The Regency Season: Forbidden Pleasures. Julia Justiss

or those of his Parliamentary supporters.’

      ‘Not an ideal political wife,’ Alastair observed, before his own words came out of memory like a stiletto to the chest: You shall have to marry me, rather than some dandy of the ton, for as impossible as you find it to prevaricate, you’ll never be fashionable.

      Anguish twisted in his gut. Never fashionable. Never appreciated.

      Never safe.

      ‘Quite frankly, after what I’d seen and heard, I’m rather surprised she outlived him—but ever so glad! Despite what the malicious are saying about her in Bath, I intend to seek her out and offer her friendship.’

      To his surprise, Lady Randolph seized his hands and looked up at him earnestly. ‘Diana made a terrible decision that summer so many years ago. But whatever advantage she thought to gain, she’s paid a dear price for it. Paid enough, I think. I just ask that you have pity, and if you can’t forgive her, at least don’t add to her sufferings.’

      ‘I can assure you, I have no intention of doing that.’

      Releasing him, she sat back. ‘Thank you! Since you are a man of honour—most of the time,’ she added with a smile and a pointed look, ‘I am satisfied.’

      * * *

      Taking his leave a few minutes later, Alastair scarcely recalled what had been said during the rest of his visit, so preoccupied had he been by what Lady Randolph had revealed—and with not betraying by some comment or expression his full reaction to the information she’d conveyed.

      Once free of her restraining presence, though, electing to walk back to his sister’s townhouse so he might think uninterrupted, he methodically reviewed her recitation, looking for bits and pieces that fit with what he’d learned himself.

      Lady Randolph’s account seemed to confirm Diana’s assertion that she had never confided to anyone else the account she’d given him of being coerced into marriage. Of course, as he’d told her and she’d readily admitted, the story beggared belief. Even her dearest friend thought it was the temptation of marrying into the highest rank of Society that had, in the end, induced her to abandon him.

      Had it been?

      His certainty about that, already shaken, wavered further as he allowed himself to recall more about the Diana he’d known. The Diana who, without question, would never lie. The Diana who, even now, could not come up with a plausible evasion.

      Equally without question, the girl she’d been would have been capable of sacrificing her own happiness to save those she loved.

      A girl who, heedless of her own safety, had had the courage to publicly defy a duke.

      Suddenly he recalled her confusion when he’d offered her the paints. The confusion of someone who had received so little for so many years, she no longer knew how to respond to a gift.

      The confusion of one who only knew what it was like to have what she loved taken away.

      Feeling sick inside, Alastair halted at the street corner, mopping his face with a trembling hand. Had he been wrong all this time, wallowing in self-righteous indignation over her supposed betrayal?

      Common sense rejected that conclusion, and yet... Like snow silently accumulating on a windowsill, the doubts that had begun creeping in to trouble his assumptions over what she’d done, and why, redoubled.

      He had to know the truth.

      Little by little, he promised himself as he resumed his walk, with a tenderness and concern she apparently had not been shown for years, he would coax her to tell it to him.

      But before that, he’d need to get a pianoforte delivered to Green Park Buildings.

       Chapter Eight

      After a session before the mirror to restore her calm—only in the bedchamber could she permit herself any emotion—Diana arrived at the townhouse in Green Park Buildings. So great was her nervous anticipation she’d had to exercise great self-control not to arrive very early, so she might have time to position herself before Alastair arrived.

      She’d filled some of the waiting time reading to James. During a walk down Milsom Street this morning, they found a picture book of soldiers. She’d enjoyed reading to him, and he seemed to like it, too. The interlude had been...pleasant. Perhaps she would be able to revive the tenderness she’d once felt for him.

      Precisely at the agreed hour, she knocked at the door of Alastair’s townhouse. The same expressionless manservant—having been spied on by her husband’s retainers for so long, she was inured to expressionless servants—showed her into the parlour where, this time, Alastair waited to greet her.

      Swallowing hard over a renewed attack of nerves, she made herself walk calmly over to him. He rose, and when he angled her chin up for a kiss, she let him.

      Feathering her eyes closed, she opened herself to sensation. The soft pressure of his lips brushing against hers was gentle, sweet, and sensual, setting all the nerves of her mouth tingling. When he broke the kiss, she was disappointed—and eager for more.

      ‘I brought you a little something,’ he said with a smile, motioning across the room.

      So preoccupied was she by this bold new venture of responsiveness, she’d noticed nothing in the chamber but Alastair. Following the direction of his hand, she uttered a gasp. ‘Alastair! That’s hardly “little”—it’s a pianoforte!’

      He grinned at her, and a sharp stab of...something struck the barrier she’d erected to restrain her emotions, already shaken by his kindness in remembering how much she loved music. As he stood smiling, the harsh, cynical edge to his expression gone, he looked like the boyish young man she’d once given her heart to.

      Good she was about to sweep all thought away with passion, else he might tempt her too much.

      ‘Play for me.’

      ‘I haven’t played in years!’ she protested. ‘I’d likely sour milk and set all the cats on the street to squalling.’

      He chuckled. ‘I’ll risk it. If it’s been that long, all the more reason to begin again immediately. It’s like riding a horse—you never truly forget.’

      ‘Who told you that?’ she asked, swallowing a laugh. ‘Certainly no one who played well! Daily practice is essential to remain truly proficient.’

      ‘And you were wonderfully proficient. There might be a few cobwebs to brush off, but I wager that won’t take long. So, play for me...please.’

      She wanted to refuse, get right to bedroom matters; straying on to the topic of music could bring the dangerous possibility of more prying. But even from across the room, she could tell the pianoforte was a beautiful instrument—trust Alastair to choose only the best. She’d missed music almost as much as she’d missed Alastair, the love for it, like her love for him, suppressed but never extinguished.

      ‘Very well,’ she capitulated. ‘But you might want to leave the room. I expect I shall be dreadful.’

      He merely smiled and gestured towards the instrument. Eagerness bubbled out before she could restrain it as she ran her fingers experimentally along the keys. As the bright tones issued forth, her much-denied, atrophied heart gave a feeble pang.

      And so she played, slowly at first, then faster, with more assurance. During her clandestine midnight forays at Graveston, before the instrument had been taken away, she’d memorised many of her favourite works, not wishing to risk leaving sheet music about. She found her fingers returning to one piece after another.

      Soon she lost herself in the music. Time ceased to matter, and when the final movement ended and she lifted her hands from the keyboard, she wasn’t sure how long she’d been playing.

      She looked around to see Alastair in a wing