TemptressofTime (16 page)

“Do not play games, Diane. Before your husband’s timely
death, we’d all but bedded.”

“It’s the
all but
that matters, Your Grace. That and
timely
.
What was
timely
about his death?”

Walker’s lips turned down. The tic grew more pronounced.
“Timely because it cleared a path for us.”

The blood whooshed from Diane’s brain, then returned with
tsunami force. Her knees trembled so, she almost fell. Walker spun her, making
her stumble seem a slight misstep in the pattern of their dance.

“Did…did you have something—anything at all—to do with his
death?”
Damnation!
This situation felt more real by the second. If the
deceased
was
her husband and she couldn’t remember his first name…what
did that say about her? About her marriage? Hell, the way the British bandied
their titles about like clubs, she might never have known her husband’s first
name.

“I thought…perhaps you…” His dark eyes glittered
with…malice?

“
I?
How?”

“Used your so tempting charms and—” He leaned close enough
to whisper, “Fucked him to death.”

She could only gape at him. Noticing other dancers beginning
to stare at them, she closed her mouth. “That’s a terrible thing to say about—”

“About the woman I want,” he said with a wicked grin. “But
word came down from your country estate—”

“
My
estate?”

“Yes, yours. The title…” His smile morphed into a frown as
he continued. “
Gossip
also came from London that he died in the arms of
Madame
Maintenant
.”

“His…woman of the moment?”

“I cannot tell you how relieved I was that you hadn’t killed
him.”

Quirking one brow, she muttered, “I can only imagine.” She
saw the irony in it though. She leading Walker on while her husband screwed
another woman. Most likely more than one. And who knew how many men the real
Marchioness of Goldsborough had led on? Maybe had even bedded?

“Fortunately you only had to bear the scandal for a few days
before the
haut ton
moved on to a more salacious matter.”

“Prinny overspending his allowance yet again?” she said with
sugary sweetness, recalling the outrage the regent’s over-expenditures caused
his advisors and Parliament.

“Worse than that. Although I cannot remember what wrongdoing
eclipsed your husband’s.”

Good!
In all probability Walker had forgotten why
she—the dead man’s wife—wasn’t under suspicion for his murder.

“Of course Bow Street considered you a suspect. Only for the
few moments it took the servants to denounce the…” He covered a discreet cough.

“Whore?” She didn’t want to hear another word. In fact, she
was tired of dancing. “I had no idea dance sets lasted this long.”

“No doubt you lacked sufficient exercise during your country
stay,” he said, innuendo rampant in his seductive voice.

“What… Oh, during my period of mourning, you mean.”

Nodding as the music ended, he tucked her hand into the
crook of his arm.

Adrian appeared at her other side. “I believe the next dance
is mine,” he said, glaring at Walker’s profile.

So, in this incarnation the men did not like each other.
Would that work to her advantage? If she could keep them apart, she could make
it an advantage. Assuming this was her latest reality and not a play.

“Lady de Bourgh is tired,” Walker said, not moving.

“La, Your Grace, I have recovered.” She tapped her fan on
his forearm. “Moreover, a promise is a promise, isn’t it, de Vesay?” That to
Adrian with a coy smile he returned wholeheartedly. The smile, not the coyness.

Scowling, Walker bowed. “You also promised I could lead you
into dinner.”

“I did—”
no such thing
. “And I’ll see you then.”

As Walker stalked away, Adrian urged her back to the dance
floor and into a long line that diminished quickly. Now at the top, she and
Adrian marched down then assumed their original places. The dance master called
out the steps as, breathless, she struggled to keep up with the intricate patterns—none
of which had ever appeared in movies or TV series made from Jane Austen’s
books. None that she remembered anyway. Yet her feet seemed to remember and
followed the call without hesitation.

A few minutes later, the dance pattern bringing them back together,
she pleaded to stop. Both she and Adrian stepped out of the line, then made
their way to the terrace. He slipped her quiver off, sliding both his arms
around her waist. Her leaning backward brought their pelvises together and made
her very aware of his hardening cock. Pursing her lips and straightening, she
pushed at his chest—hard enough to make him stumble.

“A simple
no
would suffice, Diane.”

“Would it?” Snapping open her fan, she used it on her heated
face and neck. Unsure whether to blame the dancing for her condition, she
thought Adrian had contributed a large portion to her unsettled state. “Did I
do something to make you think I’d welcome your attentions?”

His bowed head snapped up, revealing hurt and embarrassment.
“Not tonight. But earlier, before your husband’s death… You gave me hope for
something more than friendship.”

“While m-my husband was alive, I—”

“Let me kiss you.” He pinned her against the high
balustrade. Before she could protest, he covered her lips with his, her all but
naked breast with his hand.

Had the ballroom full of strangers suddenly disappeared, she
might have taken pleasure from him. Might even have taken him beyond the limits
of propriety. As it was…

A sharp cough brought her to her senses. Adrian as well, if
his springing away was any indication. The gratitude she’d felt for the timely
interruption fled when she saw who had rescued her.

“‘Tis eleven o’clock, milady.” Walker held out his hand, a
summons to supper as clear as her butler would have announced it.

On her way past Walker, he caught her elbow, halting her
mid-stride. He looped her hand over his own, then reminded her, “A promise is a
promise,
my lady
.”

His emphasis on those two words made her shudder inside, a
fear she would never allow him to see. She’d done nothing to make him consider
her
his lady
. Or had that other Diane already taken the two rivals to
her bed? Tilting her chin to an impervious angle, she said, “Indeed,” and let
him take her inside.

* * * * *

Diane awakened to the rattle of china and the scent of
chocolate. Stretching and yawning, she then plumped her pillows and leaned
against them while Margaret opened her drapes. Late morning sunlight brightened
the room.

“Did you sleep well, m’lady?”

Odd, she had slept far better than she’d expected and told
her maid just that. “I suppose gossip is rampant below stairs,” she said,
inhaling the glorious chocolate aroma before taking a tentative sip. It was the
perfect temperature for gulping, but she elected to savor every drop.

“Not exactly rampant, m’lady. ‘Tis glad we are to see you
enjoying yourself. A little wagering as to which gentleman will win your hand.”
Again, the young woman’s pale-gray eyes reminded Diane of Marget.

“Hand?” Diane echoed. “As in marriage?”

“What else? You’re young enough. Beautiful and wealthy.”

“Ah. Wealth is where my attraction lies.”

“Perhaps. Among your other charms.”

Diane made a noncommittal noise, then finished her hot
chocolate. “What activities are on today’s schedule?”

“Most of the ladies are still in bed. Those who didn’t
hasten back to London last night.” Diane shuddered at the arrival of gossip
about her costume and behavior in London so soon after her reappearance in
society. Margaret went on. “I doubt you need to worry about those who stayed
until they want their coaches. As for the gentlemen…”

“Yes?” Something in Margaret’s voice warned Diane she
wouldn’t like what her maid might say about the men.

“His Grace and Lord de Vesay are studiously avoiding one
another.”

“That’s good.” When Margaret just grunted, Diane said,
“Isn’t it? Oh, good heavens! You don’t think they’ll come to blows or challenge
each other to a duel?”

All she needed to add to her tarnished reputation were two
peers of the realm fighting a duel over her. Never mind that one or both of
them could be killed or die from infection. Or, worse, have to leave the
country to avoid punishment for dueling in the first place.

Oh yes, her reputation was tarnished. Suspected of using sex
to murder her husband. Her costume last night making her look naked. That scandalous
news carried to London by the guests who had left after the unmasking and
supper. Tomorrow—the day after at the latest—she would doubtless see
caricatures of herself, Adrian and Walker in some sort of salacious pose. The
scandalmongers of Fleet Street lived on the backs of the gentry they ruined
with their publications.

Sighing, she wondered if she could defuse the animosity
between the men. Make it clear she favored another? That might work for that
other woman, who must know everyone she’d invited to her ball and wouldn’t care
who she entangled in her webs of sensual pleasure. To
this
Diane, namely
her, they were all strangers. Men whose lives she wouldn’t risk.

She snorted, a soft self-deprecation. As if she were some
femme fatale with would-be mates falling at her feet left, right and center.
Her wealth more likely played the primary role here. How had that other Diane
avoided being bankrupted by her late and no doubt unlamented husband? From
everything she’d read, mistresses and heavy gaming debts went hand in hand.

With an inward shrug, she kicked off the covers, then stood,
noticing for the first time the clothes Margaret had draped over the chaise
longue. Surprising herself, she laughed.

Margaret looked up, a wide smile on her gamine face. “You haven’t
changed your mind, have you?”

“About wearing britches? No.” And if word about this
flagrant flaunting of propriety reached London, her tarnished reputation would
lie in shreds for all the world to see.

Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“Margaret,” Diane said, tossing caution to the wind, “what
was my husband’s given name?”

Her maid seemed not to think this an odd question. Pursing
her lips, a frown of deep concentration creasing her brows, Margaret stared
into space for an endless moment, then said, “I only heard you say it once,
m’lady. And since you swore and threw a vase at him…” She shrugged.

Diane could picture the scene even if she hadn’t a clue
about the reason for the anger. “Go on,” she prompted, nodding encouragement.

“Da-blast you to hell-vid.”

At last she had a name and repeated it aloud as if to
validate it. “David de Bourgh.”

“Oh no, m’lady. You never took his last name, nor he yours.”

“I-I didn’t?” slipped out before she thought. If she kept
blurting out questions like that she’d end her days in Bedlam for sure. “I
didn’t,” she repeated in her most assertive voice, wanting to ask why not, but
afraid to push her luck.

“Told him—your husband, I mean—that your name went with the
title. He was welcome to keep his own name, but any heirs would have yours. De
Bourgh, I mean,” Margaret added with a
so there
nod.

“That must have set
ton
tongues wagging.”

“For a while. Not that it’s all that common. But ‘tis not
all that uncommon either, you being the last de Bourgh and all.” Margaret glanced
at the clothing she’d laid out, then at the ormolu clock on Diane’s marble
mantelpiece.

“I think I need to get a move on,” Diane said, heading for
the water closet that, in turn, led to her bathroom.

“Will you bind your breasts or wear a corset?” Margaret
called.

Diane surveyed her naked body in the many mirrors on her
bathroom walls. Her breasts were full and almost as firm as when they first
developed. Perhaps not as perky as she might like, but her nipples still
paralleled the floor and appeared in no danger of drooping any time soon.

“Have I a waistcoat?” Receiving an affirmative, she said,
“Then I shall go
au naturel
.”

Margaret appeared in the bathroom doorway. “Is that wise,
m’lady?”

“Probably not. But if I can provide His Grace and Lord de
Vesay an excuse to fight here, it shall be for
my
pleasure and by
my
rules.”

* * * * *

She found them in the billiard room, ten or twelve younger
gentlemen lounging about with brandy snifters in one hand, cheroots in the
other. One young buck noticed her immediately and sent her a slow, seductive
smile. In another life she
might
have taken him up on his unspoken
invitation. In this life, however, she had two too many men to deal with as it
was. Besides, she couldn’t imagine playing cougar to the young son of the Marquess
of…whatever the father’s full title was.

That she knew that much no longer surprised her. Just how
she knew the lad’s parentage was another question best left unanswered for now.

Seeing Adrian and Walker glaring at each other from opposite
sides of the billiard table, she called, “I challenge the winner. Unless, of
course, one of these gentlemen has already claimed that right?”

She looked at the young bucks lounging around the billiard
room. They had discarded their coats, waistcoats and cravats, obviously not
expecting any feminine company for the rest of the afternoon and evening. Some
of the young men gaped at her, others looked disapproving. She didn’t care what
they thought of her or her attire. She had a point to prove and would prove it
as she saw fit. As Adrian turned slowly to face her, Walker shifted so he also
had a clear view of her.

Adrian’s fingers tightened around his cue stick, his
knuckles white as he thumped the cue bumper on the carpeted floor. His free
hand settled at his waist, his arm akimbo, making him look bigger, wider, more
menacing. In truth, he reminded her of a Komodo dragon flaunting its corona in
a display of dominance. Scary for something smaller and helpless. Which she
wasn’t.