He could no longer avoid the knowledge that Francis was damnably, undeniably right: Gervase didn’t deserve the woman he had married. On some deep level he had always known it, but that didn’t make his present recognition any less agonizing.
Because Gervase was lost in bitter self-condemnation, it took time for the full import of Francis’s words to penetrate his mind, and then he didn’t grasp the implications. If he had, he would never have asked without thinking, “What do you mean, if you could love a woman?”
There was a long taut silence, and Gervase saw that his cousin’s face was ash pale.
“I meant exactly what I said.” In spite of his pallor, Francis’s gaze was unflinching. “I’ll be leaving England soon, with . . . a friend. I believe that in the future I will be making my home in Italy. Or perhaps Greece. The ancient world is more tolerant of people like me.”
Considering how emotionally drained he felt, it was surprising how much shock Gervase could still feel. Shock, and revulsion. He knew that men who preferred their own kind existed, but to the extent that he ever thought of them, it had been as depraved creatures slinking about the edges of society. Men whose perversion would somehow be visible on their faces. They could not be men like Francis, who were intelligent and honorable. They could not be friends.
“No,” he said harshly, rejecting belief. “It’s not possible!”
“It’s not only possible, it’s undeniable. If I could be different, I would be, but I had no choice.” In spite of the calmness of Francis’s words, a pulse beat visibly in his throat. “You are the head of the family as well as my friend. I thought you should know that you cannot count on me for any heirs after Geoffrey.”
Gervase realized that he was clenching a Venetian glass paperweight in his hand, and he forced his cramped fingers to loosen and set it down. In the chaos of emotions that jammed his mind, one oblique sentence emerged. “If you lay a hand on my son, I’ll kill you.”
Francis flushed violently at first. Then the blood drained from his face, leaving it a deathly white. Standing with such sudden fury that his chair tipped over, he said in a voice scathing in its softness, “I knew that you could be blind and insensitive, but I never realized you were such a bloody damned fool!”
He spun on his heel and stalked out, the echoes of his words hanging heavy in the room.
Gervase rose halfway from his chair, stretching one hand toward his cousin as if to call back his words, then sank down again. He felt such a crushing weight on his chest that for a disoriented moment he wondered if his heart was failing under the strain of all that had happened.
But his heart continued to beat, his blood to pulse, his lungs to draw in air and to force it out. His body, in all its rude health, continued to function even though his life lay crashed in ruins.
Once more he buried his face in his hands, trying to come to terms with the unspeakable truth about his cousin. Francis was no different today than he had been yesterday. Only Gervase’s perception of him had changed.
His cousin had trusted him enough to make a devastating confession and Gervase had failed him, offering insult instead of understanding. Desiring men was not the same thing as desiring children. Gervase’s own experience of being molested by a trusted adult had led him to utter such an unforgivable insult.
As he had failed Francis, so had he failed Diana. She, too, had trusted him to understand, and instead he had overreacted wildly, accusing her of every kind of betrayal and dishonesty.No matter what you have done, or how much you hate yourself, I love you, because you are worthy of being loved.
Gervase wished he could believe her words, wished he could go to her and beg her forgiveness, bury his head against her soft breast and absorb her warmth until the anguish went away. But the gulf between them was too vast; too many unpardonable words had been said.
Last night, in momentary pity, she had offered him comfort, but her fury and hatred had been real, as had been her appalled reaction to the story of his mother’s seduction. She had been unable to disguise her revulsion, and that was something else that would always be between them in the future.
His mind painfully sorted through the options for the future. He had offered her a legal separation, but since their marriage had been the result of coercion it might be possible to obtain an annulment. Money and influence would help there. As Diana had said with such contempt, there wasn’t enough money in the world to buy him a clear conscience.
The only gift he could give her that might make amends would be her freedom. Without the stigma of divorce, she could find the honorable, loving husband she had dreamed of as a child. A man who might be good enough for her.
Utterly alone, Gervase accepted the hopeless knowledge that his loneliness would last a lifetime.
* * *
Diana spent a quiet day in the nursery, sewing shirts for Geoffrey and letting the repetitiveness of the task soothe her as Madeline kept her company in undemanding silence. She felt suspended in time, not knowing how to go forward, yet knowing that it was impossible to go back.
She ached for Gervase’s pain, could feel it even through the barrier he had erected against her, but could do nothing to leaven it. In time, he would bury his ravaging memories at the bottom of the well again and get on with his life. He was a man of incredible strength to have survived what he had, and she didn’t doubt that his strength would bring him through this crisis as well.
Gervase would never be able to see her without reviving the pain of everything that lay between them. She wished she could retract the furious denunciation she had hurled at him. Yes, she had been angry and she had the right to be since nothing could justify his initial rape. But her father was the greater villain. It was he who had forced the marriage, then abandoned her even though he knew her new husband had left the inn.
Nor were her hands clean. If she had been half as saintly as people thought her, she wouldn’t have had that unacknowledged desire to see her husband pay for what he had done. She had not wanted to crucify him, but the difference was only one of degree. Had it not been for her cowardice and secretiveness, she and Gervase would never have come to this.
Her sewing lay neglected in her lap as her thoughts continued in their ceaseless round. It was a relief to have an early dinner in the nursery. When Geoffrey suggested a walk in the gardens, she accepted in the hopes that her son’s liveliness would hold her misery at bay.
The fresh evening air was a pleasure after a day inside. Gervase’s houseguests would be gathering in the salon for pre-dinner sherry now, and there was no one outdoors to whom she would have to be charming. At the moment, she was not sure she could manage even the barest civility.
* * *
High above her, a pair of avid dark eyes watched from the house. The Count de Veseul didn’t see the boy who skipped ahead of his mother. He saw only the woman, with her distinctive grace and slim, alluring body. The vast gardens were empty at this hour, and Diana, Lady St. Aubyn, would not escape him this time. He must be quick about it, since he would have to join the other guests before his absence was remarked.
He would also have to ensure that she was unable to report the rape. St. Aubyn might be estranged from his wife, but he would take a very dim view of someone else damaging his property. Veseul absently stroked the serpent’s head. It was a delicious prospect. He would take and destroy St. Aubyn’s wife, then go to London and destroy the viscount’s hero. And St. Aubyn would be helpless either to prevent or to retaliate.
