by Dee Brice
“A contest to prove which of us best meets your needs.” Walker’s hip-cocked pose announced he already knew the victor.
“Ahh, but such a contest means I must bed you before I can determine the winner.” And best meets implied the contest would include Jason. She wasn’t certain how she felt about that. Lord Leveson seemed so very young and yet… Besides, she wanted answers, not the distractions they seemed intent upon using instead of telling her the truth. But being the object desired by three handsome men flattered her ego. She liked the idea so much she decided to let them distract her. She’d get her answers later. If all else failed she’d resort to pillow talk.
“Then I must first win your consent to bed you,” Adrian countered, his challenge directed at Walker.
Walker’s chuckle contained a large dose of skepticism that Adrian could fulfill his vow to Diane. He said, “We can set the rules after we’ve had some sleep.”
Diane’s hackles rose. She would set the rules or she’d refuse to play the game. Even if not playing means I can’t go home? She’d think about that possibility later. Or not at all if it might jinx her and keep her prisoner here.
“The first rule being, neither of you will do anything to eliminate Leveson from the competition,” she said. “I alone shall determine if any of you might win.”
With that, she rose then left them to argue or plot as they wished. So long as they did not provoke a duel, she didn’t care what they did. If they wouldn’t answer her questions, they could damn well sleep alone!
* * * * *
To Diane’s surprise, she awoke with a clear head, a calm stomach and renewed determination to get out of this mess. True, she’d eaten enough last night to absorb most of the alcohol she’d drunk, but not having a hangover left her grateful for small favors.
She had a vague recollection of confronting Walker and Adrian about their shared pasts. Unable to recall exactly what she said or how they’d responded triggered the beginning of a headache. She headed for her bathtub.
After a long soak and several cups of hot chocolate, she felt ready to face what remained of the day. The house seemed quieter than usual, as if the servants went about their duties on tiptoes and whispered instead of speaking in normal voices. Which, had she the hangover she’d expected, would have suited her just fine. Suspecting His Grace and de Vesay hadn’t fared as well, she wished someone would rattle keys or break a vase or beat a drum… Anything that would cause the men discomfort.
Before her spitefulness got the better of her, she dismissed it. Emotions like those belonged to that other Diane—she was striving to become a better person.
A soft knock on her hallway door announced Jason Leveson’s expected arrival. Earlier, she’d sent Margaret with a request that the young man pay a visit. A private one, she’d stressed to her maid, certain the lordling would read a sexual invitation in the words—and equally certain he would accept.
Standing, she pulled the lapels on her dressing gown a trifle wider, exposing the creamy flesh of her upper breasts, then bade her visitor to enter.
Dressed impeccably in buckskin breeches, bottle-green coat over a gold-and-pale-green waistcoat, his cravat the perfect height and fold, he looked in shiny good health. But then, why wouldn’t he? Having retired at a reasonable hour, he’d had a good night’s sleep.
Clear-eyed and bushy-tailed. She forgave him for his Brutus-styled hair needing a trim and for his gold-flecked brown eyes roaming with obvious appreciation over her body. She quelled the impulse to preen. Her breasts showed quite enough and when she sat, her dressing gown parted to reveal an expanse of knee and thigh that made the young man swallow an audible gulp.
“Please, sit.” She settled her robe around her legs and gestured for him to take the seat opposite her settee. “I have a boon to beg of you, Lord Jason.”
“Jason will suffice, if you wish, milady.”
“I wish that very much…Jason. And you must call me Diane. At least when we are private, as we are now.”
His nod settled the matter of names. “As to the boon…I believe I know what you want of me, my—Diane, and I grant it.”
“That’s kind of you, Jason, but let me ask it of you anyway. I want no misunderstandings between us.”
“As you wish. Diane,” he added as if testing the texture of her name, perhaps in a way tasting it and her.
Drawing and expelling a soft breath to regain her suddenly scattered composure, she said, “I want you to flirt with me as you did yesterday.”
Leaning back, he rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, then made a show of crossing his left ankle over his right knee, providing her an almost straight-on view of his ample manly attributes.
“I believe you require somewhat more than soulful glances,” he said, favoring her with a look that made her fear her dressing gown had caught fire.
“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” She sounded sharper than she’d intended and smiled to take any sting from her words.
“‘Tis difficult to ignore one’s elders, even when they speak as if one isn’t in the room.”
Ignoring a hint of bitterness in his voice, his slight emphasis on elders widened her smile. “I am your elder, as well,” she admitted with an arched eyebrow. If he compared her to fine wine or claimed older women were grateful for any attention, she’d box his ears then send him to pack.
“What is a year or two between friends?” he said, his gaze rising from her breasts to her face. “After all, His Grace and de Vesay are far older than we. Yet we enjoy their company.”
“Do you? Even when they speak as if you’re not in the room?” Eager to hear his response, she leaned forward. Her dressing gown gaped, exposing more of her breasts than she’d intended. Or perhaps that other Diane was responsible for her blatant behavior now.
“Perhaps not as much as I do when we play billiards.” To his credit his gaze merely darted to her bosom, returning almost immediately to her heating face. Sweet heaven, what would he think of her—wanton or mother-substitute—if she couldn’t decide either?
“Where hand and eye hold sway and all that matters is the game.”
He nodded, adding, “And winning.”
So the lordling had something more on his mind than just an invitation to the game. He wanted a prize as well.
“Put your cards on the table, Jason, so we each know what’s at stake and on offer.”
“I assure you I’ll play the game for as long as you wish,” he told her with all the gravitas his elders might display.
“But?”
“I prefer to be included as an equal. Meaning if I prove myself the best man…”
“You win the prize. What do you think that is, Jason?”
He smiled that cocksure smile most men gave when certain they knew the answer. “You. No matter how long or short a time you grant the winner—a night, a week, a year—you are the prize, Diane.”
Blast her traitorous body! She might just bed him whether he won or not.
* * * * *
The evening being mild, they dined on the terrace just outside her small breakfast room. Candlelight and moon glow lent a festive cast to the bantering of the rules the men tossed at her over cigars—which she smoked—and brandy—which she declined.
At length they compromised on the when to begin—Monday, since tomorrow was Sunday. “Even the Lord rested on Sunday,” she muttered.
Where seemed obvious, but Diane made them spell it out. Anywhere in the house and on the grounds and in the nearby village of Goldsborough.
What she would tolerate in the way of touching came down to kissing and nothing else. Their collective silence warned her to keep up her guard lest they try to seduce her by going beyond the rules. They could try, but she wouldn’t succumb. Not as easily as she had in the past, at any rate.
Please, please, please, she prayed to whatever god or goddess could keep her lust at bay.
How long? To begin the competition, each would have a day. She would
have one day of rest between each suitor, which amounted to men on Monday, Wednesday and Friday with both Saturday and the Lord’s Day to recover. What would the two men do while she spent time with one? Whatever they wanted except intruding on what she was doing. Her hunters were the best in the county. Her lakes and ponds well stocked with fish. The men would swim alone or with each other, but she forbade them access to her servants. If they needed more frequent servicing than what she might grant, they could withdraw from the game right now and leave at first light.
Which led her back to the question left unanswered the previous night. How had her husband afforded to keep a mistress? She hoped discussing her immediate past would lead to their revealing what they knew about all her pasts. And might even persuade them into telling her how to get home.
“Bloody hell!” she exploded in the face of their stubborn silence. Their reluctance to speak frayed her patience to the breaking point. “I certainly didn’t give him any money.”
“‘Twas said,” Adrian began.
“His mistresses,” Walker continued.
“Kept him,” Jason finished, earning a glare from his elders.
“In a manner of speaking,” Walker said, his tone implying he considered the subject closed.
“My house, my rules,” she reminded them. “Of course, if you find my rules regarding accepting each other unacceptable, you may leave. Now.”
Another round of raised brows and thinned lips and darting eyes. Growling low in her throat, Diane surged to her feet. “Goodnight. Forgive me if I don’t rise in time to bid you farewell in the morning.”
Springing to their feet, they corralled her, then herded her back to her chair and forced her to sit. They stood over her until she expelled a loud sigh and relaxed her shoulders.
“Sir David lived off women who already lived off wealthy men,” Walker said, his face tilted skyward, ostensibly to send a perfect smoke ring away from his tablemates’ faces.
“Wealthy, married men,” Adrian clarified with a scowl at Jason. An unwarranted scowl, in Diane’s opinion. Or was the young lord married, Adrian’s words a warning to her?
Jason shrugged. “Beyond repeating gossip, I have nothing to contribute. I was still at Oxford at the time.”
“Good Lord!” she cried. “How young are you?”
“Four and twenty,” Jason replied with a cheeky grin.
“Twenty, at most,” Adrian countered, a sneer in his voice as well as on his lips.
“Twenty-two.” Walker’s certainty laid the question to rest—for now.
Diane ground her teeth. “That being the case—indirectly living off wealthy men, why did he marry me?”
A brief exchange of glances occurred before Walker said, “Even the most beautiful women age. Wealthy gentlemen seek younger mistresses who in turn find poor and aging men less than attractive. His wedding you lent credibility to his claims that you’d granted him a generous stipend.” He shrugged and blew another smoke ring.
“When the truth came out that you’d given him nothing and would continue in that vein, he had one last go at each of his mistresses.” Adrian’s attempt to outdo Walker’s smoke ring failed. The ring dissolved as it left his mouth.
“Those repercussions I did hear about,” Jason chimed, his concerned gaze squarely focused on Diane. “I’ll stop if you wish.”
That kindness boosted him even farther up in her esteem. “He may have harmed my reputation, but he never hurt me. If that makes any sense at all.” In all likelihood her counterpart hadn’t liked the cad, let alone loved him. No doubt she married him so she could do as she pleased. Bed whomever she wanted.
All three men nodded. Jason continued. “Your vow not to give him so much as a ha’penny of your money did not prevent his living in your London house. Nor did it limit his access to your larder and wine cellar.” Jason’s gaze shifted to Walker, who finished the tale.
“On the evening he died, he invited all his mistresses—”
“How many?” Diane demanded, then shrugged. “Not that it matters anymore.” If it had ever mattered to her at all.
“Three were in the house when your physician arrived, your butler having summoned him,” Walker said, no emotion in his voice.
Good for him. She hadn’t asked for anything more than facts and Walker had given them with neither sympathy nor condemnation. But his answer suggested her husband had invited more than those who’d stayed with him to the end. Did it also suggest those women felt connected to him? Or had they simply waited until he died in order to loot her jewel cases, caught because they lingered too long to avoid Bow Street?
“So,” she said into an interminable silence, “Madame Maintenant was really Mesdames.” She laughed at her little joke. She also let go of any bitterness his true wife might have felt when the circumstances of her husband’s death became the grist for the gossipmongers’ mills. She had apparently given as good as she’d gotten in the matter of betrayal.
As one, the men nodded, inhaled a deep drag from their cigars, then exhaled perfect smoke rings. Jason’s lingered the longest, causing Walker and Adrian to grumble and earning her smiles.
“What shall we do tomorrow?” Jason asked. “Church in the morning, sin after luncheon?”
“Church?” she echoed, startled by the suggestion. She hadn’t set foot in any church since… She couldn’t remember the last time. Except for Notre Dame in Paris and Westminster Cathedral in London, she avoided churches as a matter of principle. Too crowded with tourists her first excuse, too money-grubbing her second. Although there was that ceremony in medieval times when Adrian stood as proxy for his twin… Nothing to worry about now, not when so much more preyed on her mind.
She said, “I’d prefer breakfast on a tray in my rooms. If the weather holds, luncheon here on the terrace. A quiet afternoon sketching or bird-watching by the lake. Supper while playing cribbage in the billiard room.”
“Ah!” Jason crowed. “Gluttony and games. What more could we ask for?”
Three pairs of eyes sharpened on her face. Ignoring the lust that flash-flooded her body, she bade them goodnight, then hastily retreated to her rooms.
* * * * *
Foul weather kept them inside.
Adrian sketched caricatures of her, Walker and Jason, then added one of himself as a skeleton. He claimed he would waste away to nothingness if she chose to bed anyone but him.
Jason played tunes on the grand pianoforte in the adjacent music room. The piano, so she’d been told, had recently been tuned. His talent proved sufficient to eliminate all sour notes from his extensive repertoire.
Diane cuddled under a soft down blanket in a chair by the fireplace, alternately reading and watching the men while they pretended to ignore each other.
Walker paced like the great cat she seemed always to compare him to. Jason wandered back into the billiard room. Adrian set aside his sketchbook, cracking his knuckles like an unvoiced protest at inactivity. He and Jason joined Walker, the three of them circling the room like a carousel atop a music box going slower and slower. When they stopped and stared at her, she realized they each occupied a different corner of the room. A corner the men might burst from like boxers at the beginning of a round. Or they might cower where they were until, like Adrian’s self-portrait, they all turned to skeletons. Or to piles of bones no one had bothered to bury.
“Enough!” she cried as if they’d all shouted to gain her attention. They went on staring. “It seems the weather may continue to conspire against any outdoor activities. Ergo, we must decide what to do with ourselves when we are not together. Together when two of us are supposed to be together while the other two are not…together. Are elsewhere, I mean.”
They glanced at each other, then back at her.
“One task remains,” she went on, “before we can begin our game tomorrow.” Grunts acknowledged her statement. “If I can locate a deck of cards, we can finalize our plan.”
“What remains undone?” Walker challenged,
nonetheless joining the search for cards.
“Determining who spends time with me tomorrow. And the other days when we are—”
“Separately together,” Adrian suggested, then laughed.
Relieved at having the tension broken, she laughed along with the men. “You may cut the cards, with high card winning his choice of day.”
“I prefer we go by age.” One eyebrow cocked, Walker all but dared anyone to contradict him.
Adrian and Jason guffawed.
“Of course, Methuselah, you’d prefer age,” Adrian chided, a grin in his voice.
“Unless he means youngest first,” Jason said, making an elegant leg to her.
“He does not mean youngest,” Walker said, a smile hovering at the corners of his mouth.
Diane tallied an unexpected point on her mental slate for Walker. Teasing the younger men lent depth to his otherwise humorless demeanor and indicated an ability to laugh at himself. She liked that…perhaps more than she should.
“I found the cards,” Adrian announced, displaying the deck like a rare coin held between thumb and forefinger.
“Good. I’ll shuffle.” Pushing off her blanket, she went to Adrian’s side, her hand outstretched to accept the deck. He held it above her head, taunting her, daring her to take it away if she could. His longer arms and greater height gave him an advantage she couldn’t overcome except by using guile.
“Well then, I cannot teach you a new game,” she tossed over her shoulder as she sauntered to a chair at the card table. It also served as a chess table when needed. Or so she assumed, noting the faces of kings and queens carved into the pedestal base and its checkerboard under the glass top. Generously cushioned chairs in a Directoire style encouraged players to consider their moves and plan several more in advance. Linger, the chairs seemed to say.
“A new game?” Jason challenged as if someone had installed electricity decades before technology provided the capability to do so. “In what gaming hell did you learn a new game?”
The gaming hell called television. Before she blurted out the statement, she sniffed as if his doubtful attitude had wounded her. “My late husband taught it to me before his death,” she lied, her gaze focused on the tabletop with its black and gold squares.