Dearly Beloved

by Mary Jo Putney

  Within seconds men were approaching, eager smiles on their faces as they vied to introduce themselves. The voices jumbled together: "I'm Clinton..., Ridgley, ma'am, very much at your service..."

  "Major Connaught, m'dear, may I get you a glass of champagne?"

  As she looked into their admiring faces, the evening suddenly seemed so simple, so enjoyable, that she could not imagine why she had been frightened. With a peal of delighted laughter she offered her hand to the nearest one, a short redheaded fellow with bushy side whiskers. "Good evening, gentlemen, I am Mrs. Diana Lindsay, and I would very much enjoy a glass of champagne."

  The redhead reverently kissed her hand while a balding gentleman rushed off for champagne. The third man, dark, poetic-looking, and very young, simply stared at her, his mouth slightly open. They really did think she was beautiful, and for the first time in her life Diana felt the power of her own beauty.

  The next hour or so passed in a blur. She and Maddy sat by the wall, surrounded by men vying for her attention. She needed to say very little, and every word she did utter was greeted as a brilliant witticism. It was delightful and she felt as bubbly as the champagne, but she was in no danger of forgetting what kind of gathering this was. Across the room, a dark woman and a man in an army uniform were engaged in such astonishingly intimate caresses that Diana was hard-pressed not to stare.

  Seeing the direction of her gaze, Madeline whispered that the dark woman was one of Harriette's sisters. The Little Fellow was merely the most successful of a notorious clan.

  The couple slipped out together. Half an hour later they returned separately, the woman looking well-used but pleased with herself. Diana forcefully turned her thoughts from what had happened. If and when she went with a man, it would be as a result of more than fifteen minutes' acquaintance.

  "My dear Mrs. Lindsay..." The voice in her ear was gruff and a little hesitant, and she turned to look up into the face of the balding man who had stayed very close since she arrived. He was Ridgley, she recalled.

  She smiled with slow promise, the way Madeline had taught her. "Yes, Mr. Ridgley?"

  He smiled back with fatuous delight. Incredible that her mere existence inspired such a response. After a long, dazzled moment, he said, "Lord Ridgley, actually." Clearing his throat, he added hopefully, "Are you looking for a protector, my dear girl?"

  She studied him thoughtfully. He was middle-aged and stout, not repulsive, but no Adonis. Still, he had kind eyes. When the time came to take a lover, she could do worse, but Diana was a long way from making that decision. She laid a light hand on his arm. "Perhaps I shall be soon."

  Ridgley swallowed hard. "When you do... pray think of me."

  The poor man looked as if he were about to melt, so Diana smiled again. "Would you be so kind as to get me another glass of champagne?"

  He hastened off, eager to please her. At the same time, a gypsy fiddle and a roar of encouraging voices sounded at the far end of the salon. A buxom black-haired beauty leapt onto a table and began to dance, her skirt swishing around her legs and her breasts threatening to burst from their restraints at any moment. A young man who wished to join her on the table was being held back by his friends, who were far more interested in watching the woman than a would-be partner.

  During the moments when general attention was fixed on the dancing, Madeline leaned over and whispered, "You are doing splendidly, my dear. You could have your choice of any of these men. Did Lord Ridgley offer you a carte blanche?" At Diana's nod, Madeline continued, "You could do much worse. He's a pleasant man. Very generous."

  Her eyes widening, Diana asked, "Was he one of your protectors when you lived in London?"

  "Let me just say that we are not unacquainted." Maddy opened her fan and fluttered it as she chuckled. "You seem to be enjoying the worshipful attention."

  "Is that wrong?" Diana said defensively.

  "No, but remember that this is only one small part of the game of hearts. Those men don't just admire you, most of them want to bed you, and your presence here gives them every reason to assume you are beddable," Madeline warned. "Be careful. Don't let yourself be alone with any of them unless you are sure that is what you want. Most of these men would not force you, but they will certainly do their utmost to seduce you."

  Diana smiled. "I shan't make a proper courtesan if I am too prim to run that risk."

  A small line appeared between Madeline's brows. Her friend still doubted the wisdom of this course, but Maddy knew better than to discuss it further. She stood and said, "Will you be all right if I leave you for a while? I want to talk to an old friend who just arrived."

  "I'll be fine, Maddy." Diana gave a reassuring smile. "Truly, I'm a big girl now, well-trained by you to deal with all these mysterious male creatures."

  After Madeline left, Diana spent a moment scanning the room. There must be thirty or so men present, and perhaps a dozen women. The crowd around her had eddied between three and a dozen, and four men were staying close in spite of the gypsy dancer's lures. Lord Ridgley brought her the glass of champagne, murmured a fulsome compliment, then subsided into a nearby chair, content to admire her.

  Now her attention was claimed by the young Byronic-looking Mr. Clinton. Turning his back on the dancer, he gazed at Diana in a manner much akin to a puppy's. He had said almost nothing to her, but now he managed to stammer out, "You are a... a goddess."

  Laughing, she replied, "Quite right, Diana was a goddess, of the hunt and of the moon."

  His reply was ardent. "You are justly named, for you have captured my heart. I shall call you the Fair Luna."

  Diana was absurdly reminded of Geoffrey by Clinton's youthfulness. Despite his handsome face, she felt more like feeding him gingerbread than taking him as a lover. As she sought a reply that would kindly acknowledge his worship without encouraging him further, she felt a prickly sense of unease.

  Glancing up, she saw a dark man in the doorway staring at her, his gray eyes as cold and sharply edged as a blade. Perhaps thirty years old, he was broad-shouldered and above average height, with an air of command and a taut intelligence visible clear across the room. He stood utterly still, and the unwavering intensity of his gaze was shockingly out of place in this crowd of light-minded dilettantes.

  Diana caught her breath, disturbed by those relentless eyes. She had been a focus of attention ever since arriving, but no other man had watched as if he wished to draw out her soul. His concentration was like a hammer blow, and it struck an answering spark deep within her, a spark of uncanny connection.

  Then, as she absorbed the details of his stern figure, time stopped. The two of them might have been alone in Eden and Diana was aware of nothing but the dark man and her own fiercely beating heart. That austerely handsome face was as familiar to her as her own nightmares, and in a flash of fear and awe and tremulous anticipation she knew why intuition had decreed that it was better not to know her fate.

  Just as surely, she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that this was the man she had come to London to find.

  * * *

  The seventh Viscount St. Aubyn had been brought to Harriette Wilson's much against his will. Two blocks before reaching her house, he had said abruptly, "I've changed my mind. I'll let you off and send my carriage back to wait for you."

  His cousin Francis Brandelin grinned. "Oh, no, you don't, Gervase. It's taken weeks to get you this far, and you'll not elude me that easily. You spend far too much time on whatever it is that you do in the Foreign Office. The government won't fall if you take an evening's pleasure, and Harriette has one of the best wine cellars in London."

  "I don't doubt that—it's a requirement for a demirep of her standing," Gervase commented dryly. "However, if it's good wine I want, I can get it at home more easily."

  Francis laughed outright, undeterred by his lordship's attitude. "Perhaps you can get wine, but if you want a replacement for that opera dancer of yours, you'll do much better at Harry's than at home."

  T
hough not sure that he agreed with Francis, Gervase did not dignify the remark with an answer. The opera dancer, Colette, had been no great loss. She had made it clear that she preferred more gaiety in her life, then been disconcerted at how quickly Lord St. Aubyn had agreed that he neglected her shamelessly and she could do better elsewhere.

  Still, any demirep Gervase found at Harriette Wilson's was apt to have Colette's faults—volatility and greed—in spades. The most successful courtesans were even more temperamental and demanding than society ladies, not at all the kind of mistress he sought. He knew exactly the sort of woman he wanted; she should be reasonably attractive, undemanding, and uncapricious. Perhaps a woman with children who would occupy her attention, so she would not always be pining for her protector's company. He had no objection to children so long as he needn't see them.

  Well, it wouldn't kill him to spend an evening sipping Harriette's wine, and he owed it to Francis. The younger man was a sociable sort, and he had undertaken to ensure that the new viscount didn't become a hermit. His cousin was his heir, an easygoing, intelligent young man whose light brown hair and slight, elegant figure came from his mother's side of the family, not the dark, intimidating Brandelins. As a child Francis had looked up to his older cousin, and they had corresponded all the time Gervase had been in the army in India.

  When the new viscount returned to England after his father's death, he had felt very alone and Francis' genuine welcome had been like sunshine on a rainy day. It had been gratifying to find someone who cared whether Gervase lived or died. Though they were very different, they had developed a friendship that went well beyond mere blood kinship. Gervase asked idly, "Have you given any thought to marriage?"

  In the flickering lamplight Francis' expression was more than shocked, and it was a moment before he replied in a tone whose lightness seemed forced. "What makes you ask that, cousin?"

  The viscount said reasonably, "Well, you are my heir and you will inherit someday. Life being uncertain, I would like to know that the succession is assured for another generation."

  After a narrow look, Francis said with amusement, "Isn't taking care of the succession your responsibility?"

  The carriage halted at their destination and Gervase was glad to let the subject drop. It sounded like Francis was disinclined to matrimony; perhaps it was a family failing. Someday the viscount would have to explain exactly why he himself would never have legitimate heirs, but it was a topic he preferred to avoid as long as possible.

  The butler bowed them in without comment since Francis was a regular visitor to the establishment. Sounds of laughter and music floated down the stairs as Gervase followed his cousin up to the drawing room.

  Just before they entered, Francis asked, "Shall I introduce you around, or would you prefer not to stand on ceremony?"

  "No need to put yourself out," Gervase replied. "I'm sure I know most of the men, and more than a few of the women."

  On entering the large salon, Francis made an immediate line for his hostess, whose curly black head was barely visible amongst her admirers. Gervase lingered in the doorway, scanning his surroundings with the automatic caution of a soldier who has campaigned in hostile territory.

  He had met Harriette Wilson before, and privately considered her to have the manners of a rude schoolboy, though there was an undeniable charm in her exuberant vitality. At the far end of the room, a dark Gypsyish dancer stamped and whirled with a young officer of a Highland regiment who should have known better than to dance on a table in his kilt. Or perhaps he was merely advertising himself in the same way that the women were.

  Then Gervase's casual gaze reached a cluster of people directly opposite the door and he stopped dead, feeling a constriction around his heart. The girl in the center of the group was half turned away from him, and there was a purity in that flawless profile that answered every man's dream of innocence. Eve before the serpent, the virgin who lures the fierce unicorn to her hand, the loving maiden who comes chaste to her marriage bed....

  She was all of those things, and none of them. Even as he stared in helpless admiration, his mind echoed with the harsh words, "'Tis a pity she's a whore."

  The emotion he felt was a complex mixture of grief and anger that such sweet innocence was a lie and a delusion. What right had this girl with tumbling chestnut hair to imply that dreams could take flesh? Because, of course, she was a whore; in this company, she could be nothing else. There was no innocence in the lush body alluringly concealed and revealed in clinging blue silk, or in her posture, which made it amply clear that she was available if the price was right.

  He put aside anger, reminding himself that he wasn't here to find a dream, a virgin, or a wife, but a mistress. The woman's presence in this place meant that he might have her without any of the complications and disillusion that dreams entail. The primitive male part of him that was so deeply aroused would have carried the girl off like the Romans did the Sabine women. Only slightly more civilized was the impulse to cross the room and ask, "What is your price?"

  But the great courtesans were notoriously fickle and would scorn a man who assumed that money alone could buy them. Just as a beautiful woman was a prize that a man could parade before his fellows, the demireps flaunted their own conquests to each other. Gervase had never bothered with such women, having no interest in playing the flirtatious games required, but as he saw the girl lay a graceful, teasing hand on the arm of a youthful admirer, he decided that this time he would make an exception.

  Then she turned, her deep blue eyes meeting his with an impact that reverberated through his entire body. A beauty, a whore, and a mystery all at once.

  With no further thought he cut across the salon. She watched him come, those incredible blue eyes holding his as if they were the only two people in the room.

  Gervase scarcely noticed the men he pushed between. The girl stood as he approached, her posture erect and graceful as she held out one slim hand. He clasped it for a moment, feeling the coolness of her tapering fingers before he bowed and brushed his lips lightly above her knuckles. A slight tremor ran through her hand and he wondered if she too felt something like the tidal wave engulfing him. More likely her silence was merely clever policy, the queen allowing the suppliant to speak first.

  Retaining his grip on her hand, he straightened and stared down into her face. She was below average height, the top of her head not quite reaching his chin, and she had a slim waist that emphasized the ripe curves of breast and hip. Close up she was as flawless as she had appeared at a distance, her features exquisitely sculptured, her silken skin begging to be touched. As she regarded him gravely, her full lips were a promise, even though she neither talked nor smiled.

  Her cheekbones were high and dramatic under wide, delicately tilted eyes, and one glossy ringlet fell forward to emphasize her bare shoulders and the soft swell of breasts revealed by her low-cut dress. He had never seen hair of such color, a rich shade like polished antique mahogany. She wore no jewels and required none. Like a perfect lily, she needed no gilding.

  They stood like statues for an endless moment. Gervase saw a pulse beat under the creamy skin at her throat, and her eyes widened, the lapis-lazuli depths showing some emotion he could not identify. Tightening his hold on her hand, he drew her from her circle of admirers, saying only, "Come."

  Murmurs of protest, half-amused, half-angry, sounded around him. Without turning his eyes from the woman, he said, "I shall return her shortly." He led her into the relative privacy of a window embrasure, where others could see them but not overhear.

  She moved with the effortless grace such beauty deserved. Gervase still held her hand, and her nearness was playing havoc with his ability to think. Beginning with the most basic of information, he said, "I am St. Aubyn. And you?"

  "I am Mrs. Diana Lindsay."

  Her voice was as lovely as her face, sweet and musical, unmarred by a provincial accent. She could have been a duchess, except that no duchess had ever been so bea
utiful. An elusive fragrance of lilac surrounded her, and it reinforced the illusion of innocence that she simulated so well. The part of him that was not quite overpowered by her presence noted cynically that she was going to be very, very expensive, but Gervase didn't care. Instead he asked a more polite version of what he had thought earlier. "What does it take to win you?"

  His voice was deep and resonant, equally suited to caress or command. Diana's heart beat with unnatural speed and she inhaled deeply, struggling for the composure that she desperately needed. What had she expected him to do, ravish her? Accuse her of harlotry? Declare love undying? While she had instantly known this man was her fate, clearly the recognition wasn't mutual.

  It was better this way. She disengaged her hand without haste. "You may court me and find out."

  The strong dark brows arched up. "Court you? I have not come here for a wife."

  "Nor did I come for a husband," Diana said blandly. "You and I have simpler aims. If you don't like the word 'court,' choose another. Phrases are unimportant. What matters is that if you want me, you must please me."

  Lord St. Aubyn's gray eyes narrowed, the skin tightening over the high, wide cheekbones, and she felt his withdrawal. "So you can amuse yourself watching suitors scramble for your pleasure while you set one against another, like cocks at a fight? No, thank you, madam, I will not play that game."

  So he had pride, more than was good for him. That was no surprise; pride was written in every line of the lean body that moved with the deadly smoothness of a hunting cat. There was not an ounce of spare flesh anywhere on him, from broad shoulders to flat waist to muscular legs. Everything soft and unessential had been burned away, leaving only unyielding masculine strength.

  Diana wondered if his lordship knew how to smile, and if he did, whether amusement would provide the life that could make those cool, regular features handsome. Commanding herself not to be intimidated by his overpowering closeness, she said calmly, "I have met many men tonight, and you are the only one whom I have invited to come closer."