The Dangerous Viscount (23 page)

She refrained from asking if there were any other men on the proscribed list when it came to her future adultery. Compared to Blake’s, Tobias’s proposal had been a young maiden’s romantic dream.

“How soon can we be married?” Blake asked.

“What do you have in mind?”

“Let me see. I’m expected at Badminton in a day or two. I’ll spend a couple of weeks hunting with the Beaufort, then come back to London and talk to my father, if he’s in town. If not I’ll see him at Mandeville at Christmas. He may kick up a bit of a fuss but he’ll come around. With any luck all the folderol with lawyers and so forth will be taken care of by spring and we can be married before the beginning of the season.”

What an ardent lover she’d pledged herself to! Two weeks with the Duke of Beaufort’s Hunt was clearly more important than discussing his marriage with the Duke of Hampton. She had a feeling Blake wasn’t going to let marriage unduly interfere with his life.
Good. She wouldn’t let it interfere with hers, either. She’d have higher rank, a regular bed partner (when he wasn’t having
recourse
to his mistress), and eventually children.

This, she supposed, was wedded life among the high aristocracy, what she’d always aspired to. And if it was even less like the cozy intimacy of the Montrose family than she’d expected, so much the better. All very polite and fashionable with none of those untidy emotions that made her want to burst into tears.

T
arquin cornered him between two shelves at Mr. Rice’s bookshop. “I’ve been looking for you all over town. At St. James’s Square they keep telling me you’re out.”

“I am. Most of the time.” This was a lie. In the two weeks since he returned to London, Sebastian had spent most of his time brooding in his own library and denying callers.

“God knows where. Certainly not anywhere I’d expect to find you.”

“I’m always pleased to see you.” Another lie. He didn’t want to see anyone ever again, and certainly not Tarquin who must, by this point, be acquainted with what he had done.

At the moment, however, he had no choice. Tarquin blocked his exit and glared at him down his prominent nose. “Why did you do it?”

“What does it matter to you?” he snarled. “Did you suddenly become an archbishop?”

“You’re a damn fool and you’ve behaved like a scoundrel. Let me tell you what I think of men who seduce respectable ladies
and
deceive their friends into helping them.”

Tarquin’s reputation as a supercilious arbiter of manners was well-known, but Sebastian had never been on the receiving end of his snubs. While he could have made the case that Diana had done the seducing, he recognized the argument as specious. He took his medicine in silence like a man.

“And,” Tarquin concluded, “I strongly advise you to keep out of Cain’s way. You’ll be lucky if he only refuses to speak to you. The alternative to the cut direct would be far worse. Cain doesn’t fight nicely.”

Sebastian couldn’t think of anything to say to his friend that didn’t lead back to the same subject, the subject he both longed to broach and avoided like the plague, the object of his constant thoughts.

He wanted to know how Diana was, whether she had remained in the country with the Chases, how she looked, what she said about him. No, not the last. He could guess that.

He didn’t dare ask.

After his verbal thrashing by Tarquin, Sebastian retreated to Gentleman Jackson’s looking for a physical beating. He selected one of Jackson’s assistants, a particularly brutal oaf with a crooked nose and grotesque ears, as a sparring partner. A couple of hours at the boxing saloon rendered him sweaty and bruised but didn’t succeed in driving Diana Fanshawe from his mind.

What he ought to do was leave London and go back to Saxton Iverley, where numerous decisions arising from his great-uncle’s death awaited his attention. Putting three hundred miles between himself and the victim of his misdeed might be healthy. But he simply couldn’t face the great empty mansion.

The only bright spot was another letter from Deaver, who wrote that he was at last ready to sell the Parr prayer book, along with other treasures, including something Sebastian had never seen. He hinted that this would be the last chance and Lord Iverley should act fast or forget the whole matter. But Deaver had toyed with him before. He liked to play games and it wouldn’t be the first time Sebastian had hurried to Kent at his invitation, only to be fobbed off.

The truth was, even the anticipation of filling this important gap in his collection failed to excite him. Armorial bindings had lost their charm. In his library he glanced through the newspaper, unable to get interested in the special parliamentary session for passing repressive measures against a restless populace.

He could just imagine what Minerva would have to say on the subject. He’d enjoy hearing her rant. And watching the indulgent, proud, and slightly exasperated look on Diana’s face as she listened to her sister.

But neither Minerva nor any other member of her family would ever speak to him again.

Tossing aside
The Times,
he opened another newspaper and the name leaped off the page at him.
The Morning Post
reported, in strict order of precedence, notable members of the audience at a performance of
Don Giovanni.
With much of the beau monde leaving town, Lady Fanshawe, the widow of a mere baronet, was quite high on the list. He recalled her mentioning a fondness for opera.

Instead of posting down to Kent, he bought a ticket
to the last opera before Christmas, an interminable performance of
La Clemenza di Tito
featuring a fat soprano in breeches. Sebastian hardly noticed. His attention was fixed on Diana, sitting in a box with the MacFarlands and Blakeney, damn his eyes. As far as he could tell from his seat in the pit, she appeared to be in spirits though pale, just as beautiful as usual, but perhaps not quite so blooming.

The intensity of his gaze must have penetrated her consciousness. Just as the curtain fell for the interval she picked him out of the crowd and their eyes locked for a few seconds. Then she looked away and started flirting at Blakeney over her fan.

The enormity of his error hit him. He was in the pit by himself while Blakeney, lord of all he surveyed, sat in a private box with Diana. The prize. Sebastian had got his revenge, but against the wrong sinner. And the one he’d punished most was himself.

He wished with all his heart that he could return to that moment when he’d asked her if there was going to be a “next time.”

Of course there is.

When she said it his heart had lifted. It hadn’t been too late to halt his revenge. He could have been happy, and enjoyed a lifetime of “next times.” Instead his obstinacy had made him carry through the rest of his plan, mortally insult her, and ensure his eternal misery.

Unless … No. How could she possibly forgive him?

An apology is always acceptable,
she’d once said. In that case the offense was trivial in comparison. Nevertheless, he wouldn’t give up without a fight.

* * *

After being denied for two days, he was admitted to the Portman Square house and shown into the clean, bright, ground-floor sitting room. The fire blazing in the hearth and a forest of candles dispelled the gray late afternoon gloom. She rose to greet him, that maddening perfume wafting across the room. His breath caught at the sight of her and his heart beat a little tattoo.

“I’m pleased you called again,” she said. “I’ve been away from town.”

“I see,” he managed. “I assumed you were refusing to receive me.”

“Why would I do that?”

The unexpected question deprived him of coherent speech. He could read nothing in her face. Neither the justifiable anger he expected, nor the forgiveness he hardly dared hope for. Her expression was entirely blank.

“Won’t you sit down?” She gestured to a chair and settled in its twin, the other side of a mahogany whatnot.

He had no idea how to react to her eerie calm. Instead of reciting his carefully rehearsed apology, like a coward he retreated to small talk. “I trust you are well. How was your journey from Gloucestershire?”

“As tolerable as one can expect at this time of year.”

“Did you spend the night at Hungerford?”

“At The Bear.”

“An excellent hostelry.”

“Indeed,” she said. “The sheets are always dry and they make a particularly good eel pie.” He rather had
the impression she was laughing at him, but not in a friendly way.

“Uh. Did Minerva return to town with you? I’d like to see her.”

She smiled faintly. “My sister is here. I won’t send for her. She doesn’t reciprocate your desire.” Finally a hint of steel. Regret pierced him at the confirmation that Minerva knew about his behavior, and had no doubt told Diana about the little secret they shared.

“I’m sorry about the highwayman,” he said.

“Such a splendid joke. You must have been most amused to see me so thoroughly taken in.” He welcomed the edge of anger in her voice, wished she’d berate him as he deserved, instead of treating him with this maddening indifference. But her face regained its previous unearthly tranquility.

With an elegant shrug she took an embroidery frame from the second shelf of the whatnot, exposing a leather bound book. It was second nature for him to pick it up. His head reeled.

Dark red polished calf glowed like young wine. In the center of the cover the royal coat of arms was instantly recognizable. And at each corner a Tudor rose was tooled, together with the interlocked letters
H
and K. There was no need to open the book to know what he’d find. He looked up in disbelief.

“I see you’ve noticed my latest acquisition. I thought you’d appreciate it. It’s a prayer book, you know. A wedding gift from Henry VIII to his last wife, Katherine Parr.”

“So I see,” he said grimly.

“I found it in Kent, during a visit to my estate there.”

He hadn’t believed it when told she was out of London. For the first time in years he’d been outmaneuvered in his pursuit of a book.

“How?” he croaked. “No one except me knew Deaver had it.”

“You underestimate my friend Juliana’s deductive abilities.”

Diana wasn’t the only woman dealing in revenge this afternoon. Other chickens had come home to roost.

He replaced the book on the shelf. “I’m surprised Lady Chase isn’t here to witness my defeat.”

“She’ll be sorry to miss it. But I shall be sure to give her a full report. By the way,” she continued. “I asked Lord Deaver why he hadn’t sold you the book. I gather you’ve visited him several times over the past five years and he seemed unimpressed with your powers of persuasion. I, on the other hand, found him quite amenable.”

A spark of anger kindled. “I’m intimately acquainted with your powers of persuasion …”

“Tsk. I think you should stop before you say something you regret, Lord Iverley. You really don’t want to insult me again. All I meant to imply was that you hadn’t offered him enough money. Let me show you another little treasure I
persuaded
Deaver to sell.”

Sebastian was fairly certain he wasn’t going to like what came next. He had the impression she followed a carefully prepared script, that from the moment he walked into the room he’d been her puppet.

She opened a deep drawer in the whatnot and extracted another volume. At a glance he could tell the
binding was even older than the Katherine Parr, late fifteenth-century.

“What is it?” he asked, dry-mouthed, about to learn the nature of Deaver’s secret treasure.

Without letting him touch it she showed him the dark blind-stamped pigskin then opened it to the first page. He recognized the famous book at once.

“The Caxton Chaucer,” he said. “The first printed edition of
The Canterbury Tales.”

“Yes, it’s a very important book,” she said, for all the world as though she’d ever heard of a first edition before he’d instructed her in the library at Mandeville. “But what will particularly appeal to you is its history. You see, Lord Iverley, it belonged to Elizabeth Woodville.”

King Edward IV’s wife. It would be the crown jewel of his collection. And if he’d never met Diana Fanshawe it could have been his. Since his uncle’s death he had the means to meet Deaver’s doubtless extortionate price.

“What do you want for it?” he said. “How much?”

“Really Lord Iverley! I wouldn’t expect you to be so crude in your approach. As though one could put a monetary value on such a treasure.”

“I’ll warrant Deaver did.”

“That is true. But you and I are beyond such mundane considerations. The worth of these books is not to be measured in gold.”

“What do you want?” His mouth parched, he could scarcely get the words out.

She replaced the book in the drawer and pretended to give consideration to his question, but he could

tell it was playacting. She knew what she wanted.

“Neither is for sale. I have decided I shall give them to my future husband as a wedding present. Most appropriate in the case of Katherine Parr’s volume, don’t you think?”

He was unable to credit the implications of her statement. Did she expect him to offer her marriage? A wild hope fought disbelief. He wanted to marry her, and not just to gain possession of the books.

He wanted her for her warmth, kindness and wit; for the way she surrounded herself with beauty and comfort; for the intelligence and curiosity she’d inherited from the most interesting family he’d ever encountered. And, not least, because he wanted to share her bed, all night and every night.

Or perhaps she lured him to propose to her so she could turn him down flat. If so, he could scarcely blame her.

“Your future husband?” he said cautiously.

She beamed at him, her smile at its most radiant, her eyes dreamy with desire.

His heart stood still. He desperately wished to believe in the promise of those eyes.

“You shall be the first to congratulate me,” she said. “No one else knows, but you are a member of the family, after all. I am engaged to Blakeney.”