Free Mary Jo Putney by Dearly Beloved Page B

breast and hip. Close up she was as flawless as she had appeared at a distance, her features exquisitely sculptured, her silken skin begging to be touched. As she regarded him gravely, her full lips were a promise, even though she neither talked nor smiled.
    Her cheekbones were high and dramatic under wide, delicately tilted eyes, and one glossy ringlet fell forward to emphasize her bare shoulders and the soft swell of breasts revealed by her low-cut dress. He had never seen hair of such color, a rich shade like polished antique mahogany. She wore no jewels and required none. Like a perfect lily, she needed no gilding.
    They stood like statues for an endless moment. Gervase saw a pulse beat under the creamy skin at her throat, and her eyes widened, the lapis-lazuli depths showing some emotion he could not identify. Tightening his hold on her hand, he drew her from her circle of admirers, saying only, "Come."
    Murmurs of protest, half-amused, half-angry, sounded around him. Without turning his eyes from the woman, he said, "I shall return her shortly." He led her into the relative privacy of a window embrasure, where others could see them but not overhear.
    She moved with the effortless grace such beauty deserved.   Gervase still held her hand, and her nearness was playing havoc with his ability to think. Beginning with the most basic of information, he said, "I am St. Aubyn. And you?"
    "I am Mrs. Diana Lindsay."
    Her voice was as lovely as her face, sweet and musical, unmarred by a provincial accent. She could have been a duchess, except that no duchess had ever been so beautiful. An elusive fragrance of lilac surrounded her, and it reinforced the illusion of innocence that she simulated so well. The part of him that was not quite overpowered by her presence noted cynically that she was going to be very, very expensive, but Gervase didn't care. Instead he asked a more polite version of what he had thought earlier. "What does it take to win you?"
    His voice was deep and resonant, equally suited to caress or command. Diana's heart beat with unnatural speed and she inhaled deeply, struggling for the composure that she desperately needed. What had she expected him to do, ravish her? Accuse her of harlotry? Declare love undying? While she had instantly known this man was her fate, clearly the recognition wasn't mutual.
    It was better this way. She disengaged her hand without haste. "You may court me and find out."
    The strong dark brows arched up. "Court you? I have not come here for a wife."
    "Nor did I come for a husband," Diana said blandly. "You and I have simpler aims. If you don't like the word 'court,' choose another. Phrases are unimportant. What matters is that if you want me, you must please me."
    Lord St. Aubyn's gray eyes narrowed, the skin tightening over the high, wide cheekbones, and she felt his withdrawal. "So you can amuse yourself watching suitors scramble for your pleasure while you set one against another, like cocks at a fight? No, thank you, madam, I will not play that game."
    So he had pride, more than was good for him. That was no surprise; pride was written in every line of the lean body that moved with the deadly smoothness of a hunting cat. There was not an ounce of spare flesh anywhere on him, from broad shoulders to flat waist to muscular legs. Everything soft and unessential had been burned away, leaving only unyielding masculine strength.
    Diana wondered if his lordship knew how to smile, and if he did, whether amusement would provide the life that could make those cool, regular features handsome. Commanding herself not to be intimidated by his overpowering closeness, she said calmly, "I have met many men tonight, and you are the only one whom I have invited to come closer."
    As he relaxed fractionally, she added, "I will make you a promise, my lord. On further acquaintance I may decide that you will not suit me, but I will never make sport of you."
    He smiled faintly and the lightening of his dark