TemptressofTime (17 page)

Walker, on the other hand, stood straight and still as a
corpse in full rigor. Only his eyes moved, raking her from head to booted feet
and back again, their dark depths stripping her naked. Her heartbeat raced. Her
mouth went as dry as dust while her pussy seeped juices over her folds.

Damnation! She hadn’t even gotten to the best part, where
she removed her waistcoat and made her breasts jiggle so the men would know she
wasn’t wearing any underpinnings. How unfair was it that Walker had only to
look at her to make her ready to bed him?

Attempting to distract herself from lust, she imagined how
she must look to them.

She’d tied a crimson ribbon around her hair, creating a
waterfall of curls down her back. Margaret had trimmed her bangs, leaving them
long enough to tangle in her eyelashes if she tilted her head down to rest her
chin on her chest. Wispy corkscrew curls dangled in front of her ears like an
insubstantial veil worn solely to entice a lover to strip it away.

Her crimson waistcoat, heavily embroidered with gold dragons
and bright-pink peonies, hid her sheer linen shirt. Knowing she needed to draw
attention to her lack of corset and binding, she strode to the cue rack. With
one hand holding the vest aside, she studied the cues, selecting one after the
other until she found one that could have been crafted especially for her.
Since no one was playing a game, she leaned over the billiard table and ran the
cue through her thumb and forefinger like a cock plumbing a pussy.

Aware of several indrawn breaths, she decided the men needed
a more flagrant display. Resting the cue stick against the table, she shrugged
off her waistcoat then handed it to the young lordling who’d flirted with her
earlier. His gold-flecked brown eyes flicked to her breasts clearly outlined by
the shirt she’d tucked into her hip- and leg-hugging britches. To give the
young devil his due, his gaze soon returned to her face and, before turning to
fold her waistcoat over a nearby chair, he winked.

Smothering an impulse to smile, she rolled her shoulders.
Which made her breasts jiggle and the young men groan louder than before.

“Get out,” Walker said without so much as a glance at anyone
but her.

“It’s my house,” she reminded him, knowing the order was to
the other men—even Adrian.

“Then
you
tell them to leave,” Adrian said, his voice
and expression claiming his right to stay as well.

“Afraid to let these gentlemen watch you lose to a woman?”
Ignoring Adrian’s growl, Diane studied the billiard table and swallowed a
dismayed gulp. Two white balls and one red one sat in various locations on the
smooth green felt. At least the felt was familiar. So were the balls
although—when she played snooker at her parents’ club—she remembered there
being more balls in play, including a pink one.

Okay.
Maybe winning here wouldn’t be as easy as she’d
imagined. Still, she knew enough about angles and bank shots to score a few
points at least. And some of the rules flitted through her mind. After lagging
to see who would break—in snooker, who’d take the first shot—the idea was to
hit the opponent’s ball and sink it. What she couldn’t remember was which ball,
the red or the other white one, belonged to the opponent. Did she need to hit
the red ball when she hit the second white one?
Damnation
, she wished
she could remember.

A way to solve her problem occurred and she said, “Please
finish your game, gentlemen.” She directed the comment to Walker and Adrian as
she sauntered to the brandy decanter and clean snifters on a marble-topped
sideboard. Spotting an oblong crystal box along with another holding long matches,
she lifted the lid on the first.

Wow, so this is where they’d gotten the cheroots!
Another opportunity for her to shock all the men. Especially Adrian who still
stood there with his chest puffed out like…oh, someone or something stuffy.

As for Walker…he still stood as still as a corpse. Not that
she’d ever seen a real live—um, dead—person. His eyes, however, glittered with
a
dare you
gleam.

Allowing herself a small smile, she lowered her lashes and
eased a cheroot from the box. In her peripheral vision a man’s hand removed a
match, lifting that container to expose the striking surface. Her smile
widening, she raised a cheroot to her mouth while looking at Walker as she took
a deep drag then blew out the match her young swain had held for her.

Adrian growled again. Walker just grinned.

“Your game, my lords,” she said, narrowing her eyes against
the sting of cigar smoke and the burn in her throat and lungs. Taking a sip of
brandy only made the fire burn worse. This time she met the young lordling’s
amused eyes and smiled at him.

“I know you don’t mean anything, Lady de Bourgh. Should you
change your mind, however, I am more than willing to serve you.”

She nodded, murmuring a soft, “thank you”.

Sketching a brief bow, he headed for the cue rack, saying,
“I believe the next game is mine, Your Grace.”

Darling boy, giving me the chance to observe how the game
is played.
Perhaps she might take him as a lover after all. Any woman
worthy of the name would appreciate a man attuned to her feminine needs.
Especially if he knew how to meet her sexual needs as well.

Crushing out the cheroot, she made her way back to the
billiard table, then leaned against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other.
Adrian glared at her, but she focused on Walker as he lined up his shot and, of
course, sank both the red and white balls. At last Adrian gave her a half-grin
as he tallied the score.

Not to be outshone, Lord Jason Leveson—his name whispered by
a crony watching her more than the game—returned the scoring favor, giving
Diane more opportunity to study the tactics each man employed to leave his
opponent snookered—or as close as one could get with only three balls on the
table. Since one had to hit the balls in a certain sequence, the game was more
difficult than a novice would credit.

“Your turn, Lady de Bourgh,” Lord Leveson said a long while
later, strolling from the room with a brief salute and a cheeky grin in her
direction. His friends followed him out.

Diane retrieved her cue stick from the rack, once again
testing its weight and balance.
Sweet.
Advancing to the pool table, she
rolled one white ball to the baulk cushion. With a quick glance to see where
Walker was, she bit her tongue to keep from laughing. Walker stood at the head
of the table, one leg hip-cocked, his tight breeches showing off his manly
assets to perfection.

Two could play at that game. Bending over the table, her
billowing neckline revealed an expanse of her chest and breasts. In case anyone
stood behind her, she wiggled her ass. To her chagrin Walker threw back his
head and let out a roar of laughter.

Adrian, looking puzzled, joined in Walker’s laughter, then
said, “Let the game begin.”

Chapter Thirteen

“I believe Lady de Bourgh is foxed,” Adrian observed,
wending a serpentine path from the billiard table to a chair halfway across the
room.

Diane used her cue stick to steady herself. “If you mean
befuddled or confused…I admit to that. On the other hand…” She leaned against
the billiard table side. “If you mean drunk—hic—I believe I am that as well.”

Not surprising since they’d imbibed from late afternoon to
these early morning hours. Her servants had brought foods—mostly cheeses,
thin-sliced roast beef, some chicken legs and breads—that required using damp
and dry towels to keep the cue sticks clean. From time to time, her guests
wandered in to take their leave. At first she offered to see them off, but she
sounded so disinterested, her butler soon took over on her behalf. More fodder
for the London scandal rags.

The Marchioness of Goldsborough could not bother to see
her guests to her door let alone to their carriages. One can only speculate
which game held her attention—billiards or her noble and handsome adversaries?

The thought of her salacious behavior
now
when
compared to her past brought on a giggling fit. Which in turn became quiet sobs
of self-pity. Men didn’t have to worry about their reputations. In truth, it
seemed men were expected to sow their wild oats both before and after marriage.
Women on the other hand…

Remembering the fortuneteller’s words, she wailed. “I don’t
belong here.” Doubled over her knees, tears sliding down her cheeks and
dribbling off her nose and chin, she sobbed louder.
Pathetic. Ignoble.
Ignominious.
She never giggled, seldom cried, but this…this life, not even
her own, had reduced her to sobs.

Two sets of hands helped her straighten. Four strong arms
guided her to a chair. One snowy linen handkerchief appeared in her hand. A
brandy snifter wafted under her nose like fiery smelling salts. Shoving it
away, she swiped at her tears, aware of the men hovering over her while clearly
not having a clue what to do for or with her.

At last they hunkered at her knees and patted them.

“What do you mean,” Walker said, his voice so gentle her
tears fell harder, “you don’t belong here?”

Glaring at him, she muttered, her tone accusing, “That’s
what the Gypsy shouted at me…in the fortuneteller’s tent. And don’t claim you
don’t remember! You were there—both of you! Just like you were there when
that…that other Diane had wanted to throw the Days off de Vesay’s property
and…” All through her tirade her tears fell as if that other woman had saved
them for centuries and only now let them out. This Diane continued to swipe
them away.

Gape-mouthed, the men stared at her as if she’d lost her
mind. Yet they darted glances at one another that all but shouted they did know
what had happened.
Confound it, they likely know what will happen next!

Knowing hysterics only made them more disinclined to give
her straight answers, she repeated in a more reasonable tone, “I don’t belong
here.” That phrase had worked for the seer, yet not for Diane in the here and
now. Perhaps she should click her heels and repeat Dorothy’s words from
The
Wizard of Oz
—“There’s no place like home.” Or she might say to the men, “
You
don’t belong here,” the exact words the crone had said to her. Except…what if
Walker and Adrian disappeared? What would she do then?

She pushed that horrifying thought aside. Given time she
could—and would—get herself out of this predicament. In the meantime…

“Oh, do get up!” she snapped at them.

Seeming grateful, they stood, looking undecided about what
to do next.

“I have questions I believe you can answer,” she went on,
waving them to nearby chairs. They sat, their long legs stretched out, feet
crossed over ankles.
Damnation
, she wished she could sprawl like that
and still look elegant. How in hell they could look so damn relaxed when she
wanted to pull out her hair added to her growing frustration. Moreover, with
her eyes no doubt puffy from crying, her hair no doubt sticking out in a dozen
directions, her shirt pulled out and sagging around her hips, a pretty picture
fell beyond her ability to produce.

“Can your questions wait until we’ve slept?” Adrian’s wide
yawn had both Walker and her yawning as well.

“Not all of them, no.” Her tears seemed to have washed away
the effects of alcohol from her system, leaving her calmer, stronger, fit to
face whatever else she must face.

“First, I want to know my late husband’s name.” She looked
from one to the other, then focused on her hands folded in her lap. “First and
last names.”

When they remained silent, she glanced up and intercepted
that silent communication men were so adept at. No eye rolls, thank God, but
quirked brows, thinning lips or puffed-out cheeks that apparently made sense to
them.

“David St. Clare,” Adrian muttered.

“No title? A plain Mr. David St. Clare?” she asked in so
mild a tone it surprised her. Still… Despite her incredible situation, she
retained her ability to think. For the most part rationally.

“An honorary
Sir
,” Walker provided, sounding as if
he’d swallowed something vile. Looking down his aristocratic nose at her and
her mere mortal
Sir
spouse, no doubt. “He apparently did something in
the way of spying for the Crown, so the king knighted him.”

“Any clue as to why I married Sir David St. Clare?” Whatever
that
something in the way of spying
was, Diane found it both exciting
and appealing. Small wonder the woman had married him.

“Perhaps because you—and he—were caught in a compromising
position?” Adrian’s cheeks flushed red and his gaze jittered away.

“
In flagrante delicto?
”

“No,” Walker told her, “but almost.” His gaze shifted to
somewhere behind her then back to her face. “Marrying him was the most
conventional thing you’d done in your life. The
haut ton
speculated you
were in the family way and married him to give the child a name.”

Diane snorted. “According to my maid, I refused to take his
name and insisted any children would bear mine.”

“You believed a servant?” Adrian said.

“So far Margaret is the only person who’s told me the
truth!”
And I know this, how? Margaret could have lied to me as well.
But at least her lies—if any—made sense. Neither Diane had bowed to
conventional rules in her previous lives, so why would she in this one?
Believing a servant over lords suited her rebellious personality.

“How could he afford to keep a mistress?” she wondered
aloud.

Both Adrian and Walker cleared their throats.

“A question whose answer lies in speculation,” Walker said
as he stood to stretch.

Even with his shirttail hanging out and his shirt laces half
undone, he resembled a great, dark cat. When his half-hooded gaze caught hers,
her breath caught in her throat and her heart fluttered like a schoolgirl with
her first crush.

Adrian’s hand on her shoulder added to the flame Walker had
kindled.

“Damnation! I am not going to bed you,” she vowed. For once
her voice held no hint of lust. “Neither one nor both together.” She wanted
answers and she wanted them now. Arms akimbo, she glared at them. Encountering the
wings on her wingback chair, she tucked her elbows to her side.

“Yet you intend to bed Leveson.” Adrian’s stormy gaze
betrayed an anger his mild voice kept hidden.

“I haven’t decided.” Whether she bedded the lordling or
didn’t was none of their business. Realizing her swearing betrayed her growing
frustration, she gulped a deep breath.

“Before you do decide, I suggest a contest,” Walker drawled,
his tense posture at odds with his flippant tone.

Why did it matter to either one of them who she bedded? Had
the fortuneteller told the truth? Did Walker and Adrian have lessons to teach
her? Had she lessons to teach them? And if so, what?

“What kind of contest?” she demanded, her chin thrust
upward. A quizzing glass would have served her better, but with none at hand,
an imperious look would have to suffice.

“A contest to prove which of us best meets your needs.”
Walker’s hip-cocked pose announced he already knew the victor.

“Ahh, but such a contest means I must bed you before I can
determine the winner.” And
best meets
implied the contest would include
Jason. She wasn’t certain how she felt about that. Lord Leveson seemed so very
young and yet… Besides, she wanted answers, not the distractions they seemed
intent upon using instead of telling her the truth. But being the object
desired by three handsome men flattered her ego. She liked the idea so much she
decided to let them distract her. She’d get her answers later. If all else
failed she’d resort to pillow talk.

“Then
I
must first win your consent to bed you,” Adrian
countered, his challenge directed at Walker.

Walker’s chuckle contained a large dose of skepticism that
Adrian could fulfill his vow to Diane. He said, “We can set the rules
after
we’ve had some sleep.”

Diane’s hackles rose. She would set the rules or she’d
refuse to play the game.
Even if not playing means I can’t go home?
She’d think about that possibility later. Or not at all if it might jinx her
and keep her prisoner here.

“The first rule being, neither of you will do anything to
eliminate Leveson from the competition,” she said. “I alone shall determine if
any of you
might
win.”

With that, she rose then left them to argue or plot as they
wished. So long as they did not provoke a duel, she didn’t care what they did.
If they wouldn’t answer her questions, they could damn well sleep alone!

* * * * *

To Diane’s surprise, she awoke with a clear head, a calm
stomach and renewed determination to get out of this mess. True, she’d eaten
enough last night to absorb most of the alcohol she’d drunk, but not having a
hangover left her grateful for small favors.

She had a vague recollection of confronting Walker and
Adrian about their shared pasts. Unable to recall exactly what she said or how
they’d responded triggered the beginning of a headache. She headed for her
bathtub.

After a long soak and several cups of hot chocolate, she
felt ready to face what remained of the day. The house seemed quieter than
usual, as if the servants went about their duties on tiptoes and whispered
instead of speaking in normal voices. Which, had she the hangover she’d
expected, would have suited her just fine. Suspecting His Grace and de Vesay
hadn’t fared as well, she wished someone would rattle keys or break a vase or
beat a drum… Anything that would cause the men discomfort.

Before her spitefulness got the better of her, she dismissed
it. Emotions like those belonged to that other Diane—
she
was striving to
become a better person.

A soft knock on her hallway door announced Jason Leveson’s
expected arrival. Earlier, she’d sent Margaret with a request that the young
man pay a visit. A
private
one, she’d stressed to her maid, certain the
lordling would read a sexual invitation in the words—and equally certain he
would accept.

Standing, she pulled the lapels on her dressing gown a trifle
wider, exposing the creamy flesh of her upper breasts, then bade her visitor to
enter.

Dressed impeccably in buckskin breeches, bottle-green coat
over a gold-and-pale-green waistcoat, his cravat the perfect height and fold,
he looked in shiny good health. But then, why wouldn’t he? Having retired at a
reasonable hour, he’d had a good night’s sleep.

Clear-eyed and bushy-tailed.
She forgave him for his
Brutus-styled hair needing a trim and for his gold-flecked brown eyes roaming
with obvious appreciation over her body. She quelled the impulse to preen. Her
breasts showed quite enough and when she sat, her dressing gown parted to
reveal an expanse of knee and thigh that made the young man swallow an audible
gulp.

“Please, sit.” She settled her robe around her legs and
gestured for him to take the seat opposite her settee. “I have a boon to beg of
you, Lord Jason.”

“Jason will suffice, if you wish, milady.”

“I wish that very much…Jason. And you must call me Diane. At
least when we are private, as we are now.”

His nod settled the matter of names. “As to the boon…I
believe I know what you want of me, my—Diane, and I grant it.”

“That’s kind of you, Jason, but let me ask it of you anyway.
I want no misunderstandings between us.”

“As you wish. Diane,” he added as if testing the texture of
her name, perhaps in a way tasting it and her.

Drawing and expelling a soft breath to regain her suddenly
scattered composure, she said, “I want you to flirt with me as you did
yesterday.”

Leaning back, he rested his elbows on the arms of his chair,
then made a show of crossing his left ankle over his right knee, providing her
an almost straight-on view of his ample manly attributes.

“I believe you require somewhat more than soulful glances,”
he said, favoring her with a look that made her fear her dressing gown had
caught fire.

“How did you arrive at that conclusion?” She sounded sharper
than she’d intended and smiled to take any sting from her words.

“‘Tis difficult to ignore one’s elders, even when they speak
as if one isn’t in the room.”

Ignoring a hint of bitterness in his voice, his slight
emphasis on
elders
widened her smile. “
I
am your elder, as well,”
she admitted with an arched eyebrow. If he compared her to fine wine or claimed
older women were grateful for any attention, she’d box his ears then send him
to pack.

“What is a year or two between friends?” he said, his gaze
rising from her breasts to her face. “After all, His Grace and de Vesay are far
older than we. Yet we enjoy their company.”