The Dangerous Viscount (5 page)

Whatever he’d been like at ten, Mr. Iverley could certainly ride now, but Diana didn’t argue the point. The rest of the party wasn’t aware he’d accompanied her that morning.

“The Owl always has his head in a book,” Blake went on. “M’father thinks he’s brilliant. Probably because he listens to the old man bore on about politics.”

“I was at school with him,” Lamb said.

“I forgot he was a Wykehamist,” Blake said. “Was dear Sebastian as odd then?”

“Almost everyone at Winchester was strange. It’s a strange place. He didn’t stand out much then, but while the rest of us became normal once we escaped, Iverley grew stranger. He never goes to
ton
entertainments.”

“He isn’t interested in sports.”

“And he collects books.”

“Do you know what’s the strangest thing about
him?” Blake asked. “He won’t have anything to do with women. Famous for it. Being here with you, Diana, and the other ladies, is probably the closest he’s ever been to any females. Do you suppose, Lamb, that he’s
different.”

Lamb gave it some thought. “No. There were plenty of them at school but Iverley wasn’t among them. Muslin company?” He spoke the last two words through a cough. While Diana appreciated his gentlemanly impulse not to talk about females of ill repute in front of her, she understood the question.

“Not that I’ve ever heard of,” Blake said. “He claims he hates all females as a matter of principle. Probably doesn’t even own a mare.”

Lamb shook his head in bewilderment. “Surely he has
needs.”

“If he does he keeps them buttoned.”

Diana wondered if she ought to be insulted that the men held such a discussion in front of her. As an unmarried girl she’d never been exposed to anything so fascinating and her late husband’s friends, most of them middle-aged like himself, had always addressed her with perfect propriety. Sir Tobias Fanshawe had kept matters of intimacy in the bedroom. At other times he’d treated her with indulgent but strict formality. If this frankness was one of the consequences of widowhood her mother had warned about, on the whole Diana was inclined to enjoy it.

Lamb remained skeptical. “Maybe your cousin’s just late to the business. My cousin Jasper was like that. Not interested until he was twenty-one. Then one day he met a barmaid with a large … endowment … and he never looked back. Had the pox by
the time he was twenty-three. Iverley just hasn’t yet found a woman he fancies.”

“And never will, in my opinion. He’s twenty-six years old. There’s something wrong there, I’d wager a pony.”

If there was one thing no member of Blake’s set ever turned down, it was a wager. “You’re on,” said Lamb. “I say if a man isn’t a molly he can be seduced by a woman.”

“And I say there isn’t a woman in the world beautiful enough to gain my cousin’s attention.”

“That, Blake, is an insult to womankind. Look at Diana here. Could any man resist her?”

“To get Sebastian Iverley to even kiss her she’d have to be Helen of Troy and Cleopatra rolled into one.”

Diana thought of Mr. Iverley staring at her leg that morning. And the way she’d intercepted his eyes on her bosom during dinner. Blake might not believe she combined the allure of history’s two most famous beauties but she’d show him.

“I’ll do it,” she said, without giving herself a moment to consider. “I can get him to kiss me. But not for a measly pony. I’ll wager you five hundred pounds that your cousin will kiss me.”

M
r. Iverley was at his customary post the next morning, hunched over a volume on the library table. He’d removed his coat, thus informing the observer that his hips were very slim. The baggy breeches would never have stayed up without the leather braces that showed where the back of his waistcoat had risen up. Diana had reason to believe him more than an unmuscled weakling, but as usual his clothing did nothing to demonstrate the fact.

She swallowed nervously. She’d felt progressively worse about the wager since about five minutes after her unthinking boast. Only the recollection of Blake and Lamb’s incredulity, and their strictures on honor kept her from crying off. They’d been almost insulting when they discussed the question of proof. The two men had suggested they should hide in the shrubbery and watch the “seduction.” At this she drew the line. Only when reminded of her four brothers were they prepared to accept that she, a mere female, understood the sacred nature of a bet and agreed to settle the outcome on her word alone. She couldn’t help but feel there wasn’t a whole lot of honor in the enterprise.

“Ahem,” she coughed.

Iverley spun around. “Lady Fanshawe. I thought you’d gone with the others.”

“I’ve seen the abbey ruins a hundred times, living just ten miles away. And please, call me Diana.”

He made one of his little grunting noises.

“Can you tell me where I’d find histories?”

“At the north end. Anything in particular?”

“I enjoy reading about our kings and queens. Especially the queens.”

Iverley flushed. “We have that in common,” he said with an enthusiasm Diana found rather endearing. “I collect royal bindings, books that belonged to royalty.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it before, but there are a lot of different kinds of book covers. It makes sense that monarchs would have special ones.”

“Not just royalty.” He pointed to a pile of volumes on the table. “See the Vanderlin arms on
Cook’s Voyages?
The present duke’s father bought the book when it was published and had it bound for the library here.”

“Is it hard to find royal bindings? I’d expect them all to belong to the king.”

“Even kings sell things, or give them away for one reason or another. The rarest binding I own belonged to Queen Catherine Howard. You can guess why that one didn’t stay in the royal family.”

“Poor lady.”

“Yes, she didn’t last long as queen. That’s why the book is so rare.”

“How good of Henry VIII to execute his fifth queen with such expedition. He must have had
future book collectors in mind when he did it.”

Iverley’s lips twitched, then he smiled and Diana realized she’d never seen him do so before. His habitual expressions were boredom, irritation, abstraction, and occasionally, when engaged by a topic, alert interest. Never in their admittedly brief acquaintance had she seen his face display so much as a hint of levity. It suited him. For the first time she noticed that he wasn’t a bad-looking man. His features were well proportioned with high cheekbones, a straight nose, a firm chin. Since he wasn’t wearing his spectacles, she was able to observe that he had rather beautiful eyes of a silver gray, with darker rims bordering the irises. And his smiling mouth was distinctly attractive, firm shapely lips of a good color. Kissing him might not be so bad.

“Henry’s matrimonial habits were certainly a boon to the collector,” he said.

“Do you have examples of all six wives?”

“It happens that Katherine Parr has eluded me, but I hope to obtain her soon.”

“How fascinating! Who has her?”

“A rather eccentric fellow with a small but exquisite collection of bindings. I’ve been trying to persuade him to sell to me for some years. I believe I’m getting close.”

There was something wrong. Sebastian wondered if he were ill. He couldn’t stop thinking about Lady Fanshawe. Diana.

When she joined him in the library he inwardly cursed. He should have left Mandeville that morning, as planned, after a night of heated dreams about this
dangerously appealing female. It had been years since he’d woken to find a wet spot in his bed. Disgusted by this regression to adolescence, he’d almost summoned his carriage and left for Kent. It was time he had another go at persuading Deaver to sell.

That he’d mentioned the Katherine Parr binding to Diana was another symptom of insanity. The location, even the existence of the Deaver collection, was a secret known to few, and he’d almost blabbed the whole thing.

He’d only decided to remain when he learned the party had gone out for the day. Now he could hardly believe that he’d spent a full half hour talking about books to a woman. A woman who asked intelligent questions and knew at least as much about the previous owners of his royal bindings as he did. She sat with her elbow on the table, head resting on her hand, listening with apparent fascination as he spoke of morocco, gilt-tooling, blind stamps, arms, and crests. Although the Mandeville collection didn’t have much with royal provenance, he was able to find examples to illustrate his disquisition.

He hoped he hadn’t been talking nonsense. Her proximity made his senses swim. He ached to stroke the sweet curve of her arm, feel the flawless pale skin. He imagined it silken to the touch over warm flesh. When she put out a hand to touch a leather cover, he wanted to kiss it. The hand, that is. He wanted to draw near, to inhale her scent, to plunge his face into the enticing shadow between her breasts and breathe deeply.

He didn’t want to think about what he really wanted to do with her. Suffice to say that wearing
unfashionably comfortable breeches seemed like an even better idea than usual.

“But you said yesterday you’d come to Mandeville to look at atlases.”

What was that? His wits had gone begging.

“What’s this?” She looked at the folio volume open on the table to a map of the harbor at Genoa. Hand-drawn on vellum, the cartography was on the primitive side but the colors vibrant.

“How adorable!” she said, pointing at a mermaid who cavorted in the Ligurian Sea. “Her face is painted like a woman of doubtful virtue, but her expression is rather fetching.”

He’d noted the same thing. “She looks surprised,” he said. “As though her fish tail popped up through the waves and she’s saying ‘I didn’t know I had that. What happened to my legs?’”

His face heated at the thought of legs.

She reached out her hand again and brushed against his with ungloved fingers. “This fellow must be the mermaid’s lover,” she said, indicating a trident-bearing sea-god puffing out his virile chest.

He was careful not to touch her again as he leafed through the volume. The next map was embellished with a sulky-looking sea monster, others with graceful sailing ships, exotic fish, or elaborate compass roses, eliciting exclamations of delight at each new illustration, in the same musical, slightly ironic tone.

“What is this book?” she asked.

“It’s a portolan, an early sailing map. This one is fourteenth century and shows the coastlines, harbors, and islands of the Mediterranean. It would have been used aboard ship.”

“How lovely that they added such charming decorations to a practical object.”

“I expect it gets dull out at sea for weeks on end. Decorating the maps must have given a seaman with a talent for drawing something to do to pass the time.”

The volume was open to the map of an island. “Elba,” she remarked. “I wonder if Bonaparte regrets he didn’t stay there. It must have a better climate than St. Helena.”

A sentiment Sebastian could share. He hated being cold. “Without having visited either place, I’m sure you are correct.”

“How I long to go to Italy. You must know it well. Is it as wonderfully warm and beautiful as it sounds?”

“I’ve never been.”

“Surely you’ve visited your mother? Lady Gee says she’s lived there for years.”

“True.”

“I suppose,” Diana said, “with the political situation in Europe, travel would have been difficult until the last two or three years.”

“Yes,” he said without elaboration.

She looked at him with uncertainty in her eyes. Obviously she’d noted his change of mood. A good thing, really. The reminder of his mother, the Contessa Montecitta, brought the inherent treachery of the female sex forcibly back to mind.

He turned aside from his now unwelcome companion. Without blatant discourtesy he meant to convey the message that their encounter was at an end. If only she’d leave and let him get on with his work.

“Thank you for showing me the atlas,” she said. “A portolan, I think you called it. I must remember the word. And for telling me about your collection. I enjoyed it.”

He nodded and looked down at the table and the island of Elba, symbol of exile.

“I’ll leave you to your studies now.”

He grunted. She walked toward the door. He felt relieved, and bereft.

She stopped halfway across the room. “Mr. Iverley?” she said.

“Yes?”

“I intend to ride this afternoon. Will you come with me?”

He was tempted. “Will you visit your family again?”

“I meant just to take exercise.”

“I’d like to see some of your father’s inventions.”

“We could call at Wallop Hall. I’m sure Papa would love to tell you what he’s come up with since yesterday.”

He succumbed. “What time do you wish to leave?”

By two o’clock it was raining. Diana didn’t bother with her riding habit. Instead she changed into her prettiest muslin, a white one with pale blue figures that enhanced her eyes. Iverley didn’t strike her as a man who noticed the details of a woman’s clothing, so he wouldn’t wonder why she’d left off the high-necked pleated chemise she usually wore underneath this gown. Without it the bodice was definitely daring
for day wear. That detail any man should notice. And to drive home the point she wore her thinnest petticoat.

She descended to the hall and found him waiting. Since his garments, in various shades of mud, never changed, she couldn’t tell whether he’d dressed for outdoors.

“Are you ready to go?” he asked.

“I’m not dressed for riding,” she pointed out. “It’s pouring with rain.”

He grunted, perhaps disappointed. She wished he’d cultivate a greater degree of articulacy. When talking about what interested him he could be eloquent, but Mr. Iverley lacked fluency in the social niceties. Clearly he wasn’t going to suggest an alternative, but she had a plan for the afternoon.

According to the terms of the wager
he
had to make the amorous advance. Even the boldest of men might find it hard to steal a kiss while galloping across the fields. And the Montroses would be in the way: the presence of a lady’s parents was generally a deterrent to amorous advances.