cause such wreckage!
It was the fact that he had returned to distant courtesy that had made it all so unendurable.
He had continued to deal with papers, though occasionally - perhaps as light relief - he had read what looked like a dense tome. Out of curiosity, Diana had tried to glimpse the title, but as she was more determined not to be caught looking at him, she had failed.
After all, she'd told herself mile after mile, he was right. If some kind of attraction had sparked between them, it promised disaster not delight. Neither of them wanted to let it develop.
Or rather, it would be highly unwise for either of them to want that.
Aware of him at every moment, she had gone through the motions of reading her books. Even witty Pope had not held her attention.
Her only true distraction had come from studying the roadside and passing riders, alert for sight of the de Couriacs or other potential assassins. By midday, however, she'd decided that fear was a phantasm. The French couple had doubtless realized that they'd made an enemy of an important man and fled.
For the midday meal she and the marquess had shared a table and conversation. She'd not expected anything like that brief spurt of untrammeled conversation at breakfast, of course, but she had hoped for a little of the same warmth.
He had himself completely under control, however. They could have been strangers.
Sometimes she thought they were.
In fact, they were strangers, she told herself as the coach rattled down a narrow Stamford street. They knew little of each other's lives or inner thoughts. Logic fizzled, however, when desire burned, and Diana had to accept that she had fallen into an embarrassing desire for the Marquess of Rothgar.
Throughout the day she had been aware of his body taking up space beside her in the coach. Only inches away, he had even stirred her clothes occasionally when he moved. With any other man she wouldn't have noticed, but with this man every movement sent sparkles down her skin, and each breath was like her own.
Pretending to sleep at one point, she had watched him from under lowered lids. Watched his hands. Feasted on them.
She glanced at them again now. So very beautiful. Long in palm and fingers, but strong in the elegant bones, tendons, and muscles as they moved flexibly, putting away papers and books. That one large ruby set in gold occasionally caught the sunset flame to glow with crimson fire. The delicate beauty of his lace cuffs only emphasized the power of his hands.
Midnight in lace, she remembered. But his hands were not dark or threatening. Not threatening at all. She could imagine them strong around the hilt of a sword, but also remember them clever against her ankle...
Steely power amid silken fragility.
Male and female.
His masculine strength and her silken fragility. Oh yes, she thought as the coach shuddered to a halt in the inn yard of the George, against reason, she would love to be all silken fragility beneath the attention of those very masculine hands.
In dazed moments she was in her bedchamber, which was of course perfect and completely prepared for her, including her own feather pillow. Free of his presence, she recognized that she had teetered on the edge of disaster.
And still did.
After a struggle, she found the strength to resist and sent a message to say she had a headache and would dine in her room. She might long for fragments of the marquess's heady company and attention, but she was sensible enough, she hoped, to avoid fruitless suffering.
And if another set of French spies awaited here, plotting the marquess's demise, he could damn well handle it himself!
After an hour's rest and a light meal, however, Diana's common sense and equilibrium returned. She could even laugh a little at her overwrought reactions, and wish Rosa were here to share the silliness. She even sent her footman to find out if there were any French guests at the George, especially the de Couriacs. The marquess did not need her protection, did not want her protection, but it was in her nature as much as his to provide it.
After all, she thought, he was having a truly debilitating effect on her, and had implied that he was suffering something similar. Perhaps he wasn't thinking clearly.
Her footman returned to say that there were no French guests.
"And the marquess?" she asked the servant. "Do we know where he is?"
"In his dining room, milady. With a guest."
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