Mary Jo Putney (16 page)

With that, he chuckled and swung onto his own horse. "There was nothing the least bit noble or generous about my offer, and well you know it."

Effortlessly he guided his horse so close their knees almost touched. "I should have realized you would be sore today. We can do something other than ride, perhaps hire a boat and go up the river."

Diana was touched; she wouldn't have expected him to be so considerate. "You are very kind, but I shall do well enough when I've warmed up. I hadn't realized how much I missed riding until yesterday. My body will just have to become accustomed to it again."

"Does that mean that the loan horse is now a gift horse?" he asked as he started his mount down Charles Street.

"No, but riding her does weaken my resolve," Diana admitted as they headed west toward Richmond. "Phaedra is by far the finest horse I've ever been on. I'm surprised you let a rider of unknown skills on her back."

"So am I," Gervase said with more honesty than tact; he had suffered a pang giving Phaedra to a virtual stranger. Too late he realized that his companion might be offended by his doubts of her skill and he gave a questioning glance.

The wonderful blue eyes were brimming with mirth. "I assume you don't believe in wasting time on fine false phrases?"

"No, I don't, though I try not to be rude." He thought a moment, then qualified, "At least, I prefer my rudeness to be intentional rather than accidental."

She laughed outright, a chime-sweet sound that made him want to join in. "That is honesty with a vengeance, my lord. Are you intentionally rude often?"

It was impossible not to smile at her. "No, not too often. I prefer to use rudeness only when I wish to make a point."

They were riding through a street market, and conversation stopped as they carefully threaded their horses through the crowd. Though Mrs. Lindsay seemed to enjoy his company, Gervase felt off-balance and unsure of himself. None of his previous mistresses had required anything resembling a courtship, but then, he had never pursued a high-level Cyprian like this one, and he had no idea what she expected of him.

For the first time in his life, the viscount wished he had studied the art of flirtation. Did the lady want witty repartee? Florid compliments? Declarations of undying passion? He hoped not; while she certainly inspired physical passion, he had no intention of perjuring himself with lies of love. A major reason for consorting with lightskirts was to avoid untidy emotions.

The streets were less crowded as they headed away from the commercial districts, and Gervase slanted a look sideways at his companion. The woman was so heart-stoppingly beautiful that his brain seemed to go blank whenever he was around her.

Riding showed off her profile to great advantage, both the classic symmetry of chin and brow and the less classic but charming little nose. Diana's shining mahogany hair swept back from her face before falling in a riot of curls down her dark blue riding habit, and she looked misleadingly young and innocent. Even in repose, her full lips seemed on the verge of smiling.

Gervase remembered how those lips felt beneath his, then forced his attention back to the road. He would never make it through the day if he didn't suppress his lustful thoughts. She was undermining his prized self-control with remarkable ease, and he didn't like it one damned bit. With the iron discipline that he had been perfecting all his life, he forced his mind into other channels. Fortunately, Diana now offered a topic that helped distract him from contemplation of her charms.

"Where did your five months on shipboard take you?" she asked as they slowed their horses behind a small flock of sheep.

"India. Five months out and five months back—almost a year of one's life just to go and return."

"India!" she said dreamily, her eyes distant. "I've always been fascinated by it. Were you there a long time?"

"About five years. I was in the army under Wellesley." As oncoming traffic thinned, they circled the sheep and moved into a trot. "I returned two years ago, after my father died."

"Did you like India?"

Gervase hesitated before replying. "It's difficult to talk about India in terms of like and dislike. Everything is so very different. Even the sunlight is different, harsh and yellow, not like the cool blue light of England." His voice trailed off as he thought of how much he had changed in those years. He had gone to India in anger and depression, lived with danger and discomfort, and returned to England his own man at last.

When Diana's soft voice said, "Tell me about it," Gervase began to talk. For the rest of the ride to Richmond, he spoke of India's wonders, her killing heat and poverty, her teeming cities, her strange religions with their sometimes moving, sometimes sickening rites. None of his acquaintance, even his cousin Francis, had shown more than a passing interest in India, but Diana's grave attention led Gervase to say more than he would have thought possible. As he talked of his one expedition to the north, where he saw the mountains called the Roof of the World, it occurred to him what a strange conversation this was to have with a whore.

Even as he thought the word, he winced away from it. While the term might be accurate, it was too coarse a description for Diana, who displayed the elegance and erudition of a great lady. Underneath she was undoubtedly as crude and grasping as the rest of her breed, but she concealed it well.

When he came to the end of his discourse, she sighed happily. "I am reminded of the kingdom of Prester John."

Gervase was surprised that she knew the medieval legend. Prester John was the mythical ruler of a fabulous Oriental land of gold and marvels, a Christian king surrounded by barbarians. The story was probably inspired be Ethiopia, but had been romanticized far beyond any earthly kingdom.

"Yes, India is as exotic as any medieval legend," he agreed. "As a boy, I was always fascinated by such tales. I had a book about Prester John and I used to dream about him and his solid gold throne. Perhaps that is one reason I went to India."

Diana absorbed his words in silence. So the hard-eyed man of the world had been a boy who dreamed of marvels? It was an endearing image, one that made her think of Geoffrey.

They were entering Richmond Park now. A great palace had once stood here, and the forested land had been a royal hunting preserve. Now people came to walk in the woods or gallop their horses with a freedom impossible in the city parks. Autumn marked the trees, where the first leaves glowed yellow and gold in the bright midday sun. Abruptly Gervase said, "Where do you come from, Mrs. Lindsay? There is a hint of the north in your voice."

Diana threw him a teasing glance. "Women like me have no past, my lord, nor a future either. We exist solely in the moment. Shall we see if Phaedra can outrun your horse from here to the end of this trail?"

Without waiting for an answer, she urged the mare to full speed down the open park trail. Gervase was caught unawares and she had a lead of fifty feet before he started after her.

He kicked his horse into a gallop, irritated at the way she had evaded his question. In the past he had never been curious about his mistresses, but he found himself wondering about Diana Lindsay, about what background could produce such dazzling beauty and apparent refinement, about what had led her to practice the oldest profession.

Shrugging off his questions, he concentrated on catching up with her. Diana's long chestnut hair flared back like a banner and she coaxed a very pretty turn of speed out of Phaedra without using her whip. While it was not to be expected that either the mare or her rider could match Gervase and his mount, Diana did surprisingly well, and he defeated her by only a short head.

She was unconcerned at her loss. "You have the advantage of me, my lord. What shall you claim as your prize?"

"I will think of something," he said absently, admiring the glowing color that the wind had brought to her cheeks. Glancing at the sun, he said, "It's past noon. If we ride down the right fork here, we'll come to the inn where I've bespoken a meal."

Amiably they trotted to the riverside inn. Diana admired the effortless way that her escort had arranged the details, from the private parlor that overlooked the Thames to the excellent food and wine, perfectly chosen to feed active appetites without being too heavy for people who would be riding back to the city.

As she finished the tangy raspberry fool that ended the luncheon, she wondered if he would take advantage of the privacy to press his attentions on her. The thought held more appeal than alarm; she had covertly watched him through the morning's ride, admiring the grace and strength of his whipcord body.

Smiling at one of his remarks, Diana sipped at her wine before making some light rejoinder. Most of her attention was focused on the man across the table. Since she had decided that he was to be her fate, she might as well enjoy what destiny offered. The planes of his face were beautifully sculpted, the cheekbones high and wide. The light gray eyes were clear and penetrating under rather heavy brows, his dark hair too thick to be entirely under control. For all his seriousness and sometimes fierce expressions, she had seen signs of kindness in him, and sometimes laughter as well.

The reality of Gervase Brandelin was tantalizing. She could imagine his deep voice soft with endearments, his hard body fitting against hers, his desire flaming hers. Nervousness laced her anticipation, but that touch of disquiet increased the excitement she felt at the prospect of giving herself to him. The question was no longer
if,
but
when.

In the same tone that he might have used to a ninety-year-old grandmother, he said, "Would you like to walk in the oak forest before we ride back to London? The trees are some of the oldest and finest in Britain."

Abruptly Diana realized that she was a little drunk. The three glasses of wine must be responsible for her vivid fantasies. How embarrassing; while she was sitting here melting with anticipation, the wretched man was stone-cold sober and perfectly collected. As if she cared a fig for oak trees.

Her daydream crashed into anxiety and her hand trembled slightly as she finished her wine and set the goblet back on the table, sure that she had done something wrong and St. Aubyn no longer desired her. Though Madeline had explained the facts, the essence of what made a woman desirable must lie beyond Diana. The idea that he didn't want her was surprisingly hurtful, and it took an effort to shape her lips into a polite smile. "I would like that. I've never been to Richmond Park before."

The shady woods were as lovely as Gervase had said, a green cathedral of ancient oaks where fallow deer flitted across the trails and drifting motes of dust were illuminated by shafting sunlight. Her wine-volatile spirits lifting amidst such beauty, Diana stooped to pick up a bright yellow oak leaf. Rolling the stem between her hands, she said dreamily, "I half-expect to see a ghostly procession of druids coming toward us."

"More likely the ghosts are royal Plantagenets and Tudors, hunting for deer."

Gervase's voice was prosaic, but her glance showed that his face was not; his usual impassive expression had given way to undisguised desire. With intense relief Diana knew that her fears were unfounded, that he was no more indifferent to her than she was to him.

A little giddy with wine, she said playfully, "Were deer the only creatures hunted in this forest?"

"Oh, no," he said softly, "there is fairer game than that." He reached out to her, but she lightly whisked herself away behind the massive trunk of the nearest oak, then peeked out at him from behind the tree, laughing and wondering where this unexpected vein of flirtatiousness had come from.

"How do you capture this fair game?" she teased. This was a new Diana, even to her, and she found that she enjoyed abandoning her usual gravity.

St. Aubyn didn't seem to mind her silliness. His eyes rested on her warmly and a faint smile was playing over his lips. Stepping up to the tree, he replied, "If I knew how to do that, I would have done so already."

His smile faded as he extended one hand toward her. They were on opposite sides of the tree trunk, partially concealed from each other by the curving bark. His hand caressed her cheek, then slipped into the curls tangled by her riding.

"Did you know that you are being called the Fair Luna?" As she looked at him questioningly, he explained, "Because you have the most heavenly body ever seen in London."

Diana's eyes widened and she laughed. "That sounds like young Mr. Clinton's poetic fancy. Quite a compliment!"

"It is indeed." Gervase's eyes darkened and she could feel the tension thrumming between them. Warm against the side of her head, his fingers made slow circling motions, setting off ripples of sensation that spread throughout her body. Rapt at his touch, her lips parted in unconscious invitation.

"How long must I wait, Diana?" His voice was barely more than a whisper, but his gaze was hypnotic.

Delicately he toyed with her ear. She hadn't known that such a mundane part of the body could feel such sensations.
 
Her right hand gripped the tree trunk to steady her in the face of her body's quickening response. His stroking touch was so light that she could feel the whorls of his fingertips, like the brush of butterfly wings on her throat. Who would have thought that a man with such strong hands could be so gentle?

"I can understand that you wish to know me better," he said huskily, "but the more time we spend together, the harder it is to keep my hands to myself. In fact, it is quite impossible." Moving around the tree, he captured her, sliding his arms around her waist and drawing her into a kiss.