Mary Jo Putney (54 page)

"No," was the cheerful reply.

His expression easing, Gervase settled back in his chair and prepared to hear what Francis had to say. He had never considered it before, but his cousin had a quality of calm acceptance that was like Diana's. Sharply he changed the direction of his thoughts; he could not bear to think of his wife. "I'm glad you could come to Aubynwood. I haven't been at my most social, and I appreciate the fact that you've been acting the host in my absence."

"Quite all right." Francis waved his hand casually. "I know you've had other things on your mind, such as having your wife and son here publicly for the first time."

Gervase stiffened. "I do not wish to discuss my family."

"Don't give me that look, cousin. I mean to have my say, and the only way you can avoid hearing it is to run faster than I." Francis' tone was light but his blue eyes were intent. "I know and value both you and Diana. Since you are each looking quite miserable, I wanted to offer my services as a mediator. Sometimes another person helps. She's very much in love with you, you know. You seem hardly indifferent yourself, so whatever the problem is, it should be soluble."

Gervase pushed away from his desk, distancing himself from the words. Venom in his voice, he asked, "Did she tell you that over a pillow?"

"Good God, no! Surely you don't think Diana and I are lovers?" Francis exclaimed.

Gervase felt his mouth twisting. He had not wanted to begin this conversation, had known instinctively that nothing good could come from it, yet now it could not be stopped. "It's a logical assumption. I know that you visited her when I was away, on the most intimate of terms."

"Good Lord, were you having Diana watched? Why on earth would you do that?"

"The woman's a whore by profession, remember? I wanted to know how good her business was," Even as he said the bitter words, Gervase hated himself, but his tongue would not stop.

"Don't speak of your wife that way," Francis snapped. "It does you no credit. Apart from a couple of visits to the sort of function any man can attend without comment, she has been living in London as quietly and respectably as any woman could. There is no impropriety in having male friends call."

"Before you dig yourself any more holes, I should warn you that yesterday I saw you with her by the lake."

His cousin's narrowed eyes were colder than Gervase had ever seen them. "She was upset—because of you—and I offered her what comfort I could. As a friend. No more, certainly no less."

"Do you expect me to believe that?"

Francis became absolutely still. "I will let no man call me a liar, Gervase, not even you."

"I don't blame you for being entranced by her," Gervase said wearily. "What man wouldn't be? She could tempt a monk from his vows simply walking into a room. Just don't lie to me."

Francis slapped his hand down on the desk so hard that the pens jumped. "Damnation, Gervase, yon are slandering both Diana and me! She is a gentle, loving, beautiful woman, and you don't deserve her." Then, his voice breaking, he added, "If I could love a woman, it would be her. But I swear before God that there has been nothing the least bit improper between us. Or are you too blind with jealousy to believe me?"

Gervase stared at the younger man, pain shifting deep inside him. Francis was his closest friend, He was also notoriously truthful. Would his cousin really lie about this? Did Gervase himself really believe that Diana was a liar, or was his own bleak despair distorting his image of her? There was no evidence that she was disloyal, except for his own belief that any woman he cared about must be.

Setting his elbows on the desk, he massaged his temples, where anguished confusion stabbed deep into his brain. He had tried to avoid all thought of Diana, and in the face of Francis' challenge he understood why. It was easier to believe in her anger than in her love. Easier to condemn her than to accept that she was as loving and true as he had believed, and that he was wholly unworthy of her.

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' 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' 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' 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 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 hand, 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 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; 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.

* * *

Geoffrey was like a playful puppy, ranging ahead, then back to point out items of particular interest. The Aubynwood gardens had developed over centuries, and included everything from herb and knot gardens to a maze. It was the maze that Geoffrey led her to. "Cheslow, the head gardener, says our maze is the best in England," he said proudly. "Even better than the one at Hampton Court."

For a moment his identification of "our" maze stabbed her. It belonged to her husband and would someday be her son's, but there was no place for Diana at Aubynwood. She had belonged more truly as a mistress than as a wife.

She put her self-pitying thought aside. "Did Cheslow say how old the maze is?"

"It was planted in the time of Queen Elizabeth. The outside is a perfect square, but inside is all tangled. There is one route to the center, and another, shorter one leads out. Did you know that you can find your way through a maze by keeping your hand on the left wall, and always taking the left turning? Or you can go to the right," he added conscientiously. "As long as you always turn the same way."

"No, really?" she said with interest. She thought about it for a moment. "I see. One would have to go down all the blind alleys and doublings-back, but there would be no chance of getting lost and eventually one would get through. Rather like the tortoise and the hare."

They were at the maze entrance now and it was undeniably a fine sight. The yew bushes were incredibly dense, clipped with mathematical precision and towering well above a man's head. The entry was flanked by a Greek god and goddess who seemed up to no good. Diana recalled reading that ancient mazes were associated with fertility, which explained the anticipation on Apollo's face. "Have you been through the maze before?"

"Oh, yes, lots of times." Geoffrey's eyes lit up. "Would you like to try to catch me inside?"