He even permitted himself to imagine what life would be like if he bought himself free of his marriage Though technically a courtesan, Diana had never lived the public and flamboyant life of a Harriette Wilson and she should be accepted in most social circles. For Gervase that was not an important consideration, but he wanted Diana to receive all the respect due his wife.
They could have children together. He was genuinely fond of Geoffrey and would see that the boy was well-established. But he also wondered, with increasing urgency, what it would be like to have children of his own, sons and daughters like Diana, whom he could give the constant love and guidance he had never had.
The bright dreams grew through three days of travel.
His wife's residence was not in the village proper, and Gervase was directed out a narrow, rutted track that wound ever higher, ending at an isolated cottage. Wondering what the devil had led Hamilton to bring his daughter to such a remote spot, he left the reins to Bonner and knocked on the heavy oak door.
As he waited for a response, he listened to the wind whispering through the gorse and heather. It seemed a peaceful place, well-tended, with masses of cheerful flowers planted.
If Mary Hamilton was happy here, he wouldn't take her away, merely assure himself that she was well-cared-for. Would she recognize him? If so, he hoped she wouldn't recoil in terror. This meeting would be difficult enough as it was.
The young woman who opened the door was a pretty country lass with dark hair and a face that looked ready to smile, though now she studied the visitor gravely. When he asked for Mary Hamilton, the young woman nodded, then directed him through a door on the left.
His quick glance showed that it was furnished in a simple country style of plain wood and colorful fabrics, cozy and unpretentious, but most of his attention was drawn to the woman standing in front of the window, her back to him. The light was bright outside, obscuring detail, showing only erect posture and a slim figure.
At the sound of his entrance, she turned to face him. It took time for his vision to adjust, for him to see enough to confirm his first, impossible impression.
The woman was Diana.
Chapter 20
Gervase stared at her. "For God's sake, Diana! What are you doing here? Did you wheedle the direction out of my lawyer and come to check that I was doing what I said I would?"
Her face was pale over a soft brown dress whose simplicity emphasized her graceful figure and rich coloring. "I'm here because this is my home, Gervase. I lived here for eight years, and I still own it."
He tried to make sense of her words. "Then... you know Mary Hamilton? Have you been the one taking care of her?"
"No." She moistened dry lips with her tongue, then spoke, her voice almost too low to be heard. "I was christened Mary Elizabeth Diana Lindsay Hamilton. I am your wife, the girl you married against your will."
The silence stretched, then snapped. "Impossible." Gervase felt the numbness of shock even as his voice denied her words. "You are intelligent, normal. You look nothing like her."
"Do you really remember what the girl you married looked like? Think back, then say she couldn't be me." Diana's voice was level, but she was braced against the window frame for support, her fingers white-knuckled on the sill.
As they stood separated by the width of the cheerful room, he tried to connect his memories with the woman before him, the woman he knew so intimately. He had thought the girl in the inn had dark brown hair and brown eyes, but Diana's chestnut hair and lapis eyes were dark in dim light.
Surely he would have remembered Diana's exquisite features, her heart-shaped face? But the face of the girl he had married had been veiled in dark hair, distorted with fear and weeping. She didn't have Diana's lush feminine body, but she'd been scarcely more than a child, her body just beginning to develop.
A slow chill of horror began deep inside him even as he spoke the key denial. "Her mind was afflicted. She could barely speak. Her face was slack, her eyes strange. You could never have looked like that."
"No?" Diana's voice was bitter. "It isn't difficult when one has been drugged into unconsciousness. You were wrong about me, but correct about my father. He was quite, quite mad. When he traveled, he took me along for fear I would lie with half the parish in his absence. When we stayed at an inn, he would force me to take laudanum, waiting until I swallowed it. Then he would lock the door from the outside to be sure I couldn't leave."
She waited for the beginnings of belief on his face before continuing. "Mind you, I can understand why you decided there was something wrong with me. I had difficulty waking up, and when I did, at first I thought you were one of the horrible nightmares that come with laudanum. I couldn't understand or believe what was happening."
Diana halted, unable to continue as she recalled the night in full, agonizing detail. Waking up to the terror of a stranger's invasion; her father's indecent delight at the thought of ridding himself of his loathsome daughter; the strange, unreal ceremony. Then her husband's fury, his implacable strength as he ripped and defiled her body in unimaginable ways.
She shuddered, then spoke with rapid sarcasm, trying to bury the memories. "Of course, if one is going to be raped, there is something to be said for being drenched in laudanum first."
The memories were horrible, but they came from the past and were less important than the present and future. Deliberately she slowed her breathing, which had quickened in remembered panic. "When our paths crossed in London, I was terrified that you recognized me, the way you stared, then came over and took me out of that group. But you never showed any sign of knowing who I was. I suppose that was because you were so sure you had married a simpleton."
He asked flatly, "Did you recognize me?"
"Oh, yes, my lord husband," she said softly, "I recognized you the moment I saw you." The furious face of the man who had so reluctantly married her had been burned indelibly on her brain—the wide cheekbones, the clear light eyes, the chiseled lips twisted into a thin line. She would have known him anywhere, even if half a century had passed.
There had been times in the past when she thought Gervase remote, but they were nothing compared to the bleak withdrawal in his face now. Speaking more to himself than to her, he said, "So you devised the perfect revenge. You trained yourself in harlotry and sought me out, knowing that no man could resist you."
He was staring as if he had never seen her before, as if she were some unspeakable creature from the depths of the earth. "How long did it take you to discover the finest, cruelest method of injuring me? Did you know in advance, or did you only realize it when you came to know me better?"
"Neither!" Diana was startled and suddenly frightened. "I didn't seek you out for revenge. When I came to London, I had no thought—no desire—to meet you. But then I did. Since you wanted me, it seemed like a God-given opportunity to become acquainted, to learn what kind of a man I was married to. And when I did..." Her voice faltered. It was difficult to continue in the face of his revulsion. "And when I did... I came to love you."
"You lying, traitorous bitch." The viciousness in his voice was scalding. "You can actually stand there and play the innocent, even after so many lies."
He paced a few steps closer, his lean body explosive with fury. "And I thought your father mad for saying you had a vile nature. Tell me, Diana, how many men have you lain with, or are there too many to count? How many times have you and your friends laughed and mocked me for my incredible stupidity? Were you working with the Count de Veseul all along? Or did he approach you and you decided that compromising my work as well as my soul would be a delightful and profitable bonus?"
"None of that is true!" she cried. "No one, not even Madeline or Edith, knows that we are married. I have never given my body to Veseul or to any other man. Only to you, my husband. And the first time, I didn't give it to you—you took it, against my will." Even in her fear at how disastrously wrong this confrontation was going, she could not restrain the bitterness of her
last sentence.
"Do you honestly think I will believe a word you say when you have been deceiving me since the moment I met you?" he asked incredulously. "Only my blind, mind-warping lust kept me from seeing through you. You always seemed too perfect to be true, but I wanted to believe in you." Pain roughened his voice. "My God, how I wanted to believe."
"Of course I deceived you at first," she said with exasperation. "Don't you remember saying that if I ever came near you or any of your properties, or used your name, that you would revoke the settlement and leave me penniless?"
"I should have known that money was at the bottom of it," he said scathingly, "even though you did such a fine job of pretending to be less grasping than most of your kind."
"That's exactly why I wouldn't let you settle a regular income on me," Diana said, hoping that he would see this as a proof of integrity. "It seemed wrong to be taking your money twice over when you didn't know who I was."
"So instead of asking more for yourself, you had your friend Madeline do it, preserving your facade of saintly unconcern."
"What are you talking about?"
His mouth curved up cynically. "Stop playing the innocent. It won't work anymore."
Bewildered, Diana said, "Gervase, the only money I have is the thousand pounds a year you settled on me, and I've saved as much of that as possible for Geoffrey's future."
"Ah, yes, Geoffrey," he said, his voice soft and deadly. "Do you know who the little bastard's father is?"
Quicker than thought, she struck him. Her palm hit his cheek with a flat slapping sound, the force of it rocking him back.
She recoiled, aghast not just at the rage in Gervase's eyes but in horror at herself, that she could be physically violent to someone she loved. For a moment she feared that he would offer violence in return, but with visible effort he held himself absolutely still.
"Another veil falls away," he said sardonically, the mark of her hand reddening on his cheek. "I thought you honest, kind, intelligent, gentle. There isn't much left of my illusions."
Shaking her head in distress, she whispered, "Gervase, I'm truly sorry. But how could you say that about your own son?"
He raised his brows in disbelief. "You want to pass your bastard off as my son? I suppose you can try—he looks so much like you that anyone could be his father. I suppose that's literally true. Any man could be his father."
"Don't you ever look at anyone?" she exclaimed furiously. "If you really saw Geoffrey, you would know how much he resembles you. That's one reason I didn't want you to meet him. But you no more recognized him than you did me."
His mind worked, trying to find the resemblance. "He's too young. A child of mine would have to be eight years old now, and what is Geoffrey... six?... seven at the outside?"
Her hands were clenching and unclenching as she said with careful precision, "He was born on the tenth of February in the year 1800—nine months after our farce of a marriage. He's small for his age, but he's eight and a half years old now. I couldn't bear to name him for his father, so I chose Geoffrey because it had the same initial as Gervase. Shall I show you the registration of his birth?"
He looked unbearably torn. She saw how much he wanted a son, in spite of his belief that he was unworthy of children. "That would prove nothing. You could have borne a babe who died in infancy with Geoffrey the child of a later liaison."
Defeated, Diana covered her face with her hands. She had known that her identity would be a shock to Gervase, but had never imagined this total, tormented repudiation. If he did not have the desire to believe her, proof would mean very little.
Ignoring her withdrawal, he asked, "Did you pay the barmaid to disappear so you could take her place? I've always wondered just how big a fool I was that night."
She dropped her hands wearily. "You still don't know? It was my room you entered. Since you were drunk, you must have become lost in those rabbity passages."
"I should have known it was a waste of time to ask you for the truth," he said caustically. "It couldn't have been your room—the door opened with my key."
There was a chair behind her, and Diana folded into it, too drained to stand. When Geoffrey was an infant, she used to sit in this chair to nurse him. "Those were old, crude locks. Any one of the keys would probably open every door in the inn."
That gave him pause. Then, "You really are a clever little liar, knowing how to raise doubts. I shouldn't fault myself for having believed you for so long."
She wondered if there was a way to break through his anger to the underlying fairness. Perhaps it was too soon to expect him to be fair. Too soon, or perhaps too late. "Didn't you ever wonder where your luggage was? Not in my room."
He simply looked at her impassively, then turned to leave. She jumped up and went after him. "Gervase, wait! What are you going to do?"
His hard stare kept her at a distance. "I shall walk out and get in my carriage and return to London. If I am very lucky, I will never see or hear from you again."
She lifted one hand to touch him, then dropped it again. "How can you just leave? We are married, we have a son."
He laughed bitterly. "You are truly an extraordinary woman. Did you honestly think that after you made your grand announcement, told me how much of a fool you had made of me, how our time together was a lie from beginning to end—did you really think I would welcome you as my wife and install you as Lady St. Aubyn for all the world to see?"
Contemptuous lines showed beside his mouth. "You wouldn't like the change in status. The gentlemen who now pay for your favors would expect them for free if you were of their class."
"Will you stop talking as if I'm the Whore of Babylon?" she cried. "I didn't tell you the whole truth, but I never lied to you, not once."
As silence lengthened, a muscle twitched in his jaw. Finally he said, "Your whole life was a lie."
The desolation in his voice was so profound that she could no longer suppress the tears she had been fighting. As they flowed unchecked down her cheeks, she made a last desperate attempt to remind him of what they had had. "I love you, and you said that you loved me. Doesn't that mean anything?"
"Oh, yes, it meant something," he said softly. "But apparently the woman I loved never existed."
"Gervase, please!" Her cry came from the heart.
He put one hand on the doorknob, but turned back to look with the bleakness that lies beyond hope. "Strange. I was willing to make a whore my wife, but I find it quite unacceptable that my wife is a whore. Good-bye, Diana."
The quiet sound of the door closing was a death knell.
Diana stood very still in the center of the room, knowing that when her numbness wore off, the pain would be overwhelming. Carriage noises sounded outside, the jingle of harness, the clopping of hooves, as Gervase left her for the last time.
She had thought often of how he might react when he found out that she was his wife. Certainly he would be shocked. Possibly he might be a little angry, but it had been equally possible that he would be amused, that the idea that he had taken his wife as a mistress might tickle his dry sense of humor.
Most of all, Diana had thought he would be relieved. When they had married, he had committed an unpardonable assault, but after his fury had died down he had been remorseful and gentle with her. When she came to know him in London, she had learned how honorable he was, and how unworthy he felt himself to be. She had thought he would welcome the news that his wife could forgive him, and that, against all the odds, they had a real marriage.
The one thing she had never expected was that revealing the past would destroy what was between them. How could it, when they loved each other? She had always known him to be logical and fair-minded. She'd never imagined that he would react to the discovery of her identity with such furious condemnation.
When the sound of wheels had faded, she walked out of the sitting room. Madeline's niece Annie waited, her expression concerned. Annie was the eldest child of Isabel Wolfe and she had fallen in l
ove with a young man insufficiently godly for her mother's taste. It had pleased Madeline and Diana to offer the use of High Tor Cottage so the girl could marry her sweetheart.
Annie must be speaking, because her lips moved, but Diana heard nothing. Shaking her head as a sign that she wanted to be alone, she went out the front door, across the marks of carriage wheels and horses' hooves, and down the hill to the stream.
Sitting on the grassy bank, Diana took off her slippers and stockings. Still moving with unnatural calm, she dabbled her feet in the small pool where Geoffrey had almost drowned when he was a toddler. In happier times they had played here, her son exhibiting the normal child's affinity for mud.
Gervase was gone. He was not a man to love lightly, or to leave lightly. Or to change his mind once he came to a decision. She had known they were opposite, in temperament, but had not realized all that implied. For her, love was enough, would always be enough. She had thought that if Gervase came to love her, the bond between them would be unbreakable.
She had been wrong. Instead, she had injured him grievously, had destroyed his love and trust, perhaps irrevocably, given him a wound from which he might never recover.
Where had she made her mistake? Numbly she reviewed the past months. Perhaps it had been at Aubynwood, when they had weathered their first crisis. Instinct had urged her to tell Gervase the truth then, but she didn't. It had been easier to let matters drift. She had thought it better to wait until he could admit that he was in love with her, thinking he would more easily accept the truth then.
Instead, the reverse was true. Loving her, he was far more vulnerable than he had been at Aubynwood. The result was his conviction that he had been betrayed. The thought of his agony was as devastating as her own. More so, because of her guilt.
Rolling over on her stomach, she buried her head in her arms and let anguish take her.
* * *
The return to London was accomplished in dead silence. Except for the barest speech required to change horses and stop for the night, Gervase spoke to Bonner only once, when he asked what the servant had found when he had packed his master's possessions that fatal night on Mull.
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