“I don’t feel very delightful,” she mumbled. She wasn’t sure she had it in her to continue the seduction. What she wanted was to go home to Marsham and curl up in the dark safety of her bedroom.
Oh, poor-spirited, Diana.
Ashcroft frowned in concern and caressed her cheek. One touch conveying more tenderness than anything yet this afternoon. Fleetingly, something pure and joyous bloomed in her heart. Like the first snowdrop in February after a harsh winter.
Brutally, she crushed the feeling.
She didn’t want tenderness. She wanted a baby. And unless she could entice Ashcroft to continue the liaison and lose himself inside her, a baby was beyond her reach.
When his eyes met hers, she read no trace of guile in the jade depths. Unlike her heart, which was black with deception.
Next time, she had to ensure he didn’t waste his seed.
How on earth was she to manage that? Her path became more tangled and difficult the further she went.
“I know you won’t believe me, but I didn’t mean to tumble you in this carriage,” he said steadily.
Flaring cynicism tolled the death knell to what remained of that brief, fragile emotion. “You’re right. I don’t believe you. You seem remarkably prepared for…accidents.”
He didn’t immediately understand, then comprehension dawned, and he laughed again. “Diana, a little water in a flask hardly constitutes a familiarity with endless sin.”
He reached up and knocked sharply on the roof. Diana felt the carriage change direction.
He poured wine into the top of the flask. She accepted the cup with a word of thanks. His gaze was opaque, unreadable, a stranger’s. She found this urbane companion hard to reconcile with the shaking, desperate man who had spilled himself on her belly.
They’d known each other physically, but with every second, she became more aware she didn’t know him any other way.
She tried to tell herself that was what she wanted. But as she sipped her wine—the highest quality, Lord Ashcroft seemed only to have the best of everything—she couldn’t convince herself that was true.
Everything became so horrifically complicated. She was painfully aware she didn’t belong here. Only the beckoning promise of guiding Cranston Abbey’s destiny kept her in this carriage. Otherwise, she’d run like a scared rabbit.
“Where are we going?” She shifted on the seat. Her body still smarted from his ruthless lovemaking, even as unwelcome tides of satisfaction still ebbed and flowed in her blood.
“Lord Peregrine Montjoy’s house.”
Ashcroft spoke as if she should know the name. She didn’t keep track of London gossip. She only knew about Ashcroft because Lord Burnley had told her. Gradually, reluctantly, she came to the realization that prejudice had informed that description. The man with her now didn’t equate to the clumsy brute featured in employer’s tales.
“Is Lord Peregrine in residence?”
“No. He left for France this morning. He’s visiting the Earl and Countess of Erith outside Rouen. While he’s gone, he’s turning his library into a music room, and I’m taking some of the books.”
“Does he know you use his house for assignations?”
He arched his black eyebrows in mockery. “Very elegantly put.”
She blushed but tilted her chin at a challenging angle. “Would you rather I use the name it justifies?”
He frowned, and his tone deepened into seriousness. “What happened was the result of mutual desire, Diana. There’s no need to be ashamed of it—or yourself.”
She resented how easily he read her. “Spoken like
a man at the mercy of his appetites.”
He laughed softly. She couldn’t blame him. She was being absurd. He hadn’t forced her to anything. This affair started at her invitation. If anyone had been cajoled against his better judgment, it was he. “You sound prim as a Methodist preacher.”
She sighed, loathing herself, loathing what she did, and brushed back the strands of hair clinging to her damp neck. After her recent exertions, the tight braids Laura had arranged it in threatened to tumble around her face. “I’m sorry. I’m not accustomed to this.”
He lifted her left hand. Immediate warmth flooded her, made her feel muddled, uncomfortable, awkward. She hated to be so susceptible to his most casual touch. But so far, she’d discovered no defenses.