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Laughing, she let him off the hook. “I shall thank her when I see her next which, incidentally, is one week from today.”
He nodded. “I’m glad the two of you became friends. I know not what she’ll do when you leave.”
The fact that she was his wife’s confidante at times made her feel very odd indeed, despite the fact there was nothing more than friendship between her and the lady’s husband. “She’ll make new friends,” she told him softly. “Minerva is sweet and caring. Once they come to know her, they will adore her, just as I do.”
“If only she would take a lover of her own,” he muttered, his shoulders sagging. “Then I should not feel this terrible weight of guilt. She should never have agreed to marry a man who can never love her as a husband ought.”
Diana rested a hand on his sleeve. “Minerva knew the truth long before the wedding and married you with full knowledge of how it would be between you. It was an informed choice on her part.”
“Yes, but she still deserves better.”
“Your wife has what she wants,” she assured him, concerned over his sudden melancholy. “You’ve given her a beautiful home, a son to cherish, and while you may not love her as a husband, you do love her as a friend—her oldest friend who saved her from a terrible fate.”
She’d heard the tale from Minerva’s own lips. On learning her parents were arranging a match on her behalf with a brutish cousin who’d terrified her with uninvited touches and whispered threats, Harrow had offered himself as an alternative. Though she’d known of his preference for men, it had made perfect sense. He’d needed a wife and heir. She’d needed a way out. His lack of desire for her hadn’t bothered Minerva, who was indifferent to all passion save that of a mother for her child. As long as her husband was discreet with his lover, the marchioness was quite happy with her marriage of convenience.
“Rest assured she is content,” Diana continued. “Not all people desire carnal passion.” Unbidden, thoughts of Blackthorn intruded. She pushed them into the darkest corner of her mind.
“Oh, to be one of that happy number,” said Harrow, his gaze hollow. “At times, I almost wish I’d never met René. Had I not, I might have lived the rest of my life—”
“Without knowing love?” she supplied. “You once said a life without love is no life at all. And was it not also you who said we don’t get to choose with whom we fall in love?” His answering sigh told her she’d tipped the balance. She moved to the mirror and tucked a loose curl back into place. “There now, you see? It was inevitable. Now cease your worrying.”
“While we’re on the subject of inevitability, let us discuss you and Blackthorn. He made you feel something, did he not?”
How had he known she was thinking of the man? “I…I suppose I found him somewhat attractive,” she admitted grudgingly. “Which is why I intend to avoid him. We can ill afford distractions.”
Coming up behind her, Harrow placed his hands on her shoulders and sighed. “My dear Diana, if I’m right, Blackthorn intends to be much more than a mere distraction.”
She stilled, alarm stiffening her spine. “You anticipate a problem?”
“I know what it is to be attracted to someone, to be unable to put them out of your mind,” he said. “I saw the way he looked at you when you danced with him. And I saw the way you looked at him. Ever since that night, you’ve been restless and preoccupied.”
“Well of course I was. I was preparing to move across Town,” she offered lamely. But she could see it didn’t fool him.
“Diana, you cannot deny such an attraction—believe me, I know.”
“And just what am I to do about it?” she snapped. “Offer him a night in my bed? He believes me to be your mistress, and I very much doubt you wish to disabuse him of that perception.” She glared at him in the mirror. “No. We proceed according to the plan.”
“And what if he won’t take no for an answer?”
“He will. Of that, I can assure you.” She turned away. “Come now, and show me the rest of this castle you’ve put me in.”
Chapter Five
Closing his eyes, Lucas tried once more to blank out his thoughts and achieve blessed oblivion, but sleep was a fruitless pursuit. Rolling over, he grabbed his pillow and crammed his face in it.
It’s been two bloody weeks! Why am I still thinking about that blasted woman?
It seemed he’d done little else since laying eyes on her. After struggling to find slumber for several more minutes, he finally gave up trying. Rolling over again, he stared up into the dark. Her words burned in his mind: I am a courtesan, my lord. I don’t hide the bargain I’ve made behind hypocrisy and call it by another name…
Plenty of courtesans had crossed his path, and Lady Diana Haversham was definitely not one of them. He’d had abundant time to review and analyze their encounter, and he’d reached the same conclusion every time. The woman wore all of the trappings and played the part well enough to fool most, but her armor lacked the thickness and hard shine of the genuine article, and she’d made several cardinal mistakes.
Again, he thought of the way she spoke and carried herself. Hers was not the reckless manner of one who had no reputation left to lose, and—in spite of her allusion to the contrary—neither was her attitude that of a woman who thought herself a whore. No indeed, she wore her dignity like a royal mantle. Also, he’d never heard any courtesan call her patron “attentive and kind.” Generous, perhaps, but not attentive and kind.
And he’d seen affection in her eyes when she’d looked at Harrow. Affection. Not love. And definitely not lust. What courtesan looked at her patron with affection? Fondness perhaps, but not affection. Most people couldn’t tell the difference between the two, but he could. One could be fond of someone and not feel affection for them. Fondness was what one felt for one’s valet or one’s drinking comrades at pub. Affection was deeper than fondness, but nowhere near love.
Then there was the pain and regret she’d shown at the mention of her betrayal and the life she’d been denied as a result of it. A woman exchanging her favors
for money and security never permitted her negative feelings to be perceived by a potential patron, for she knew that such men paid for pleasure that was blissfully free of any sort of emotional entanglement.
