by Ann Stephens
A memory nudged him, of a day several years after illness had twisted his mother’s joints into painful lumps. He recollected no words, only images. His father excusing himself for a ride. The misery on her face as she watched her husband leave, and his own shock when he realized she knew who his father was visiting.
He slowed down, nodding at a couple as they strolled past. His father had exercised the utmost discretion about his affair. Certainly the previous Lord Rossburn had never thrown his inamorata into his wife’s face. That had appeared to provide little comfort to his mother, though.
What clawed at him wasn’t Diantha, but the marriage itself. He resented being confined to a relationship he had not sought. Perhaps he was like his father after all.
He rejected that notion. By all accounts, his parents had married for love. He and Diantha had not. With no emotional attachment on either side, was infidelity that much of a betrayal?
He grasped the handle of the saloon door and paused. What kind of man caused a woman to suffer for something that wasn’t her fault?
As he entered the room, Kieran noticed several glances in his direction. Most of the women and a few men regarded him with expressions of disapproval, while the senhora’s smug smile only irritated him further.
He ignored her blatant lure and joined a convivial group of men gathered at the opposite end of the room. When one of them suggested repairing to the card room, he accepted with a sense of relief.
* * *
The next morning, Florette took one look at Diantha’s swollen eyes and sent for a cold compress. She neither asked questions nor gave any indication that she had heard about last night’s confrontation, although Diantha was sure the entire ship must know about it.
However, as the maid brushed out her hair, she did remark that Lord Rossburn spent several hours playing cards in the first-class saloon the previous evening.
As she watched their reflections in the dressing room mirror, Diantha considered the woman’s words. “That sounds rather like spying on my husband.”
“I would not dream of doing anything so disrespectful, milady.” The servant sniffed as she wound her hair into a chignon and secured it. “I merely happened to overhear it in passing and thought you might be interested.”
Her reflected gaze caught the servant’s in the glass. “Indeed. In that case, it would not be in the least offensive to mention what you might overhear—in passing.”
Florette nodded. “I understand perfectly.” They exchanged mischievous smiles.
“Would milady care to take a stroll around the deck?” She shook out Diantha’s mantelet.
“Thank you. I think the fresh air would do me good.” Her presence outside her cabin would also stop any talk that she had gone into hiding after last night’s debacle. A thought struck her. “Odd.”
“I beg milady’s pardon?” Florette, buttoning her own mantle, raised an eyebrow in question.
“At least my husband doesn’t keep me under lock and key.”
Encountering Kieran during their stroll caused her some anxiety, but he greeted her courteously and even joined them. She expected he also wished to avoid gossip, but he proved pleasant enough company.
The rest of the day passed unexceptionally, and as the senhora pleaded a headache and excused herself from dinner, Diantha quite enjoyed the meal. In the Brazilian beauty’s absence, her husband exerted himself to amuse her, along with the rest of the company. She discovered he was a gifted storyteller as he described his childhood in the Highlands.
The reason for all this attention became clear after they had both retired. A soft tap on their connecting door heralded his entrance. Diantha sat up in her berth. “What are you doing here?”
She had blown out the hanging lamp and could not see his face in the dark, but his baritone caressed her. “I should think that would be obvious. I thought we could continue your introduction to sensual pleasures.”
Her heart leaped at the idea of repeating their activities of two nights ago. Until a shrewd voice in the back of her mind asked if he was trying to procure her complaisance with physical delights.
“Buying people off,” as her father called it, often did not involve the direct payment of money. He got what he wanted by providing much desired goods or services to the other parties. Certainly she would not deny she wanted Kieran to make her fall to pieces again.
But she also recalled the contempt with which Papa regarded those who gave into him easily. Much as he hated being balked, he respected those who stood up to him far more than those who didn’t.
“I’m still feeling a little pain from before.” While technically she still felt slight tenderness, her excuse sounded flimsy even in her own ears. She bit her lip. If he insisted on exercising his rights as a husband, she could do nothing about it.
His sigh sounded loudly through the dark. “I understand your fears, but I assure you that the pain will be less than before.”
“You told me that I would not have to do anything in bed that made me uncomfortable, and I fear it would this evening.”
He growled in his throat. “Something I am beginning to regret. Diantha, I thought you trusted me.”
“I do.” In bed, anyway. Just now she wanted to be left alone. “But I still wish to wait until I am more recovered.”
“Very well.” He bit the words out and closed her door a great deal more loudly than he had opened it.
The next day he spent a lot of time conversing with the senhora. When Diantha demanded an explanation, he retorted that he only inquired after her headache.
She decided her health should take a corresponding downturn. By the time they disembarked at Le Havre, she had barred him from her bed for the remainder of their voyage. The train ride to Paris, in a private car arranged for by Quinn Shipping Line’s French office, took place in an atmosphere of frigid civility. Even the knowledge that the Henriques had remained on board to travel to Lisbon failed to cheer her up.
They stayed in a town house in a fashionable street of the eighth arrondisement. After the dark-panelled suite aboard the Columbia, Diantha settled into the airy rooms with pleasure.
Her elation crumbled when she discovered that Kieran had already gone out for the evening. Finding that she could not face the dining room alone, she ordered a tray in her boudoir.
She tried reading after she finished the solitary meal, but rejected the French fashion periodicals after discovering several articles about her own trousseau in them.
Even Monsieur Jules Verne’s latest work, found after she wandered down to the library, failed to keep her interest. After the first chapter, she glanced at the gilded Louis Quinze clock on the library’s immense marble mantelpiece. Not even midnight. She sighed, shelved the book, and returned to her room.
Florette appeared several moments after she rang for her, chattering happily about returning to her native land. Diantha let the words flow past her as she prepared for bed. Her mood sank further when the maid revealed that his lordship told his valet not to wait up for him. She also hinted that Diantha should consider admitting him to her bed. Diantha set her jaw and dismissed the older woman.
* * *
Hours later, Kieran cracked the door of her bedroom. He absently pulled off his gloves as he peered inside, aware of a pang of disappointment. Delightful as it had been to look in on his acquaintances at the Grand Café, he intended his absence to teach his wife a lesson. This jealous fit of hers had to end.
He had chosen not to pick a quarrel with her under the curious eyes of their fellow passengers during their voyage. In the privacy of a town house, however, he planned to put his foot down. Much as her response to his lovemaking fascinated him, a man did not allow his wife to dictate those he did or did not speak to.
As his eyes adjusted to the darkened room, he could make out the pale blur of her face and the hand flung palm up on the pillow. Drawn by the memory of her soft skin, he entered the room. A fold of his cloak caught the edge of a small table, and
knocked a figurine onto the carpeted floor. The thump awakened Diantha.
“Who’s there?” She started awake, staring wildly in his direction. He realized she could not see his face.
“It’s only me.” He approached slowly. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
She fumbled around the surface of her bedside table. The rasp of a match sounded, followed by a small flame that resolved into a larger one as she lit a candle. “What are you doing in here?”
He frowned, taken aback by her hostile question. “I’m your husband, Diantha. I belong here.”
“That is a matter of opinion.” She stifled a yawn and sat up a little straighter. “I have had a long day and I wish to sleep, sir.” The sheets fell to her waist.
Kieran swallowed. Her lawn nightgown covered her to the chin, but the rosy tips of her breasts remained visible through the thin material. “I have had a long week of your missish behavior, madam. Most husbands would not show such patience to a wife who banned them from her bed.”
“Most husbands would not have spent their honeymoons flirting with another woman under their wife’s nose.” For someone who had just woken up, she struck him as remarkably quarrelsome.
“You have got to stop carrying on like a jealous shrew every time I engage in a little harmless flirtation!” He crossed his arms. “For heaven’s sake, I only talked to her.”
“Where everyone on the ship could see you!” Her eyes flashed in the candlelight. “And for your information, I was not remotely jealous. The embarrassment was bad enough.”
“I am not the one who caused a scene in the middle of the saloon.” He slapped his gloves against his thigh. “May I remind you that you are now expected to act like a lady, not a vulgar merchant’s daughter?”
“For your information, the two are not mutually exclusive. Although I would probably find better manners in a tugboat captain.” Shooting him a single glare, she blew out the candle. “Good night, your high and mighty lordship!”
The sheets rustled as she rolled herself up in them. As his eyes readjusted, Kieran saw her curled up in a ball, her braid trailing down her back outside the bedclothes. Its heavy length tempted his fingers to stroke it.
He brought himself up short. If he caressed her, it might lead her to think she was getting the better of him.
“Good night.” On those curt words, he stalked out of the room.
Chapter 6
By clever management, Diantha did not meet her husband the following day until luncheon. She took a tray of croissants and chocolate in her room, and spent much of the morning composing notes to acquaintances living in Paris.
Only when Florette brought word that his lordship had left the house did she emerge. Dispatching her correspondence to its intended recipients, she sent word for the chef and majordomo to meet with her in the morning room. Although she had never been permitted to speak up during her mother’s consultations with staff, she had learned a great deal by observing them.
The meetings with both servants passed more easily than she expected. After they ended, a footman appeared with several invitations and notes that had arrived that morning. This did not surprise Diantha; news of their arrival had appeared in Le Monde and other newspapers. She divided the mail from people she knew into three piles. As a bride on her honeymoon, she decided to answer them in the order she pleased.
The smallest and most important notes contained greetings from her friends. The second consisted of notes and name cards from friends of her parents, and the third, of friends of her parents that she liked.
The second pile she placed on the back of her writing table for moments of extreme boredom. She regarded it with a smile of triumph. Until today, Mama had supervised the order in which she responded to letters and notes.
A number of envelopes bore names and addresses she did not recognize. She identified a few of the unknown writers as opportunists trying to pretend an acquaintance on the strength of the newspaper articles. Those she tossed into the wastepaper basket. The rest she set aside to ask Kieran about.
While exploring the town house, she found a copy of Le Monde in the library, doubtless abandoned by her husband. Closing the door to the room, she spent a pleasurable hour catching up on Parisian news until a footman summoned her for lunch.
She looked about the dining room with pleasure as she permitted herself to be seated. Like the rest of the house, it created an atmosphere of airiness. Instead of the carved wooden panels her mother favored, silk moiré covered the walls of this room in a cheery shade of pale yellow. The damask tablecloth almost gleamed in the sunlight entering through two large windows opposite the door. It formed a simple background for the low bouquet of fragrant spring flowers arranged in a porcelain epergne on its top.
Her heart jumped nervously when her husband’s big frame filled the doorway. Nor did he appear pleased, stopping short on the threshold at the sight of her.
Mindful of the servants waiting on them, she gave him a civil greeting. He returned one equally unenthusiastic. Except for that exchange, only the clink of silverware on porcelain or quiet requests to the servants filled the silence between them.
To Diantha’s irritation, he did not look in the least like he had lain awake much of the night, as she had after he left her room. He must have pomaded his hair just before joining her, for no wave marred the smooth dark strands combed back from his forehead.
Without the necessity of conversing with him, her awareness of his appearance increased. She tried to focus on her plate, but could not resist a glance in his direction. His hands, although large, handled his knife precisely as he spread foie gras on a slice of bread. Memories of their caresses sent shivers over her skin.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him lift the tidbit to his mouth and heard the delicate crunch as his teeth bit into the thick crush. His tongue flicked out to lick a crumb off his upper lip. She swallowed, unable to look away.
She had noticed the firm mouth from their first introduction. Now, knowing the touch and taste of his lips, she found herself wondering if she would ever experience them again. No, she admitted as heat coiled deep within her. She wanted to feel them again, to kiss that full lower lip with its miniscule cleft echoing the one in his chin.
A soft chuckle interrupted her reverie. To her utter mortification, she realized she was staring at him. His eyes darkened and a smug smile played across the mouth she had just admired.
Furious at her weakness, she dropped her gaze to her own plate. Only when the footmen presented the fruit course did she recall the matter of the morning’s correspondence.
She broached the subject as she neatly quartered a fig with her knife and fork. “Some letters arrived this morning from persons I am unfamiliar with, your lordship. If you would be so kind as to go through them and tell me if you recognize them, I could then dispose of those trying to encroach.”
“How would anyone know our direction?” His brows furrowed in confusion.
“Did you not read the newspaper articles announcing our presence at this house?” She cleared her throat. “I fear my mother provides information on my family’s whereabouts on a regular basis.”
“Good God! I trust I am not going to spend the rest of my life reading accounts of my comings and goings in the newspapers.” He gave her an accusatory glare. She clenched her hands around the silverware, reminding herself to keep her temper.
“Indeed, I share your hope. Such intrusions are monstrous!” The words came out more vehemently than she expected. She took a breath to calm herself. “However, the immediate task is to be sure we do not inadvertently snub your friends.”
“Very well.” He snapped out the words before finishing an apricot. She took a breath. One more unpleasant subject remained for her to bring up.
“Will you be dining at home this evening?” She kept her gaze on the table.
“I shouldn’t think so.” He answered carelessly. “I’ve been invited to dine at the Jockey Club by an old acqu
aintance, and then we shall probably go look in on the Opera.”
Her fingers spasmed in her lap. The ornate new home of the Paris Opéra had been under construction since 1862. Interrupted by France’s ill-considered war with Prussia in 1870 and the resulting uprising in Paris, it had only opened this year. Having gawked in fascination at the construction site during her previous stay in the city, it vexed Diantha to no end that her husband would see the finished building first. Very likely he would pay attention only to the dancers in the corps de ballet, while she sat at home alone.
Her teeth gritted in an effort not to turn into a screaming virago. “If you are finished, perhaps we might adjourn to the morning room now.”
There, they quickly dealt with the last of the correspondence. To her surprise, he did not leave immediately. Idly, he plucked a note out of the desk.
She tensed, hating the way he picked up her letters. “That is from a friend of mine.”
Her anger must have shown on her face, for he put it back with an embarrassed cough. “Forgive me.”
“I plan to answer my own friends first.” Still fuming, Diantha tucked the letter farther back inside the desk. She raised the drop-leaf front and challenged him with a look to open it.
He merely lifted an eyebrow. “As you wish, my dear.” With a mocking bow, he turned to go.
“Kieran.” He paused at the door. “I would appreciate it if you would apprise me of your evening plans earlier in the day. I have already ordered dinner for two, which I shall now have to cancel.”
He turned on his heel, brows drawn together. “Trying to keep tabs on me? As I said before, I will not be spied on.”
She struggled for words. “I have never heard anything so ridiculous in my life! I only desire to make our stay in this house as easy as possible. Surely you could announce your plans before you disappear for the morning.” She disregarded the fact that she had spent the morning hiding from him.