by Devilish
He closed the door.
She turned the key.
And may yours be dark, damn you! Even so, she was not angry except because he might have had the last word. Instead, a place deep inside suggested that she leave the door unlocked.
Folly. Utter folly! Had she not decided to keep her distance?
As Clara began to undress her, however, Diana had to accept that when she’d opened that door a part of her had hoped he would continue the earlier flirtation.
How appallingly weak. She’d charted her course and must stick to it!
Yet, as her gown came off, then her stays, Diana couldn’t help playing with wicked ideas.
An unlocked door.
Lord Rothgar invading her chamber in the night.
Invading her bed, touching her with those long, skillful hands.
He would be cool in his mastery. He would never embarrass her with fervor or false passion, and that image of cool mastery sent a shiver through her, a shiver of pure longing.
Perhaps with him she could coolly surrender. Surrender to seduction, and finally experience all the physical mysteries she so longed to know, without losing her dignity or control.
She shivered, and pulled the wrap Clara gave her close around. She must not think things like this. They were wicked, and more dangerously, they could lead her into folly.
And yet, the wicked thoughts would not stop, stirred, she knew, by the peculiarity of having a man there—and such a man—where a spouse should be.
If she hadn’t turned the key, would he have taken that as an invitation? She had no idea how these things were done. She shook her head. He had no interest in her. She could have left the door wide open and slept undisturbed. And, she told herself, she had no interest in him other than the fact that he was a very attractive man, and she was weary of virginal ignorance.
If she could experience the joining of man and woman once, perhaps it would stop buzzing in her mind and she could concentrate on other matters. Important matters to do with the earldom, and business, and the welfare of her people.
He was right about her room, however. She’d never thought before that it wasn’t truly hers. It was still as her father had left it. She had moved into it, and left it untouched, to help her become what he had been—the earl.
Looking around the sober room, tears stung her eyes, and she could curse the man who had opened her eyes to this. The moment, however, could not be reversed.
She saw that she was trying to be two people—the earl, and the woman. Somehow, for sanity, she had to blend the two, to become a womanly earl. That was the role she had chosen for the rest of her life, and she must embrace it wholeheartedly.
A womanly, virginal earl.
Ridiculous to feel tears spill at the thought.
Chapter 6
The wedding went off perfectly, even the reception afterward at Rosa’s parents’ home. Diana had been nervous about this, for Coniston Hall was a farmhouse. It was a large farmhouse belonging to a prosperous gentleman farmer, but still, it lacked spacious rooms intended for entertaining, especially rooms intended for entertaining the nobility.
She’d offered Arradale, of course, but everyone had refused. The general opinion, in typical northern fashion, was that the grand Malloren family must take them as they were.
And the grand Malloren family had. The wedding finery had been nicely judged for the occasion, and they mixed comfortably with all. They were even joining in the country dancing in the cleared and decorated barn, cheerfully welcoming any and all partners. She herself had partnered the vicar, Squire Hobwick, Rosa’s brother-in-law Harold Davenport, and her own estate manager, all the while itched by a wish that the marquess would appear and ask for a dance.
She still felt him as a dark threat, but also as a teasing, tantalizing promise.
“If you ever change your mind, my lady …”
For a mercy, he did not appear, and when she returned to the bustling house seeking refreshment, she saw him sitting with some local gentlemen in the paneled parlor. She felt an absurd urge to rescue him, to drag him out to the more youthful amusements. He was not a staid older man.
She pushed the notion away—she must stop thinking of him all the time!—and joined the ladies on the other side of the parlor where a maid was serving gingered lemon water. Held in ice from the Arradale icehouse, the drink was deliciously cool. Diana sipped and tried to fix herself on the talk around her, but it was mostly of husbands and children, and her mind and eyes kept drifting toward Lord Rothgar.
He was making no attempt to be one of the locals. Of course. He would never attempt anything so foolish any more than she would. Apart from that distancing aura which always surrounded him, everyone here knew his rank and powers. He was not trumpeting his rank either, however.
He’d chosen clothing of a lighter shade—a suit of buff-colored cloth which nicely suggested country pursuits while the cut and elegant braiding rang of fashionable London. The ruffles at throat and wrist were moderate and of fine linen rather than lace, but that in itself set him apart. The local men, dressed in their best, were more ostentatious but not at all more fine.
Most of the men wore powdered wigs, but then most of them kept to the old fashion of shaven head and wig all the time. It was easier than wearing their own hair long, and hid the thinning hair of passing years. Lord Rothgar, in fact all the Malloren men, kept their own hair, and for this occasion they had all chosen to do without a wig or powder.
A pleasantly informal touch, and yet again it set them apart. Of course, they were fortunate to all have excellent heads of hair.
Strong, she thought, considering the marquess’s dark hair, waving back from his high brow to be tied neatly with a black bow at his nape. Loose it might spring beneath the fingers …
She turned back to demand another glass of the icy cold drink, and even pressed it for a moment against her cheek trying to block him from her mind. After a moment or two, however, she couldn’t help but glance back. The honest truth was that assessing the eminent marquess as to his points was far too much fun to forgo.
Strong lines to his face, too, though with an elegance of bone that took any heaviness from it. Long straight nose and a fine arch over the eye emphasized by dark, well-shaped brows.
Eyes set a little deep, which perhaps gave them that sense of power. Dark lashes, too, of course, which also drew attention to the eyes. A mouth that could look cold, but bracketed by creases that deepened with his occasional restrained but strangely alluring smiles.
The conversation among the men suddenly settled to an argument between two others and he glanced around. Hastily, Diana looked back at the ladies, feeling her face heat. Had she been quick enough, or did he know she’d been staring at him? Someone did. Rosa, who’d joined the group without her being aware of it, gave her a thoughtful look.
Plague take the man. And plague take her for sliding into such folly. It was the wedding. Weddings were not good for the nerves of a woman resolved on lifelong chastity.
Rosa strolled over, beaded glass in hand. “If you keep looking at the man like that,” she said quietly, “you’ll stir rumors.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Rosa drew her away a little from the other women. “Elf has already asked me a couple of oblique questions.”
“About me and the marquess? How peculiar.”
This was Rosa, however, who knew her far too well to be deceived. Diana led the way out of the door and down the corridor toward open air.
“He’s a fascinating man,” Rosa said when they were outside. “And handsome—if one admires a finely-made blade.”
Diana stopped to face her. “That’s not fair. There’s more to him than a weapon.” When her cousin’s brows rose, she cursed her impulsive tongue. “Perdition, Rosa, I just feel sorry for him.”
“Sorry …” Rosa echoed. “For the Marquess of Rothgar?”
“You’re as bad as the rest! I thought you said he was the one who sorted ou
t your problems and made this all happen. You should be grateful.”
“I am, but—”
“Yes he’s brilliant, elegant, and carries England in the cup of his hand, but …” Knowing she was going to regret her words Diana still couldn’t stop. “He’s alone, Rosa. Don’t you see that? He’s created a loving family, but he’s not part of it—”
“Of course he is.”
“Well, yes. But not as a brother. Not quite. And his mother’s madness means he won’t create a family of his own. You must see how that resonates with me. I have no siblings, and I will never have a family.”
“There’s nothing to stop—”
Diana waved that aside. “His gifts, his powers, must set him apart from other men. How many men in England feel truly at ease with him? And how many can he allow himself to be at ease with?”
Rosa was studying her with a frown. “But the marquess knows everyone, and is known everywhere. He can’t go down the street in London without being recognized.”
Diana knew the “delights” of that. Doubtless he, like she, even had his face on inn-signs. True, the picture of her hanging outside the Countess of Arradale Inn in Ripon wasn’t an excellent likeness, but it was close enough. She could not go anywhere in the north in private.
Unless she adopted a disguise, she thought, remembering the time last year when she’d played the part of Rosa’s spotty maid. When she met the Marquess of Rothgar for the first time—
She snapped herself out of that. “What of his more intimate friends?”
And what of mine? echoed inside, as she made herself move, strolling back to the barn and the dancing.
Yes, she too had a wide acquaintance, and was recognized all over these parts, but who could she count as a true friend? Only Rosa, who today was taking up a new life that must surely absorb her interest.
“He does have a magnificent mistress.”
Diana’s heart missed a beat, but she instantly recovered. “He doesn’t worry about passing on his madness through her?”
“Rumor says she is barren.”
“Convenient.” Diana realized that yet again she was wrapped up in the marquess and his affairs. It seemed like a thorny thicket, snagging her whichever way she turned.
“She’s very striking, too,” Rosa was saying. “In a foreign style.”
Something suddenly struck Diana. “Are you saying the Mallorens introduced you to her? To a member of the demimonde?”
“Of course not. I really shouldn’t have called her his mistress. It’s only hinted at. She’s a scholar and poet who holds select salons. I went to one with Brand.”
A scholar and poet. Though well-educated, Diana was neither of those things. A painful little knot formed inside her, and she had the dreadful feeling that it might be jealousy.
Obsessive curiosity was bad enough. Jealousy would be the final ridiculous straw!
“A formidable mind?” she asked, only because she had to say something. “So that is what draws the marquess to a woman.”
They had reached the big open doors to the barn, where merry dance music greeted them. “They certainly seem to have a great deal in common,” Rosa said. “Elegance. Intellect. They both seem as self-sufficient as silky, aristocratic cats.”
“Cats?” Diana queried in surprise. “Hard to imagine Lord Rothgar sprawled bonelessly on someone’s lap purring.”
Rosa smothered a hoot of laughter. “Oh, I don’t know. He must be human once in a while.”
Diana forced a grin, but she knew she was blushing. Comments like that made her sharply aware of how little she really knew of the business of intimacy.
Men sprawled on laps? Purring?
Lord Rothgar?
She couldn’t help trying to imagine it, but despite having read books of the most explicit kind, she failed. All the same, as an imaginary notion, it swirled in her brain …
Flute, fiddle, and drum rang around her, and within the barn happy couples skipped up and down lines. Other people sat around chatting, and she glimpsed quite a few young couples in quiet corners stealing a moment for courting conversation or even kisses. One swain rubbed his head against his companion’s in a movement that was strangely catlike—
“Curiosity satisfied?” Rosa asked.
“I’m not curious,” Diana instinctively protested, but then pulled a face. There was no hiding it. Seeing a group of young children, she allowed herself one more indulgence. “I saw him with his little nephew.”
“Remarkable, isn’t it? Even shocking in a way. Like seeing an infant with a tiger. But he seems genuinely fond of them all.”
Lord Steen’s daughters—flushed and bright-eyed—were being included in the adult dances, but Diana saw young Arthur stamping and swaying to the music with the other small children.
Lord Bryght’s copper-haired infant sprawled asleep in his mother’s arms where she sat with two local matrons as if she were just another gentleman’s wife.
One of the other ladies, Mrs. Knowlsworth, broke off what she was saying to pay attention to a young girl who had run up with a complaint of some sort.
A dancing child—her cousin Sukey’s second, she thought—tumbled and was picked up and soothed …
Another world.
The world of mothers and children.
Not for her.
Never for her, for she had rank and privileges granted to few women.
“You’re right,” she said crisply. “The marquess should marry. I’m surprised someone hasn’t persuaded him.”
“That his mother wasn’t mad?”
“That it’s worth the risk.”
“Apparently Lord Bryght tried not long ago. I gather it was not a pretty scene.”
Diana might have weakened and probed for details on that if Lord Brand hadn’t come into the barn then. The look in his eyes, when he spotted his bride almost stopped her breath.
“I think your husband is growing impatient, Rosa.”
Rosa turned, lovely color flushing her smiling face. She laughed in the way of a person suddenly bubbling with delight and extended both hands to her smiling husband. “After nearly a year? We’ve perfected patience, haven’t we, my lord?”
Diana knew that after their brief flare of illicit passion they had agreed to wait until they could marry.
Turning soberly intent, Lord Brand carried both hands to his lips. “After nearly a year, my lady, my patience is in short supply.”
Both stilled for a moment like statues. A framed moment of deep desire. Wasn’t it worth the loss of everything to have a man look at her like that?
Just once.
“It is time,” Rosa said, now a deep pink and sliding against her husband, within his arms, while hardly seeming aware of it. She held out one hand to Diana. “Thank you for all you did last year. And”—she pulled free and hugged Diana—“be happy, Diana! Whatever you do, be happy. See. It is real. It can be grasped. I want for you what I have found for myself.”
Diana returned the fierce hug, blinking back tears. “Of course I’ll be happy!” she declared. “I am happy. You know our tastes often differ. I enjoy politics, and administration, and grand entertainments. I even enjoy accounts and legal matters.” She pulled back and summoned a brilliant smile. “I’ll be wonderfully happy being the Grande Seigneuress of the North, and driving the stodgy world of men distracted.”
It looked as if Rosa would protest, but she just shook her head and kissed Diana’s cheek, then let her impatient husband lead her back to the house. Doubtless their horses were already waiting at the front. It was some distance to their new home at Wenscote, with little that could be called a road in between.
Diana called for the music to stop, and for the guests to send the couple off with grain and flowers. She picked up her pale skirts and ran to the house to seize one of the prepared baskets of flowers herself. Then she wove through the gathering crowd so that people could take a handful. She would see her cousin into her new life with smiles and flowers.
&
nbsp; When she came up to the marquess, she offered the basket teasingly, but to her surprise, he gathered a mass of blossoms in both hands. Then, strolling over to where Brand and Rosa were saying farewell to her parents, he poured them over his brother’s head.
Brand turned, laughing, complaining, and trying to brush multicolored petals from his hair. After a still, smiling moment, he embraced his brother without restraint. Shockingly, at least to Diana, the marquess embraced him back, even lowering his head a moment to rest against the other.
A large part of this happy outcome had been Lord Rothgar’s work, but she had thought it came from pride, duty, and a love of efficiency. She saw now that she’d been wrong. Nor was it all fueled by guilt. He loved. Though generally he sheathed it in steel and velvet like the dangerous blade it was, he loved his brothers and sisters to a remarkable degree.
Swallowing, she moved on quickly, offering her flowers, eyes a little blurred. What did it matter? It was nothing to do with her.
She kept the last handful of flowers and threw them at Rosa as the happy couple rode off. She stamped on the thought that she was waving goodbye to her closest friend, to someone who had been as close as a sister, as a twin even—
“Is marriage such undiluted tragedy, Lady Arradale?”
Diana started, and found the marquess by her side. “Not at all, my lord.”
“Ah, tears of happiness, I gather.”
He didn’t think that for a moment. “I am not crying,” she stated, and indeed, she was not, though they clogged her throat.
“Tears are not always visible.”
Diana faced him, eyes deliberately wide, and dry. “You wax metaphysical, my lord.”
“Perhaps everything of importance is metaphysical, my lady.”
“Faith, but if everything of importance is beyond our senses, we are like feathers on the wind.”
“Have you never felt exactly like that?”
She caught her breath, for it did describe her state today. “Have you?”
It burst out of raw curiosity. Though she might have glimpsed some of his vulnerabilities, she’d never imagined the marquess blown on the wind. Not even on a hurricane.