The Dangerous Viscount

by Miranda Neville

Diana had never been good at identifying the constellations. Her knowledge of the heavens began and ended with the Great Bear. “I think so,” she said, following where his finger pointed. “They’re only inches apart.”

  “So it appears. In reality it’s millions of miles.”

  “Are they always like that?”

  “No. That’s why I brought you out to see them. Mars is a planet and Antares a star. Without a telescope they are the two brightest red objects in the sky. The ancients named the star the anti-Mars or the foe of Mars.”

  “How do you know about such things?”

  “I’ve always been interested in astronomy. I had a telescope as a boy. Unfortunately where I lived I rarely enjoyed nights as clear as this.”

  “Where was that?” Diana knew almost nothing of Sebastian’s upbringing.

  “A long way away,” he said.

  They continued to stare at the sky in silence for several minutes. She was scarcely conscious of the dark mansion looming behind them. The two of them seemed alone in the universe with only the stars for chaperones. She felt tranquil and comfortable in his company, with an edge of excitement. His arm held her, casual yet a little possessive. She thought of the last occasion when she’d been alone in the dark with Sebastian Iverley. Her lips tingled. She wasn’t averse to repeating the experience. But first there was something she’d like to know.

  “Why did you ignore me in London?” she asked. “You hardly spoke to me for weeks. You told me before I hadn’t offended you, but I still don’t understand.”

  “I suppose I’d better admit the truth. Someone told me that was the way to gain a lady’s attention.”

  She gave a little huff of annoyance. “That’s a very calculating attitude. I’m not sure I approve.” Despite her words a seed of joy germinated in her breast.

  “Did it work? Do I have your attention?”

  “You had it without having to play games. I don’t know why you should have thought otherwise.”

  He tightened his embrace and used his free hand to take one of hers. “Would it help if I apologized?” he murmured into her hair.

  “An apology is always acceptable,” she said softly.

  Her lingering fear that somehow he’d known about Blake’s bet dissipated. More than ever, she hoped he’d never find out. Foolish as the business had been, had she known how powerful was the antagonism between the two cousins, she’d never have agreed to the wager.

  In a blaze of enlightenment Diana realized how much more important Sebastian’s opinion and feelings were than Blake’s. More important than just about anything she could think of. And he felt the same way, surely. Why else would he have gone to so much trouble to impress her? And he hadn’t only brought her out here to show her the stars. Or even just to kiss her. Though she hoped he would do so.

  She returned the clasp of his hand then twisted in his arm and tilted her head. She wanted to see his face, to read his expression, but it was too dark. Freeing her hand, she reached up to caress his cheek. Carefully she removed his spectacles so they wouldn’t be in the way when they kissed.

  “Diana,” he breathed, drawing her closer still and nuzzling her temple and then her forehead. When he spoke again his voice was shaky. “There’s a question I want to ask you.” He sounded unsure of himself, a little anxious.

  Involuntarily her mouth formed a self-satisfied smile. It made sense for Sebastian Iverley to be nervous about a proposal of marriage. “Yes?” she asked, deciding not to keep him dangling too long for an answer. She’d put him out of his misery quickly and proceed to kissing. Perhaps to more than kissing. The very idea had her flushed with pleasure. She’d been a long time without a man in her bed and she was ready.

  Sebastian knew he’d won when she caressed his cheek. He couldn’t have explained why, but at that moment he knew. In the dark he imagined the expression on her face. The same look of besotted joy he’d doubtless worn at Mandeville during those few brief hours when he believed he’d found a woman he could trust.

  The knowledge shook his resolve. For a minute as they stood in the moonlight he thought about scaling back his revenge. Perhaps it was enough merely to reject her love. Or even, a whisper of a thought came from the part of his brain that governed his heart, accept it.

  At the very least he could ask her what she’d been about at Mandeville, give her a chance for an honest accounting of the events there. If she admitted her fault and apologized, perhaps he could forgive her.

  Before he could even frame a question, history repeated itself. Again. A swath of light fell onto the flagstones as the door opened.

  “Diana?” Blake called.

  Minerva’s voice spoke from within. “I told you she wouldn’t go outside in this weather. Diana hates being cold. Let’s try the library.”

  “There you are,” Blake said. “I wagered your sister I’d find you out here.”

  Sebastian dropped his arm and they turned to face him. “A wager?” he said. “What was the stake?”

  Minerva joined them. “I never bet for money. Certainly not about something so stupid.”

  “Your teeth are chattering, Min,” Diana said. “You aren’t dressed for outside. Would you take her back in, Blake? Please? Your cousin and I will be right behind you.”

  Blake looked as though he’d like to send Minerva to perdition but was too polite to say so. “Come on, Miss Montrose,” he said, unable to ignore a direct request. “You’re a devilish nuisance. Back inside with you.”

  Too late. Blake’s appearance had killed Sebastian’s impulse to forgive. He stoked his anger by reliving—for the thousandth time—that moment in the library when he learned Diana and his cousin had conspired against him, laughed at his infatuation. Blake he wanted to kill. For Diana, he’d be satisfied if her pain equaled his own.

  “He’ll be back. We only have a minute.” Diana pulled his head down and whispered in his ear. “Do you know where my room is?”

  Chapter 18

  “Did you pack my pink stockings?” “Why?” Chantal said, shaking out Diana’s evening gown with her usual deft motions. “They don’t go with the dress you said you want for tomorrow.”

  In actual fact Chantal had decided Diana should wear the sage twilled silk. Just once it would be nice to have a servant who didn’t believe she was the one in charge.

  “Where are they?”

  Chantal turned and looked at her mistress with a beady eye. “I’ll be annoyed if I find my drawers dérangés.”

  “They’re my favorites. I only wanted to be sure you packed them.”

  The Frenchwoman gathered up the twilled silk and Diana’s discarded undergarments to take them below stairs for pressing and laundry. From the suspicious glance she gave her mistress from the doorway, Diana feared she knew exactly what was going on. Chantal hadn’t spent more than twenty years as a dresser, most of them in Paris, without learning a thing or two about intrigue. Nevertheless, Diana did her best not to disturb things as she searched through a large commode and extracted the hosiery and a pair of matching lace garters.

  A few minutes later she surveyed herself in the tall glass with satisfaction. Her most luxurious robe of heavy ivory satin, embroidered in white silk and profusely trimmed with Belgian lace, hung open. Pink feet peeped out from the hem of her nightgown of finest white lawn whose gathered neck was tied so loosely it would slither off the shoulders at a breath of wind.

  Not perhaps the most conventional ensemble for receiving a proposal of marriage. Her first husband had, very properly, spoken to her father first. Then she’d put on her best morning dress (a wretched ill-fitting garment made by the village dressmaker at Mandeville Wallop) and demurely accepted the offer to become the eighteen-year-old bride of a forty-five-year-old baronet. During five minutes alone in the drawing room of the Montroses’ rented London house, Tobias had celebrated their engagement with a chaste kiss on the hand and very correct expressions of esteem.

  In the bedchamber, as Diana discovered to her sur
prise and pleasure, Tobias was far less restrained. Which was why, on this occasion, she decided to cut short the time between proposal and bedding. She was now an experienced widow, not an innocent maiden, so surely she was allowed some latitude. And since she knew that Sebastian had little or no experience with women, she would have to lead the way, an idea she found both alarming and exciting.

  * * *

  He could scarcely believe she’d invited him to her room. Yes, he’d fantasized about seducing Diana but he realized he’d never entirely believed he could. He had the sense of hurtling down a road, at gathering speed, soon to lose all control. This was the last moment to turn back. He should, he knew that now, but that would mean not seeing Diana again.

  It would mean not seeing Diana tonight.

  Even as he wrestled with his conscience, he crept along the passage, carefully counting the doors, his heart banging to wake the dead. Without much interest, Sebastian had heard tales of affaires carried on during country house parties. Not, it now occurred to him, an enterprise without risk. All doors looked the same by candlelight. Entering the wrong room might disturb Minerva or Tarquin, or, worst of all, Blakeney. He turned the handle of the fifth door on the left, mentally preparing excuses should the room house a young girl or a gentleman. As soon as he cracked the door ajar he relaxed. He’d recognize that scent anywhere.

  “Sebastian?” Her voice was soft and low and promised unimagined delights.

  Well, not unimagined. Never experienced but most definitely imagined.

  A fire flickered in the hearth providing the only light, aside from a branch of candles on a side table. Quite enough to see her, seated on a sofa near the fireplace. He was aware of long dark hair over pale-clad shoulders before his gaze fixed on a sight that went straight from his eyes to his groin. Half aroused even as he crossed the threshold, he felt those delicately crossed ankles clad in pink bring his desire to an unequalled intensity.

  “You’re wearing pink stockings,” he rasped.

  She smiled, and if he didn’t know better he’d have sworn she was nervous. “I put them on especially for you. I was wearing them the first time we met.”

  “We met in the library.”

  “Not really. I shall always think of that time in the stable yard as our first meeting. Do you remember? You adjusted my stirrup.”

  As though he could ever forget the dizzying moment that changed his life. Had she already made the bet with Blakeney when he found her there? When she displayed her leg had it been deliberate?

  Two overwhelming desires—to punish her and to possess her—merged into one. A flicker of compunction somewhere deep in his brain was brutally extinguished. He’d reached the point of no return. Right or wrong, he had to have her.

  He stood in the middle of the room and looked at her, drinking in silk and lace, gleaming brown locks, carmine lips that offered all he ached for from a woman and everything he’d resisted. The atmosphere was thick with promise and his newfound facility for idle talk had vanished.

  “Would you like to sit down?” A prim invitation, appropriate for a morning call to a drawing room. But it was midnight and her bedchamber.

  Bypassing a conveniently placed chair, he lowered himself beside her, his thigh only inches from hers. She shifted and her loose robe fell further open. The stuff of the garment she wore beneath was white and so finely woven as to be almost transparent. He could see the pale pink of her knees, the place just above where her stockings ended, and a dark shadow at the junction of her legs. His breath caught but he dragged his eyes up to her face.

  She looked back at him, her expression bright and unguarded. She seemed to be waiting for something. After a while she spoke. “I had to ask you to come here because I knew I’d never be able to get away from Blakeney.”

  “I was flattered.”

  “I thought you might not come.”

  He almost laughed at the idea. He’d spent an hour pacing around his room, counting the endless minutes till the household was safely retired for the night, wondering what he should wear, or not wear. In the end he’d removed only his neck cloth.

  “I wasn’t sure what the correct dress was for calling on a lady in her room at night,” he said hoarsely.

  “It isn’t a habit of yours?” she asked in that teasing way she had.

  “No.” He raised a hand to his open neck. “I apologize if my informality is inapposite.”

  She smiled at him with lustrous eyes: warm, inviting, seemingly guileless. He thought he’d die if he didn’t touch her. Greatly daring, he bent his head and placed his forefinger on her knee then drew it up her leg, over the bump of her garter, until he felt warm, smooth flesh though thin linen. The rate of her breathing accelerated, matching his own. Her hand entered his line of sight and covered his, pressing it against her thigh.

  “Kiss me,” she whispered.

  At last, an unequivocal invitation. Cupping her head in his hands he drew her near. Her hair was like satin beneath his fingers, her scent a drug to his brain. Remembering the lesson of their first kiss he held himself back, sipping lightly at her lips, relishing her sweetness, venturing only to trace the edge of her mouth with the tip of his tongue. As she opened at his unspoken request, his response was restrained and unhurried. She was the one who demanded more, pulling him closer and deepening the kiss until his spectacles got in the way.

  She drew back and gave a shaky laugh over his murmur of protest. “I think you’d better remove them.” For the first time he regretted turning down a quizzing glass. He unhooked the ear pieces and tossed the glasses aside.

  His naked eyes focused on the skin of her neck, harmonizing in ivory perfection with the lace trim of her garment. With trembling fingers he tried to push the robe aside but found his hands as clumsy as if they wore gloves.

  “I’ll do it,” she whispered. She stood and turned her back on him. At a shrug of her shoulders the slippery silk robe slid to a pool at her feet.

  Sebastian found it difficult to exercise restraint when confronted with Diana’s figure backlit by the glow of the fire. Her full-length night garment was like a gauze veil, blurring but not hiding the feminine curves of her waist and hips. She returned to sit beside him on the sofa. Her neckline was low, revealing the swell of her bosom, but to his regret the cloth was heavily gathered and covered the rest of the breasts quite efficiently.

  “You are so beautiful,” he said. Trite, inadequate words. Again he raised a hand to her shoulder and found he’d regained the use of his fingers. He traced the tender indents of her collarbone with his thumb while using his other hand to pull on the ribbon between her breasts. The bow dissolved and the neckline widened, gradually at first then faster as the weight of the material descended the slope of her shoulders.

  Sebastian Iverley was a well-educated man, a gentleman of culture with an appreciation for the arts. As such he’d seen any number of female nudes depicted in paint and canvas and in sculpture. Nothing had prepared him for the sight of Diana Fanshawe naked to the waist. No marble goddess, however perfect, could equal the flesh-and-blood reality of creamy flesh, the lower curve more pronounced than the upper and each exquisite fruit capped by a pink circle surrounding a pert red nipple.

  Awed into silence, he ventured to touch. He cupped silken weight in his palm and felt the firm peak under his thumb. Experimentally he flicked it and it hardened further. As though in sympathy he felt his cock and ballocks ache.

  A sound emerged from her throat, one with the emotional message if not the timbre of a cat’s purr. Doubling his efforts, he applied his other hand to the second breast, gently kneading rich flesh and stroking the stiff crests.

  “Don’t you want to see my stockings?” she whispered.

  He couldn’t speak. He merely freed one hand from its duty and tugged at her skirt, dragging it up to thigh level. And reaching down to grasp her ankle then explore the entire length of her leg. Because, he discovered, he was much less concerned with seeing her stockings than he was
in touching them, and feeling what the stockings contained. And when his hand reached their end he quite lost interest in the topic of hosiery since the skin of the inner thigh was softer, smoother, and warmer than satin.

  He felt her shift, sink lower. Her legs parted. His fingers crept higher and touched a nest of dark hair, the gateway to a woman’s secrets, ventured farther and found wet heat. He knew it by a number of names, both crude and poetic. The “cradle of delight” was the one that came to mind.

  In his researches in Tarquin’s library, he’d read accounts of a hundred seductions. His theoretical knowledge of how to satisfy a woman was immense. His brain emptied. He could remember none of it. All he knew was that he needed to possess her. Now.

  Without any pretense at finesse he kissed her: her temples, ears, neck, hair, frenzied stabbing kisses all over her face, and finally her lips. They kissed deeply while he tugged at his own clothing. Dimly he realized she was trying to help. She’d freed his shirt from the waist of his trousers and he felt her caress his back.

  He managed to pull back with the greatest reluctance. He didn’t want to stop, even for a second, but there was something he needed to reveal.

  “I’ve never done this before,” he said, his breathing harsh.

  If she laughed at him he’d die. But she didn’t.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “I have.” And reached for him again.

  She started tugging at his waistcoat buttons but undressing didn’t go well when they were entangled on the sofa, trying to kiss and embrace at the same time. Finally she pushed him away.

  “We’ll be better off in bed,” she said with a little breathy laugh.

  It took him so little time to shed his clothes that Diana had barely climbed onto the mattress when he joined her. Any notion of finesse vanished. He’d waited a lifetime for this.

  The feeling as he entered her exceeded even his own fevered expectations. How had he lived twenty-six years without this? He must have been mad.

  He muttered something incoherent. Her name?