Dearly Beloved

by Mary Jo Putney

  He'd be damned if he would air his dirty linen in public. Inclining his head to his wife, he said coolly, "I trust your journey was a pleasant one, my dear."

  Diana's head snapped around at the sound of his voice. Their gazes struck and held, and for an instant he forgot the guests that surrounded them, forgot his wife's treachery. He wanted to take her in his arms, taste her lips and loosen her hair, and make slow intense love to her.

  She made a movement toward him, then checked it, fearful of her welcome. Closing the distance between them, Gervase took her arm in a punishing grip and led her away. From the calmness of his face, the onlookers would have assumed that he was giving a quiet, husbandly greeting, but his voice was low and furious as he demanded, "Just what the devil are you trying to accomplish with this? Whatever it is, you will not succeed."

  Diana's drowning blue eyes met his, pleading and apologetic, but before she could speak, the door opened again and Geoffrey marched into the tense silence. Everyone in the hall looked from the dark-haired boy to the viscount, then back. It was possible to doubt Diana's identity, but not that of the heir to St. Aubyn.

  With a temerity to equal his mother's, he walked through the guests to Gervase and offered his hand. "Good day, sir. It is good to see you again." Not an affectionate greeting, but quite in line for a well-mannered son of the nobility.

  Geoffrey's eyes were very like Diana's, both in lapis-blueness and the anxious question in them. Gervase studied the boy's dark hair, the jaw line, the wide cheekbones, and wondered how he could have been so blind.

  There was much that he could have said, but not here, in front of others. "Good day, Geoffrey. I trust you have been working on your Latin." His greeting was prosaic, but his handshake far from casual as he welcomed his son to Aubynwood.

  Responding to the expression in his father's eyes rather than the actual words, Geoffrey beamed. "Yes, sir. And my Greek too."

  Hollins returned with a footman. Perhaps he had listened at the door and knew in which quarter the wind lay. "Bring her ladyship's baggage from the carriage," the butler ordered.

  Diana gave her husband a grave look. "Pray excuse me. The journey has been long and I am weary. I shall see you all later." She gave the other guests a charming smile.

  As her glance circled the room, Gervase saw Diana tense for an instant. Following the direction of her gaze, he saw that the Count de Veseul had entered the hall and was regarding Diana with ironic amusement. Veseul, almost certainly a spy, likely his wife's lover.

  Expression unreadable, she turned away from Veseul and climbed the stairs after Hollins. It took a moment for him to recognize that the meek maid following her was Madeline Gainford, who had entered unobtrusively. So his wife had arrived with her allies. Edith Brown was probably driving the damned carriage.

  For a moment Gervase considered following Diana to her room and having the great blazing row she was asking for, but he refrained, knowing he needed more time to control his emotions before he confronted his wife and forced her to leave.

  He turned to the accusing glare of Lady Haycroft, the eager widow who had believed her invitation to Aubynwood was encouragement. "How nice that your sweet little wife could join us, St. Aubyn," she said through gritted teeth. "I hope she doesn't find society too much a strain after life in the provinces."

  "Lady St. Aubyn is remarkably adaptable." He spoke without inflection, then excused himself to his guests and went to the stables. Despite the fact that he was not in riding clothes, he took his fastest horse out for a furious gallop across Aubynwood.

  The physical activity helped a little, but he still churned with bleak anger and despair. Having Diana among his guests, having to be courteous, knowing that she would be sleeping under the same roof… the prospect was unendurable.

  As he allowed his blown and sweating horse to slow its pace, he wondered what the devil his lady wife wanted.

  * * *

  Hollins led Diana to the mistress's room, the same she had stayed in before, with its hidden passage to the master suite. After he left, she removed her bonnet and sank onto the bed, shaking with reaction. She had carried off the scene downstairs well, until Gervase had appeared, his eyes like shards of angry ice. How many of her airy explanations had he heard? And how much had he resented them?

  Massaging her temples, she told herself to be happy that she'd surmounted the first hurdle and had a precarious foothold at Aubynwood, but much worse lay ahead. As she had guessed, Gervase would try to avoid a public scene, but he might have his servants bundle her off in secret. Or would he consider that too cowardly and feel he must deal with her himself?

  He had been as angry as she expected, but there had been desire in him as well. She was sure of that. In private, passion might build bridges that could not be forged in public.

  Veseul's presence had shocked her almost to immobility. Now that he knew she was Gervase's wife rather than a courtesan, he would likely leave her alone, but he still frightened her. Memories of his obscene liberties and his behavior at the Cyprians' Ball were so vivid that she shuddered.

  She brushed her fingertips across the haft of her knife, where it lay quiet and deadly in its leg sheath. She'd worn the knife because they were traveling. Ordinarily she would not have gone armed at Aubynwood, but with Veseul on the premises, she would wear a knife all day and sleep with one under her pillow. And she would lock the door whenever she was alone in her chamber.

  The thought made her rise. If Gervase walked in now ready to do battle, she would be unprepared. She escaped to the nursery wing and helped Geoffrey and Maddy settle in, taking pleasure in the illusion of normalcy.

  Her son was delighted to be at Aubynwood, satisfied with his father' reception, and in short order he was off to visit the stables. Taking her maid's role seriously, Madeline descended to ensure that Diana's clothing was properly unpacked, brushed, and bestowed.

  Diana considered sending a footman to find Gervase's cousin, but Francis found her first. She almost hugged him for the kind concern on his face when he intercepted her on the main staircase. She settled for squeezing his hands in hers. "Francis, I'm so glad you're here!"

  "So am I," he said with a warm smile. "Obviously you are in need of allies." Tucking her arm under his elbow, he led her across the hall. "Difficult to find privacy anywhere in the house. Care to walk with me while you explain what is going on?"

  Avoiding the formal gardens, they took a winding path down to the ornamental lake. Though they had not known each other for long, what had passed between them had created an unusual degree of intimacy. There was a rustic wooden bench at the edge of the little lake. He steered her to it so they could sit down, his hand resting on hers with light comfort.

  It was a profound relief for Diana to talk to someone who knew and cared for both her and Gervase. She gave an expanded version of what she had had told Geoffrey. Because Francis was an adult, he understood what she was not saying.

  He listened in grave silence until she was done. "So you really are married to Gervase, in love with him, and he can't forgive you your deception. What a tragic, ironic waste."

  She glanced into his blue eyes, then looked away quickly, afraid his sympathy would cause her to break down. "You've known him all your life, Francis. What made him react so strongly? Some anger I can understand, but not this blind, unforgiving fury."

  "I don't know, Diana." Francis shook his head. "He has been a good friend and cousin to me, but in some ways he is a mystery. Most English gentlemen keep their emotions hidden far from the sun, but Gervase goes beyond that."

  He plucked a sprig of speedwell from the ground and rolled it between his fingers, considering. "In spite of his competence and success, there is a quality of tragedy about Gervase. He has always served others, in both small things and great, but never because he expects gratitude. He can't even accept thanks. I think he feels unworthy of anyone's good opinion."

  "I have felt that too," Diana said slowly. "Do you have an idea what co
uld have made him that way?"

  "I could make some guesses." He glanced at her with a wry smile. "Lately I have thought a good deal about the many kinds of love. I think a child who is not loved early and well may later have trouble understanding or accepting any kind of love.

  "Gervase's father was a reticent man who did his duty, but never more than that. Duty required him to beget an heir for St. Aubyn, so he married and produced one. Two, actually—Gervase had an older brother who died at the age of six or seven. That was before my time, but my mother said once that his parents regretted that Gervase would inherit. He was small, too quiet, and he had seizures. They considered him flawed."

  "What was his mother like?"

  "Ah, the glorious Medora." Francis sighed and looked across the lake. "As beautiful and amoral a woman as ever walked the earth. She could charm the birds from the trees when she wished, then forget your existence in the space of a heartbeat. She fascinated and daunted everyone who ever crossed her path."

  "It might not be easy to have such a woman for a mother."

  "No, I don't think it was," he agreed. "It would have been simpler if she were evil-tempered, or deliberately cruel. Instead, she was... supremely self-absorbed. So concerned with her own desires that the rest of the human race had no real existence to her. One could no more judge her by the standards of ordinary mortals than one could judge a falcon or a cobra."

  "What happened to her?"

  "She died in a fire when Gervase was about seventeen. She was staying with one of her lovers in his hunting box in the Shires. The man died also. It was quite a little scandal, I understand. Lovers are all very well if one is discreet, but it was considered bad form to be caught dead with one."

  So Gervase's mother had been a fickle, selfish creature, by turns charming and heedless, and she had died in a flagrant and scandalous way. No wonder Gervase had a passion for privacy and an inability to believe in a woman's constancy. He began to make sense, though Diana was not sure yet what use she could make of the information. "Thank you for this, Francis. Perhaps it will help."

  He turned to look at her, his handsome face grave. "Gervase needs you, Diana, more than he can begin to understand. You could love and be loved by many different men, but Gervase is not like that. If he cannot bring himself to forgive and love you, I'm afraid he will withdraw so far that no one else will ever be able to find him. For his sake, I hope you persevere."

  She closed her eyes against aching tears. "I'll try," she whispered, "but I don't know how long I can endure."

  It took time to master her grief. Diana raised her head and blotted her face with the handkerchief Francis produced. Smiling shakily, she asked, "Are your affairs of the heart prospering any better than mine?"

  He smiled, an expression of pure, expansive joy. "They are. After you and I talked, it became easier to talk to... my friend. We found that we shared not just thoughts and ideas, but... infinitely more. In a few weeks we will be taking ship to the Mediterranean. It will be a very long time before we return."

  She asked hesitantly, "And your family?"

  "We have not spoken of it directly, but I think my mother has guessed. And like you, she forgives."

  Diana leaned forward and kissed him on the check. "There is nothing to forgive, only to accept. I am so happy for you."

  Francis gave her a hug and she relaxed in the warmth of his embrace as he said, "I thought once it was impossible to find the love I craved, but I was wrong. Even in this imperfect world, sometimes one can find a way to happiness. Things may look black now, but if any woman on earth can reach Gervase and win the passion and loyalty he is capable of, it is you."

  She whispered, "I pray to God that you are right."

  Neither of them realized how visible they were to a horseman on a high hill.

  * * *

  The Count de Veseul escorted a fuming Lady Haycroft toward the folly, avoiding the others who wandered through the gardens. The two were occasional lovers and they had a certain cold selfishness in common; they could be considered friends. After listening to her ladyship rail about St. Aubyn's perfidy in letting people think he was eligible, with vicious side comments on the insipid prettiness of the viscount's wife, Veseul drawled, "The little trollop may not be his wife. Even if she is, they may not have been married any nine years."

  "What?" Lady Haycroft stared at him. "St. Aubyn didn't deny her. Besides, the boy certainly looks like both of them, and he must be six or seven."

  "Oh, he may well be their child," Veseul said lazily, "but not necessarily a legitimate one. She must have been his mistress before he went to India. More recently, the alleged viscountess has been living in London as a courtesan, using the name Mrs. Lindsay. I saw her myself at the most recent Cyprians' Ball. In fact, you saw her with St. Aubyn, too, one night at Vauxhall. They were in one of those dark little alcoves, so I'm not surprised you didn't recognize her today."

  As Lady Haycroft went pale with shock at his news, Veseul stopped to pluck a yellow rose, sniffing it before presenting it to his companion. "Among the Cyprians, she was known as the Fair Luna. I'd heard she was St. Aubyn's mistress, among others. Many others. Perhaps her bed magic is strong enough that he married her, or perhaps he wanted an heir and decided it was easier to pretend an existing son was legitimate than to gamble on getting another in marriage. Who knows? He's a cold, calculating man. Were it not for his wealth, you'd have no interest in him yourself."

  "Very true," she snapped, "but the wealth would be ample reason to tolerate him. He seemed like a perfect choice as husband. Rich, influential without being fashionable, and likely indifferent to what his wife would do once he had an heir."

  Half to herself, she muttered, "He was showing signs of warming up before that strumpet arrived. If they really are married, I'll have to give up my hopes of him. There's no point in taking him as a lover if marriage isn't possible."

  Her lips pinched together, warping her handsome features with mean-spiritedness as she shredded the rose petals in her angry fingers. "But with what you have just told me, I can ruin her forever and make St. Aubyn a laughingstock. So Miss Butter-in-the-Mouth is just a high-priced London whore! When that gets out, she'll have to go back to Yorkshire or Scotland or whatever godforsaken place she came from."

  Veseul watched with pleasure at the sight of the mischief he'd sown. When Lady Haycroft's vicious tongue was done, both St. Aubyn and his woman would be miserable, possibly estranged from each other. The viscount was too proud to forgive his wife the ridicule her past would bring on him. If he repudiated her, Diana Lindsay might be eager to bed one of her husband's enemies for pure spite.

  He shrugged mentally. Whether she came willingly or not, she could not escape him if they spent the next week under the same roof. And if she was unwilling, he would do much more than simple rape. An ugly smile curled his lips and he caressed the gold serpent's head on his cane. He hoped she would resist; the mere thought of that was enough to arouse him.

  Chapter 22

  Even at a great distance, it was easy to identify the couple embracing by the lake as Diana and Francis. Had she come here in pursuit of his cousin? If so, she had made an easy capture. In spite of the sick fury the sight aroused in him, Gervase could not bring himself to blame Francis. Diana's sensual beauty and illusionary sweetness were enough to win any man who had the strength to draw breath.

  He stayed out until a dull, aching fatigue had replaced his first uncontrollable rage. He hoped that he and his weary horse would be able to slip back into the stables unobserved by his guests, but that hope was doomed to disappointment. As Gervase led his horse into the barn, he saw the figure of his son peering into a box stall, then turning to look up.

  In its way, this meeting would be as difficult as the one with Diana, but at least there would be a positive side as well as awkwardness. Waving off an oncoming groom, Gervase unsaddled his mount himself, then led it into the barn toward Geoffrey. "Care to help me groom Firefly?"

  The
boy nodded and followed his father into the stall. After tying Firefly, Gervase took a handful of straw and began wiping off loose dirt and sweat while Geoffrey did the same on the animal's other side. After a few minutes of silence, Gervase said, "I'm not quite sure what one says in these circumstances."

  His son gave a wisp of a chuckle. "Neither am I." His head didn't reach the top of the horse's back.

  Gervase had the inspired thought of asking about his son's pony, and this unleashed a torrent of conversation. By the time they had gotten to vigorously brushing the horse's hide, they were as easy with each other as they had become over the Christmas visit.

  In spite of Geoffrey's short stature, Gervase should have realized the boy was more than six years old. Knowing that this small, intelligent person with his quirky individuality was his own son gave him a glow of fatherly pride, even though he could take none of the credit. Whatever Diana's other sins, she had been a good mother to their child.

  Finally Geoffrey touched on how things were between his parents. As he brushed out Firefly's tail, blithely indifferent to the animal's back hooves, he said obliquely, "I used to wonder what my father was like. Mama would never say a word."

  "It must have been hard not knowing," was the best comment Gervase could come up with.

  "Sometimes. But I could pretend that he was like Lord Nelson or Dr. Johnson or Richard Trevithick or Beethoven."

  It was nothing if not a varied list. Bemused, Gervase said, "Reality is never quite as interesting as imagination."

  Wide blue eyes glanced up to him. "Reality isn't so bad."

  Gervase felt absurdly pleased at the statement. "How do you feel about Aubynwood now that you know you'll own it someday?"

  Startled, Geoffrey stopped brushing. "I hadn't thought that far," he said in a small voice. "It's very large, isn't it?"

  "Yes, and there are other properties as well," the viscount admitted, "but you should have years to get used to the idea, and to learn your way around." Since his son still looked doubtful, he added, "Just think of all the horses you'll have."