That stirred more interest among the genealogically inclined. A man asked, “Any relation to the Duke of Arran?”
Diana shook her head modestly. “A mere connection. My father was from a cadet branch, the Hamiltons of Strathaven.”
Mrs. Oliphant smiled with pleasure. “Strathaven! I think I met your father there once when we were all young. A tall, dark man with piercing eyes?”
Diana nodded. “That sounds like him. Unfortunately, I remember little of Strathaven myself. We visited there when I was very small, but my father later became estranged from his family. To my regret, I know none of my cousins.”
The moment of crisis had passed. Diana had survived the test and been accepted as a woman worthy of moving in these exalted circles. Visiting the Cyprians’ Ball would have utterly ruined an unmarried girl, but a matron had more freedom. Proper remorse gave Diana forgiveness for her scandalous actions.
It helped that none of the women present seemed to like Lady Haycroft. The obvious malice of the widow’s attack had worked to Diana’s advantage.
As Lady Haycroft stalked away in furious defeat, the guests broke into smaller groups. Women clustered around Diana to ask eager questions about what she had seen, whether Harriette Wilson was as vulgar as rumor said, about what transpired at the infamous ball. Lady St. Aubyn was regarded as very dashing.
Diana was glad when the tea tray had come and gone and she could excuse herself. Some of the guests would be up late playing cards and politics, but she could now retire to her room and recruit her strength.
Remembering her resolution, she locked the door behind her, forbidding entry to Veseul or any other straying man who thought that such an adventurous female was worth attempting. After undressing and unpinning her hair, she lay across her bed, her eyes open but unseeing, wondering if Gervase would come to her, or if she must go to him.
It was after midnight when she accepted that he would not come. He was the fortress, grimly defiant, and she the attacker who must breach his defenses. She must go to him.
Dressed in a simple blue silk robe, neither plain nor provocative, her shining hair brushed long and loose, she took a candle and entered the passage that led to Gervase’s room. It was quiet and dusty, haunted by ghosts of happier transits.
It was possible that he would have locked the door against her or that he would not be in his own chamber, but somehow she knew Gervase would be waiting for her, and he was. He lounged in a wing chair near the bed, his feet casually resting on a low footstool, his coat off and his bright white shirt outlining his broad shoulders. Even the candlelight that polished his dark hair could not soften the harshness of his face.
He was unsurprised by her entrance. “Good evening, Diana. I have been expecting you. Let me congratulate you on a magnificent performance this evening. I’m sure the tales of your exalted birth can be confirmed. You’re far too clever to lie about what could be easily disproved.” His shirt was open at the throat, exposing a triangle of dark hair on his chest. “Another piece falls into place. Your speech and education are now explained and you have been accepted as the lady you are not.”
A nearly empty decanter of brandy stood near his elbow and he lifted a goblet to take a deep swallow of the spirits. His words were clear and unblurred as he said, “I haven’t been this drunk since the regrettable night that I met you,” but she saw a hard, unfamiliar glitter in his eyes.
She tensed at the sight. There had sometimes been discord and conflict between them, but only once had he looked like this: that infamous night on Mull. Drunk then, he had been violent, and now there was risk in staying and confronting him. Nonetheless, she must speak. She could not spend another day like the one just past, with Gervase ignoring her very existence.
Choosing another armchair half a dozen feet from him, she sat, placing her candle on a small table as her gown fell in soft blue folds around her. “Thank you for not exposing me to the condemnation of your guests.”
His dark brows rose ironically. “How could I without showing myself as a fool? You are the subtlest witch I ever met, Diana. You have found depths of revenge I could never have imagined.”
She must remain as calm as he, no matter how difficult it was. “As I told you before, I do not want revenge.”
“And as I said before, I do not believe you.” He watched the candlelight refract through the cut-glass goblet, then said without raising his eyes, “What do you want, Diana? Why not just tell me, so that we can end this farce?”
“I want to be your wife.”
“Youaremy wife, remember? Therein lies the problem.”
There was barely controlled savagery in his tone as he continued. “I want a legal separation. My assets are not limitless, but I will give you an income sufficient to support a fashionable life. I hope you won’t utterly disgrace the name, but short of murder, there is no way I can constrain you, so I must rely on your nonexistent sense of honor.”
Ignoring the insult of his last sentence, she took a deep breath before answering. “I don’t want your money and I don’t want a legal separation.” Summoning all her sincerity, she tried to catch his eye. “I would rather be your mistress and have your love than be a legal wife forever separated from you.”
“Certainly the situation was more satisfactory when you were acting the role of mistress than it has been since you revealed yourself as my wife,” he agreed, his level tone belied by the tightening of the skin across his high cheekbones. “Unfortunately I cannot go back to that state of halcyon ignorance. If you are wise, you will accept the separation. It’s my best offer. If you fight me, I may decide to sue for divorce. Doubtless there is an abundance of evidence to prove your adultery, but I would rather not expose Geoffrey or you or myself to that. Especially not Geoffrey.”
“There is no evidence of infidelity, Gervase. I have never lain with any man but you.” Diana’s fingers locked together in her lap, the nails biting deep.
“This very afternoon I saw you and Francis embracing in the gardens. My own cousin, at my own home. And you expect me to believe your lies?” He leaned his head against the chair back, as if too weary to support its weight.
“It was the embrace of friends. Why don’t you ask Francis what the truth is, my lord husband?” Her resolution to be calm was shredding away in the face of his relentless distrust.
“I have not wanted to hear him admit you are lovers.” He drank the last of the brandy in his goblet. “Fond though I am of Francis, I doubt I would be able to forgive him, and I can’t afford to lose any more friends.”
She flung her hands up in exasperation. “Why are you so sure he will confirm your suspicions?”
His eyes finally met hers, the gray depths bleak with pain. “If he doesn’t, I will know you have corrupted him with your lies, and that would be even worse.”
