Dearly Beloved

  Then he was in front of her, bowing over her hand before giving her a smile that began deep in his eyes, and suddenly, breathlessly, the idea that he truly cared for her did not seem so preposterous. That intimate smile lasted only a moment and then he was greeting his other guests, impeccably polite.

  Gervase and Edith had never formally met and Diana could see Edith giving him the same frank inspection she would have bestowed on a piece of livestock. Geoffrey, amazingly, was remembering his manners rather than swarming all over his host, or perhaps he found the man as intimidating as the manor.

  The house was entered through a vast two-story hall done in the mock-Gothic-revival style of the mid-eighteenth century rather than the true Gothic of the original convent. But it was charming, with carved wooden statues of baroque saints set in niches high on the white plaster walls and a great ox-roaster fireplace.

  Gervase suggested they might wish to rest from the journey before dining, so the housekeeper, Mrs. Russell, led them off to their rooms. Geoffrey and Edith, as promised, got the nursery suite, cozy but far removed from the main apartments. Madeline and Diana were also given rooms some distance apart. There would be no shortage of privacy.

  Diana's rose-hued chamber was luxurious, with a welcoming fire. She gazed into flames settled in a chair by the fire with a sigh. The splendid furnishings were a stark reminder of the unbreachable social distance between her and Gervase.

  The physical distance was quite another matter. That was breached very easily indeed....

  As the thought ran through her mind, she turned at a slight sound to see Gervase emerge from an alcove in the far corner of the room. After a moment's surprise, she smiled, thinking she should have expected something of this nature.

  He paused in the concealed doorway without speaking, his face controlled but his eyes voracious, as if she were the love of his life and he hadn't seen her in years. Then he crossed the room in half a dozen swift strides to cup her face in his hands. "Lord, Diana, how I've missed you!"

  He bent over and kissed her with great deliberation, his mouth demanding. Her own passion flared, fueled by the depression she had felt on arriving as a stranger in his home. She raised her hands to his lean waist and his arms slid around her in a crushing embrace, his hands roving her body as if seeking to relearn every inch of it. Her fatigue dissolved as touching him revitalized her. She kissed back without restraint.

  "I wanted to make love to you on the marble steps. I want to lock the door and keep you in here for the next fortnight." As he spoke, he unclasped her cloak, letting it fall to the floor in front of the fire, then reached behind her to untie the sash on her demure high-necked dress.

  "Shall we start with locking the door and think about the fortnight later?" she asked breathlessly, not quite able to forget that someone might walk in at any minute. He indulged her by turning the key in the lock, then continued what he had begun.

  Diana found herself fumbling with the buttons of his pantaloons, her hands clumsy with haste. Perhaps her frantic desire had something to do with showing this grand house that she, too, had a place here, even if it was furtive and unadmitted.

  Gervase undressed her with as much skill and much more haste than a lady's maid, his lips searing the tender flesh of her throat and breasts as they were bared. She felt the heat of the fire against the back of her bare legs, then the soft scratchiness of the thick Chinese carpet as he laid her on it, his hand probing and teasing her to readiness.

  As she lifted her hips to receive him, there was no subtlety, only urgent passion that demanded fulfillment. She wrapped her arms around his rib cage, pulling him into her, reveling in the sweet, familiar weight of his body, his hips thrusting against hers in the intoxicating rhythm that swept away all thoughts of the house and her responsibilities and anything else but the rising fire inside of her.

  Then desire flared and consumed them both. It was only after the sound of her cry had long faded that she thought to be grateful that the rooms adjacent were unoccupied. Gervase's body still enfolded hers and she could feel his pounding heart before he rolled onto his side next to her. His dark hair was tangled and the firelight cast highlights on the film of perspiration on his face.

  After he'd caught his breath, he said, "I'm sorry, Diana. I had every intention of being a good host and letting you rest from your journey. But when I saw you there..." He let his head fall back on his arm, his eyes shadowed.

  Turning her head until her face was only inches from his, Diana said, "I'm not sorry. You have quite cured me of travel fatigue." Though he wore most of his clothing, she was wholly naked, and she shivered as the chill air struck that portion of her damp skin that was turned from the fire. Seeing the motion, Gervase reached for her cloak and pulled it over her.

  In spite of their physical nearness, he was remote from her, his expression harsh and withdrawn. Diana leaned across the short gap for a light kiss, asking softly, "Is something wrong?"

  His expression was obscured, and he was silent for too long. When his words finally came they were reluctant, as if saying something he was loath to admit. "You're like... an addiction. The more I have of you, the more I crave you."

  "And you dislike that?"

  "I don't want to need anyone. Ever."

  In the face of such uncompromising words, Diana wondered whether she should even try to reply. The chill of his mood dispelled her satisfied contentment and she sat up, wrapping her cloak around her. Without true intimacy, it seemed wrong to be naked in front of him.

  She stared into the fire, wondering what one could say to a man who preferred aloneness, who wanted to be sufficient unto himself. "You need air to survive, and food and drink and sleep. To be fully human, one also needs other people. Why do you find that so unacceptable?"

  Discussing such matters showed vulnerability, and there was a long interval before he replied. "Needing things is safe enough. One kind of food can easily replace another. To need people is dangerous because... it gives them power over you."

  Still looking at the fire, she drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs, folds of cloak spilling around her to the rug. "Sometimes that is true, but why do you assume that others will always use their power against you?"

  With a hard, brittle laugh he said, "Experience."

  She turned then to face him. "Can you truly say that everyone you've ever cared about has abused your trust?"

  Silence. Then, "No. The risk increases with the level of caring. If one cares only a little, there is only a little danger. The real risk is in... caring greatly."

  She felt pity that he couldn't even bring himself to say the word "love." What had happened to him, that the very thought of loving was so frightening?

  She stood and said, her voice gently mocking, "Then you are in no danger from me. I can see what a bother it must be that your lust is temporarily out of control, but sex is just a 'thing,' like the need for food and drink. Take comfort in the fact that soon I will not be a novelty and you can easily replace me with another woman."

  Turning away, she wished he would go so she could give way to tears. Now she understood why Madeline had warned her against Gervase; it was a mistake to love a man who daren't love in return. If he could not transcend his fears, there would be no future for the two of them.

  Gervase stood also, coming behind her and wrapping his arms around her waist, pulling her against the length of his body. His voice soft and sad, he asked, "Can I replace you that easily, Diana? Is that all that is between us, intemperate lust that will soon wane?"

  She held her body rigid, fighting the desire to melt back against him. "I can't answer that. Only you can."

  "But I don't know the answer. I don't even understand the question."

  Speaking from her own hurt, she said brittly, "You don't pay me enough to teach you the questions."

  His arms dropped away, and when he spoke, it was in a voice of cool irony. "Good of you to remind me what is really between us. Since it is only
vulgar money, there can be no danger."

  She turned to face him, her slanting blue eyes stark with unhappiness. "You said that, not I. If that is what you choose to believe, then of course it must be the truth. The customer is always right."

  He flinched back at her words. "If only it were that simple." With his Indian mistress Sananda, it had been that simple. Only their bodies connected, never their minds and spirits. He put his hands on Diana's shoulders and drew her to him. "But even after that spectacular sexual exchange has discharged physical desire, I still want you. And so I fear you."

  She softened then, wrapping her arms around his waist and resting her head on his shoulder. "Do you really think I would ever hurt you?"

  He laid his cheek against her tangled hair, the scent of lilac poignant around her, and replied so softly that she could barely hear the words. "I don't know. I really... just... do not know. And that is what frightens me."

  His heartbeat was slow and strong beneath her ear. It was impossible to be angry with Gervase when she could feel his pain and confusion as sharply as her own. Despairingly she knew that she wanted to embark on the ultimate folly: to try to heal him with her love. She was a fool, a helpless, gullible fool. Perhaps it would be better for both of them if they ended it right now. Fighting to keep her voice level, she asked, "Do you want me to leave Aubynwood?"

  His arms tightened around her. "I don't want you to leave. I just... want you. And that's the hell of it."

  * * *

  After he left Diana, Gervase went outside without stopping for a coat, hating himself both for needing Diana and for hurting her. The ground was stone hard in the cold and he found himself taking the path he had always followed as a child when he was escaping his keepers. It led upward through dark trees to the top of a hill behind the house. A stranger to the terrain would have seen nothing, but Gervase's feet still knew the way.

  There was a belvedere on the top of the hill, a charming folly built in his grandfather's time, and it offered shelter from the biting wind. Too tense to sit on the carved stone bench inside, he stood with a hand on one of the Doric columns that framed the entrance.

  A waning moon lent pale, silvery light to the scene, and the openness of the empty night helped dispel his haunted confusion. Below, he could see the dark bulk of the main buildings and the gardens that had been laid out in medieval times. All the land visible in every direction belonged to him.

  His word was law at Aubynwood and half a dozen other manors, he had been a soldier of uncommon bravery and skill, and when he spoke, the most powerful men in Britain listened. That being the case, why did he fear one small, soft woman? A woman, moreover, who had never been anything but warm and undemanding.

  He knew the answer, of course, but he would rather not think of his mother and his wife. When he had told Diana that deep caring caused deep betrayal, it was Medora Brandelin that he'd had in mind. As an example of perfidy, she was more than enough.

  The deep chill of the stone column numbed his bare hand. It was December and in a few days he would be thirty-one years old. The first part of his life had been dominated by what he felt about his parents: anger, despair, and rejection.

  In India he had grown beyond anger to detachment and cool efficiency. Usually he was satisfied with the man he had become, but now he saw clearly just how his disastrous past had crippled him. It had been easy to overlook that deficiency in himself when his relations with women had been purely physical, but with Diana there was more than lust, and caring had triggered this firestorm of doubt and confusion.

  It was grotesque to be afraid of his own mistress. Yet the past held him with such heavy chains that he was unable to accept the gentle warmth and affection she offered him.

  Sorting slowly through the jumble in his mind, he realized that the core of his distress was the fear that he would become dependent on Diana, needing her warmth as desperately as he now craved her body. Then, when he was at her mercy, she could betray him. Yet the fear was not a reasonable one. Diana was not a helpless innocent like his wife, and could never induce the lethal guilt he still felt about that incident.

  Nor would she ever be able to wound him as severely as his mother had. Lady St. Aubyn's worst crime had been her betrayal of her son's trust. Diana didn't occupy a comparable position of trust in his life, so she could never inflict the same kind of damage. Moreover, he could not imagine Diana deliberately hurting any living creature. He'd never heard her say an unkind word about anyone. Though she plied the courtesan trade, she was warmer and more honest than any woman he'd ever known.

  He had been creating problems where none existed. There was no real cause to fear Diana, no reason to forgo her enchanting company. Hurting both of them with his misgivings had been childish nonsense.

  She could never be his wife and they both knew it, and that simple fact established boundaries that safely defined their relationship. In time the extraordinary passion he felt for Diana would fade to a more comfortable level, though he could not imagine that he would ever stop desiring her. Meanwhile, there was no reason not to enjoy what gave them both such pleasure. Not just the passion, but also the affection.

  That simple realization made him feel so light and free that he could almost have flown back to the house. Instead he plunged down the hill through the woods, reaching the house within ten minutes, his body warmed by his energetic passage.

  Gervase was not surprised to learn that his guests, tired by their journey, had declined a formal dinner. His butler informed him that Mrs. Lindsay was taking a simple supper with her son and his nurse in the nursery and Miss Gainford had decided to join them. He was glad of it; he preferred not to act the host with his other guests until he had seen Diana alone.

  By the time he'd finished eating, it was past nine o'clock and he entered Diana's room through the secret door again. She was sitting in front of her vanity table, wearing a high-necked green velvet robe and brushing the thick hair that fell to the middle of her back. She glanced up, her eyes meeting his in the mirror, but she said nothing.

  He moved behind her, taking the silver-backed brush and gently pulling it through her hair. The heavy tresses crackled like a living being under the brush and he caught up a handful, savoring the silky feel of it.

  Musingly he said, "I've never seen hair the color of yours before, yet I can't imagine you with anything else. Blond would be too frivolous, red too flamboyant, black too harsh, brown too common. Instead you have hair the color of a ripe chestnut or polished mahogany. By candlelight it's very dark, yet it glows both red and gold."

  A faint smile acknowledged the compliment, but her voice was very grave. "I wasn't sure that you would come back."

  As he resumed brushing he hit a snarl and concentrated on untangling it as he replied, "I'm sorry for what I said earlier. I shouldn't have spoken."

  Her head made a slight impatient movement. "You meant what you said, didn't you, about not wanting to need anyone?"

  Gervase hesitated, then said, "Yes."

  Her night-deep eyes were stark in the mirror, but her soft voice was steady. "Then don't apologize for your words. I would rather have your honesty than your silence."

  "Even when honesty is painful?"

  She held his gaze without flinching as she answered, "Pain is inevitable, but it isn't all there is to life. I would rather suffer sometimes than feel nothing. If one tries to eliminate the hard times, the good times are lost, too."

  He moved his hand to her throat and caressed it through the fine-spun chestnut strands, stroking the edge of her jaw with his thumb. "You seem so fragile, yet you are stronger than I am."

  Her smile was wry. "There are many kinds of strength. Mine is the woman's strength of emotions, of yielding and enduring. I am not so strong in other ways."

  "You are strong enough to teach me through your example." Gervase set the brush down and laid his hands on her shoulders, wanting to feel her reactions through her body as well as to watch them in the mirror.
r />   Choosing his words slowly, he said, "I am tired of living in fear. I do care about you and it is foolish to try to deny that." Even with his new resolution, it was difficult to add, "I'll try not to run away from you again."

  He felt the faint tensing of Diana's body as she absorbed his statement. Then she raised one hand to cover his where it lay on her shoulder, saying simply, "I am so glad."

  Her face shone with happiness, and the warmth of her smile began to melt the defenses he had so carefully built around his heart. Gervase was not yet ready to speak of that, nor to give a name to what he felt, but he knew that things had changed between them. He bent over to kiss the slender fingers that still covered his. "So am I."

  Diana raised her face to his and they shared a kiss of great sweetness. He was very different from the man who had first attracted and frightened her, and she was awed by his bravery. She lived in her emotions and understood their highs and lows, but for a man whose soul had been scarred in ways she could only guess at, it was an act of supreme courage to let himself be vulnerable.

  It was a very short step from sweetness to passion. They made love slowly, knowing they had all night. There was a new kind of intimacy between them, and at the height of ecstasy Diana felt that their souls briefly joined, that she felt the fierce splendor of his spirit within hers, and that neither of them was alone anymore. It was a transcendent moment, and in its aftermath Diana wept, both for the beauty of their sharing and for the fact that it was too soon over.

  Half-hoping that he would not hear the words, she performed her own act of courage, whispering, "I love you."

  For just a moment she feared that she had gone too far, too fast, that he would interpret her declaration as a demand and he would withdraw again. Instead he kissed her with exquisite tenderness before laying his head on her breast, his arms tight around her. She stroked his dark head, glad that there was enough light to see the peace and happiness on his face and to savor the trust between them.