Dearly Beloved

by Mary Jo Putney

  Given her black imaginings, it was some relief to tear open the envelope and learn that the worst had not happened, though the message was bad enough. In another polite, passionless note, Gervase said that he found it necessary to go to Ireland on business, and that he would be back in several weeks.

  As she stared down at the heavy, cream-colored stationery, she wondered if this was another skirmish in their undeclared war. He had made no mention of an upcoming trip to Ireland. Was his business really that urgent, or was he giving her a demonstration of what it would be like to live without him?

  He needn't have bothered, because she already knew. The weeks ahead stretched as endless as eternity.

  * * *

  The winter trip to Dublin was difficult and exhausting as Gervase stopped and talked with various raffish men to discover what they knew. The other, more important part of his task was to visit his former commander from India, Sir Arthur Wellesley, now Chief Secretary of Ireland.

  Wellesley was a lean man of middle height, with a great hooked nose and an air of quiet self-possession. The two men had always gotten on well, and they could be friends now that Gervase was no longer a junior officer. They had an amiable private dinner, keeping the talk general until the meal was over and the servants dismissed.

  Each took a glass of port, though both were abstemious in their habits. Gervase idly fingered the goblet. If he hadn't been so absorbed with Diana during the autumn, he would have visited Wellesley earlier. He'd come to make an offer, something against his usual practice, but which needed to be done. He began with a question for which he could guess the answer. "How does governing Ireland compare with life in India?"

  Wellesley grimaced. "I'd prefer an honest battle any day—Ireland is too heartbreaking. I can effect a few mild reforms, but attempting major changes would make matters worse."

  "Does the fact that you were raised here make your task easier or harder?"

  "Harder, I think, because I see more of the complexity. If I'd grown up in England, I would be more sure that I knew the answers." Wellesley's voice was sardonic as he studied his port, swirling the goblet absently. "When I think that I might spend the rest of my life doing this sort of thing..." He shook his head, not completing the sentence.

  "This is only temporary," Gervase said. "The campaigns you conducted in India, the Battle of Assaye—there isn't another man in the army who could have done what you did. It's just a matter of time until you receive another command."

  Wellesley leaned back in his chair wearily. Though he was not yet forty, a man at the height of his powers, he looked old tonight. "You know something of how they think at the Horse Guards, St. Aubyn. The commanders of the army are suspicious of Indian victories, as if they render a man unsuited to fight in Europe. And my brother's politics are held against me as well."

  Gervase silently acknowledged the truth in the statement. Wellesley was a brilliant military man, not with the charismatic flair of a Napoleon, but with a calm, precise skill that would not permit defeat. As a junior officer, Gervase would have followed him to hell itself. With Europe almost totally under the sway of the French emperor, Britain needed military brilliance, and to waste such talent was insane.

  But it was true that army headquarters looked askance at Indian army experience, and that Sir Arthur's politician older brother had created many enemies through vanity and imperiousness. The two men could not have been more different, but Sir Arthur was loyal to his brother even though their close relationship injured his own ambitions.

  "You have your supporters. As minister of war, Castlereagh is doing everything he can to get you a command. And..." Gervase took a sip of port. He had come now to the real reason for this visit. "I might be able to help. I am not without some influence, though it is of a subterranean kind."

  Wellesley's brows lifted. He must have heard rumors of the work his guest did. "Are you saying that you will assist me?"

  Gervase nodded. "Several of the ministers owe me favors. It's time I collected."

  There had been the matter of the Treaty of Tilsit between France and Russia, for example. Gervase had discovered what the secret articles were and how they affected Britain. He had given the information to Canning, and the foreign minister had been most grateful. There were other incidents, other ministers. Much could be done.

  Wellesley looked startled, and the light blue eyes sparked with hope. "You would do that for me? You have a reputation for avoiding politics."

  "Generally I do," Gervase agreed, "but what is the point of having influence if it is never used?" He tilted his goblet back and finished his port. "For years we have been stalemated, with Britain controlling the seas and France the Continent. Sooner or later, a crack will show up in Napoleon's Fortress Europe. When it does, you must be there to turn the crack into a chasm. That won't happen if you are an administrator in Ireland."

  He stood, offering his host a hand. "Don't get too comfortable here in Dublin. It won't be for much longer."

  Wellesley stood also. His handshake firm, he said, "I most sincerely hope you are right." He gave his rare, charming smile. "I am fortunate in my friends, St. Aubyn. Whether or not you are successful, you have my deepest gratitude."

  * * *

  The meeting with Wellesley was the high point of Gervase's journey. The rest was the routine business of spying, talking to sailors and smugglers and scoundrels of various stripes, receiving pieces of information, and sending inquiries back along the chain of informants, hoping answers would eventually return.

  He worked long hours, as he always did on such journeys, but this time his concentration was broken. He had hoped absence would loosen Diana's hold on him, but instead he was haunted by images of her. He would see a woman make a graceful gesture and his heart would constrict, even though he knew it couldn't be her. When he transcribed his notes on what he had learned, her flawless face would come between him and the paper. He would see the intensely blue eyes and the slow smile that always welcomed, as if there were not another man in the world.

  Worse than the images were the memories of touch. At night he would waken with his hand curved as if her soft breast were cupped within, or he would feel the warmth of her silken skin. He was obsessed with her, and he hated it.

  Gervase had asked what she wanted, she had answered—and she might have been speaking a foreign language. Why couldn't she have asked for something comprehensible, like jewels or carriages? But if she had desired something obvious, she wouldn't have been Diana.

  Despising himself for his weakness, he tried to hurry his business, knowing that the longer he was away, the greater the danger that she would accept other men, one of whom might promise her whatever it was she craved. Not a day or night went by that he didn't imagine her accepting another man's advances, welcoming him to her chamber with that intimate smile, then opening her arms and offering more....

  The thought of someone else possessing that matchless body made Gervase ill.

  The last night at Aubynwood he had attempted to establish complete dominion over his mistress, and he feared that his failure had shifted the power to her hands. She said power over men was not her goal, but he doubted that. Her beauty was power, and he couldn't believe that she didn't enjoy wielding it.

  His doubts deepened after a nightmare he had in Bristol, when he dreamed that Diana was a cat, all sleek, sensuous grace, and that she was playing with him. He was a helpless, broken-winged creature attempting to escape, and whenever he nearly won free, she would lazily reach out a paw and drag him back, the cruel needle-sharp claws stabbing just deep enough to draw blood, but never enough to put him out of his misery.

  He woke in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, fear and despair vivid in his mind. As he tried to remember the cat, it had a dual nature, seeming sometimes like Diana, sometimes like his mother. Was he wrongly confusing the two women, or was the dream a warning that all women were alike; that no matter how gentle and accepting Diana pretended to be, once she was sure of
her hold on him she, too, would use her power to torment?

  He didn't want to believe it. She had shown no signs of wanting to bend him to her will, or to wound and destroy for no reason. But if he was wrong, he feared he would not know until it was too late, when she was already exacting a subtle, excruciating emotional price that he would be unable to escape.

  He had decided to make this overdue journey on impulse, knowing that he needed time to think, but he had not realized how grimly unpleasant those thoughts would be.

  * * *

  It was early evening when Gervase arrived back in London. During the last stages of his journey he had debated whether he should stop seeing Diana for the sake of his own sanity. He knew he had enough willpower for that, though the mere thought of never seeing her again was gut-wrenchingly painful. But when he went to India he had decided not to live a slave of his past, and if those demons were discounted, there was nothing about his mistress that should make him shy away. And the rewards of keeping her were so infinitely satisfying.

  As soon as he arrived at St. Aubyn House he sent a message to Diana, asking if it were convenient to call later. His footman returned with her agreement immediately. It had been almost a month since he had seen her, and a voluptuous sense of anticipation made him move slowly, savoring the prospect as he bathed and shaved, then walked the short blocks to her house. London lay passive under one of its famous thick fogs, and the eddying mists veiled the city like a dream.

  The maid said Mrs. Lindsay would be with her son for a little longer, but that he could wait in her rooms. Now that she was so close he was impatient. When the maid left him in Diana's sitting room, he set the small gift he'd brought on a table, then paced restlessly.

  He had never been alone in her rooms like this. They were spacious chambers, with high ceilings and classic proportions, well-furnished but not overcrowded. Fine moldings crowned the walls, deep Persian carpets lay soft beneath the foot, and the colors were harmonious for a total effect both stylish and soothing, rather like Diana herself.

  He wandered into the bedchamber, where his gaze fell on the crystal goblet of pearls standing on her dressing table. He walked over and lifted the half-full goblet, admiring the lustrous spheres within as he dropped in another pearl.

  He halted, his fingers stone-still on the goblet. Though money was something he thought about very seldom, now he wondered how Diana paid her day-to-day expenses. The pearls were valuable, but they weren't cash. The money he deposited for her every month was untouched, and he was not sure that she knew it existed. Did she have savings, or did other men support this fashionable household? The thought shattered the unnatural calm that had carried him through the last few hours.

  Suddenly, in a terrifying surge of jealousy, he had to know what secrets were concealed here. He stalked to the graceful marquetry desk and rifled through, but its drawers contained no illicit messages, nor any clues of her life before she had appeared in London.

  Turning to a wardrobe with shining satinwood veneer, he threw open the doors. Elegant gowns in the rich, subtle colors she favored hung before him, dainty kidskin slippers lined up below.

  The dresses were like silent shadow Dianas. He thrust his arms among them, smelling the fragile aroma of lilac as he pushed garments impatiently aside. A gossamer blue shawl shot with silver thread flowed over his wrist and slid to the floor. As he hung it again, he brushed the soft nap of velvet and discovered the cloak he had given her, its dark red surface giving no hint of the sable richness within.

  Without knowing what he sought, he plumbed the wardrobe's depths as if concealed somewhere within was the intoxicating, elusive essence of Diana herself. The only trace of male presence was the luxuriant blue robe she had made for him to keep here. He stared at it, abashed, then straightened her clothing meticulously, not closing the doors until he was sure there was no sign of his trespass.

  Unsatisfied, he opened the top drawer of the chest that stood by the wardrobe. Inside lay neatly folded intimate apparel, delicately embroidered shifts and petticoats, fine silk stockings. He saw a pair of rather daring lace-trimmed pantalets that he'd never seen her wear. The sight twisted the knife of his jealousy as he wondered if someone else had seen them.

  His heart pounding as if he had been running, he scooped up a fine lawn chemise and buried his face in it. The scent this time was a potpourri blend with lavender. The cool touch of the fabric against his face helped bring him to his senses. He closed his eyes, shuddering. Diana would think he was mad if she came in now. Perhaps he was.

  He folded the chemise and laid it back in place, smoothing the garments to their original order, his fingers coarse against the sheer material. He had just closed the drawer when the sitting-room door opened. He was in full view of that door and he turned to see his mistress, her gentle beauty enhanced by a forest-green robe, her glossy chestnut hair falling in loose waves around her throat and shoulders.

  The cat whisked in and vanished under a chair as Diana halted, her gaze meeting and holding his across the distance separating them. He wondered if she'd seen what he was doing, and if so, what she thought of his invasion of her privacy.

  Her lips curved in an uncertain smile, and at the sight he swiftly crossed both rooms and embraced her. Even though he ached with desire, making love was less important than simply holding her tight, feeling the soft curves of her body fitting against the hard angles of his. His hands roamed over her back and waist and hips, and he rubbed his cheek against her silken hair as the haunting sweetness of lilac surrounded them.

  She raised her face for a kiss and he obliged, thinking that her mouth alone could rouse him more than the whole of any other woman's body. After a long satisfying embrace, he held her away from him. "I've missed you."

  "Good!" she laughed, her face bright again. "I would hate to think I was the only one who noticed how long it has been."

  She was glad to see Gervase smile at that. His face had been closed and wary when she first came in, and for a moment she had been terrified that he'd come to say that he could live without her quite easily. He would have casually given her the rest of the pearl necklace as a parting gift; Madeline said that was the sort of thing gentlemen usually did.

  Instead, he ignored that last night in the garden. She knew the issues raised then were buried, not resolved, but she was too much a coward to raise them again tonight. She had never claimed to be brave.

  Gervase wrapped his arms around her shoulders and steered her to the small sofa, pouring a brandy before he sat down and pulled her close. She cuddled under his arm, thinking how strange it was that she felt so wonderfully safe and protected with him, in spite of all that lay between them.

  He offered the brandy goblet to her. "I trust you weren't with Geoffrey because he was ill?"

  "No, I was reading him a story and we both wanted to see how it ended. I'm sorry for keeping you waiting."

  "No matter."

  His hand brushed the side of her breast, and warmth began to uncoil deep in her body. She knew he liked a little boldness, so she unfastened two buttons on his shirt and slipped her fingers inside. A little breathlessly she said, "I'm thinking of buying him a pony. He had a birthday last week, and insists he is now old enough for a mount of his own."

  Gervase chuckled. "There's nothing wrong with his logic. I'll get him the pony he rode at Aubynwood. It's a good animal, and the owner's children have outgrown it."

  She slid her hand down his thigh, feeling long, hard muscles beneath her palm. "He'd like that. How much will it cost?"

  The viscount shrugged. "I'll pay for it."

  Glancing up at him, she said, "No, I will."

  He gave her a reproving glance. "Diana, you have not yet mastered the trick of being a mistress. You're supposed to accept whatever gifts are offered, and wheedle for more."

  She said acerbically, "Would you prefer me like that?"

  He raised his hand and delicately toyed with her ear. "I like you very well the way you are."


  "Then let me pay for the pony. It's for Geoffrey, after all, not for me." It was hard to remember her principles when he was doing such delightful things to her.

  "You mean I can give presents to you, but not your son?" he asked. "I like Geoffrey for his own sake, you know."

  His words were deeply gratifying. Relaxing against his side, she said, "In that case, I accept on my son's behalf. Geoffrey will be delighted. He fell in love with that pony."

  "Good. I doubt he would appreciate what I brought you." He reached over to the table that stood by the sofa and lifted a small flat package. "I found this in Dublin."

  She sat up to unwrap the gift, then gasped at what she found inside. "Gervase, it's exquisite! I saw a Book of Hours once as a child, and I've never forgotten it."

  In her hands she held one of the medieval prayer books that marked the cycles of the days and the seasons. Every Book was an individual work of art, with hand-lettered text and illustrations that were miniature masterpieces. This one opened to an Annunciation scene in the Hours of the Virgin and she brushed her fingertips reverently across the page, imagining the devotion the book had inspired over the centuries.

  "I'm glad you like it. The dealer who sold it to me said it was Flemish, about four hundred years old." He finished the brandy and set the goblet on the end table.

  Diana looked at him, her eyes shining. "You find the most marvelous, unusual things. I don't know how to thank you."

  His smile was deep and intimate. "I can think of a way." Putting his hand behind her head, he drew her down for a kiss.

  They made love like a tropic storm, a whirlwind of heat and turbulence. Afterward they rested in lazy contentment, knowing the night was young. Candles cast a soft glow, since Gervase insisted on seeing her. Diana had come to agree that light was better. She loved the beautiful lines and planes of her lover's body, the soft vibrations of his voice, the way his face would relax into the peacefulness he showed only with her. He lay with his head pillowed on her breast, his arms enfolding her, his breath soft and even.