Mary Jo Putney (31 page)

Gervase looked startled, as if far more used to giving than receiving. "Perhaps now would be best."

"Very well," Diana said, glad to have those moments of strain so easily set aside. "Shall we go down to my room?"

Downstairs, she checked to be sure that the corridor was clear before beckoning her host into her bedchamber. He had always entered by the secret door before, and this seemed rather daring. Once inside, she went to her wardrobe and brought out a man's dressing gown, a richly luxurious one in dark blue velvet, nearly floor-length to protect against drafts.

As he accepted it, she said, "I made it from this fabric because it's marvelously soft. I expect that you never pamper yourself much, so I wanted to."

He smiled and thanked her as he stroked the velvet, feeling its sensuousness on the sensitive skin of his palm. Diana was right, he would never have chosen this fabric himself, but it had a welcoming warmth, much like Diana herself. And he was deeply pleased that she had made the robe with her own hands.

She continued shyly, "I thought... it might be convenient for you to keep it at my house. Since you are there so often."

It was a backhanded confirmation that he had a regular place in her life, and it made the gift even better. He thanked her with a kiss, the folds of robe crushing between them. Her mouth welcomed him, but before he could get too involved she pulled away. "There is something else."

She went to the wardrobe again and brought out a flat rectangle about two feet square, wrapped in silver paper. Gervase undid it carefully, then caught his breath when he saw what lay within. He held a framed map of the Kingdom of Prester John, beautifully detailed with fanciful beasts and tiny drawings of imagined wonders.

The map was very old, exquisitely drawn and colored, and must be valuable, but it meant much more than that, and for a moment he was too touched to speak. That she should have remembered that conversation about boyish dreams...

He glanced up to see her regarding him anxiously, hoping that she had pleased him. "It's beautiful, Diana. More than that..." He stopped, then said slowly, "These are the two most personal gifts anyone has ever given me. Thank you."

Her smile was as lovely as the dawn. "I'm so glad. I wanted to give you something that would be special."

Laying the map on the table, he drew her to him for another kiss, one hand cradling the back of her neck, the other firm on her lower back as he felt the delicacy and strength of her. After a long, languorous interval, he said in the intimate voice he used only in the bedroom, "There is another present you can give me, which will be very special indeed and could only be given by you. We have almost an hour until luncheon is served."

Her rich laughter filled the room. "Lock the door, my love, and I shall rejoice in giving it to you."

* * *

That evening was a family Christmas unlike any Gervase had ever known. Diana and her entourage could have been a closed circle, excluding him even in his own home; instead, in subtle ways he was drawn in and made welcome.

The women had decorated the morning room with greens, male mistletoe and female ivy, prickly holly with bright scarlet berries. A Yule log burned in the wide fireplace and Diana had made a kissing bough, the traditional centerpiece of the Christmas festivities. It hung from the ceiling, its twined double hoops covered with greenery and adorned with candles and tiny ornaments cut from gold foil.

Geoffrey had made "Christmas pieces" for each of the adults, including Gervase. They were a traditional schoolchild project, and the bright bits of colored paper offered compliments of the season in the boy's best copperplate script. Gervase was unexpectedly moved both at the thought and at the boy's pleasure in having his work well-received.

After the formal dinner, the servants retired to their own celebration in the servants' hall, leaving the lord of the manor and his guests to play Christmas games such as snapdragon. In his lavish, lonely childhood, Gervase had never discovered the simple pleasures of sitting in a darkened room and trying to pull raisins drenched in brandy from their bed of low blue flames without hurting one's fingers.

Geoffrey was delighted to teach an ignorant adult the "Song of Snapdragon."
(With his blue and lapping tongue, many of you will be stung, Snip! Snap! Dragon!)

Simple pleasures to most people, but entirely new to Gervase. They sat and laughed and told stories as they drank hot lamb's-wool and ate tiny mince pies, fragrant with spices, the rich, warm crusts crumbling in the fingers. Edith had unexpected skill as a storyteller, holding the others rapt with tales from the old mummers' plays, acting out characters such as St. George, the Turkish Knight, and Ginger Breeches.

There was no bedtime on Christmas Eve, and Geoffrey finally succumbed to sleep with his head on his mother's lap. It was Gervase who carried him up to his bed in the nursery, waiting while the boy was tucked into his bed, his face angelic and trusting. Afterward he also carried Diana to her bed, but with her he stayed, and they laughed and pleasured each other in the most ancient of all celebrations of life.

* * *

The days passed swift and timeless. Diana had never seen Gervase so relaxed. When they first became lovers he had been reserved, touching her only with desire, but now he was becoming affectionate in private, though he maintained complete propriety in public. He liked to have her near, and mornings when he studied dispatches delivered from London, she sat at the far end of the library within his sight as she went over lessons with Geoffrey.

Gervase worked with great concentration, but sometimes she felt his gaze on her and would look up to see those clear gray eyes watching, no longer cool and guarded. Even across a long room, she felt as if he reached out to caress her. Other times, when she played the pianoforte in the music room, she would glance up and see that he was taking pleasure in both her and her music.

When the weather was dry, they rode together, and after a fortnight Geoffrey, glowing with pride, joined them on his pony. Edith was pleased to be in the country again, and Madeline, with her ability to take each moment of life as a gift, was serene and happy. All the people Diana loved best in the world were at Aubynwood. She wished they could stay like this forever and never return to the pretenses and obligations of London, but in spite of her wishes the days glided inexorably past, one by one.

The twelve days of Christmas passed, with a small mince pie eaten on each to bring luck for the coming year. Then the greens were taken down and ceremoniously burned, and too soon they were packing to leave.

The night before their scheduled departure, snow began falling, not the brief occasional flurries of early winter but a gentle, steady cascade of flakes. Geoffrey had been put to bed, and Madeline and Edith had also tactfully withdrawn. Both Diana and Gervase were restless, reluctant to end the last day, and at his suggestion they decided to go for a walk.

They strolled through high-hedged gardens, her hand tucked securely under his arm. The shrubbery was black against the white earth and their slow steps were soundless.

The stillness of the air kept the cold from biting deep, and the silence was pure and complete. They might have been a north-country Adam and Eve, alone together at the world's beginning. Gervase had always loved the fresh loveliness of falling snow, particularly at night, when every trace of light was caught and amplified by whiteness and a gentle glow suffused the dark.

Diana wondered aloud if the weather would prevent them from leaving Aubynwood. Gervase shook his head. "Probably not. There are only a couple of inches on the ground, and the storm seems to be diminishing. The snow might stop by midnight. Likely it will stay cold so the ground will be hard for good carriage travel."

Diana turned her face up into the snow, laughing with a child's delight at the drifting crystalline flakes. In the dim, uncanny light he was struck once more by how beautiful she was, so lovely that his heart ached at the sight. Her heart-shaped face was framed by the hood of the wine-red velvet cloak he had given her for Christmas. The garment had been made specially to his order with a lining of rich, costly Russian sable, as warm and exquisite as Diana herself.

For three weeks she had belonged to him alone, and suddenly the thought of sharing her in London was unbearable.

They were deep in the gardens now, utterly private, and Gervase stopped walking and turned to her, pulling her fiercely into his arms. He had thought that with time, familiarity would diminish passion, but the opposite was true. After three weeks of being with his mistress day and night, he wanted her more than ever. The silken welcome of her mouth, anticipation of the hidden delights of her body, the intoxication of her response, were greater aphrodisiacs than novelty could ever be.

The first night they'd made love, he had wanted to bind her to him with passion. He had retreated from that, accepting that she was a courtesan who bestowed her favors where she chose. Now he was no longer willing to accept that, and he would use all the weapons at his disposal to make her his.

Diana clung to him, her kiss as hungry as his own, as if she too could not bear to end this enchanted country interlude. Her eyes were closed and ice crystals starred her long dark lashes. Though the night was cold, where they touched was fire.

His arms were around her, and behind her back he peeled the leather glove from his right hand. They stood so close that no stirrings of chill air could come between them. He reached down, slipping his hand into the folds of her cloak, under the soft luxuriant fur.

Diana's body was warm and pliant beneath the flowing silk of her dress, and he cupped his hand around the fullness of her breast. She caught her breath and pressed against him as her nipple hardened beneath his hand. He caressed her slowly, feeling her tremble with reaction before he stroked lower, over the sweet curves of waist and hips until he reached the sensitive juncture of her thighs.

She yielded to him wholly, and her willingness made him more than a little mad with wanting. The light dress was easily raised and he found the waiting secret depths of her. Her lips broke free of his as she inhaled with a low cry and he whispered into her ear, "I want you to be mine, Diana, only mine."

His embrace was support and protection, and without it she could not have stood alone. The coolness of his skilled fingers against her heated flesh was deeply erotic, and his husky voice was urgent as he commanded, "Promise me, Diana, that there will be no one else."

She had just enough awareness left to know that Gervase was using passion as a weapon to persuade her to a promise she did not want to give, and anger stirred under her desire. It was not enough that he dominated her physically and sexually; he wanted more. Did he really think he could enslave her through her love and need for him? As Madeline had said, sex was a weapon, one she could use as well as he.

Without answering his words, she stroked the well-loved contours of his hard body, feeling him shiver at her touch. Deftly she undid buttons, then knelt on the snow-softened earth, reaching up to grasp his hand and tug him down to join her. Catching his mouth with hers, Diana kissed him lingeringly, with all the skill she had learned from him. Then, when he had no more breath for words, she lay back, pulling him against her so they lay full-length together in the wintry garden.

The snow made a pristine bed and the spread of her rich cloak protected them below as the folds of his long coat fell around them from above. Too aroused to resist her gentle guiding hand, he entered her, and for just a moment they were united, their bodies perfectly attuned.

Then he inhaled, a long shuddering breath, and when he had achieved a measure of control he withdrew. Her loss was so acute that she cried out with longing. He was poised above her, his arms and legs shielding her from the cold as he demanded harshly, "Promise me."

Even now, as desperately as she wanted him, she would not yield. Instead she whispered, "Love me, Gervase, as I love you." Her arms circled his chest beneath his coat and she slid them down his body, feeling the lean muscle and hard bone, the straining tension in his back as he fought both his desires and hers. When her hands reached his taut hips she pulled him into her, murmuring once more, "Love me, please."

She thrust up against him, and he could no longer withstand her. He was beyond words now, beyond demands. The snowy night, the garden, the fact that they were fully dressed yet as intimate as man and woman could be, raised them to a white heat of passion, their bodies clashing and joining in a rhythm that could not be controlled or denied.

Such intensity culminated quickly, and she cried out with the mingled pleasure and pain of ecstasy. He gasped and drove into her one last time as his body convulsed. Then there was silence again, broken only by ragged breathing and the soft sibilance of wind through the high, circling hedges that protected their tryst.

They lay close and still for long moments, Gervase's cheek next to hers, the gossamer softness of sable warming their faces, the slowing tempo of their hearts beating together. Each was reluctant to speak, knowing that words would pierce the physical harmony of their lovemaking.

Finally, his body still covering hers, he lifted his head and shoulders and cupped her cheek, his fingers lying gentle and passionless along her temple. His face was a pale oval above hers, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was as light and cool as his touch, as if the question was of no great importance to him. "Why do you need to see other men, Diana? For money? If you want more, you have only to ask."