Her Scottish Groom (12 page)

As his eyes adjusted to the darkened room, he could make out the pale blur of her face and the hand flung palm up on the pillow. Drawn by the memory of her soft skin, he entered the room. A fold of his cloak caught the edge of a small table, and knocked a figurine onto the carpeted floor. The thump awakened Diantha.

“Who’s there?” She started awake, staring wildly in his direction. He realized she could not see his face.

“It’s only me.” He approached slowly. “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”

She fumbled around the surface of her bedside table. The rasp of a match sounded, followed by a small flame that resolved into a larger one as she lit a candle. “What are you doing in here?”

He frowned, taken aback by her hostile question. “I’m your husband, Diantha. I belong here.”

“That is a matter of opinion.” She stifled a yawn
and sat up a little straighter. “I have had a long day and I wish to sleep, sir.” The sheets fell to her waist.

Kieran swallowed. Her lawn nightgown covered her to the chin, but the rosy tips of her breasts remained visible through the thin material. “I have had a long week of your missish behavior, madam. Most husbands would not show such patience to a wife who banned them from her bed.”

“Most husbands would not have spent their honeymoons flirting with another woman under their wife’s nose.” For someone who had just woken up, she struck him as remarkably quarrelsome.

“You have got to stop carrying on like a jealous shrew every time I engage in a little harmless flirtation!” He crossed his arms. “For heaven’s sake, I only talked to her.”

“Where everyone on the ship could see you!” Her eyes flashed in the candlelight. “And for your information, I was not remotely jealous. The embarrassment was bad enough.”

“I am not the one who caused a scene in the middle of the saloon.” He slapped his gloves against his thigh. “May I remind you that you are now expected to act like a lady, not a vulgar merchant’s daughter?”

“For your information, the two are not mutually exclusive. Although I would probably find better manners in a tugboat captain.” Shooting him a single glare, she blew out the candle. “Good night, your high and mighty lordship!”

The sheets rustled as she rolled herself up in them. As his eyes readjusted, Kieran saw her curled
up in a ball, her braid trailing down her back outside the bedclothes. Its heavy length tempted his fingers to stroke it.

He brought himself up short. If he caressed her, it might lead her to think she was getting the better of him.

“Good night.” On those curt words, he stalked out of the room.

By clever management, Diantha did not meet her husband the following day until luncheon. She took a tray of croissants and chocolate in her room, and spent much of the morning composing notes to acquaintances living in Paris.

Only when Florette brought word that his lordship had left the house did she emerge. Dispatching her correspondence to its intended recipients, she sent word for the chef and majordomo to meet with her in the morning room. Although she had never been permitted to speak up during her mother’s consultations with staff, she had learned a great deal by observing them.

The meetings with both servants passed more easily than she expected. After they ended, a footman appeared with several invitations and notes that had arrived that morning. This did not surprise Diantha; news of their arrival had appeared in
Le Monde
and other newspapers. She divided the mail from people she knew into three piles. As a
bride on her honeymoon, she decided to answer them in the order she pleased.

The smallest and most important notes contained greetings from her friends. The second consisted of notes and name cards from friends of her parents, and the third, of friends of her parents that she liked.

The second pile she placed on the back of her writing table for moments of extreme boredom. She regarded it with a smile of triumph. Until today, Mama had supervised the order in which she responded to letters and notes.

A number of envelopes bore names and addresses she did not recognize. She identified a few of the unknown writers as opportunists trying to pretend an acquaintance on the strength of the newspaper articles. Those she tossed into the wastepaper basket. The rest she set aside to ask Kieran about.

While exploring the town house, she found a copy of
Le Monde
in the library, doubtless abandoned by her husband. Closing the door to the room, she spent a pleasurable hour catching up on Parisian news until a footman summoned her for lunch.

She looked about the dining room with pleasure as she permitted herself to be seated. Like the rest of the house, it created an atmosphere of airiness. Instead of the carved wooden panels her mother favored, silk moiré covered the walls of this room in a cheery shade of pale yellow. The damask tablecloth almost gleamed in the sunlight entering through two large windows opposite the door. It formed a simple background for the low bouquet
of fragrant spring flowers arranged in a porcelain epergne on its top.

Her heart jumped nervously when her husband’s big frame filled the doorway. Nor did he appear pleased, stopping short on the threshold at the sight of her.

Mindful of the servants waiting on them, she gave him a civil greeting. He returned one equally unenthusiastic. Except for that exchange, only the clink of silverware on porcelain or quiet requests to the servants filled the silence between them.

To Diantha’s irritation, he did not look in the least like he had lain awake much of the night, as she had after he left her room. He must have pomaded his hair just before joining her, for no wave marred the smooth dark strands combed back from his forehead.

Without the necessity of conversing with him, her awareness of his appearance increased. She tried to focus on her plate, but could not resist a glance in his direction. His hands, although large, handled his knife precisely as he spread foie gras on a slice of bread. Memories of their caresses sent shivers over her skin.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched him lift the tidbit to his mouth and heard the delicate crunch as his teeth bit into the thick crush. His tongue flicked out to lick a crumb off his upper lip. She swallowed, unable to look away.

She had noticed the firm mouth from their first introduction. Now, knowing the touch and taste of his lips, she found herself wondering if she would ever experience them again. No, she admitted as
heat coiled deep within her. She wanted to feel them again, to kiss that full lower lip with its miniscule cleft echoing the one in his chin.

A soft chuckle interrupted her reverie. To her utter mortification, she realized she was staring at him. His eyes darkened and a smug smile played across the mouth she had just admired.

Furious at her weakness, she dropped her gaze to her own plate. Only when the footmen presented the fruit course did she recall the matter of the morning’s correspondence.

She broached the subject as she neatly quartered a fig with her knife and fork. “Some letters arrived this morning from persons I am unfamiliar with, your lordship. If you would be so kind as to go through them and tell me if you recognize them, I could then dispose of those trying to encroach.”

“How would anyone know our direction?” His brows furrowed in confusion.

“Did you not read the newspaper articles announcing our presence at this house?” She cleared her throat. “I fear my mother provides information on my family’s whereabouts on a regular basis.”

“Good God! I trust I am not going to spend the rest of my life reading accounts of my comings and goings in the newspapers.” He gave her an accusatory glare. She clenched her hands around the silverware, reminding herself to keep her temper.

“Indeed, I share your hope. Such intrusions are monstrous!” The words came out more vehemently than she expected. She took a breath to calm herself. “However, the immediate task is to be sure we do not inadvertently snub your friends.”

“Very well.” He snapped out the words before finishing an apricot. She took a breath. One more unpleasant subject remained for her to bring up.

“Will you be dining at home this evening?” She kept her gaze on the table.

“I shouldn’t think so.” He answered carelessly. “I’ve been invited to dine at the Jockey Club by an old acquaintance, and then we shall probably go look in on the Opera.”

Her fingers spasmed in her lap. The ornate new home of the Paris Opéra had been under construction since 1862. Interrupted by France’s ill-considered war with Prussia in 1870 and the resulting uprising in Paris, it had only opened this year. Having gawked in fascination at the construction site during her previous stay in the city, it vexed Diantha to no end that her husband would see the finished building first. Very likely he would pay attention only to the dancers in the
corps de ballet
, while she sat at home alone.

Her teeth gritted in an effort not to turn into a screaming virago. “If you are finished, perhaps we might adjourn to the morning room now.”

There, they quickly dealt with the last of the correspondence. To her surprise, he did not leave immediately. Idly, he plucked a note out of the desk.

She tensed, hating the way he picked up her letters. “That is from a friend of mine.”

Her anger must have shown on her face, for he put it back with an embarrassed cough. “Forgive me.”

“I plan to answer my own friends first.” Still fuming, Diantha tucked the letter farther back inside the desk. She raised the drop-leaf front and challenged him with a look to open it.

He merely lifted an eyebrow. “As you wish, my dear.” With a mocking bow, he turned to go.

“Kieran.” He paused at the door. “I would appreciate it if you would apprise me of your evening plans earlier in the day. I have already ordered dinner for two, which I shall now have to cancel.”

He turned on his heel, brows drawn together. “Trying to keep tabs on me? As I said before, I will not be spied on.”

She struggled for words. “I have never heard anything so ridiculous in my life! I only desire to make our stay in this house as easy as possible. Surely you could announce your plans before you disappear for the morning.” She disregarded the fact that she had spent the morning hiding from him.

“No, madam, I cannot tell you my plans in the morning, because I am not accustomed to deciding where or how—or with whom—I am spending my evening until much later in the day.” He drew near to her during his speech, but she stood her ground.

“You weren’t married before.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Kieran stiffened. She braced herself for whatever he might say next.

“True, I wasn’t.” He considered her speculatively. “I could send my excuses to my friends, under one condition.”

“Which is?” She could smell the faint scent of sandalwood soap emanating from his body, he was so close.

“I will dine with you this evening if you in turn will resume our physical relationship.”

She drew back as though slapped. “Certainly not! I will not be coerced!”

“Why do you insist on refusing me?” He ran a hand through his hair as his voice tightened in frustration. “As your husband I would be within my rights to insist on your cooperation.”

She paced a few steps away from him to quell her own agitation. “Why should I admit you to my bed? However nice it was, you still ran off to that dreadful
senhora
the next day, humiliating me in front of the entire ship! You didn’t even have the decency to apologize.”

“I shall not apologize for actions that did not harm anyone!” He hissed the words as he followed her.

At his steady approach, she slipped behind an overstuffed chair, not taking her eyes off him. He sighed.

“Diantha, I shall not strike you.” He ground the words out through clenched teeth, but at least he stopped following her. “No matter how thoroughly you provoke me.”

She mastered her trembling knees. “I appreciate that, my lord. But I do not appreciate being told that my company is so very dull that it is only acceptable with the promise of—”

She broke off, floundering for an acceptable expression.

“Conjugal relations. Sex. Making love.” He listed the terms as he came around the chair. She edged back a step but did not retreat farther. He placed his hands gently on her shoulders. “Come, now. Let us begin again.”

His fingers worked sensuously at the joining of her neck and shoulders, and she closed her eyes in
enjoyment. She opened them again to see a flash of triumph in his eyes. “Making love” indeed. He only caressed her to manipulate her.

“No.” It cost her not to give in, but better to have him staring at her as he did now, infuriated, than smirking in contempt. His hands dropped to his sides.

“As you wish then. I shall see you tomorrow.” Just as he bowed, a small cough interrupted them.

In the doorway, the majordomo presented a sterling salver containing a small white rectangle. “Forgive me, but the lady was quite insistent.”

Kieran strode over to pick up the calling card. “The Dowager Comtesse de Pontrevault. A distant connection through my grandmother’s family.” Before she could speak, he ordered the majordomo to admit their visitor.

As soon as the door snicked shut behind the little man, he addressed her. “We’ll finish this discussion later. The dowager is prominent in Parisian society. It might not be a bad thing if we could persuade her to take you under her wing.”

Diantha opened her mouth to speak, closed it again, and simply nodded her agreement.

“How is your French? It’s important that you make a good impression on her.”

She arched a brow. “May I remind you that I attended finishing school just outside Paris? I am quite sure my command of the language is adequate to greet the comtesse.” She could not repress a smile as she strolled over to a gilt-edge mirror over the mantelpiece. “And I am certain she speaks English.”

“How typically American!” He frowned at her. “For your information, the rest of the world is not going to learn English for your convenience.”

Straightening her lace collar, she shrugged. “Something you had best mention to some of your compatriots, then. I’ve never met as many snobs as I did in England.”