The afternoon’s exploration added a new delight and torment to his experience, the reason he was content to let her lead the way and, he feared, lead him by the nose. Each time Diana passed near a window he was afforded a spectacular view of her figure through the thin fabric of her gown.
This particular passage ended with a large Venetian window. The rain had blown over. As she walked ahead of him the sun came out. His heart hammered in his chest and he could hardly breathe. The only better sight in this world would be Diana without the semitransparent gown. And he knew what he’d like to do with her. It was too cruel that they were surrounded by bedrooms.
He beat back lust. Even were he to acknowledge his desire he couldn’t act on it. Diana was a lady and not to be trifled with.
“Where shall we go now?” she said, looking over her shoulder with blue eyes rimmed by thick dark lashes. Did she have any idea what she did to him? Surely not, or she’d run in terror. “I no longer have the least idea where we are.”
His response was inarticulate. She looked amused. “No suggestions? Very well, let’s go up here.”
Here was a narrow staircase, surely a servants’ route. As they’d traveled up through the mansion the decoration became plainer. The lavish gilt, plasterwork, damask, and tapestry of the public rooms gave way to solid comfort and elegance in the family and guest quarters. Now they reached the next floor to find yet another long passage, narrower than those below, painted white with simple architraves and skirting boards.
“This is the nursery floor,” he said. “It’s where I stayed when I was young.”
Diana looked at the pictures that lined the walls, watercolors uniformly mounted in simple gilt frames. “Most of these seem to be views of the grounds. Here is the lake, but the trees are smaller.”
“No wonder. It was done sixty years ago. Maria Vanderlin, 1759,” Sebastian read over her shoulder.
“And the next is by Lavinia Vanderlin, 1760. I do believe these are all by daughters of the house. What a delightful idea.”
They walked along the passage, commenting on the artistic abilities of various Vanderlin ladies.
“This one is interesting,” Diana said. “It’s the first time I’ve noticed a figure in the landscape. The artist wasn’t good at painting trees but the costume is quite detailed. I’ve seen portraits of ladies wearing habits like this.”
Sebastian agreed with Diana’s judgment. The drawing was stiff, save for a small figure of a woman wearing a red costume and triangular hat. Then he noticed the signature. It was absurd to be surprised, but somehow he hadn’t expected it.
“Corinna Vanderlin, 1785. Isn’t she your mother?”
“Yes.”
“What is she like? As a girl she seems to have had an eye for fashion.”
Sebastian didn’t know. He hadn’t seen his mother since he was six. An image, unrecalled in years, filled his mind.
A morning visit to his mother’s chamber. She sits at her dressing table, occupied with potions and bottles and a huge powder puff. She draws him into her deliciously scented embrace. “My funny little monkey,” she murmurs. She has forgiven him for knocking over the little statue of the shepherd god when he visited the drawing room yesterday. She cried when her ornament broke but today he’s her favorite pet again. “Will you come with us to the park, Mama?” he asks in desperate hope. He holds his breath. She’s going to say yes, he is sure. Then her maid enters the room, her arms full of embroidered silk and gauze. “The delivery from the dressmaker, my lady.” His mother says she can’t go to the park today. She has something important to do.
“Yes,” he said, in answer to Diana’s question. “She did have an eye for fashion.”
They were standing shoulder to shoulder in front of the little picture. She angled her head to look at his face, opened her mouth to speak then changed her mind about whatever she’d been about to say. “I’d like to see the nursery,” she said instead. “I love toys and I’m sure the Mandeville children had splendid ones.”
Sebastian sensed a foolish shadow of reluctance as he opened the door into the day nursery and let Diana precede him into the room. It was a big, light room, warm from trapped summer heat. Though kept perfectly free of dust like every other part of the house, neglect hung in the air. He recognized some of the playthings, those too large to be stowed in the paneled cupboards that ran along one wall: a puppet theater, a model of a grand medieval keep which he now realized was copied from Warwick Castle, a huge rocking horse. This last had belonged to Blakeney who hadn’t wanted to share it with his cousin. He’d sulked when the nurse had insisted he let Sebastian take a turn. Given Sebastian’s desperate longing for these toys on his earlier visit, it was almost disconcerting to have no interest in playing with them now.
Diana ran her hands over the long mane of the dapple gray steed, galloping on green boat-shaped rockers. “I’ve never seen such a big one,” she said. “I must try it. Of course I can’t ride astride in this gown. I’ll have to go sidesaddle.” Perched sideways on the wooden horse’s leather-covered back, she swayed her hips from side to side, trying to generate enough force to set the horse rocking, and succeeding only in drawing his attention to her bosom.
Let me help you with that. Sebastian was fairly sure his vocal cords never actually formed the words, though his mouth probably gaped open. He could scarcely breathe as he crossed the room, stood in front of her, as near as the rockers would allow, and placed a hand each on the horse’s neck and haunch. She fell still.
Oh God. He’d had to lean over and his face was almost in her décolletage. Only a huge effort of will made him look up from breasts like living marble, pale and smooth, rising and falling gently with her breath. He dragged his eyes from the promise of the valley between, with its tantalizing invitation to explore what lay beneath fragile cloth.
Only to find her mouth, plump, red, slightly parted. The little bow shape in the center of her upper lip entranced him. He’d give anything in the world to trace it with the tip of his tongue. His upper body moved forward, his face came closer and closer. Already they shared the same air and her breath tickled his lips. Just another inch and he would inhale her heat, find out how she tasted. Surely she was inviting him to kiss her.
Then another memory intruded. Diana’s dark and luscious beauty faded into the golden ringlets of Lady Amanda Vanderlin, aged seven, Blake’s youngest sister.
It’s his second week at Mandeville and he’s hiding in the nursery, tired of being laughed at and called Owl for his spectacles, sore from falling off an over-spirited horse, sick at heart yet dreading his return to the cold solitude of his uncle’s house. Then little Amanda comes in and smiles at him. She’s so pretty, as are all the girls. Mysterious, wondrous beings he has no idea how to please. “Hello, Sebastian,” she says. “Come with me …” She offers him her hand and it’s soft and small. She smells clean, not like a boy. She leads him over to the nursery closet, a small windowless room where outdoor clothing, boots, and things like cricket bats are stored. She lets go of him to turn the handle, an action that requires both her tiny delicate hands. “Go in,” she says with a nod. “You first. It’s a surprise.”
Even sixteen years later he castigated himself for a fool. A surprise indeed. Blake awaited him in the closet …
Sebastian jerked his head away. Stepping backward a couple of yards he subjected Diana’s expression to a keen examination. She looked both guileless and radiantly beautiful.
“Aren’t you going to rock me?” she asked, brows arching over clear midday eyes. No invitation was intended and no betrayal either. She merely wished for a push.
“Of course,” he said. This time he stood to the rear of the horse and set a hand to the painted wooden rump. With his help Diana got her ride. He felt foolish and perhaps she did, too, for after a minute or two she indicated she’d had enough. He held out a hand to help her dismount then rapidly dropped it.
“Shall we go down?” he asked. “The others may have retur
ned by now.”
Sebastian was desperate to escape. Diana Fanshawe might be quite sensible compared to other women. But she was appallingly attractive and that made her dangerous. The peril came, he feared, not from Diana but from his own unprecedented reaction to her. He could end up doing something he regretted.
Chapter 5
Botheration. She thought she had him on the rocking horse. He’d wanted her. She couldn’t possibly be wrong about that.
In the past few months, the first season she’d spent in London without the guardianship of either parents or husband, quite a few men had tried to steal a kiss and she’d allowed a couple of them to succeed. She knew that look in a man’s eye when he advanced to conquest. She’d become quite adept at gracefully avoiding most of the attempted embraces in dark gardens or deserted anterooms. And of course at stopping the privileged few before they went too far.
He wasn’t the man of the party she really desired, but strangely enough she felt no reluctance about kissing him, just a mild concern that his spectacles would get in the way. While she might wish he were a little more forthcoming, she liked him. His brusque conversation was always interesting.
And he liked her. Whatever Blake claimed, Sebastian Iverley was not unaffected by female charms. So why, Diana wondered, hadn’t he pressed his advantage? Perhaps he feared being trapped into marriage. Pity there wasn’t some way of tactfully indicating that she wasn’t seeking a long-term connection. About two minutes would be the likely length of their amorous relationship.
Excuse me, sir, but I’m only interested in a meaningless embrace without affection or vows.
Most of the men she knew would be delighted by such an offer. She thrust aside the uneasy reflection that Sebastian Iverley was nothing like any man she’d ever met.
For the rest of the afternoon and evening Sebastian avoided Diana Fanshawe. Trying not to be obviously rude, he left a room when she entered it or withdrew from a conversation she joined.
Not looking at her during dinner was a trial. It would have helped if the grand silver epergne had been placed a foot to his right and so blocked his view of her. He managed, for the most part, not to stare but still learned that she had rather peculiar eating habits. She tasted almost nothing for two courses, accepting only a morsel of poached salmon, then partook heavily of the sweet dishes that accompanied the final remove.
To his horror he found himself thinking of sharing meals with her, just the two of them. Including breakfast.
He went to bed early and the next morning actually joined the other men for a couple of hours hunting rabbits. A tedious way of passing the time, but it was the one place he could be sure not to have to fight his fascination with Lady Fanshawe’s alluring person.
Yet as soon as he returned to the house, instead of escaping to the library, he found himself following the sound of female voices to the morning room. The terrible sisters were chattering away on one side of the room while Diana sat in the opposite corner, silent and beautiful. She looked up at his entrance and smiled. Like a dog responding to a jerk of the leash he walked over to her. At the back of his mind he resented his compliance, but he seemed to have lost the will to resist.
“Did you have a successful morning?” she asked.
“My efforts made no difference to the rabbit population of Shropshire,” he said.
“I should commiserate with you, I suppose, but I am glad. Bunnies are so sweet.”
Instead of treating this fatuous statement with the contempt it deserved, Sebastian felt himself smile back at her.
Marriage. The word circled his brain like a gnat. Marriage. The most terrifying word in the English language. What was it doing in his head?
For once in his life he was pleased to see his cousin enter a room.
Blakeney came straight over to their corner. “Diana,” he said, “how beautiful you look this morning.” He took her hand and, most unnecessarily in Sebastian’s opinion, raised her knuckles to his lips. To his pleasure she appeared annoyed and retracted her hand quickly.
“I’ve just been hearing about your morning from your cousin,” she said, and gave Sebastian another dazzling smile.
Sebastian was getting used to the racing of his heart whenever Diana looked at him, but something about his reaction was different this time, warmer, more powerful. Blakeney, he knew, had always been pursued by women. Yet here was a woman, just about the most beautiful woman Sebastian had ever seen, showing a distinct preference for his company over that of the popular, handsome future duke.
That word again, in his ear, whispered by the devil himself. Marriage.
Mumbling horribly, he excused himself and fled to the library.
“This is ridiculous,” Diana complained an hour later. “I follow Mr. Iverley to the library and you follow me. How can he kiss me if you are always there?”
She would have been happier to have Blake interrupt Iverley’s lecture on early Venetian printers if his motive wasn’t so obvious. He’d put an end to a promising tête-à-tête and succeeded in driving Sebastian from the room again.
“I have only a few hours left,” she continued, “and you aren’t playing fair.”
“Perhaps I don’t want him to kiss you,” Blake said.
“I know you don’t. You have five hundred pounds resting on it.”
“Perhaps that’s not the only reason. Perhaps that isn’t the reason at all.” Blake leaned against the library table with folded arms, elegance and self-confidence personified. His clothing, striking the right note, was beautifully cut, yet not as formal as he’d wear in town. He epitomized the man of fashion dressed for rustication, perfect in his imperfection, yet his neck cloth was pure white, crisp, tied in an intricate knot.
Blake’s neck cloth was always pristine. Diana sometimes thought it was why she’d fallen in love with him when she was a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl and he a newly minted Oxford undergraduate, making his first visit back to Duke’s Mandeville after the Michaelmas term. He’d almost knocked her down outside the draper’s shop, probably, she realized now, because his starched shirt points were so absurdly high he couldn’t see properly.
Never mind, she’d thought him the handsomest man she’d ever seen then and her opinion hadn’t changed. He, of course, hadn’t recognized her and he’d barely noticed when she made her eagerly awaited bow in London. Settling for second best like a sensible girl, she’d married Fanshawe and been happy enough with her affectionate older husband. But on a deep, mostly unacknowledged, level she remained enamored with Blakeney, a hopeless tendre like a favorite book, sitting on a shelf next to her bed to be taken up, reread, and enjoyed whenever she had nothing better to do.
She looked at him now, drinking him in: firm chin shaved to the smoothness of planed oak, high cheekbones, a straight nose, forget-me-not eyes, golden hair that managed to look both arranged and rumpled at the same time, arched eyebrows several shades darker, and a mouth whose current sulky expression did nothing to diminish its beauty.
Poor Sebastian. There was no comparison. Yet that strange, oddly appealing man had succeeded in arousing Blake’s jealousy. For this alone Diana owed him her gratitude. And before the night was over he would be rewarded with a kiss. Not that he would know why he was being so gifted. And if she felt a twinge of guilt at using him she dismissed it easily.
What was a little kiss, after all? He’d enjoy it.
“Why would you wish to kiss him, anyway?” Blake’s question sounded querulous. For goodness sake, it was his bet.
“Men kiss for many reasons,” she replied coolly. “Perhaps women do, too.”
“I hope there’s only one reason for you to kiss dear Cousin Sebastian.”
Diana shrugged.
“Very well. After dinner tonight I shall suggest we go out. But I’ll be keeping an eye on you. And my cousin.”
Wives. Sebastian knew what wives did.
Not from firsthand observation. His upbringing and education had been blessedly free of feminine int
erference. But he had numerous male acquaintances and sometimes he couldn’t help hearing about the female appendages that most of them had to endure.
Wives nagged. They demanded. They spent too much money. They wept when they didn’t get their way.
A wife was nothing but trouble.
But there was one other thing a wife did. A wife shared your bed. Sebastian ached at the thought of Diana Fanshawe between his sheets.
Marriage. He couldn’t leave the idea alone. It had started as a single word rattling around in his brain and grown into a full-blown concept that ousted every other thought. The vision took form. The days were a little vague. Not much would change. He’d still visit booksellers, attend auctions, meet his friends, enjoy stimulating intellectual and political conversations with his fellow men in London’s masculine haunts. During this time she would do whatever mysterious and probably nonsensical things women did.
But the nights. The nights! He’d come home and find her waiting for him, warm, soft, perfumed. Perhaps she’d be undressed. The thought of Diana naked made him slightly faint. And she’d be his, all night long. He’d do all the things to her he was imagining now and a good many more. He had the feeling that he hadn’t even begun to plumb the depths of his imagination when it came to sharing a bed with Diana Fanshawe.
Diana Iverley, he corrected. She’d be Diana Iverley.
His. Not Blake’s but his.
Keeping his promise, Blake suggested the whole party tour the park by moonlight. Dinner ended late and it was almost dark, a rising moon waxing in the fading twilight, as the party took to the graveled walk that began Mandeville’s carefully designed circuit of shrubbery, lake, bridge, temples, and grottos.
The Dangerous Viscount Page 5