Dearly Beloved

by Mary Jo Putney

  "You really are perceptive." He turned back to the window, absently watching a curricle pass. "Ever since I came down from university, I have behaved like a proper young gentleman, doing all the proper social things. I've gone to balls and met young misses, always taking care to avoid raising expectations. I hoped I would meet a girl I could fall passionately in love with and everything would be all right, but it never happened."

  "And then?" Diana prompted.

  "I have fallen passionately in love." A muscle jumped in his jaw. "But not... not with a woman."

  His situation was far beyond Diana's experience, but she sensed Francis's desperate pain and prayed that she would say the right words. "Does he... return your feelings?"

  "We've never talked about it." He played with the edge of the blue brocade drapery, his fingers stiff with agitation. "He's a few years older than I, more experienced. I think we are... the same kind. When we are together... nothing happens that could not be seen by anyone. But the way I feel... and what I see in his eyes..." His strained voice broke off.

  It was at that moment that she truly understood and accepted. The love in Francis' voice was not essentially different from her love for Gervase, or Maddy's for Nicolas. Diana could not believe that such love was evil. "It's tragic that neither of you can speak for fear that you are wrong and the other may hate and revile you."

  His slender fingers clenched on the drapery. "It is worse even than hate and revulsion. What we are speaking of is a capital crime. Men are hanged every year for it. The mere accusation can wreck a man's life."

  If only she knew more of the world! Tentatively she asked, "Is the same true in all countries?"

  His hand cased. "No, I think Britain is the least tolerant land in the world. The ancients did not believe that love between men was a sin. Even today, Italy and Greece are said to be... less condemning. I've heard of Englishmen who have exiled themselves there, and wondered if that might be an answer."

  "Perhaps you should ask your... friend if he would like to go on a tour with you," she suggested. "To Italy or Greece."

  He let his breath out in a long sigh that held both sorrow and relief. "Perhaps I should." He turned to face her then, his eyes deeply sad. "That might solve some problems. Not all. I think, in time, I can learn to accept myself."

  "If you can do that, the hardest battle has been won." Diana fell silent, admiring his hard-won wisdom. Then she searched his face, wondering. "Why did you choose to talk to me? You hardly know me."

  "That is part of the reason," he said slowly. "It is easier to talk to someone who has not known me for years. Also... you remind me of a Madonna, all warmth and understanding. I thought that if anyone could accept me, it would be you." A spasm of pain flickered across his face. "But what of my family? My mother and younger sister, my cousin Gervase. If they should learn, will they despise me?"

  He shook his head, as if trying to deny the reality of his life, then cried out with despair, his control on the edge of shattering, "You are a mother, Diana. Tell me, how would you feel if you learned that your son was... like me?"

  Diana closed her eyes against sudden hot tears. It was not difficult to feel compassion for a newly made friend, but his words brought tragedy unbearably near when she considered how she would feel if it were a full-grown Geoffrey standing before her. She took a deep breath, then opened her eyes.

  Francis stood directly in front of the window, his light brown hair shining in the bright shafts of afternoon sunlight. His handsome young face was nakedly vulnerable as he braced himself for her judgment, without hope.

  Softly she said, "I can't speak for your mother, Francis, or for anyone else. I can only say that there is nothing Geoffrey could do, or be, that would make me stop loving him. And my son could do far worse than be like you."

  She stepped forward and placed her hands on his shoulders, giving him a light, affectionate kiss as a tangible sign that she was not repelled by him. Francis' arms came around her convulsively, so tight that she could barely breathe, and she felt him shake with tears and anguish that had been too long denied. She returned his embrace, offering comfort as if he were Geoffrey, though he stood half a head taller than she.

  As the emotional storm subsided, his embrace relaxed and he whispered his gratitude, "Thank you, Diana. For being what you are, and for letting me be what I am."

  Chapter 18

  After leaving the gypsies, Gervase had made his way through the French army disguised as a dealer in cigars and chocolate. When he finally reached General Romana on the Danish island of Funen, it had taken time to convince the Spaniard that he was a genuine representative of the British government.

  Once convinced and apprised of the situation in his homeland, Romana lost no time in accepting the Royal Navy's offer to return his army to Spain. Making the arrangements was profoundly satisfying; this one act justified Gervase's entire life. The Peninsula was Napoleon's Achilles' heel. It might be years before the French emperor was defeated, but his end had begun.

  He could have joined Romana's army on the voyage to Spain, but preferred to return the way he had come. It would be faster, and on his journey he had learned things that should reach Whitehall as soon as possible.

  He also had personal reasons for wanting to go home. The sight and sound and feel of Diana haunted him, both waking and sleeping. Traveling through one dark and dangerous night, he had stopped dead in his tracks mere yards from a French patrol, immobilized by a rush of feelings about her. It had taken time and painstaking analysis to realize that the bush he hid behind was lilac, and that its fragrance was bringing his mistress irresistibly to mind.

  Every time they were separated, he wanted her more. But this time, threading through his desire and longing was a dark strand of suspicion. The French had been expecting him. Diana was one of the four people who knew anything about his journey, and the other three were government officials. Though it was hard to reconcile her sweet loving with betrayal, on this he would not allow his emotions to cloud his judgment.

  Fearing the worst, he racked his brain to remember what he had told her about his work, but doubted there had ever been anything of significance. For that he was grateful; it would hardly be surprising if a woman who sold her body would also sell information if the price was right.

  If she had done so, he would learn the truth from her. What he had not yet decided was what he would do about it.

  * * *

  The passage across the Channel was slow and hazardous as the brandy-laden boat was buffeted by heavy summer storms. Gervase was already bone-weary when he arrived at dawn in Harwich, but he immediately hired a post chaise and set off for London, rain, muddy roads, and all. It was a slow journey, and toward the end he was so exhausted that he hired a postilion rather than drive the final stages himself.

  It was late in the evening when they reached London, and he had intended to go directly to the cold grandeur of St. Aubyn House. Instead, surrendering to an impulse impossible to deny, he directed the postilion to Diana's house, even though he was asking for trouble, even though he was breaking her rule of always asking permission to call.

  Climbing wearily out of the chaise with the small shoulder-slung pack that was his only baggage, he paid off the postilion. The rain had diminished to a damp mist that saturated clothing and chilled the bones in a manner more like November than August, and the streets of Mayfair were almost deserted. Light showed in Diana's window and he wondered dully if she was entertaining another man, and what he would do if she were.

  He climbed the marble steps slowly, hoping she was alone, for even the short blocks to his own house seemed too far to walk. The housemaid who eventually answered the door said to wait in the drawing room while she went to see if the mistress was receiving. Dropping his pack, he wandered aimlessly, refusing to sit because it would be too hard to stand again.

  Then Diana was standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame for support as her wide lapis eyes encompassed him. She was frag
ile and lovely in a blue dressing gown, her hair loose as if she had been preparing for bed. Was that shock on her face, surprise that he was alive? Perhaps dismay?

  Before he had finished his despairing thoughts, she had covered the short distance between them, embracing him with such force that he staggered back a pace before he enclosed her in his arms. Diana was everything that was soft and warm and clean, fresh and fragrant as a spring morning as she tried to wrap his tall body with her small one.

  The dense core of exhausted tension that had been winding tighter and tighter since he left England began to dissolve. As he rested his cheek against her sleek burnished hair, he felt like smiling for the first time in two months. "You'd best be careful, Diana. Too much enthusiasm and I may collapse on you."

  She turned her face up to his, and he was shocked by the tears coursing down her face. "I was so worried," she whispered. "It's been so long since you left. I was afraid something must have happened."

  When was the last time anyone had been this concerned about his fate? Even weeping, she was so beautiful it hurt to look at her. Words fled and he was content to stare, feasting on the sight and feeling of her pliant body against him. She was so warm.... "I didn't bring you anything," he said apologetically.

  "Idiot," she said, her deep blue eyes bright through her tears. Then, with a teasing smile that caught at his heart, she said, "I think that I can extend you credit for tonight. But you'll have to kiss me as surety."

  Even for an exhausted man, it was an irresistible invitation. Her lips were welcoming and he savored the familiar shape and taste and pressure.

  She made a soft sound in her throat as she responded, and his world narrowed down to the woman in his arms. There was no past or future, no one and nothing but Diana, and she was more than enough.

  His energy was reviving in her presence, and when the kiss finally ended he stepped back. "I'm sorry to call in such a disgraceful state. I've been traveling steadily for weeks and have had these clothes on longer than I can remember."

  She didn't dignify his remark with an answer. Instead, she rang for a maid, then came back and slipped an arm around his waist. Abandoning his pack in the drawing room, Gervase circled her shoulders with his arm and willingly surrendered to her guidance. Diana ordered the maid to bring food and wine to her bedchamber; then they climbed the stairs, linked together in a manner inefficient but rewarding. As they entered her rooms she said, "You're in luck. I was just about to bathe so the hot water is already here."

  "That sounds like a good idea, but I warn you, I may fall asleep in the water."

  She smiled impishly. "I'll make sure you don't drown." Diana's suite of rooms included a small chamber with one of the only fitted baths Gervase had ever seen. The long, deep tub was large enough to accommodate a full-grown man, and was full of steaming water with a faint floral scent.

  Working with the efficiency she had learned raising a son, Diana began to undress Gervase. He accepted her actions with amusement, content to be passive. "You've lost weight," she commented, her hands skimming his ribs as she unbuttoned his battered shirt.

  "The meals were not always regular."

  Then she stopped and sucked her breath in, her fingers poised just above the raw, barely healed scar on his left arm. "Your journey must have been as dangerous as you expected," she said with a catch in her voice.

  "It was."

  She touched her lips to the scar, butterfly-light in case it still hurt, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes again. He completed his undressing in silence, too moved by her tenderness to speak, but feeling the stirrings of desire in spite of his utter exhaustion.

  None of Gervase's houses ran to the sybaritic luxury of a fitted tub, and the unaccustomed pleasure he felt on sinking into the hot water was so sharp that it was almost pain. The maid knocked at the door of the sitting room and Diana left to exchange his filthy clothes for a tray of food and a bottle of wine. She poured a glass of the wine and handed it to him, and he sighed with unmitigated bliss. "I think it is entirely possible that I have died and gone to heaven."

  Laughing, she said, "Your body is reacting in a way that they say is denied to angels."

  He smiled and laid his palm briefly on her cheek, then sipped the wine and tilted his head back against the wall. The hot water loosened sore muscles he hadn't realized he had, and he felt weak as an infant. Tomorrow he would think about his government and personal responsibilities, and the question of who had warned the French of his coming, but for now he would mindlessly absorb the pampering Diana gave so well.

  She had taken off her dressing gown and wore only a sleeveless low-necked shift made from a fine cotton that was far from opaque. With facecloth and soap in hand, she knelt by the tub and began washing him, the feel of rough fabric like a massage. Her deft touch was not overtly erotic, but she was gently thorough and the effect was seductive in the extreme.

  As the wine warmth spread through his veins, he observed that it was impossible for her to be ungraceful, no matter how she moved or bent or turned. She was scrubbing his legs now, her bare arms plunged deep in the water.

  Knowing the words inadequate, he said, "I haven't felt this well since I left your house in May. Not even then, because I was leaving you." Reaching out, he brushed her slim neck with his fingertips as she leaned over the tub, saying quietly, "You are a pearl beyond price."

  She looked up with a brief shy glance, her face glowing with pleasure at his words, then returned to her self-appointed task. He finished the wine, tucking the glass into the corner between tub and wall, luxuriating.

  When the rest of him had been roundly scrubbed, Diana moved to the top of the tub to soap his hair, her strong fingers giving his scalp pleasure undreamed of. Her full breasts were tantalizingly revealed by her water-splashed shift, and as she leaned over him Gervase surrendered to temptation and took one into his mouth, feeling the immediate hardening of her nipple through the sheer fabric.

  Her eyes widened and met his as she trembled under the warm movement of his mouth. Abandoning her task, her fingers tightened spasmodically in his hair, then relaxed with pleasure. Her arms slid down to lie loosely around his neck as her eyes closed and her breathing quickened.

  Raising both hands to her slim rib cage, he held her steady as he moved his lips up above the low neckline of the shift to the cleft between her breasts, brushing kisses to the hollow at the base of her throat. The warm steamy atmosphere of the bath chamber gave her skin a moist, delicate tenderness. The desire that had smoldered became flame.

  As their mouths met in mutual hunger, Gervase slid his hand up her shapely leg to the hem of her shift, raising the gauzy fabric. He had to break the kiss to lift the shift over her head, but that deprivation was justified by the uncovering of Diana's full, stunning beauty. Her glossy chestnut hair tumbled loose in wanton tresses and her slender waist emphasized the rich womanly curves. Of their own accord his hands reached out to touch and caress as he tried to touch every silken inch of her.

  As he gathered her in his arms to draw her into the tub, she laughed, torn between amusement and misty desire. "Do you really think this bath is large enough for two people?"

  "It's a subject that deserves investigation," Gervase replied as she joined him, her body resting lightly on his in the buoyancy of the water. Her taut nipples teased his chest and their thighs brushed before her legs settled outside his. Her wet skin was sleek and smooth as satin, and he understood why sailors dreamed of mermaids.

  When kisses and closeness were no longer enough, he cupped her round buttocks in his palms and lifted her easily onto him, sliding deep, deep into her body. She gasped and melted bonelessly against his chest, her long chestnut hair floating fanlike across the surface as their bodies pulsed together in a slow, exquisite underwater dance unlike anything Gervase had ever known. For these moments they were one in body and mind, their feelings so attuned that as they catapulted to rapture he was unsure which of them led the way and which followed,
or if there was any difference.

  They came down from the peak slowly, still joined while their rough breathing caused ripples in the water. What Gervase felt was far more than satisfaction, or even ecstasy. It was as if he had crossed into some strange new country with Diana, and his emotions were too new and profound to understand.

  It was safer to say, "I'm surprised we didn't raise the water to the boil." One arm tight around her shoulders to support her above the surface, he brushed wet hair from her face tenderly as her cheek nestled against his collarbone. "I'm going to have fitted tubs installed in every house I own."

  He could feel the vibration of her laughter as they lay breast-to-breast. Raising her head, she replied, "I hadn't realized how enjoyable a bath could be." Cautiously standing up, she climbed from the tub, wrapping herself in one of the large towels folded in readiness. "There seems to be almost as much water on the floor as in the tub."

  The water was cold and lonely without her, so Gervase ducked under the surface to rinse his hair, then climbed out and they dried each other with towels and laughter. With both affection and lust satisfied, he was almost unconscious with fatigue. His last memory before falling into the deepest, most restful sleep of his life was enfolding Diana in his arms to hold her by his heart through the night.

  * * *

  As the young mistress and her lover slept, the French cook efficiently examined the contents of the viscount's abandoned pack with an experienced eye, carefully copying his cryptic notes before returning everything to where she had found it. After months of time wasted here, she finally had something of value to report. Most of what she wrote meant nothing to her, but she did not doubt that the Count de Veseul would understand.

  * * *

  When Diana woke, it was early morning and Gervase was still sleeping soundly. The gray stranger's face he had worn when she first saw him the night before was gone, and he looked young and peaceful. It pleased her enormously to have that effect. She didn't have the heart to wake him, so she broke another rule, letting him sleep while she had breakfast with Geoffrey.