neck. "Take me!"
He obliged, and at least took her hungry, perfumed mouth, though he was not at all fond of patchouli. Her hands began to work frantically at the buttons of his waistcoat.
He seized them. "Slowly, madame, slowly. I am a man who likes to drink pleasure's cup one sip at a time..."
Sitting bolt upright on a chair in her bedroom, Diana seethed with restlessness. What was going on? What should she do?
She'd set her own servants to watching, and knew the doctor had visited, found nothing particularly wrong, and left. She also knew that the marquess had taken the Frenchwoman, swooning, to his private dining room.
Why? She could guess. In his place, she too would want to find out exactly what the de Couriacs were up to. A little part of her, however, still worried that he'd been sucked into the viperous woman's coils. The urge to rush to interrupt was almost uncontrollable, but she did control it.
She had a man watching de Couriac's room who would tell her if the Frenchman began to stir.
It was surely folly to think that the marquess was putting himself in danger, especially after her warning, but she couldn't just ignore it and go to bed.
She was not, she told herself, upset at the thought of what might be going on in the dining room next door. Not at all. She didn't deny curiosity - she'd give a great deal for a hole in the wall - but that's all it was.
Not jealousy. She could never be jealous of a creature like Madame de Couriac.
At that moment her footman knocked and came in. "There's some noises from the Frenchie's room, milady. He's likely dressing."
At last! She leaped up. "Go back to the bottom of the stairs. Here." She thrust a heavy book into his hands. "If he starts to come downstairs, drop it. Go!"
She left the door open and stood there, ears straining for the thump though she knew it would be loud enough to hear through the closed door.
Perhaps the Frenchman had just been finding the chamberpot. If not, he was either preparing to search through the marquess's papers, or more likely, to burst in and issue a lethal challenge.
Come on. Come on.
If Monsieur de Couriac did not come downstairs she'd have no excuse to interrupt the marquess and the Frenchwoman. That would be a shame both for her curiosity and her jealousy.
No. She would not be jealous or she'd go mad. Doubtless London was full of the man's lovers, including the mysterious scholarly poet -
Thump.
Diana jumped, then with a deep breath, followed her plan. She walked briskly along the corridor and into the dining room without knocking, ready with her exclamation of shock.
"Oh," she said, finding the marquess sitting on the chaise with one of Madame de Couriac's slender stockinged feet in his hands. He appeared to be massaging it, and the lady had been lounging back languorously.
Madame had given a little scream, however, and sat up. Now she was staring at Diana in befuddlement. Clearly not whom she had expected. She pulled her foot free even so, and swiveled to sit straight and put on her shoes. "So soothing, my lord."
"Indeed." He rose, expression unreadable. "You require something, my lady?"
You could rub my feet, she thought, but said, "Cognac."
"The servants are not available? I must speak to them about it."
Was he annoyed? Impossible to tell. However, he poured some cognac into a glass, and turned to pass it to her. The door burst open and a disheveled Monsieur de Couriac staggered in.
And stopped.
"Monsieur," said Lord Rothgar at his most benign, "you are recovered. How wonderful. Cognac?"
After a frozen moment, Madame de Couriac leaped to her feet and ran over to her husband. "Jean-Louis, cheri. I am so happy! But come back to bed and rest. You cannot be completely well."
After a furious, frustrated glare, Monsieur de Couriac allowed himself to be led out.
The marquess walked over and shut the door, leaving Diana alone with him. Her nerves twitched. He was angry? How could he be angry? She might have just saved his life!
He put the glass of brandy into her hands. "Perhaps we have some confusion, Lady Arradale, as to who is guarding whom."
He was angry. How typical of a man. Warming the cognac between her palms, she said, "Are you saying you wanted to be caught, my lord?"
"Massaging the lady's feet? Unusual, but hardly more than that. Especially when she was so very distressed about her poor husband's