TemptressofTime (15 page)

Diane didn’t know about any
long line
, but her mother
and grandmother sure fit the Gypsy’s description. A niggling voice in the back
of her mind muttered several suggestions that Diane also fit.

“This is not your first journey,” the seer continued. “It
is, however, the first time you have had companions to help and guide you.”

Now that was downright scary! How could this woman know that
Adrian and Walker had been with her several centuries ago? The men didn’t seem
to remember, so how…

“Although they will not admit it, they also have lessons to
learn. Lessons to teach you and lessons you will teach them.”

Yeah, right. So far what they had taught her was that she
lived in a man’s world. Women were just along for the ride. Unbidden, an image
of her posting up and down on one of their cocks made
the ride
a lot
more satisfying.

“You have begun to learn about compassion.”

The globe swirled pale lavender, then gave way once more to
the kaleidoscope of rainbow hues. Her ability to breathe improved. Her heart,
however, continued to thump in her ears, sounding eerily funereal. She wanted
to ask when she had learned about compassion. If she knew what had triggered
that emotion, she could build upon it.

Sure
, that niggling voice needled.
You can fool
people into thinking you’ve changed.
Random acts of kindness and compassion
didn’t mean squat. Even she knew that! Nibbling on her lower lip, she thought
about Scrooge and his ghosts. At least good old Ebenezer had landed more or
less in his own time and world. Diane feared she’d be stuck in the past—and not
even her own past—forever.

Still…something must have triggered her feelings of
compassion. She just couldn’t figure out what. Unless… Memories of Arnaud’s
mistresses and blue-eyed children swirled in the glass orb, along with visions
of the keep engulfed in flames. Was that the same fire Arnaud had caused or was
it one that had happened after she escaped that era? It seemed so real she
could smell the charred wood, hear the children’s screams. She wanted to return,
save them from the flames she saw in the glass. Then, filling the globe,
William’s black, hate-filled eyes glared out at her.

Startled by how real he seemed, she jerked back. The images
blinked out as if they had never been. She couldn’t blame William for despising
her. How could he not? Believing Walker to be his father, William would see
Diane and any children she might have as insurmountable obstacles between him
and his rightful place as Walker’s heir—never mind that he couldn’t inherit
anything other than a stipend Walker might will him.

In a kinder, less judgmental world… No, Walker would never
recognize William as his son. It simply wasn’t done—unless no legitimate heir
existed.

There she went again! Expecting others to live up to her
standards. Ludicrous, since she didn’t know—couldn’t even imagine—how she would
behave if a stranger confessed to being her birth mother. Sighing, feeling that
awful weight again descending on her chest, she decided to let the matter rest
for now. Later, if she could, she’d ask both Adrian and Walker what they could
do for William. And then she would stay out of it!

“You are also learning the art of compromise,” the Gypsy
said.

And now the bloody woman was reading Diane’s mind! Instead
of ordering the crone to keep out, Diane said, “What can I teach the duke? Or,
for that matter, the earl?” Drawing a deep breath for courage, she asked the
one question she needed answered. If the crone accused her of being a witch, it
wouldn’t matter. The Gypsies would leave in the morning and, even if still in
this time, Diane would remain safe.

“Can you tell me how to get home?”

Skyscrapers in San Francisco’s financial district replaced
the miasma in the crystal ball. The Golden Gate Bridge swirled into sight,
covered with bumper-to-bumper traffic going nowhere.

Throwing off her cloak, screeching, clawing, spitting venom
with every word, the fortuneteller surged to her feet. All signs of age and
illness vanished as if the Gypsy were possessed. Black eyes blazing hatred, the
woman reached out as if to grab Diane and snatch her bald. She advanced a step.
Diane retreated until she could go no farther. Trapped against the side of the
tent, shaking despite all efforts to face this virago with her dignity intact,
Diane felt incapable of staying upright.

“Witch!” the crone shouted, spittle spraying over Diane’s
cheek. “You do not belong here.”

The world began to spin. Everything in Diane’s line of sight
whirled as if enveloped in a tornado. Screaming, pushing at her skirts as the
evil gusts tightened around her and threatened to expose her nether
extremities, she cried out her lovers’ names. She wondered why the Gypsy would
hate her. Well, duh…for the same reasons William—

Then the world went black.

“M’lady?” A cool hand settled on her naked shoulder, then
shook her none too gently. “M’lady, wake up. ‘Tis time to dress.”

Swearing under her breath, Diane shoved away the offending
hand. By all she held holy, if she’d gone back to her first encounter with
Adrian and Walker in the Middle Ages, somebody would die. She saw the flames
surrounding the keep and knew she would return gladly if she could save the
children. Her heart beating at a rat-a-tat rate, she sat up.

Chapter Twelve

Opening her eyes, Diane gazed at the canopy above her bed.
Pale-pink damask was gathered into a coronet centered over the mattress, its
pleats widening out to the bedposts, then flowing down, she assumed, to the
floor. Exhaling a small breath of relief, she shifted her gaze to the person
who’d awakened her.

Pale-gray eyes met hers. Locks of white-blonde hair curled
around a heart-shaped face. Marget, here with her again to provide guidance and
sage advice. Diane’s own fairy godmother. At least she had a familiar face to
take comfort from.

Taking in the young woman’s clothing—her gown empire-waisted
and flowing down her slender body like a voluminous night rail—Diane decided
she had finally reached Regency England—the era Adrian and Walker created for
tourists. Whether she was actually in that era she’d have to determine pretty
soon.

She wanted to ask if the other guests had arrived, but
suspected her maid would remain in character no matter what. That’s what
re-creators did. Public television channels had aired an entire series based on
modern people living in Jane Austen’s time.

Please, please, please, let this be a re-creation and not
another trip into the past. I’m so afraid I’m going crazy, so please let this
not be real.

A sweet smile made Diane smile back.

“Awake? Good. I’ve filled your tub, so you’ve time for a
leisurely bath—so long as you don’t dawdle too long.”

“Thank—” She coughed, clearing the frog of disuse from her
throat as she took stock of her surroundings.

Wide, bright-white crown molding capped pale-pink walls.
Landscapes and still lifes hung from silken, deep-gold ties that matched the
tasseled tiebacks on deep red drapes at each of six enormous windows. A far cry
from stone walls and tapestries and cold oak floors strewn with carpets. Or
worse, rushes.

Definitely not medieval or Tudor. Not a campfire or Gypsy
fortuneteller in sight.

“Thank you…”

Her hesitancy made the young maid say, “Margaret, m’lady.
Filling in for Rose whose mum took sick this very morning.”

Whew.
For once Dame Fortune had fallen on Diane’s
side. Margaret, being new to her post, wouldn’t expect her mistress to know
her. As for the different name with the same face…Diane didn’t expect everyone
traveled through time as she had. On the other hand, many folks believed in
doppelgangers and maybe Margaret was one of those.

Eyeing the girl, smothering another groan, she watched
Margaret gather up a bundle of puce fabric.

“With your ladyship’s permission, I’ll take these mourning
clothes away so you’ll not need to look at them again.” With a cheeky grin she
added, “Unless, of course, you remarry and have the misfortune of losing
another husband.”

The plethora of information made Diane dizzy. One word,
however, stuck in her mind and filled her heart with dread.
Losing.
As
if she had left her unnamed husband at the post office and someone had stuck him
in the dead letter bin. She desperately wanted to ask the name of her departed.
Please, dear God, don’t let Adrian or Walker be dead!
She’d wanted to
escape them, but not at such a terrible price as their lives. Better to have
married and lost a stranger.

Unwilling to ask questions in case this really was Regency
England, still fearing for her own sanity, Diane followed Margaret into a
separate room. There, she slid into a large slipper tub with gold taps and
spigot and groaned her pleasure. If she were stuck here in this time for the
rest of this reenactment, at least she’d have the comfort of bathtubs and water
closets with flush toilets. And money enough to enjoy shopping. She might even
travel to London and ride in Rotten Row when the demi-reps appeared with or
without their protectors.
Hmmm.
She’d need a fine carriage—a landau or
brougham or curricle complete with tiger to hold her horses while she shopped.
A carriage open to the air so she could see and be seen.

Perhaps Adrian or Walker or both would join her. And
wouldn’t that set
ton
tongues wagging? Assuming Adrian didn’t have a
different mistress, as his brother had had, and a different carriage for every
day of the week. Assuming Walker could relax enough to enjoy riding with a
woman whose reputation was ever so slightly tarnished.

She realized that she was thinking as though she really was
living in the Regency era, and she wouldn’t allow herself to—she couldn’t.

But what if it was real? Assuming she was actually living in
the Regency era, what should she do then? She would throw herself into the role
Walker and Adrian had outlined during their train trip.

She wanted desperately to ask about her dead husband, but
couldn’t. The servants might think her mad. Might even report her
memory
loss
to some greedy male relation of her late husband’s who held power over
her and would have her committed. Now there was an interesting plot for a
novel. If—
when
—she got home to write it!

There she went again. How could she be sure whether this was
real or not?

She’d decided, during the endless time it took Margaret to
dress her hair that she’d think positively. Yet every time she glanced in the
mirror—which she couldn’t seem to avoid, her predecessor being so vain as to
have mirrors on every wall—she saw herself gnawing on her lower lip. Her eyes
shimmered with tears she blotted away with a fine linen handkerchief
embroidered with someone’s initials, her husband’s perhaps. Didn’t women of
this time embroider their beloved’s initials on everything? Her tears could be seen
as a sign of remaining grief, couldn’t they? The initials meant nothing. At
least they lent no assistance or clue as to her mate’s identity. His initials
were the same as Diane’s own—D de B.

Which gave her some relief, since Adrian and Walker’s initials…
Talk about obvious! Her thought processes were as obvious as her costume for
tonight’s masked ball. The masked ball which marked her return to society after
her period of mourning. The masked ball she was—of all things!—hosting. Or so
Margaret had told her.

Which, apparently, meant she owned this house and everything
in it.
Wow!
Unless… If she and her husband had a child, she only held
temporary custody. Still better than being ousted by some distant male
relative. Unless her child was a girl.

Wait a minute.
Under certain circumstances…
Think,
Diane, think!
If the original peerage patent contained special conditions,
the title could pass to a woman. So it was possible for her to own this
property in her own right until she died. And if she had a daughter, that child
could also inherit the title and properties that went with it. A very practical
arrangement from her modern point of view. Perhaps not so good for an heiress
who could fall prey to fortune hunters.

Laughing to herself, she wondered why she thought she had a
title. Because Margaret called her
m’lady
? Because her surroundings were
too luxurious to belong to anyone untitled?

As she caught a reflection of herself shaking her head, she
restudied her costume for the evening.

This Diane obviously intended to reenter society as the
Merry Widow! Although her guests most likely would view her as the huntress
Diana. Her costume came complete with bow and a quiver full of golden arrows.
Gauze so sheer she might as well wear nothing covered her right breast. The
rest of her gown seemed modest enough, although she knew some brazen women
dampened their gowns so as to make them transparent. She could only pray that
the woman she portrayed wasn’t that bold! Crossing her fingers, she also prayed
her appearance wouldn’t get her ousted from society altogether.

“M’lady.” Margaret slipped a serpentine gold bracelet up
Diane’s left arm, then stepped back. Scanning her from gold sandals to her
upswept hair, three curls artfully drooping to her left shoulder, the maid nodded
and pronounced her mistress perfect.

Perfect…except for the wasps and bees waging war in her
belly. Except for her trembling hands and thighs. Except for her pounding
heart, clammy hands and dry mouth she was just dandy. And would continue to be
so long as she wore her mask.

Margaret hurried her along the hallway to the top of a wide
marble staircase.

“Go on now, m’lady.”

“What if someone recognizes me?” she whispered, a definite
wail in her voice. Well, of course someone might recognize her. Her house, her
guests. Her scandalous costume. For this era…
if—

Margaret had vanished, but two women—each dressed in gowns
similar to what Diane had worn in Tudor times—sailed toward her like large
barges about to collide. Their wide skirts, no doubt supported by whalebone
farthingales, kept bumping into the other’s. Neither seemed willing to allow
the other to precede her, leaving Diane to pray they wouldn’t break their necks
falling down the staircase leading to the ballroom.

Alternately nibbling her lower lip and holding her breath,
Diane watched them until they safely reached the first floor. Which, she
recalled, was actually the second floor. Two more women came at her, raising
their elaborate feathered masks and making a show of not looking at her yet
whispering loud enough for her to hear.

“It seems the Marchioness of Goldsborough has competition,”
one muttered, her upper lip curled in a sneer.

“And at her own ball!” said the other, tossing an assessing
glance at Diane as they glided past.

Diane sniffed in disdain. Obviously those women were
nouveau
riche
or something like that. One accustomed to society never used another
person’s title. When speaking about him or her, one said
Lady de Bourgh
like the grand dame in
Pride and Prejudice
or
Lord March
or
simply
March
. What disturbed her equanimity was that the vitriol felt so
very real.

Perhaps she would have to accept living yet another of Diane
de Vesay’s pasts.

But at least she had some assurance no one would recognize
her—not before the unmasking at any rate and not by casual acquaintances. If
her female guests commonly held the spiteful views in what she’d just heard,
Diane, Marchioness of Goldsborough, had few intimates among the gentler sex. As
for her male guests…

Drawing a deep breath for courage, Diane descended. Music
floated over the ballroom, but no one danced.

“They await you,” a familiar voice murmured in her ear.

She knew that she might take the dance floor first, but
relief at finding him alive made her knees tremble and her heart lighten. “I
recall asking Lady Hart to lead off the dancing,” Diane replied, wondering how
she knew the other woman’s name. Was this another indication she’d traveled
through time yet again? Striving to ignore the immediate rush of lust Adrian’s
voice sent coursing through her body, she shifted away from him lest someone
notice how near they stood.

“Alas, the Duchess of Hartington has already left. Summoned,
I believe, by her daughter’s husband. Otherwise she’d have led the dancing an
hour ago, if only to arrive at supper that much sooner.” Walker raised Diane’s
ungloved hand to his lips for a brief caress of his tongue along her palm.

Scalded, she found the strength to maintain her haughty
attitude. “Were I to lead the dance now, everyone would know—would assume I am
the marchioness.” She refused to smile with gratitude that he, too, lived.

“At least
one
of that title. We seem to have a
surfeit of them tonight,” Adrian informed her, grasping her elbow as if to draw
her to the dance floor.

“Someone has to start the dancing.” Walker caught the
attention of a nearby footman then sent him scurrying toward the orchestra. “As
the highest-ranking gentleman present,
I
shall lead the dance.”

The strains of a waltz filled the room and cleared couples
off the dance floor to make room for Walker and her. Even if she hadn’t known
that some considered waltzing scandalous, she would have felt…exactly as she
did.

Flying to a slow three-quarter beat. Gliding with Walker as
though they’d waltzed together a thousand times before. Warming where his hand
rested on her back, his fingers splayed dangerously, enticingly near her
buttocks’ crease. She hoped her quiver hid most of his hand, but wouldn’t count
on it. Walker delighted in her discomfort and no doubt would bring her a huge
amount of embarrassment before the night ended.

Judging by the merriment in his dark eyes—what she could
discern behind the black bandana that covered his face except his stubborn,
square chin and those fathomless eyes—he was about to begin humiliating her.
This time, however, she felt ready for him.

“I have missed you these last six months.” He all but
growled the words.

He must have misspoken. If she was in fact in Regency
England, she must have mourned a full year, perhaps even longer. Or had she
disliked her husband so much, she had retired from society only for the minimum
mourning period?

Okay, so I’m not as ready for Walker as I thought.

“Only six?” she countered, her tone disinterested.

Walker’s eyes narrowed, making him seem even more dangerous.
His coal-black outfit made him look like a pirate—one who intended to return to
his ship with all the plunder he could carry. The thought speeded her heartbeat
and sent hot chills up and down her spine. She looked away, hoping to become
less aware of him and even less aware of what his nearness did to her body.

“Most especially these last six months.”

All right!
She’d gotten under his skin. Clenched
teeth, a tic pulsing at the corner of his mouth.
Oops.
His hand pressed
her buttocks so her hips brushed against his and his growing erection. She
gasped and darted her gaze to his face.