Книга - The Regency Season: Forbidden Pleasures: The Rake to Rescue Her / The Rake to Reveal Her

The Regency Season: Forbidden Pleasures: The Rake to Rescue Her / The Rake to Reveal Her
Julia Justiss


Scandalous men about ton!The Rake to Rescue HerWhen Alastair Ransleigh sees Diana, Duchess of Graveston, for the first time since she jilted him, he makes her a shockingly insulting offer…the chance to become his mistress! And, even more shocking, she accepts! But Diana is no longer the bold, passionate girl Alastair once loved, she’s been destroyed by her husband. Alistair becomes determined to save her – his thoughts of revenge turn to rescue…The Rake to Reveal Her Dominic Ransleigh lost more than his arm in battle – he lost his reason for living. Returning to his family mansion, he shuns all society. If only his beautiful, plain-speaking tenant Theodora Branwell wasn’t so hard to ignore… Thea knows the consequences of temptation, but she also can’t resist the handsome, wounded soldier. Could she be his new reason to live?



















JULIA JUSTISS wrote her first ideas for Nancy Drew stories in her third–grade notebook, and has been writing ever since. After publishing poetry in college, she turned to novels. Her Regency historicals have won or been placed in contests by the Romance Writers of America, Romantic Times magazine and National Readers’ Choice. She lives with her husband in Texas. For news and contests visit www.juliajustiss.com (http://www.juliajustiss.com).


Table of Contents

Cover (#u460a7c53-7458-5e10-8658-39a8a26334f6)

Title Page (#ud3c8c8fd-a0c5-5514-9daa-bdcf8a449de5)

About the Author (#u8b5fefc2-8671-5ffe-b613-5998c685ad68)

The Rake to Rescue Her (#u24812f42-e987-549a-bc31-67d990eef8ba)

Back Cover Text (#u020bf85c-b94e-5c39-9c43-47d50df50d9c)

Dedication (#uc216b097-feee-5f8d-99ab-f8e0d4e79d7d)

Chapter One (#u2788ae07-358a-5af4-82bb-6503256f6329)

Chapter Two (#u76849899-a66a-542d-b7e2-f987d89ed8c7)

Chapter Three (#u436f672a-2a93-514c-ac0e-a47f1f69bda1)

Chapter Four (#u8b770669-9605-5bcc-aaff-c0e84db584b4)

Chapter Five (#ud89c79cf-83b1-5b05-993f-958e986e93d9)

Chapter Six (#u2c455864-72a6-5f20-8c5b-b464294771b6)

Chapter Seven (#u6c9690e1-598c-5606-803c-dc05b496e8e3)

Chapter Eight (#ufbc87f74-3d7c-591d-b8bc-ca5cedfa1537)

Chapter Nine (#ub72af036-695f-5a4f-a5c1-f858f0c3762f)

Chapter Ten (#uf1948d5a-10a0-5e2f-9914-ef0b7c1c5fe1)

Chapter Eleven (#ue3d83fb6-d872-5a8d-a1f7-743f522844c4)

Chapter Twelve (#udbd6f47d-ae14-55e4-b148-6ea9195a9e66)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

The Rake to Reveal Her (#litres_trial_promo)

Back Cover Text (#litres_trial_promo)

Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


The Rake to Rescue Her (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Julia Justiss


He’s never forgotten her. But can he forgive her?

When Alastair Ransleigh sees Diana, Duchess of Graveston, for the first time since she jilted him, he makes her a shockingly insulting offer…the chance to become his mistress. And even more shockingly, she accepts!

But the widowed duchess is nothing like the bold, passionate girl Alastair once loved. Years of suffering at the hands of a cruel husband have taken their toll. And as Alastair resolves to save Diana from the damage of the past, their chance meeting turns feelings of revenge to thoughts of rescue…

Ransleigh Rogues

Where these notorious rakes go, scandal always follows…


To the Evelettes: You’ve hugged me, cried with me, and been there for me every step of the way on the long twilight journey of the last two years. I love you guys!


Chapter One (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

It was her.

Shock rocked him like the blast of air from a passing cannonball. Struck numb in its wake, Alastair Ransleigh, late of His Majesty’s First Dragoons, stared at the tall, dark-haired woman approaching from the other side of Bath’s expansive Sidney Gardens.

Even as his disbelieving mind told him it couldn’t be her, he knew on some level deeper than reason that it was Diana. No other woman had that graceful, lilting step, as if dancing as she walked.

Heart thundering, he exhaled a great gasping breath, still unable to move or tear his gaze from her.

So had she glided into the room the day he’d first met her, bringing a draught of spring air and enchantment into the Oxford study where the callow collegian he’d once been had gone to consult her father, a noted scholar.

Memory swooped down and sank in vicious claws. Just so he’d watched her, delirious with delight, as she walked into the Coddingfords’ ballroom eight and a half years ago. Awaited her signal to approach, so her father might announce their engagement to the assembled guests.

Instead, she’d given her arm to the older man who had followed her in. The Duke of Graveston, he’d belatedly recognised. The man who then announced that Diana was to marry him.

A sudden impact at knee level nearly knocked him over. ‘Uncle Alastair!’ his six-year-old nephew Robbie shrieked, hugging him around the legs while simultaneously jumping up and down. ‘When did you get here? Are you staying long? Please say you are! Can you take me to get Sally Lunn cakes? And my friend, too?’

Jolted back to the present, Alastair returned the hug before setting the child at arm’s length with hands that weren’t quite steady. Fighting off the compulsion to look back across the gardens, he made himself focus on Robbie.

‘I’ve only just arrived, and I’m not sure how long I’ll stay. Your mama told me you’d gone to the Gardens with Nurse, so I decided to fetch you. Yes, we’ll get cakes. Where’s your friend?’

Still distracted, he followed his nephew’s pointing finger towards a boy about Robbie’s age, dressed neatly in nankeens and jacket. The child looked up at him shyly, the dark hair curling over his forehead shadowing his blue, blue eyes.

Diana’s eyes.

With another paralysing shock, he realised that Robbie’s friend must be her son.

The son that should have been his.

Pain as sharp as acid scalded his gut, followed by a wave of revulsion. Buy the boy cake? He’d as soon give sustenance to a viper!

Shocked by the ferocity of his reaction, he hauled himself under control. Whatever had occurred between himself and Diana was no fault of this innocent child.

It was the suddenness of it, seeing her again after so long with no warning, no time to armour himself against a revival of the anguish of their bitter parting. The humiliation of it, he thought, feeling his face redden.

Certain there must be some mistake, he’d run to her. Desperate to have her deny it, or at the very least, affirm the truth to his face, he’d shouted after her as the Duke warned him off and swept her away. Never once as he followed them did she glance at him before his cousins dragged him, still shouting, out of the ballroom...

Hurt pierced him, nearly as sharp as on that night he remembered with such grisly clarity. An instant later, revitalising anger finally scoured away the pain.

Ridiculous to expend so much thought or emotion on the woman, he told himself, sucking in a deep, calming breath. She’d certainly proved herself unworthy of it. He’d got over her years ago.

Though, he thought sardonically, this unexpected explosion of emotion suggested he hadn’t banished the incident quite as effectively as he’d thought. He had, however, mastered a salutary lesson on the perfidy of females. They could be lovely, sometimes entertaining, and quite useful for the purpose for which their luscious bodies had been designed, but they were cold-hearted, devious, and focused on their own self-interest.

So, after that night, he had treated them as temporary companions to be enjoyed, but never trusted. And never again allowed close enough to touch his heart.

So he would treat Diana now, with cordial detachment.

His equilibrium restored, he allowed himself to glance across the park. Yes, she was still approaching. Any moment now, she would notice him, draw close enough to recognise him.

Would a blush of shame or embarrassment tint those cheeks, as well it should? Or would she brazen it out, cool and calm as if she hadn’t deceived, betrayed and humiliated him before half of London’s most elite Society?

Despite himself, Alastair tensed as she halted on the far side of the pathway, holding his breath as he awaited her reaction.

When at last she turned her eyes towards them, her gaze focused only on the boy. ‘Mannington,’ she called in a soft, lilting voice.

The familiar tones sent shivers over his skin before penetrating to the marrow, where they resonated in a hundred stabbing echoes of memory.

‘Please, Mama, may I go for cakes?’ the boy asked her as Alastair battled the effect. ‘My new friend, Robbie, invited me.’

‘Another time, perhaps. Come along, now.’ She crooked a finger, beckoning to the lad, her glance passing from the boy to Robbie to Alastair. After meeting his eyes for an instant, without a flicker of recognition, she gave him a slight nod, then turned away and began walking off.

Sighing, the boy looked back at Robbie. ‘Will you come again tomorrow? Maybe I can go then.’

‘Yes, I’ll come,’ Robbie replied as the child trotted after his mother. Grabbing the arm of the boy’s maid, who was tucking a ball away in her apron, his nephew asked, ‘You’ll bring him, won’t you?’

The girl smiled at Robbie. ‘If I can, young master. Though little notice as Her Grace takes of the poor boy, don’t see that it would make a ha’penny’s difference to her whether he was in the house or not. I’d better get on.’ Gently extricating her hand from Robbie’s grip, she hurried off after her charge.

Alastair checked the immediate impulse to follow her, announce himself to Diana, and force a reaction. Surely he hadn’t changed that much from the eager young dreamer who’d thrown heart and soul at her feet, vowing to love her for ever! As she had vowed back to him, barely a week before she gave her hand to an older, wealthier man of high rank.

Had he been merely a convenient dupe, his open devotion a goad to prod a more prestigious suitor into coming up to snuff? He’d never known.

Sudden fury coursed through him again that the sight of her, the mere sound of her voice, could churn up an anguish he’d thought finally buried. Ah, how he hated her! Or more precisely, hated what she could still do to him.

Since the night she’d betrayed him, he’d had scores of women and years of soldiering. He’d thrown himself into the most desperate part of the battle, determined to burn the memory of loving her out of his brain.

While she seemed, now as then, entirely indifferent.

Mechanically he gave his nephew a hand, walking beside him while the lad chattered on about his friend and his pony and the fine set of lead soldiers waiting for them in the nursery, where they could replay all the battles in which Uncle Alastair had fought. It required nearly the whole of the steep uphill walk from Sidney Gardens across the river back to his sister’s townhouse in the Royal Crescent for him to finally banish Diana’s image.

Damn, but she’d been even lovelier than he remembered.

* * *

Sending Robbie up to the nursery with a promise to join him later for an engagement with lead soldiers, Alastair turned over his hat and cane to his sister’s butler. He’d placed boot on step to follow his nephew up the stairs when Simms halted him.

‘Lady Guildford requested that you join her in the morning room immediately upon your return, Mr Ransleigh, if that is possible.’

Alastair paused, debating. He’d hoped, before meeting his all-too-perceptive sister, to return to the solitude of the pretty guest chamber to which he’d been shown upon his arrival early this morning, where he might finish piecing back together the shards of composure shattered by his unexpected encounter with Diana. But failing to respond to Jane’s summons might elicit just the sort of heightened interest that he wished to avoid.

With a sigh, he nodded. ‘Very well. You needn’t announce me; I’ll find my way in.’

Moments later he stepped into a back parlour flooded with mid-morning sunlight. ‘Alastair!’ his sister exclaimed with delight, jumping up from the sofa to meet him for a hug. ‘I’m sorry I was so occupied when you arrived this morning! Though if I’d had any inkling you were coming, I would have had all in readiness,’ she added, a tinge of reproof in her tone.

‘Do you mean to scold me for showing up unannounced, as Mama always does?’ he teased.

‘Of course not! I assume you’re not here for some assignation, else you’d not come to stay with me.’

‘Assignation?’ he said with a laugh. ‘You’ll make me blush, sister mine! And what would a proper matron like you know about assignations?’

‘Nothing whatever, of course, other that you’re rumoured to have many of them,’ Jane retorted, her face flushing.

‘You shouldn’t listen to gossip,’ Alastair said loftily. ‘But let me assure you, if I did have an “‘assignation” in mind, I’d choose a more convenient and discreet location than Bath to set up a mistress.’

‘It pains me that you’ve become so cynical. If only you’d become acquainted with any of the lovely, accomplished and well-bred girls I’ve suggested, you’d find that not all women are interested only in title and position.’

‘Of course not. You married Viscount Guildford out of overwhelming passion, the kind you’d have me write about,’ he said sardonically.

Her flush deepened. ‘Just because a match is suitable, doesn’t mean there can’t be love involved.’

‘Oh, I’m a great believer in love! Indulge in it as often as I can. But I could hardly make one of your exemplary virgins my mistress,’ he said, then held up a hand as Jane’s eyes widened and she began to sputter a reply. ‘Pax, Jane! Let’s not brangle. I came to see you and Robbie, of course, and I do hope I’m welcome.’

‘Always!’ she said with a sigh, to his relief letting the uncomfortable topic go. He loved his sister and his mother dearly, but the succession of women with whom he’d been involved since his break with Diana—with their attempted claims on his time, his purse or his name—had only strengthened his decision never again to offer his heart or hand.

Jane looped her arm with his, leading him to a seat beside her on the sofa. ‘Of course you may come and go as you wish! But if the ladies in your life would prefer to prepare a proper welcome and perhaps cosset you a bit, you must forgive us. We waited too many long anxious years while you were in the army, not sure you would ever make it back.’

‘But I did, and I wager you find me as annoying as ever,’ Alastair pronounced, dropping a kiss on the top of her head. ‘So, was it my unannounced visit that I’ve been summoned to answer for? I thought, with Guildford off in London toiling away for some Parliamentary committee, you’d be delighted to have me break the tedium of marking time in Bath while your papa-in-law takes the waters. How is the Earl, by the way?’

‘Better. I do think the waters are helping his dyspepsia. And I can’t complain about being in Bath. It may not be the premier resort it once was, before Prinny made Brighton more fashionable, but it still offers a quite tolerable number of diversions.’

‘So which of my misdeeds required this urgent meeting?’

To his surprise, despite his teasing tone, his sister’s face instantly sobered. ‘Nothing you’ve done, as well you know, but I do need to make you aware of a...complication, one of some import. I’m not sure exactly how to begin...’

Brow creased, Jane gazed warily at his face, and instinctively he stiffened. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s...’

Though Alastair would have sworn he neither moved a millimetre nor altered his expression in the slightest, Jane’s eyes widened and she gasped. ‘You’ve already seen her! You have, haven’t you?’

Damn and blast! He was likely now in for the very sort of inquisition he’d heartily wished to avoid. ‘If you mean Diana—the Duchess of Graveston, that is—yes, I have. At any rate, I believe it was her, though we didn’t speak, so I’m not completely sure. It has been years, after all,’ he added, trying for his calmest, most uninterested tone. ‘A lady who looked like I remember her came to Sidney Gardens when I went after Robbie, to fetch her s-son.’ Inwardly cursing that he’d stumbled over the word, Alastair cleared his throat.

Distress creased his sister’s forehead. ‘I’m so sorry you encountered her! I just this morning discovered her presence myself, and intended to warn you straight away so you might...prepare yourself. That woman, too, has only just arrived, or so Hetty Greenlaw reported when she called on me this morning.’ Her tone turning to annoyance, Jane continued. ‘Knowing of my “close connection to a distressing incident involving my maternal family”, she felt it her duty to warn me that the Duchess was in Bath—the old tattle-tale. Doubtless agog to report to all her cronies exactly how I took the news!’

‘With disinterested disdain, I’ll wager,’ Alastair said, eager to encourage this diversion from the subject at hand.

‘Naturally. As if I would give someone as odious as that scandalmonger any inkling of my true feelings on the matter. But,’ she said, her gaze focusing back on his face, ‘I’m more concerned with your reaction.’

Alastair shrugged. ‘How should I react? Goodness, Jane, that attachment was dead and buried years ago.’

Her perceptive eyes searched his face. ‘Was it, Alastair?’

Damn it, he had to look away first, his face colouring. ‘Of course.’

‘You needn’t see her, or even acknowledge her existence. Her whole appearance here is most irregular—we only received word of the Duke’s passing two days ago! No one has any idea why she would leave Graveston Court so quickly after his death, or come to Bath, of all places. With, I understand, almost no servants or baggage. I highly doubt a woman as young and beautiful as Diana means to set up court as a dowager! If she’s angling to remarry, she won’t do her chances any good, flouting convention by appearing in public so scandalously soon after her husband’s death! Although if she did, I’d at least have the satisfaction of being able to cut her.’

‘That might not be feasible. Robbie has struck up a friendship with her son,’ he informed her, making himself say the word again without flinching. ‘He invited the boy to meet him again in the gardens tomorrow.’ Alastair smiled, hoping it didn’t appear as a grimace. ‘So I can take them both for cakes.’

If he hadn’t been still so unsettled himself, Alastair would have laughed at the look of horror that passed over his sister’s face as the difficulty of the situation registered.

‘I shall come up with some way to fob off Robbie,’ Jane said. ‘It’s unthinkable for you to be manoeuvred into associating with her.’

Recalling the strength of his nephew’s single-mindedness when fixed on an objective—so like his mama’s iron will—Alastair raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘If you can succeed in distracting the boy who chattered all the way home from the Gardens about his new friend, I’ll be surprised. Besides, if Diana goes about in Society, I’m bound to encounter her from time to time.’

‘You don’t mean you’ll chance seeing her again?’ his sister returned incredulously. ‘Oh, Alastair, don’t risk it!’

‘Risk? Come now, Jane, this all happened years ago. No need to enact a Cheltenham tragedy.’

Pressing her lips together, Jane shook her head, tears sheening her eyes. ‘I know you say you’re over her, and I only pray God it’s true. But I’ll never forget—no one who cares about you ever could—how absolutely and completely bouleversé you were. The wonderful poetry you wrote in homage to her wit, her beauty, her grace, her liveliness! The fact that you haven’t written a line since she jilted you.’

‘The army was hardly a place for producing boyish truck about eternal love,’ Alastair said, dismissing his former passion with practised scorn. Besides, poetry and his love for Diana had been so intimately intertwined, he’d not been able to continue one without the other. ‘One matures, Jane, and moves on.’

‘Does one? Have you? I’d be more inclined to believe it if you had ever shown any interest in another eligible woman. Do you truly believe all women to be perfidious? Or is it what I fear—that your poet’s soul, struck more deeply by emotion than an ordinary man’s, cannot imagine loving anyone but her?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he said stiffly, compelled to deny her suspicion. ‘I told you, that childish infatuation was crushed by events years ago.’

‘I hope so! But even if, praise God, you are over her, I shall never forgive her for the agony and embarrassment she caused you. Nor can I forgive the fact that her betrayal turned a carefree, optimistic, joyous young man almost overnight into a bitter, angry recluse who shunned Society and did his utmost to get himself killed in battle.’

To his considerable alarm, Jane, normally the most stoic of sisters, burst into tears. Unsure what to do to stem the tide, he pulled her into a hug. ‘There, there, now, that’s a bit excessive, don’t you think? Are you increasing again? It’s not like you to be so missish.’

His bracing words had the desired effect, and she pushed him away. ‘Missish! How dare you accuse me of that! And, no, I’m not increasing. It’s beastly of you to take me to task when I’m simply concerned about you.’

‘You know I appreciate that concern,’ he said quietly.

She took an agitated turn about the room before coming back to face him. ‘Have you any idea what it was like for your friends, your family—witnessing the depths of your pain, fearing for your sanity, your very life? Hearing the stories that came back to us from the Peninsula? You volunteering to lead every “forlorn hope”, always throwing yourself into the worst of the battle, defying death, uncaring of whether or not you survived.’

‘But I did survive,’ he replied. Far too many worthy men had not, though, while he came through every battle untouched. ‘Angry Alastair’s luck’ the troops had called it. He’d discouraged the talk and turned away the eager volunteers for his command who listened to it since that famous luck never seemed to extend to the men around him.

‘Please tell me you will not see her,’ Jane said, pulling him back to the present.

‘I certainly won’t seek her out. But with Robbie having befriended her son, I imagine I won’t be able to avoid her entirely.’

‘I must think of some way to discourage the friendship. I really don’t want my son to take up with any offspring of hers. He’s probably as poisonous as she is!’

‘Come now, Jane, listen to yourself! You can’t seriously hold the poor child accountable for the failings of his mother,’ Alastair protested, uncomfortably aware that, initially, he’d done just that.

‘He’s the spawn of the devil, whatever you say,’ Jane flung back. ‘You don’t know all the things that have been said about her! I never mentioned her when I wrote you, feeling you’d been hurt enough, but there were always rumours swirling. How she defied the Duke in public, showing no deference to his friends or family. Turned her back on her own friends, too, once she became his Duchess—the few who remained after she jilted you. They say she became so unmanageable the Duke had to remove her to his country estate. I know she’s not been in London in all the years since my marriage. I’ve even heard that, as soon as the Duke fell seriously ill, she took herself off to Bath, refusing to nurse him or even to remain to see him properly buried!’

‘Enough, Jane. I’ve no interest in gossip, nor have I any intention of being more than politely civil to the woman, if and when the need arises. So you see, there’s nothing to upset yourself about.’

At that moment, a discreet knock sounded and the housekeeper appeared, bearing news of some minor disaster in the kitchen that required her mistress’s immediate attention. After giving his sister another quick hug, Alastair gently pushed her towards the door. ‘I’ll be fine. Go re-establish order in your domain.’

After Jane had followed the housekeeper out, Alastair walked back to his room, trapped by his still-unsettled thoughts. It was sad, really, that the girl he remembered being so vivacious, a magnet who drew people to her, had, if what Jane reported was true, ended up a recluse hidden away in the country, the subject of speculation and rumour.

Did she deserve it? Had she duped him, cleverly encouraging his infatuation so he might trumpet her beauty to the world in fulsome poetry, drawing to her the attention of wealthier, more prestigious suitors? Whether or not she’d deliberately led him on, she had obsessed him completely, inducing him to lay his foolish, naive, adoring heart at her feet.

He ought to thank her for having burned out of him early so unrealistic an expectation as eternal love. Still, something of that long-ago heartbreak vibrated up from deep within, the pain sharp enough to make him clench his teeth.

As before, anger followed. He would offer her nothing except perhaps a well-deserved snub.

Though even as he thought it, his heart whispered that he lied.


Chapter Two (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Entering the modest lodgings in Laura Place she’d hired two days previous, her son and his nursery maid trailing obediently behind her, Diana, Dowager Duchess of Graveston, mounted the stairs to the sitting room. ‘You may take Mannington to the nursery to rest now,’ she told the girl as she handed her bonnet and cloak to the maid-of-all-work.

‘Will you come up for tea later, Mama?’ the child asked, looking up at her, hope shining in his eyes.

‘Perhaps. Run along now.’ Inured to the disappointment on the boy’s face, she turned away and walked to the sideboard by the window, removing her gloves and placing them precisely on the centre of the chest. Only after the softly closing door confirmed she was alone, did she release a long, slow breath.

She should have hugged Mannington. He would have clung to her, probably. Like any little boy, he needed a mama he could cling to. And she could hug him now, without having to worry over the consequences—for him or for her.

Could she find her way back to how it had once been? A memory bubbled up: the awe and tenderness she’d felt as she held her newborn son, a miracle regardless of her feelings about his father.

The father who, little by little, had forced her to bury all affection for her child.

She remembered what had happened later that first day, Graveston standing over the bed as she held the infant to her breast. Plucking him away, telling her he’d summon a wet nurse, as a duchess did not suckle her own child. He’d cut off her arguments against it, informing her that if she meant to be difficult, he’d have a wet nurse found from among one of his tenant farmers and send the child away.

So she’d turned his feedings over to a wet nurse, consoling herself that she could still watch him in his cradle.

A week later, she’d returned to her rooms to find the cradle gone. The child belonged in the nursery wing, Graveston told her when she’d protested. It wasn’t fitting for a woman as lowly born as the wet nurse to spend time in the Duchess’s suite. If she insisted on having the child with her, he’d end up hungry, waiting for his supper while he was dispatched to the servant’s quarters.

Of course, she hadn’t wanted her son to go hungry. Or to have his balls taken away, as Graveston had done months later when she’d tarried in the nursery, rolling them to him, and been late for dinner.

Though for the first and only time in their marriage, she had tried to please her husband, nothing she did was enough. The day she’d learned her toddler son had been beaten because their laughter, as she played with him in the garden under the library window, had disturbed the Duke, she’d realised the only way she could protect him was to avoid him.

And the only way she could do that was to harden her heart against him as thoroughly as she’d hardened herself to every other instinct save endurance.

She remembered the final incident, when having noticed, as he noticed everything, that she’d had little to do with the boy of late, Graveston threatened to have the child whipped again when she’d not worn the new dress he’d ordered for her to dinner. He’d watched her with the intensity of an owl honing in on a mouse as she shrugged and told him to do as he liked with his son.

She’d lost her meal and been unable to eat for three days until she’d known for certain that, no longer believing the boy a tool to control her, he’d left the child alone.

Only then had she known he was safe.

She sighed again. Having worked so hard to banish all affection, she’d not yet figured out how to re-animate the long-repressed instincts to mother her child. Now that he was older, it didn’t help that she couldn’t look at the dark hair curling over his brow or the square-jawed face without seeing Graveston reflected in them.

With a shudder, she repressed her husband’s image.

Her late husband, she reminded herself. That liberation was so recent, she still had trouble believing she was finally free.

Living under his rule had perfected her mask of imperturbability, though. Lifting her eyes to the mirror over the sideboard, she studied the pale, calm, expressionless countenance staring back at her. Despite unexpectedly encountering Alastair Ransleigh after all these years, she’d not gasped, or trembled, or felt heat flame her face. No, she was quite sure the shock that had rocked her from head to toe had been undetectable in her outward appearance and manner.

The shock had almost been enough to pry free, from the vault deep within where she’d locked them away, some images from that halcyon spring they’d met and fallen in love. Had she truly once been unreserved, adoring him with wholehearted abandon, thrilling to his presence, ravenous for his touch? She winced, the memories still too painful to bear examining.

She took a deep breath and held it until the ache subsided. Sealing her mind against the possibility of allowing any more memories to escape, she turned her mind to the more practical implications of their unexpected meeting.

She supposed she should have expected to run into him eventually, but not this soon—or here. What was Alastair doing in Bath? His family home, Barton Abbey, was in Devon, and though he’d also inherited properties elsewhere, what she’d gleaned from news accounts and the little gossip that reached Graveston Court indicated that he’d spent most of his time since returning from the army either at his principal seat or in London.

Would she have fled to Bath, had she known he was here? She’d had to go somewhere, quickly, as soon as Graveston’s remains had been laid to rest, somewhere she could live more cheaply and attract less notice than in London, but fashionable enough to attract excellent solicitors. Go while the servants were in turmoil, uncertain what to do now that their powerful master was no longer issuing orders, and before Blankford, her husband’s eldest son and heir, had time to travel back to Graveston from hunting in Scotland.

What would she do if the new Duke, not content with claiming his old home, was bent on retribution against the woman he blamed for his mother’s death and his father’s estrangement? What if he pursued her here?

Putting aside a question for which she had no answer, Diana turned her mind back to Alastair. What was she to do about him?

She wouldn’t remember how many years it had taken to lock his image, their love, and the dreams she’d cherished for the future into a place so deep within her that no trace of them ever escaped. All she had left of him was the pledge, if and when it was ever possible, to tell him why she’d spurned him without a word to marry Graveston.

She might well have that opportunity tomorrow if she accompanied Mannington to the park, where he hoped to encounter his new friend again. Should she take it?

Of course, the other boy might not come back, and if he did, Alastair might not accompany him. So rattled had she been by Alastair’s unexpected appearance, she’d not even caught the boy’s surname, though he must be some connection of Alastair’s. Even his own son, perhaps.

That Alastair Ransleigh had managed to disturb her so deeply argued for avoiding him. The process of locking away all emotion and reaction, of practising before her mirror until she’d perfected the art of letting nothing show in her face, had been arduous and difficult. She wasn’t sure how to reverse it, or even if she wanted to. Should that barrier of detachment ever be breached, whatever was left of her might crack like an eggshell.

As if in warning, despite her control, one memory from her marriage surfaced. The hope that she might some day speak to Alastair again had been the only thing that had kept her from succumbing to despair, or heeding the insidious whisper in the night that urged her to creep through the sleeping house to the parapets of Graveston Court and free herself in one great leap of defiance. Besides, though Alastair had almost certainly expunged her from his heart and mind years ago, in fairness, she owed him an explanation for that nightmare night of humiliation.

Very well, she thought, nodding to herself in the mirror. She would accompany her son to the park, and if Alastair did appear, she would approach him. He might well give her the cut direct, or slap her face, but if he allowed her to speak, she would fulfil her vow and tell him the story.

At the thought of seeing him again, a tiny flicker of anticipation bubbled up from deep within. Holding her breath and squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she stifled it.

* * *

Having awakened before dawn to pace his room until daylight, Alastair chose to avoid breakfast, knowing he wouldn’t be able to hide his agitation from his eagle-eyed sister. When mid-morning finally came, Alastair set out from the Crescent, his exuberant nephew in tow.

Much as he’d tried to tell himself this was just another day, a trip to the park with Robbie like any other, he failed miserably at keeping his mind from drifting always back, like a lodestone to the north, to the possibility of seeing Diana again—a possibility that flooded him with contradictory emotions.

The defiant need to confront her and force a reaction, and curiosity over what that reaction might be, warred with the desire to cut her completely. Overlaying all was a smouldering anger that she had the power to so effectively penetrate his defences that he’d been required to employ every bit of his self-control to keep the memories at bay—a task he’d not fared so well at while half-conscious. He’d slept poorly, waking time and again to scattered bits of images he’d hastily blotted out before trying to sleep again.

Fatigued and irritable, he tried to focus on Robbie’s eager chatter, which alternated between enthusiastic praise of the horse his uncle had ridden to Bath, a wheedling plea to be allowed to sit on said horse, and anticipation at meeting his new friend again.

‘The boy may not be able to come today,’ Alastair said, the warning as much for his own benefit as for Robbie’s. ‘You may have to settle for just the company of your dull old uncle.’

‘Uncle Alastair, you’re never dull! And you will let me ride Fury when we get back home, won’t you? We can still stop for cakes, can’t we? And I’m sure James will come again. His nurse promised!’

‘Did she, now?’ Alastair raised a sceptical eyebrow, amused out of his agitation by the ease with which his nephew turned a possibility into a certainty, simply because he wished it. How wonderful to possess such innocence!

But then, maybe it wasn’t. He’d had his innocence torched out of him by one splendid fireball of humiliation.

Whatever reply Robbie made faded in his ears as they entered Sidney Gardens—and Alastair saw her. Shock pulsated from his toes to his ears, and once again, for a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

Dressed modestly all in black—at least her critics couldn’t fault her there—Diana sat on a bench, as her son tossed his ball to the nursemaid on a nearby verge of grass. While Alastair worked to slow his pulse and settle his breathing, Robbie, with a delighted shout, ran ahead to meet his friend.

Now was the moment, and with a sense of panic, Alastair realised he still wasn’t sure what he wanted. If Diana turned to him, should he speak with her? Ignore her? If she did not acknowledge him, should he go right up to her and force his presence on her?

Before he could settle on a course of action, with a grace that sent a shudder of memory and longing through him, Diana rose from the bench—and approached him.

‘Mr Ransleigh,’ she said as she dipped a curtsy to his stiff bow. ‘Might I claim a moment of your time?’

A reply sprang without thought to his lips. ‘Do you think you deserve that?’

‘I am sure I do not,’ she replied, the serenity of her countenance untroubled by his hostile words. ‘However, I vowed if I were ever given a chance, I would explain to you what happened eight years ago.’

The violet scent she’d always worn invaded his senses. Unconsciously, he looked down, into eyes as arrestingly blue as he remembered from the day they first captivated him. No lines marred the softness of her skin, and the few dark curls escaping from under her bonnet made him recall how he’d loved combing his fingers through those thick, sable locks. Desire—powerful, potent, unstoppable—rose up to choke him.

He had to get away. ‘Do you really think, after all this time, that I care what happened?’ he spat out. ‘Good day, Duchess.’ Pivoting on one boot, he paced away from her down the gravelled path.

He heard the crunch of her footsteps following behind him. Torn between a surge of triumph that this time, she was pursuing him, and a need to escape before he lost what little control he had left, he could barely make sense of her words.

‘Although I may not deserve to be heard, since you are a gentleman, Mr Ransleigh, I know you will allow me to speak. Infamous as I am, it’s best that I do so here, now, out of sight and earshot of any gossips.’

‘I have never paid any attention to gossips,’ Alastair flung back, turning to face her. She halted a step away, and he couldn’t help noticing the flush in her cheeks, the rapid breathing that caused her bosom to rise and fall beneath the modest pelisse—as if she were recovering from a round of passion.

Desire flared again, thick in his blood, pounding in his ears. Curse it, why must the Almighty be so cruel as to leave him still so strongly attracted to this woman?

But what she said was true—if she was determined to speak with him, it was far better here than at some ball or musicale or—worse yet—a social function at which Jane was also present. ‘Very well, say what you must.’

‘Walk with me, then.’

In truth, some tiny honest particle of his brain admitted, he wasn’t sure he could have turned away. Curiosity and lust pulled him to her, stronger than reason, common sense, or his normal highly developed sense of self-preservation.

Despite the volatile mix of anger, confusion, pain and desire coursing through him, he also noted that, though she asked him to walk with her, she did not offer him her arm.

Not that it mattered. So intensely conscious was he of her body a foot from his, he could almost hear her breaths and feel the pulse in her veins.

‘I met the Duke of Graveston at one of the first balls of my debut Season,’ she began. ‘He asked me to dance and accorded me polite interest, but I thought nothing of it. He was older, married, and I had eyes for only one man.’

Her words struck him to the core, despite the fact that she said them simply, unemotionally, as if stating a fact of mild interest. Swallowing hard, he forced his attention back to her narrative, the next few words of which he’d already missed.

‘...began seeing him at home, visiting Papa. They had similar scientific interests, Papa said when I asked him. It wasn’t until some months later that I learned just what those “interests” truly were. By that time, the Duke’s wife had died. To my astonishment, he proposed to me. I politely refused, telling him that my heart and hand had already been pledged to another. He...laughed. And told me that he was certain I would change my mind after I carefully measured the advantages of becoming his Duchess against marrying a young man of no title who was still dependent upon his father.’

Though they walked side by side, Alastair noticed Diana seemed increasingly detached, as if, transported to some other place and time, she was no longer even conscious of his presence. ‘He returned a week later, asked me again, and received the same answer. In fact, I urged him to look elsewhere for a bride, as, though I was fully aware of the honour of his offer, it did not and would never interest me. He said that was regrettable, but he had chosen me for his wife, and marry him I would.’

Alastair had to laugh at that fantastic statement. ‘Are you truly trying to persuade me that he “gave you no choice”? That horse won’t run! This isn’t the Middle Ages—a girl can’t be forced into marriage.’

She nodded, still not looking at him. ‘So I thought. But I was wrong. You see, those “visits” to Papa hadn’t just been spent in scientific discourse. They’d also been gaming together—a pleasant match among friends, Papa later called it when I taxed him about it. But the Duke was a very skilful player, and Papa was not. When I refused again to marry him, he produced vouchers Papa had signed—vouchers worth thousands of pounds. Unless I married him, he said, he would call them in. Of course, there was no possible way Papa could have repaid such a sum. He would be sent to debtors’ prison, the Duke said. How long did I think, with his delicate health, he would last in Newgate? At first, I was certain the Duke was joking. He soon convinced me he was not. He warned that if I said a word about this to my father, he would have him clapped in prison, regardless of what I did. I didn’t dare call his bluff.’

Scarcely about to credit anyone capable of perpetrating such a Byzantine scheme, Alastair retorted, ‘Why did you not come to me, then? True, I’d not yet inherited, but I could have persuaded my father to advance me a sum, and borrowed more on my expectations.’

‘He threatened to ruin you, too, if I gave you even a hint of what he intended.’

‘Ruin me? How?’ Alastair replied derisively. ‘I was never a gamester, and though I was certainly no saint at university, I’d done nothing serious enough to dishonour my name, no matter how the facts might be distorted.’

She paused a moment, as if to say more, then shook her head. ‘This would have.’

‘No, it’s all preposterous!’ Alastair burst out. ‘Graveston did have a sinister presence about him, but I can’t believe he convinced you he would do what he threatened.’

She turned to give him a sad smile. ‘Do you remember my little spaniel, Ribbons?’

‘The black-and-white one with the ears that trailed in the wind?’

‘Like ribbons, yes. After the Duke revealed his intentions, he gave me a day to think it over. When he returned the next day, he asked me how my dog was. I’d not seen Ribbons that morning, and when I looked, I found him—dead. The Duke merely smiled, and told me as his Duchess, I could have as many dogs as I liked.’

Despite himself, Alastair felt the implication of those words like a blow to the stomach.

She continued, ‘As you know, we were a small household—just Cook and two maids and a man-of-all-work, all of whom had been with us for years. I questioned each one, and they all swore they’d seen—or done—nothing unusual. I realised then, if the Duke could bribe one of my own household to harm an innocent dog, or infiltrate someone who would, he was perfectly capable of forcing Papa into prison and ruining you. That the only thing to prevent him extracting retribution upon the people I loved would be for me to marry him. His final requirement in leaving you both unharmed was to never tell either of you the truth. You must both believe I married him of my own free will.’

Struggling to decide whether to accept the story she’d just told, Alastair shook his head. ‘It’s...it’s unthinkable that someone would act in such a fashion.’

‘Very true. Another reason why the Duke didn’t worry about my confiding in anyone but you or Papa. Who would believe such a story?’

‘Well, I don’t,’ Alastair retorted, making up his mind. Feeling both betrayed and disgusted that she would try to fob off on him such a Banbury tale, he said, ‘Besides, do you really think your apology now makes any difference to me? Frankly, I would respect you more if you just admitted the truth—that the lure of a duchess’s coronet outweighed whatever I could offer you.’

She turned to him, for a long moment silently studying his face. ‘I have told you the truth. I cannot make you believe it, of course. But I did want you to know that it was not for any lack in you that I wed another man.’

‘I never thought it was.’

‘I don’t expect your respect. I’m rather certain you despise me, and I can’t blame you. Nor is there anything I could ever do to make up to you for the embarrassment and humiliation of the Coddingford ball.’

The words exited his lips before he was even aware he meant to speak. ‘Well, since I’m currently between mistresses, you could fulfil that role until I tire of you.’

Aghast, he waited for her to gasp with outrage or slap his face. To his astonishment, after staring at him for another moment, she said, ‘Very well. Make the arrangements and send me word. Fifteen Laura Place.’

Before Alastair could respond, two small boys pelted up from behind them, one grabbing his hand. ‘Can we go for cakes now, Uncle Alastair?’ Robbie asked. ‘James and I are powerful hungry.’

‘Yes, Mama, may I go today?’ Diana’s son asked her.

‘Today you may go,’ his mother responded. While the two boys whooped and slapped each other’s backs, without another glance at Alastair, Diana turned and walked away.

Stunned, incredulous—and incredibly tempted—Alastair gazed after her until the turn in the pathway took her from view.


Chapter Three (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

After admonishing the boys that the hoydenish behaviour allowed in the park would not be tolerated in an establishment that served cakes, Alastair shepherded his young charges and Lord James Mannington’s nursemaid across Pulteney Bridge, down High Street, around the Abbey and into the bakery off North Parade that served the famous buns. In a mechanical daze, he ordered cakes for the boys and the blushing maid, dismissing with a distracted wave her protest that he need not include her in the treat.

It was good that both boys had learned their manners well—or that the presence of the nursemaid restrained them. For with his mind whirling like a child’s top, he could not afterwards recall a single thing they’d said or done at the shop.

Melted butter congealing on the bun set before him, Alastair went over again and again in his mind the exchange between himself and Diana—particularly the last bit, when he, incredibly, had offered her carte blanche and she, even more incredibly, had accepted.

If he’d had more time after that fraught final exchange, he probably would have retracted the hasty words, perhaps covering the naked need they’d revealed by delivering the stinging response that he’d only been joking, for Diana did not meet the minimum standards for beauty, wit and charm that he required of a mistress.

Instead, he’d done nothing, standing mute as a statue while she walked away.

Regardless of how he felt over her former treatment, he should be ashamed of himself for tendering such an insulting offer. To a dowager duchess, no less, who now outranked him on the social scale by several large leaps! As soon as he arrived back at his room at the Crescent, he should write her a note of apology, recanting the offer.

And yet... For the first time, he admitted to himself what meeting Diana again had made only too painfully clear. Despite the bold assertion to the contrary he’d given his sister, he had never really got over losing her. Every woman he’d met since had been measured against her and found lacking; every mistress he’d bedded had been physically reminiscent of her, unconsciously chosen to blot her out of his mind and senses.

None ever had.

Since Diana had accepted his offer, maybe he should go through with it. After all, there was no way the real woman could measure up to the romantic vision his youthful, poetic soul had once idolised...especially after how she’d treated him. Marrying a duke to ‘save’ him? What kind of dupe did she take him to be?

Maybe possessing her now would finally burn out of him the pain and yearning that had haunted him so long.

Like a thief lured into a dwelling through an unlocked window, now that his mind had tumbled on to the possibility of an affair, he couldn’t keep himself from exploring it further. The desire she so readily evoked, banked rather than extinguished, raged back into flame.

Anticipation, excitement and eagerness boiled in his blood, and only by reminding himself that two young innocents and their virginal nursemaid sat mere feet away, was he able to restrain his mind from picturing himself possessing her.

He’d do it, then. Unless Diana sent a note rescinding her acceptance, he would go through with it.

After sending her son and the maid home in a sedan chair, Alastair hurried the now-sleepy Robbie up to the heights of the Crescent. As soon as he’d dispatched the boy back to the nursery, he descended the stairs at a run, bent on finding the most exclusive leasing office he could.

It was imperative to find just the right property for their rendezvous—in a location elegant enough for the purpose, but well-enough hidden that the ever-vigilant Jane was unlikely to discover it.

* * *

An hour later, the bargain concluded, he was escorted out by the beaming proprietor, whom he’d paid double his usual fee for his silence and to obtain possession of the property immediately. Holding the key to a fine townhouse in Green Park Buildings, a respectable address but one well to the west of the most fashionable streets, Alastair set off back to the Crescent.

He’d wait one night, to see if a note arrived from Diana, reneging on her initial acceptance. If he did not hear from her by tomorrow, he’d send her a note, arranging to meet after supper that night.

Excitement shivered and danced in his blood, sparkled in his mind. He couldn’t remember ever being this consumed by anticipation.

An exalted state that was sure to end in disillusion, once he became better acquainted with the real Diana. Which was exactly what he wanted.

The sooner the affair began, the sooner it would be over—and he would be free of her at last.

* * *

In the evening of the following day, Diana sat at her dressing table, a note in hand. As she glanced at her name inscribed in Alastair’s bold script, another memory pierced her chest like an arrow.

How many times during their courtship had she opened just such a note, finding within a beautiful verse in honour of her? Praising her wit, her virtue, her loveliness.

How unworthy of them she’d felt.

How unworthy of them she’d proved.

This current missive could hardly be more different. Instead of elegantly penned lines of clever metaphors, similes, and alliteration, there wasn’t even a complete sentence. Merely an address and a time—this evening, nine o’clock.

Despite her hard-won self-control, uneasiness and something more, something dangerously like anticipation, stirred within her. Stifling it, she debated again, as she had off and on since receiving the summons this morning, whether or not to dispatch a last-minute refusal of his shocking offer.

It was risky, allowing him to be near her. Graveston had possessed the power to restrict her activities and movements, to hurt her physically, but had never been able to touch her soul—a failure that had maddened him and represented her only victory in their battlefield sham of a marriage. Alastair Ransleigh would never touch her in anger...but it was the touch of tenderness, the touch of a man she’d once desired above all else, that threatened her in a way the Duke had never managed, despite his relentless cruelty.

She’d certainly have to be on guard, lest he get close enough to threaten her emotional reserve. Still... Once, she’d been so happy with Alastair. Might giving herself to him bring her a glimpse of that long-vanished happiness?

But then, she was reading much too much into this. The insulting nature of Alastair’s offer was proof he despised her.

Would it have made any difference, had she explained just how the Duke intended to destroy him? Probably not, she concluded. He hadn’t even believed the Duke’s threat of debtors’ prison for Papa, and what the Duke had promised for Alastair had been far more outrageous.

No, there wasn’t any question of warmth or affection between them. She’d humiliated him before all of Society, abused his trust, and like any man, he wanted retribution. She was fair enough to think he deserved it.

Not that yielding her body would prove much of a humiliation for her, not after years of submission to a man who believed he had the right to use her whenever and however he pleased. Whatever his reasons for proposing the liaison, giving herself up to Alastair would be an improvement over the subjugation of her marriage. Alastair, at least, she’d always admired and respected.

In any event, the arrangement probably wouldn’t last long. Once Ransleigh had his fill of her, he’d cast her aside, leaving her free to...do what with the rest of her life?

Frowning, she dropped the note on the dressing table and rose to take a restless turn about the room. Alastair Ransleigh’s sudden reappearance had distracted her from focusing on how to deal with Lord Blankford, a matter of far more importance.

There was a chance Blankford might simply ignore her and Mannington. With a sigh, she quickly dismissed that foolish hope. Her husband’s eldest son had been raised to believe that a duke’s desires were paramount, and that he could manipulate, reward or smite all lesser beings with impunity. It was highly unlikely, given how closely the character of the heir mirrored that of the sire, that the injury he believed she’d committed against him and his mother would go unpunished.

At the very least, he would try to take Mannington away from her. Even if he didn’t have evil designs upon the child, she wouldn’t allow a dog, much less a little boy, to grow up under the influence of such a man. She might not, up until now, have proved herself much of a mother, but she would do everything in her power to prevent her innocent son’s character from being distorted by the same despicable standards held by his father and elder brother.

Even as she thought it, she shook her head. How could she, whom her husband had methodically isolated from any friends and family, prevail against one of the highest-ranked men in England?

Putting aside, for the moment, that unanswerable question, then what? Even if she managed to protect her son from Blankford, Mannington needed more than rescue from evil influences to grow into the confident, compassionate, honourable man she’d like him to be.

She first needed to re-establish some sort of normal, motherly link with the boy—something she’d been forced to avoid while Graveston lived. Now that she need no longer fear showing him affection, how was she to retrieve, from the abyss into which she’d buried it, the natural bond between a mother and her child? That she’d hated the man who sired him was not Mannington’s fault. Like every child, to grow and thrive he needed love—of which, until now, he’d received precious little.

For the first time in many years, she allowed herself to think about her own childhood—a time so idyllic and distant that it seemed to belong to another person, or another life. Despite losing his wife in childbirth at an early age, Papa had managed to submerge his own grief and create a home filled with love, security, joy and laughter. How had he done so?

Settling back on the dressing-table bench, she stared at her image in the mirror, digging through the bits of memory.

They’d certainly not had the material advantages available to a duke. As a younger son from a minor branch of a prominent family, no objection had been posed to Papa pursuing a career as an Oxford tutor, nor of his marrying for love a gentleman’s daughter of great beauty and small dowry. After Mama’s death, they’d taken rooms close to the university, where he might more easily mentor his students and pursue his own botanical studies. As both Mama and Papa had no other close kin, it had always been just the two of them.

She’d learned her letters at his knee, studied her lessons in his office, painted and played piano for him in the adjacent studio. Picnics beside the river turned into treasure hunts, often enlivened by games of hide-and-seek, as she helped Papa search for rare plants. Every day ended with him reading to her, or telling her a bedtime story. Later, as his eyesight began to fail and his health grew more frail, she had read to him.

First thing, then, she ticked off on one finger, she’d need to spend more time with Mannington...James, she corrected herself. No longer a tool of the Duke to control her, but simply a child. Her son.

A frisson of long-suppressed tenderness vibrated deep within her, as barely discernible as the scent of a newly opening rose.

Having deliberately avoided him since he’d been a toddler, she wasn’t sure where to start. Other than accompanying him to the park, what did one do with a young boy?

Perhaps she could start by reading to him at bedtime. All children liked being read to, didn’t they? If he enjoyed the interaction, his happiness should warm her, too, and begin the difficult process of dismantling the barriers she’d put in place to stifle any feeling towards him.

But the creation of a true home meant more than just spending time with him. Her father had not been nearly as prominent or powerful as her husband, but he’d been an enthusiastic, optimistic man who inspired love and admiration in everyone with whom he came into contact. Even students not especially interested in botany grew to appreciate the natural universe whose wonders he unfolded to them.

He’d exuded an infectious joy in life, in every little detail of living, from lauding the warmth of the fire on a cold evening, to savouring tea and cakes with her in the afternoon, to the enthusiasm with which he read to her, altering his voice to play all the parts from Shakespeare, or emoting the sonnets with an understanding that brought the beauty of the words and the depth of their meaning to life. He’d loved being a scholar, never losing his excitement at finding and recording in meticulous drawings all the plants he collected.

She could almost hear his voice, telling her how everything fit together in the natural world, with all having its place. She, too, had been designed with particular talents and abilities, her contributions unique, irreplaceable, and a necessary part to the whole.

She swallowed hard and her eyes stung. She hadn’t remembered that bit of encouragement for years. Did she have a place and a purpose? Having lost first Alastair and then her father, was there something more for her than mere survival?

She could start by saving her son from Blankford. She could try her best to unlock her feelings and love him again. She could attempt to create the kind of home he deserved, that every child deserved, where he was wanted, appreciated, nourished.

The last would be a stretch. She wasn’t her father, or even a pale echo of him. Once, another lifetime ago, she’d been a fearless girl who loved with all her heart and met life with reckless passion...

But how could she, who had forgotten what joy was, offer that to a child she might not find her way back to loving?

Sighing, she raised an eyebrow at the image in the mirror. The reflection staring back at her, the only friend and ally she’d had during the hellish years of her marriage, merely looked back, returning no answers.

She’d just have to try harder, she told the image. Once Alastair Ransleigh finished with her, she could close the book of her past and begin a new volume, with James.

Pray God she’d have enough time to figure it out before Blankford made his move.

But first, tonight, she must begin repaying the debt she owed Alastair. Her hands trembling ever so slightly, she rang for the maid and began to dress.


Chapter Four (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Alastair paused in his pacing of the parlour of the small townhouse he’d rented, listening to the mantel clock strike three-quarters past eight. Unless she’d changed her previous habit of promptness, in another fifteen minutes, Diana would be here.

His pulses leapt as a surge of anticipation and desire rushed through him. Too impatient to sit, he took another turn about the room, then set off on yet another tour of the premises.

He’d arrived at eight, wanting to ensure everything was as he’d ordered. The new staff dispatched by the agency, all with impeccable references, had done their jobs perfectly. The immaculate house gleamed, every wooden surface and silver object polished to a soft glow in the candlelight. Taking the stairs, he inspected the sitting room adjoining the bedroom, nodding dismissal to the maid who’d just finished setting out a cold buffet. In the bedroom itself, a decanter of wine stood on the bedside table, and two glasses reflected the flames of the lit candles on the mantel above.

Wine to lend courage to him—or to her? he wondered with a wry grin. Maybe for consolation, if the joke was on him and Diana simply did not show up.

Which would, he admitted, be a justifiable rebuke for his ungentlemanly behaviour.

Even as he thought it, he heard the click of the front door opening, and a murmur of voices as the new manservant admitted a visitor.

So she had come after all.

Alastair descended the stairs nearly at a run.

‘I’ve shown the, ah, lady into the parlour,’ the servant told him. ‘Will you be needing anything else, sir?’

‘Nothing more tonight, Marston. Thank you.’

Expression impassive, the servant bowed and headed off towards the service stairs. Alastair wondered, not for the first time, what the handful of employees thought of their new situation—and how much they’d been told when the agency he’d consulted had hired them. Certainly upon arrival, if not before, they would have realised they were being called upon to staff the love nest of some wealthy man’s chère-amie. He’d not been able to glean from the behaviour of Marston, the cook or the maid whether they disapproved or were indifferent to the situation.

To tell the truth, he felt a bit uncomfortable. In his previous liaisons, after hiring a house, he’d simply given the lady of the moment the funds to bring or hire her own staff—and had never given the servants’ opinions a thought. But this was Diana—and how she was regarded by the staff, he realised suddenly, did matter to him.

Rather ridiculous that he was concerned she be treated like a lady, when he’d set up this whole endeavour to humiliate her.

No, not to humiliate—simply to slake his desire for her, so that he might achieve the indifference that seemed to come so easily to her. So he could get over her and get on with his life, as she so obviously had.

Heartbeat accelerating, Alastair walked into the parlour.

A lady stood at the hearth with her back to him, enveloped in a black cape with the hood drawn up over her hair. Very discreet, Alastair thought, glad that she was evidently as concerned as he that this liaison be kept secret.

She turned towards him, and the visceral reaction she’d always evoked flooded him immediately, speeding his pulses, drying his mouth, filling him with desire and gladness.

‘Good evening, Alastair,’ she said. ‘Where would you like me?’

Something almost like...disappointment tempered his enthusiasm. So there’d be no illusion of polite conversation first—just a proceeding straight to the matter at hand. She’d always been honest and direct, Alastair remembered.

Which was just as well. She wasn’t here to revive an old relationship, but to bury the long-dead corpse of one.

‘Come,’ he said, motioning to the hallway.

Obediently she exited the parlour, brushing past him in a cloud of violet scent that instantly revived his lust and determination. She mounted the stairs, pausing at the top until he indicated the correct bedchamber.

He let her precede him into the room, already so taut with arousal that his hands were sweating and his breath uneven. In one fluid movement, she swept off her cloak and cast it in a shimmer of satin on to the chair beside the bed, then turned to him, waiting.

He scanned her hungrily. The full swell of bosom, the graceful curve of neck and cheek, the dusky curls gleaming brightly in the firelight, the lush pout of a mouth...the eyes staring sightlessly ahead of her, the face as devoid of expression as a statue. As if she were bored, waiting for the episode to be over.

While he stood, barely able to breathe, gut churning with eagerness and longing.

Sudden fury consumed him. But before he could sort through his wildly varying impulses—send her away or seduce her into feeling something—she sank to her knees before him and calmly unbuttoned his trouser flap. Wrapping her hands around his swollen length, she guided him into her mouth.

Shocked that she would play the courtesan so unresistingly, he opened his lips to tell her to stop...but at the touch of the exquisite softness of her tongue, moving over and around his throbbing member, thought dissolved into pure sensation. Gasping, he fisted his hands in her hair, every fibre of his being focused on the delicious friction of her mouth and tongue as she pushed him deep within, withdrew to suckle the sensitive tip, laved it with her tongue and took him deep again. Passion built with unprecedented swiftness until mere moments later, he climaxed in a rush so dizzying and intense he nearly lost consciousness.

Staggering backward, he collapsed on the bed, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. Dazed, he dimly noted Diana rising and walking noiselessly over to the washbasin on the bureau.

Sometime later, his heart finally settled back into its normal rhythm and enough rational thought returned that he recognised what had just transpired. He’d meant to slake his lust, not use her like a doxy—or bolt straight to conclusion, like a callow youth with his first woman.

Shame and embarrassment filled him. Looking around, he found Diana sitting silently in the chair, gazing into the fire, her cloak wrapped around her.

‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant for that to be an exclusive experience,’ he said. ‘I assure you, I can do much better.’

And he meant to. Of the many things that had attracted him to Diana during their courtship, one that had drawn him most strongly was her passion. She’d gloried in his kisses, giving herself to him with wild abandon, guiding his hands to her breasts, moulding her hands over his erection. He might not be able to love her again or truly forgive her, but they could at least have the honesty of pleasure between them.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.

‘It does to me,’ he replied, and held out his hand.

This time, he vowed as she took it, he would undress her slowly, as he’d dreamed of doing so many times. Kiss and caress each bit of skin revealed. Use all the considerable skill he’d amassed over nearly a decade of pleasuring women to give her the same intense release she’d just given him.

‘I didn’t hire you a lady’s maid,’ he said, turning her so he could begin unlacing the ties at the back of her bodice. ‘I shall perform that function myself.’

She didn’t reply, which was just as well, for as the ties loosened, the bare nape of her neck so distracted him he’d not have comprehended her words anyway. Unable to resist, he bent to kiss her.

That intoxicating violet scent wrapped around him again as he tasted her skin. Desire returning in a rush, he slid his hands into her hair, winnowing out the pins with his fingers until the heavy mass fell to her shoulders and cascaded down her back. Wrapping his hands in the thick lengths, he pulled her closer, moving his lips from her neck to the shell of her ear.

Already fully erect again, he parted the hair and pulled it forward over her breasts, unveiling the pins and lacing that secured bodice and skirt. Making quick work of those, he peeled off the top and nudged her to step out of the skirt, then guided her to the bed.

Seating her on the edge, he tilted up her head and took her mouth, moving his lips slowly, gently over their silken surface as he dispensed with her stays. At the pressure of his tongue, she parted her lips, allowing him entry to the softness within.

While he licked and suckled, he moved his hands to cup her breasts, full and ripe under the thin linen of her chemise. His breathing unsteady now, he thrust a pillow behind her and urged her back against it, then slid the chemise up, baring her from ankle to waist.

Going to his knees, he slowly rolled down her stockings, kissing and licking the soft skin of her knees, calves, ankles, toes, then moving in a slow ascent back up to her thighs. Urging those apart, he kissed his way slowly higher, while his hands moulded and caressed her hips and derrière.

By now, he was more than ready to enter her and find consummation again. But wanting this time to give maximum pleasure to her, holding himself under tight control, he moved his mouth closer and closer to her centre as he slid a finger over and around the nether lips. Another bolt of lust struck him as he found her moist and ready.

Unable to wait any longer, he moved his mouth to her core, parting the curls to run his tongue along the plump little nub nested within. But though his own breathing was by now erratic, Diana did not, as he’d expected, grip his back or wrap her legs around his shoulders. She didn’t arch into him, her body picking up the ancient rhythm leading to fulfilment. Eyes tightly closed, she simply lay against the pillow, her face tense, her hands fisted.

Perhaps she’d been schooled that an uninhibited response was unladylike—he’d have to re-educate her about that. Or perhaps complete possession was necessary to trigger her reaction—he was certainly ready!

Murmuring, his hands gentle and caressing, he moved on to the bed and straddled her parted thighs, positioning himself over her. Kissing her, he lowered himself, slowly penetrating her.

He thought she flinched, and halted. But as he pressed carefully downward, her body greeted him in hot, slick warmth. Thrilled, he pushed deeper into the soft, yielding depths, until he’d sheathed himself completely.

Sweat broke out on his brow and his rigid arms trembled as he stilled deep within her, battling the urge to thrust and withdraw, thrust and withdraw in wild rhythm to reach the pinnacle that shimmered just out of reach.

But though her body was obviously primed to receive him, Diana did not moan, or tilt her hips to pull him deeper...or move at all; she lay, eyes still closed, passively beneath him.

Knowing that even remaining motionless, he’d not be able to stave off his own climax much longer, and wanting desperately to bring Diana with him on that journey to ecstasy and back, Alastair wondered what to try next.

Granted, his previous amours had all been experienced, or at least enthusiastic participants. Almost, he was ready to withdraw completely—except that despite her self-control, her body didn’t lie. The peaked nipples and liquid heat within told him that she wasn’t unreceptive. The tightly closed eyes, clenched fists and rigid posture told him she was exerting all her will to resist responding.

Well, he’d see about that. Slowly he began moving in her, rocking deep, caressing the little nub with every stroke, then bending to suckle the taut nipples.

But though he was soon riding the razor’s edge, trying to stave off climax, Diana remained stiffly unmoving. Desperate, he redoubled his efforts.

Only to have her place a hand on his sweaty chest. ‘Go ahead, finish now,’ she said, her eyes still closed. And rocked her hips to force him deeper.

He wasn’t sure he could have resisted much longer anyway. But as she finally moved beneath him, the dyke of his control broke and wave after wave of pleasure crested, washing over him with a force that robbed him of breath and consciousness.

Suddenly aware that his weight must be crushing her, he rolled to the side and up on the pillow.

‘May I wash now?’ she asked, not meeting his gaze.

Too passion-drugged for coherent thought, he simply nodded. And watched as she slid off the bed, walked to the bureau, and calmly plied the sponge and linen towelling, then turned to face him, still naked.

Despite the perplexing episode that had just transpired between them, she was still so lovely, still called so strongly to some uncontrollable something deep within him, that all he wanted was to pull her back into bed and love her again.

‘May I dress now? Or do you require...more tonight?’

That prosaic question dashed whatever remained of his sensual haze, unleashing a boiling cauldron of emotions. Disappointment. Puzzlement. Curiosity. Embarrassment.

Anger.

No previous experience had prepared him to deal with an outcome like this. But he’d not take her again tonight, much as he wanted to, not until he’d had time to figure out what had happened and what to do about it.

‘That will be all for now,’ he said curtly, the dismissal eroding what little remained of the euphoria. She nodded, seeming entirely untroubled by the cold, transactional nature of the interlude.

In silence he dressed her. ‘Have Marston summon you a chair,’ he said at last, when the final tape had been tied, the pins replaced and her hair, much too thick for his fumbling attempts to recreate a coiffure, had been thrust under her bonnet.

‘Will you require me tomorrow?’ she asked, still not meeting his eyes.

‘I’ll send you a note. You’ll make yourself available?’

‘As you wish. Goodnight, then, Alastair.’

With a nod, she exited the chamber.

Alastair listened until her footsteps faded down the stairs. Then, with an oath, he poured himself a glass of wine and downed it in one swallow.

What the hell had just happened?


Chapter Five (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Frustration boiled up, and Alastair had to exert all his self-control to keep from hurling the unoffending wine glass into the hearth, just for the satisfaction of hearing it smash.

Had Diana been secretly laughing at him, mocking his all-too-evident desire with her ability to resist him?

Oh, how things had changed! After their engagement, she’d tantalised him, trying to drive him wild enough to overcome his refusal to take her before they were wed. He’d insisted she deserved better than some furtive, hurried coupling in the library or garden, where her father or a servant might at any moment interrupt. When they finally tasted consummation, he wanted them to be able to love each other freely, at length and at leisure.

This time, he had been eager and she’d been...indifferent.

If he’d not had numerous ladies testify to his expertise as a lover, he’d have been unmanned by her total lack of response.

But that wasn’t quite right, he corrected himself. Her body had responded; of that, he was certain. But for some reason, she’d refused to allow herself to experience pleasure.

To punish him for coercing her into this, so he might not revel in her satisfaction at his hands?

He didn’t think so. She’d exhibited no triumph at having resisted his skill; there’d been nothing of gloating superiority in her being able to render him helpless with pleasure, while refusing to allow him to do the same for her.

Besides, though he might have had the bad taste to propose the liaison, he’d done nothing to force her into accepting. As she certainly knew, were she to have refused the offer, he would have left it at that.

Instead, it was almost as if she had withdrawn entirely, not permitting herself to experience pleasure.

How had the passionate girl he remembered come to this?

Was this startling transformation her late husband’s fault? For the first time he began to doubt his certainty that the account she’d given him of her marriage was a complete, or at least exaggerated, fabrication.

A sympathy he did not want to feel welled up in the wake of that doubt.

Stifling it, he jumped up and began to pace. There had to be some way to penetrate that wall of resistance. Break through to reach the body trembling for completion, and bring it to satisfaction.

If she’d been repulsed by him, or truly unresponsive, he would have, regretfully, dismissed her tonight. Instead, there’d been an intriguing disconnect between her will and her body’s arousal.

He’d hoped a few episodes would be enough to set him free of her. But he knew now with certainty that he could never let her go until he’d reached her, coaxed forth the response simmering beneath the surface, until she cried and shuddered in his arms with all the passion he’d not allowed himself to taste all those years ago.

How best to tempt her?

Pouring another glass of wine, he set himself to consider it.

* * *

Dismissing the sedan chair, Diana let herself into the townhouse and crept up to her chamber on legs that were still not steady. Summoning the maid to help her out of the gown—mercifully, the girl made no comment on hair that looked like an escapee from Bedlam had arranged it—she then dismissed her.

Sleep was out of the question. With her body still humming with awareness and her hard-won calm in tatters, she settled into the chair before the hearth, heart racing as she tried to determine what to do next.

Oh, she had been so right to fear letting Alastair Ransleigh get close to her! She’d thought, after eight years of fulfilling a man’s desires in whatever way demanded of her while mentally distancing herself from the activity, she would be able to service Alastair with detachment.

And so she had...but just barely.

The process had been much easier with the Duke, who had no interest in her physical satisfaction. In fact, he’d mentioned on several occasions that he thought it demeaning for a man to have a wife who disported herself in the bedchamber like a harlot; such behaviour was for strumpets, not for the high-born woman chosen for the honour of breeding the offspring of a lord.

Given his opinion, she might have been tempted to ‘disport’ herself on occasion, had it not meant lengthening the time she had to suffer his touch. As it was, she slowly perfected the ability to wall herself off from what was happening to her. Viewing actions, even as she performed them, as if she were a spectator observing them from afar had allowed her to tolerate the bedchamber requirements of her role.

But Alastair was not the Duke she hated. And hard as she tried to block out what he was doing, ignoring it had proved impossible. Alastair’s touch had been more veneration than violation, and it had taken every iota of self-control she’d developed over eight miserable years to keep herself from responding.

He’d always had the power to move her. She’d not allowed herself to remember that. Once she was irrevocably married, it would have been a cruelty beyond endurance to recall the joy of being caressed by a man whose touch thrilled her, while being forced to submit to intimacies with a man she loathed.

She’d given herself up to Alastair completely that halcyon summer, eager for him to possess her, arguing against waiting until after the wedding for them to become lovers.

She smiled wistfully. Would it have made any difference, had she not been a virgin when the Duke sought her out?

Probably not. He’d regarded her as a treasure like the Maidens of the Parthenon, and like them, she’d have been collected even if ‘damaged’. He’d merely have constructed an inescapable cage to prevent any lapses after marriage, and waited to bed her until he was sure she was not carrying another man’s child.

And simply disposed of the evidence, if she had been.

But that was neither here nor there, she told herself, pulling her focus back to the present. The problem was how to deal with Alastair Ransleigh now.

Perhaps if she had remembered how quickly and deeply Alastair affected her, she’d have armoured herself better to resist him. After this evening, she no longer suffered from that dangerous ignorance. So what was she to do to avoid another near-disaster?

Forbidding herself to react had simply not been effective. Especially since, unlike the Duke, he’d clearly wanted her to respond. Wanted to give her pleasure...as a gift?

Or was that to be the form of his revenge: making her respond to him, making her burn for his touch, then abandoning her, as she had abandoned him? Would he not be satisfied until he’d succeeded in doing so?

Could he succeed?

She didn’t want to feel anything. Not passion, not desire, not longing, not affection. Overcoming the forces ranged against her, doing what she could to safeguard the boy unlucky enough to be her son, would require all the strength she could muster. A wounded bird marshalling all her efforts to lead the predator away from her nest, she couldn’t afford to bleed away any of her limited energy in resisting Alastair Ransleigh.

His reappearance was a complication she didn’t need.

She could simply not see him again. Send him a note saying she’d changed her mind. Follow the instincts for self-preservation that were screaming at her to run. Unlike the Duke, who had ignored her refusals, she knew with utmost certainty that if she sent such a message, Alastair would let her go.

But that would be taking the coward’s way out. All these years, she’d promised herself that if she ever had the chance, she would do what she could to make amends to him. Reneging on their agreement and bolting at the first sign of peril would snuff out what little honour she had left, like a downpour swamping a candle.

Deep within, beneath the roiling mix of shock, dismay, and frustrated desire, a small voice from the past she’d shut away whispered that she couldn’t let him go. Not yet.

She shut her ears to it. She’d made him a promise, that was all, and honour demanded she keep it. However difficult it proved, however long it took, she would endure, as she always had.

Decision made, she walked over to the dressing table, seated herself on the bench, and regarded her image in the mirror. The forehead was puckered with concern; with fingers she refused to let tremble, she gently smoothed the skin there, beside her eyes, around her mouth, until the woman in the glass looked once again calm and expressionless.

She took a deep breath and held it, held it, held it until she couldn’t any longer. Blowing it out, she took another lungful of air, wiping her mind free of anything but the passage of air in and out, the rhythmic ticking of the mantel clock throbbing in her ears.

Over and over she repeated the familiar ritual. Anxiety, foreboding, and worry gradually diminished until all emotion vanished into the nothingness of complete detachment.

She was the lady in the glass—a shadow of a real woman, a trick of light and mirrors, untouchable.

Only then did she rise and walk to her bed...squelching the tiny, stubborn bit of warmth that stirred within her at the thought that tomorrow, she would see Alastair again.

* * *

The following evening after dinner, Diana paced the parlour restlessly. Without the Duke’s overbearing presence to impose a structure on her days, she was finding herself at a loss for what to do.

Long ago, in another life, she’d enjoyed reading, but she’d had no books to bring with her. It might be...pleasant to resume that activity, or do some needlework.

She should visit the shops and look for a book or embroidery silks. Though she needed to carefully hoard her limited coin against her uncertain future, she could spare enough for a book, couldn’t she?

She had gone out today, visiting the park with Mannington—James. It was still a surprise, discovering how...liberating it was to leave the house and walk about freely, with no possibility of being recalled, lectured, or punished.

And she’d followed through on her resolution to try reaching out to her son. Haltingly, she’d talked to him, even thrown him his ball, to the astonishment of his nursemaid.

She should go up to the nursery and offer to read to him now.

Her cautious mind immediately retreated from the suggestion. Soon she must leave to meet Alastair, and she’d need all the mental and emotional defences she could summon. Having bottled up any tentative reactions after the walk to the park, she didn’t dare breach the calm she’d re-established by approaching her son again.

But putting her son’s needs on hold, now that it was no longer necessary to do so to protect him from his father, was just another form of the same cowardice that made her desperate to avoid Alastair Ransleigh, she admonished herself.

Mannington had suffered through six years without a mother worthy of the name. She wasn’t sure she could ever become one, but she should at least try.

To do so, she’d need to loosen the stranglehold she’d imposed over her emotions. She’d grown so adept at stifling any feelings, she wasn’t sure how to allow some to emerge, without the risk that all the rage, desolation and misery she’d bottled up for years might rush out in an ungovernable flood that could sweep her into madness.

Still, finding her way back to loving a boy whose face so forcefully reminded her of his father was likely to be a long process. He needed her to begin now.

Resolutely, she made her way to the nursery.

She opened the door to find her son in his nightgown, rearranging a few lead soldiers near the hearth. The nursemaid looked up, startled, from where she was turning down the boy’s bed.

‘Did you need something, my lady?’ Minnie asked.

‘I...I thought I would read Mannington a story.’

Something derisive flashed in the girl’s eyes. ‘I’m sure that’s not necessary, my lady. The lad’s nearly ready for bed, and I can tuck him—’

‘Would you really read me a story, Mama?’ James interrupted, hope in his tone and astonishment on his face, as if she’d just offered to reach out and capture the moon that hung in the sky outside his window.

‘If you’d like...James,’ she replied, his given name still coming awkwardly to her tongue.

His eyes brightening, he abandoned the soldiers and ran over to her. ‘Would you, please? I’d like it ever so much!’

‘Could you fetch me a book?’ she asked the maid, who was still regarding her with suspicion—as if she had evil designs on the boy, Diana thought with mild amusement.

She couldn’t blame the girl for her scepticism. Minnie had been James’s nurse for four years, and never before had his mother appeared at his nursery door with such a request.

How many stories had Papa read her by the time she’d reached the age of six? she wondered. Hundreds.

‘A book, my lady?’ Minnie said at last. ‘Don’t have any, your ladyship. I—I don’t know how to read.’

Diana had abandoned books years ago, and never thought to see that her son had access to them. ‘I see. Well, perhaps we can purchase one tomorrow. Shall we say tomorrow night, then, James?’

His face falling, he reached out as she turned to leave and clutched her hand. ‘Can’t you stay, Mama? You could pretend to read.’

A tiny flicker of humour bubbled up. ‘Very well, I’ll stay. But I can do better than pretend. I’ll tell you a story. That will be all, Minnie. I can tuck him in.’

Still looking dubious and more than a little alarmed, the maid sketched her a curtsy. ‘As you please, ma’am. But I’ll be right near, if he—if either of you need anything. Goodnight, young master.’

‘G’night, Minnie,’ the boy called, then ran to hop in his bed. ‘See, I’m ready, Mama. Can you begin?’

At first, she’d had no idea what to say, but in a flash, it came to her. Now that it was safe, he should learn about his family—her family.

‘Shall I tell you about your grandfather? My father, whom you never met. He was a great scholar, and collected plants. One day, when I was about your age, he took me to the river to look for a very special plant...’

And so she related one of the escapades she’d shared with her father, hunting for marsh irises outside Oxford. She’d slipped and fallen into the stream, and while scolding her for carelessness, Papa had slipped and fallen in, too. He’d emerged laughing and dripping. Then he’d wrapped her up in his coat and carried her home for tea by a hot fire.

James was asleep by the time she finished the tale. Looking at his small, softly breathing form, she felt a stirring of...something. Tucking the covers more securely around his shoulders, she slipped from the room.

That had not been so very hard, as long as she avoided looking at the forehead and jaw so reminiscent of...him. She did not want to spoil the mild warmth she’d felt by even thinking the name. It had been almost like recapturing some of the sweetness of her own long-ago childhood, when she’d felt safe and cherished.

Regardless of whether or not she could revive her own emotions, she would do her best to give her son that security.

As she returned to the parlour, the clock struck half-past eight. Apprehension flared in her gut.

Walking to the mirror, she began breathing methodically, until she’d achieved a state of detachment.

She’d do better tonight, she reassured her image. Alastair Ransleigh had shown himself even more susceptible to her touch than she was to his. She had only to begin at once, to use his sighs and gasps to gauge what ministrations affected him the most, and continue them with all the vigour and imagination she could devise until he was so sated by pleasure, he had neither thought nor strength to attempt touching her. Then take her leave, before he recovered.

She would do that tonight, and for however many nights she must until, inevitably, he became bored with her and ready to move to the next conquest.

Her vow to him fulfilled, she could then concentrate fully on reaching out to James—and decide how best to protect him.

But now, there was Alastair. Giving her impassive image one last look, Diana rose to summon a sedan chair.


Chapter Six (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Without her mirror friend to reassure her, Diana had lost a bit of her self-assurance by the time she reached the rendezvous. She arrived before the hour specified, hoping to go up to the bedchamber and ready herself, but the impassive servant who admitted her indicated that Mr Ransleigh was already in residence, and would join her in the parlour.

She damped down an initial flicker of alarm as she followed the man into that reception area. The bedchamber would have been easier, allowing her to implement her plan immediately.

Perhaps their sojourn in the parlour was meant to maintain some veneer of propriety for the servants’ sakes, though since there could be no doubt of the purpose for which she, and this house, had been procured, it seemed rather a superfluous effort. No lady worthy the name would ever meet a single gentleman at his abode, day or night.

Before she could consider the matter further, the door opened and Alastair walked in.

She sucked in a breath, struck by a wave of attraction and longing. He’d always had a commanding presence, his tall, broad-shouldered figure standing out from the others, even as a young collegian. Time had magnified the sense of assurance with which he carried himself, the air of command reinforcing it doubtless a result of his years with the army and his current role as manager of the large estate he’d inherited.

The dark hair was still swept back carelessly off his brow—she couldn’t imagine the impatient Alastair she’d known ever becoming a dandy, taking time over his appearance—and the skin of his face was a deep bronze, a result of much time in the saddle under the hot Peninsular sun, she assumed.

The most notable change between the young collegian she’d loved and the man standing before her was the network of tiny lines beside his eyes—and the coldness in their dark-blue depths that once had blazed with warmth, energy and optimism.

For that chill, she was undoubtedly much responsible.

Suddenly realising she’d been staring, she dropped her gaze. ‘Good evening, Alastair. Shall we proceed upstairs?’

‘No need to rush off,’ he returned. ‘Let me pour you some wine.’

She almost blurted that she’d just as soon get straight to it. Clamping her teeth on the words, she nodded before calmly saying, ‘As you wish.’

So they were to have civility tonight. She could manage that, and bide her time. Especially since, if he meant this to give the appearance of a cordial call, he was unlikely to try to seduce her in the downstairs parlour.

Slow, easy breaths, she told herself, accepting the glass of wine he offered, taking a tiny sip—and waiting. She might not force the issue, but she certainly didn’t mean to draw out this nerve-fraying delay by initiating a conversation.

‘I brought you something,’ he said, startling her as he broke the silence. He walked to the sideboard to collect a package and offered it to her. ‘I hope you’ll like it.’

‘Brought me something?’ she echoed, surprised and vaguely uncomfortable. ‘You don’t need to get me anything.’

‘Nevertheless, I did,’ he replied. ‘Go ahead, open it.’

She accepted the parcel, willing her heartbeat to slow.

‘I’ve brought you something...’ How many times during their courtship had he said that, his blue eyes fixed on her as he offered a bunch of flowers, a book he thought she’d enjoy, a new poem rolled up and secured by a pretty ribbon?

Breathe in, breathe out. Aware her hands were trembling, she fumbled to unwrap the parcel. And found within an elegant wooden box containing a sketchbook, a set of brushes and an assortment of watercolours.

‘I understand you came to Bath in a hurry, and might not have had time to pack any supplies,’ he offered by way of explanation. ‘I know how much you hate to be without your sketchbook and paints.’

So unaccustomed was she to having anyone give a thought to her desires, she found herself at a complete loss for words. While she tried to think of something appropriate to reply, Alastair said, ‘Perhaps you could paint me something.’

‘You are...very kind. But I’m sure I couldn’t produce anything worth looking at. I...I haven’t touched a brush in years.’

His eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t paint any more? Why did you stop? Not lack of time, surely! I should think, in a duke’s establishment, there would have been plenty of servants to see to the housekeeping and care for the child.’

Unprepared and not good at dissembling, she fumbled for a reply. ‘Paints were...not always available.’

‘What, was the Duke too miserly to provide them?’ he asked, a sarcastic edge to his voice.

Not wanting to explain, she said, ‘Something like that.’

Caught off balance, her guard down, the memory swooped out before she could prevent it.

One of the first afternoons at Graveston Court, despondent after having been summoned to the Duke’s bed the night before, she’d taken refuge in one of the north-facing rooms and set up her easel. Trying to shut out her misery, she focused her mind on capturing the delicate hues of the sunlit daisies in the garden outside.

She had no idea how long she worked, lighting candles when the natural light faded, but when a housemaid found her, the girl had been frantic, insisting she come at once and dress, as she was already late for dinner.

The Duke said nothing when she arrived, merely looking pointedly at the mantel clock. But when she returned to the room the next day to resume her work, easel, paints and all had disappeared.

She’d asked the housekeeper about them, and was referred to the Duke. Who told her that when she could appear at dinner on time and properly attired, he might consider restoring them to her.

She’d never painted again.

She looked up to see Alastair regarding her quizzically. Frustration and alarm tightened her chest.

She couldn’t allow him to start speculating about her! He could be as tenacious as a terrier with a rat, and she didn’t think she could fend off persistent enquiries without further arousing his curiosity.

She must regain control of this situation immediately.

‘I’ll just put them back in the box. I’m sure you can return them,’ she said, giving him a determined smile. ‘Shall we go upstairs now?’

To her further frustration, he shook his head. ‘There’s no need to hurry. We have all evening. I thought we’d chat first.’

She had to work hard to keep her expression impassive. ‘Chat’ was the last thing she wanted.

She should give him a flirtatious look, try to entice him, but she couldn’t remember how. ‘I thought you would be...impatient,’ she said, a little desperately, trying to bring his mind back to the physical.

‘Oh, I am. But delay just heightens anticipation, making the fulfilment all the more satisfying. Now, my sister said you’ve spent most of the last few years in the country. What did you do there, if you didn’t paint? Although in such a grand manor house, I expect there was an excellent library. Did you re-read the classics, or more modern works?’

Once again, she struggled to find an innocuous reply. ‘I...wasn’t much given to reading.’

And once again, his eyebrows winged upward. ‘But you always loved to read. Was the library inferior?’

Her chest was getting so tight, it was difficult to breathe. ‘N-no, the library was, ah, was quite good.’

‘Then why did you not avail yourself of it?’

Oh, why would he not just leave it be? ‘I didn’t always have access to it,’ she ground out.

‘Not have access? But you were mistress of the household. I can’t imagine you letting some old fright of a housekeeper deny you books!’

‘It wasn’t the housekeeper,’ she blurted.

He was silent so long, she thought perhaps he’d finally taken note of her obvious reluctance and dropped the matter. Until he said quietly, ‘Your husband denied you books?’

Oh, why had she never learned to tell a convincing lie? ‘Yes,’ she snapped, irritated with him for his persistence, with herself for not being able to come up with a plausible story to deflect him. ‘Whenever I displeased him. And I displeased him constantly.’

Setting down her wine glass with a clatter, she reached over to seize his hand. ‘Please, can we have no more of this? I’d like to go upstairs now.’

Though he continued to regard her with an expression entirely too penetrating for her comfort, he nodded and set down his own glass. ‘Far be it for me to deny an eager lady.’

He had no idea how eager, she thought, light-headed with relief as he followed her up the stairs. Eager not for caresses, but to pleasure him and be gone before he could tug out of her any more ugly secrets from her marriage.

At the chamber door, she took his hand and led him to the bed. ‘Let me make you more comfortable,’ she said, urging him to sit, then attacking his cravat. The sooner she got to bare skin, the closer she’d be to seducing—and escaping—him.

But though he let her unwind the cloth and toss it aside, when she started on the buttons of his coat, he stayed her hands and pulled her to sit beside him on the bed. Tilting her head up to face him, he asked, ‘Did he take away your paints, too, when you did not please him?’

Caught off guard again, she couldn’t seem to come up with anything but the truth. ‘Yes.’

‘How long have you been without books and paints?’

She pulled her chin from his fingers, not wanting to meet his gaze. ‘A long time.’

‘And piano?’

Ah, how she’d missed her music! She’d hung on the longest to that, sneaking out in the depths of the night, like a burglar who’s discovered where the valuable jewels are hidden. In the smaller music room, a location far removed from the servants’ quarters and the main rooms, she’d played softly, in darkness or in moonlight...until that last, terrible night.

She jerked her mind free of the memories. ‘I’m not the woman you once knew, Alastair.’

Gently he recaptured her chin and made her look up at him. ‘Aren’t you?’

He lowered his mouth to hers, barely brushing her lips, his touch butterfly-light. This time, it was she who levered his lips apart with her tongue, then stroked at the wet warmth within.

With a growl deep in his throat, he responded immediately, seizing her shoulders and deepening the kiss. She wriggled her trapped hands down his chest and stomach until she could reach the buttons of his trouser flap, then struggled to open them against the erection that stretched the cloth taut. Finally working two buttons free, she slipped a hand inside, caressing down his length to the silky tip and back.

When he gasped, she broke the kiss, pushed herself off the bed and knelt before him. Before he could countermand her, she quickly popped the other buttons, grasped his member in both hands and took him into her mouth.

With him now beyond words, she ran her lips and tongue over every surface, listening carefully for his responses, deepening her touch or increasing friction when he gasped or thrust against her. Having catalogued his most sensitive areas, she focused on them, sucking, nipping and laving gently, then harder, then gently again, trying to stave off and intensify his climax.

It seemed she had done well, for some moments later he cried out, his nails biting into her shoulders through the fabric of her gown as he reached his peak, shuddering.

Not until he sagged back on to the bed did she gently disengage. Noting that he seemed for the moment insensate, she walked over to the washbasin to refresh herself, planning how she would next attempt to satisfy him.

Undress him, stimulate him, straddle him, she thought, ticking off in her mind the techniques that might leave him most sated. She damped down the shivers of feeling sparking at her breasts and between her thighs as she envisaged pleasuring him.

Pleasuring him, she rebuked her stirring senses. This had nothing to do with her.

Hands at her shoulders startled her. ‘Come back to bed,’ he whispered, nuzzling her neck.

Obediently she turned and allowed him to guide her over. ‘Let me undress you first,’ she urged.

‘Only if I can then return the favour.’

Get him naked and she might avoid that. Murmuring a non-committal response, she turned to seat him at the bedside.

Swiftly, she removed his jacket and waistcoat, then pulled the shirt over his head. And caught her breath, as any woman would, for he was so beautifully made.

Strong arms and shoulders gleamed in the candlelight. The muscles of his chest tensed as she ran a finger over them, down the taut belly to the edge of his trousers, then back up and over the scar that circled one shoulder.

‘Sabre slash,’ he answered her unspoken question. ‘Doesn’t hurt any more.’

‘Where?’ she asked, curious in spite of herself.

‘Badajoz.’

She’d read accounts in the newspapers about the battle. Not yet retired from Society, she’d also heard he’d entered the fortress city first, leading the van of the ‘forlorn hope’ through the breach the engineers had blasted into the walls. Her heart, not yet armoured against him, had swelled with fear at his recklessness, with joy that he’d been spared.

Denying the heat building within her, she ran her tongue along the scarred ridge of flesh, feeling him gasp and flinch under her touch. Encouraged by his response, she kissed lower while her hands caressed the lines of muscle and sinew.

Concentrate on him, she urged herself as her fingers tingled and the tension within her coiled tighter.

She suspended her kisses to strip off his boots, socks and trousers, then urged him down on the bed, pressing him back against the pillows. But when she lifted her skirts to follow him, intending to straddle the erection that sprang up boldly before her, he stopped her.

‘My turn.’

She made a murmur of inarticulate protest, but, ignoring it, he stood and turned her so he might access the fastenings of her gown. Not wanting to provoke a dispute by refusing, she allowed him to proceed.

She’d just have to resist as best she could—and resist she would, she promised herself.

Stiffening, she suffered him to unfasten her bodice and skirt, tightening her jaw as he began to caress her breasts through the linen of her chemise. He cupped them in his big hands, dragged his thumbs over the nipples until they peaked, each swipe sparking a flash of sensation that shot right to her core.

Her control already unravelling, she jumped when he hooked a finger at the hem of the chemise and dragged it up, letting cool air flow over the hot, damp place between her legs. Gently he pushed her to the bed, kissing her with insistent, drugging kisses that stole her breath.

Her pulse grew unsteadier still as she struggled to resist the tide of sensation hammering at her. She bit down on her lip to keep herself from rubbing against him when his finger insinuated itself between her thighs, bit down even harder when he slid that finger up to caress the nub at her centre. Her arms ached from holding herself rigid.

Then he slipped that finger inside her, evoking a sensation so intense, she had to hold her breath until she almost lost consciousness to battle down a response.

He bent to kiss her again, suckling her tongue in rhythm to the stroking finger. Everything within her seemed to be melting, building towards some precipice she was desperate to reach.

If she couldn’t stop him before she got there, she’d come apart.

Frantic, she broke the kiss, rolled on to the bed and pulled at his hips, urging him over her. ‘Now!’ she gasped.

Mercifully, he must have thought she was ready to finish. At once, he plunged within, filling her, which was better—or maybe worse. Rocking urgently against him—this time, she simply couldn’t remain motionless—she sought to bring him to fulfilment, before the sensations he was unleashing drove her mad.

In deep, penetrating thrusts he drove to the core of her, possessing her through every inch of her body. So the two become one flesh, flashed through her disjointed mind.

Never. Never one. Not now. Chance. Once. Lost.

Thoughts disintegrating to chaotic bits, she despaired of holding out any longer, when, buried deep within her, Alastair went rigid and cried out. A few moments later, he collapsed on her, then rolled with her to his side.

Heart hammering a crazy rhythm in her chest, she tried to steady her breathing. Please, let him fall asleep now, as he had the night before. Any illusions of courage abandoned, she would steal out as soon as his relaxed body and steady breathing told her he was beyond consciousness.

She couldn’t withstand a repetition of that assault on her senses.

With him limp beside her, she wriggled free of his entrapping arm. Silently, she threw on her skirt and fixed the pins of her bodice as best she could—thank heavens for the all-concealing cloak! She was groping for her shoes, ready to tiptoe out, when a hand reached out and grabbed her wrist.

She jumped, startled by his touch. Desperate to escape, she attempted a smile. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m afraid I must...must get home. Right now. My son. I’ll...I’ll meet you again. T-tomorrow?’

Sweet heavens, she was stuttering, her control a shambles. She had to get away.

‘He denied you passion, too, didn’t he?’

Unable, unwilling to answer, she stared at him, her eyes begging him for the mercy of release.

‘Why won’t you let me give you pleasure?’

‘Why would you want to?’ she shot back, anguish loosening the hold over her tongue.

His lazy eyes widened. ‘You can’t believe I’d try to hurt you?’

‘You have no reason to be kind. Please, Alastair, I’ll come tomorrow, I promise, but no more tonight.’

She was trembling now, light-headed with sensations denied, torn between her body’s eagerness for what he offered and her need to resist. If she didn’t get out soon, the battle might rip her in two, right here in bedchamber.

She nearly let out a sob when he let go of her wrist. ‘Very well. I would never keep you against your will. But...tomorrow?’

She nodded, her head bobbing back and forth like a child’s toy. This had been bad, much worse than she’d anticipated. But with twenty-four hours of calm reflection, away from his disturbing presence, she could figure out anything. ‘Yes, tomorrow.’

‘Goodnight, then, Diana.’

Whirling around, she headed towards the door. She could feel the heat of his gaze on her back as she scurried, like a mouse racing from the cat, out of the room and down the stairs.

* * *

After Diana’s abrupt departure, Alastair stared at the open doorway. Her effect on him had not been lessened after the first possession yesterday. In fact, with the enthusiasm of her ministrations, his climax tonight had been even more intense. So intense, his mind was still not functioning properly, or else he’d not have let her go so easily.

Instead, disturbed and disbelieving, he would have coaxed her to stay and questioned her further.

It was hard to credit that she’d truly been deprived of books and supplies. But years of gauging the veracity of men’s accounts from their tone and manner as they related them, a skill essential to an officer in an army at war, argued that what she’d revealed was the truth.

What kind of man would take away what most delighted his wife, only because she’d displeased him?

The same kind who would force her into marriage by threatening her father with debtors’ prison and her fiancé with ruin?

When she’d first related to him the reasons behind her marriage, he’d rejected the story with contemptuous disbelief. But from the bits he’d just pried from her, it was just possible that her tall tale might be true.

Another memory surfaced: once during their courtship, he’d read her a piece of effulgent, adjective-laden verse, then waited expectantly for her reaction. After a few moments, her lips opening and closing as she sought a response, she’d blurted, ‘Oh, Alastair, that was awful!’ After a moment of outrage, he’d laughed and admitted that it was overwritten.

He’d teased her that she’d have to marry him rather than some dandy of the ton, for as impossible as she found it to prevaricate, she’d never be fashionable. She’d readily agreed, confessing that her mind went completely blank when faced with constructing a polite evasion to mask her real thoughts, especially if pressed by her questioner.

As he had pressed her tonight.

What was he to make of what she’d revealed...and what she’d left out?

Puzzlement and something more than curiosity stirred in him. Something like compassion, and a concern he didn’t want to feel.

All he’d hoped for tonight was to have the gift he’d offered relax Diana enough to finally break the hold she was maintaining over her response to him. Still, he had to admit, he’d enjoyed looking for something to tempt her.

He’d always loved giving her gifts. She’d accepted even the simplest with joy, appreciative of the care he had taken in choosing them. He’d been delighted when he hit upon the idea of the paints, sure she would find them impossible to resist. He’d spent a good deal of time looking for the finest pigments and brushes available.

Instead of accepting the supplies with the pleasure he’d envisaged, she’d put them back in the box and recommended he return them.

He tried once again to take in the incomprehensible notion that a girl of her ability no longer painted.

Well, he’d not be returning them. It was a travesty for an artist of her skill to give up the brush, almost an insult to the father from whom she’d inherited her talent.

He’d have to try tempting her with them again.

Which reminded him of her shocking response to his offer to give her pleasure. Though he’d been stung when she’d seemed suspicious of his reasons, he had to concede her instincts hadn’t been all that far off the mark.

He hadn’t entered this affair for her benefit. Not that he’d precisely wanted to hurt her. Indeed, given how indifferent she’d appeared to him the last few times they met, he’d not considered it possible to injure her. He had, however, wanted to reach her and force a response.

He still wanted that. Every instinct he possessed told him that tonight, he’d come a hair’s breadth close to sweeping her beyond control. Next time, he was convinced, he would bring her all the way to completion.

But now, he wanted more than physical surrender.

Not just her body had responded to him. He’d caught her staring at him when he entered the parlour tonight; unaware he was inspecting her closely as well, she’d not been wearing the impassive mask behind which she normally retreated. In her unguarded expression, he’d read wonder, attraction, and a vulnerability completely at odds with the controlled, emotionless woman she tried to appear.

Had she truly been coerced into marriage? What had the Duke done to turn the vibrant girl he’d known into a woman who turned an indifferent face to the world, who seemed desperate to maintain a rigid self-control?

Now, he knew he couldn’t walk away from her until he uncovered the whole truth about Diana.


Chapter Seven (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Having fled Green Park Buildings without waiting for a footman to call her a sedan chair, Diana quickly traversed the dark streets, keeping herself into the shadows. Arrived safely at Laura Place, grateful for the enveloping cloak that had allowed her to travel with her gown not fully fastened and to be able to remove it without having to wake up a maid, she crept up to her bedchamber. Knowing she was too distraught to think rationally or worry over what Annie would think of this sudden ability to get herself out of her gown without assistance, she’d shed her garments, thrown on her night rail and wrapped herself, trembling, in the bedclothes.

With her dissatisfied body humming and her mind racing in panicked indecision, she slept poorly.

* * *

Diana woke early, hardly more rested than when she’d laid her head on the pillow. But the last hour before dawn was the only time she’d have alone to think before the household was stirring.

Escaping Alastair and his too-persistent questions last night had been the most temporary of solutions. She was still bound to return to him tonight, where she was likely to face even more pointed enquiries.

She could just tell him everything, rather than waiting for him to trick and dig it from her. But, with Graveston having methodically isolated her from everyone she’d known, she’d lost the knack of making confidences. Besides, how could she revisit those scenes of misery and despair, without the risk that some of the ugly emotions she’d worked so hard to bury might escape the pit into which she’d thrust them?

She was free of that place now, of him. She didn’t want to remember any of it.

She could still send Alastair a note, breaking off all contact.

The possibility tantalised. With no Alastair Ransleigh to challenge her control and distract her thoughts, she could bend all her energies into preparing herself to counter the move from Blankford she knew would soon be coming.

At the cost, of course, of whatever honour she had left.

She tried to talk herself out of that conviction; after all, ‘honour’ was a concept invented by the same gentlemen who wrote the laws allowing husbands to beat wives with impunity, assume control of all their assets and property to use or waste as they chose—and take away their children.

She tried to convince herself, but it wouldn’t wash; she was too much her father’s daughter. The idea that a pledge once given must be followed through, that a wrong done must if at all possible be righted, were precepts ingrained in her from earliest childhood.

But hard upon the swell of despair brought by that thought, a new, much more promising possibility occurred to her. One that set her needy senses racing.

Why not give Alastair what he wanted? What he truly wanted, which wasn’t the sordid details of her marriage, or some sloppy flood of emotion, but her physical surrender. If she allowed herself to respond to him, the nights at Green Park Buildings could be pleasant for them both, rather than exercises in frustration, as she tried to resist his touch. After inciting her to passion, he would be too satisfied and replete for conversation.

Excitement feathered through her, dissipating the lingering fatigue. She’d burned and hungered for his touch during their courtship days, eager for the feel of complete possession. What a dolt she was being, to have been offered that and refused it!

Even better, passion would possess her completely, too, eliminating any thought or emotion beyond the physical. No frustration and anxiety, nor any need either to armour herself against a revival of the love for him she’d buried deep, where its loss could no longer hurt her. There’d be only a firestorm of sensation and then the peace of fulfilment.

Best of all, she knew she could do this. Resisting his touch had been an exhausting, nerve-fraying battle of will. Letting go of that control, her secrets and emotions securely hidden, would be sweet as slipping between silken sheets.

Perhaps some day, when she’d learned to love her son again and figured out how to keep him safe, she might risk remembering the joy of that long-ago spring with Alastair. Their attachment had lacked only physical fulfilment to make it complete. If she claimed that now, in that far-away future she might merge the two memories into one shining, jewelled brilliance of a recollection—the image of a perfect love to sustain her the rest of her days.

She would do it.

Energised, she leapt from the bed and went to ring for the maid. Instead of dreading the dusk tonight, now she was almost eager to see the sun set.

* * *

On the other side of Bath, having also slept badly and thus not wanting to face his perspicacious sister, Alastair elected to breakfast in his room. Sipping his second cup of coffee, he was feeling more like a rational human being when a footman brought in his correspondence.

Idly he flipped through it, then halted at a gilt-edged note. Disquiet stirred when he read the card: Lady Randolph, who before her marriage had been one of Diana’s bosom-bows, had for some inexplicable reason invited him to tea.

Lady Randolph being the same Miss Mary Ellington whom, in the near insanity of his rage and grief after Diana’s stunning rejection, he’d subjected to a most improper, most insulting offer of carte blanche.

He felt his face redden at the memory. Luckily for him, the offended lady had merely slapped his face and sent him on his way with the tongue-lashing he deserved. Had she revealed his dishonourable proposal to her brother, he probably would have been shot before ever making it to his regiment.

Mary Ellington had gone on to make a good match to a viscount’s son with political aspirations, and, by Jane’s account, was now a happily married wife with a quiverful of children.

He’d neither spoken to nor seen her since that disgraceful afternoon. Why would she invite him to tea?

He debated sending a polite refusal, but given the colossal insult to which he’d subjected her on their last meeting, decided that he owed it to the lady to appear in her drawing room long enough to apologise.

Hopefully, Jane’s assessment was accurate, and she wasn’t now a bored wife, looking to take him up on that long-ago offer. Though if she were, he could sidestep it, a manoeuvre with which he’d had a fair amount of practice.

One didn’t earn a reputation as a man who disdained marriage and preferred pleasant, short-term liaisons without attracting the interest of Society matrons long on available time and short on commitment to their marriage vows. Particularly, he thought cynically, when the potential lover possessed a deep purse she might try slipping a hand into.

With Diana waiting for him, he certainly wasn’t interested in another mistress.

But Mary Ellington had also been Diana’s closest female friend. Might she have some insight into what had happened to the girl he’d once loved?

With a sigh, he tossed the card back on the tray and rang for another cup of coffee. It appeared he was going to have tea with the chaste virgin he’d once propositioned.

* * *

More anxious than he’d like to be, Alastair presented himself at the appointed hour at another elegant townhouse on the Circus. Shown by the butler into a salon, he had only a few moments to wait until his hostess arrived.

‘Mr Ransleigh, thank you for coming to see me on such little notice,’ she said, nodding to his bow. ‘Let me pour you some tea.’

Seating himself where she indicated, Alastair held on to his patience over the next few minutes as they exchanged the conventional cordialities.

Finally, he said, ‘If you intend to take me to task over my inexcusable behaviour the last time we met, let me relieve you of the obligation. I behaved despicably, for which I am truly sorry. I do hope you’ve forgiven me.’

She looked startled for a moment, then laughed. ‘Oh, that! No, your, ah, regrettable behaviour then has nothing to do with my reasons for asking you to come today. Or at least, not directly. Besides, we all knew that you weren’t yourself, that soon after the...break with Diana.’

That being unanswerable, he merely nodded. ‘What did you want with me, then?’

She sighed. ‘I’m not quite sure how to begin. Let’s just say that I’m...aware you have recently seen Diana.’

Inwardly cursing, Alastair struggled to keep a smile on his lips. Blast! Did everyone in Bath know he’d encountered Diana?

When he said nothing, she continued. ‘Please hear me out, for what I’m about to say, you could with justification point out, is none of my business. But knowing Diana so well years ago, I felt it important that you know it.’

Hoping what she revealed might shed light on Diana’s situation, but wanting to say nothing that might hint of the renewed relationship between them, he’d not decided what to reply when his hostess forged on.

‘I know how deeply Diana wounded you. It would be entirely understandable if you wished to seek some sort of...retribution, especially as she is now in the city without benefit of husband or anyone else to protect her.’

Nettled, he rose. ‘Are you suggesting, madam, that I would seek to harm her?’

‘No! Not at all!’ she protested, waving him back to his seat. ‘Only asking, if you should be required to have any dealings with her, that you...treat her gently.’

At his raised eyebrow, she rushed on. ‘The manner in which she jilted you was inexcusable, but though she may have captured a duke, save for the son finally granted her, it appears she had little joy of her prize. You may have heard that after her marriage, Diana ignored all those who knew her before she became a duchess.’

‘Jane told me as much.’

‘So it appeared, but it wasn’t true. I was as aghast as anyone after she broke your engagement—and in so shocking a fashion! Though normally, one could believe that a duke’s offer of marriage would be preferred over one from a mere mister, Diana had never been interested in social advancement. I truly believed she was as besotted by you as you appeared to be by her. After the hasty marriage, I was curious, of course, but also worried about her happiness. The Duke of Graveston was known to be a cold, forbidding, unapproachable man. So I called on her...and was told the Duchess did not wish to receive me. Then, or at any time in future. I was shocked, and hurt, of course.’

‘I can imagine.’ Having received just the same treatment.

‘As I was walking back to my carriage—I’d told the coachman to circle the square, as I didn’t intend to remain long—Diana ran up to me. Speaking all in a rush, she told me she’d seen my arrival from a window, slipped out the kitchen door and come through the mews to catch me. The Duke had decreed that since her former friends were not of suitable rank—I’d not yet married Randolph—she was no longer permitted to associate with them. Saying she must return before her absence was discovered, she gave me her love and said goodbye. I—I didn’t know what to make of it at the time, but I do know she never received any of her other friends, either.’

‘“No longer permitted”?’ Alastair echoed. ‘Could a husband enforce such a stipulation? Or was that a convenient excuse?’

Lady Randolph shook her head. ‘I don’t know. I didn’t see her again until years later, after Randolph won a seat in Parliament, and we were invited to a political dinner hosted by the Duke. There had already been rumours that the match was a most—unusual—one, and I was quite anxious to have a chance to speak with Diana again.’

She paused, looking troubled. ‘Did you speak with her?’ he prompted, impatient for her to continue.

She started a little, as if she’d been lost in memory. ‘No, for reasons I will soon make apparent. The Duke came down after the guests had assembled, but as the hour grew later, Diana still had not appeared. Finally, just after the butler announced dinner was to be served, she suddenly arrived at the doorway through which the guests must pass to reach the dining room. She wore a striking white-silk gown with a very low décolletage, but neither gloves nor jewels. Instead, circling her neck and wrists were...bruises, the ones beneath each ear clearly fingerprints. In the shocked silence, she walked up to the Duke, and as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, said she was ready to go in to dinner.’

‘What did the Duke do?’

Lady Randolph laughed shortly. ‘What could he do? I’m told he seldom exhibits any emotion, but those near him said his face reddened. Without a word, he offered his arm—and ignoring it, she walked beside him into the dining room. It was the most magnificent bit of defiance I’ve ever witnessed.’

It was all Alastair could do to guard his expression. To hear of any woman abused would have aroused his anger and pity—but Diana! Sickened, furious, he struggled to find a comment that expressed a degree of outrage appropriate for a former fiancé—rather than a man once again involved with the woman in question.

Giving him a sympathetic look, his hostess continued. ‘I know what a shock that news must be, even for one who no longer has any warm feelings for Diana. It’s simply wicked, what a wife can suffer without any legal remedy, and makes me daily grateful for my Randolph! Sadly, I’ve known several poor souls whose husbands treated them...ungently, and without exception they tried to hide the abuse, were embarrassed by it. And afraid. Whereas Diana flaunted the Duke’s lack of control for all his world to see, embarrassing him. With utter disregard for how he might make her pay for it later.’

The thought chilled him. He’d seen no evidence of current bruises—but her husband might have been ill for months, for all he knew. Had she suffered his hand raised against her through all her marriage?

‘As soon as dinner concluded,’ Lady Randolph continued, ‘the Duke took her arm and escorted her upstairs, saying she was feeling “indisposed”, then returned to his guests.’ She shuddered. ‘I hesitate even to imagine what must have happened later. In any event, it was the last time I saw her. Soon afterward, the Duke took her to Graveston Court, and though he returned to London for Parliament and occasionally entertained there, she never again accompanied him. I heard from guests who dined with them before her banishment that she always conversed freely at table, giving no deference to the Duke or his opinions, pointing out discrepancies as she saw them in his arguments or those of his Parliamentary supporters.’

‘Not an ideal political wife,’ Alastair observed, before his own words came out of memory like a stiletto to the chest: You shall have to marry me, rather than some dandy of the ton, for as impossible as you find it to prevaricate, you’ll never be fashionable.

Anguish twisted in his gut. Never fashionable. Never appreciated.

Never safe.

‘Quite frankly, after what I’d seen and heard, I’m rather surprised she outlived him—but ever so glad! Despite what the malicious are saying about her in Bath, I intend to seek her out and offer her friendship.’

To his surprise, Lady Randolph seized his hands and looked up at him earnestly. ‘Diana made a terrible decision that summer so many years ago. But whatever advantage she thought to gain, she’s paid a dear price for it. Paid enough, I think. I just ask that you have pity, and if you can’t forgive her, at least don’t add to her sufferings.’

‘I can assure you, I have no intention of doing that.’

Releasing him, she sat back. ‘Thank you! Since you are a man of honour—most of the time,’ she added with a smile and a pointed look, ‘I am satisfied.’

* * *

Taking his leave a few minutes later, Alastair scarcely recalled what had been said during the rest of his visit, so preoccupied had he been by what Lady Randolph had revealed—and with not betraying by some comment or expression his full reaction to the information she’d conveyed.

Once free of her restraining presence, though, electing to walk back to his sister’s townhouse so he might think uninterrupted, he methodically reviewed her recitation, looking for bits and pieces that fit with what he’d learned himself.

Lady Randolph’s account seemed to confirm Diana’s assertion that she had never confided to anyone else the account she’d given him of being coerced into marriage. Of course, as he’d told her and she’d readily admitted, the story beggared belief. Even her dearest friend thought it was the temptation of marrying into the highest rank of Society that had, in the end, induced her to abandon him.

Had it been?

His certainty about that, already shaken, wavered further as he allowed himself to recall more about the Diana he’d known. The Diana who, without question, would never lie. The Diana who, even now, could not come up with a plausible evasion.

Equally without question, the girl she’d been would have been capable of sacrificing her own happiness to save those she loved.

A girl who, heedless of her own safety, had had the courage to publicly defy a duke.

Suddenly he recalled her confusion when he’d offered her the paints. The confusion of someone who had received so little for so many years, she no longer knew how to respond to a gift.

The confusion of one who only knew what it was like to have what she loved taken away.

Feeling sick inside, Alastair halted at the street corner, mopping his face with a trembling hand. Had he been wrong all this time, wallowing in self-righteous indignation over her supposed betrayal?

Common sense rejected that conclusion, and yet... Like snow silently accumulating on a windowsill, the doubts that had begun creeping in to trouble his assumptions over what she’d done, and why, redoubled.

He had to know the truth.

Little by little, he promised himself as he resumed his walk, with a tenderness and concern she apparently had not been shown for years, he would coax her to tell it to him.

But before that, he’d need to get a pianoforte delivered to Green Park Buildings.


Chapter Eight (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

After a session before the mirror to restore her calm—only in the bedchamber could she permit herself any emotion—Diana arrived at the townhouse in Green Park Buildings. So great was her nervous anticipation she’d had to exercise great self-control not to arrive very early, so she might have time to position herself before Alastair arrived.

She’d filled some of the waiting time reading to James. During a walk down Milsom Street this morning, they found a picture book of soldiers. She’d enjoyed reading to him, and he seemed to like it, too. The interlude had been...pleasant. Perhaps she would be able to revive the tenderness she’d once felt for him.

Precisely at the agreed hour, she knocked at the door of Alastair’s townhouse. The same expressionless manservant—having been spied on by her husband’s retainers for so long, she was inured to expressionless servants—showed her into the parlour where, this time, Alastair waited to greet her.

Swallowing hard over a renewed attack of nerves, she made herself walk calmly over to him. He rose, and when he angled her chin up for a kiss, she let him.

Feathering her eyes closed, she opened herself to sensation. The soft pressure of his lips brushing against hers was gentle, sweet, and sensual, setting all the nerves of her mouth tingling. When he broke the kiss, she was disappointed—and eager for more.

‘I brought you a little something,’ he said with a smile, motioning across the room.

So preoccupied was she by this bold new venture of responsiveness, she’d noticed nothing in the chamber but Alastair. Following the direction of his hand, she uttered a gasp. ‘Alastair! That’s hardly “little”—it’s a pianoforte!’

He grinned at her, and a sharp stab of...something struck the barrier she’d erected to restrain her emotions, already shaken by his kindness in remembering how much she loved music. As he stood smiling, the harsh, cynical edge to his expression gone, he looked like the boyish young man she’d once given her heart to.

Good she was about to sweep all thought away with passion, else he might tempt her too much.

‘Play for me.’

‘I haven’t played in years!’ she protested. ‘I’d likely sour milk and set all the cats on the street to squalling.’

He chuckled. ‘I’ll risk it. If it’s been that long, all the more reason to begin again immediately. It’s like riding a horse—you never truly forget.’

‘Who told you that?’ she asked, swallowing a laugh. ‘Certainly no one who played well! Daily practice is essential to remain truly proficient.’

‘And you were wonderfully proficient. There might be a few cobwebs to brush off, but I wager that won’t take long. So, play for me...please.’

She wanted to refuse, get right to bedroom matters; straying on to the topic of music could bring the dangerous possibility of more prying. But even from across the room, she could tell the pianoforte was a beautiful instrument—trust Alastair to choose only the best. She’d missed music almost as much as she’d missed Alastair, the love for it, like her love for him, suppressed but never extinguished.

‘Very well,’ she capitulated. ‘But you might want to leave the room. I expect I shall be dreadful.’

He merely smiled and gestured towards the instrument. Eagerness bubbled out before she could restrain it as she ran her fingers experimentally along the keys. As the bright tones issued forth, her much-denied, atrophied heart gave a feeble pang.

And so she played, slowly at first, then faster, with more assurance. During her clandestine midnight forays at Graveston, before the instrument had been taken away, she’d memorised many of her favourite works, not wishing to risk leaving sheet music about. She found her fingers returning to one piece after another.

Soon she lost herself in the music. Time ceased to matter, and when the final movement ended and she lifted her hands from the keyboard, she wasn’t sure how long she’d been playing.

She looked around to see Alastair in a wing chair by the fire, wine glass in hand, watching her.

Contrition seized her. ‘I’m sorry. I...I lost track of the time. So sorry to keep you waiting.’

‘Not at all. That was lovely. I’ve missed hearing you play.’

He looked as surprised as she was by that remark. Not sure what to respond, she rose and came over to him. Now to put her plan into effect before he could initiate any more conversational delays.

‘You should have a reward for your patience.’ She leaned down to kiss him, her tongue outlining the edge of his lips.

With a murmur, he set down his glass, pulled her into his lap, and deepened the kiss. This time, she let herself respond to the warmth and heat of him, opening to him, fencing back as they tangled tongues, the soft moist heat stoking the passion rising within her.

She brought his hand to her breast, and he caressed her through the material of her gown and stays. Luscious sensation sparkled and shot through her body, setting off a throbbing at her centre as she envisaged how much more acutely she would feel his touch, once his clothes and hers were removed. Revelling in his caress, she rubbed herself against him.

He broke the kiss, his eyes blazing and his breathing unsteady. ‘Upstairs, now,’ he urged, setting her on her feet.

Before he led her off, she turned to him and tilted her mouth up for another kiss. When he obliged, sweeping his tongue in to possess hers, she wrapped an arm around him and inserted her other hand between their two bodies, massaging the hardness pressed against her.

‘More of that later,’ she promised, before taking his hand to tug him towards the door.

Wrapping an arm around her, he caressed her bottom as they walked up the stairs. Once in the bedchamber, she whirled around, offering him access to pins and tapes, which he dispensed of quickly, unpeeling her bodice and helping her step out of her gown. She lifted her hands to let him strip the chemise over her head and stood before him, clad only in garters and stockings.

He ran his gaze slowly over her, from chin to toes. ‘Lovely,’ he murmured.

Kissing him, she unfastened his trouser buttons and urged the garment down, then pushed him to sit back on the bed. As soon as he’d balanced there, she climbed on his lap, straddling him, then wrapped her legs around his back and guided herself down to enclose his swollen member.

Ah, how good he felt, slick hot steel caressing her inner chamber for all his length. Sighing, she leaned back, offering up her naked breasts. Cupping her bottom to secure her, he bent to them, rolling the hard nipples between his teeth, nipping and suckling.

The sensation was exquisite, every sweep of his tongue and nip of his teeth intensifying the throbbing pressure building deep within her, where his member stretched and pulled and teased. Feeling the urgent need for more movement, she began rocking into him, savouring the friction as she pulled almost free, then sank down on him again.

Pressure built and built, lifting her again towards the precipice she’d sensed the night before, driving her to intensify her efforts. If she could just force him deeper, rub against him harder...

Suddenly, in a rush of sensation unlike anything she’d ever experienced, the pressure released in a flow of tingling, throbbing delight. She felt she was soaring, flying above all pain and misery and memory, for long, brilliant minutes before settling softly back to earth.

Boneless, she sagged against Alastair, who simply held her, kissing the dampness of her forehead and her ears. His silence was just as well, for her scattered thoughts were too incoherent for speech.

‘Thank you,’ he whispered at last.

Surprised, her eyes started open. ‘Shouldn’t I be thanking you? Especially since...’ She rocked her hips around the still-hard member still inside her.

‘All in good time. Thank you for letting go, giving me the gift of your pleasure.’

‘Isn’t it time for you to give me the gift of yours?’

‘Gladly.’ He smiled against her lips before kissing her.

She wanted to finish undressing him, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Rising, still almost fully clad, he slid back to the pillows and lay back, holding her in place astride him.

‘What would please you most?’ she asked disjointedly, hardly able to formulate the sentence for the pressure of him moving inside her, creating little eddies of pleasure.

‘Watching you again, as you ride me. But first, this.’

He pulled her close, kissing her—throat, shoulders, silky skin of inner arms, down to her breasts. Though he’d pleasured them before, he began again, even more slowly, a meticulous caress of every surface, licking the pebbly nipples as he massaged the full softness.

By now, her core was throbbing again, too. Murmuring encouragement, he lay back, urging her to move on him. Balanced better on the bed, she could spread her knees wider and take him deeper still. The thrust of his hardness along the whole of her passage, from the depths to the tight nub at the peak, elicited a whole new range of sensations.

Faster and faster she moved, each stroke tightening the coil of pressure until at last, in a splendid blaze of pleasure, they flew over the crest together.

For a while afterwards, they both drifted in somnolent contentment. When at last she rose back to full consciousness, she found herself beside him, his arm wrapped around her, her head pillowed on his shoulder.

A wave of wonder and delight washed through her. How many times had she dreamed of waking like this?

And this time, she had no need to thrust away or bottle up the thought.

Instead, she nestled closer. ‘Must I go now?’

‘Go?’ he echoed. ‘Heavens, no, my sweet. We’ve just begun.’

Her eyes widened at that. ‘Just begun?’ she repeated cautiously.

Laughing, Alastair rolled out of the bed, swiftly stripped off his clothes, walked over to pour them a glass of wine and brought it back, while she admired his magnificent nakedness.

‘Here, drink up. We’ve hours yet.’

After taking a long sip, she let herself smile. ‘That’s excellent.’

He chuckled and took back the glass. ‘Let me show you how excellent,’ he murmured. Smoothing his hands down over her belly, he nudged her legs apart and moved his clever, wicked mouth to that needy place between her thighs.

* * *

Slowly Diana emerged from the heavy mantle of sleep, like a sea creature rising from the deep. Her body felt languid, replete with a humming satisfaction. When she finally forced her eyelids open, she saw a dearly beloved visage, smiling at her.

What marvellous dream was this? A sense of wonder escaping before she could cage it, she raised a hand to trace the face from forehead to lips. ‘Alastair?’ she whispered.

As if his name had evoked it, consciousness returned in a rush, accompanied by a paralysing stab of fear. ‘Alastair! You must—I must get away. At once! He mustn’t find us!’

As she frantically pulled at the bedclothes, desperate to flee, he stilled her hands. ‘Stop, Diana! It’s all right. Your husband is dead. He’ll never hurt you again.’

The room seemed to swirl around her dizzily. ‘He’s...gone?’ she repeated, trying to focus her muzzy senses.

‘Yes. He’s gone, and I’m here.’

She struggled to pull herself free from the iron grip of another world. After a moment of frantic concentration, reality began to fall into place. Graveston’s death. Coming to Bath. Meeting Alastair again. The bargain.

The luxuriant somnolence of her body clashed with the agitation of emotions still out of control. Responding to the imperative to reel them in, she pushed at the arm he’d wrapped around her.

‘Please, I need...I need to sit.’ Detaching herself, she slid away and off the bed, looking around wildly for the dressing table. Spying it in the corner, she hurried over, and heedless of her nakedness and his keen observing eyes, seated herself before the glass. The forehead of the face reflected back to her was creased with anxiety, the eyes feral.

With a trembling hand, she smoothed away the lines and began the ritual breathing. Long slow inhale, hold, hold, exhale. Applying every bit of mind and will, she forced back the anxiety and buried the panic, until finally the countenance staring back at her was expressionless and calm.

Only then did she turn to Alastair. He was still looking at her with concern—no wonder, after witnessing that performance! Better distract him quickly, before he could begin questioning.

‘I’m so sorry!’ She managed a smile. ‘I can’t recall when I last slept so deeply, I awoke with no idea where I was.’

Though his eyes still looked troubled, mercifully, he did not press her. ‘Passion satisfied can do that.’

She smiled in earnest. ‘What a wondrous gift! I had no idea such feelings existed. Thank you.’

‘I should point out, the gift was mutual. Thank you, too.’

Suddenly she noticed that, though the candles had guttered out, a dim light illuminated the chamber. Her relief at recalling that Graveston was gone and she was in Bath abruptly dissipated.

‘Goodness, what hour is it?’

‘Just past dawn.’

Shocked that she’d slept so long, Diana hopped off the bench and began gathering up her garments. ‘I must get back at once, before the servants begin to stir.’

‘I’ll summon you a chair.’

‘No, I’ll walk—it’s light enough now, someone might notice the chair.’

‘I appreciate your efforts at discretion, but it’s not yet full daylight and you shouldn’t be out on the streets alone,’ he countered. ‘I’ll escort you.’

‘What kind of discretion would that be? No, you mustn’t be seen by anyone in the house. The servants can’t be trusted not to gossip.’

With a sigh, he came over to help her. ‘I’m much better at removing these than putting them back on,’ he said as he fitted the gown over her chemise and began pinning. ‘Why so worried about gossip? I thought you’d brought with you only a few trusted retainers.’

She leaned back against him as he secured the garment. ‘All were hired here but Minnie, James’s nursemaid, and she’s loyal only to him. The servants at Graveston Court obeyed their master and no one else. Not that I blame them. Had any of them shown sympathy or allegiance to me, they would have been turned out at once without a character.’

‘So you truly had no one.’

Deciding, after a moment’s hesitation, to ignore the question, she sat to roll on her stockings and slip her feet into her slippers, then stood and twirled before him. ‘All put to rights, am I?’

‘Sadly, yes. I prefer you in the natural state.’

‘Wouldn’t give one much chance of slipping through the streets unnoticed, you must allow.’ Feeling somehow shyer now in her garments than she had while naked before him in the languid aftermath of loving, she glanced up as she tied on her cloak. ‘Will you...want me again tonight?’

The smouldering look he returned sent a little thrill through her. ‘You know I will.’

‘Then I shall be here.’ Stepping towards the door, she paused to look back over her shoulder. ‘Alastair, I—I really do thank you. Last night was...magnificent.’

A twinkle in his eyes, he walked over to capture her chin and give her a kiss, long and slow and full of promise. ‘Just wait until tonight.’

Warmth bubbled up, and this time, she didn’t try to stop it. ‘Tonight,’ she whispered, parting his lips to delve into his mouth and deliver her promise in return.

* * *

Maintaining her vigilance as she slipped through the empty streets, her only fellow travellers a few returning revellers and the last of the night-soil men rattling off with their carts, Diana arrived home to find the kitchen still dark but for the banked embers in the fireplace.

Grateful not to have to manufacture an excuse for appearing downstairs at so odd an hour, she padded softly up to the privacy of her chamber.

As long as she came and went alone, she didn’t worry too much about any gossip the staff might exchange about her movements. The servants had already been instructed that she planned to go out most evenings and would let herself back in, so except for the maid who assisted her with dressing, they need not wait up for her. Though she supposed that directive might be unusual, the permission to end their long day when they chose, without having their rest depend upon the vagaries of their employer’s social schedule, was attractive enough, none had questioned it.

Once safely within her chamber, Diana seated herself in the chair before her own banked chamber fire. In a moment, she’d strip off the cloak and lie down on her bed, telling the maid when she came later in that she’d been so weary after returning, she hadn’t bothered to ring for her. Now, for the next few moments, she could let down her guard and recall the events of the night.

How wonderful it had been to no longer fight against Alastair’s insidious attraction! How exciting to respond freely to his touch, to let passion sweep her away to a satisfaction more powerful and complete than she’d imagined possible. She’d suspected loving Alastair would be magical, but words couldn’t begin to describe the all-encompassing power and grandeur of it.

The warmth she’d felt earlier bubbled up again, expanding until it filled her with a sense of peace she hadn’t experienced since long ago, in that other life.

Home, safe, content, she slept, to awake later feeling energised. The well-being stayed with her through the morning and well into the afternoon. Until, returning from a walk to the park with James and Minnie, the maid informed her as she entered the house that a solicitor was waiting in the parlour to see her.


Chapter Nine (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Dread struck her like a fist to the gut. Surely Blankford couldn’t be moving against her this quickly! She’d expected it to take at least a fortnight for him to pack up and decamp to Graveston Court after the news of his father’s demise reached him, and some time after that for him to trace where she’d fled.

But she couldn’t imagine any other reason a solicitor would be asking for her, here in Bath, barely a week after her arrival.

Whoever it was, she must meet him now. With no more time to prepare, she didn’t have the luxury of panic. Pummelling down the fear, she told the maid to announce her.

The man who rose to greet her as she entered the parlour was the image of what one would expect of a peer’s solicitor: old, sober of demeanour, garbed in expensive, well-tailored but not ostentatious garments.

‘Good afternoon, Your Grace. I’m Feral, solicitor to Lord Blankford—the new Duke of Graveston, that is,’ he said, confirming her fears. ‘I’ve brought a letter from his Grace, vouching for my identity and authorising me to collect the boy.’

Though she knew exactly what he meant, she repeated blankly, ‘Collect the boy?’

‘Lord James Mannington, the late Duke’s son by his second marriage to you. The new Duke wishes the boy brought back to Graveston Court—where he can be reared as befits his station,’ he added, with a disparaging glance around the modest room.

Anger overlay the fear, sharpening every sense. Delay, expostulate, distract. She widened her eyes, gave him an incredulous look. ‘You’ve come to take away my son?’

The solicitor had the grace to look discomfited. ‘He’ll be well cared for, I assure—’

‘My husband dead barely a fortnight, and you want to strip me of my son?!’ she interrupted, letting her voice rise to a distraught crescendo. ‘No, I cannot bear it!’

Closing her eyes, Diana fell in a dramatic faint to the floor.

‘Your Grace!’ Feral exclaimed, looking down at her.

From her position on the carpet, Diana remained unresponsive. At length the solicitor grew more concerned and rang the bell to summon assistance.

The maid looked in, gasped and ran back off, then returned with the entire household staff. Several minutes passed as they bustled about, Annie chafing her hands while Cook waved a vinaigrette under her nose and Smithers, the manservant, helped the two females lift Diana off the floor.

During those minutes, she schemed furiously, examining and discarding several courses of action until she hit upon one with the greatest likelihood of success.

‘Some tea to restore you, my lady?’ Cook asked after she had been propped on the sofa.

‘Yes. And I suppose I must offer some to Mr Feral, even though he has come to take away my child.’

Diana doubted she’d earned much sympathy from the staff during her brief stay, but all of them were charmed by James, and the idea of stripping a boy from his mama did not sit well. Though none of the servants were ill trained enough to display overt hostility, the gazes they turned towards the solicitor were distinctly chilly.

‘As you wish, my lady,’ Cook said, returning to her domain.

‘Shall I remain until you have fully recovered?’ Annie asked, stationing herself protectively between Diana and her guest.

Her point made, and her visitor now looking distinctly uncomfortable—and as rattled as Diana had hoped—she said, ‘No, Annie, you may go. Nothing else Mr Feral says or does could wound me more than he already has.’

As soon as the servants exited, Feral turned to her with an exasperated look. ‘Indeed, Your Grace, that was hardly necessary! You’d think I was attempting to send the boy to a workhouse, rather than return him to a life of ease in the home of his birth!’

Pushing away from the pillows, she dropped the guise of distraught mother and switched to imperious aristocrat, a role which, after watching her husband, she could play to perfection.

‘How dare you, a solicitor, son of a tradesman no doubt, presume to tell me what to do?’ she cried. ‘My son remains with me.’

As she’d hoped, the change in demeanour took the solicitor by surprise. Years of serving an employer who would have tolerated nothing less than complete deference and absolute obedience had him stuttering an apology.

‘I meant no disrespect, Your Grace. But—’

‘But you thought you could simply march into this house, my retreat from grief, and order me about?’

That might have been a bit much, for the solicitor, his expression wary, said, ‘Though I have every appreciation for a widow’s grief, Your Grace, I must point out it was common knowledge that you and the late Duke...did not live harmoniously together.’

‘We did live together, however, which is more than can be said for my late husband and his heir, who, long before his father’s death, had broken off all relations between them. Yet now you have the effrontery to assure me that this man, who hasn’t set foot inside Graveston Court for years, who refused ever to speak to me, will take good care of my son?’

‘Surely you don’t mean to suggest the Duke would not treat the boy kindly!’ the solicitor objected.

She merely raised her eyebrows. ‘I believe he will treat Mannington—and everyone else—in whatever way he chooses. I have no intention of abandoning my son to the vagaries of his half-brother’s humours. Besides, there is no need for Mannington to be reared at Graveston; he’s not the new heir, or even the heir presumptive. Blankford married two years ago, I’m told, and already has a son and heir.’

‘The existence of an heir has no bearing on the Duke’s wish that his half-brother be raised in a ducal establishment.’

‘Even if Mannington were the heir,’ she continued, ignoring him, ‘until he’s old enough to be sent to school, a child should remain with his mother.’

‘If a case for custody were brought forward, the Court of Chancery would likely decide in favour of the Duke,’ the solicitor shot back, obviously already prepared for that argument.

Before she could put forth any more objections, he said in a softer tone, ‘Your Grace, though I sympathise with a mother’s eagerness to hold on to her child, you might as well resign yourself. As you should know from association with your late husband, when a Duke of Graveston desires something, he gets it.’

Nothing he could have said would have enraged her more. Welcoming a fury that helped her submerge a desperation too close to the surface, she snapped, ‘He will not get my son. I fear you’ve made a long journey to no purpose. Good day to you, Mr Feral.’

Before he could respond, Diana rose and swept from the room.

* * *

Her heart thudding in her chest, Diana instructed Smithers—who’d been loitering outside the door—to escort the visitor out, then paused in the doorway to the kitchens, concealed by the overhanging stairs.

As theatre, it had been an adequate performance, but would it be enough? Would Feral leave, or charge up to the nursery and attempt to remove Mannington by force?

If it came to that, she hoped the staff would assist her, though she wasn’t sure she could count on them.

To her relief, a few moments later, Mr Feral, his manner distinctly aggrieved, exited the parlour and paced to the front door, trailed closely by Smithers.

Light-headed with a relief that made her dizzy, she sagged back against the door frame. The first skirmish went to her, but she knew that small victory had won her only a brief respite. At worst, after pondering the matter, Mr Feral might well return and try to carry out Blankford’s order by force. Even in the best case—Feral electing to leave her alone and return to the Duke for further instructions—within a week or so she’d face a renewed assault.

Surely Fate wouldn’t be so cruel as to strip James from her now, as she was just beginning to know him again! No, she simply must find some way to prevent it.

Blankford would be furious that she hadn’t capitulated to his demand, and was sure to summon every tool of law and influence to exact his will in the next round.

If it did come to that, would a Court of Chancery uphold her right to keep James until he went to university? She had no idea what provisions her husband had made for his second son in the event of his death. Although Blankford had received the title, all the entailed land and the bulk of the assets of the estate, there had probably been something left for James, with trustees named to oversee the assets until he came of age. Her legal position would be weaker still if Blankford had been named one of those trustees—though given the bitterness of the break between her husband and his heir, she doubted the Duke would have appointed him as one.

If Blankford were not a trustee, would that make retaining custody of James easier? She scanned her mind, trying to dredge up what little she knew about how the affairs of wealthy minors were settled under law. But she quickly abandoned the effort. A mere woman, she’d never be allowed to argue the case anyway. She’d chosen Bath over London as her refuge not only because she could live here more cheaply, but also because, as a town still frequented by the fashionable, she might find a solicitor skilled and clever enough to outwit a duke.

The unexpected appearance of Alastair Ransleigh had deflected her from setting out to find such a person as soon as they had settled in. She’d have to begin the search at once, and to hire the best, she’d need additional funds.

However, much as she’d tried to prepare herself for this eventuality, she couldn’t repress a shiver as she assessed the odds against her.

You really think you can defeat the Duke? a mocking little voice whispered in her ear. The panic she’d controlled during the interview with the lawyer bubbled up, threatening to escape.

She gave herself a mental shake. No, she would not think about losing James...Graveston’s son, yes, but hers, too. That way lay madness. With a control perfected through long bitter years, she forced her mind instead back to planning.

She’d obtain funds, consult a lawyer of her own, and find some way to block the Duke’s access to James. Thank heavens, tonight she would see Alastair. Perhaps the peace she’d found in his arms last night might ease, for a few hours at least, the fear that still tightened her chest and laboured her breathing.

She simply couldn’t give in to it. Once again, she had someone to protect. Whatever it took, she intended that this time, the Duke of Graveston would not have his way.

* * *

Meanwhile, Alastair had spent most of the day at Green Park Buildings. After Diana’s departure, he’d silently trailed her as she traversed empty dawn streets just stirring to life. Satisfied that she’d made it safely back to her lodgings, he’d returned to the little townhouse ravenous, downed a hefty breakfast of sirloin and ale, then retreated back to the bedchamber they’d shared to refresh himself after a night of great delight and little sleep.

Dust motes danced in the afternoon sunlight when he awoke later. An enormous sense of well-being pervading him, he stretched lazily, running through his mind several of the delicious episodes from last night’s loving.

Diana moving under him, over him, pulling his face to her breasts, crying out as he thrust into her, had been intoxicating beyond his wildest imagining. As he’d sensed the first time he touched her, the woman she’d become more than fulfilled the promise of passion in the girl he’d once loved.

Perhaps desire would diminish over time, but thus far, each meeting with her left him more enchanted. The mere thought of touching her, kissing her, tasting her was so arousing he could scarcely wait until evening. Already he was hard and aching, needy and impatient.

But it was more than just the rapture of the physical. When she awakened beside him, rosy with sleep and satisfaction, the unguarded expression of joy and wonder as she recognised him had pierced the barrier he’d erected to armour himself against her and gone straight to the heart. The awe and tenderness with which she’d traced his face and whispered his name had weakened still further the barricades restraining the tender feelings for her that, unable to fully exterminate, he’d buried deep.

She’d gazed at him as if he were her most precious dream.

As she had once been his.

His euphoria dimmed a bit. Allowing her to touch his emotions again wasn’t wise and could end badly. He’d entered this affair to purge himself of her, not to fall under the spell of a woman much more complex than the straightforward lass he’d loved. The mere thought of the devastation he’d suffered when she’d abandoned him all those years ago made him suck in a painful breath.

Well, it wouldn’t come to that—not this time. He might want to penetrate all her secrets, but he’d not risk his heart imagining they had a future.

And what of her secrets? ‘I’m not the girl I once was,’ she had told him.

That much was certainly true. She was instead a woman who had, he was reluctantly beginning to believe, suffered isolation, hardship and abuse. If he fully accepted the truth of her account, she’d endured all that to protect her father—and him.

He recalled how frantic she’d become at the thought of the danger their being together placed him in, before he convinced her that her husband was dead.

Then there was that odd ritual at the mirror, during which, she fought her way from distress back to calm.

Alone.

So you had no one, the comment came back to him—a statement she’d neither affirmed nor denied. He recalled Lady Randolph’s description of how she’d been isolated from all her former friends.

Isolated, abused—but defiant.

Pity and admiration filled him in equal measure. And despite the danger of letting her touch his emotions, he couldn’t beat back the warmth he’d felt at seeing her glow of contentment when she’d awakened in his arms. Couldn’t help the need building within him to penetrate the impassive mask and bring that expression to her face again, in the full light of day.

He couldn’t give her back the eight years she’d lost, erase the suffering she’d endured, or resurrect the innocent, carefree girl she’d once been. But before they parted, he vowed to do whatever he could to convince her she was truly free to take up all the activities she’d been denied—painting, reading, music—and embrace life fully.

As he thought of that future, a small voice deep within whispered that she must share that new life with him.

Ruthlessly, he silenced it.

He was no longer a starry-eyed young man, confident that the future would arrange itself as he wished. In the dangerous matter of Diana, he would move one cautious step at a time, holding the reins on his feelings with as tight a grip as he could manage.

He’d need that knack immediately, for it was past time for him to return to Jane’s. Though he had the run of his sister’s house and might come and go as he pleased, his absence for an entire day would not have gone unnoticed. The all-too-observant Jane would be curious where he’d been, and he’d have to manufacture an unreadable expression to prevent her from teasing out of him that he was seeing Diana again.

The mere thought of the storm of scolding and possible hysterics that admission would unleash made him shudder.

It would be more prudent to time his return for when his sister was occupied with other matters. Though he did appreciate her genuine concern for his welfare, the matter of Diana was too complicated—and Jane’s animosity towards Diana too deep—to be quickly and easily explained.

He hadn’t yet brought Jane a hostess gift. Perhaps he’d stop by the jewellers and pick up a trinket to surprise her—and hopefully distract her from any pointed questioning over the curious absences of her brother.


Chapter Ten (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Accordingly, an hour later, after a brief stop to bathe and change at the Crescent, Alastair was strolling down Bond Street, bound for the jeweller recommended by his sister’s butler. Jane loved flowers; an intricate silver vase or epergne for her table should delight her enough to give him a few days’ grace from scrutiny.

Just as he turned the corner, a woman exited the shop. The black cape that swathed her, hiding her face under the overhanging hood, instantly recalled Diana and the delights they had recently shared. He was smiling at the memory when, an instant later, something about the retreating figure made him realise the woman was, in fact, Diana.

A shockingly intense gladness filling him, Alastair set off after her. But by the time he reached the corner, the lady had disappeared. With a disappointed sigh, he turned back towards the shop.

Just as well he’d missed her. Anything he said or did with her on a public street would set tongues wagging. Though he didn’t think he was known to any of the pedestrians now passing by him, he’d not noticed any acquaintances in the park the first day he met Diana, either, and word of that encounter had begun circulating immediately.

Besides, he’d rather savour seeing her tonight, when he could undress her, caress by caress. Warmed by that thought, he entered the jeweller’s establishment.

Taking one look at him, the junior clerk who greeted him sent at once for the owner. Though he tried to extinguish his curiosity, after that gentleman had shown him several fine silver pieces, one of which he selected for his sister, he couldn’t help asking casually whether the lady who’d just left the shop had purchased something similar, so beautifully wrought were the vases.

‘I’m afraid she was selling, rather than buying,’ the owner replied with a sigh—before his eyes lit. ‘I bought from her a particularly nice pearl necklace. Truly, the piece is so fine, I don’t think I’ll have it for long. A vase is a charming gift, but ladies often prefer a more...personal item. Might your sister be interested in such a necklace?’

Jane might not, but Alastair certainly was. ‘Please, do show it to me,’ he replied, his curiosity tweaked even further.

Why would Diana be selling jewellery? Whatever the reason, he knew at once he would buy the necklace back.

Beaming, the jeweller disappeared, returning a moment later with a long double-twisted strand of perfectly matched pearls.

For a moment, shock displaced curiosity, as Alastair recognised the necklace. One of the few mementos Diana had of her mother, who’d died giving her birth, the pearls had been a gift to her from her father on her sixteenth birthday. She’d mentioned several times how special it was to her. He couldn’t imagine why she would part with it.

Glad he’d encountered the jeweller before the piece had been shown to some other customer, he said, ‘You are right. It’s exquisite. I shall take that, too.’

Purchases completed, he picked up the wrapped parcel containing the vase and tucked the velvet case with the pearls in his pocket. He’d give Jane the vase just before guests arrived for dinner, leaving them only a short time for conversation, then slip away when her party left for the theatre.

Already impatient to see Diana again, he was now even more eager for the day to fade into evening. He’d present her with the pearls immediately—and try to discover what circumstance could possibly have induced her to part with something that held such dear memories of her long-dead mother.

* * *

Alastair arrived at the rendezvous even earlier than the previous nights, then paced the parlour until Diana arrived. Though he’d intended to return the pearls to her immediately, the intensity of the kiss she gave him in greeting fired his simmering desire at once to irresistible need. Almost ravenous enough to take her right then and there, he restrained himself, barely, hurrying her to the bedchamber moments after she stepped in the door.

She seemed as ravenous as he was, kissing him urgently while she tugged at his neckcloth and made short work of the buttons of his trouser flap. Pushing him back to sit on the bed, she lifted her skirts and straddled him, guided him deep and rocked against him, driving them both to their peak within moments.

The next loving was nearly as swift, clothing scattered as it was removed in haste. Then after another, languid cherishing they both drifted into the sleep of the satiated.

* * *

Awaking sometime later with Diana tucked in his arms, Alastair smiled as he surveyed the chamber: candles burned low in their sconces, her gown tossed on the back of a chair, her stockings on the bedside table, his neckcloth flung into a corner. Sated for now, he knew that after they consumed the cold collation he’d had set out for them, he’d want her again.

He couldn’t seem to get enough of her. Underlying desire, this odd sense of impending loss throbbed in his head like a ticking clock, as if the hours they had together would be limited this time, as they had been before, by some malevolent fate.

Nonsense, he told himself, shaking off the feeling. Eight years ago, they had both been young, still susceptible to the demands of Society and dependent upon others for their support. With him the master of his own estate, she a widow, they now controlled their own destinies, alone and together.

At that encouraging thought, Diana stirred in his arms. Waking, she opened sleepy blue eyes—those beautiful, mesmerising, intense blue eyes—and smiled at him.

Ignoring the wise intention to proceed with caution, his heart leapt with gladness.

Placing a kiss on her forehead, he eased her up against the pillows. ‘I’m famished. There’s refreshment in the next room.’

He wrapped her in his banyan, donned another, and escorted her to the sitting room, where a fire glowed on the hearth and a simple meal awaited. Though she sipped her wine and accepted bread and cheese, something in the set of her body and the guarded expression of her face suggested an underlying tension.

In a rush, he remembered the necklace. She might well be troubled by whatever had made her part with that once-cherished memento.

‘I’ve got something for you,’ he said, hopping up to find his breeches and extract the velvet pouch from the pocket.

‘What, more gifts? You really don’t have to get me things.’

‘I like to get you things—especially when you have such delightful ways of appreciating them.’

‘Ever calculating,’ she said with a smile. ‘Ingenious Alastair.’

His mouth dried and for a moment, he couldn’t speak. Ingenious Alastair... Diana had coined the nickname, and taken up by his cousins, it had stuck.

It was only one of those she’d devised, her favourite in the game they played, he praising her in verse, she describing him in different moods and circumstances: Adulating Alastair, Adamant Alastair, Eccentric Alastair. He’d joked that she would run out of adjectives, and she’d assured him she had an endless trove of them, enough to last all the years they’d spend together.

He refocused his gaze on Diana. From the stark expression on her face, he knew she was remembering, too—the lost years, the unrealised promise.

‘I’ve brought you something,’ he repeated, breaking the mood. He held out the pouch.

Uncertain—the wounded look still in her eyes—she took it from him and extracted the pearls. Colour came and went in her cheeks before she looked back up at him. ‘How did you get these?’

‘I happened to stop by the jeweller right after he purchased them. Thinking me a likely customer, he showed them to me. I knew at once they must be yours, and bought them back. Why on earth would you sell your mother’s pearls?’

The subtle agitation he’d noticed in her earlier intensified. At first he thought she’d simply refuse to answer, but after obvious struggle, she said, ‘I was short of funds. I must consult a solicitor about a matter I’d hoped to delay until...until later, but changing circumstances make the need to settle it urgent.’

‘Short of funds?’ he tossed back, his tone sharpened by a bitterness he’d not quite mastered. ‘I find it hard to believe a duke’s widow would be less than amply provided for. Graveston was exceedingly wealthy. I should think the settlements would have left you very well off.’

She shook her head. ‘In the haste of the wedding, I don’t believe settlements were ever drawn up.’

Alastair frowned. ‘It would have been exceedingly careless of your father to neglect doing that.’

‘You must remember, the Duke possessed a large number of my father’s vowels. If the Duke assured him settlements were unnecessary, he was not in a position to press the issue.’

‘In the absence of settlements, you’re still entitled to the dower. Though much of the estate, like my own, is probably tied up in land, your right to a third of it should provide more than sufficient funds to meet whatever needs you have.’

‘Perhaps. Except for the fact that the new Duke despises me. Any claims I might make against the estate, whether entitled to them or not, he would do his utmost to disapprove or delay. And I can’t afford to delay.’

‘What is it you must do that is so imperative, you would sell your mother’s pearls to accomplish it?’

She opened her lips, closed them. With short, jerky movements, she set down her wine glass and leapt up. ‘I...I must go. It’s late, and I cannot stay the night this time.’

Everything about her radiated distress. His concern intensifying, Alastair caught her arm. ‘What is it, Diana? You can tell me. Surely you know I wouldn’t break a confidence.’

Eyes wide, she stared up at him, her breathing quickening, then cast a glance through the open door, towards the dressing table.

‘Talk to me,’ Alastair urged, following the direction of her gaze. ‘I think I can be at least as much help as a mirror.’

She snapped her gaze back to him and pulled her arm free. ‘You don’t understand! I...I can’t talk to you. I can’t confide in anyone. I don’t know how any more.’

‘We used to talk easily, about everything. We can do so again. Won’t you trust me?’

The urgency of her expression became tinged with sadness. ‘Even if I could, you won’t be here for long. Why should you? This...trouble has nothing to do with you. I’ll have to face it alone. I should prepare for it alone. After all, I’ve had years of practice.’

For a moment, he had nothing to reply. She was right; he hadn’t planned for this to be more than a temporary liaison, initially one restricted only to the physical. He’d not yet resolved the conflicting desires pulling at him to embrace her, or to escape before she drew him in more deeply.

‘That may be so,’ he said at last. ‘But you’re no longer forced to be alone. You can fashion a life for yourself now, the life you want, with friends and allies and advocates. There’s no danger to them any more for helping you. If you’re going to be confronting the Duke, you’ll need allies.’

In her face, he could read the hesitation, the conflict between the urge to speak and the habit of withdrawal. Pressing, he continued, ‘If there’s something threatening you, a friend would want to help.’

Her eyes widened, and he knew he’d scored a hit.

‘A threat. Yes.’ She took a shuddering breath. ‘You are right. When battling a duke, one should enlist all the allies one can muster.’

‘So tell me.’

To his intense satisfaction, at length, she nodded. ‘Very well. There is a threat—but not to me.’

Anxious to have her begin before she changed her mind and fled, he urged her back to her seat. ‘What sort of threat?’ he prompted, pouring more wine and handing it to her.

‘Blankford’s—the new Duke’s—solicitor called on me today. I’m not sure how he traced me so quickly, but I anticipated the demand. He wants to take my son back to live at Graveston Court.’

‘Were you not planning to return at some point to the Dower House at Graveston anyway?’

A look of revulsion passing over her face, she shook her head. ‘I’ll never willingly set foot on the estate again. Nor do I want my son there. I’ve told you how the Duke coerced me into wedding him. His heir was raised with the same beliefs—that he possesses ultimate power and the right to do whatever he pleases with it, heedless of the desires of anyone else. Even if I didn’t fear for James, I wouldn’t want my son reared under the influence of such a man.’

Alastair raised an eyebrow. ‘Fear for him? Is he frail?’

‘No, but he might be in danger. You may remember I told you that when Graveston—the late Duke—first paid me attention, his wife was still living. Before I could become too uncomfortable with his unusual regard, it ceased, and he struck up a friendship with Papa. Guileless as he was, Papa welcomed anyone who seemed interested in the botanical studies that consumed him. Within the year, the Duke’s wife died and, using the debts Papa had accumulated, he forced me to wed him.’

A frown on her forehead, Diana leapt up and began to pace, as if the agitation within was too strong for her to remain still. ‘I was...rather oblivious of my surroundings after being brought to Graveston Court, only dimly aware of the quarrels between my husband and his heir. Blankford had not previously acknowledged my existence or exchanged a word with me, but the day he broke with his father and left Graveston for good, he tracked me down in the garden. He accused me of having bewitched the Duke, obsessing him so that he drove his first wife to her death and lost interest in his only son and heir. He warned me that he’d outlive his father, and when he inherited, he would exact vengeance for himself and his mother.’

‘Troubling words, but he was younger then, hot-headed as young men often are. Are you sure he still bears such enmity?’

‘He is his father’s son. In the coldness of his absolute will, Graveston spent almost a year setting up the trap to force me to wed. Blankford would be fully capable of nurturing his hatred for five years. He wants to deny me access to James to punish me, of course. But why would he have any interest in nurturing the son of the woman he holds responsible for the death of his mother and the break with his father? I cannot trust his intentions.’

‘You really believe he might harm the boy? I have to say, that seems...excessive.’

‘So was Graveston’s poisoning my dog and threatening to ruin my father,’ she flashed back. ‘For men of their stamp, the lives of others are of no importance. Only their will matters.’

Alastair still thought it highly unlikely the new Duke, however arrogant and wilful, would go so far as to harm a child. But quite obviously, Diana believed it. And that was enough for him.

‘I sold the pearls, the most valuable of the jewels I possess, to obtain funds to hire the best solicitor I can find,’ she continued. ‘One who can build a case for retaining custody of James that will prevail against the Duke’s claim in a Court of Chancery.’

‘Preparing such a case is likely to be a lengthy endeavour—which will cost you far more than the value of a string of pearls. I already have an excellent solicitor on retainer. Why not let him look into it? As you already admitted, if you contest the Duke on this, he’ll likely do everything legally possible to delay or tie up whatever you’re entitled to as dower, so you need to conserve the assets you have with you. Unless you have substantial cash reserves on hand?’

‘I wouldn’t have sold the necklace if that were so,’ she admitted.

‘Then let me find out what I can,’ he urged.

She frowned. ‘As much as I appreciate your offer, I...I really ought not to accept it. The battle will likely be ugly as well as expensive. The Duke will not forgive anyone who takes my part, and I don’t want you dragged into it.’

‘I’m not a callow collegian any more, Diana. I can hold my own. Besides, you need to utilise every resource you can muster to protect your son.’

‘To protect James,’ she repeated with a sigh. ‘Very well, let your solicitor look into it. I’ve been a poor enough mother thus far, I cannot afford to turn away help, hard as it is to accept.’

‘You, a poor mother? That, I can’t imagine.’

She laughed shortly. ‘Do you remember the paints? The books? The music? Everything that might affect me was utilised by the Duke to try to force a reaction or keep me under control. A child was just one more tool. The only way to protect him was to be indifferent to him...whatever the Duke said or threatened.’

Her voice faded. ‘To my shame, as the years went on, I didn’t have to struggle so hard to be indifferent. Not nearly as hard as I should have. Every time I looked at James, I saw...his father.’

‘Truly? I knew the first time I saw him that he must be your son. He has your eyes.’

Startled, Diana looked back up at him. ‘You think he has...something of me?’

‘Absolutely! Have you never noticed?’

She shook her head. ‘I am trying to do better, now that I can. But after years forcing down and bottling up and restraining emotion, I...I’m afraid I’ll never find my way back to loving him.’

Alastair thought of how he doted upon his nephew, how easy and affectionate the relationship was between Robbie and Jane. A pang of compassion shook him, that the honest, open, loving Diana he’d known could have been brought to shut out her own son.

The late Duke of Graveston had much to answer for.

‘Just let him love you,’ he said, thinking of how Robbie had inveigled himself into Alastair’s heart. ‘In time, you will find yourself responding.’

Diana smiled sadly. ‘I hope so. Now I really must go. How long do you think it will take for your solicitor to have an answer? If Feral—Graveston’s man—left Bath today, he could reach the Court by week’s end. Which means Graveston could make some new demand within a fortnight, if not sooner.’

‘I could summon Reynolds, but it would be faster for me to call upon him in London. If I leave tomorrow, I should be able to return with some word in six or seven days, so you have time to prepare before the Duke can make another move.’

She nodded. ‘I would like that.’ Swallowing hard, she said softly, ‘How can I thank you? Or ever repay you?’

‘Protecting a child is payment enough. As for thanks...’ He gave her a wicked grin. ‘When I return from London, I’m sure I can think of something.’

She managed a wan smile. While normally he would have tried to persuade her to stay longer, now that he was aware of the worry consuming her over the safety of her son, he made no attempt to seduce as he helped her track down and slip on her garments. When she was clothed again, her hair tidied as best they could manage and the concealing cloak in place, he pulled her close. To his delight, after a moment of hesitation, she clung to him.

Though he didn’t regret his offer to go to London, it meant probably a week or more until he would see her again. Already he felt bereft, and with her pressed against him, his body protested the abstinence about to be forced upon it.

‘Try not to worry too much,’ he told her as he released her at last.

‘I’ll try. I’ll try with James, too.’

He kissed the tip of her nose, still reluctant to let her go. ‘I’ll miss you,’ he admitted.

‘Then come back quickly.’

With that, she walked from the room.

* * *

Alastair followed her through the bedchamber to the stairs, listening to the soft footfalls as she descended and the murmur of voices in the entry below where Marston, as previously arranged, waited to engage a chair to carry her safely home.

Once the last echoes faded, he returned to the sitting room, threw himself in a chair, poured another glass of wine, and reviewed what he’d just committed himself to doing.

It did not represent him easing the reins restraining his feelings, he assured the cautious voice in his head. Any man of honour would step in to assure the safety of a child.

It did indicate, however, that sometime over the course of their renewed association, he had come to accept as true the explanation she’d given him for breaking their engagement to marry the Duke.

Drawing back from considering the full implications of that transformation, he turned his mind instead to considering what Diana had told him about her relationship with the new Duke and her fears for her son’s safety.

Though he still thought Diana’s long, bitter association with her husband and his heir caused her to exaggerate the son’s ruthlessness and enmity, he had to admit he was curious how well she’d been provided for. If there truly were no settlements outlining the exact arrangements for her support if widowed, it represented a grievous failure of his responsibilities on the part of her father.

But it was also true that the professor had been a completely unworldly man, a scholar absorbed in his studies. If he had come to view the Duke as a friend and colleague, he might well have been satisfied with just a verbal assurance that his daughter would be well taken care of in the event of her husband’s demise. Particularly as, in the absence of some formal agreement, she would have the dower to a very wealthy estate.

He’d have to confer with his solicitor on this matter, but he didn’t see how the new Duke could deny rights guaranteed under English law. He had to admit, though, that being entitled to something and effectively claiming it could be quite different matters, especially if a personage with the power and resources of a duke set his mind to making it as time-consuming and difficult as possible.

But all of that was for his legal counsel to discover. What warmed him now, as much as the satisfaction of his well-pleasured body, was the fact that he’d managed to persuade Diana to confide in him.

Since encountering her again, he’d been accumulating evidence in mites and snippets of what her married life had been: her at first rejected account of her marriage, the episodes described by Lady Randolph, the information he’d teased out of her about the removal of her paints and books. But aside from that single moment upon awakening yesterday, when she’d looked at him with awe and tenderness, she’d maintained emotionally aloof.

Regrettable as it was that she’d found herself in such a vulnerable position, Alastair had to admit he was almost—glad of it. Without such an imminent threat to her son, she might have continued keeping him at arm’s length indefinitely.

Instead, with some persistence, tonight he’d managed to breach the wall of impassivity she’d erected to disguise her thoughts and feelings, giving him the clearest-yet glimpse into her life. It wrung his heart to realise how difficult it had been for her to force herself to reach out to him, emphasising even further how isolated and alone she’d become.

Still, the concern, independence and initiative she’d exhibited in seeking to shelter her child not only called out his strongest protective instincts, they also gave him enticing glimpses of the girl he’d once known, now more mature, stronger and seasoned by the loss and suffering she’d survived.

Having disarmed her defences to the point of eliciting those revelations, he was more determined than ever to complete the job. To release the Diana still not free of the mask, persuade her it was now safe to step out of isolation and encourage her to claim the life that awaited her.

Only after he’d arranged for her and her son’s protection and coaxed her out of the shadows, would he turn his attention to their possible future. And decide whether to try winning her anew, or let her go before it was too late for him to walk away.


Chapter Eleven (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Several days after Alastair’s departure, Diana restlessly paced her parlour. Rain had kept her from a walk with James this morning, and with the resulting mud and wet, it was probably best not to attempt to walk this afternoon.

She was finding it harder and harder to force down her worry, bottle up concern over the future, and present an impassive face to the staff. Even sessions before the mirror were failing her.

Would talking with Alastair again help? She’d felt calmer after returning from their last rendezvous. She told herself it was not missing him that further complicated her tangle of thoughts.

He certainly had been effective at stirring up her feelings. Which meant it would be better to avoid him, once he ended their bargain. Since she’d started seeing him, dribs and drabs of emotion had been leaching out, each leak further weakening the dykes she’d erected to contain them.

Perhaps one day she would be able to ease those restraints, release the anguish and the memories in slow, manageable bits and at length, be free of them.

But now was not that time.

She’d thought if she relaxed just enough to permit Alastair to reach her physically, she’d be able to distract him with passion and escape more intense scrutiny.

Instead, after only two meetings, he’d managed to unearth her most shameful secret and her deepest worry.

In her defence, only the imperative to do whatever she could to protect James had pushed her to reveal the situation. In the wake of that confession, she’d careened from horror that she’d divulged the dilemma to him, shame over admitting her failings with her son, and relief that she would not have to contest the Duke alone. Embracing Alastair without reservation before she left him, she’d felt...safe. That concerned her.

It had been wise to elicit the aid of anyone willing to help her in her battle with the Duke—that much she owed to James. But to assume that Alastair Ransleigh or anyone else would stand by her was foolish. Not only foolish, it put James’s safety at risk to depend upon support that could disappear as unexpectedly as the whim to offer it.

Alastair hadn’t denied it when she’d stated that he’d only be around a short time. He’d pledged to have a solicitor spell out the legal parameters of the threat she faced. She could not expect him, nor had he offered, to involve himself beyond that point. She must prepare herself to enter the struggle and deal with its consequences alone.

She began to consider what she would do if the solicitor returned an unfavourable assessment of her ability to retain custody of James.

Allowing him to go to Graveston was out of the question. She would flee England before she’d permit that. With the war finally over, they might be able to settle in some small rural village in France. Her French was impeccable—Papa had seen to that; she could give lessons in English, piano, watercolours.

Except how was she to obtain a position without references? The amounts she could obtain from selling her few remaining jewels would support them for a time, but even in the depressed economy of a war-ravaged area, they wouldn’t be able to live on them for ever.

She had no other assets besides that small store of jewellery, inherited from her father’s mother. Not grand enough that the Duke had permitted her to wear any of it, nor valuable enough for him to bother selling the pieces, she’d been able to secrete them away. She’d left all of the ornate and valuable jewels presented to her by the Duke at Graveston Court, wanting nothing that reminded her of her life as Graveston’s Duchess.

What would she do if they exhausted her small store of assets?

Coming up with no answers, exasperated with pacing, she decided to go visit James. She felt a slight smile curving her lips. As Alastair had predicted, her son was always glad to see her.

‘Let him love you,’ Alastair had advised. She’d been trying that, not forcing her emotions, simply chatting with him, asking about his interests and responding to his answers.

He particularly loved getting outdoors, but that wasn’t wise today. Suddenly, she remembered something else she might try. The morning after Alastair had given her back the pearls, a package arrived containing the box of watercolours and the sketchbook she’d told him to return. Not knowing from which establishment he’d obtained them, she had kept them.

On impulse, she gathered the supplies from her wardrobe and continued to the nursery.

As she entered, James was listlessly pushing a soldier around on the floor before the hearth, a picture of boredom. When he turned to see her, his small face lit up and he jumped to his feet. At that expression of gladness, Diana felt herself warm.

‘Mama! Can we go to the park? It’s not raining any more.’

‘That’s true, but I fear it is still very wet.’ Giving the nursemaid a nod, she walked over to seat herself at the table before the fire, setting down the package. James hurried over to perch on the bench beside her. ‘Just think how cross Minnie would be if she had to soak out of your breeches all the dirt you would surely get on them, jumping in and out of puddles.’

His face fell. ‘I promise I won’t go in puddles.’

He looked so earnest, she had to laugh. ‘I know you would try to be good, but heavens, how could anyone resist discovering how deep the puddles are, or seeing how high the water splashes when one jumps in them? I know I cannot, and Annie would be even crosser than Minnie if she had to press the mud out of my skirts. No, I’ve brought something else for us.’

His crestfallen look dissolved in curiosity. ‘In that package? May I open it?’

‘You may.’

He made quick work of the wrappings, unlatched the box and drew out a brush. ‘How soft it is!’ he exclaimed, drawing the bristles across his hand. ‘It’s awfully little for scrubbing, though.’

‘It’s not for scrubbing. It’s for painting. Those little dishes contain watercolours. Minnie, would you pour some water in that bowl and get James something he can use as a smock? A nightshirt will do.’

Though it had been years since she’d prepared paints, she fell back into the familiar pattern immediately, blending into the dishes some of the paint with water from the bowl brought by the nursery maid. By the time the girl had James’s nightshirt over his head to protect his clothing, Diana had half-a-dozen colours prepared for his inspection.

‘Which colours do you like the best?’

‘Red and blue,’ he pointed out promptly. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We decide what we want to paint.’

James looked around quickly. ‘My soldier!’

‘Good choice. Let’s sit him on the table so we can see him better. First, we’ll make an outline of his body, then fill in with the colours.’

She showed James how to dip his brush in the paint, then stroke the brush across the sketchpad. She expected that after a few minutes of meticulous work he would get bored with the process, but he did not, continuing with rapt attention under her direction and suggestions until he’d completed a creditable soldier in a bright-red coat and blue trousers.

‘That’s very good!’ she said approvingly, surprised that it was true. Even more surprised that, with his head bent and a rapt expression on his face, James reminded her of her father, recording in deft brushstrokes the details of one of the plants he’d discovered.

Another wash of heat warmed her within. Perhaps Alastair was right. Perhaps there was more of her—and her father—in the boy than she’d thought.

Vastly pleased with his work, James was delighted when she set it above the mantel. ‘There, you’ll be able to see it from your bed and admire it as you eat your supper.’

‘Look at my painting, Minnie!’ he cried to the nurse, who, to Diana’s mild amusement, hovered nearby whenever Diana visited her son. Though the girl seemed to have somewhat relaxed her vigilance, Diana sensed Minnie still didn’t entirely trust her mistress’s sudden, unprecedented interest in her charge.

‘That’s wonderful fine, young master,’ the maid answered, a deep affection in her tone. ‘A right handsome soldier you’ve drawn.’

‘Mama, will you make one, too?’

‘If it would please you.’

‘Oh, yes! I’d love having something from you, something to keep.’

The artless words pricked her again, reminding her how little she’d offered her son since she’d forced herself to turn away from him as a toddler. True, she’d had a compelling reason for withdrawing from him—but no more. Silently she renewed her vow to do better.

‘What kind of picture do you want?’

‘Another soldier.’

‘Very well.’ Taking the brush from him, she deftly created a replica of the toy soldier. James looked over her shoulder as she painted, seeming entirely absorbed.

When she finished, he gave a little sigh of awe. ‘Oh, Mama, that’s wonderful! He looks just like my soldier. Will you put him on the mantel next to mine, so they can keep each other company?’

‘Of course.’

After she’d arranged the two pictures side by side and stepped back, James clapped his hands with delight. ‘It’s like having more soldiers for my army! Only maybe better, ’cause you and me made them together. Thank you, Mama!’

Jumping up, he ran over and wrapped his arms around her.

Still not accustomed to hugs, she started—then slowly wrapped her arms around him as well. From deep within, an impulse welled up to pull him nearer, hold him tighter.

Immediately she resisted it...until she realised that she didn’t have to restrain herself any longer.

Let him love you. You’ll find yourself responding.

Hearing Alastair’s words echo in her ears, she hugged James tighter, pressing her face against his soft dark hair. An aching warmth curled around her heart.

As much as she owed Alastair Ransleigh for his efforts to keep her son safe, she owed him even more for this.

* * *

Meanwhile, in the London office of his solicitor, Mr Reynolds, Alastair explained his need for some information regarding settlements.

A smile creased the older man’s face. ‘Dare I hope that means you expect a momentous occasion in the near future? Let me offer my congratulations!’

Startled at first, Alastair had to laugh. ‘I’m afraid not. A close family friend was recently widowed. Her father is now deceased, and she is not aware if settlements were ever drawn up.’

‘Are the circumstances not specified in her late husband’s will?’

‘The circumstances are rather...complicated. What would normally be set up?’

‘Normally, the dowry or portion brought into the marriage by the bride is guaranteed to her as an annuity in the event of the husband’s death. If a specific sum is not mentioned, usually she is deeded some property as her jointure, the income and rents from which are intended to support her after the husband’s death, when his estate passes to his heir.’

‘In the absence of settlements, she would be entitled to a dower?’

‘Yes, to one-third of the property and assets of the estate. Which, for a wealthy man, could be quite considerable, hence the desire for settlements to simplify the process and limit the annuity to a specific sum.’

‘If dower rights were invoked, how would the widow obtain the assets?’

‘The local sheriff’s court would have the handling of it.’

That was what Alastair had feared. ‘And if there were...ill feelings between the heir and the widow?’

Mr Reynolds sent him a questioning look. ‘Would this heir be a man of high rank?’

‘The highest.’

The solicitor gave him a thin smile. ‘Then obtaining her due could be difficult. The local sheriff would, understandably, be reluctant to antagonise a man of wealth and influence in the community. Your widow would require a strong solicitor and a prominent advocate to ensure the heir was compelled to recognise her rights.’

Alastair nodded. ‘Thank you, Mr Reynolds. I appreciate your expertise.’

‘If I can assist you further, please let me know. The poor widow is entitled to her due.’

‘She is indeed,’ Alastair agreed. ‘I will certainly call upon you again if circumstances require it.’

‘Always a pleasure to serve you,’ Mr Reynolds said with another smile as he ushered Alastair to the door.

As he paced the street to summon a hackney, Alastair mulled over what he should do next.

Would the new Duke really make problems for Diana? How much of her suspicion and foreboding were the results of her miserable existence as his father’s wife? Would the mature Blankford have outgrown his youthful resentment?

There was only one sure way to find out.

He’d just have to make a trip to Graveston Court.


Chapter Twelve (#u31db089b-b8b0-528b-aa03-528c31952235)

Several days later, Alastair passed through the entry gates and rode down a long, tree-bordered lane. Around one bend, set like a jewel against the hill behind it, its long columned facade reflected by a symmetrical pond before it, stood the huge Palladian mansion that was Graveston Court.

After turning his mount over to a waiting lackey, he was admitted by a grim-faced butler, ushered through the marbled entrance down a corridor flanked with what appeared to be Grecian antiquities, and shown into a beautifully appointed parlour. The Duke would be informed of his arrival, the butler intoned before bowing himself out.

So this was the prison in which Diana had been trapped for so many years, Alastair thought. He paced the room, whose arched windows, flanked by gold brocade drapery, echoed the Palladian influences evident in the mansion’s facade. More antiquities—vases embellished with Greek battle scenes, Roman busts and bas-relief carvings—were set on pedestals or artfully arranged on shelves.

The scale was oppressively overwhelming, everything about the room and its opulent furnishings designed to dazzle the visitor and intimidate him with a sense of his insignificance, compared to the wealth and rank of his host.

At length, losing interest in examining the various treasures, Alastair took a seat on the lavishly embellished gold sofa, and waited. And waited. And waited some more, his anger beginning to smoulder.

Of course, he had arrived without notice and the new Duke would have many pressing matters to attend to, taking over the reins of such a large estate. However, leaving him tapping his fingers this long, without an offer of refreshment or any other courtesy, was, Alastair felt sure, a deliberate insult.

Any deference to rank Alastair might once have felt had long since been dissipated by the refusal of his uncle, the Earl of Swynford, to support his younger son, Alastair’s cousin and best friend, after the scandal that had embroiled Max at the Congress of Vienna. A deference already worn thin by his army service, where experience and ability was worth far more in battle than rank or title, and his own previous dealings with a Duke of Graveston.

So he was not feeling particularly amiable when the Duke finally deigned to make an appearance.

After exchanging the obligatory bows and greetings, the Duke said, ‘So, Mr Ransleigh, to what do I owe the honour of this visit?’’

The sly smile accompanying those words gave Alastair the distinct impression that the Duke knew exactly who he was and why he was here.

Which shouldn’t come as a surprise. In order for Graveston’s solicitor to have found Diana so quickly, the new Duke must have had his own spies hidden among the household at Graveston, some of whom had trailed her when she fled to Bath after her husband’s death. If those informers remained in the city to watch her, they would have already sent word to the Duke about his relationship with the widow.

If the Duke wished to be coy, not revealing what he already knew, he could play along, thought Alastair, his irritation building. ‘As a friend of the Dowager Duchess, I wished to approach you about a family matter. Gentleman to gentleman, without recourse to involving the sheriff or the courts.’

‘Gentleman to gentleman,’ the Duke repeated, raising an ironic eyebrow. ‘Do proceed.’

‘The Dowager, naturally distraught over the death of her husband, needed time away to compose herself. She seemed to doubt that you would agree to provide her with the support and assistance to which she is entitled as your father’s widow.’

The Duke’s smirk of a smile compressed to a thin line. ‘I’m surprised the doxy is intelligent enough to understand that. Support her?’ His raised voice had a derisive ring. ‘She left Graveston Court voluntarily; let her support herself. I’m sure she wheedled enough baubles out of my father to keep herself in furs, gowns and sweetmeats for the rest of her life.’

‘Nonetheless,’ Alastair countered, holding on to his temper, ‘she’s still entitled to her dower.’

The Duke’s eyebrows lifted again. ‘She can certainly apply for it. Any claims submitted on that account will be referred to my solicitor.’

‘She was your late father’s legal wife. Your man might obstruct, harass and delay such a petition, but in the end, the law will see she gets what she’s entitled to.’

The Duke laughed outright. ‘Oh, I certainly hope she gets what she deserves! My father’s legal wife—ha! Only think, he set aside my mother, who lived only to please him, for her. And what an ideal duchess she made! Incapable of running the household. Contradicting my father in front of his guests. Disputing the gentlemen’s opinions and ignoring the ladies, to whose company she should have directed her attention and remarks. Well, he had little enough joy of her. Just the one brat, after eight years of marriage.’

While Alastair bottled up his mounting ire and disgust, Graveston continued. ‘Ah yes, the brat. I shall very much enjoy helping him discover what it’s like being the son of a displaced mother!’ He smiled, anger glittering in his eyes. ‘I’ll enjoy even more having her know he’s experiencing that delight, and she’s responsible.’

Diana had warned him, but he hadn’t believed it. ‘You would punish a child?’ Alastair asked incredulously, revolted.

Graveston shrugged. ‘Not punish. Just...instil in him a proper recognition of his place. He’ll survive. I did. It will make a man of him.’

A man like you? he thought. No wonder Diana wants to keep her son away.

‘He’s a Mannington brat, for all that, even if he is half hers. Perhaps we can beat that out of him. One can try.’ He smiled again, as if relishing the prospect. ‘He will need to be trained to his role—to serve my son and heir. Which brings me back to a matter more important than the spurious claims of my father’s former wife. Since you seem to be on such good terms with her, perhaps you’ll inform her if she does not return the boy voluntarily, and soon, I shall have the Court of Chancery order it.’

‘She would appeal such a demand. You can’t know for sure they would rule in your favour.’

‘Can I not? When the head of an ancient, venerable family of vast resources magnanimously offers to support a half-brother, even though he’s the spawn of a nobody? Worse than a nobody, a woman whose odd and irregular behaviour forced her husband to banish her from Society. Who fled her home before her husband’s body was scarcely cold, instead of remaining to greet the heir and see proper tribute paid to her late master. Not to mention, as any number of witnesses can testify, a mother who paid practically no attention to her son from his early years until his father’s demise. Do you really think she has any chance to hang on to him? If you’re such a friend





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