He grinned. "Since I am a relative --- your only male relative in London --- you may assume that my interest in yourWell, you may assume that my regard is in the avuncular vein."
Lyonel turned her over to Lord Donnovan, a young man with a delightful smile, who looked most worshipful at the succulent new vision. Diana felt her confidence soar and her lacerated sensibilities mend a bit.
"She will do just fine, Lucia, you will see," said Lyon to his aunt, "Donnovan is certain to feed her enough compliments to give her indigestion. And you can forget any thought of matchmaking between the two of us."
"The way you've been baiting her, I wonder that she still speaks to you."
"Diana Savarol, whatever else she may be, is not a submissive simpleton. She enjoys my baiting, I'll wager. She certainly has dished me up in my own sauce a couple of times."
"Only a couple?"
"Really, Lucia, by the time she's truly up to snuff, I'll be a doddering old man." He stopped cold, his eyes fastened on Charlotte, who was laughing somewhat immoderately at something Dancy had said. She looked achingly beautiful, just as beautiful as the first time he'd ever seen her at Newmarket, but his heart did nothing more this time than tighten, just a bit. Odd, how he'd only kissed her chastely even after they'd become betrothed. Then to see her on her back, her skirts tossed up, her head arched back, thighs spread and wrapped aboutHe drew a deep breath. Women, he thought. The whole bloody lot of them should be shipped off to Constantinople. Let them be lascivious in a harem.
"She was never worthy of you, my boy," Lucia said softly. "You closed your eyes to the truth, you know. She had snared you well and good, I'll say that for her. But it's over, and time for you to rejoin the world again. And, Lyonel, Diana isn't a bit like Charlotte. She's guileless, you know. Perhaps too much so."
He cursed under his breath. "There's Brandy and Ian. I think I will go speak to them."
Lucia sighed, watching Lyonel stride toward the Duke and Duchess of Portmaine. She grinned, wagering to herself that Lyonel would never in a million years draw attention to the duchess's bountiful bosom.
Lyonel, because he had no choice in the matter, escorted both Lucia and Diana to supper. He was not particularly surprised when two of his bachelor friends asked to join their table. He saw that Diana was much enjoying herself, but he quickly ceased listening or contributing to the conversation. He wanted to leave; he wanted to return to Yorkshire. He had spent some of his time with Frances and Hawk, the Earl and Countess of Rothermere, until their obvious adoration for each other made him so uncomfortable and unhappy that he couldn't bear it any longer. Frances was nearing her term --- this her second child --- and the thought of the child she would bear made him ache more than he could have believed possible for what he had lost, for what, indeed, he would never have had in the first place. It had been difficult enough when little Charles, Viscount Lindsey, had discovered his Uncle Lyon and become his adoring fan. For a fleeting moment, he saw Hawk's large brown hand gently caressing Frances' rounded stomach. He blinked away the image.
Lyonel had been ready to marry, to raise a family, to protect them and love them until he left this earth. And then he had met Charlotte, so innocent, so shy and charming. God, what a fool he'd been! He sat back in his chair, staring morosely into his glass of claret. He looked up at the sound of Diana's bright laughter, and his eyes fell to her breasts. He sucked in his breath. He would set up a mistress as soon as possible. He had been too long without sex, that was all.
Diana danced her second waltz with Lyonel at midnight. She was mildly intoxicated from the champagne, and she saw him through a very pleasant haze. "Why are you being so quiet?"
"I haven't a thing to say. Unlike the weaker sex, I don't chatter inanities and bore the devil out of my partner."
"I am not weak. I wager I could show a good account of myself with you, were we to come to blows."
"No doubt an excellent talent for a lady to possess. I saw you dancing with that French idiot, DuPres. Stay away from him, Diana. He'll have you on your back and your petticoats up about your chin in five minutes."
"And you, I suppose, are a saint?"
"No, I simply have no interest in silly, overendowed little girls. Now be quiet, you lost track of the beat."
"I am sorry she hurt you so badly, Lyonel."
"Shut up, Diana."
She sighed, knowing that if she weren't vaguely tipsy, she would rip up at him at his galling rudeness. And all she was trying to do was to be sympathetic. When the dance ended, she said, "I must go to the ladies' withdrawing room."
"Too much champagne, huh?"
"Don't be crude."
It was odd, she thought as she made her way upstairs, weaving just a bit, but she would have dropped her jaw in utter horror had any of the other gentlemen she'd confessed with or danced with spoken to her as Lyonel did.
3
He who listens at keyholes will have his eye poked out.
—ITALIAN PROVERB
"I hear she is from the West Indies."
"One can tell that she is from
somewhere dreadful. Did you see that tan?"