Devilish Page 0,38
with you, my lord. My maid, of course, would share the coach."
"And my valet." A neat parry. Almost as if he might fear assault by her.
"And I would require my own servants and baggage, so at least one more coach and a baggage cart."
"But of course."
She nodded. "Then we should be able to leave by noon."
He looked at her, and truly those dark eyes were capable of expressing an elusive but comforting warmth. He took her hand and raised it to his lips. "I will stand your friend, Lady Arradale, my word on it. And send you home again safe, still free to fly."
She let her hand linger in his for a moment, relishing the warmth and truly regretting the kiss he would not allow. "I resent needing your protection, you know."
His lips twitched. "An almost universal emotion," he remarked, and releasing her hand, he returned to his own room.
Diana stood for a moment, gazing at the door, but stroking the hand he had kissed with the other. So, this wasn't the last night after all, and soon they would be together as never before, for days. She wasn't sure what would come of that, or what she wanted.
With a sigh, she took off her robe, extinguished her candles, and climbed into the big bed, where a sudden fit of shivering overtook her. To be declared insane! She lived in a modern age, and in a nation where the power of kings was supposed to be curtailed by his lords and commons, and yet she was at risk. If not for the Marquess of Rothgar she could be at very serious risk.
She thanked heaven for him, for the events that had tangled his family with hers, but at the same time, as she had said, she resented it. It was so unfair that her sex created such problems. Perhaps she resented and feared most the fact that when she'd asked for the kiss, it had not been lust, or even curiosity. It had been something deeper, a sense of common cause and understanding. That silken thread, grown strong and warm.
She was fascinated by the Marquess of Rothgar, and he saw her as nothing but another dependent needing his protection.
One thing was sure. Despite her teasing, she would do nothing to risk him having to make the ultimate sacrifice and marry her. Returning home a virgin countess, free to rule again in the north was one thing. Returning home Lord Rothgar's virgin bride was surely more than her overwrought and frustrated senses could bear.
Rothgar had sent Fettler off to his bed before visiting the countess. His valet was extremely discreet, but there was no reason to test the poor man beyond bearing.
He undressed without assistance. Absurd to have servants to do such things for him except that it was expected and provided worthwhile employment. All was image. Sometimes he felt an urge to rebel, but he'd put that sort of rebellion behind him long ago.
At his father's graveside, in fact.
As he untied his cravat and the ribbon tying back his hair, his eyes came to rest on the small portrait of a child that hung above the white marble fireplace, and he strolled over. Reluctantly. He'd spent too much time looking at the picture as it was.
Though there was no indication of the artist, it was excellently done. It captured a young child in a natural pose, sitting on a grassy bank, holding two restless kittens in plump arms. The dark blond curls were doubtless silky, because the blue ribbon that was supposed to hold them back had slipped to one side. Her simple white dress was rucked up, showing a stockinged leg from the knee down. The stocking had sagged into rumples around her ankle.
Unconscious or uncaring of disarray, she looked up at the world, rosy with laughter and joy, soft lips parted, blue eyes twinkling. The sort of child anyone would want to pick up and hug.
He became aware for the first time that he was barred from going closer by a cloth-shrouded shape. He'd forgotten - alarming in itself. After the display of the automaton earlier, he'd had it brought here so he could supervise its packing in the morning.
He gently removed the cloth and considered both children.
Identical, though the boy was more solemn. There was even a detail he hadn't noticed before. At the girl's shoulder, a bluebird sat on a branch.
The son who would never be. The daughter who, though perfect in herself, would never be