Mary Jo Putney (49 page)

"I have felt that too," Diana said slowly. "Do you have an idea what could have made him that way?"

"I could make some guesses." He glanced at her with a wry smile. "Lately I have thought a good deal about the many kinds of love. I think a child who is not loved early and well may later have trouble understanding or accepting any kind of love.

"Gervase's father was a reticent man who did his duty, but never more than that. Duty required him to beget an heir for St. Aubyn, so he married and produced one. Two, actually—Gervase had an older brother who died at the age of six or seven. That was before my time, but my mother said once that his parents regretted that Gervase would inherit. He was small, too quiet, and he had seizures. They considered him flawed."

"What was his mother like?"

"Ah, the glorious Medora." Francis sighed and looked across the lake. "As beautiful and amoral a woman as ever walked the earth. She could charm the birds from the trees when she wished, then forget your existence in the space of a heartbeat. She fascinated and daunted everyone who ever crossed her path."

"It might not be easy to have such a woman for a mother."

"No, I don't think it was," he agreed. "It would have been simpler if she were evil-tempered, or deliberately cruel. Instead, she was... supremely self-absorbed. So concerned with her own desires that the rest of the human race had no real existence to her. One could no more judge her by the standards of ordinary mortals than one could judge a falcon or a cobra."

"What happened to her?"

"She died in a fire when Gervase was about seventeen. She was staying with one of her lovers in his hunting box in the Shires. The man died also. It was quite a little scandal, I understand. Lovers are all very well if one is discreet, but it was considered bad form to be caught dead with one."

So Gervase's mother had been a fickle, selfish creature, by turns charming and heedless, and she had died in a flagrant and scandalous way. No wonder Gervase had a passion for privacy and an inability to believe in a woman's constancy. He began to make sense, though Diana was not sure yet what use she could make of the information. "Thank you for this, Francis. Perhaps it will help."

He turned to look at her, his handsome face grave. "Gervase needs you, Diana, more than he can begin to understand. You could love and be loved by many different men, but Gervase is not like that. If he cannot bring himself to forgive and love you, I'm afraid he will withdraw so far that no one else will ever be able to find him. For his sake, I hope you persevere."

She closed her eyes against aching tears. "I'll try," she whispered, "but I don't know how long I can endure."

It took time to master her grief. Diana raised her head and blotted her face with the handkerchief Francis produced. Smiling shakily, she asked, "Are your affairs of the heart prospering any better than mine?"

He smiled, an expression of pure, expansive joy. "They are. After you and I talked, it became easier to talk to... my friend. We found that we shared not just thoughts and ideas, but... infinitely more. In a few weeks we will be taking ship to the Mediterranean. It will be a very long time before we return."

She asked hesitantly, "And your family?"

"We have not spoken of it directly, but I think my mother has guessed. And like you, she forgives."

Diana leaned forward and kissed him on the check. "There is nothing to forgive, only to accept. I am so happy for you."

Francis gave her a hug and she relaxed in the warmth of his embrace as he said, "I thought once it was impossible to find the love I craved, but I was wrong. Even in this imperfect world, sometimes one can find a way to happiness. Things may look black now, but if any woman on earth can reach Gervase and win the passion and loyalty he is capable of, it is you."

She whispered, "I pray to God that you are right."

Neither of them realized how visible they were to a horseman on a high hill.

* * *

The Count de Veseul escorted a fuming Lady Haycroft toward the folly, avoiding the others who wandered through the gardens. The two were occasional lovers and they had a certain cold selfishness in common; they could be considered friends. After listening to her ladyship rail about St. Aubyn's perfidy in letting people think he was eligible, with vicious side comments on the insipid prettiness of the viscount's wife, Veseul drawled, "The little trollop may not be his wife. Even if she is, they may not have been married any nine years."

"What?" Lady Haycroft stared at him. "St. Aubyn didn't deny her. Besides, the boy certainly looks like both of them, and he must be six or seven."

"Oh, he may well be their child," Veseul said lazily, "but not necessarily a legitimate one. She must have been his mistress before he went to India. More recently, the alleged viscountess has been living in London as a courtesan, using the name Mrs. Lindsay. I saw her myself at the most recent Cyprians' Ball. In fact, you saw her with St. Aubyn, too, one night at Vauxhall. They were in one of those dark little alcoves, so I'm not surprised you didn't recognize her today."

As Lady Haycroft went pale with shock at his news, Veseul stopped to pluck a yellow rose, sniffing it before presenting it to his companion. "Among the Cyprians, she was known as the Fair Luna. I'd heard she was St. Aubyn's mistress, among others.
Many
others. Perhaps her bed magic is strong enough that he married her, or perhaps he wanted an heir and decided it was easier to pretend an existing son was legitimate than to gamble on getting another in marriage. Who knows? He's a cold, calculating man. Were it not for his wealth, you'd have no interest in him yourself."

"Very true," she snapped, "but the wealth would be ample reason to tolerate him. He seemed like a perfect choice as husband. Rich, influential without being fashionable, and likely indifferent to what his wife would do once he had an heir."

Half to herself, she muttered, "He was showing signs of warming up before that strumpet arrived. If they really are married, I'll have to give up my hopes of him. There's no point in taking him as a lover if marriage isn't possible."

Her lips pinched together, warping her handsome features with mean-spiritedness as she shredded the rose petals in her angry fingers. "But with what you have just told me, I can ruin her forever and make St. Aubyn a laughingstock. So Miss Butter-in-the-Mouth is just a high-priced London whore! When that gets out, she'll have to go back to Yorkshire or Scotland or whatever godforsaken place she came from."

Veseul watched with pleasure at the sight of the mischief he'd sown. When Lady Haycroft's vicious tongue was done, both St. Aubyn and his woman would be miserable, possibly estranged from each other. The viscount was too proud to forgive his wife the ridicule her past would bring on him. If he repudiated her, Diana Lindsay might be eager to bed one of her husband's enemies for pure spite.

He shrugged mentally. Whether she came willingly or not, she could not escape him if they spent the next week under the same roof. And if she was unwilling, he would do much more than simple rape. An ugly smile curled his lips and he caressed the gold serpent's head on his cane. He hoped she would resist; the mere thought of that was enough to arouse him.

Chapter 22

Even at a great distance, it was easy to identify the couple embracing by the lake as Diana and Francis. Had she come here in pursuit of his cousin? If so, she had made an easy capture. In spite of the sick fury the sight aroused in him, Gervase could not bring himself to blame Francis. Diana's sensual beauty and illusionary sweetness were enough to win any man who had the strength to draw breath.

He stayed out until a dull, aching fatigue had replaced his first uncontrollable rage. He hoped that he and his weary horse would be able to slip back into the stables unobserved by his guests, but that hope was doomed to disappointment. As Gervase led his horse into the barn, he saw the figure of his son peering into a box stall, then turning to look up.

In its way, this meeting would be as difficult as the one with Diana, but at least there would be a positive side as well as awkwardness. Waving off an oncoming groom, Gervase unsaddled his mount himself, then led it into the barn toward Geoffrey. "Care to help me groom Firefly?"

The boy nodded and followed his father into the stall. After tying Firefly, Gervase took a handful of straw and began wiping off loose dirt and sweat while Geoffrey did the same on the animal's other side. After a few minutes of silence, Gervase said, "I'm not quite sure what one says in these circumstances."

His son gave a wisp of a chuckle. "Neither am I." His head didn't reach the top of the horse's back.

Gervase had the inspired thought of asking about his son's pony, and this unleashed a torrent of conversation. By the time they had gotten to vigorously brushing the horse's hide, they were as easy with each other as they had become over the Christmas visit.

In spite of Geoffrey's short stature, Gervase should have realized the boy was more than six years old. Knowing that this small, intelligent person with his quirky individuality was his own son gave him a glow of fatherly pride, even though he could take none of the credit. Whatever Diana's other sins, she had been a good mother to their child.

Finally Geoffrey touched on how things were between his parents. As he brushed out Firefly's tail, blithely indifferent to the animal's back hooves, he said obliquely, "I used to wonder what my father was like. Mama would never say a word."

"It must have been hard not knowing," was the best comment Gervase could come up with.

"Sometimes. But I could pretend that he was like Lord Nelson or Dr. Johnson or Richard Trevithick or Beethoven."

It was nothing if not a varied list. Bemused, Gervase said, "Reality is never quite as interesting as imagination."

Wide blue eyes glanced up to him. "Reality isn't so bad."

Gervase felt absurdly pleased at the statement. "How do you feel about Aubynwood now that you know you'll own it someday?"

Startled, Geoffrey stopped brushing. "I hadn't thought that far," he said in a small voice. "It's very large, isn't it?"

"Yes, and there are other properties as well," the viscount admitted, "but you should have years to get used to the idea, and to learn your way around." Since his son still looked doubtful, he added, "Just think of all the horses you'll have."

It was the right thing to say. Smiling, Geoffrey went back to work. They had almost finished the grooming when the boy said tentatively, "Mama said you were very angry with her."

The easy atmosphere vanished. "Did your mother ask you to talk to me?"

"She said not to. But I want to understand what's wrong. Why you didn't care about us at all."

Gervase drew a deep breath and finished cleaning the hoof, then released the horse's foreleg. "I didn't know that I had a son because your mother never told me. Did she mention that?"

There was a stubborn tilt to Geoffrey's jaw. "Yes, but you knew you had a wife. How could you abandon Mama?"

Gervase knew that Geoffrey would not take kindly to aspersions cast on his mother, but it was impossible to speak calmly of her. "What did she tell you?"

"That you didn't really want to be married to anybody." Then, his tone accusing, Geoffrey added, "She said everyone makes mistakes, and not to blame you. So why are you blaming
her?"

Gervase's mouth tightened.
 
Diana had been too clever to poison Geoffrey's mind against his father in an obvious way. Her facade of long-suffering generosity was far subtler and harder to combat. "We will not talk about your mother."

When Geoffrey opened his mouth, Gervase performed his first really parental act by saying sharply, "Don't."

In spite of the rebellious gleam in his eye, Geoffrey obeyed. Gervase laid a blanket over Firefly and tied the straps. "I have to go in now. Would you like to go riding tomorrow morning? There's a new pony you might like to try."

"Yes, sir, I'd like that." Geoffrey was polite, even enthusiastic, but as the boy turned and left the stable, it was clear that his allegiance lay firmly with his mother. Not surprising; when Gervase was eight, he had adored his own mother, not knowing or understanding that she was a monster. He prayed that when the time came, his son's disillusion would not be as devastating as his own had been.