Gervase worked with great concentration, but sometimes she felt his gaze on her and would look up to see those clear gray eyes watching, no longer cool and guarded. Even across a long room, she felt as if he reached out to caress her. Other times, when she played the pianoforte in the music room, she would glance up and see that he was taking pleasure in both her and her music.
When the weather was dry, they rode together, and after a fortnight Geoffrey, glowing with pride, joined them on his pony. Edith was pleased to be in the country again, and Madeline, with her ability to take each moment of life as a gift, was serene and happy. All the people Diana loved best in the world were at Aubynwood. She wished they could stay like this forever and never return to the pretenses and obligations of London, but in spite of her wishes the days glided inexorably past, one by one.
The twelve days of Christmas passed, with a small mince pie eaten on each to bring luck for the coming year. Then the greens were taken down and ceremoniously burned, and too soon they were packing to leave.
The night before their scheduled departure, snow began falling, not the brief occasional flurries of early winter but a gentle, steady cascade of flakes. Geoffrey had been put to bed, and Madeline and Edith had also tactfully withdrawn. Both Diana and Gervase were restless, reluctant to end the last day, and at his suggestion they decided to go for a walk.
They strolled through high-hedged gardens, her hand tucked securely under his arm. The shrubbery was black against the white earth and their slow steps were soundless.
The stillness of the air kept the cold from biting deep, and the silence was pure and complete. They might have been a north-country Adam and Eve, alone together at the world's beginning. Gervase had always loved the fresh loveliness of falling snow, particularly at night, when every trace of light was caught and amplified by whiteness and a gentle glow suffused the dark.
Diana wondered aloud if the weather would prevent them from leaving Aubynwood. Gervase shook his head. "Probably not. There are only a couple of inches on the ground, and the storm seems to be diminishing. The snow might stop by midnight. Likely it will stay cold so the ground will be hard for good carriage travel."
Diana turned her face up into the snow, laughing with a child's delight at the drifting crystalline flakes. In the dim, uncanny light he was struck once more by how beautiful she was, so lovely that his heart ached at the sight. Her heart-shaped face was framed by the hood of the wine-red velvet cloak he had given her for Christmas. The garment had been made specially to his order with a lining of rich, costly Russian sable, as warm and exquisite as Diana herself.
For three weeks she had belonged to him alone, and suddenly the thought of sharing her in London was unbearable.
They were deep in the gardens now, utterly private, and Gervase stopped walking and turned to her, pulling her fiercely into his arms. He had thought that with time, familiarity would diminish passion, but the opposite was true. After three weeks of being with his mistress day and night, he wanted her more than ever. The silken welcome of her mouth, anticipation of the hidden delights of her body, the intoxication of her response, were greater aphrodisiacs than novelty could ever be.
The first night they'd made love, he had wanted to bind her to him with passion. He had retreated from that, accepting that she was a courtesan who bestowed her favors where she chose. Now he was no longer willing to accept that, and he would use all the weapons at his disposal to make her his.
Diana clung to him, her kiss as hungry as his own, as if she too could not bear to end this enchanted country interlude. Her eyes were closed and ice crystals starred her long dark lashes. Though the night was cold, where they touched was fire.
His arms were around her, and behind her back he peeled the leather glove from his right hand. They stood so close that no stirrings of chill air could come between them. He reached down, slipping his hand into the folds of her cloak, under the soft luxuriant fur.
Diana's body was warm and pliant beneath the flowing silk of her dress, and he cupped his hand around the fullness of her breast. She caught her breath and pressed against him as her nipple hardened beneath his hand. He caressed her slowly, feeling her tremble with reaction before he stroked lower, over the sweet curves of waist and hips until he reached the sensitive juncture of her thighs.
She yielded to him wholly, and her willingness made him more than a little mad with wanting. The light dress was easily raised and he found the waiting secret depths of her. Her lips broke free of his as she inhaled with a low cry and he whispered into her ear, "I want you to be mine, Diana, only mine."
His embrace was support and protection, and without it she could not have stood alone. The coolness of his skilled fingers against her heated flesh was deeply erotic, and his husky voice was urgent as he commanded, "Promise me, Diana, that there will be no one else."
She had just enough awareness left to know that Gervase was using passion as a weapon to persuade her to a promise she did not want to give, and anger stirred under her desire. It was not enough that he dominated her physically and sexually; he wanted more. Did he really think he could enslave her through her love and need for him? As Madeline had said, sex was a weapon, one she could use as well as he.
Without answering his words, she stroked the well-loved contours of his hard body, feeling him shiver at her touch. Deftly she undid buttons, then knelt on the snow-softened earth, reaching up to grasp his hand and tug him down to join her. Catching his mouth with hers, Diana kissed him lingeringly, with all the skill she had learned from him. Then, when he had no more breath for words, she lay back, pulling him against her so they lay full-length together in the wintry garden.
The snow made a pristine bed and the spread of her rich cloak protected them below as the folds of his long coat fell around them from above. Too aroused to resist her gentle guiding hand, he entered her, and for just a moment they were united, their bodies perfectly attuned.
Then he inhaled, a long shuddering breath, and when he had achieved a measure of control he withdrew. Her loss was so acute that she cried out with longing. He was poised above her, his arms and legs shielding her from the cold as he demanded harshly, "Promise me."
Even now, as desperately as she wanted him, she would not yield. Instead she whispered, "Love me, Gervase, as I love you." Her arms circled his chest beneath his coat and she slid them down his body, feeling the lean muscle and hard bone, the straining tension in his back as he fought both his desires and hers. When her hands reached his taut hips she pulled him into her, murmuring once more, "Love me, please."
She thrust up against him, and he could no longer withstand her. He was beyond words now, beyond demands. The snowy night, the garden, the fact that they were fully dressed yet as intimate as man and woman could be, raised them to a white heat of passion, their bodies clashing and joining in a rhythm that could not be controlled or denied.
Such intensity culminated quickly, and she cried out with the mingled pleasure and pain of ecstasy. He gasped and drove into her one last time as his body convulsed. Then there was silence again, broken only by ragged breathing and the soft sibilance of wind through the high, circling hedges that protected their tryst.
They lay close and still for long moments, Gervase's cheek next to hers, the gossamer softness of sable warming their faces, the slowing tempo of their hearts beating together. Each was reluctant to speak, knowing that words would pierce the physical harmony of their lovemaking.
Finally, his body still covering hers, he lifted his head and shoulders and cupped her cheek, his fingers lying gentle and passionless along her temple. His face was a pale oval above hers, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was as light and cool as his touch, as if the question was of no great importance to him. "Why do you need to see other men, Diana? For money? If you want more, you have only to ask."
The anger she'd felt earlier returned as she remembered how he had attempted to use the sweetness of passion to control her in a pe
rversion of what should be most honest and true between them. She tried to master her resentment, reminding herself how different he was from her in his actions and beliefs, but she still felt his actions as a breach of trust.
With too many thoughts conflicting in her mind, she didn't speak, and after a long pause he asked, "If it isn't money, is it that I don't satisfy you?" His tone was still light, but they were so close physically that his body's tension revealed how much the answer mattered to him.
It is difficult to speak of serious matters when bodies are intertwined; besides, Diana was beginning to feel the chill earth even through her warm cloak. Her light push signaled him to roll away, and he stood, leaving her cold and alone even as he helped her rise.
He brushed the snow from her cloak with quick, impersonal strokes, and when he finished, he captured her hands in his own warm clasp. "You must answer me, Diana."
"I know," she said in a voice as soft as shadow. "You asked why I want to be free to see other men and suggested two possible reasons, but neither is the correct one."
"If it isn't money and it isn't lust, what does that leave? Promiscuity for its own sake, because you need the variety, or because you like to have men in your power?"
This time his voice was sharpened to wound. With sudden clarity she saw that they were engaged in a covert struggle, and if she agreed to be his exclusively, he would win. She would be in the neat little niche of mistress, comfortable and convenient, and he would be free to concentrate on important masculine things, not wasting deep thought on a mere woman.
Their relationship might be rooted in sex and money, with other, deeper reasons she was not yet ready to confront, but Diana knew beyond doubt that what she wanted from him was love. If he loved her as she loved him, all other barriers could be surmounted. If she yielded now, they would both be the losers.
She and Gervase each carried dark scars on their souls, scars only love could heal. In the language of the heart she must be the teacher, for she knew something about giving and receiving love, while Gervase could scarcely bring himself to say the word aloud. If they were to have a future together, she must fight him; she must compel him to explore his own heart, and to let her in.
She wanted no other man, had not once considered it since she met Gervase, yet she would not give him the promise he desired. If he was uncertain of her, was forced to question what she meant to him, perhaps he might grow to the point where he would offer her love, and it would set them both free.
Her hands tightened on his and she bent her neck briefly to rest her forehead on his firm shoulder. A courtesan should never fall in love with her protector. What she was going to do would hurt him, and his pain would grieve her as well.
It was also dangerous, for love might be too alien and threatening an emotion for him to accept. Gervase had his pride and his formidable defenses, and he might leave her rather than admit to feelings that would make him vulnerable.
Yet once again instinct whispered that denying him was the right course. If she was a coward now, she would stay forever on the edge of his life. The thought of losing him terrified her, yet only by taking that risk was there a chance that she might truly win the man she loved.
After a moment's more thought, she knew what to say, words that would be honest, and which might show him the way. Raising her head, she tried to see his clear gray eyes, but the darkness defeated her. "No, not money, not sex, not power or promiscuity."
Snowflakes fell silent and weightless between them, and her breath moved them in a slow dance. "My deepest wish is for a man who truly loves me, and whom I can love in return." She thought a moment, then added, "Ideally, I would like marriage, more children, an honorable place in the world."
His hands around hers were absolutely still. "I can give you none of those things."
"I am not asking them of you." She drew in her breath, then continued steadily, "I want nothing that you will not freely give." Her hands tightened on his. "I love you, but I will not spend the rest of my life in the shadows of yours, waiting for you to weary of me. You desire me, but passion without love will surely fade. As I grow older, every time you come I will wonder if it is the last. I will not live that way."
When he opened his mouth, she laid a gentle finger on his lips. "You are the most important man in my life, but I see no advantage in promising you the fidelity a wife owes her husband."
Her cheeks were moist, not with cool melted snowflakes, but with the warmth of tears. It would be so much easier to give him what he asked. In a voice no longer steady, she said, "If you cannot love me, so be it. But I will not make a promise that I do not intend to keep, nor will I give you faithfulness when it might prevent me from finding a man who would truly love me."
His tone sharp, he said, "In other words, you will give your body to any man you fancy until one becomes so besotted with you that he will offer marriage?"
"That is not what I said." She shrugged, her gesture lost in the darkness. "Still, men sometimes marry their mistresses. Do you think that no man could want me except as a whore?"
He released her hands then, stepping back. "On the contrary, all men who see you want you, and apparently you are willing to let them all have you." His deep voice was rough now. "But your strategy is poor. A fool who is mad with longing will be more likely to offer you marriage, so you would be better off refusing him until the ring is on your finger."
"It is not marriage for its own sake that I want." She spoke as directly as she knew how. "I am not a complicated woman, Gervase. What I want is simple: love. Unfortunately, while the idea is simple in essence, finding it is not easy."
"So if I could say the words you want to hear, you would no longer accept other lovers?" She was not sure if it was bitterness or mockery in his voice.
"If you spoke from the heart." Her words fell into silence, and after a long pause she said gently, "Even now, in the abstract, you can't say 'I love you,' can you?"
His silence was colder now than the night air, and it hung between them for endless moments. Finally she took his arm and they retraced their way back to the manor. Courteous as always, he escorted her to the door of her chamber. Dropping his arm, he stepped back, scrutinizing her face as if she was a complete stranger. His expression was cold and still, as if it had frozen in the winter night. He looked painfully different from the man he had been these last three weeks, and it hurt her to see.
Standing on tiptoe, Diana laid her hands on his shoulders and pressed her lips to his. "Come to bed, love," she whispered.
When she touched him, there was one slight, involuntary tremor of response, then nothing. He inclined his head briefly, his mouth opening as if to speak. Then he shook his head and walked away. Despairing, she watched his wide retreating shoulders until he turned the corner out of her sight.
Diana prepared for bed mechanically, then lay awake for hours, hoping he would come through the passage and join her, but he didn't. For the first time at Aubynwood, she slept alone. She had done the right thing, but the tight, anguished knot at the center of her being was so painful that if he had come and asked her again to promise fidelity, she might have agreed.
The first night at Aubynwood, Gervase had retreated from her before deciding to allow himself nearer, and then there had been three weeks of comfort and joy. Now, war was joined between them, a subtle covert war, and by her own actions she had pushed him away again. Was the bond between them strong enough to withstand his fears? Or would her need for him cause her to surrender, condemning them both to less love than they were capable of? She had no idea, and her emotions were far too turbulent for her to hear the frail voice of intuition.
As she waited through the endless night for the dawn, Diana feared that she would pay any price rather than lose him.
Chapter 14
The morning came late and heavy and Diana woke unrefreshed from restless slumber. The room was cold, with neither Gervase nor a maid to build the fire, and she shivered as she added fresh coal t
o the faintly glowing embers herself. Even though it was nine o'clock, her chamber was dim in the gray half-light, and from the window she saw that the storm had deteriorated to a near-blizzard, with a hard east wind whipping the snow into drifts. It was like a high country storm in Yorkshire, and the sight pleased her. If they were forced to stay at Aubynwood, there would be time to heal the breach with Gervase.
But her hopes were frustrated; only Madeline was in the breakfast parlor. The footman gave her a note from Gervase. He wrote that he could no longer linger in the country, that he would be able to reach London on horseback, but conditions were quite unsuitable for a carriage. She and her party should avail themselves of Aubynwood for as long as they wished, and he recommended that she heed his coachman's advice on when the roads would be safe for travel. It was a brief, impersonal note, such as could be written to anyone. Only the last sentence held any comfort: I will call on you on your return to London.
She folded the letter slowly. As careful as the viscount was with words, he would not have added that last line unless he really intended to see her again. Perhaps she refined too much on what had happened last night, and there had been no fundamental change between them. But in her heart, she did not believe that. Last night battle had been joined, and it would end with them truly united, or forever apart.
For five long days Diana and her party waited through snowing, blowing, and finally thaw. Even a house as large as Aubynwood began to seem too small, and they were all ready to leave as soon as the St. Aubyn coachman allowed that a carriage could manage. The roads were muddy and slow, quite unlike the journey north, and they had to spend one night at an inn.
Diana was tense with anticipation when they arrived back in London, longing to see Gervase, but her hopes were dashed again. This time it was her own servant who handed her a letter, and for a long, heart-stopping moment she feared that it would say good-bye, that the viscount had no desire to put up with her moods and demands any longer, that she had already been replaced by any one of hundreds of more satisfactory mistresses.
Dearly Beloved Page 22