James was asleep by the time she finished the tale. Looking at his small, softly breathing form, she felt a stirring of...something. Tucking the covers more securely around his shoulders, she slipped from the room.
That had not been so very hard, as long as she avoided looking at the forehead and jaw so reminiscent of...him. She did not want to spoil the mild warmth she’d felt by even thinking the name. It had been almost like recapturing some of the sweetness of her own long-ago childhood, when she’d felt safe and cherished.
Regardless of whether or not she could revive her own emotions, she would do her best to give her son that security.
As she returned to the parlour, the clock struck half-past eight. Apprehension flared in her gut.
Walking to the mirror, she began breathing methodically, until she’d achieved a state of detachment.
She’d do better tonight, she reassured her image. Alastair Ransleigh had shown himself even more susceptible to her touch than she was to his. She had only to begin at once, to use his sighs and gasps to gauge what ministrations affected him the most, and continue them with all the vigour and imagination she could devise until he was so sated by pleasure, he had neither thought nor strength to attempt touching her. Then take her leave, before he recovered.
She would do that tonight, and for however many nights she must until, inevitably, he became bored with her and ready to move to the next conquest.
Her vow to him fulfilled, she could then concentrate fully on reaching out to James—and decide how best to protect him.
But now, there was Alastair. Giving her impassive image one last look, Diana rose to summon a sedan chair.
Without her mirror friend to reassure her, Diana had lost a bit of her self-assurance by the time she reached the rendezvous. She arrived before the hour specified, hoping to go up to the bedchamber and ready herself, but the impassive servant who admitted her indicated that Mr Ransleigh was already in residence, and would join her in the parlour.
She damped down an initial flicker of alarm as she followed the man into that reception area. The bedchamber would have been easier, allowing her to implement her plan immediately.
Perhaps their sojourn in the parlour was meant to maintain some veneer of propriety for the servants’ sakes, though since there could be no doubt of the purpose for which she, and this house, had been procured, it seemed rather a superfluous effort. No lady worthy the name would ever meet a single gentleman at his abode, day or night.
Before she could consider the matter further, the door opened and Alastair walked in.
She sucked in a breath, struck by a wave of attraction and longing. He’d always had a commanding presence, his tall, broad-shouldered figure standing out from the others, even as a young collegian. Time had magnified the sense of assurance with which he carried himself, the air of command reinforcing it doubtless a result of his years with the army and his current role as manager of the large estate he’d inherited.
The dark hair was still swept back carelessly off his brow—she couldn’t imagine the impatient Alastair she’d known ever becoming a dandy, taking time over his appearance—and the skin of his face was a deep bronze, a result of much time in the saddle under the hot Peninsular sun, she assumed.
The most notable change between the young collegian she’d loved and the man standing before her was the network of tiny lines beside his eyes—and the coldness in their dark-blue depths that once had blazed with warmth, energy and optimism.
For that chill, she was undoubtedly much responsible.
Suddenly realising she’d been staring, she dropped her gaze. ‘Good evening, Alastair. Shall we proceed upstairs?’
‘No need to rush off,’ he returned. ‘Let me pour you some wine.’
She almost blurted that she’d just as soon get straight to it. Clamping her teeth on the words, she nodded before calmly saying, ‘As you wish.’
So they were to have civility tonight. She could manage that, and bide her time. Especially since, if he meant this to give the appearance of a cordial call, he was unlikely to try to seduce her in the downstairs parlour.
Slow, easy breaths, she told herself, accepting the glass of wine he offered, taking a tiny sip—and waiting. She might not force the issue, but she certainly didn’t mean to draw out this nerve-fraying delay by initiating a conversation.
‘I brought you something,’ he said, startling her as he broke the silence. He walked to the sideboard to collect a package and offered it to her. ‘I hope you’ll like it.’
‘Brought me something?’ she echoed, surprised and vaguely uncomfortable. ‘You don’t need to get me anything.’
‘Nevertheless, I did,’ he replied. ‘Go ahead, open it.’
She accepted the parcel, willing her heartbeat to slow.
‘I’ve brought you something...’ How many times during their courtship had he said that, his blue eyes fixed on her as he offered a bunch of flowers, a book he thought she’d enjoy, a new poem rolled up and secured by a pretty ribbon?
Breathe in, breathe out. Aware her hands were trembling, she fumbled to unwrap the parcel. And found within an elegant wooden box containing a sketchbook, a set of brushes and an assortment of watercolours.
‘I understand you came to Bath in a hurry, and might not have had time to pack any supplies,’ he offered by way of explanation. ‘I know how much you hate to be without your sketchbook and paints.’
So unaccustomed was she to having anyone give a thought to her desires, she found herself at a complete loss for words. While she tried to think of something appropriate to reply, Alastair said, ‘Perhaps you could paint me something.’
‘You are...very kind. But I’m sure I couldn’t produce anything worth looking at. I...I haven’t touched a brush in years.’
His eyes widened in surprise. ‘You don’t paint any more? Why did you stop? Not lack of time, surely! I should think, in a duke’s establishment, there would have been plenty of servants to see to the housekeeping and care for the child.’
Unprepared and not good at dissembling, she fumbled for a reply. ‘Paints were...not always available.’
‘What, was the Duke too miserly to provide them?’ he asked, a sarcastic edge to his voice.
Not wanting to explain, she said, ‘Something like that.’
Caught off balance, her guard down, the memory swooped out before she could prevent it.
One of the first afternoons at Graveston Court, despondent after having been summoned to the Duke’s bed the night before, she’d taken refuge in one of the north-facing rooms and set up her easel. Trying to shut out her misery, she focused her mind on capturing the delicate hues of the sunlit daisies in the garden outside.
She had no idea how long she worked, lighting candles when the natural light faded, but when a housemaid found her, the girl had been frantic, insisting she come at once and dress, as she was already late for dinner.
The Duke said nothing when she arrived, merely looking pointedly at the mantel clock. But when she returned to the room the next day to resume her work, easel, paints and all had disappeared.
She’d asked the housekeeper about them, and was referred to the Duke. Who told her that when she could appear at dinner on time and properly attired, he might consider restoring them to her.
She’d never painted again.
She looked up to see Alastair regarding