A Treacherous Proposition. Patricia Frances Rowell

had earned Mrs. Biggleswade’s enmity. He had made his peace with her husband as best he could this morning, paying for certain damages to the inn and adding a large gratuity by way of apology for his behavior on his last visit. But it would be many a day before the landlord’s wife forgave his past treatment of her daughter.

      Vincent wondered if he would ever forgive himself.

      He had worked so hard in the last four years to overcome his richly deserved reputation—trying to correct every obligation, going into the service of his country, risking his life—but it never seemed enough. Time and time again a new set of circumstances forced him to confront it. He feared he would never live it down, never regain his self-respect. And now it had touched Diana.

      And she didn’t know if she needed help against him.

      The image of her in the bed, thick fair hair pouring over her soft bare shoulders grew behind his closed eyelids. He had not intended to intrude—until he’d heard the stealthy conversation. Then he had stood immobile, captured by her uncertainty and the curve, just visible above the shift, at the top of her breasts.

      Vincent’s body began to grow hard. How could Wyn Corby have neglected such an enchanting woman? How had he missed the glowing spirit beneath the tranquil exterior? Had she been his, Vincent would have sheltered her from every hardship, protected himself and her from the forces that had left her a widow and threatened her still. If he made her his own…

      But he could not do that now. He was in too deep.

      He was as much threat to her as Wyn had been.

      He woke as the fading light and the rattle of pots and pans from below stairs proclaimed the dinner hour. Vincent rang for hot water, and washed and shaved. Throckmorton had brought up his trunk. Vincent selected a fresh shirt, but decided against a cravat. It hardly seemed necessary on a secretive flight across the country in the dead of night. If they met someone, he could always put on his coachman’s garb.

      He sauntered across the hall to Diana’s parlor, nodding to Throckmorton at his post by the door. In the parlor he found a freshly washed and brushed Selena, and sounds from the adjoining bedchamber indicated that Bytham would soon join them.

      Or perhaps not.

      He heard Diana’s calm voice firmly announce, “Bytham, if you do not allow me to finish washing you, you will have to eat your dinner alone in here.”

      An unintelligible response from Bytham was lost in Selena’s giggle. “Bytham does not like to have his face washed.”

      “I see.” Vincent did his best to remember what having his face washed as a small boy had been like. Probably he had not cared for it, either. He smiled at the girl. “Did you have a pleasant day, Miss Selena?”

      “Oh, yes! We had two walks today—one with Mrs. Biggleswade and you this morning, and one with Mama and Throckmorton this afternoon. Throckmorton picked flowers for me, and Abby showed me how to make a wreath for my hair.” She darted across the room and retrieved a rather wilted offering. “See?”

      Vincent turned the flowers over in his hands. So this is what little girls did on an afternoon walk.

      “I like being in the country.” Selena took the wreath and plopped it over her fair curls. “Outdoors is much more fun than indoors.”

      At that moment a small form came speeding across the room and launched itself at Vincent’s knees, grasping them with wiry, young arms. “Whoa!” Vincent staggered and reached down to dislodge his young admirer, lifting him into his arms. “Who is this very clean fellow? I haven’t seen him before.”

      “It’s me! Bytham! Can we go outside again?”

      “May we go outside.” Diana followed her son into the parlor. “And no, you may not. It is time for dinner. Good evening, Lord Lonsdale.” She held out a welcoming hand.

      She had changed her black dress for one of lavender, and smoothed the wild mane of hair into a demure knot on the nape of her neck. The circles under her eyes had faded a bit, but the bruise on her cheek stood out clearly against her white skin. Vincent set Bytham on the floor and took the hand she extended. When his fingers closed over it, she winced.

      Vincent quickly loosened his grip and examined the back of the hand. It was also bruised and the knuckles were scraped. He looked at her questioningly.

      She withdrew the hand. “Yesterday. The man kicked me.”

      Rage roared up in Vincent. He waited until he could master it before answering, “Forgive me, Lady Diana. Had I been but a little sooner…”

      She looked at him in surprise. “It is not your fault. If you had not come—” She broke off and sighed. “Was it only yesterday? It seems like a lifetime.”

      “A great deal has certainly happened in the last two days.” Vincent held a chair for her to be seated. “I would like for you to be able to rest tonight, but I dare not stay. It will be dark as soon as we have finished eating, and I want to be on the road again.”

      “Whatever you think best. Oh, dear!” She made a futile grab for Bytham’s fork. “Oh, Bytham! You are dripping sauce on your shirt. Oh! No…don’t…wait…” Bytham looked down ruefully and smeared the drips around liberally with his napkin. His mother sighed and smiled at Vincent. “Too late.”

      Vincent laughed out loud. “I never realized how hazardous parenthood can be.”

      “Well, it is if one is obliged to provide all the care one’s self. Never mind, Bytham. We will change your shirt.” She turned a serious gaze on Vincent. “But never think that I begrudge it. These two are the joy of my life.”

      “I can see that.” Vincent wondered for a second if she would ever have room in her heart for anyone else. Was it filled to capacity with love for her little ones and grief for Wyn? He had not seen her weep, except when Bytham and Selena had. But she was not a tearful sort of woman. Thank God.

      He could not have borne watching her weep for another man.

      So… They had joined forces. Excellent! He had begun to fear that his investment in her had been wasted. What need to extract confidences from the wife of a man who talked of everything he knew? A pity, in a way. It would have been so much more entertaining to extort them from her.

      But Lonsdale was much more important to him than her fool of a husband had ever been. He needed all the information he could garner about that gentleman’s activities. And the woman would now provide it. He had watched her, had seen the terror he had so carefully cultivated in her grow. She dared not refuse.

      No, having control of a beautiful woman was never a waste. He would have his opportunity to enjoy her yet.