Mary Jo Putney (32 page)

The anger she'd felt earlier returned as she remembered how he had attempted to use the sweetness of passion to control her in a perversion of what should be most honest and true between them. She tried to master her resentment, reminding herself how different he was from her in his actions and beliefs, but she still felt his actions as a breach of trust.

With too many thoughts conflicting in her mind, she didn't speak, and after a long pause he asked, "If it isn't money, is it that I don't satisfy you?" His tone was still light, but they were so close physically that his body's tension revealed how much the answer mattered to him.

It is difficult to speak of serious matters when bodies are intertwined; besides, Diana was beginning to feel the chill earth even through her warm cloak. Her light push signaled him to roll away, and he stood, leaving her cold and alone even as he helped her rise.

He brushed the snow from her cloak with quick, impersonal strokes, and when he finished, he captured her hands in his own warm clasp. "You must answer me, Diana."

"I know," she said in a voice as soft as shadow. "You asked why I want to be free to see other men and suggested two possible reasons, but neither is the correct one."

"If it isn't money and it isn't lust, what does that leave? Promiscuity for its own sake, because you need the variety, or because you like to have men in your power?"

This time his voice was sharpened to wound. With sudden clarity she saw that they were engaged in a covert struggle, and if she agreed to be his exclusively, he would win. She would be in the neat little niche of mistress, comfortable and convenient, and he would be free to concentrate on important masculine things, not wasting deep thought on a mere woman.

Their relationship might be rooted in sex and money, with other, deeper reasons she was not yet ready to confront, but Diana knew beyond doubt that what she wanted from him was love. If he loved her as she loved him, all other barriers could be surmounted. If she yielded now, they would both be the losers.

She and Gervase each carried dark scars on their souls, scars only love could heal. In the language of the heart she must be the teacher, for she knew something about giving and receiving love, while Gervase could scarcely bring himself to say the word aloud. If they were to have a future together, she must fight him; she must compel him to explore his own heart, and to let her in.

She wanted no other man, had not once considered it since she met Gervase, yet she would not give him the promise he desired. If he was uncertain of her, was forced to question what she meant to him, perhaps he might grow to the point where he would offer her love, and it would set them both free.

Her hands tightened on his and she bent her neck briefly to rest her forehead on his firm shoulder.
A courtesan should never fall in love with her protector.
What she was going to do would hurt him, and his pain would grieve her as well.

It was also dangerous, for love might be too alien and threatening an emotion for him to accept. Gervase had his pride and his formidable defenses, and he might leave her rather than admit to feelings that would make him vulnerable.

Yet once again instinct whispered that denying him was the right course. If she was a coward now, she would stay forever on the edge of his life. The thought of losing him terrified her, yet only by taking that risk was there a chance that she might truly win the man she loved.

After a moment's more thought, she knew what to say, words that would be honest, and which might show him the way. Raising her head, she tried to see his clear gray eyes, but the darkness defeated her. "No, not money, not sex, not power or promiscuity."

Snowflakes fell silent and weightless between them, and her breath moved them in a slow dance. "My deepest wish is for a man who truly loves me, and whom I can love in return." She thought a moment, then added, "Ideally, I would like marriage, more children, an honorable place in the world."

His hands around hers were absolutely still. "I can give you none of those things."

"I am not asking them of you." She drew in her breath, then continued steadily, "I want nothing that you will not freely give." Her hands tightened on his. "I love you, but I will not spend the rest of my life in the shadows of yours, waiting for you to weary of me. You desire me, but passion without love will surely fade. As I grow older, every time you come I will wonder if it is the last. I will not live that way."

When he opened his mouth, she laid a gentle finger on his lips. "You are the most important man in my life, but I see no advantage in promising you the fidelity a wife owes her husband."

Her cheeks were moist, not with cool melted snowflakes, but with the warmth of tears. It would be so much easier to give him what he asked. In a voice no longer steady, she said, "If you cannot love me, so be it. But I will not make a promise that I do not intend to keep, nor will I give you faithfulness when it might prevent me from finding a man who would truly love me."

His tone sharp, he said, "In other words, you will give your body to any man you fancy until one becomes so besotted with you that he will offer marriage?"

"That is not what I said." She shrugged, her gesture lost in the darkness. "Still, men sometimes marry their mistresses. Do you think that no man could want me except as a whore?"

He released her hands then, stepping back. "On the contrary, all men who see you want you, and apparently you are willing to let them all have you." His deep voice was rough now. "But your strategy is poor. A fool who is mad with longing will be more likely to offer you marriage, so you would be better off refusing him until the ring is on your finger."

"It is not marriage for its own sake that I want." She spoke as directly as she knew how. "I am not a complicated woman, Gervase. What I want is simple: love. Unfortunately, while the idea is simple in essence, finding it is not easy."

"So if I could say the words you want to hear, you would no longer accept other lovers?" She was not sure if it was bitterness or mockery in his voice.

"If you spoke from the heart." Her words fell into silence, and after a long pause she said gently, "Even now, in the abstract, you can't say 'I love you,' can you?"

His silence was colder now than the night air, and it hung between them for endless moments. Finally she took his arm and they retraced their way back to the manor. Courteous as always, he escorted her to the door of her chamber. Dropping his arm, he stepped back, scrutinizing her face as if she was a complete stranger. His expression was cold and still, as if it had frozen in the winter night. He looked painfully different from the man he had been these last three weeks, and it hurt her to see.

Standing on tiptoe, Diana laid her hands on his shoulders and pressed her lips to his. "Come to bed, love," she whispered.

When she touched him, there was one slight, involuntary tremor of response, then nothing. He inclined his head briefly, his mouth opening as if to speak. Then he shook his head and walked away. Despairing, she watched his wide retreating shoulders until he turned the corner out of her sight.

Diana prepared for bed mechanically, then lay awake for hours, hoping he would come through the passage and join her, but he didn't. For the first time at Aubynwood, she slept alone. She had done the right thing, but the tight, anguished knot at the center of her being was so painful that if he had come and asked her again to promise fidelity, she might have agreed.

The first night at Aubynwood, Gervase had retreated from her before deciding to allow himself nearer, and then there had been three weeks of comfort and joy. Now, war was joined between them, a subtle covert war, and by her own actions she had pushed him away again. Was the bond between them strong enough to withstand his fears? Or would her need for him cause her to surrender, condemning them both to less love than they were capable of? She had no idea, and her emotions were far too turbulent for her to hear the frail voice of intuition.

As she waited through the endless night for the dawn, Diana feared that she would pay any price rather than lose him.

Chapter 14

The morning came late and heavy and Diana woke unrefreshed from restless slumber. The room was cold, with neither Gervase nor a maid to build the fire, and she shivered as she added fresh coal to the faintly glowing embers herself. Even though it was nine o'clock, her chamber was dim in the gray half-light, and from the window she saw that the storm had deteriorated to a near-blizzard, with a hard east wind whipping the snow into drifts. It was like a high country storm in Yorkshire, and the sight pleased her. If they were forced to stay at Aubynwood, there would be time to heal the breach with Gervase.

But her hopes were frustrated; only Madeline was in the breakfast parlor. The footman gave her a note from Gervase. He wrote that he could no longer linger in the country, that he would be able to reach London on horseback, but conditions were quite unsuitable for a carriage. She and her party should avail themselves of Aubynwood for as long as they wished, and he recommended that she heed his coachman's advice on when the roads would be safe for travel. It was a brief, impersonal note, such as could be written to anyone. Only the last sentence held any comfort:
I will call on you on your return to London.

She folded the letter slowly. As careful as the viscount was with words, he would not have added that last line unless he really intended to see her again. Perhaps she refined too much on what had happened last night, and there had been no fundamental change between them. But in her heart, she did not believe that. Last night battle had been joined, and it would end with them truly united, or forever apart.

For five long days Diana and her party waited through snowing, blowing, and finally thaw. Even a house as large as Aubynwood began to seem too small, and they were all ready to leave as soon as the St. Aubyn coachman allowed that a carriage could manage. The roads were muddy and slow, quite unlike the journey north, and they had to spend one night at an inn.

Diana was tense with anticipation when they arrived back in London, longing to see Gervase, but her hopes were dashed again. This time it was her own servant who handed her a letter, and for a long, heart-stopping moment she feared that it would say good-bye, that the viscount had no desire to put up with her moods and demands any longer, that she had already been replaced by any one of hundreds of more satisfactory mistresses.

Given her black imaginings, it was some relief to tear open the envelope and learn that the worst had not happened, though the message was bad enough. In another polite, passionless note, Gervase said that he found it necessary to go to Ireland on business, and that he would be back in several weeks.

As she stared down at the heavy, cream-colored stationery, she wondered if this was another skirmish in their undeclared war. He had made no mention of an upcoming trip to Ireland. Was his business really that urgent, or was he giving her a demonstration of what it would be like to live without him?

He needn't have bothered, because she already knew. The weeks ahead stretched as endless as eternity.

* * *

The winter trip to Dublin was difficult and exhausting as Gervase stopped and talked with various raffish men to discover what they knew. The other, more important part of his task was to visit his former commander from India, Sir Arthur Wellesley, now Chief Secretary of Ireland.

Wellesley was a lean man of middle height, with a great hooked nose and an air of quiet self-possession. The two men had always gotten on well, and they could be friends now that Gervase was no longer a junior officer. They had an amiable private dinner, keeping the talk general until the meal was over and the servants dismissed.

Each took a glass of port, though both were abstemious in their habits. Gervase idly fingered the goblet. If he hadn't been so absorbed with Diana during the autumn, he would have visited Wellesley earlier. He'd come to make an offer, something against his usual practice, but which needed to be done. He began with a question for which he could guess the answer. "How does governing Ireland compare with life in India?"

Wellesley grimaced. "I'd prefer an honest battle any day—Ireland is too heartbreaking. I can effect a few mild reforms, but attempting major changes would make matters worse."

"Does the fact that you were raised here make your task easier or harder?"