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Fortunately for them, Harrow’s question was rhetorical. “Forgive me, but I cannot help being prideful,” he continued, slowly lifting her hand to his lips. “That such perfection should deign to grant me her favor is a miracle.”
The look on Blackthorn’s face plainly stated his opinion of that “miracle.”
That’s right. Money can buy anything. The thought was a bitter stone in her heart. If he only knew the truth! Money could buy one many fine things, including status, but it couldn’t buy back a reputation. It could, however, purchase a new name and a clean slate. Just a few more years…
“Come, my love,” said Harrow, holding out his arm. “I wish to show you something extraordinary. Lady Latham is sponsoring a new artist and is currently displaying his latest work in her gallery.” He turned to the men. “Gentlemen, if you will please excuse us?”
Diana shot a coy glance over her shoulder as she moved away. “Until later, gentlemen.” She waited until they were out of earshot. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m sorry, but I had no choice but to accept. I did not expect him to be so bold. That Westing fellow is harmless enough, but Blackthorn…” Her stomach still felt strange and fluttery, as if she hadn’t eaten enough. She took a deep breath to steady it.
Harrow’s glance was piercing. “You think he’ll be a problem?”
“I expect that, like most of those inquiring after my favors thus far, he thinks to sample my charms and have done—if only to brag to his friends that he’s achieved the impossible.” She didn’t bother to keep the resentment out of her tone. There was nothing she need hide from Harrow.
“I warned you this would happen, that there would be a few wolves amongst the sheep. I tried to prepare you as best I could.”
“You did,” she agreed. “And I ought to have handled him better, but I let him catch me off my guard.” What was it about Blackthorn that set her so on edge? When she looked at other men, Westing for example, she felt nothing. When she looked at Blackthorn, however, she became all unbalanced and uncertain of herself as she had not been in years. “It’s nothing.”
“What’s nothing?”
His inquiry startled her. Did I say that aloud? “It’s nothing that cannot easily be remedied,” she said briskly. “I shall, as promised, dance with them, and thereafter avoid him—them—as much as possible.”
“Diana…”
Her face warmed, and she averted her eyes. “Yes?”
“If you don’t wish to—”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “I accepted his request in front of witnesses. If I fail to follow through, everyone will wonder why. I think it better to leave no room for speculation, don’t you?”
…
Lucas cursed quietly as he watched her saunter away.
“Oh, nicely done,” said Westing, clapping softly. “I think you extraordinarily fortunate to have made it through that without getting slapped—or worse, called out.”
“Enough,” Lucas muttered, though without any heat. His speech with her had indeed been blunt and graceless—offensive, even. His only excuse was that he’d been distracted by the incongruities she presented. The shy girl who’d been unable to look him in the face was now a blazing seductress.
Or is she?
He’d always had a knack for being able to tell when someone was lying or attempting to conceal something. It was what made him a good gambler, and the reason the Foreign Office had approached him just before he’d been shipped off to the Continent for his little mandatory hiatus. That sense was telling him something was “off” with Lady Diana.
The wariness in her sea-green eyes had been unmistakable, as had the outrage that had flashed in them when he’d all but asked her to name her price. For a moment, he’d thought for sure she would slap him—the reaction of a woman of moral fiber, not a courtesan. He’d seen the twitch in her eyelids, had marked the whitening of her knuckles and the trembling of her hand as she’d gripped her fan. And then he’d watched her masterfully hide her wrath behind a cool veil of cynical sensuality. He suspected her provocative words and daring manner were no more than masks. Lady Diana was more a mystery now than ever. One he was determined to fathom out.
As they disappeared into the crowd, Lucas turned and made for the stairs to the gallery.
“It’s no use, you know,” said Westing, alongside him. “Mark my words, you’ll never get more than a dance with that one.”
“I’d lay no wagers, if I were you,” Lucas said absently, moving to the rail to continue to monitor from above.
Westing let out an exasperated sigh. “Don’t even consider it, Blackthorn. He’s put holes in men for far less. You’re lucky he failed to overhear you earlier. Have your dance with her—if she does not renege—and be done with it. It’s not worth it.”
Lucas deliberately i
gnored him in favor of keeping his eyes on the couple below. Their manner together was easy and familiar, as it would be between two people entirely comfortable with each other. But their physical interactions lacked a certain warmth, a certain…intimacy. Clearly, she felt affection for her protector, but he detected nothing deeper. Something was missing.
Lust.
Lucas knew lust. It had been the constant companion of his youth. It had taken him twenty-nine years, several interesting scars, and finally a two-year sojourn abroad to learn not to let it lead him into trouble. Or so he’d thought, anyway. Being near Lady Diana put a definite strain on his self-discipline. Even now his breeches were uncomfortably tight. His reaction to touching her bare fingers had been instant and not a little alarming.
