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His response was to lift an eyebrow. ‘Masterson?’ he challenged laconically.
She gave a quick shake of her head. ‘No, but...’
‘Yes?’ he prompted, as she trailed off.
Diana took a breath, clasping her hands in her lap. She made her voice composed, but decisive. ‘I spend very little time in London, Mr Tramontes, and because of that it would be...pointless to accept any...ah...further invitation from you. For whatever purpose.’
She said no more. It struck her that for him to have sounded so very disapproving of a fictional case of adultery in the plot of Don Carlos was more than a little hypocritical of him, given that he’d just asked her out. Clearly he was not averse to playing away himself, she thought acidly.
She saw him ease his shoulders back into the soft leather of his seat. Saw a sardonic smile tilt at his mouth. Caught a sudden scent of his aftershave, felt the closeness of his presence.
‘Do you know my purpose?’ he murmured, with a quizzical, faintly mocking look in his dark eyes.
She pressed her mouth tightly. ‘I don’t need to, Mr Tramontes. I’m simply making it clear that since I don’t spend much time in London I won’t have any opportunities to go to the opera, whomever I might go with.’
‘You’re returning to Hampshire?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Indefinitely. I don’t know when I shall be next in town,’ she said, wanting to make crystal-clear her unavailability.
He seemed to accept her answer. ‘I quite understand,’ he said easily.
She felt a sense of relief go through her. He was backing off—she could tell. For all that, she still felt a level of agitation that was unsettling. It came simply from his physical closeness. She was aware that her heart rate had quickened. It was unnerving...
Then, thankfully, the car was turning off Piccadilly and drawing up outside the hotel where she was staying. The doorman came forward to open her door and she was soon climbing out, trying not to hurry. Making her voice composed once more.
‘Goodnight, Mr Tramontes. Thank you so much for a memorable evening at the opera, and thank you for this lift now.’
She disappeared inside the haven of the hotel.
From the car, Nikos watched her go. It was the kind of old-fashioned but upmarket hotel that well-bred provincials patronised when forced to come to town, and doubtless the St Clairs had been patronising it for generations.
His eyes narrowed slightly as his car moved off, heading back to his own hotel—far more fashionable and flashy than Diana St Clair’s. Had she turned down his invitation on account of Nadya? He’d heard Louise Melmott say her name. If so, that was all to the good. It showed him that Diana St Clair was...particular about the men she associated with.
He had not cared for her apparent tolerance of the adultery in the plot of Don Carlos, but it did not seem that she carried that over into real life. It was essential that she did not.
No wife of mine will indulge in adultery—no wife of mine, however upper crust her background, will be anything like my mother! Anything at all—
Wife? Was he truly thinking of Diana St Clair in such a light?
And, if he were, what might persuade her to agree?
What could thaw that chilly reserve of hers?
What will make her receptive to me?
Whatever it was, he would find it—and use it.
He sat back, considering his thoughts, as his car merged into the late-night London traffic.
* * *
Greymont was as beautiful as ever—especially in the sunshine, which helped to disguise how the stonework was crumbling and the damp was getting in. The lead roof that needed replacing was invisible behind the parapet, and—
A wave of deep emotion swept through Diana. How could Gerald possibly imagine she might actually sell Greymont? It meant more to her than anything in the world. Anything or anyone. St Clairs had lived here for three hundred years, made their home here—of course she could not sell it. Each generation held it in trust for the next.
Her eyes shadowed. Her father had entrusted it to her, had ensured—at the price of putting aside any hopes of his own for a happier, less heart-sore second marriage—that she inherited. She had lost her mother—he had ensured she should not lose her home as well.
So for her to give it up now, to let it go to strangers, would be an unforgivable betrayal of his devotion to her, his trust in her. She could not do it. Whatever she had to do—she would do it. She must.
