A Devil's Touch (The Devil DeVere #4.5)(6)

She had tried to banish all misgivings when she entered her marriage, but fragments lingered. Ludovic was restless and easily bored by nature. His temperament, unlike hers, was not well suited to domesticity. He had confessed as much many times before their marriage. Diana had accepted she could never change his nature, yet had hoped that out of her love for him, he would come to feel a certain fulfillment in his new role of husband and father. Perhaps she had been a fool to think it.

At first she had believed Ludovic reluctant to leave her for London, had imagined a certain wistful look upon their parting, but now she wondered if it was only her wishful fancy. The more she considered it, the more convinced she was, for had he not departed within two hours of Edward's arrival? Still, there remained a singular piece she could not puzzle out—Edward.

Had Edward truly brought tidings of a former comrade or had he delivered the letter from Salime? No. That was inconceivable. He was like a brother to Diana and never would be a willing party to any act of duplicity or a conspirator to infidelity. But why in all this time had she never even heard the name of Simon Singleton? Was it simply reticence on their part to speak of a man they presumed dead?

And the letter from Salime? Could its delivery have been purely coincidence? Of all people, of all Salime’s lovers, why in the world had she written to DeVere? Was this the first correspondence, or had she written before? Salime had never made any secret of her love for him, feelings Diana had believed unrequited…until now.

Was Salime truly in need, or could it be a clever ploy to draw him away from his wife at a propitious time? A time when he would be supremely vulnerable to her exotic wiles? Knowing how Salime felt about her husband, Diana could not trust the woman. She only prayed that if he had indeed gone to her, the honorable side of his nature, the one he had oftimes suppressed, would ultimately prevail.

***

DeVere House, Bloomsbury Square, the same night

It was very late when Ludovic arrived at DeVere House. He and Ned had required several drinks after seeing Simon—the poor wretched sod. Six years in captivity! Ludovic shook his head. Bloody hell. It was enough to destroy any man, let alone one like Simon—a man with a poet's heart.

He had no sooner handed hat and coat off to the lone servant keeping the empty house then Salime rushed to kneel before him in the vestibule, kissing his hand. "Effendi! You have come at last!"

"But of course," he replied, raising her to her feet. "You must know I would never deny you my aid." In truth, he had nearly forgotten her in his morose musings about Simon.

"But I feared with your marriage…that khanum…" She bit her lip.

DeVere felt a peculiar twinge at the mention of his wife. It was not as if he had purposely kept this interview from Diana. He had simply overlooked the matter in his hasty departure. "As I do not have a complete understanding of it myself, I have yet to explain your situation to Diana, but I am certain she would not have me turn my back on you. "Come, Salime." He took her gently by the elbow. "We will retire to share the hookah. Then you will tell me what is troubling you…and how I might assist."

For close to an hour Salime sat cross-legged at his feet, tending the pipe, while he reclined on a divan, smoking and slowly drawing the story from her. "In the end, you will see it is all for the best, my dear." He blew purple-cast smoke rings in the air. "You deserve much better than to be a mere plaything to rich and idle men."

"But it is what I was trained for, Effendi, to serve a man's pleasure. It is all I know, and I am not ashamed in this. Where I come from, such skills are not only a woman's sole means to achieve a measure of comfort, but to please the sultan and to be raised to the place of favorite mistress or haseki is the greatest of honors—only exceeded by becoming a kadin."

"A wife," he said, musing now of Diana–alone in their bed—and wanting her fiercely.

"One of four wives," Salime corrected. "In my country, to serve the sultan, whether as mistress or wife, is to ensure a lifetime of ease and security, but the English ways are different. Here a mistress has no security and is as readily cast aside as a worn slipper."

"I wish I could argue the truth of it, but even a shoe can be re-soled before it's cast aside."

"Such is true if one has a protector to pay the debt to the cobbler. I did not."

"What will you do now?" he asked.

"I do not yet know, Effendi. I had hoped…" She gazed up at him longingly.

Fearing she would voice what clearly shone in her eyes, he quickly shook his head. "I'm sorry, my dear." He stroked her cheek to lessen the blow. "The English ways are different in regard to mistresses and wives."

She arched a brow. "Not so very different, Effendi. Many men have mistresses and lovers. Why else would such as King's Place exist?"

"Point taken," he said with a tight smile.

Struggling to suppress his own needs— needs that he knew she would enthusiastically gratify— he avoided her direct gaze, concentrating instead on the colorful silk wall coverings, the low burning brass lamps. "What I meant is that not all wives accept a man's philandering ways. There are some who expect, nay, demand, exclusivity…fidelity."

Ever demure, she looked down at her hands. "Khanum, the fiery one. She is such a wife?"