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He’d exuded an infectious joy in life, in every little detail of living, from lauding the warmth of the fire on a cold evening, to savouring tea and cakes with her in the afternoon, to the enthusiasm with which he read to her, altering his voice to play all the parts from Shakespeare, or emoting the sonnets with an understanding that brought the beauty of the words and the depth of their meaning to life. He’d loved being a scholar, never losing his excitement at finding and recording in meticulous drawings all the plants he collected.
She could almost hear his voice, telling her how everything fit together in the natural world, with all having its place. She, too, had been designed with particular talents and abilities, her contributions unique, irreplaceable, and a necessary part to the whole.
She swallowed hard and her eyes stung. She hadn’t remembered that bit of encouragement for years. Did she have a place and a purpose? Having lost first Alastair and then her father, was there something more for her than mere survival?
She could start by saving her son from Blankford. She could try her best to unlock her feelings and love him again. She could attempt to create the kind of home he deserved, that every child deserved, where he was wanted, appreciated, nourished.
The last would be a stretch. She wasn’t her father, or even a pale echo of him. Once, another lifetime ago, she’d been a fearless girl who loved with all her heart and met life with reckless passion...
But how could she, who had forgotten what joy was, offer that to a child she might not find her way back to loving?
Sighing, she raised an eyebrow at the image in the mirror. The reflection staring back at her, the only friend and ally she’d had during the hellish years of her marriage, merely looked back, returning no answers.
She’d just have to try harder, she told the image. Once Alastair Ransleigh finished with her, she could close the book of her past and begin a new volume, with James.
Pray God she’d have enough time to figure it out before Blankford made his move.
But first, tonight, she must begin repaying the debt she owed Alastair. Her hands trembling ever so slightly, she rang for the maid and began to dress.
Chapter Four
Alastair paused in his pacing of the parlour of the small townhouse he’d rented, listening to the mantel clock strike three-quarters past eight. Unless she’d changed her previous habit of promptness, in another fifteen minutes, Diana would be here.
His pulses leapt as a surge of anticipation and desire rushed through him. Too impatient to sit, he took another turn about the room, then set off on yet another tour of the premises.
He’d arrived at eight, wanting to ensure everything was as he’d ordered. The new staff dispatched by the agency, all with impeccable references, had done their jobs perfectly. The immaculate house gleamed, every wooden surface and silver object polished to a soft glow in the candlelight. Taking the stairs, he inspected the sitting room adjoining the bedroom, nodding dismissal to the maid who’d just finished setting out a cold buffet. In the bedroom itself, a decanter of wine stood on the bedside table, and two glasses reflected the flames of the lit candles on the mantel above.
Wine to lend courage to him—or to her? he wondered with a wry grin. Maybe for consolation, if the joke was on him and Diana simply did not show up.
Which would, he admitted, be a justifiable rebuke for his ungentlemanly behaviour.
Even as he thought it, he heard the click of the front door opening, and a murmur of voices as the new manservant admitted a visitor.
So she had come after all.
Alastair descended the stairs nearly at a run.
‘I’ve shown the, ah, lady into the parlour,’ the servant told him. ‘Will you be needing anything else, sir?’
‘Nothing more tonight, Marston. Thank you.’
Expression impassive, the servant bowed and headed off towards the service stairs. Alastair wondered, not for the first time, what the handful of employees thought of their new situation—and how much they’d been told when the agency he’d consulted had hired them. Certainly upon arrival, if not before, they would have realised they were being called upon to staff the love nest of some wealthy man’s chère-amie. He’d not been able to glean from the behaviour of Marston, the cook or the maid whether they disapproved or were indifferent to the situation.
To tell the truth, he felt a bit uncomfortable. In his previous liaisons, after hiring a house, he’d simply given the lady of the moment the funds to bring or hire her own staff—and had never given the servants’ opinions a thought. But this was Diana—and how she was regarded by the staff, he realised suddenly, did matter to him.
Rather ridiculous that he was concerned she be treated like a lady, when he’d set up this whole endeavour to humiliate her.
No, not to humiliate—simply to slake his desire for her, so that he might achieve the indifference that seemed to come so easily to her. So he could get over her and get on with his life, as she so obviously had.
Heartbeat accelerating, Alastair walked into the parlour.
A lady stood at the hearth with her back to him, enveloped in a black cape with the hood drawn up over her hair. Very discreet, Alastair thought, glad that she was evidently as concerned as he that this liaison be kept secret.
She turned towards him, and the visceral reaction she’d always evoked flooded him immediately, speeding his pulses, drying his mouth, filling him with desire and gladness.
‘Good evening, Alastair,’ she said. ‘Where would you like me?’
Something almost like...disappointment tempered his enthusiasm. So there’d be no illusion of polite conversation first—just a proceeding straight to the matter at hand. She’d always been honest and direct, Alastair remembered.
Which was just as well. She wasn’t here to revive an old relationship, but to bury the long-dead corpse of one.
‘Come,’ he said, motioning to the hallway.
Obediently she exited the parlour, brushing past him in a cloud of violet scent that instantly revived his lust and determination. She mounted the stairs, pausing at the top until he indicated the correct bedchamber.
He let her precede him into the room, already so taut with arousal that his hands were sweating and his breath uneven. In one fluid movement, she swept off her cloak and cast it in a shimmer of satin on to the chair beside the bed, then turned to him, waiting.
He scanned her hungrily. The full swell of bosom, the graceful curve of neck and cheek, the dusky curls gleaming brightly in the firelight, the lush pout of a mouth...the eyes staring sightlessly ahead of her, the face as devoid of expression as a statue. As if she were bored, waiting for the episode to be over.
While he stood, barely able to breathe, gut churning with eagerness and longing.
Sudden fury consumed him. But before he could sort through his wildly varying impulses—send her away or seduce her into feeling something—she sank to her knees before him and calmly unbuttoned his trouser flap. Wrapping her hands around his swollen length, she guided him into her mouth.
Shocked that she would play the courtesan so unresistingly, he opened his lips to tell her to stop...but at the touch of the exquisite softness of her tongue, moving over and around his throbbing member, thought dissolved into pure sensation. Gasping, he fisted his hands in her hair, every fibre of his being focused on the delicious friction of her mouth and tongue as she pushed him deep within, withdrew to suckle the sensitive tip, laved it with her tongue and took him deep again. Passion built with unprecedented swiftness until mere moments later, he climaxed in a rush so dizzying and intense he nearly lost consciousness.
Staggering backward, he collapsed on the bed, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. Dazed, he dimly noted Diana rising and walking noiselessly over to the washbasin on the bureau.
Sometime later, his heart finally settled back into its normal rhythm and enough rational thought returned that he recognised what had just transpired. He’d meant to slake his lust, not use her like a doxy—or bolt straight to conclusion, like a callow youth with his first woman.
Shame and embarrassment filled him. Looking around, he found Diana sitting silently in the chair, gazing into the fire, her cloak wrapped around her.
‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant for that to be an exclusive experience,’ he said. ‘I assure you, I can do much better.’
And he meant to. Of the many things that had attracted him to Diana during their courtship, one that had drawn him most strongly was her passion. She’d gloried in his kisses, giving herself to him with wild abandon, guiding his hands to her breasts, moulding her hands over his erection. He might not be able to love her again or truly forgive her, but they could at least have the honesty of pleasure between them.
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said.
‘It does to me,’ he replied, and held out his hand.
This time, he vowed as she took it, he would undress her slowly, as he’d dreamed of doing so many times. Kiss and caress each bit of skin revealed. Use all the considerable skill he’d amassed over nearly a decade of pleasuring women to give her the same intense release she’d just given him.
