Mary Jo Putney (50 page)

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Diana dressed for dinner with great care. As Madeline helped her into the gown of dusty-rose silk, Diana felt the unusual sensitivity of her breasts, then resolutely pushed away the implication of what that meant. She had enough things to worry about just now.

They decided on a sophisticated coiffure, piling her glossy chestnut tresses high on her head to reveal the perfection of her features. Rather than feathers or ribbons, Maddy wove tiny dark red rosebuds into Diana's hair.

A jeweler had strung Gervase's pearls into the magnificent necklace they were meant to be and Diana wore them tonight. The lustrous sheen of the pearls harmonized with her oyster-white underskirt and drew attention to the smooth curves visible above her deep décolletage.

By the way heads turned and conversations stopped as she entered the salon, Diana knew she looked her best, but even so she paused on the threshold, frightened of so many curious strangers.

Francis Brandelin came forward, moving calmly through the unnatural hush. Giving her a small private smile of encouragement, he took her arm and began introducing her to the two dozen or so guests that chatted and drank sherry before dinner. There were more men than women, many of them famous names like Castlereagh and Canning, From their admiring bows, they were happy to have her among them.

The only dark note came from the Count de Veseul, who accepted his introduction with a mocking smile and a long kiss on her hand that made her skin crawl in revulsion. When she tried to pull away, he held on, his powerful grip hurting her fingers as he whispered, "What a magnificent whore you are."

His voice was too low for anyone else to hear. Diana knew that he was playing with her, hoping she would show discomfort or fear, so she showed no reaction at all.

Veseul released her just before the length of time might have aroused comment. Francis, who caught the latter part of the byplay, spirited her away with an unnecessary warning about Veseul's unsavory reputation.

The women were another kind of ordeal, ranging from watchful neutrality in the wives to outright venom in Lady Haycroft. Lord St. Aubyn himself ignored her, not acknowledging her presence by so much as the flicker of an eyelid. Since fashionable couples were not supposed to live in each other's pockets, he could avoid her all evening and no one would think anything was amiss.

Gervase's neglect was like an icy wind from the north, and it took every ounce of Diana's control not to flee to some private place where she could cry in peace. It was infinitely difficult to see his familiar face, to watch the controlled power of his movements, yet be so utterly estranged.

At dinner, she was given the hostess's place at one end of the table as was her right. Gervase probably welcomed that arrangement because it put the full length of the shining mahogany table between them.

The meal seemed endless, a mosaic of countless dishes appearing and disappearing, footmen presenting bottles of wine, the two gentlemen next to her vying for her attention. She spoke little, but she had always been better at listening, and her dining companions liked that very well. Throughout, she sensed Gervase's gaze on her, yet when she glanced toward him his
eyes were always elsewhere.

Dinner was easy compared to the session with the ladies while the gentlemen sat over their port. Even the most congenial of the women were curious, and less inclined than men to approve of her. Most were too well-bred to ask direct questions about her origins, but Diana felt their curiosity and measuring glances.

Oddly, Lady Haycroft said nothing, simply sitting with watchful malice. Wanting the largest possible audience, she did not bring out her guns until the gentlemen joined the ladies. As people circulated and looked for new conversational partners, she attacked. In a clarion voice, she asked, "Tell me, Lady St. Aubyn, is it true that you were a London courtesan?"

Her words cut through the babble of voices, leaving absolute silence. Dismayed but unsurprised, Diana curled her hands around the carved arms of her chair as she gathered her defenses. She had guessed that Veseul might give her away, and that Lady Haycroft would be a willing ally.

The other women drew back, and she felt the avid curiosity of everyone in the room. Gervase was part of the nearest group of men and she saw his shoulders tense as speculative glances were sent in his direction. If she did not answer well, her disgrace would reflect on him. He would not easily forgive her for shaming him before his friends.

Humor was the best defense. If she showed fear or guilt, the good ladies would rip her character to shreds. Raising her chin, she laughed with complete unconcern. "Where on earth did you hear such a foolish tale? It is even more absurd than the story that I was mad and locked up in Scotland."

Glancing at her husband, she said, "You were right, my dear, I should have joined you sooner. The tales that have sprung up are quite remarkable."

Her eyes narrowing, Lady Haycroft spat out, "Do you deny that you lived in London under the name of Mrs. Lindsay and that you earned the nickname the Fair Luna? Or that you visited Harriette Wilson and danced at the Cyprians' Ball?"

Without hesitating, Diana widened her eyes. "Ah-h-h, I see. You have my sympathies, Lady Haycroft. Some mischievous person told you a few tidbits of truth, just enough to lead you to false conclusions."

She raised her silk fan and casually wafted air across her heated face. Her eyes limpid with sincerity, she said, "It was very bad of me to go to such places. Growing up in the country, I had always heard ladies had more freedom in London, and I decided to use that freedom to satisfy my curiosity."

She sighed, letting her long lashes flutter for a moment. "When I went to the Cyprians' Ball, I realized I had greatly misjudged and gone far beyond the line of what is pleasing."

Raising her gaze again, she glanced innocently at the other ladies, the ones who would be her true judges. "I must confess that, like every respectable woman, I wondered what our rivals are like. Surely some of you have done the same?"

Lady Castlereagh, a conservative matron with an unusually devoted husband, chuckled a bit. "What decent woman hasn't? The stories one hears..." Shaking her head, she added the indulgent warning, "Still, it is quite unacceptable to actually visit such places, my dear."

Diana smiled at the older woman with real gratitude. "You're quite right. I would never do so again."

Another woman whose name Diana didn't recall leaned forward intently. "Did you recognize many of the gentlemen?"

This time a number of the men tensed. Several had been at the ball. Diana promptly said, "I fear I know very few members of the fashionable world. Most of the men at the ball were young bachelors, I believe." Her words produced a palpable wave of relief.

"How did you gain admittance? Did you go alone?"

"I went with my husband's cousin." Diana looked apologetically at Francis, who was watching with fascinated amusement. "Francis was absolutely against it, but reluctantly agreed to escort me when he saw that I was determined to go."

She cast an anxious glance at her husband. "I quickly realized how foolish I was and we left early. St. Aubyn was away and didn't know, of course. I'm afraid you are bringing my husband's disapproval on me, Lady Haycroft."

While Gervase watched with the angry stillness of white-hot iron, Lady Haycroft returned to the attack. "What about living as Mrs. Lindsay? One would think that if you were Lady St. Aubyn then, you would have used your title."

Diana laughed with a touch of shy embarrassment. "I fear you have found us out. It amused my husband and me to... play at just what you are suggesting." With delicate suggestiveness, she continued, "Surely you know the games lovers play, Lady Haycroft. Pretending to be what they are not for the pure pleasure of it."

Most of the listeners knew exactly what she meant, their faces reflecting their own fond memories of games they had played when they were in the bright throes of love.

When the moment had stretched long enough, Diana moved to the offensive. It was time to wield her strongest weapon in this social battle. "I called myself Lindsay because it was my mother's name. Unlike Brandelin, it's common enough to go unremarked. My mother was a daughter of General Lord Lindsay, you know."

The famous name struck the room like thunder. Alisdair Lindsay had been the greatest soldier of his generation, ennobled by the crown, a much-loved warrior who had fallen while winning his greatest victory against the French in the Seven Years' War. The younger son of an ancient family, he and his achievements were legend.

Diana shot a quick glance at Gervase, but his impassive face showed no surprise. No one would guess that her ancestry was as much a surprise to him as to the other guests.

One of the older women, Mrs. Oliphant, said with interest, "We must be related, my dear. My second cousin married into that branch of the Lindsays. Who was your father?"

"James Hamilton, a clergyman in Lanarkshire," Diana replied.

That stirred more interest among the genealogically inclined. A man asked, "Any relation to the Duke of Arran?"

Diana shook her head modestly. "A mere connection. My father was from a cadet branch, the Hamiltons of Strathaven."

Mrs. Oliphant smiled with pleasure. "Strathaven! I think I met your father there once when we were all young. A tall, dark man with piercing eyes?"

Diana nodded. "That sounds like him. Unfortunately, I remember little of Strathaven myself, We visited there when I was very small, but my father later became estranged from his family. To my regret, I know none of my cousins."

The moment of crisis had passed. Diana had survived the test and been accepted as a woman worthy of moving in these exalted circles. Visiting the Cyprians' Ball would have utterly ruined an unmarried girl, but a matron had more freedom. Proper remorse gave Diana forgiveness for her scandalous actions.

It helped that none of the women present seemed to like Lady Haycroft. The obvious malice of the widow's attack had worked to Diana's advantage.

As Lady Haycroft stalked away in furious defeat, the guests broke into smaller groups. Women clustered around Diana to ask eager questions about what she had seen, whether Harriette Wilson was as vulgar as rumor said, about what transpired at the infamous ball. Lady St. Aubyn was regarded as very dashing.

Diana was glad when the tea tray had come and gone and she could excuse herself. Some of the guests would be up late playing cards and politics, but she could now retire to her room and recruit her strength.

Remembering her resolution, she locked the door behind her, forbidding entry to Veseul or any other straying man who thought that such an adventurous female was worth attempting. After undressing and unpinning her hair, she lay across her bed, her eyes open but unseeing, wondering if Gervase would come to her, or if she must go to him.

It was after midnight when she accepted that he would not come. He was the fortress, grimly defiant, and she the attacker who must breach his defenses. She must go to him.

Dressed in a simple blue silk robe, neither plain nor provocative, her shining hair brushed long and loose, she took a candle and entered the passage that led to Gervase's room. It was quiet and dusty, haunted by ghosts of happier transits.

It was possible that he would have locked the door against her or that he would not be in his own chamber, but somehow she knew Gervase would be waiting for her, and he was. He lounged in a wing chair near the bed, his feet casually resting on a low footstool, his coat off and his bright white shirt outlining his broad shoulders. Even the candlelight that polished his dark hair could not soften the harshness of his face.

He was unsurprised by her entrance. "Good evening, Diana. I have been expecting you. Let me congratulate you on a magnificent performance this evening. I'm sure the tales of your exalted birth can be confirmed. You're far too clever to lie about what could be easily disproved." His shirt was open at the throat, exposing a triangle of dark hair on his chest. "Another piece falls into place. Your speech and education are now explained and you have been accepted as the lady you are not."

A nearly empty decanter of brandy stood near his elbow and he lifted a goblet to take a deep swallow of the spirits. His words were clear and unblurred as he said, "I haven't been this drunk since the regrettable night that I met you," but she saw a hard, unfamiliar glitter in his eyes.

She tensed at the sight. There had sometimes been discord and conflict between them, but only once had he looked like this: that infamous night on Mull. Drunk then, he had been violent, and now there was risk in staying and confronting him. Nonetheless, she must speak. She could not spend another day like the one just past, with Gervase ignoring her very existence.

Choosing another armchair half a dozen feet from him, she sat, placing her candle on a small table as her gown fell in soft blue folds around her. "Thank you for not exposing me to the condemnation of your guests."

His dark brows rose ironically. "How could I without showing myself as a fool? You are the subtlest witch I ever met, Diana. You have found depths of revenge I could never have imagined."

She must remain as calm as he, no matter how difficult it was. "As I told you before, I do not want revenge."

"And as I said before, I do not believe you." He watched the candlelight refract through the cut-glass goblet, then said without raising his eyes, "What do you want, Diana? Why not just tell me, so that we can end this farce?"