Читать книгу Paying the Virgin's Price - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 11

Nate went back to his house in Hans Place, with the Carlows’ tea sitting uneasily in his stomach. The feelings of disquiet grew with each step towards his home. By the time he had stepped through the front door, it felt as though ants crawled upon his skin.

That was a near one. It had been a misfortune to meet the girl once. But to find her again so soon, after years of avoidance? It was another part of the Gypsy’s damn curse, he was sure. As little Verity had been quick to point out to him, now that he had found Diana Price, he was unlikely to get free of her.

The thought flitted across his mind that he had no desire to be free of her. Under better circumstances, he’d have been enjoying the association immensely. And she seemed to enjoy it as well, if there was any meaning to the pretty blush upon her cheek when they’d been left alone.

But then, he had proceeded to make an ass of himself by prying into her personal life and asking questions that no stranger should care about. He had left her with the impression that he was the sort who would make advances towards a vulnerable woman within moments of being alone with her. Damn it to hell, he had only wanted to make up for what he had already done to her. Instead it had sounded like he wished to set her up in an apartment as his ladybird.

Although, once the idea had entered his head, he had to admit that there were advantages to it. If she were so inclined, it would be pure pleasure to watch those eyes widen in pretended shock at his suggestions, only to be lulled into catlike satisfaction when he acted on them. She must realize that the way she pursed those full lips in disapproval at him only made them more tempting. He suspected that, should she fold her arms beneath her high breasts, or place her hands upon those softly rounded hips in a gesture of disapproval, she could easily bring a strong man to his knees.

It was all quite hopeless. Even if she was less than the proper lady he suspected, she was Edgar Price’s daughter and therefore the last woman in London he should be wishing to bed. He might pretend to be Nate Dale for a while with her, he supposed. But knowing his luck when away from the gaming tables, it was only a matter of time before Hal or Marc arrived and recognized the man who was courting their sisters’ chaperone. Or perhaps he would be the one to let some word slip that would make it clear to Diana Price his true identity.

Until a few days ago, it had been easy enough to think of himself as well and truly Nate Dale, and to think of Nathan Wardale as a distant memory. But now, he could not help but see his current life as a thinly drawn fraud. When the truth came out, he doubted that there were enough words in his vocabulary to talk himself out of the situation.

He looked around, at the entry hall to his house. Although the place had been home to him for almost four years, and he had long ago come to think of it as truly his, suddenly, he felt like an interloper in the home of Diana Price. As he glanced around, he was qualifying everything in his life into two enormous piles: things that he had bought and things that had been in the house when he had won it. Even the servants were Price’s, although it had been many years since he had felt any disloyalty. Those who had not wished him as master had quit on the day he’d accepted the deed. But most were content enough, when they realized that the new master could easily meet the back payments on their salaries and manage a raise as well.

He had followed his sudden arrival with an unexpected six-year absence. And in that time, the servants might as well have been sole possessors of the house. The man of business he had retained to pay the bills knew better than to meddle in the mundane details of running it. They had relaxed in the knowledge that the chaos the house had undergone from the previous owner’s gambling was at an end. If the new master was also a gambler? Then at least he was a winner. Their positions were secure.

And if any one of them had ever wondered what had become of Diana Price or her father, then they had never spoken the words aloud in his presence.

But now, everywhere he looked, he saw reminders that he had taken this house right out from under the woman who sat so patiently at the side of the Carlow sisters. He walked up the stairs and hurried down the hall to his room. It was the only place in the house guaranteed not to remind him of the previous owner, for he had bought everything in it, brand new, even stripping the silk from the walls and taking up the rugs to prevent the ghost of Edgar Price from intruding on his dreams. Once he was shut inside, he would have peace.

But to arrive there, he needed to pass the locked door at the head of the stairs. He almost made it by without looking. In truth, he had trained himself never to look in that direction. To not see the door. To imagine it as a blank square of wall. But once remembered, he could not seem to put it from his mind.

When he reached his room, he rang for the butler.

‘Sir?’

‘Benton, do you have a key for the room at the head of the stairs?’

‘Miss Diana’s room, sir?’ The man had been butler of this house since long before Nate had come to it. And although he appeared loyal, now that he was pressed on the subject, he made no effort to hide the fact that there was still one area of the house that did not belong to the new owner. When Nate had returned from America, the single room had been left untouched, as though no one could bring themselves to store the contents. And now, Benton’s tone was worried, as if the idea disturbed him that it might finally be time to pack the contents away.

Nathan nodded. ‘Miss Diana’s room.’

The butler did not say another word, but removed a single key from the ring in his pocket, handing it to Nathan as though he wanted no part in what was to happen nor in whatever cosmic repercussions might fall on his master’s head as a result of his actions.

Nate sighed. ‘Thank you, Benton. That is all.’

The man removed himself, and Nate made his way back down the hall to the locked door. He turned the key quickly and jerked open the door before stepping inside, leaving it open behind him, so that he could see by the light from the hall. The room was dustier than he’d remembered, but other than that, unchanged. The wardrobe doors were thrown open, as though the occupant had been forced to pack and leave in a hurry. She must have taken her day dresses; a large section of the wardrobe stood empty.

But the ball gowns had been pushed to the side, and left behind. She’d known, even then, that her days as a debutante were over. If one was about to seek a position, then one did not need finery. He glanced around the room, taking note of the things missing and the things left behind. The hair brushes were gone but the ornaments remained. The jewellery box was open, and the contents scattered, as though she’d thought to take it all, then come to the conclusion that it had been lost to her along with everything else and settled on taking a few small pieces as remembrance of her old life.

There was a book on the table by the bed, the reader’s place still marked by a scrap of ribbon. Did she ever finish it, he wondered, or had the little book been forgotten in her rush to go?

He thought back to his own departure from Leybourne House. The way his mother had told him to pack only what was needed. He had just turned ten, and still thought toy soldiers and wooden swords to be among life’s necessities. After seeing the enormous pile of his possessions, she had sat down with him, and explained that, from now on, life would be different.

It was the first time, in all the harrowing weeks, that he had seen his mother cry.

He looked again at the contents of the room around him. He remembered how it had felt to be so totally displaced. And yet, he had done it to others. To the sweet-faced girl who had absented herself from his conversation with the Carlow sisters with the talent of one whose sole job was to fade into the background. She should be dancing at balls beside Verity and Honoria, not sitting in the corner with her book.

He had done that to her. He had ruined her chances, and her life. She should be married by now, with children of her own and servants to care for her needs.

He could feel the marker, heavy in his purse, as though it sought to burn through the leather and scar his skin. He had been telling himself for years that he had done the best he could by Diana Price. That it was enough: not following through on the damn thing. As bad as he had been to take it in the first place, he could have been worse. He had never demanded payment. He held himself forever in check, trying to prove his good character by the one thing he did not take.

Small comfort to Diana Price. He had not made her his whore for a night. He had left her with her virtue while denying her a lifetime’s comforts.

He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around the room. She had been happy here, he was sure. It was smaller than his room, of course, but well-appointed and cheerful. It suited her. Without thinking too much about it, he stretched out on the bed and he picked up the book.