Paying the Virgin's Price (Regency Silk & Scandal #2)(52)

The voice had come from behind her, in the hall. The butler, again. If he did not guess the purpose of her visit when she arrived, he could have no doubt now.

She turned to him, trying to smile, pretending a composure that was not possible. 'All right? Of course, Benton. I am fine.'

He continued to stare at her, without judgment or disapproval, but with an unusual amount of concern. 'Are you sure, Miss Diana?' A cloud passed over the old man's face. 'He did not hurt you?'

And suddenly, she was sure that she had but to raise her voice in alarm and Nathan would be dragged from his bed and beaten bloody by his own servants.

She gave the man another false smile. 'Hurt me? Of course not, Benton. You have nothing to fear on my account. But if you wish, you may help me find a carriage. I would like to return to Lord Narborough's town house. Discreetly, if possible.'

'Very good, miss. Mr Wardale's carriage is at your disposal. I will see to it at once. And the other glove is under the side table. Allow me.'

He retrieved the thing for her, escorted her to the front door and stepped outside to arrange for her transport.

Once inside the carriage, she collapsed on the seat, her legs weak with relief. She was glad that her father had not lived to see this day: his only daughter turned whore to the man who ruined him. But there was some comfort in the remaining loyalty and discretion of the servants. She could see by the look in Benton's eye that he liked this no better than she did, and his sympathy did not lie with his new master.

Nathan Wardale was still asleep in his bed, with no idea that one of his sisters was alive and well. She had told him nothing, not even the evil hint meant to torment him. Just a few hours ago, she was taking great satisfaction in the fact that she controlled the degree of his suffering. But now, she had become equally to blame for anything that had happened between them. She could pretend that it had been forced upon her by a wicked man who deserved whatever misery she could provide. The first time, perhaps.

But what had happened, after...

She felt her legs go weak again. Without parting, they had dozed together for a short time. And she had awakened, restless, all thoughts of vengeance gone. She had pushed at his shoulder, playfully, and then rolled so that he was beneath her. She had kissed his lips, wrapped her legs around his body, and thrust her hips into his.

He'd returned her kiss. But he made no effort to hold her, although she could feel him growing hard inside her, again. So she'd sat up, straddling him. She'd rocked against him, and he'd bent his knees behind her, supporting her back, then lain back in the pillows and watched her give in to the needs of her own body. He'd guided her fingers, encouraging her to touch herself until she was a slave to the sensation. And then she had ridden him wildly, for her own pleasure. After wave upon wave of ecstasy, she'd clenched her thighs on his body until he'd responded with short, hard thrusts, smiling as he drove himself to exhaustion.

It had made her feel powerful, to watch him fall asleep beneath her, strong in a way that had nothing to do with vengeance. If this had been a battle, she had emerged victorious. He was conquered. And if she wished, she could celebrate the victory by having him again.

And then the doubts had begun to creep back in. When she was sure that he would not awaken, she had climbed carefully out of the bed, dressed as though nothing had changed, and taken the IOU. It was at the bedside, just as he had promised. She had closed the door as quietly as she could and started down the stairs.

And begun to fall apart. Benton was helpful. The carriage driver was polite and the trip short. She had crept back in the Carlow town house, successfully avoiding both servants and family. And now, she was on her way to her room. It was so late as to be almost dawn. She could lie down for a few moments. At least she would stay long enough to muss the bedclothes, so there would be no question of where she had spent the night. And then she would rise, wash, and go about her life as though nothing had happened.

But first, she would throw the accursed, life-changing piece of paper into the fireplace and watch it burn. She would poke it until there was nothing left but ashes, and then she would poke the ashes until they were dust.

And finally, she would be free.

She closed the door behind her, then took the paper out of her pocket, staring at the shaky writing of her desperate father. And she knew that she could no more throw it away than Nathan had. It held no power over her. Perhaps it never had. It was a nothing, a jot, a scrap. It was not a true debt of honour; there had been no honour in the giving of it, or the taking.

It was a strange, sad reminder of the night when everything had changed. That was why Nathan had kept it, she was sure. Not as a threat, nor a punishment. And never meaning to find her and call it in. He had kept it because he did not wish to forget what had happened, for he did not wish to repeat his mistake.

It was her own imagination that had turned the paper into a nightmare and turned the man that held it into a monster.

She turned it over in her hands, folding it along the old creases. Now, it was she who did not wish to forget. This paper had brought her to Nathan Wardale. To his life--and his bed. It would be eminently foolish to go back, now that she had left him, to devote herself to an unrepentant gambler who was no better than her father. But she did not wish to forget her time with him, nor to repeat the mistake of falling in love with a man so utterly inappropriate.

She took a deep breath, remembering the rush of panic followed by desire, and the deep satisfaction of the previous hours. And the cherished way she had felt when he'd held her afterwards, staring into her eyes. While it had been terrifying, it had been sweet as well. How nice it would be, to have a life full of moments like that.