Tempt me with diamonds, p.6
Tempt Me with Diamonds, page 6
It was a soft, pleasant summer night, and Diana felt herself relax. Rupert, sitting beside her, had an air of complete tranquility, looking out of the window as they drove through the busy evening streets of Mayfair. After a few minutes, he observed casually, “You look enchanting, my dear. Those magnificent rose diamonds have always suited your complexion.”
“They were given to me on my twenty-first birthday,” she responded.
“I know. I was there.” He turned his head, giving her a smiling glance. “A night I will never forget.”
She felt hot blood rush into her cheeks and turned her head sharply away from his gaze. That night had begun this whole mess. “Don’t remind me,” she demanded, her voice low and curt.
He laughed. “Forgive me, Diana, but nothing will be gained by denying the past. We both lived it and we both remember it.”
It was true, of course. But surely he could see they gained nothing either by bringing it up all the time. Any response she would have made died on her tongue as the carriage came to a stop. Davis opened the door and let down the foot step. Rupert jumped down first and extended his hand to Diana. She took it and stepped carefully down onto the cobbled court in front of the Savoy’s glittering façade. Her narrow heel caught in the space between two cobblestones and she was glad of Rupert’s hand, which instantly tightened as she wobbled slightly.
“What ridiculous shoes,” he commented in an unmistakably scolding tone.
“Thank you,” she returned with a sardonic smile, removing her hand from his. Gathering up her skirt in one hand, she stepped delicately through the doors and into the brightly lit foyer. The maître d’hôtel appeared instantly, bowing deeply.
“Colonel Lacey, Madame Lacey. How delightful to see you again. It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed it has, Henri,” Rupert responded easily. “My wife arrived in England only yesterday and her first wish was to sample the delights of the Savoy’s cuisine again after such a long voyage.”
“We are deeply honored, madame.” He bowed once more to Diana. “I have your usual table ready.” He clicked his fingers at a hovering page boy, who hurried to take Diana’s shawl. “Please follow me.”
Diana walked slightly ahead of Rupert into the familiar glitter and gold of the dining room. A discreet buzz of conversation filled the air as they threaded between the tall pillars, beneath the brilliantly faceted crystal chandeliers. She wondered which white-draped table was considered to be theirs because she couldn’t remember dining here a deux with Rupert, although they had frequently been part of large groups of debutantes and their escorts during her come-out season.
The maître d’hôtel stopped at a table in the middle of the dining room. “I trust this is to your liking, sir . . . madame?”
Diana was about to say she would like a much more secluded spot behind a pillar, and in a corner if possible, but Rupert immediately said it would suit them very well and pulled out a cushioned, gilded chair for her. “My dear.” He smiled and pushed in her chair, before taking his own seat across from her.
“A bottle of the ‘widow’ as usual, sir?”
“Thank you, Henri.”
There was more finger snapping, sotto voce orders issued to an attentive waiter and a bottle of Veuve Clicquot appeared in an ice bucket. The cork popped softly, and Diana watched the creamy bubbles fill her champagne glass, the bottle expertly raised just at the moment the froth was about to spill over the crystal rim.
Embossed menus were placed in front of them, but Rupert waved them away. “We’ll have the oysters and Dover sole . . . on the bone, my dear, or off ?”
“Thank you for asking,” Diana muttered. She smiled at Henri. “Do the work for me, please. And I’d like just brown butter, no capers.”
“Of course, madame.” Henri moved away in stately fashion, the buzz of voices continuing around them.
Diana stripped off her gloves and placed them on her lap. “You seemed very sure of what I’d like to eat,” she said, breaking a warm bread roll.
“It was always your favorite meal,” Rupert replied. “Was I wrong?”
“Actually I had thought to eat snails and roast duck,” she said.
“Fibber,” he accused, laughter enlivening his green eyes. “You hate snails.”
And somehow, Diana could not help an answering glint of amusement in her own eyes. “I do like duck, though.”
“Do you want to change the order?”
She shook her head. “No, I’m content with the sole. Pass the butter, please.”
He gave an exaggerated sigh of relief and passed the glass dish of butter across the table. “Do you see any familiar faces?”
Diana let her gaze roam around the dining room. “A few.” She raised a hand slightly to acknowledge a smiling wave from a woman at a table across the room. “Letty Merriman is over there with a man I don’t recognize, and Peter Mayhew is dining with Beth Carson. How long have they been interested in each other?” This kind of chatter was so familiar, so easy, that for a moment she forgot why they were here and began to enjoy herself as the champagne slid down and her eyes darted around the room.
Chapter Eight
Rupert watched her over the rim of his glass. His instinct had been right. If Diana could be diverted from her grief for her brother, however temporarily, and from the painful, angry memories of their own parting, she could relax, could once again be her old self. The strain had left her eyes, her mouth was soft and full once more, a natural smile on her lips. Her complexion once again glowed as he remembered it, the pallor and drawn look of the last two days vanished.
“What are you looking at?” she asked, suddenly aware of his intent gaze.
“Just you,” he said simply.
Diana couldn’t think of a response and was glad of the diversion when a waiter set in front of her a silver platter where craggy gray shells rested on a bed of ice.
Rupert leaned back a little as the waiter set down his own platter. He raised his glass in a silent toast. Diana followed suit before selecting an oyster. She tipped the opalescent morsel straight into her mouth, savoring the briny juice. “I’d almost forgotten how good they are,” she said, selecting another one. “You miss them in South Africa.”
Nothing more was said until they had finished, then Diana dabbed at her mouth with her napkin and said, “There’s something we have not discussed about this deplorable arrangement you’re insisting on.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, and what is that?”
“Well, it seems to me that, while this pretend marriage suits you and does not in any way prevent you from doing whatever else you wish to do, it raises the question of what I am supposed to do if I wish to take a lover. I don’t intend to live the rest of my life under a vow of chastity. And even more to the point, what happens when I meet someone I want to marry? I’m going to want children . . . did that ever occur to you?” Her voice was low but nonetheless vehement.
So much for social diversion, Rupert reflected ruefully. He hadn’t expected this, or at least not this evening. It was obviously going to come up at some time, but he’d hoped by the time it did, they would have reached a point . . . a point at which the subject was moot. He was beginning now to wonder if that was a pipe dream.
He took a sip of champagne. “I had thought of it, of course. And I assumed, as far as lovers were concerned, we would give each other carte blanche. Obviously, if you’re thinking of marriage, I will make myself scarce.”
“How?” she demanded. “You can’t simply undo a marriage, even if it only exists as a charade. Not without exposing the charade, and I can’t imagine how that would appear to any possible husband.”
“I suggest you leave that to me,” he stated.
Diana swallowed the stream of invective hovering on the tip of her tongue at such a condescending statement and folded her lips tightly as her Dover sole was set in front of her. She drank her champagne in fuming silence until they were once more alone. “Going through the divorce court seems like an unnecessary rigamarole to bring a sham marriage to an end.”
“As I said, if that situation arises, you can leave it to me to sort out.”
“That’s so patronizing,” she exclaimed, her voice low but fierce. “You put me in this impossible situation, one that’s going to ruin my life, and then pat me on the head and tell me not to worry about anything.”
“I didn’t mean to be patronizing, but, sweet heaven, Diana, you do create minefields where they don’t exist.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, and who says they don’t exist? It didn’t occur to you, I suppose, that I might have met someone on the ship?” She hadn’t, as it happened, but she relished the startled look of chagrin in his eyes.
“Did you?” he asked after a moment’s silence.
She wanted to lie, but it wasn’t an untruth she could maintain. He would be bound to notice the conspicuous absence of such a suitor. “No, as it happens. But there are plenty of eligible young men in town at the moment. One might take my fancy at any moment.”
“In that case, my dear, I suggest we suspend this discussion until it happens.”
He turned his attention to his fish with a smile that infuriated Diana as much as his dismissive tone. She set down her knife and fork, laid her napkin on the table, and pushed back her chair. She spoke in an icy undertone. “I can’t sit through this a moment longer, so I am leaving now. I will not draw attention to myself as I leave. If anyone notices me leaving, they’ll assume I’m visiting the cloakroom.” She stood up and left the table before Rupert could react. She walked through the busy dining room and out into the relative peace of the foyer.
“May I call your carriage, madame?” the doorman inquired as she paused to gather her thoughts.
“Call me a hackney, please.” She walked out onto the cobbled court as the doorman blew his whistle to summon a hackney from the line waiting along the Strand.
“For God’s sake, Diana, what d’you think you’re doing?” Rupert stepped out behind her. “Come back inside.”
“If you’re worried about appearances, tell Henri that I’m suddenly unwell,” she said without turning to look at him. “I’m taking a hackney home.”
“No, you are not,” he stated flatly, putting a hand on her arm.
Diana shook him off and stepped away hastily as a hackney bowled up to the hotel’s front entrance. She took a hurried step onto the cobbles, and her heel caught again. This time her ankle twisted, and the thin delicate heel snapped. She stifled a cry of pain and exasperation, clutching a pillar for balance as she lifted her foot clear of the ground. She swore under her breath at the broken heel dangling from her shoe, for the moment forgetting the pain in her ankle.
The doorman, who had opened the door of the hackney, quickly came over to her. “Are you hurt, madame? Let me help you to the carriage.”
“There’s no need for that. And no need for the hackney. My brougham and driver are waiting in the side court. Send someone to fetch them, would you?” Rupert spoke with brisk authority, and the doorman hurried away immediately, leaving Diana clinging to the pillar, unable to countermand Rupert’s orders or walk away herself.
“I am quite capable of getting home on my own,” she hissed through clenched teeth. “Go back and finish your dinner.”
“Don’t be absurd.” He stood beside her until the brougham appeared.
Davis jumped down from the box seat and opened the door. “Are you hurt, ma’am?”
“No, I’m not hurt. My heel’s broken.” Diana pushed herself away from the pillar and half-hopped toward the carriage. She inhaled sharply as Rupert lifted her and deposited her inside the carriage in one fluid movement. “I can manage myself,” she said, aware of the futility of her protests.
Rupert didn’t dignify her statement with a response. He merely settled on the seat beside her and the carriage moved away, under the arch that opened onto the Strand, which at this time of night was teeming with pedestrians and carriages.
They sat in stony silence until Davis drew up before the doors of the house on Cavendish Square. Rupert jumped down and Diana hurriedly inched along the seat toward the carriage door, determined to get out to the ground before Rupert took matters into his own hands again. She should have known better, she thought grimly, as he leaned in and scooped her into his arms, holding her firmly against his chest.
“Dammit, Rupert. Put me down.” She pushed against his chest, but his hold merely tightened. Davis unlocked the front door and opened it wide. Rupert strode into the house, and his batman returned to the box to drive the brougham back to the mews.
The hall was deserted. Of course, she had told Agnes not to wait up for her, Diana remembered. And Barlow, knowing Davis was driving them tonight, would have taken the opportunity for an evening off himself. They were probably both cozily ensconced with Mrs. Harris in the housekeeper’s sitting room, and the dogs would be with them, which left her with no recourse against Rupert at his most commanding. “Put me down,” she demanded again.
“No,” he said calmly, heading up the stairs. “Not yet. I’m enjoying the feel of you.” He shouldn’t be teasing her, Rupert knew, not when she was so vulnerable, but somehow, he couldn’t help himself, and besides, it was perfectly true.
“Oh, you’re insufferable.” It was more than she could bear, and she grabbed at his ear, twisting hard.
“Vixen,” he said appreciatively, turning along the gallery to her bedroom. Shifting her in his arms, he turned the knob and pushed the door open. The velvet curtains were drawn and the gas lamps were lit but turned down to provide a soft light. The coverlet on the bed was folded over, and on the dresser stood a small Primus stove, a saucepan of milk, a cup, and a plate of sweet biscuits.
“Very inviting,” he observed, carrying her over to the bed. “Would you please let go of my ear now?”
Diana’s fingers opened, releasing his earlobe. She looked up at him, at his face bent so close to hers. An arrested expression crossed his countenance, and she was suddenly very still in his arms, a soft flush warming her complexion, her gaze holding his before fixing upon his lips hovering just above hers.
He leaned over and let her slip from his arms onto the bed. For a moment, there was a taut silence in the room, interrupted only by the faint hiss of the gas lamps on the mantel. Wordlessly, he came down on the bed beside her, resting on an elbow. His free hand stroked the contours of her face, and a flood of memory overwhelmed her. How many times had he done that in the past? Her body shifted slightly on the bed, her legs parting slightly, an infinitesimal movement she could not control, one that clearly issued an invitation. She kicked off her broken shoe and pushed the other one off with her free foot, aware only peripherally of the throb of her sore ankle.
Rupert’s free hand drew up the folds of her ivory gown, revealing her long silk-stockinged legs. His hand moved down to cup one knee, then slid slowly up her thigh, his fingers reaching the bare skin above her stocking tops. Diana drew in a sharp breath, her lips parting at the light grazing of his fingers sliding round to her inner thigh.
Imperatively, she lifted her hands to grasp his face and brought his mouth down to meet hers. And when his lips locked with hers, a hot rush of lust stabbed her loins and she reached against him, her body taut and demanding. His lips were hard and yet soft, hot and yet cool, and behind her eyes rose the red mist of desire. There were no questions to be asked in this space and moment, no conflict demanding resolution, no feelings at all except this passionate wanting. And it was all so, so familiar.
Without moving his mouth from hers, Rupert reached up under her skirt and petticoat to loosen the ties of her drawers, pushing them off her as her own fingers scrabbled to help him. Her fingers moved to the buttons of his evening trousers, unfastening them deftly. His penis was hard, pressing upward against her belly, and her fingers eagerly reached inside his loosened trousers, reaching to encircle the hard, throbbing flesh. This was no leisurely lovemaking; it was an impatient demanding act of pure passion, one body seeking the other, groin to groin in an act that resembled a struggle rather than a loving conjunction. They fought together to reach their own personal height, a desperate competition to attain a climax before the intensity of lust peaked and fell. It was a purely selfish battle, and when Diana cried out as the moment came and she seemed to dissolve into a molten puddle, Rupert collapsed, his body heavy on hers, pinning her to the mattress.
Slowly, Diana came back to full awareness. She pushed feebly at Rupert, who instantly rolled off her onto the bed beside her, where he lay with his arm over his eyes, his rapid heartbeat visible beneath the starched folds of his white shirt.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t know how or why that happened.”
“Neither do I,” she responded, imagining what they must look like in this tangle of half-naked limbs and disordered clothing. An indecent spectacle, she decided, and tried to push her skirt down over her thighs, aware as she did so of the sticky residue on her skin. At least Rupert had had the wit to pull out of her before his climax. What a god-awful complication to an already desperate mess.
“I think you’d better go now,” she said after another minute.
He swung himself off the bed, hastily fastening his trousers, tucking in his shirt. “I’m not accustomed to making love in my shoes,” he observed somewhat distantly.
“Was that what that was?” Diana asked. She wanted to cry with confused disbelief. It couldn’t possibly have happened. And yet it had. The stickiness of her thighs, the slight soreness between her legs, the lingering sensation of his fingers grazing her skin all told her so.
“Well, whatever it was, I suggest we both forget it ever happened,” he responded evenly. “You should put a cold compress on that ankle before the swelling gets worse.” He bent to pick up his cloak from the floor, where it had fallen, and walked to the door. “Good night, Diana.” The door clicked shut behind him.
