Diana gave her husband a grave look. “Pray excuse me. The journey has been long and I am weary. I shall see you all later.” She gave the other guests a charming smile.
As her glance circled the room, Gervase saw Diana tense for an instant. Following the direction of her gaze, he saw that the Count de Veseul had entered the hall and was regarding Diana with ironic amusement. Veseul, almost certainly a spy, likely his wife’s lover.
Expression unreadable, she turned away from Veseul and climbed the stairs after Hollins. It took a moment for him to recognize that the meek maid following her was Madeline Gainford, who had entered unobtrusively. So his wife had arrived with her allies. Edith Brown was probably driving the damned carriage.
For a moment Gervase considered following Diana to her room and having the great blazing row she was asking for, but he refrained, knowing he needed more time to control his emotions before he confronted his wife and forced her to leave.
He turned to the accusing glare of Lady Haycroft, the eager widow who had believed her invitation to Aubynwood was encouragement. “How nice that your sweet little wife could join us, St. Aubyn,” she said through gritted teeth. “I hope she doesn’t find society too much a strain after life in the provinces.”
“Lady St. Aubyn is remarkably adaptable.” He spoke without inflection, then excused himself to his guests and went to the stables. Despite the fact that he was not in riding clothes, he took his fastest horse out for a furious gallop across Aubynwood.
The physical activity helped a little, but he still churned with bleak anger and despair. Having Diana among his guests, having to be courteous, knowing that she would be sleeping under the same roof . . . The prospect was unendurable.
As he allowed his blown and sweating horse to slow its pace, he wondered what the devil his lady wife wanted.
* * *
Hollins led Diana to the mistress’s room, the same she had stayed in before, with its hidden passage to the master suite. After he left, she removed her bonnet and sank onto the bed, shaking with reaction. She had carried off the scene downstairs well, until Gervase had appeared, his eyes like shards of angry ice. How many of her airy explanations had he heard? And how much had he resented them?
Massaging her temples, she told herself to be happy that she’d surmounted the first hurdle and had a precarious foothold at Aubynwood, but much worse lay ahead. As she had guessed, Gervase would try to avoid a public scene, but he might have his servants bundle her off in secret. Or would he consider that too cowardly and feel he must deal with her himself?
He had been as angry as she expected, but there had been desire in him as well. She was sure of that. In private, passion might build bridges that could not be forged in public.
Veseul’s presence had shocked her almost to immobility. Now that he knew she was Gervase’s wife rather than a courtesan, he would likely leave her alone, but he still frightened her. Memories of his obscene liberties and his behavior at the Cyprians’ Ball were so vivid that she shuddered.
She brushed her fingertips across the haft of her knife, where it lay quiet and deadly in its leg sheath. She’d worn the knife because they were traveling. Ordinarily she would not have gone armed at Aubynwood, but with Veseul on the premises, she would wear a knife all day and sleep with one under her pillow. And she would lock the door whenever she was alone in her chamber.
The thought made her rise. If Gervase walked in now ready to do battle, she would be unprepared. She escaped to the nursery wing and helped Geoffrey and Maddy settle in, taking pleasure in the illusion of normalcy.
Her son was delighted to be at Aubynwood, satisfied with his father’s reception, and in short order he was off to visit the stables. Taking her maid’s role seriously, Madeline descended to ensure that Diana’s clothing was properly unpacked, brushed, and bestowed.
Diana considered sending a footman to find Gervase’s cousin, but Francis found her first. She almost hugged him for the kind concern on his face when he intercepted her on the main staircase. She settled for squeezing his hands in hers. “Francis, I’m so glad you’re here!”
“So am I,” he said with a warm smile. “Obviously you are in need of allies.” Tucking her arm under his elbow, he led her across the hall. “Difficult to find privacy anywhere in the house. Care to walk with me while you explain what is going on?”
Avoiding the formal gardens, they took a winding path down to the ornamental lake. Though they had not known each other for long, what had passed between them had created an unusual degree of intimacy. There was a rustic wooden bench at the edge of the little lake. He steered her to it so they could sit down, his hand resting on hers with light comfort.
It was a profound relief for Diana to talk to someone who knew and cared for both her and Gervase. She gave an expanded version of what she had told Geoffrey. Because Francis was an adult, he understood what she was not saying.
He listened in grave silence until she was done. “So you really are married to Gervase, in love with him, and he can’t forgive you your deception. What a tragic, ironic waste.”
She glanced into his blue eyes, then looked away quickly, afraid his sympathy would cause her to break down. “You’ve known him all your life, Francis. What made him react so strongly? Some anger I can understand, but not this blind, unforgiving fury.”
“I don’t know, Diana.” Francis shook his head. “He has been a good friend and cousin to me, but in some ways he is a mystery. Most English gentlemen keep their emotions hidden far from the sun, but Gervase goes beyond that.”
He plucked a sprig of speedwell from the ground and rolled it between his fingers, considering. “In spite of his competence and success, there is a quality of tragedy about Gervase. He has always served others, in both small things and great, but never because he expects gratitude. He can’t even accept thanks. I think he feels unworthy of anyone’s good opinion.”
“I have felt that, too,” Diana said slowly. “Do you have an idea what could have made him that way?”
“I could make some guesses.” He glanced at her with a wry smile. “Lately I have thought a good deal about the many kinds of love. I think a child who is not loved early and well may later have trouble understanding or accepting any kind of love.
“Gervase’s father was a reticent man who did his duty, but never more than that. Duty required him to beget an heir for St. Aubyn, so he married and produced one. Two, actually—Gervase had an older brother who died at the age of six or seven. That was before my time, but my mother said once that his parents regretted that Gervase would inherit. He was small, too quiet, and he had seizures. They considered him flawed.”
“What was his mother like?”
“Ah, the glorious Medora.” Francis sighed and looked across the lake. “As beautiful and amoral a woman as ever walked the earth. She could charm the birds from the trees when she wished, then forget your existence in the space of a heartbeat. She fascinated and daunted everyone who ever crossed her path.”
“It might not be easy to have such a woman for a mother.”
