Gervase had the inspired thought of asking about his son’s pony, and this unleashed a torrent of conversation. By the time they had began vigorously brushing the horse’s hide, they were as easy with each other as they had become over the Christmas visit.
In spite of Geoffrey’s short stature, Gervase should have realized the boy was more than six years old. Knowing that this small, intelligent person with his quirky individuality was his own son gave him a glow of fatherly pride, even though he could take none of the credit. Whatever Diana’s other sins, she had been a good mother to their child.
Finally Geoffrey touched on how things were between his parents. As he brushed out Firefly’s tail, blithely indifferent to the animal’s back hooves, he said obliquely, “I used to wonder what my father was like. Mama would never say a word.”
“It must have been hard not knowing,” was the best comment Gervase could come up with.
“Sometimes. But I could pretend that he was like Lord Nelson or Dr. Johnson or Richard Trevithick or Beethoven.”
It was nothing if not a varied list. Bemused, Gervase said, “Reality is never quite as interesting as imagination.”
Wide blue eyes glanced up to him. “Reality isn’t so bad.”
Gervase felt absurdly pleased at the statement. “How do you feel about Aubynwood now that you know you’ll own it someday?”
Startled, Geoffrey stopped brushing. “I hadn’t thought that far,” he said in a small voice. “It’s very large, isn’t it?”
“Yes, and there are other properties as well,” the viscount admitted, “but you should have years to get used to the idea, and to learn your way around.” Since his son still looked doubtful, he added, “Just think of all the horses you’ll have.”
It was the right thing to say. Smiling, Geoffrey went back to work. They had almost finished the grooming when the boy said tentatively, “Mama said you were very angry with her.”
The easy atmosphere vanished. “Did your mother ask you to talk to me?”
“She said not to. But I want to understand what’s wrong. Why you didn’t care about us at all.”
Gervase drew a deep breath and finished cleaning the hoof, then released the horse’s foreleg. “I didn’t know that I had a son because your mother never told me. Did she mention that?”
There was a stubborn tilt to Geoffrey’s jaw. “Yes, but you knew you had a wife. How could you abandon Mama?”
Gervase knew that Geoffrey would not take kindly to aspersions cast on his mother, but it was impossible to speak calmly of her. “What did she tell you?”
“That you didn’t really want to be married to anybody.” Then, his tone accusing, Geoffrey added, “She said everyone makes mistakes, and not to blame you. So why are you blamingher?”
Gervase’s mouth tightened. Diana had been too clever to poison Geoffrey’s mind against his father in an obvious way. Her facade of long-suffering generosity was far subtler and harder to combat. “We will not talk about your mother.”
When Geoffrey opened his mouth, Gervase performed his first really parental act by saying sharply, “Don’t.”
In spite of the rebellious gleam in his eye, Geoffrey obeyed. Gervase laid a blanket over Firefly and tied the straps. “I have to go in now. Would you like to go riding tomorrow morning? There’s a new pony you might like to try.”
“Yes, sir, I’d like that.” Geoffrey was polite, even enthusiastic, but as the boy turned and left the stable, it was clear that his allegiance lay firmly with his mother. Not surprising; when Gervase was eight, he had adored his own mother, not knowing or understanding that she was a monster. He prayed that when the time came, his son’s disillusion would not be as devastating as his own had been.
* * *
Diana dressed for dinner with great care. As Madeline helped her into the gown of dusty-rose silk, Diana felt the unusual sensitivity of her breasts, then resolutely pushed away the implication of what that meant. She had enough things to worry about just now.
They decided on a sophisticated coiffure, piling her glossy chestnut tresses high on her head to reveal the perfection of her features. Rather than feathers or ribbons, Maddy wove tiny dark red rosebuds into Diana’s hair.
A jeweler had strung Gervase’s pearls into the magnificent necklace they were meant to be and Diana wore them tonight. The lustrous sheen of the pearls harmonized with her oyster-white underskirt and drew attention to the smooth curves visible above her deep décolletage.
By the way heads turned and conversations stopped as she entered the salon, Diana knew she looked her best, but even so she paused on the threshold, frightened of so many curious strangers.
Francis Brandelin came forward, moving calmly through the unnatural hush. Giving her a small private smile of encouragement, he took her arm and began introducing her to the two dozen or so guests that chatted and drank sherry before dinner. There were more men than women, many of them famous names like Castlereagh and Canning. From their admiring bows, they were happy to have her among them.
The only dark note came from the Count de Veseul, who accepted his introduction with a mocking smile and a long kiss on her hand that made her skin crawl in revulsion. When she tried to pull away, he held on, his powerful grip hurting her fingers as he whispered, “What a magnificent whore you are.”
His voice was too low for anyone else to hear. Diana knew that he was playing with her, hoping she would show discomfort or fear, so she showed no reaction at all.
Veseul released her just before the length of time might have aroused comment. Francis, who caught the latter part of the byplay, spirited her away with an unnecessary warning about Veseul’s unsavory reputation.
