TemptressofTime

by Dee Brice

  Which gave her some relief, since Adrian and Walker’s initials… Talk about obvious! Her thought processes were as obvious as her costume for tonight’s masked ball. The masked ball which marked her return to society after her period of mourning. The masked ball she was—of all things!—hosting. Or so Margaret had told her.

  Which, apparently, meant she owned this house and everything in it. Wow! Unless… If she and her husband had a child, she only held temporary custody. Still better than being ousted by some distant male relative. Unless her child was a girl.

  Wait a minute. Under certain circumstances… Think, Diane, think! If the original peerage patent contained special conditions, the title could pass to a woman. So it was possible for her to own this property in her own right until she died. And if she had a daughter, that child could also inherit the title and properties that went with it. A very practical arrangement from her modern point of view. Perhaps not so good for an heiress who could fall prey to fortune hunters.

  Laughing to herself, she wondered why she thought she had a title. Because Margaret called her m’lady? Because her surroundings were too luxurious to belong to anyone untitled?

  As she caught a reflection of herself shaking her head, she restudied her costume for the evening.

  This Diane obviously intended to reenter society as the Merry Widow! Although her guests most likely would view her as the huntress Diana. Her costume came complete with bow and a quiver full of golden arrows. Gauze so sheer she might as well wear nothing covered her right breast. The rest of her gown seemed modest enough, although she knew some brazen women dampened their gowns so as to make them transparent. She could only pray that the woman she portrayed wasn’t that bold! Crossing her fingers, she also prayed her appearance wouldn’t get her ousted from society altogether.

  “M’lady.” Margaret slipped a serpentine gold bracelet up Diane’s left arm, then stepped back. Scanning her from gold sandals to her upswept hair, three curls artfully drooping to her left shoulder, the maid nodded and pronounced her mistress perfect.

  Perfect…except for the wasps and bees waging war in her belly. Except for her trembling hands and thighs. Except for her pounding heart, clammy hands and dry mouth she was just dandy. And would continue to be so long as she wore her mask.

  Margaret hurried her along the hallway to the top of a wide marble staircase.

  “Go on now, m’lady.”

  “What if someone recognizes me?” she whispered, a definite wail in her voice. Well, of course someone might recognize her. Her house, her guests. Her scandalous costume. For this era…if—

  Margaret had vanished, but two women—each dressed in gowns similar to what Diane had worn in Tudor times—sailed toward her like large barges about to collide. Their wide skirts, no doubt supported by whalebone farthingales, kept bumping into the other’s. Neither seemed willing to allow the other to precede her, leaving Diane to pray they wouldn’t break their necks falling down the staircase leading to the ballroom.

  Alternately nibbling her lower lip and holding her breath, Diane watched them until they safely reached the first floor. Which, she recalled, was actually the second floor. Two more women came at her, raising their elaborate feathered masks and making a show of not looking at her yet whispering loud enough for her to hear.

  “It seems the Marchioness of Goldsborough has competition,” one muttered, her upper lip curled in a sneer.

  “And at her own ball!” said the other, tossing an assessing glance at Diane as they glided past.

  Diane sniffed in disdain. Obviously those women were nouveau riche or something like that. One accustomed to society never used another person’s title. When speaking about him or her, one said Lady de Bourgh like the grand dame in Pride and Prejudice or Lord March or simply March. What disturbed her equanimity was that the vitriol felt so very real.

  Perhaps she would have to accept living yet another of Diane de Vesay’s pasts.

  But at least she had some assurance no one would recognize her—not before the unmasking at any rate and not by casual acquaintances. If her female guests commonly held the spiteful views in what she’d just heard, Diane, Marchioness of Goldsborough, had few intimates among the gentler sex. As for her male guests…

  Drawing a deep breath for courage, Diane descended. Music floated over the ballroom, but no one danced.

  “They await you,” a familiar voice murmured in her ear.

  She knew that she might take the dance floor first, but relief at finding him alive made her knees tremble and her heart lighten. “I recall asking Lady Hart to lead off the dancing,” Diane replied, wondering how she knew the other woman’s name. Was this another indication she’d traveled through time yet again? Striving to ignore the immediate rush of lust Adrian’s voice sent coursing through her body, she shifted away from him lest someone notice how near they stood.

  “Alas, the Duchess of Hartington has already left. Summoned, I believe, by her daughter’s husband. Otherwise she’d have led the dancing an hour ago, if only to arrive at supper that much sooner.” Walker raised Diane’s ungloved hand to his lips for a brief caress of his tongue along her palm.

  Scalded, she found the strength to maintain her haughty attitude. “Were I to lead the dance now, everyone would know—would assume I am the marchioness.” She refused to smile with gratitude that he, too, lived.

  “At least one of that title. We seem to have a surfeit of them tonight,” Adrian informed her, grasping her elbow as if to draw her to the dance floor.

  “Someone has to start the dancing.” Walker caught the attention of a nearby footman then sent him scurrying toward the orchestra. “As the highest-ranking gentleman present, I shall lead the dance.”

  The strains of a waltz filled the room and cleared couples off the dance floor to make room for Walker and her. Even if she hadn’t known that some considered waltzing scandalous, she would have felt…exactly as she did.

  Flying to a slow three-quarter beat. Gliding with Walker as though they’d waltzed together a thousand times before. Warming where his hand rested on her back, his fingers splayed dangerously, enticingly near her buttocks’ crease. She hoped her quiver hid most of his hand, but wouldn’t count on it. Walker delighted in her discomfort and no doubt would bring her a huge amount of embarrassment before the night ended.

  Judging by the merriment in his dark eyes—what she could discern behind the black bandana that covered his face except his stubborn, square chin and those fathomless eyes—he was about to begin humiliating her. This time, however, she felt ready for him.

  “I have missed you these last six months.” He all but growled the words.

  He must have misspoken. If she was in fact in Regency England, she must have mourned a full year, perhaps even longer. Or had she disliked her husband so much, she had retired from society only for the minimum mourning period?

  Okay, so I’m not as ready for Walker as I thought.

  “Only six?” she countered, her tone disinterested.

  Walker’s eyes narrowed, making him seem even more dangerous. His coal-black outfit made him look like a pirate—one who intended to return to his ship with all the plunder he could carry. The thought speeded her heartbeat and sent hot chills up and down her spine. She looked away, hoping to become less aware of him and even less aware of what his nearness did to her body.

  “Most especially these last six months.”

  All right! She’d gotten under his skin. Clenched teeth, a tic pulsing at the corner of his mouth. Oops. His hand pressed her buttocks so her hips brushed against his and his growing erection. She gasped and darted her gaze to his face.

  “Do not play games, Diane. Before your husband’s timely death, we’d all but bedded.”

  “It’s the all but that matters, Your Grace. That and timely. What was timely about his death?”

  Walker’s lips turned down. The tic grew more pronounced. “Timely because it cleared a path for us.”

  The blood whooshe
d from Diane’s brain, then returned with tsunami force. Her knees trembled so, she almost fell. Walker spun her, making her stumble seem a slight misstep in the pattern of their dance.

  “Did…did you have something—anything at all—to do with his death?” Damnation! This situation felt more real by the second. If the deceased was her husband and she couldn’t remember his first name…what did that say about her? About her marriage? Hell, the way the British bandied their titles about like clubs, she might never have known her husband’s first name.

  “I thought…perhaps you…” His dark eyes glittered with…malice?

  “I? How?”

  “Used your so tempting charms and—” He leaned close enough to whisper, “Fucked him to death.”

  She could only gape at him. Noticing other dancers beginning to stare at them, she closed her mouth. “That’s a terrible thing to say about—”

  “About the woman I want,” he said with a wicked grin. “But word came down from your country estate—”

  “My estate?”

  “Yes, yours. The title…” His smile morphed into a frown as he continued. “Gossip also came from London that he died in the arms of Madame Maintenant.”

  “His…woman of the moment?”

  “I cannot tell you how relieved I was that you hadn’t killed him.”

  Quirking one brow, she muttered, “I can only imagine.” She saw the irony in it though. She leading Walker on while her husband screwed another woman. Most likely more than one. And who knew how many men the real Marchioness of Goldsborough had led on? Maybe had even bedded?

  “Fortunately you only had to bear the scandal for a few days before the haut ton moved on to a more salacious matter.”

  “Prinny overspending his allowance yet again?” she said with sugary sweetness, recalling the outrage the regent’s over-expenditures caused his advisors and Parliament.

  “Worse than that. Although I cannot remember what wrongdoing eclipsed your husband’s.”

  Good! In all probability Walker had forgotten why she—the dead man’s wife—wasn’t under suspicion for his murder.

  “Of course Bow Street considered you a suspect. Only for the few moments it took the servants to denounce the…” He covered a discreet cough.

  “Whore?” She didn’t want to hear another word. In fact, she was tired of dancing. “I had no idea dance sets lasted this long.”

  “No doubt you lacked sufficient exercise during your country stay,” he said, innuendo rampant in his seductive voice.

  “What… Oh, during my period of mourning, you mean.”

  Nodding as the music ended, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

  Adrian appeared at her other side. “I believe the next dance is mine,” he said, glaring at Walker’s profile.

  So, in this incarnation the men did not like each other. Would that work to her advantage? If she could keep them apart, she could make it an advantage. Assuming this was her latest reality and not a play.

  “Lady de Bourgh is tired,” Walker said, not moving.

  “La, Your Grace, I have recovered.” She tapped her fan on his forearm. “Moreover, a promise is a promise, isn’t it, de Vesay?” That to Adrian with a coy smile he returned wholeheartedly. The smile, not the coyness.

  Scowling, Walker bowed. “You also promised I could lead you into dinner.”

  “I did—” no such thing. “And I’ll see you then.”

  As Walker stalked away, Adrian urged her back to the dance floor and into a long line that diminished quickly. Now at the top, she and Adrian marched down then assumed their original places. The dance master called out the steps as, breathless, she struggled to keep up with the intricate patterns—none of which had ever appeared in movies or TV series made from Jane Austen’s books. None that she remembered anyway. Yet her feet seemed to remember and followed the call without hesitation.

  A few minutes later, the dance pattern bringing them back together, she pleaded to stop. Both she and Adrian stepped out of the line, then made their way to the terrace. He slipped her quiver off, sliding both his arms around her waist. Her leaning backward brought their pelvises together and made her very aware of his hardening cock. Pursing her lips and straightening, she pushed at his chest—hard enough to make him stumble.

  “A simple no would suffice, Diane.”

  “Would it?” Snapping open her fan, she used it on her heated face and neck. Unsure whether to blame the dancing for her condition, she thought Adrian had contributed a large portion to her unsettled state. “Did I do something to make you think I’d welcome your attentions?”

  His bowed head snapped up, revealing hurt and embarrassment. “Not tonight. But earlier, before your husband’s death… You gave me hope for something more than friendship.”

  “While m-my husband was alive, I—”

  “Let me kiss you.” He pinned her against the high balustrade. Before she could protest, he covered her lips with his, her all but naked breast with his hand.

  Had the ballroom full of strangers suddenly disappeared, she might have taken pleasure from him. Might even have taken him beyond the limits of propriety. As it was…

  A sharp cough brought her to her senses. Adrian as well, if his springing away was any indication. The gratitude she’d felt for the timely interruption fled when she saw who had rescued her.

  “‘Tis eleven o’clock, milady.” Walker held out his hand, a summons to supper as clear as her butler would have announced it.

  On her way past Walker, he caught her elbow, halting her mid-stride. He looped her hand over his own, then reminded her, “A promise is a promise, my lady.”

  His emphasis on those two words made her shudder inside, a fear she would never allow him to see. She’d done nothing to make him consider her his lady. Or had that other Diane already taken the two rivals to her bed? Tilting her chin to an impervious angle, she said, “Indeed,” and let him take her inside.

  * * * * *

  Diane awakened to the rattle of china and the scent of chocolate. Stretching and yawning, she then plumped her pillows and leaned against them while Margaret opened her drapes. Late morning sunlight brightened the room.

  “Did you sleep well, m’lady?”

  Odd, she had slept far better than she’d expected and told her maid just that. “I suppose gossip is rampant below stairs,” she said, inhaling the glorious chocolate aroma before taking a tentative sip. It was the perfect temperature for gulping, but she elected to savor every drop.

  “Not exactly rampant, m’lady. ‘Tis glad we are to see you enjoying yourself. A little wagering as to which gentleman will win your hand.” Again, the young woman’s pale-gray eyes reminded Diane of Marget.

  “Hand?” Diane echoed. “As in marriage?”

  “What else? You’re young enough. Beautiful and wealthy.”

  “Ah. Wealth is where my attraction lies.”

  “Perhaps. Among your other charms.”

  Diane made a noncommittal noise, then finished her hot chocolate. “What activities are on today’s schedule?”

  “Most of the ladies are still in bed. Those who didn’t hasten back to London last night.” Diane shuddered at the arrival of gossip about her costume and behavior in London so soon after her reappearance in society. Margaret went on. “I doubt you need to worry about those who stayed until they want their coaches. As for the gentlemen…”

  “Yes?” Something in Margaret’s voice warned Diane she wouldn’t like what her maid might say about the men.

  “His Grace and Lord de Vesay are studiously avoiding one another.”

  “That’s good.” When Margaret just grunted, Diane said, “Isn’t it? Oh, good heavens! You don’t think they’ll come to blows or challenge each other to a duel?”

  All she needed to add to her tarnished reputation were two peers of the realm fighting a duel over her. Never mind that one or both of them could be killed or die from infection. Or, worse, have to leave the country to avoid punishmen
t for dueling in the first place.

  Oh yes, her reputation was tarnished. Suspected of using sex to murder her husband. Her costume last night making her look naked. That scandalous news carried to London by the guests who had left after the unmasking and supper. Tomorrow—the day after at the latest—she would doubtless see caricatures of herself, Adrian and Walker in some sort of salacious pose. The scandalmongers of Fleet Street lived on the backs of the gentry they ruined with their publications.

  Sighing, she wondered if she could defuse the animosity between the men. Make it clear she favored another? That might work for that other woman, who must know everyone she’d invited to her ball and wouldn’t care who she entangled in her webs of sensual pleasure. To this Diane, namely her, they were all strangers. Men whose lives she wouldn’t risk.

  She snorted, a soft self-deprecation. As if she were some femme fatale with would-be mates falling at her feet left, right and center. Her wealth more likely played the primary role here. How had that other Diane avoided being bankrupted by her late and no doubt unlamented husband? From everything she’d read, mistresses and heavy gaming debts went hand in hand.

  With an inward shrug, she kicked off the covers, then stood, noticing for the first time the clothes Margaret had draped over the chaise longue. Surprising herself, she laughed.

  Margaret looked up, a wide smile on her gamine face. “You haven’t changed your mind, have you?”

  “About wearing britches? No.” And if word about this flagrant flaunting of propriety reached London, her tarnished reputation would lie in shreds for all the world to see.

  Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

  “Margaret,” Diane said, tossing caution to the wind, “what was my husband’s given name?”

  Her maid seemed not to think this an odd question. Pursing her lips, a frown of deep concentration creasing her brows, Margaret stared into space for an endless moment, then said, “I only heard you say it once, m’lady. And since you swore and threw a vase at him…” She shrugged.