by Sandra Dubay
"How fair you are," he murmured, his fingers cupping her face. Slowly, too slowly, they trailed down her cheek, over the delicate edge of her jaw, down the tender curve of her throat to her shoulders. He paused, his eyes boring into hers, searching, questioning: then, finding his reply in the rosy flush of her skin, in the wild pulse that throbbed in the warm hollow of her throat, in the quick, shallow breaths that raced between her moist, parted lips, his hands drew the lawn fichu free of the deep, square neck of her gown.
Dyanna gasped as his fingers brushed gently over the ivory swells of her breasts. His eyes never left her face as he opened the first few fastenings of her bodice. His hands slipped inside and caressed her, cupping the silken flesh, teasing the hardening tips.
Dyanna shuddered as his hands spanned her waist and pulled her toward him. Her head fell back and she buried her fingers in the tawny thickness of his hair as he kissed the taut, rose-pink crests of her breasts.
"Justin," she whispered, pulling his head back.
His eyes met hers for a single, searing instant before he pulled her down to him and covered her lips with his own. His kiss was hard, demanding, burning with a fire that threatened. to boil the very blood in her veins.
Dyanna knew she should stop him, sensed that a word from her lips would win her release, but her senses were whirling in a mad, reckless descent she was powerless to stop. Even as her mind screamed a warning, her body arched against his, her arms wound about his neck, and his lips traced the smooth, ivory column of her throat making her want more, so much more of him.
The pounding on the door was like thunder, shattering the fragile, sensual spell that held them both in thrall.
"Milord?" The low, harsh voice of Mr. Cockerell was muffled by the stout oak door. "Milord DeVille?"
"God's teeth!" DeVille snarled, as the innkeeper rattled the latch of the locked door. He gently set Dyanna aside and rose from the window seat.
"Milord DeVille?" Cockerell called again.
"I'm coming!" Justin shouted, adding, "damn you!" beneath his breath.
Moving toward the door, he didn't see the look of stark shock on Dyanna's pale face.
"DeVille?" she breathed, horrified.
"Just a moment, my sweet," he said off-handedly, "let me see what this rude bastard wants."
Dyanna stared after him as he crossed the room. For a moment she was unable to move, paralyzed by shock, horrified by what had nearly happened between them. And then, impelled to action at last by the sound of the key turning in the iron lock, she fled to Justin's bedchamber and disappeared inside.
Justin, opening the door to admit the innkeeper, smiled. So, she was going to hide in the bedroom, was she? Just as well. That was where he had intended to take her in a very few moments.
"What is it, Mr. Cockerell?" he asked impatiently.
"When ye got 'ere, milord, ye asked after a girl as had run away. Ye said she might be wearin' a grey dress. Would it be like this one, milord?" He held out Dyanna's grey dress, which she'd left in the pantry.
Justin examined the dress. It was exactly like the ones he'd seen on the students at the Pettigrew Academy.
"Yes! This could be the one. Where did you find it?"
"In the pantry, milord. It belonged to a girl my wife found in the stables. Fixin' to sleep in one of the stalls, she was. She said as how she had no money. She said 'er father'd died not long since and she was on 'er way to London to make 'er way."
"Where is this girl?" Justin demanded eagerly.
"She was up 'ere, milord." Cockerell glanced around the room. "My wife offered 'er a meal an' a bed if she'd work as a maid for tonight, our regular maid bein' a mite the worse for gin, if you take my meanin'."
"Here? The maid? The blonde? But" The blood drained from his face, leaving it a chalky grey. The little flicker of remembrance that had touched him at the sight of Dyanna's hair returned to him. He'd seen that pale, silver hair before, and those aqua eyesseen them in the face of Elizabeth Conway, Viscountess McBride. She was the very image of her mother.
"Dyanna," he breathed.
"Dyanna?" Cockerell frowned. "She said her name was Jenny, milord. Jenny Flynn."
Leaving Cockerell to stare after him, confused, Justin strode to the bedchamber door and flung it open. As he'd feared, the room was empty. The hall door stood ajar in mute testimony of Dyanna's precipitous flight.
Turning back to Cockerell, Justin ordered a search of the inn, its outbuildings, and as much of the surrounding forest as possible.
But even as lanterns were being distributed to the grooms and postboys, Dyanna was stumbling away into the night-shrouded forest, her meager possessions in their haphazard bundle clutched to her heaving breast.
Chater Four
The city of London spread out around Dyanna, its noises deafening to ears used to the softer sounds of the country, its smells flooding her nose until it seemed she could scarcely breathe. Her eyes darted left and right, exploring the windows of shops and houses, mansions and hovels. She clutched her bundle in one arm and with the other hand picked at stray wisps of straw that clung to her hair and clothingsouvenirs of the cart in which she'd begged a ride to the city. Lifting a strand of her hair to her nose, she sniffed it, hoping against hope that she did not smell like the sheep that had been her companions in the back of the cart.
After what seemed an eternity, Dyanna found herself in Grosvenor Square. Gathering her courage, she approached the door of Number 21, the London residence of Horatio Culpepper, Marquess of Summersleigh, onetime boon companion of her grandfather, Lord Lincoln.
All around her stood the stately homes of London's most fashionable society. Fine carriages drawn by blooded horses drew up before one or another of them and disgorged elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, and more than one of them stole a glance or two at the disheveled girl in rose-colored taffeta who pounded at the door of Number 21 with one hand and clutched a lumpy bundle in the other.
At long last the door swung open and a tall, grey-haired man fixed her with a baleful glare.
"Begone," he ordered. "Away, I say. You'll get no handout here."
Dyanna's sea-blue eyes glittered as she treated him to her haughtiest stare. "I wish to see Lord Summersleigh," she announced icily. "You will tell his Lordship that Miss Dyanna McBride is here."
The manservant hesitated. She was dressed like a tavernmaid, but her finely-boned beauty bespoke breeding above the ordinary. Her voice, her tones and accents, were not those of the rabble that occasionally turned upusually at the back doorbegging charity.
"McBride?" he repeated.
"Dyanna McBride," she confirmed. "The Honorable Dyanna McBride. My father was Lord McBride. My grandfather the Earl of Lincoln." She scowled, her arched brows lowering. ''I have come a long way to see the marquess, my good man, and I do not appreciate being kept waiting on the stoop like a milkmaid."
The manservant, knowledgeable as all servants were of the gossip circulating in society, knew the tales of Rakehell McBride. He was something of a London legend. Perhaps it was not so unthinkable after all to find Rakehell's daughter at the door, unchaperoned and dressed like a barmaid.
"Come in, Miss McBride," he said at last, bowing as she passed him and swept into the entrance hall. "I will tell his lordship you are here."
Dropping her bundle to the marble floor, Dyanna gazed about the long, oval room. Statues of Roman emperors stood in niches along the walls and medallions painted in rich reds and golds covered the high, domed ceiling with its cascading chandelier of sparkling crystal.
"Dyanna?" a voice called, the word softened by distance. "Dyanna McBride? Are you certain that is what she said?"
"Quite certain, m'lord," the manservant replied.
"Little Dyanna, here? In London? Alone? Bring her in, man. Be quick about it."
Dyanna pretended to study the details of the statue nearest her as the returning footsteps of the manservant drew nearer.
"Miss McBride?" he said, framed
in the open doorway. "His lordship wishes you to attend him in the saloon."
Leaving her bundle in the entrance hall, Dyanna followed the servant through an exquisite anteroom hung in scarlet Spitalfields silk and into a room decorated in cream and green. It seemed as cool and clean as a new spring day.
"Dyanna?" A stooped figure in black and fawn rose from an armchair near the yawning fireplace. On his head sat an old fashioned, full-bottomed wig that cascaded in thick, brown curls to his narrow shoulders. "Little Dyanna! How long it has"
As he spoke he turned toward where she stood bathed in the sunshine streaming through the tall Palladian windows.
"Little" he began again, then stopped. "M'God," he breathed, lifting his quizzing glass to his right eye. "Has it been as long as this? No longer a pretty child. No, by God. You are the image of your mother. Turn around, my girl.''
Slowly Dyanna did as he asked, turning in a circle before his bemused eyes. As she faced him once more, she clasped her hands behind her, feeling little more than a child eagerly awaiting the approval of a favorite uncle.
"I was wrong," the marquess decided. "You are not the image of your mother. No. You have a spark, my child, a fire that is pure McBride. Your mother was a beauty. Gad! What a beauty she was. But for all her looks she was an insipid little creature. You have her beauty. And more. But you have the spirit of your father. I'm not certain if that is good or bad."
With his quizzing glass, he motioned toward a chair facing the one he had occupied when she'd entered the saloon.
"Sit down, Dyanna, and tell me what brings you to London." He examined her gown as she moved toward the chair. "I say, your father hasn't bankrupted you, has he? You've not taken work in a tavern, I hope."
"No, my lord," Dyanna assured him.
"Here now, here now, none of that. You used to call me Uncle Horatio."
"Very well, then, Uncle Horatio," Dyanna amended, warming to the old man who, along with her grandfather, treated her like a pet more than a child. "I've run away from school, Uncle."
"Run away? But why?"
"My father is dead."
"I know, child. Pity, that. But he'd been heading in that direction since your mother died."
Dyanna nodded, acknowledging the truth in the remark. "He left me and my estate in the care of a guardian, and, so Miss Pettigrew told me, I was to remain at school. Oh, Uncle, I hate that school!"
"And this guardian," the Marquess said sourly, thoroughly annoyed that he, as Dyanna's grandfather's best friend had not been given the care of Dyanna and her fortune, "he will not provide you with a home?"
"He is a monster of a monstrous family. A pirate and worse! He means me ill, Uncle. I know it!"
"Here now, child! He has told you this?"
"No. But I heard the Misses Pettigrew speaking of him."
"Who is he? It may be I know him. He may not be as black as those two old spinsters paint him."
"He is Justin DeVille. Lord DeVille."
"Good God! The Devil you say!"
"Then it is true!" Dyanna cried. "You know him to be a villain!"
"No, no. Calm yourself. I know only the name DeVille by reputation. I knew his father, Sebastian DeVille, most casually. Of the son, I know only that he is a privateer. Successful, as I've heard. Of his character, I know nothing."
"Nor I," Dyanna admitted. "But he is to be my guardian until I am of age or until I marry. I cannot bear it, Uncle. I cannot! Please, help me."
"I can do nothing to set your father's will aside. You are his heiress. You are not of age.
You are his to dispose of as he wishes. My only advice would be to marry as soon as possible."
"And pass from my guardian's rule to my husband's," Dyanna murmured sourly.
"Pass from the rule of a guardian not of your choosing to that of a husband of your choice. There is a deal of difference between 'em as I see it, child."
Dyanna nodded. "I see the sense in what you say, Uncle. But the fact remains that I must give myself into Lord DeVille's care in the meanwhile."
"That you must. Is he in London, I wonder?"
"If not, he soon will be, I'm sure," Dyanna said cryptically, wondering how close on her heels the handsome Lord DeVille might be following.
"Then I will have my solicitors contact him. In the meanwhile, you must stay here, at Summersleigh House. I shall invite my grandson to dinner tonight. It will do you good to make the acquaintance of someone closer to your own age."
Flushing, Dyanna plucked at the skirt of her rose taffeta gown. "I'm afraid I have not the clothes to make a decent showing at even a private dinner, sir. All I have is this and what I managed to bring away from school." She wrinkled her nose. "Grey linen."
"Never fear. I shall send the housekeeper out to see what she can find for you. I'm confident she will be able to find something that will do until other arrangements can be made."
Impulsively, Dyanna went to the marquess's chair and knelt beside it.
"I knew you would help me, dearest Uncle," she said feelingly.
The marquess let a thick strand of her pale silver hair slide through his fingers. "Your grandfather was my closest friend, my dear. Your mother was like a daughter to me. I only wish I could have done more for you after your grandfather's death." He pinched her cheek lightly. "Now I think you should be about finding something to wear for dinner. Let me call a maid to take you upstairs."
Rising from his chair, the marquess went to the fireplace and tugged the embroidered silk bell-pull that hung beside it.
As he stood there, awaiting the maid's arrival, he wrinkled his long, hooked nose and sniffed the air.
"I'll have to set someone to cleaning this room. Damme if it don't smell like a sheep pen in here."
Blushing, Dyanna said nothing. She dropped a curtsy to the old marquess and turned to follow the maid out of the saloon. Under her breath, she cursed her woolly traveling companions.
Chater Five
"It's monstrous, I tell you. Monstrous!" Lord Geoffrey Culpepper repeated for the seventh time.
Seated on a gilded sofa at a discreet distance from Dyanna, the Marquess's grandsonhis heir since the death of Geoffrey's father, the Marquess's only sonfixed his grandfather's guest with sympathetic eyes.
Dyanna toyed with the ruffling of her pale green silk skirts. When the Marquess had asked her to stay, she had not expected him to entertain her by summoning company. Moreover, when he had said the wisest course for her would be to marry as quickly as possible, she had not expected him to produce a suitor that very night. But that was precisely what Lord Geoffrey Culpepper seemed to be.
"As I was telling Dyanna," the marquess said, "she should marry, and soon. I don't hold with a young girl's fortune and care being left in the hands of an outsider. Family! Such concerns belong in one's own family."
Dyanna thought it tactful not to remind the marquess that the death of her father had left her without a family. She knew the old gentleman regarded himself as a sort of uncle once removed. She feared it might hurt his feelings to remind him that there were, in fact, no blood ties between them.
"Marriage," Geoffrey pronounced grandly, an elegant sweep of his hand dislodging a lock of his gleaming, dark brown hair. "I own that I have never considered it." He turned his liquid gaze once more toward Dyanna. "I wonder now if that was because I had never found a lady worthy of my love."
"I am certain you shall find her, sir," Dyanna said quickly. "Someday."
Seizing her hand in his, Geoffrey raised it to his lips. "At the risk of appearing impetuous, Miss McBride, I wonder if I may not have found her already."
One glance at the marquess's beaming face told Dyanna she could expect no rescue from her fond 'uncle.'
As if reading her thoughts, the marquess rose. "I regret, children, I am no longer of a constitution to enjoy late hours. I shall bid you both good-night and retire."
"I also" Dyanna began quickly, but the marquess's raised hand silenced her.
"I won't hear of it, m'dear," he said. "You've been shut away from society too long. Stay and enjoy Geoffrey's company. Geoffrey, I expect you to entertain this pretty young lady."
"I shall do my best, Grandfather," Geoffrey promised, sweeping the old marquess an elegant bow.
"Good-night, m'dear," the marquess said fondly, kissing Dyanna lightly on the temple.
"Good-night, my lord," Dyanna murmured. "And thank you for your hospitality."
"It is the least I could do."
With a pleased smile for the handsome pair before him, the elderly gentleman left the room, pointedly closing the tall, gleaming doors behind him.
An awkward silence reigned for some moments while Geoffrey and Dyanna each waited for the other to open a conversation. At last, Dyanna said:
"Your grandfather is very kind, sir."
"Exceedingly," Geoffrey agreed. "To us both."
"I do not take your meaning."
Geoffrey brushed a speck from the sleeve of his lilac velvet frock coat. "He has given you shelter and the promise of friendship, Miss
McBride. And he has brought you into my life. We are both the beneficiaries of his kindness. I hope our acquaintance will be a lengthy one."
Dyanna swallowed hard. Geoffrey was an attractive man in a foppish sort of way. But she felt none of the confusing, tantalizing feelings that had assailed her from the moment she first laid eyes on Justin DeVille at the Angel Inn. What could it mean? She did not quite dare think of it.
"I wonder," Geoffrey said, strolling to the tall windows that overlooked the small, walled garden behind the house, "how your father could have left you in the clutches of a DeVille."
Dyanna lifted her shoulders. "I know nothing of the matter, sir, save that they were friends of long standing. I have heard the Lord DeVille is a privateer, but"
"I was not merely speaking of Justin DeVille," Geoffrey interrupted, turning toward her, his hands clasped behind his back. "I meant any DeVille. There are dark legends. attached to that family. Legends that may be more fact than fiction."