Tempest

by Sandra Dubay

  "Most everyone is. Justin has gone outto Cumberland House. He dismissed the servants when he left."

  Geoffrey's eyes slid over Dyanna's diaphanous gown. Her hair, undone and falling softly down her back, gleamed in the light of her candle.

  "Perhaps I shouldn't stay," he told her. "I would not want you punished because of"

  "No, please stay. I haven't seen you in so long. I thought you had surely forgotten me."

  "As if I could." He offered her his arm and she laid her hand on his midnight-blue satin sleeve. "I hadn't the courage to call. Your guardian does not encourage potential beaux, you know."

  "Well, my guardian is not at home, Lord Geoffrey," she murmured, casting a flirtatious sideways glance up at him. "And I've missed talking with you. Come, if we go into the small salon off this anteroom and are quiet, no one need know."

  "It will be our little secret," he said, delighted that she should prove so amenable to thwarting her guardian's wishes. It was, he told himself, a good omen for his plans.

  "Our little secret," Dyanna agreed.

  Feeling deliciously defiant, Dyanna led Geoffrey to a tiny salon, hung in old ivory silk, that was little more than a glorified anteroom. Intended primarily for family evenings on winter nights before the fire, the room contained plain, unadorned furnishings which, while they might have lacked the gilded elegance of those found in the grander salons, more than made up for their lack of beauty in comfort.

  "I'm surprised," Geoffrey began when they'd ensconced themselves on a worn winevelvet sofa, "that I've not seen you about town. I looked for you at the theater, Vauxhall Gardens, Hyde Park . . ."

  "Justin took me driving in the park this afternoon," she revealed, "but he brought me home as soon as Mr. Fox noticed me."

  "Charles Fox? A brilliant man. A younger son of Lord Holland. He is a descendant of King Charles II, you know."

  "I didn't know. In any case, he was most kind and admiring."

  "It doesn't surprise me. There is a great deal about you to admire, dear Dyanna."

  "It seemed to irritate Justin."

  A tiny frown creased Geoffrey's brow. His compliment had passed unnoticed. Dyanna was too preoccupied with whether or not her guardian was irritated to take note of what he was saying. That did not bode well at all for his plans.

  He decided to let it pass. "I do believe our fine Lord DeVille wants to keep you to himself, my sweet," he teased, keeping the tone light.

  "It is worse than you know. He intends to keep me out of society until my year of mourning is over. If I'm fortunate, I may be able to wangle a trip to the theater or opera out of him, but no balls, no private entertainments for the next year."

  "Truly? So long?"

  "Forever! I shall meet no one, Geoffrey! Go nowhere! Do nothing! I am his prisoner!"

  "Poor darling," Geoffrey cooed. "Poor sweet little darling."

  But secretly he was elated. So, DeVille intended to keep Dyanna on the edges of society for a year? So much the better. That meant there was less chance of some smooth-mannered, silver-tongued suitor slipping into the picture. And more opportunities for Geoffrey to persuade Dyanna that the best thing she could do was to defy her tyrannical guardian and place her delectable personand her even more delectable fortunein his hands.

  He twined a strand of her hair about his finger and stroked the back of his hand along her silky cheek.

  "If you were mine," he said, his voice low and velvety, "I would want to take you everywhere. I would want the world to see how fortunate I was that such a beautiful creature deigned to be my own. I would want everyone to share in the pleasure of your company."

  "Justin wants only to lock me away from the world," Dyanna muttered sourly.

  "DeVille's a fool." Geoffrey's voice had a hard, angry edge. It annoyed him beyond bearing that the speech he had rehearsed so carefully seemed to have passed by her without her even noticing. "He is a roué, a womanizer. Likely he's abed with one of the highborn harlots who frequent Cumberland House even as we speak."

  He saw the shadow that crossed Dyanna's face and cursed himself for a fool. A vague sense of alarm blossomed inside him. It was apparent, from the look on Dyanna's face, that the notion of DeVille's being with another woman troubled her. Could it be she was starting to have feelings for her guardian? That would never do.

  "Dyanna," he murmured, gently taking her hands in his. "Dyanna, darling. This is a delicate question, but one which I feel I must ask. DeVille has notthat ishe would not try to seduce you, would he?"

  A hot flush flooded Dyanna's cheeks. Seduce her! Justin treated her as if she were nothing more than a troublesome child most of the time. If only he would treat her . . . But no, she refused to allow herself to explore such dangerous emotions.

  "Oh, no," she whispered after too long a silence. "He has not done anything like that."

  Geoffrey wondered at the odd tone of her voice, at the long hesitation before she'd answered. Could she be disappointed that DeVille had not touched her? But no. Of course that was ridiculous.

  He pressed a kiss onto her fingers. "I could not bear it if he touched you. It would wound me to the quick."

  Dyanna stared up at him. "Why?" she asked ingenuously.

  "Why?" He felt a wave of frustration wash over him. What was wrong with this girl? He usually had them eating out of his hand by now. "Why?" he repeated, his voice rising. ''Dyanna! I love you! Surely you know that. I want to marry you."

  "Marry . . ." Her fingers trembled as she drew them out of his grasp. Rising, she backed a few steps away and stared up at him as if he were a stranger. "Marry me?"

  "And why not?"

  She shook her head. "Justin would never permit . . ."

  "We could elope. Run away together. It would be so romantic, my darling. Think of it."

  Elope! Run away with Geoffrey. The thought astonished her. And yet . . . hadn't she agreed with the old marquess that she should marry as quickly as possible to thwart the hateful terms of her father's will? Here was her opportunity. Justin was not likely to allow her to meet many other eligible men.

  "Dyanna?" he prompted.

  "I need to think about it. Please, give me time to think."

  "Don't wait too long," he pleaded, fearful that any budding feelings she might have for Justin DeVille might blossom into something far more dangerous to his plans.

  "I won't," she promised.

  "Let me kiss you, Dyanna. Let me hold you."

  He came to her then, and she let him take her into his arms and tip back her head to receive his kiss. His lips descended on hers in a savage, punishing kiss intended to inflame her maidenly senses. In truth it did little more than make her wish she had never answered the door when she'd seen him arriving.

  As soon as she could, she stepped out of his embrace. An awkward silence descended between them. To cover his angry frustration, Geoffrey made a great show of putting on his coat and retrieving his hat from the table near the door.

  "You will consider my proposal, won't you?" he persisted as she accompanied him to the front door.

  "I will," she promised.

  He left and she sighed, relieved, as she heard the clip-clop of his horse's hooves fading into the distance. Climbing the stairs, her fast-dwindling candle clenched in her shaking fist, she replaced the candle in the candelabrum and retraced her steps to the cool, inviting darkness of her bedchamber.

  She wanted only the blissful nothingness of sleep, but questions and images assailed her.

  Where was the passion she hoped to find in Geoffrey's kiss? Where was the delicious onslaught of emotions, the tantalizing feelings she'd found in Justin's arms? What magic did Justin possess that Geoffrey did not? What power did Justin DeVille hold over her senses?

  She thought about marrying Geoffrey. How could she live with him dreading those times when he would want to kiss her, hold her, make love to her? Or would those feelings of love and desire come later? Could she take that chance? What if they never came?


  Lost in her musings, she did not hear the sound of Justin's carriage rolling up the drive, nor his footsteps as he climbed the stairs and moved along the corridor. She did not hear him enter her sitting room. It was only when her bedroom door opened and he entered that she sensed his presence.

  "Dyanna?" he said softly.

  She said nothing, feigning sleep as he approached the bed. He stood between her and the moonlight flooding through the window, so that there was no silver glow to show him the way her lips trembled, or the slight fluttering of her lashes as she held her eyes tightly closed.

  "Dyanna?" he repeated. "Are you sleeping?"

  Still she said nothing. It was all she could do to keep from crying out when his fingers brushed her cheek. With infinite gentleness he smoothed back a curl onto her pillow. Plucking at the lace-frothed coverlet, he tucked it more securely around her, his fingertips brushing her arm below the ruffle of her short nightgown sleeve.

  Dyanna waited, breathless, wondering what he would do next, but he only stood there at her bedside for a long, silent moment. Then he turned and was gone as swiftly and as stealthily as he had come.

  Her emotions in turmoil, Dyanna felt the trembling seize her. But it was not until she heard the sitting room door close behind him that she gave way to tears of confusion, frustration, and fear.

  Chater Eleven

  "May I bring you anything, miss?" Ipswich asked Dyanna one overcast morning nearly a month after Justin's visit to Cumberland House.

  She shook her head, her fingers idly toying with the keys of the harpsichord.

  "Nothing, thank you, Ipswich," she replied listlessly. "Is his lordship in?"

  "His lordship has gone out, miss," the butler told her. "He was paying a call on Lady Melbourne, I believe."

  "I see. Thank you. I shall ring if I need anything."

  Dyanna sighed as the butler left her alone with her gloomy thoughts. Lady Melbourne.

  Beautiful Lady Melbourne. Twenty-eight years old and said to be admired by many men, including the Prince of Wales. Gossip had it she was already the mistress of Lord Egremont. Nor was she the only lady upon whom Justin seemed to dance attendance these days. There was the twenty-three-year-old Duchess of Devonshire, who lived not far away in Piccadilly. Not a day passed that Justin was not engaged to dine or at least call on some society beauty. It was only politics, he assured her when she'd dredged up the courage to ask him. But she wondered. Politics was the domain of gentlemen. What had these ladies to do with it? Was there more than that going on between Justin and these beautiful and sophisticated ladies?

  "Justin," she breathed as a torturous series of images flitted through her mind's eyepictures of Justin with this woman or that, ladies and duchesses, nameless, faceless women. She saw him laughing with them, dancing, talking, telling them everything she so desperately wanted him to tell her. Making love to them in the perfumed, silk-sheeted beds to which they would lead him.

  Dyanna folded her arms on the cool, beautiful instrument and gazed out at the garden, still damp from a brief morning shower. If anything had changed between Justin and herself since that first night he'd gone to

  Cumberland House, it was that he treated her even more coolly. There was more distance between them now than before. She ate in her sitting room, like a child relegated to the nursery, while Justin went out. He no longer even deigned to take her riding. On those rare occasions when she ventured forth from DeVille House, she went with Charlotte and Bertran, who she suspected was sent along as a watchdog with orders to report to Justin on anyone she saw or chanced to speak with, rather than as a guard against unwanted advances by gentlemen.

  And yet . . . Unbidden, her mind swept back to that night when Justin had come to her room upon his return from Cumberland House. There had been tenderness in his voice, in the gentle touch of his fingers as he'd brushed back her hair, stroked her face. She hadn't imagined the tenderness. It had been there. How could it have been so real, so obvious, on that one nightfor those few brief, precious moments, and never again?

  Rising from the harpsichord, she went to the French doors. With a trembling finger, she wrote Justin's name in the condensation on one of the panes, then quickly wiped it away lest someone should see and report her folly to Justin. Leaning her forehead against the cold, wet glass, she bit her lip to hold back the tears that welled into her eyes.

  It was foolishness, she told herself, this feeling inside her. And yet it felt just the way she'd always expected love to feel. But what was this pain, this dull, agonizing ache that would not leave her? And how could she fight this growing dread that the day would come when he would meet a woman he would want to bring home? How would she feel when she was banished to her rooms while he entertained a woman scarcely older than herself in a candlelit dining room or softly scented salon?

  Perhaps it would be better, she reasoned, to simply give in to Geoffrey's wishes and elope. Though they had not been able to meet again since that night, Geoffrey had sent her letters, which Charlotte had intercepted and brought to her. He swore his love again and again in a hundred flowery ways and implored her to marry him. He could not live without her, he vowed. They must be together and when they were, no onenot Justin or even the powerful friends he was fast aligning himself withcould come between them.

  "Maybe I should marry him," she told herself. "At least I know Geoffrey loves me. And in time, if I am not near Justin, perhaps I will discover that what I'm feeling for my lord guardian is not love at all. It may be that I will discover true love as Geoffrey's wife."

  Doubts and indecision assailed her, but she resolutely pushed them out of her mind as she wiped the dampness from her cheek with the back of her hand.

  Near the hedges at the far edge of the garden, Clancy, the shaggy brown wolfhound, appeared. He stood, gazing hopefully toward the house, a stick clamped in his jaws.

  Dyanna smiled. Here was a friend whose love and loyalty she need not question. Opening the doors, she went out into the gardens, where the sunlight that peeked through the clouds sparkled on the raindrops still clinging to the grass and the leaves on the trees and bushes. She waved to the huge dog and he bounded toward her, his tail whipping wildly.

  By the time she was thoroughly exhausted from chasing Clancy through the gardens and trying to wrest the stick from his powerful jaws, the sun was halfway across the western sky. As she turned back toward the house, she noticed Charlotte waving to her from the music room door.

  "What is it?" she asked, pushing back a tendril of hair from her damp forehead as she entered the room.

  "A letter," the maid replied, holding out a folded square of thick white paper.

  "From Geoffrey?" She hoped the maid did not notice the lack of enthusiasm in her tone. She was beginning to dread Geoffrey's letters. He never ceased to press her to give him a definite answer to his proposal. She supposed she had given him reason to believe that she too was eager to wed, but his constant entreaties were making her feel trapped.

  "I don't think so, miss."

  Taking the letter, Dyanna broke open the wax seal and unfolded the paper. Her eyes widened as she read:

  Lord and Lady Barkleigh request the distinction of Miss McBride's company at a masked ball to be held at Barkleigh House the evening of June . . .

  "Charlotte!" Dyanna cried, thrilled. "A masked ball! At Barkleigh House! And they've invited me! Me! Not simply Lord DeVille and Miss McBride, but me especially!"

  "I do think his lordship got one as well," the maid informed her.

  "I'm not surprised. But that is just as well. After all, I need a gentleman to escort me, don't I?"

  "I'm certain Lord Geoffrey would"

  "No doubt he would," Dyanna cut her off. It was all well and good for Charlotte to be loyal to the grandson and heir of the Marquess of Summersleigh; he was still, after all, her master, but Charlotte's endless campaigning on Geoffrey's behalf was becoming tiresome. "But Lord DeVille is my guardian and he should be the one to take me into society
. There will be plenty of time for Geoffrey once I've become a part of it."

  "I suppose," Charlotte agreed pettishly. "What will you wear?"

  ''Oh, Lord, I don't know. Something wonderful! I want to dazzle all of London. I want them to gape and gawk and whisper! We shall call in the best dressmaker in all London and order something fantastic!"

  Going to the bell-pull, she summoned Ipswich. "Has his lordship returned?" she asked when the butler appeared.

  "Some minutes since, miss," he replied. "He has gone to his study."

  Dyanna turned to Charlotte, a sparkle in her eyes. "With any luck," she told the maid, "you and I will spend the afternoon choosing the most beautiful costume London has ever seen!"

  Flushed with anticipation, Dyanna went to the gold walled room that was Justin's inner sanctum. The air there was redolent with the aromas of fine leather and fine tobacco; the deep, rich midnight-blue velvet draperies muted the glare of the afternoon sun and lent the room a dark, mysterious air.

  She rapped gently at the heavily carved door. When Justin replied, she entered the room, her precious invitation to the Barkleighs' ball clutched in her hand.

  Justin sat in a chair sheltered in the curve of the tall bow window. A book lay open in his lap, a pen was poised in his hand, and an ornate brass inkwell stood on a table beside him.

  "Dyanna," he said, a smile softening the

  lines of his face. "Have you been out romping with that dog again?"

  "How did you know?" she demanded, wondering for a moment if he didn't actually have that crystal ball he had once teased her about.

  "Your hair is all tumbled down your back and your cheeks are flushed. I'm afraid the Misses Pettigrew would not think I was taking very good care of you."

  "Oh, pooh! Those old biddies." Dyanna dismissed them with a sour grimace, quite forgetting that she had once liked Abigail, even if she could not bear Adelaide.

  "What's that you have there?" He nodded toward her hand.

  "It is an invitation. Addressed to me."

  "From Lord and Lady Barkleigh, I imagine." Justin waited for her nod. "I got one as well. They were connected to your family in some way, weren't they?"