently emotional with all the passion of . . . of a watchman calling the hours. More than that, you are wrong about almost everything you are saying.”
“Am I? I stand willing to be corrected.”
Her hands balled into fists of sheer frustration. “To begin with, neither Lord Farnsworth nor Francis is my lover. Farnsworth was with Madeline.”
“Really?” After a moment’s surprise, he said consideringly, “I suppose that is possible. She’s an attractive woman.”
“Possiblehas nothing to do with it,” she snapped. “It’s the truth. They have loved each other for many years. They had to separate, but now that his wife is dead, I don’t think anything short of death will ever part them again.”
He smiled faintly. “I suppose that pleases your romanticism.”
“Yes, damn you, it does!”
“Why are you so angry?” he asked, genuinely curious.
She shook her head and turned away, pacing nervously across the drawing room. How could she properly convey how much his every word and attitude mocked what was most important to her? How much his spying violated her cherished privacy? How his cool, detached reasoning infuriated her emotional nature?
She stopped and pressed her hands to her temples. Gervase could no more help being rational and detached than she could help being emotional and intuitive. And, God help her, she loved him, though at the moment she had trouble remembering why.
Turning to face him across the length of the room, she tried to match his calm. “We have joked about being opposites, my lord, but it is sober truth. We speak different languages, even when we say the same words, and I don’t think I can explain my anger. At least, not without thinking about the reasons for a few weeks, then translating my thoughts into words you might understand. Since you seem to prefer facts, we will confine ourselves to them. Lord Farnsworth is not my lover, nor is your cousin Francis. We are friends, no more.”
He looked so skeptical that her anger rose again. “Do you assume that no man could possibly have any interest in me when I’m not on my back? Don’t judge everyone by yourself.”
His lips thinned. “Oh, I don’t doubt there are men willing to talk with you and no more. But since you and Francis are given to embracing each other in windows in broad daylight, I may be forgiven for thinking your ‘friendship’ an unusually warm one.”
His words jolted her. So someone had seen that embrace, that innocent gift of comfort. A simple thing, yet not easily explained, given Francis’s circumstances.
“Is my information wrong?” he inquired gently.
“It is not wrong, but it is . . . misleading. If you don’t believe me, ask your cousin. No doubt you will believe him sooner than me.”
“I really would like to believe you,” he said bleakly, the yearning in his voice unmistakable.
She lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Have I ever done anything to make you doubt my word?”
“Not that I know of.” The qualification was an insult, yet Gervase’s voice was matter-of-fact. “That is what has stopped me every time I considered leaving you. I knew I wanted you more than was sane or wise, but you have always been so sweet, so undemanding, asking only for love. And moderate remuneration, of course. Whenever I pulled back, I would remember that you had given me no cause to doubt your honesty, and would return to become more besotted than ever.”
Settling his weight on the table, he crossed his legs in front of him. “But there is another matter that raises a few questions in my mind. You guessed I was going to the Continent. Did you sell the information to a French spy, or merely mention it to another of your lovers without knowing he was a spy?”
Diana gasped, stunned by his words. “What on earth are you talking about? Although I have reserved the right to take other lovers, I did not do so in your absence. And I don’t know any French spies. I told no one where you were going, though I think Madeline and Edith might have guessed.”
He cocked his head to one side and appeared to consider. “I suppose that one of them casually mentioned something to someone else. I am constantly amazed at how far and fast information travels.”
His gray eyes met hers again, as clear and cold as a winter sky. “I would much rather think the information got out by accident than that you sent me off with that touching farewell to what you knew would be certain death. If I had not been very lucky, I would not have returned. In that case, cultivating Francis could have made you Lady St. Aubyn very soon.”
He paused to let the import of his words sink in before continuing. “Perhaps it was my imagination, but you seemed quite surprised to see me alive last night, though afterward you managed to allay suspicion most effectively.”
Diana felt caught in a nightmare, unable to assimilate the sheer, cold-blooded cynicism of his words. Her voice shaking, she asked, “Do you honestly think I could make love with you, then sell your life? That after arranging your death, I could set out to seduce your heir in hopes of achieving a title?”
He lifted his wide shoulders in a shrug. “I hope not, but that may be just my wishful thinking. I really do not know.”
It was incomprehensible that he could stand there and coolly say such wounding words. Diana’s knees would no longer support her and she sank into a deep chair, gripping the arms with numb fingers. “If you think me capable of such vileness, how can you sit there and talk so calmly? How can you bear to be under the same roof with me?”
