London Ladies (The Complete Series)

by Eaton, Jillian

  It simply wasn’t fair she thought miserably as a single tear slipped from the corner of her eye and slowly trickled down one smooth cheek. It clung briefly to the soft curve of her chin before falling silently on the railing, glinting like the tiniest of diamonds in the silvery light. With a pitiful sniffle Dianna dragged a hand across her face, wiping away any other tears before they could fall. Crying never solved anything, and she’d vowed long ago never to shed another tear over Miles Radnor.

  “Are you... crying?” The shock in Miles’ voice mirrored the shock on his face. He hesitated uncertainly beneath the garden arbor, his lanky frame casting a long dark shadow out across the stone walkway.

  “What do you care?” Dianna asked crossly. Feeling miserable, she hunched forward on the wooden bench she’d been huddled upon for the past hour and wrapped her thin arms around her knees, hugging them close to her flat chest.

  “What’s wrong?” Miles asked. “What’s happened?”

  “Leave me alone,” she said, turning her head away to stare at a cluster of bright yellow tulips. “I do not want to see anyone. I - I am not receiving visitors at this time.” It was what her mama always said when she didn’t want to be bothered, but Miles either hadn’t heard her, or didn’t care to listen.

  He walked to the bench and sat down on the other end of it, the muddy heels of his riding boots scraping on the stone as he kicked his legs out in front of him. “Come on,” he coaxed after a moment, and even though Dianna still had her head turned stubbornly towards the tulips and couldn’t see his face, she heard his smile. “Tell me what the matter is. Maybe I can help.”

  “You cannot,” she muttered, plucking at a loose thread on her skirt. When it snapped free she wound it around her pinky finger, absently tucking the ends under to make a thin ring of blue thread.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you are the matter!” Dianna cried before jumping to her feet and whirling around to face him. Boys, she thought in disgust. They didn’t know anything.

  “Me?” Miles said, his green eyes widening. “What did I do this time?”

  Looking down at the ground, Dianna nudged a tiny pebble off the walkway and into the bushes before she muttered, “You… you wouldn’t take me riding with you this morning.”

  “Riding?” Miles blinked in confusion. “But you hate horses!”

  She huffed out a breath. “I do not hate horses.”

  “You don’t like them. You’re afraid of them. You told me yourself.”

  “That is not the point,” she argued. “You - you should have invited me nevertheless.” Oh, how she hated being left out of things! First her parents, now Miles. The only person who ever seemed have any time for her was Aunt Abigail and she was away in London until the end of next week visiting a friend, leaving Dianna alone and feeling positively wretched. Two more fat tears rolled down her cheeks. She didn’t want to keep crying, especially not in front of Miles, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

  “Stop doing that,” he said, sounding angry.

  “Just leave me alone,” she said with a sniffle. “It is what you’re good at, after all.”

  It was what everyone was good at.

  Unfolding his long, lanky body Miles stood up from the bench and shoved a hand through his hair, leaving the dark curls standing on end when he crossed both arms over his chest. “I am sorry I did not ask you to come riding with me this morning,” he muttered after a long pause.

  Dianna’s lips parted to form a little ‘o’ of surprise. “You - you are?”

  He shrugged and looked away, his gaze darting every which way except for Dianna’s face. “Yes. I mean, I suppose. But I did come calling this afternoon to see if you would like to walk over to Lord Nelson’s stables and see his new colt.”

  “You did?” she said, dumbfounded.

  “I am here, aren’t I?”

  He certainly was, and even though it had not been the most gracious of invitations, Dianna happily accepted. “I would love to go!”

  “Can you stop crying now?” Miles asked, shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot. His eyes met hers, darted away, then returned in an uneasy stare. “I do not like it when you cry.”

  Obediently Dianna wiped both her cheeks dry using the hem of one sleeve and, with a very loud, very unladylike sniff, swallowed back the rest of her tears. “I do not like it either.”

  “Then why do you do it?”

  “Because… because I believe it is always better to let your feelings out than trying keep them in. Don’t you ever cry?” she asked curiously.

  Miles shook his head. “Never.”

  “Not even when you are feeling very, very sad?” she pressed, studying him closely for she could always tell when he was not telling the truth. He met her gaze without blinking.

  “Never,” he repeated solemnly.

  “I cry quite often,” she confessed, hanging her head as the admission caused a wave of shame to pinken her cheeks. Feeling a faint pressure on her shoulder she looked up to see Miles had closed the gap between them and now stood with one hand resting reassuringly on her arm. He gave a gentle squeeze, and she managed a tiny smile.

  “Are you often very, very sad?” he asked.

  She nodded. They were standing so close together she could see tiny flecks of gold shimmering in the mossy green of his eyes and suddenly the blush staining her cheeks had little to do with shame and everything to do with Miles.

  He lifted his hand from her shoulder and caught a golden curl that had come loose from the heavy braid she wore at the nape of her neck. Studying the shiny curl as though it were a rare piece of gold, Miles whispered, “Because of your parents never being here?”

  Incapable of speech, she nodded again.

  “But you have me.” Carefully tucking the curl behind the tiny curve of her ear, he took a step back. “From now on, whenever you are very, very sad, I want you to think about me instead of them.”

  “What if you are the reason I am sad?”

  Miles drew his shoulders back. With a look of determination on his young face, he said, “I will never make you cry again, Dianna Foxcroft. I vow it.”

  Haunted by memories of what had been and what could never be, Dianna buried her head in her hands and sobbed.

  Chapter Three

  “Do you know where Dianna went?” Selecting a bright red cherry from the middle of an elaborate fruit platter that had been thoroughly picked over in the five hours since the wedding reception had begun, Charlotte Graystone popped it into her mouth and chewed contemplatively as she tried to recall the last time she’d spoken with, let alone seen, her dearest friend.

  Had it been before the Duke of Ashburn gave a lovely speech praising his much adored wife, or after? She picked up another cherry, absently twirling the stem between her thumb and forefinger. After, she decided. Most definitely after. But the newly married Duke and Duchess of Ashburn had discreetly snuck up to bed nearly an hour ago, so where the devil was Dianna now?

  Glancing askance at her husband to see if he had an answer, she hissed out an exasperated sigh when she realized he hadn’t even heard her question. “Gavin. Gavin. Gavin.” Sidling closer, she took a quick glance around to make certain no one was watching before she slipped a hand beneath his extended coattails and pinched his right butt cheek. “There you are, darling,” she said, smiling sweetly when he gave a startled grunt and spun around.

  Gazing down upon his wife’s upturned face, Gavin couldn’t help but smile in return. Charlotte was always beautiful, but tonight she looked positively stunning with her bright auburn hair twisted up in one of those fancy styles that defied gravity and her shapely body tucked inside an emerald green gown that accentuated her curves in all the right places. How is it, he thought for what surely had to be the thousandth time, that I’ve ended up married to such an enchanting creature? He knew other men who claimed that lust and love began to fade the morning after the vows were spoken, but Gavin’s feelings for Charlotte had only intensifi
ed during their first few months of marriage. With every day that passed he loved her more, and although their courtship had been neither easy nor conventional, he could not imagine spending a day without her.

  Saucy wench that she was.

  “Control yourself Madame,” he scolded, wagging a finger in her face. “And repeat your question. I was not paying attention.”

  Capturing his finger, Charlotte drew the tip into her mouth, amber eyes steady on his as she slowly and deliberately swirled her tongue. Gavin’s breath caught, blood rushing straight to his loins. “Charlotte…”

  She released his finger, dancing nimbly out of reach when he would have grabbed her waist and pulled her hard against him. “Not until you answer my question.”

  Recognizing the mischievous glint in her eyes, Gavin groaned and raked a hand through his dark hair. Oblivious to the rising sexual tension between husband and wife, couples continued to dance in a swirl of color across the floor, clapping in time to the music. Conspicuously missing from the ongoing festivities was one Duke and one Duchess of Ashburn. No doubt they’d retired early to enjoy what remained of their wedding reception in the solitude of their bed chamber.

  Lucky bastards.

  Bracing one hand beside a platter of frosted cakes and the other next to a half-eaten cherry pie, Gavin leaned back against the refreshment table and regarded Charlotte with a raised brow. “And what question would that be?”

  “Do you know where Dianna is?” The corners of his wife’s pretty mouth pinched tight with worry. “She has not said anything, but I know all this wedding business must be hard on her. First us, and then her Aunt Abigail. I just do not want her to be alone, especially if she is upset.”

  Though Gavin had not known Charlotte or Dianna when The Incident (as it was now referred to by polite society) had taken place, he’d since been filled in on all the scandalous details. Dianna Foxcroft and Miles Radnor, Earl of Winfield, had been engaged to be married since they were children in a match contrived by their parents to bring the two families together. By all accounts it had seemed as though they were truly in love with each other, until Miles abandoned Dianna on the day of their wedding. No one had heard a word from him since, and while it was presumed he had met an unfortunate end, no actual evidence of his death existed.

  One month ago, at the bequest of Charlotte, Gavin had sent out a few men to try to find out what had happened to the missing earl once and for all, but they all returned empty handed. It was as though the man had simply vanished into thin air… leaving poor Dianna in limbo and all of his affairs unfinished.

  “Do you want me to go look for her?” he offered. Even though he would have much rather tossed Charlotte over his shoulder and made haste for the nearest bedroom, he knew how much Dianna meant to his wife. The two women were thick as thieves, more sisters than friends, and besides himself there was no one Charlotte trusted more.

  “No,” his wife said with great reluctance. “No, she most likely retired early and is fast asleep. There would be no use waking her up now. I can find her in the morning and see how she is doing then.”

  “And we will be spending the remainder of the week here,” Gavin reminded her, less she’d forgotten. While the majority of the guests would be leaving on the morrow, a small handful, including Gavin and Charlotte, had been invited to stay. It was going to be a welcome respite from their busy lives in London, one he was thoroughly looking forward to. “You can spend as much time with her as you like.”

  “Can I now?” Amusement glittered in Charlotte’s eyes as she stepped towards him and trailed a single fingertip down the front of his waistcoat. Her nail caught on a brass button. “And what will you do without me?”

  Gavin’s breath hitched. Nearly one year married, and his wife could still make him hard with a single promising glance. Feeling as he did now, it was nearly impossible to imagine there had once been a time when they’d been closer to enemies than lovers. “Spend the days with your friend if you like...” He captured her wrist, drawing her close. Dipping his head he nuzzled her ear, teeth nibbling suggestively on the sensitive lobe before he whispered, “But your nights belong to me.”

  Her entire body trembled. “Do they?”

  “They do.”

  “Unless I am mistaken, I believe it is night right now.”

  His hand grazed the curve of her spine, dipping far lower than the rules of propriety allowed. “I believe you are correct.”

  They exchanged a knowing glance, one filled with heat and passion and wicked promise. Arm in arm, Mr. and Mrs. Graystone walked swiftly out of the ballroom, all thoughts of broken engagements and broken hearts temporarily forgotten.

  If Miles could forget the past as easily, he would have done so in a second. If he could give his younger self a fist upside the head he would have done that as well, but as he was quickly discovering there was no power on earth that could make one forget their past, nor do anything to change it. What was done was done. There would be no going back and, he thought with a grimace, no going forward if Dianna had her way.

  Watching her slender silhouette grow smaller and smaller until she crested the top of the front lawn and disappeared on the other side of it, swallowed up by bright lights and a foggy mist rolling in from the east, Miles released a pent up breath and cupped his hands behind his neck, short nails digging hard into tense muscle.

  “Fool,” he said aloud. “You are a bloody fool, Miles Radnor. And you have no one to blame but yourself.”

  One of the horses from the stables snorted as though in full agreement, its head bobbing restlessly in the shadows. Having always possessed a natural affinity for the shaggy beasts, Miles went to the horse’s stall and extended his hand, palm facing up. “Hello there old fellow,” he murmured. “Hear all of that, did you?”

  The horse, a handsome bay with dark, inquisitive eyes, peeled back its thick rubbery top lip, revealing a row of yellow incisors spotted with bits of hay.

  “I shall take that as a yes.” Fishing around in his pocket for a treat, Miles drew out a piece of peppermint. Nickering with delight the horse quickly lipped up the sugary snack and promptly nudged Miles’ chest looking for another. Scratching the bay beneath his well-groomed forelock, Miles shook his head. “Greedy, aren’t you? Well I am afraid that is all you’ll be getting. If I give you my last treat Vesper will have my head on a platter.”

  It wasn’t an exaggeration. Given to him by his late father, Vesper had been a sweet, rather dowdy looking brown filly when he’d left England four years ago. Upon his return he’d been pleased to discover she had blossomed into a stunning - albeit temperamental - chestnut mare with a fondness for peppermints and biting groom’s backsides. Given her unruly nature she’d gone largely untrained during his absence, something Miles planned on personally rectifying as soon as possible.

  If only repairing his relationship with Dianna could be as simple.

  She hated him. He’d suspected she would. Truly, how could she not? But to see the hate in her eyes… to hear it in her voice… Miles rubbed a hand down his face, fingers catching on the rough patch of whiskers he’d allowed to grow untrimmed across his chin and jawline. He supposed some part of him had assumed she would be angry, but then she would smile her sweet, shy little smile and all would be forgiven. That is how it would have happened with the Dianna he had left behind. But like Vesper, she’d changed during his absence. She’d grown up. Grown older. The pretty, gentle girl he’d known had transformed into a beautiful, independent woman.

  A woman who couldn’t stand the sight of him.

  Which was rather unfortunate, especially given that he was captivated by the sight of her. One glance across the ballroom was all it had taken. One glance… and a thousand memories.

  Rolling around their blankets as toddlers. Running through the fields as children. Holding hands as young adults, starry eyed over the sight of one another. She more than him, Miles remembered. Always more than him.

  From the moment they lear
ned of their engagement she’d accepted it without question while he… he had struggled, not with his affection for the lovely, blue-eyed beauty he was to marry but with the archaic rules that made it possible for parents to decide the entire future of their children before they were ten years of age.

  He’d thought he would come around. But as the date of the wedding loomed closer, his doubts only grew deeper.

  As an only son Miles had always borne the weight of knowing the Radnor line depended on him to continue it. ‘Marry and produce an heir’ was something that had been drummed into his head from the very moment he was able to comprehend what it meant. He’d been groomed since birth to inherit the Earldom of Winfield, and marrying Dianna was but the final piece in a puzzle that had been constructed long before he was ever born.

  Miles was not an ignorant man, nor a presumptuous one. He knew most men in his situation would have been elated to be engaged to such a comely girl as Dianna, but as he grew older and the shackles on his freedom grew tighter, he came to see her as something else entirely.

  So he’d done the unspeakable.

  The unmentionable.

  The unforgivable.

  He’d left.

  He’d left everyone and everything behind. His mother. His father. The bloody title they’d hung around his neck like a noose. His inheritance. His future.

  Dianna.

  Of it all, she was the one thing he regretted the most. But what other choice did he have? Marry her, and be miserable? Take her with him, and make her miserable? She was sixteen when he left, little more than a child. She deserved to marry a man without doubts. A man without uncertainty. A better man than the one he was shaping up to be.

  So he left, and for four years he explored the world. He saw things he’d never imagined. Did things he’d never thought he would be able to do. He lived as he’d always dreamed: without order, without rules, without consequence. And yet…and yet a pretty girl with golden hair and cornflower blue eyes had never been far from his mind.