Tempest

by Sandra Dubay

  "Well, then . . ." Turning, Justin laid his hand on the doorlatch. Over his shoulder, he gazed at Dyanna, so fragile, so beautiful. He'd come so close to losing her and nownow that she was back in life, he wanted to seize her by the arms and shake her, demanding that she tell him the truth.

  Why did you run away with an arrogant, conniving fool like Geoffrey Culpepper! he wanted to shout at her. Why did you leave me? Do you love him? Do you want him? Did you give him the love I want so desperately for myself? But he said only:

  "Good-night, then. There is no hurry for us to return to London. There is no need for you to get up early in the morning if you don't wish to."

  "All right," Dyanna acknowledged, wanting nothing more than to run to him, to be enveloped in his arms, to press her face to those tight golden curls that frosted his tanned chest between the opened edges of his shirt front. She clasped her hands in front of her to still their trembling. "Good-night."

  The door closed behind him, causing the flames of the candles to dance in the shifting air currents. Dyanna slowly circled the room, blowing them out until only the one beside the bed remained. When she climbed the little bedstep and crawled beneath the covers, she blew that one out as well and lay back in the darkness watching the waving pattern of tree branches in the moonlight outside her bedroom window.

  The past few days had been bizarre beyond anything she'd ever read in any of her books. Charlotte had told her as much as she could bear to hear of how the doctor from Newington had pronounced her dead, of how she'd been taken to McBride Hall in a coffin and left before the altar in the mausoleum her father had built.

  Dyanna shivered beneath the blankets. If it hadn't been for those menthe grave robbersJustin would have sealed her in the crypt below with her parents. She knew full well it would have been unintentionalhe'd truly believed her deadBut the thought . . .

  Might she not have awakened there, in the crypt, in the coffin, sealed in, buried alive . . .?

  With a deep, shuddering breath, Dyanna turned on her side and willed away those hideous, morbid thoughts. She could not bear them; they were too terrifying to be borne.

  But she fell asleep with those thoughts lingering at the edges of her subconscious, waiting to make their stealthy way into her dreams . . ..

  It was just past midnight that she awoke with a scream.

  The images lingered with herhorrible, terrifying combinations of her own experience and every Gothick novel she'd ever read. Breast heaving, she clawed at the coverlet, her eyes searching madly in the darkness for some scrap of reassurance that she was safe, that it had all been merely a dream.

  She gasped as the door opened and Justin appeared. In his room across the hall, he'd heard her cry out. Throwing on his velvet robe, he'd rushed to her room and found her sitting up in her bed, trembling violently, her aqua-blue eyes huge and haunted, glistening with unshed tears.

  "Dyanna," he said softly. "What is it? What's wrong?"

  Her fingers grasped at the soft velvet of his robe. Her eyes searched his face.

  "I dreamed . . . I thought . . . I was in that place. That terrible place. I woke up and I was closed in, trapped . . ."

  Realizing at once what she meant, Justin was overcome with remorse at the thought of what he had almost done to herat the unspeakable fate he'd come so near to consigning her to.

  "Oh, Christ," he muttered, sitting on the bed's edge and drawing her to him, cradling her against his chest. "Oh, Dyanna, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

  Dyanna lay weakly in his arms. The enticing, masculine smell of his flesh, the warmth of his body, the strength of his arms about her, soothed her, tantalized her, reawakened all the yearnings she'd fought so hard to suppress.

  She felt his hands on her back, her neck, her hair, felt the reassuring touches grow into caresses. His lips touched her hair, her forehead, her cheeks. Turning her face up toward his, she offered him her lips.

  Their kiss was, by turns, tender and savage, passionate and gentle. When they parted, a soft sigh passed between them, filled with longing and desire.

  "Dyanna," Justin breathed, his fingers caressing her face, her throat, no longer able to deny the force of his love for her. "You must know that I"

  "Miss!" Wrapped in a voluminous cotton gown, Charlotte stood in the doorway. "Miss! I heard you cry out! Are you sick? What is wrong? Ioh, my lord, I . . ."

  Shaking with frustrated anger and suppressed desire, Justin rose from the edge of Dyanna's bed.

  She reached out a hand to draw him back. "Justin," she rasped, "what must I know? What were you going to say?"

  He hesitated, torn from the soft, cloying web of passion, thrust back into cold, harsh reality. "You must know . . ."

  "Yes?" she prompted, sure he'd been going to reveal himselfhis feelings, his emotionsto her at long last. "Yes?"

  Justin gazed at her. He'd been about to lay his soul bare before her but now . . . was it the right thing to do? Perhaps not, and particularly not in front of the maid.

  "You must know I did not mean to hurt you at McBride Hall," he said lamely. "It was a mistake."

  The breath left Dyanna in a whoosh. That was not what he had been going to say. She was certain of it. But Charlotte had shattered the spell. Charlotte had destroyed the moment and robbed Dyanna of the knowledge of Justin's feelings.

  "Yes," she agreed, even as Justin moved toward the door. "I know it was merely a hideous mistake."

  "Then I'll leave you in the care of your maid."

  He looked at Charlotte and, even in the faint light of the candle stub the maid held, she saw the bright, glittering light of fury in his golden eyes.

  Resisting the temptation to flee from him,

  Charlotte curtsied and sidled away from the door as he left the room.

  "I had a nightmare," Dyanna said simply, coolly. "Nothing more."

  "I'd better stay here with you," the maid said, already plumping the pillows in the armchair near the hearth. "In case it happens again. You don't want to disturb Lord DeVille again."

  Wordlessly, Dyanna lay back and drew the covers up to her chin. It didn't matter, she told herself, still trembling and filled with the ache of unfulfilled desire, whether Charlotte stayed or not. It was unlikely that Justin would come back to her tonight.

  Chater Twenty-Four

  It was nearly mid-day when the coach bearing Dyanna and Charlotte set out from The Black Swan and turned into the London road.

  Dyanna was pensive. Her mind was filled with the scene in her room the night before. It had been almost worth the horror of the nightmare to find herself in Justin's arms. He had kissed her, caressed her. A shiver coursed through her at the memory of his lips against her, of his hands touching her, so warm, so strong through the thin lawn of her nightdress.

  She sighed and Charlotte was immediately concerned.

  ''Are you all right, miss?" the worried maid inquired.

  "I'm fine, Charlotte," Dyanna reassured her. "You must not be so quick to worry."

  Retreating into silence, Dyanna turned and looked out at Justin riding, as he had the day before, behind the coach, the faithful Bertran at his side.

  He too, seemed thoughtful. His look was faraway and almost wistful.

  I wish he were thinking of me, Dyanna thought; I wish the tenderness of last night were there after the sun rose. How can he be so concerned, so gentle, so caring if he does not have some feeling for me beyond that of a guardian for his ward?

  That he desired her, Dyanna had no doubt. But why did he keep that desire under such strict control? He had nearly unleashed it last night. If Charlotte had not come into the room, where might those kisses and caresses not have led? If only Charlotte had not interrupted . . ..

  Sitting back in her seat, she fixed the maid with such a resentful glare that Charlotte recoiled, wondering what on earth she could have done to merit such a look. She dared not ask, and the rest of the trip to London passed in an awkward silence.

  Their return to London filled Dyan
na with memories, some pleasant, some unpleasant, and with a nervous anticipation of what was to come. Would things be different now? She hoped so. She could not bear the thought of returning to DeVille House and living under the same circumstances from which she'd fled after foolishly placing her faith and trust in Geoffrey Culpepper.

  DeVille House loomed, gracious and elegant behind its fine iron gates, which were thrown open in anticipation of Justin's return.

  Inside the house, Ipswich had lined up the maids and footmen to welcome their master and his ward home. There had not been the slightest doubt in any of their minds that Justin would succeed in retrieving Dyanna.

  "Welcome back, miss," Ipswich said. "Welcome home, my lord."

  "Ipswich," Justin said. "Are Miss Dyanna's rooms aired?"

  "They are, my lord."

  "Good." Removing his hat, gloves and coat, Justin draped them over the butler's outstretched arms. "I shall want to bathe and change. Dyanna, I wish to see you in the study in an hour."

  "Yes, my lord," she murmured to his retreating back. Her hopes, her heart sank. Were they then to return to the same conditions that had made her flee before? Was Justin's tenderness of the night before merely an aberration not to be repeated?

  Finding the eyes of the entire household staff upon her, Dyanna smiled and allowed Bertran to help her out of her pelisse.

  "I shall want to bathe and change as well," she told the butler. "You will please see to it at once."

  Ipswich bowed shallowly. "At once, miss."

  With a smile for each of the servants who bowed and curtsied in turn as she passed them, Dyanna crossed the hall and mounted the stairs she'd thought, only a few days before, never to see again. How could she have imagined that she'd be back, still plain Dyanna McBride, when she'd had every expectation of being Lady Dyanna Culpepper by now?

  But then; she reasoned to herself as she stepped into the beautiful sitting room and gazed toward the opened doors of her bed-chamber beyond, how could she have known that Justin, whom she had thought safely removed to Devonshire, would return to London so quickly? How had he known that something was afoot? Could there, perhaps, be some supernatural power he'd inherited from his infamous father?

  She allowed a small, self-mocking smile to curve her lips. Geoffrey had told her of Sebastian DeVille and his powers; Geoffrey had told her the book about Lucifer Wolfe was about Sebastian DeVille. But Geoffrey had lied about so many things. Perhaps the scandalous tales about Justin's father were only so many more lies.

  Sinking into a chair, Dyanna rested her chin in her hand. "So here I am," she said to the room. "Exactly where I was before I left. Well, perhaps not exactly. If nothing else, Geoffrey Culpepper has shown his true colors and I shan't be duped by him again."

  "Miss?" Charlotte stood in the doorway.

  "What is it, Charlotte?" Dyanna asked, feeling a little guilty for the bad temper she'd shown to the maid. Her timing the night before could not have been worse, but she had only been doing her duty.

  "Your bath is waiting. What will you wear when you've bathed?"

  "My primrose muslin, I think."

  With a little curtsy, the maid left and Dyanna could see her feelings were still hurt by the treatment she'd received.

  "Ah, well, she'll get over it," Dyanna told herself philosophically as she went to have her bath.

  Later, bathed and dressed in a flounced gown of primrose muslin, her hair dressed in loose curls at the back of her head, Dyanna went down to the study as Justin had asked.

  She found him there, devastatingly handsome in immaculate evening dress.

  "You're going out?" she asked, a hint of reproach in her voice.

  "To Brooks's," he confirmed. "After dinner. I must hear what's gone on since I've been away."

  "I see." Dyanna averted her face, ostensibly studying an engraved invitation to a ball that had been held the night before. She had hoped against hope that there would be a new beginning for them now that she was back. She had hoped that Justin's actions of the night before signaled a new phase in their relationshipthat, having come so close to losing her, he might now be willing to show her whatever feelings he had for her. Obviously, she'd either been deluding herself or his feelings for her did not go beyond a few moments of ungoverned passion.

  "What was it you wished to see me about?" she asked coolly.

  From a drawer of the desk, Justin took the packet of love letters from Geoffrey Culpepper. He tossed them across the desk, and they and they landed with a soft thud in front of Dyanna.

  Paling, she looked up at him with a mixture of indignation and embarrassment.

  "They were found by Ipswich after you left. He was looking for some clue as to where you might have gone."

  "And he sent for you? Efficient, isn't he?"

  Sitting in his chair, Justin gazed up at her. "No," he said. "He did not send for me. I turned back before we were very far outside London."

  Dyanna feigned an icy disdain she was far from feeling. "Caro must have been disappointed. She seemed to be looking forward to having you to herself in Devonshire."

  "Caro is not the issue here," Justin reminded her sternly.

  "And what is the issue here?" she demanded to know.

  He pointed to the stack of letters. "Those are the issue. Geoffrey Culpepper."

  Flushing, Dyanna half turned away to hide her face from him. "That's over," she told him.

  "Is it?"

  There was a challenge in his voicea hardness, a ruthless anger. Dyanna returned his glare with one of her own.

  "What are you asking?"

  "I want to know what Culpepper was to you. A suitor?" There was a short, significant pause. "A lover?"

  Dyanna's eyes widened; she drew a sharp, shocked breath. "How dare you ask me such a question?" she hissed. "You've no right"

  "I have every right!" Justin growled, rising to his feet to tower over her. "I am responsible for you! I have a right to know if my ward has been ruined. Do you expect any gentleman to wish to marry Geoffrey Culpepper's whore?"

  "His" Dyanna dug her fingers into the shining surface of the desk to steady herself. "You filthy-minded son of a"

  "Answer me!" Justin's golden eyes blazed. "Tell me the truth, Dyanna. Are you a virgin?"

  Dyanna trembled beneath the heated weight of his stare. How could she answer his question? If he had merely asked if Geoffrey had been her lover, she could, in all honesty, say no. But to ask if she were untouched, virginal . . . Should she lie and say yes? If she told the truthsaid nohe would assume she had taken Geoffrey to her bed. He would never suspect that he himself, had robbed her of her innocence, her virginity. He would not believe her if she told him that she had been the woman in his arms in that shadow-filled room at Barkleigh House that she had been Marie LaBrecque that night at the ball.

  She swallowed hard. She could not tell him. That night was the most preciousand painfulmemory she had. She could not expose it to his disbelief, perhaps his derision.

  "I'm waiting, Dyanna," he prompted angrily.

  "Wait all you like," she replied, chin held high. "I'll never tell you."

  His eyes narrowed. Did her refusal mean she had been Geoffrey Culpepper's mistress? The mere thought of that good-for-nothing piece of scum so much as touching Dyanna roused a murderous fury in Justin's heart.

  "I could have you examined," he reminded her. "I could call in a doctor or a midwife"

  Horrified, Dyanna took a step back. "You wouldn't!" she breathed, mortified at the mere thought.

  A knock at the door made them both start violently.

  "What is it!" Justin snarled.

  Ipswich's face appeared around the door's edge. "Dinner is served, milord."

  "We'll be there directly."

  The door closed and Justin glared at Dyanna once more. "No," he admitted, addressing her fears. "I probably wouldn't. But since you will not answer my question, I can only assume you gave yourself to Culpepper. I had thought to right the wrong I committ
ed before, that of keeping you here shut away from society. I had decided that there would be no harm in your going to the theater on occasion, or the park"he saw the hope light Dyanna's eyes"but that will have to wait now."

  "But why!" she demanded as he would have left the room to go to the dining room.

  "Because, my dear," he answered coolly, slyly, "before you can appear in polite society, I must be certain there are not unfortunate repercussions from your little escapade."

  "Repercussions? What are you talking about?"

  "Merely, my dear, that I must be sure you are not carrying Geoffrey Culpepper's child."

  "Oh! How can you suggest such a thing!"

  Justin lifted his wide shoulders. "You will not tell me if you are a virgin or not; how am I to know that you are not with child?"

  "And if I tell you I am not?"

  "I cannot afford to believe you. We will wait, Dyanna, and see. In the meantime, you

  must keep to this houseunless, of course, you wish to answer my question concerning your innocence."

  Gazing up into those uncompromising golden eyes, Dyanna knew she could not expect him to accept her refusal to answer his question. Nor, however, could she answer it truthfully and fully. There was nothing she could do but bide her time. She was once again the prisoner of DeVille House.

  "Are you coming to dinner?" Justin asked, holding the door open for her.

  "I'm not hungry," she snapped, though, in fact, she was famished.

  "As you will."

  Turning, Justin disappeared out the door, leaving his fuming ward to glare after him, wishing him to Hades and the Devil and every foul place in between.

  Rushing to the door in a swirl of muslin and lace, she shouted after him:

  "I hate you, Justin DeVille!"

  At the door of the dining room, he turned. A smile, coolly amused, curved his full lips.

  "No doubt you do, my dear, but I am inclined to take that as a compliment. For if Geoffrey Culpepper is any indication, you have damned poor taste in men!"

  Chater Twenty-Five

  ''Where can he be going all the time?" Dyanna demanded one rainy afternoon when, while standing at her sitting room window, she watched Justin drive off in his closed carriage. "Every day he goes off in the morning or the afternoon. Sometimes he doesn't even come home for dinner."