Paying the Virgin's Price Page 17

  And after he had claimed her with his mouth, he took her, when she was too lost with need to feel the pain, plunging over and over, while she shook with joy, tightening against him, welcoming him in. He shook as well and moaned her name. And then his body went still against hers.

  He pulled her close, and rolled to the side, never leaving her, caressing her back and kissing her face as they lay nestled in the pillows on his bed. He reached to draw a counterpane over them, and whispered, 'My love.'

  And from there, it was too easy, just to fall asleep in his arms.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Where were her gloves?

  On the floor, where he had dropped them? She fumbled over the carpet of the darkened sitting room. The candles had burned away and the fire as well, leaving her cold in the predawn light.

  'Are you all right, Miss Diana?'

  She started, instinctively reaching to straighten her hair, her dress, anything...her hands fluttering over her body as uncontrolled as birds, desperate to assure herself that nothing on the exterior had changed and that the letter of debt was still secure in her pocket, where she had tucked it before creeping from the bedroom to find her cloak.

  The voice had come from behind her, in the hall. The butler, again. If he did not guess the purpose of her visit when she arrived, he could have no doubt now.

  She turned to him, trying to smile, pretending a composure that was not possible. 'All right? Of course, Benton. I am fine.'

  He continued to stare at her, without judgment or disapproval, but with an unusual amount of concern. 'Are you sure, Miss Diana?' A cloud passed over the old man's face. 'He did not hurt you?'

  And suddenly, she was sure that she had but to raise her voice in alarm and Nathan would be dragged from his bed and beaten bloody by his own servants.

  She gave the man another false smile. 'Hurt me? Of course not, Benton. You have nothing to fear on my account. But if you wish, you may help me find a carriage. I would like to return to Lord Narborough's town house. Discreetly, if possible.'

  'Very good, miss. Mr Wardale's carriage is at your disposal. I will see to it at once. And the other glove is under the side table. Allow me.'

  He retrieved the thing for her, escorted her to the front door and stepped outside to arrange for her transport.

  Once inside the carriage, she collapsed on the seat, her legs weak with relief. She was glad that her father had not lived to see this day: his only daughter turned whore to the man who ruined him. But there was some comfort in the remaining loyalty and discretion of the servants. She could see by the look in Benton's eye that he liked this no better than she did, and his sympathy did not lie with his new master.

  Nathan Wardale was still asleep in his bed, with no idea that one of his sisters was alive and well. She had told him nothing, not even the evil hint meant to torment him. Just a few hours ago, she was taking great satisfaction in the fact that she controlled the degree of his suffering. But now, she had become equally to blame for anything that had happened between them. She could pretend that it had been forced upon her by a wicked man who deserved whatever misery she could provide. The first time, perhaps.

  But what had happened, after...

  She felt her legs go weak again. Without parting, they had dozed together for a short time. And she had awakened, restless, all thoughts of vengeance gone. She had pushed at his shoulder, playfully, and then rolled so that he was beneath her. She had kissed his lips, wrapped her legs around his body, and thrust her hips into his.

  He'd returned her kiss. But he made no effort to hold her, although she could feel him growing hard inside her, again. So she'd sat up, straddling him. She'd rocked against him, and he'd bent his knees behind her, supporting her back, then lain back in the pillows and watched her give in to the needs of her own body. He'd guided her fingers, encouraging her to touch herself until she was a slave to the sensation. And then she had ridden him wildly, for her own pleasure. After wave upon wave of ecstasy, she'd clenched her thighs on his body until he'd responded with short, hard thrusts, smiling as he drove himself to exhaustion.

  It had made her feel powerful, to watch him fall asleep beneath her, strong in a way that had nothing to do with vengeance. If this had been a battle, she had emerged victorious. He was conquered. And if she wished, she could celebrate the victory by having him again.

  And then the doubts had begun to creep back in. When she was sure that he would not awaken, she had climbed carefully out of the bed, dressed as though nothing had changed, and taken the IOU. It was at the bedside, just as he had promised. She had closed the door as quietly as she could and started down the stairs.

  And begun to fall apart. Benton was helpful. The carriage driver was polite and the trip short. She had crept back in the Carlow town house, successfully avoiding both servants and family. And now, she was on her way to her room. It was so late as to be almost dawn. She could lie down for a few moments. At least she would stay long enough to muss the bedclothes, so there would be no question of where she had spent the night. And then she would rise, wash, and go about her life as though nothing had happened.

  But first, she would throw the accursed, life-changing piece of paper into the fireplace and watch it burn. She would poke it until there was nothing left but ashes, and then she would poke the ashes until they were dust.

  And finally, she would be free.

  She closed the door behind her, then took the paper out of her pocket, staring at the shaky writing of her desperate father. And she knew that she could no more throw it away than Nathan had. It held no power over her. Perhaps it never had. It was a nothing, a jot, a scrap. It was not a true debt of honour; there had been no honour in the giving of it, or the taking.

  It was a strange, sad reminder of the night when everything had changed. That was why Nathan had kept it, she was sure. Not as a threat, nor a punishment. And never meaning to find her and call it in. He had kept it because he did not wish to forget what had happened, for he did not wish to repeat his mistake.

  It was her own imagination that had turned the paper into a nightmare and turned the man that held it into a monster.

  She turned it over in her hands, folding it along the old creases. Now, it was she who did not wish to forget. This paper had brought her to Nathan Wardale. To his life--and his bed. It would be eminently foolish to go back, now that she had left him, to devote herself to an unrepentant gambler who was no better than her father. But she did not wish to forget her time with him, nor to repeat the mistake of falling in love with a man so utterly inappropriate.

  She took a deep breath, remembering the rush of panic followed by desire, and the deep satisfaction of the previous hours. And the cherished way she had felt when he'd held her afterwards, staring into her eyes. While it had been terrifying, it had been sweet as well. How nice it would be, to have a life full of moments like that.

  But more likely, if she returned to Nathan Wardale, her life would be full of lonely nights, squalling children and an angry and distant husband who cared more for cards than he did for her. She remembered what it had been like for her mother when her father would not leave the tables, and how she had cried when she thought no one would hear. Nathan's luck was bound to change eventually. And then there would be debts, the men who collected them and eventual ruin. Unless she was prepared to see another paper such as this, to be sold when her husband treated her as chattel or to see a daughter similarly treated, she could not go back to him. She need only look at the paper to know why she could never return.

  She would put it away somewhere. In the wardrobe with the bank notes. Or perhaps she could tuck it between the pages of a book and it could lie forgotten.

  There, on the bedside table, was the little book of poetry. And she did not need to open it again to realize where it had come from or to know that the ribbon that marked it was her own. He had taken it from her old bedroom and given it back to her. Without thinking, she had taken the thing up and begun reading wh
ere she had left off, all those years ago.

  He had been trying to tell her the truth. Before the note, before she had sought the journal for him. Even before the first kiss. He had been seeking a way to tell her, as gently as possible, who he was and that she need have no fear. And she had been so set on who she wished him to be that she did not see what was before her very eyes.

  God help her, even if she could not forgive him for what had happened before, he deserved some small credit for trying to find a way to be kind. He had earned a measure of kindness from her in return. It was in her power to end some portion of his suffering, and Nell's as well. But she had kept it from him.

  It made her ashamed. Whatever might happen in the future, no good could come of keeping grudges or offering punishments for ancient mistakes. When Marc brought Nell home from Northumberland, she would find a way to tell her enough of the truth so that she could find her brother again. Diana need never see the man again, of course. That would be too painful for so many reasons. But whatever he had become, he and his sister had suffered in ignorance of each other for long enough. She would not be the one to keep them apart. It was the very least she could do, if she wished to clear her slate with Nathan Wardale.

  So she tucked the note into the book, along with what was left of the money, and tied the whole thing shut with the ribbon, as though it were possible to close off this chapter of her life, perhaps to open it again on a day when the whole story was not so fresh and painful.

  Nate started awake, as though the awareness of a lack was sufficient to disturb him. He had meant to close his eyes for no more than a minute. But he had slept soundly, and now she was gone from his bed. He felt the sheets next to him, trying to decide if they were still warm from the body that had lain beside him. The letter was gone from the dressing table. Damn the thing to hell for all the trouble it had caused him.

  There was a noise in the hall, and he jumped out of bed and threw open the door, eager to catch her before she got to the front door. 'Diana, wait...'

  The startled maid screamed at the sight of him standing naked in the hallway.

  He stepped back and slammed the door again, muttering an apology to the girl through the oak panel. Then he requested, as calmly as possible, that Benton be sent to his rooms immediately. Embarrassed by his own behaviour, Nate returned to the bed, wrapped himself in a sheet and rang for his valet as well.

  Did she not see, after what they had done together, that this was about more than a few words scrawled by her father years before they met? He had done everything in his power to show her, to love her with his body and prove that his words were not lies.

  Yet, she had ignored it and left him. And he felt more desolate than he did after a night at the tables, as though there was nothing and no one in the world to erase the loneliness.

  As the valet dressed him, Benton explained that Miss Price had left before dawn and in rather a hurry. She had requested that he bring the carriage around for her. She had insisted that she was fine and that there was nothing to be concerned about.

  Of course she would. She was always insisting that she was fine, needed nothing, and was perfectly happy. She needed no one. And she did it so convincingly, so placidly, and with not a drop of excess emotion that it took a professional gambler to see she was bluffing.

  The old butler said it all with a distinct air of disapproval. As though it were not clear enough that he found his master's actions towards the young lady near to reprehensible.

  As did Nathan. Damn his own pride for thinking that his skill as a lover would have been enough to hold her. She had made it plain that she detested him and would never forgive what he had done. He must be as base as she thought, if he assumed that she would throw over her deeply held beliefs after a few hours in bed with him.

  And damn again to his promise that he would not seek her out once she left. If he had the honour he claimed, he could not go back on his word. Better to have begged forgiveness at the start. He should have gotten down on his knees before her and pled for another chance. It would have been easy enough. For when he had seen her, resplendent in a pool of green silk, her mouth the same Cupid's bow, and her eyes wide and innocent, he had been a willing supplicant. And then, she had toyed with him...

  Was she an angel or a tormenter? It did not matter. She was perfection. He never should have let her escape.

  As if to reinforce the opinion, his valet tugged so tightly upon his cravat that he was near to choking before the tying was through. It was hardly fair, for the man had not even been a servant of the Price household. He had arrived here along with Nate. But it was clear that he'd chosen to add to the silent chorus of contempt that had been building in this house since the day he'd met Diana Price.

  All the more galling that he deserved what he got from them. Every arch look, every small shake of the head. Every indictment of his character. Every sniff of disapproval. They took his money easily enough, when it was time to collect their salaries. And he continued to play, telling himself that they depended on his gambling to pay their keep. It was his responsibility to continue.

  But how much did he need, really? It had been almost honourable, when he'd had a mother and sisters to protect, however best he could. But once they were lost? He'd gathered enough winnings to support himself in luxury for the rest of his life. Gaming had become nothing more than a way to pass the time until the moment when some loser at the table decided to put a ball through him.

  No more. Perhaps he could not stop going to the tables. For without Diana, what more was there left in his life? But he could stop keeping score. He glanced at the box on the dresser, full of signets, fobs, and bits and pieces of the lives of others. Each one a memory of a life he had changed.

  And none of it all his fault. He had played and won, of course. But they had played as well, knowing that losing was all but inevitable. Did they not deserve some responsibility for their actions? If it was not his fault, then why did he keep the things? What earthly good did it do him to hang on to trinkets that meant nothing to him? And the damned letter. If he had refused it, or given it back? Then he would not be in the mess he was now.

  He might never have met Diana.

  But perhaps that was a good thing. For neither would he have lost her over nonsense. He was tired of being the sin eater for half of London. 'Benton, bring me paper. And string. Some small boxes, perhaps. I wish to post some packages.'

  He gathered up the box and sat down at the writing desk in his room. It was not hard to remember the owners of the things. In many cases, the names were engraved on the items. But the loss of each was firmly engrained on his memory. Here were the diamond studs of a duke, who had sworn he would shoot himself over the loss. And the ruby necklace of the marchioness. She had thought to bargain her favours for another hand, and had stamped her feet and pouted when he'd demanded the necklace instead.

  And now, she could have it back. They could all take the bloody things back. He cared little whether it might be blessing or curse to receive them, so long as he need never see any of it again. His heart felt lighter after each package. And when the box was empty, there was but one thing left.

  He looked up at the butler and grinned. 'Benton. Go to the safe in my study. Bring me the deed to this house.'

  The butler looked rather alarmed at the prospect, but did as he was told. When he had returned with the paper, Nate signed it over, with a flourish--to Miss Diana Price. Then he folded it carefully, sealed it, addressed it to the Carlow house, and put it in the stack with the rest, ready for the morning post.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The few hours of sleep that Diana managed to steal had done nothing to refresh her. The girls must have been out almost as late as she, for when she rose at nine she did not hear them stirring. It was a comfort, for it gave her some small time to prepare for the day, to wipe any traces of the night's activity from her mind. She looked into the mirror, smoothing her expression and her clothing, jabbing the pins into
her hair until it was tight and smooth, with not a strand out of place. When she was through, she was sure that there was not a hint of awareness to give her away to the girls as anything less than the same proper, controlled woman who had watched over them for years.

  As she pushed the last pin in place, there was a sharp rap upon her door. It was Peters the footman, coming to tell her that Lord Stanegate wished her presence in the study, immediately.

  Marcus, here? Had he arrived while she slept, or had he come in the night, before she had crept into the house? She should have recognized that returning to the house without incident was almost too fortunate. Her luck could not hold forever. It now appeared that she would face an interview with her employer's son, on this of all days, when she needed just a few more hours to understand the changes in her life.

  When she came down to the ground floor, the house was abustle with the sudden arrival, as though the staff feared that their exemplary housekeeping was somehow at fault. They were behaving as if to placate a man in a temper.

  She'd have understood it in another house. But here it was most unusual. And that the person who had frightened them into the boughs was Marc Carlow made the situation even more unusual. She hurried to the study to see the reason for it.

  She walked through the open door and felt the change in him almost immediately. He was no longer the happy newlywed who had left London such a short time ago. Instead, he glared at her and snapped, 'Shut the door, Miss Price. We must speak in private.'

  She did as she was told and went quickly to the desk where he sat. 'Is something wrong, Marc? There is nothing the matter with Nell, I trust.'

  'I left her in Northumberland. This matter concerns you, Miss Price, and your behaviour in my absence.'