Burnley traced her cheek again. She struggled not to flinch. His touch was cold, as if death already sank its claws into him. “That will be unfortunate for you.”
The threat was barely hidden. Helplessness surged in her heart. “He’s not a puppet.”
The marquess’s lips narrowed. “His cock leads him. His cock is unquestionably interested in you.”
She ignored his profanity. If she’d become freer in her speech since they’d become coconspirators, so had he. He used strong language to remind her she prostituted herself in this endeavor.
She needed no reminder.
Again, she made herself think of Cranston Abbey and how much she loved it. Such a prize was worth brief degradation.
Her surge of determination quailed under a sudden recollection of Lord Ashcroft as she’d last seen him. He’d looked frighteningly acute, not like a man at the mercy of his base appetites. He’d scared her. He’d attracted her, and that had stoked her fear.
Until now, her fear had been focused purely on the marquess. A fear founded in twenty-eight years of acquaintance. After today, she wasn’t sure who was the more formidable, her pimp or her prospective client.
Burnley paused, as if expecting argument. What could she say? She nodded.
“Good girl. I await developments.” He tilted her chin. She wished he wouldn’t touch her. She hated it. “I have every confidence you won’t fail me. Or your father.”
“My father’s the only good man in this whole mess,” she said sourly.
Contempt edged Burnley’s laugh as he released her. “Your father is good because he lives in ignorance.”
It was true. She’d give anything to maintain her father’s contentment. That was why she was here now. Or at least one reason. She’d never deluded herself her purposes were altruistic. She sought advancement the way so many women had before her, with her body. Her heart was as black as Lord Burnley’s. And would turn blacker before she was done.
“I’ll leave you to contemplate your mistakes and assess how to avoid them in future,” Burnley said silkily.
He shuffled toward the door. Soon, he’d need a cane. Shortly after that, he wouldn’t be able to walk at all. They both knew what awaited Lord Burnley. That was what prompted this mad gamble.
“Good evening, my lord.” Habit made her sink into a curtsy. He turned and arched an ironic eyebrow. He must guess her acid thoughts. He’d always delighted in the rebellious soul of his bailiff’s daughter.
Once he’d gone, she slumped into a chair and stared sightlessly at the unlit grate. What was she to do? How was she to seduce a man who expressed no interest in her? Did she have the nerve to try again?
Given what she gained if she succeeded, she couldn’t let cowardice deter her. Even though cowardice prompted her to pack up this luxurious little house right now and return to the familiar comforts of home and honest toil.
She was so lost in her troubled thoughts, she didn’t hear the door open. The first she knew of anyone else in the room was Laura’s touch on her shoulder.
“He’s gone.” Her friend’s words were a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
Her friend sank into the chair opposite Diana. “He’s a bad man. You should run a thousand miles.”
Laura loathed Lord Burnley. As well she should. He’d hanged her father and transported her mother. All that had been left of the Gypsy family was a small dark-eyed girl. For once Diana’s father had stood up to his employer, who wanted to cast the eight-year-old child out to beg on the highway. Instead, John Dean had raised the orphan as his adopted daughter. Now while Diana and her father ran Burnley’s estate between them, Laura managed their home.
Burnley had insisted that Laura join her foster sister in London. Diana still wasn’t sure why. Perhaps for appearance’s sake, although this house
would remain a secret from everyone apart from the few trusted servants necessarily involved.
“You know what I stand to gain.” Diana had continued this argument with herself since Lord Burnley’s offer several weeks ago.
Laura’s face didn’t lighten. “Yes, you become chatelaine of Cranston Abbey. Once your husband meets his Maker.”
Or goes to the hell he deserves.
Laura had never approved of Diana’s involvement in this scheme. Diana had tried again and again to make her see that whatever price she paid now, the reward was worth it. Cranston Abbey was a generous return for a few uncomfortable weeks in a rake’s bed.
Diana itched to take over the reins of the estate, to institute the improvements that had frustrated her all the years she’d played Burnley’s right hand. She’d be a fool to turn her back on what fate offered.