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It was all an act, of course. For the most part, the hands that appeared to be all over her were in fact hovering a scant inch or so above her silk-clad form. René grasped her waist once to turn her around to face him so he could lean her back against Harrow and “kiss” her in a manner that hid her face from view. When he was done, Harrow swept her up into his arms and, followed by their “lusty” guest, proceeded upstairs to her bedchamber. There, before her unveiled windows, they slowly undressed her down to her chemise. As René worked at loosening her corset, Harrow divested himself of his jacket and sauntered to the window to draw the curtains shut, thus ending “the show.”
As soon as he locked the door and they were safe from prying eyes, Diana waved the gentlemen off. Grinning, they slipped through another door connecting her bedchamber to the special one adjoining it, one built specifically without any windows. Harrow had decorated it all in black silk and had filled it with an array of items dedicated to love play. The servants all assumed the room had been designed for her, of course, but in truth the only time she’d been inside it had been the day she’d taken up residence here.
Undressing herself the rest of the way, Diana drew on her wrapper and set about unpinning her hair. The temptation to go and peek through her drapes to see if there were any silhouettes in the windows of the house behind hers was almost overwhelming. Throughout the entire farce, she’d felt as if eyes were watching her, but had no way of knowing. It was nerve-wracking. She and Harrow had been convincing enough that their own staff thought them passionate lovers, but never before had they attempted to fool outside eyes in so audacious a manner.
Diana hoped they’d had an audience in her meddlesome neighbor. For all she knew, more than one person might have been watching their faux ménage à trois, which was all to the good if it made grist for the gossip mill. If no one had seen the illusion, however, it had been a wasted effort.
Picking up the book she’d been reading earlier, she tried to ignore the occasional soft groan that bled through the wall separating her chamber from the one hosting the lovers. Harrow and René always tried to be discreet on her behalf, but passion was seldom quiet. Such things had shocked her in the beginning, but no longer.
Though she remained innocent in the strictest physical sense, Diana had acquired an astonishing amount of sexual knowledge during her two years with Harrow. It had been a necessity. She couldn’t pretend carnal knowledge without at least knowing what the act might entail—in various configurations.
Suppressing a chuckle, she reflected that, despite being a virgin, she likely knew more about bed sport than most married women. If she ever did have a wedding night, she’d have to feign gross ignorance. I wonder if even Blackthorn, with his black reputation, knows as much as I?
And just like that, heat rushed into her face and made the tips of her ears prickle. That she should have such a thought after concocting this elaborate ruse for the sole purpose of throwing him off the scent told her just how dangerous he was. Still, if she had to guess, she imagined he knew quite a lot, and from experience rather than dry lecture. Harrow, bless him, had told her all the particulars, but it had been a purely clinical instruction.
Instruction with words is a far cry from the sort of instruction Blackthorn would likely give…
The faint noises that occasionally filtered through the wall suddenly had an entirely different effect on her. She found herself uncomfortably warm as she wondered if Blackthorn would muffle his groans or unabashedly howl his pleasure. And would her utterances be anything at all like what she’d voiced without any feeling for the benefit of eavesdropping servants?
Stop this. Stop it at once!
Too low to be heard outside her door, she began to softly hum to herself to drown out any other sounds. Harrow would doubtless laugh and call her a prude over such a reaction—if she ever chose to tell him about it, that is. Which she wouldn’t. Ever.
The lady may be removed from her raising, but the raising can never be removed from the lady. That’s what Blackthorn had said to her only yesterday. She would never reconcile her raising with…this. Or with these thoughts of Blackthorn that kept resurfacing despite all efforts to the contrary.
Diana tossed and turned in her huge bed long after all grew quiet and the lamps were put out. Over and over, she reviewed her interactions with Blackthorn, searching for something that would make him less appealing. It was a study in futility.
…
On unsteady legs, Lucas walked away from his window in a state of both shock and undeniable arousal. Palming the stiffness between his legs to ease his discomfort, he put down the opera glasses he’d taken to carrying with him ever since what he’d dubbed “the Shakespearian farce” had been enacted, and sank into his favorite chair before the hearth. His gaze lingered on the glowing coals, the only light in the room, as he contemplated what he’d just seen.
He’d thought himself uninhibited. He’d even fancied himself a hedonist. But after just witnessing an exhibition fit for the Hellfire Club, he now revised those self-designated labels. He was in no way prepared to accept the reality that Diana, who’d seemed far too wholesome for such an occupation, was in truth utterly debauched. Indeed, the lady had clearly enjoyed being the object of lust for both Harrow and his guest.
As for Harrow, despite Lucas’s earlier assessment, he had no choice but to admit he’d been wrong about the fellow. The man was a libertine and must have one hell of a penchant for voyeurism to allow anyone else to touch Diana, because heaven knew if she were his, he’d never let another man lay so much as a finger on her and live to tell the tale.
A ragged chuckle escaped him, its soft mockery competing against the fire’s crackle. Friends. She’d told him Harrow was her friend as well as her lover. She’d also named his wife a friend. It now occurred to him that perhaps the other rumor Westie had spoken of was true, too, and Lady Diana was lover to both the gentleman and his wife.
Her relationship with Harrow might be lacking in passion—although what he’d just seen certainly challenged that assumption—but her outrage toward Lucas when he’d suggested she might one day replace Harrow’s current wife had been too swift and genuine to be false. Her loyalty to that lady was strong enough to be called love.
But is it that kind of love? He supposed he’d have to see them together to form an opinion. Westie did say the pair shopped and took tea together…
A bark of laughter burst from his throat at the very idea of spying on his neighbor when she was out shopping with another man’s wife to determine whether or not they were lovers—in order to decide if she could be persuaded into his bed! The knowledge he’d gained tonight had lessened his interest in Diana not one bit. If anything, it only made her more fascinating.
Unfortunately, Lucas wasn’t into sharing. Which raised another question: Is she? Did Diana do it to indulge her own desires or only to satisfy those of her protector? If she was being coerced, she hid her dislike well.
Another thought hit him. They’d be coming to his picnic the day after tomorrow. He’d have to look them both in the face and act like he hadn’t just seen…that. His eyes narrowed in the dark as he replayed it in his mind. Now that his arousal had abated, his thoughts were clearer.
What exactly had he seen? Touches. A few kisses. Diana nearly naked.
Nearly naked. The curtains had been drawn before she’d been deprived of all modesty.
Why?
His suspicious mind homed in on the question. Why had Harrow drawn the curtains just before the lady was rendered completely nude? Why would a man who was wicked enough to have his mistress participate in threesomes with other men care at that point about them being seen? Especially when his reputation for such depravity was established. Especially in the midst of what ought to have been a moment of lustful abandon. Instead, he’d calmly tossed his jacket over a chair and walked across the room to close the drapes.
Just as in a play, when the curtain is lowered to allow for a set change.
