Mary Jo Putney (42 page)

He shrugged. "You were being watched in my absence."

"What!"
Her hurt and confusion were burned away by pure outrage. "You set spies on me?"

"Not seriously, the way I would have done if I thought you were a foreign agent." He was so impossibly calm. "Just a casual surveillance that noted several men, though I suppose there could be a good number more, since you were not watched at night. Considering the length of my absence, it's hardly surprising that a woman of your passionate nature felt the need for... diversion. Perhaps I should be glad that you were sleeping with several men rather than becoming deeply involved with one, but I find myself curiously ungrateful."

As edge of pain sounded in his voice. "But you were quite straightforward about wanting what I couldn't give you, so I can hardly blame you for pursuing your goals. Since Lord Farnsworth's wife died recently, and newly widowed men are often very persuadable, you might well become Lady Farnsworth. That would have the advantage of being immediate, but the disadvantage that he already has heirs, so a child of yours would be unlikely to inherit."

A china shepherdess sat in the center of the table and he lifted it, studying the detail as if fascinated. "In most ways, my cousin Francis is a much better choice. He is young and attractive, of an age to be romantically in love, far more personable than I, and he is my heir. But you might have to wait thirty or forty years to become Lady St. Aubyn, and you will never be that if he dies before I do."

He set the shepherdess back on the table. "Actually, I've never quite understood what you see in me. There's the money, of course, but you've never seemed over concerned with that, especially not for a woman of your calling.

"Then there's the sex. You certainly seem to enjoy it, and I don't think it would be possible to counterfeit such responsiveness. But any number of men would be delighted to give you as much sex as you want. Of course, you know that already."

"Stop it!" Aghast, Diana stood abruptly. "Gervase, have you gone mad? You are talking rubbish about so many things that I have no idea how to reply."

His eyebrows arched eloquently. "Oh? I thought that I was being perfectly reasonable."

She felt like swearing, but lacked an adequate vocabulary. "That is exactly the problem! You are talking about matters that are inherently emotional with all the passion of... of a watchman calling the hours. More than that, you are wrong about almost everything you are saying."

"Am I? I stand willing to be corrected."

Her hands balled into fists of sheer frustration. "To begin with, neither Lord Farnsworth nor Francis is my lover, Farnsworth was with Madeline."

"Really?" After a moment's surprise, he said consideringly, "I suppose that is possible. She's an attractive woman."

"
Possible
has nothing to do with it," she snapped. "It's the truth. They have loved each other for many years. They had to separate, but now that his wife is dead, I don't think anything short of death will ever part them again."

He smiled faintly. "I suppose that pleases your romanticism."

"Yes, damn you, it does!"

"Why are you so angry?" he asked, genuinely curious.

She shook her head and turned away, pacing nervously across the drawing room. How could she properly convey how much his every word and attitude mocked what was most important to her? How much his spying violated her cherished privacy? How his cool, detached reasoning infuriated her emotional nature?

She stopped and pressed her hands to her temples. Gervase could no more help being rational and detached than she could help being emotional and intuitive. And, God help her, she loved him, though at the moment she had trouble remembering why.

Turning to face him across the length of the room, she tried to match his calm. "We have joked about being opposites, my lord, but it is sober truth. We speak different languages, even when we say the same words, and I don't think I can explain my anger. At least, not without thinking about the reasons for a few weeks, then translating my thoughts into words you might understand. Since you seem to prefer facts, we will confine ourselves to them. Lord Farnsworth is not my lover, nor is your cousin Francis. We are friends, no more."

He looked so skeptical that her anger rose again. "Do you assume that no man could possibly have any interest in me when I'm not on my back? Don't judge everyone by yourself."

His lips thinned. "Oh, I don't doubt there are men willing to talk with you and no more. But since you and Francis are given to embracing each other in windows in broad daylight, I may be forgiven for thinking your 'friendship' an unusually warm one."

His words jolted her. So someone had seen that embrace, that innocent gift of comfort. A simple thing, yet not easily explained, given Francis' circumstances.

"Is my information wrong?" he inquired gently.

"It is not wrong, but it is... misleading. If you don't believe me, ask your cousin. No doubt you will believe him sooner than me."

"I really would like to believe you," he said bleakly, the yearning in his voice unmistakable.

She lifted her hands in a gesture of helplessness. "Have I ever done anything to make you doubt my word?"

"Not that I know of." The qualification was an insult, yet Gervase's voice was matter-of-fact. "That is what has stopped me every time I considered leaving you. I knew I wanted you more than was sane or wise, but you have always been so sweet, so undemanding, asking only for love. And moderate remuneration, of course. Whenever I pulled back, I would remember that you had given me no cause to doubt your honesty, and would return to become more besotted than ever."

Settling his weight on the table, he crossed his legs in front of him. "But there is another matter that raises a few questions in my mind. You guessed I was going to the Continent. Did you sell the information to a French spy, or merely mention it to another of your lovers without knowing he was a spy?"

Diana gasped, stunned by his words. "What on earth are you talking about?" she gasped. "Although I have reserved the right to take other lovers, I did not do so in your absence. And I don't know any French spies. I told no one where you were going, though I think Madeline and Edith might have guessed."

He cocked his head to one side and appeared to consider. "I suppose that one of them casually mentioned something to someone else. I am constantly amazed at how far and fast information travels."

His gray eyes met hers again, as clear and cold as a winter sky. "I would much rather think the information got out by accident than that you sent me off with that touching farewell to what you knew would be certain death. If I had not been very lucky, I would not have returned. In that case, cultivating Francis could have made you Lady St. Aubyn very soon."

He paused to let the import of his words sink in before continuing. "Perhaps it was my imagination, but you seemed quite surprised to see me alive last night, though afterward you managed to allay suspicion most effectively."

Diana felt caught in a nightmare, unable to assimilate the sheer, cold-blooded cynicism of his words. Her voice shaking, she asked, "Do you honestly think I could make love with you, then sell your life? That after arranging your death, I could set out to seduce your heir in hopes of achieving a title?"

He lifted his wide shoulders in a shrug. "I hope not, but that may be just my wishful thinking. I really do not know."

It was incomprehensible that he could stand there and coolly say such wounding words. Diana's knees would no longer support her and she sank into a deep chair, gripping the arms with numb fingers. "If you think me capable of such vileness, how can you sit there and talk so calmly? How can you bear to be under the same roof with me?"

"I don't know what I believe. That is why I am here. So, Diana, what is the truth?"

She buried her face in her hands. "What is the point of saying anything? If I could deliberately betray you, my protests of honesty are worthless. If I did not, you have only my word on it, and you appear to value that very little."

"Actually, I would rather give you the benefit of the doubt."

"How generous of you, my lord," she said without raising her head. She wished he would go, but even worse than the pain of his presence and his accusations was the fear that if he left, he would never come back.

She did not hear his soft footsteps, and it was a surprise to feel his warm hands take her shivering ones as he knelt before her. "Diana, I'm sorry," he said quietly. "It has not been my intent to hurt you, simply to learn the truth. Whether or not you have had other lovers in the past, the way the French learned of my journey—those things are less important to me than whether you will promise not to see other men in the future."

She raised her head and looked at him wearily. His face was a scant foot away, the sculpted lines and planes more familiar than her own features. In some ways she knew him better than she knew herself; in others, he was alien and incomprehensible. "Why does it matter so? Is it because you are so possessive that you can't bear to think of another man playing with your toys?"

His hands tightened on hers, but he didn't look away. "It matters because..." He drew a steadying breath, his gaze locked to hers, "...because I love you."

She had wanted desperately to hear those words, and now she was so drained that she wasn't sure what they meant. Trying to suppress her tears, she whispered, "How can you love me if you don't trust me?"

She was so close that the anguish in his eyes was unmistakable. After a long pause he said, "I didn't know that love and trust had anything to do with each other."

"They do to me." Gently disengaging her hands, she sat up straight. "Do you really mean what you said, or are you just saying that you love me so I'll do what you want me to?"

His dark skin drew sharply taut over his high cheekbones. Sitting back on his heels, he said, "I suppose I deserved that."

She had no more intended to hurt Gervase than he had intended to hurt her. The fact that neither of them wished to wound did not make it any less devastating.

"I spoke the truth, Diana. I love you as I have never loved any other woman." His sincerity was too raw to be feigned. "If it were possible, I would marry you. Since it is not, I hope love is enough to hold you, because it is the most I can give."

The room was utterly silent. Diana felt faint as the blood drained from her face. He had come the entire distance that she had wanted, and now that he had, she was terrifyingly uncertain how to proceed. Finally she said unevenly, "It is a compliment that you contemplated marriage, but of course a man of your position and consequence could not possibly take a courtesan to wive."

His detachment shattered and he stood, looming over her as he gripped her chin with one hand and forced her to look at him. All the passion she knew he was capable of burned in his eyes as he swore, "Consequence be damned! Make no mistake, Diana, if I could, I would marry you tomorrow."

As Madeline had said, passion was dangerous, a double-edged sword, unpredictable in its consequences. Diana had wanted to break through Gervase's hard shell of control. Now, terrifyingly, she had. He had always been gentle, careful with his formidable strength, but now he was frightening in his intensity. His clear gray eyes were no longer like ice, but were windows to the fierceness of the emotions burning inside him.

"I would most certainly marry you"—his grip tightened convulsively, and a dozen heartbeats passed before he could continue—"because that would give me the right to kill any other man who touched you."

Chapter 19

His fingers tight around Diana's jaw after those too-revealing violent words, Gervase felt the pulse in her throat. She closed her eyes for a moment, the thick dark lashes shadowing her delicate skin, then opened them again. She had been bewildered and defensive, but now she challenged: "If you feel that strongly, then why
won't
you marry me? A wife swears fidelity, and I would honor my vows."

He let go of her and spun away. Nine years ago he had known that someday he must pay the penalty for his unforgivable crime against an innocent, and now the price was being exacted from his very marrow. He kept his back turned to Diana to conceal how difficult it was to answer. Taking a deep, deep breath, he replied, "I can't marry you because I have a wife."