by Mary Balogh
And so the morning was effectively planned for most of her guests.
Diana stepped out to the stables with Nancy, folly prepared to enjoy herself. The good weather still held, she was wearing the bright pink riding habit that she had been too shy to wear until this very day, and she was beginning to feel young and carefree again.
Had she ever felt young and carefree? When she was a very young girl, perhaps. But when she was eighteen and had been taken to London to be presented at court and to participate in all the gay activities of the Season? Not really. She had been too bewildered by it all and not a little frightened. She had not really enjoyed that spring.
Had she ever felt young and exuberant during the years of her marriage to Teddy? It felt disloyal to admit that she had not. She had not been actively unhappy with him—oh, no, certainly not—but she had always been aware that she was a clergyman's wife and that certain decorous behavior was expected of her. And Teddy had been such a very serious person. Gentle, kind, and dear, it was true, but serious. Indeed, when she tried to remember a time when he had laughed, she could not do so. Not one single occasion. He had smiled frequently, but he had never laughed.
So for the first time in her adult life she was feeling young. And she was feeling that carefreeness was neither an undesirable nor an impossible state. She was beginning to feel that finally she had put behind her the dreadful ordeal of Teddy's death and all the bitterness and loneliness that had followed it. She was beginning to feel a sense of release, a hope that happiness still lay ahead of her.
She allowed Lester to help her into the sidesaddle and smiled down at him. And what had wrought the change? Undoubtedly it had done her good to be forced to leave the quiet solitude of her papa's home for the bustle and activity of this house party at Rotherham Hall. And her affection had been revived for the earl and countess and for Clarence, Claudia, Ernest, and the children. It felt good to be part of a family that consisted of more than just her mother and father. Then, of course, the weather had contributed to her mood. It had been warm and sunny almost since the day of he arrival.
The Marquess of Kenwood brought his horse into step beside hers as they all rode out of the cobbled stableyard. He was grinning. "You should have warned us all to wear dark shades over our eyes, Diana," he said. "That is a very eye-catching outfit." He leaned a little closer. "And quite ravishing."
She smiled back. "I am afraid that when one has been wearing black for a whole year, my lord," she said, "one develops a weakness for bright colors."
"It is a weakness that you are welcome to cultivate as far as I am concerned," he said, one eyebrow lifting as he deliberately let his eyes travel slowly down her body.
Diana laughed and held her face up to the sun's rays. Yes, it was the sun that was doing it, she thought, feeling its warmth against her face and against her body. And oh, yes— she had to admit it—it was the man at her side too. It was a terrible admission to make. It was a ridiculous admission to make. He was making her feel young. He was making her laugh. He was making her feel attractive. And desirable.
And she was beginning to like him, despite everything. Perhaps she was beginning to feel a little more than liking.
"Perhaps Mama is a little mad," Lord Wendell said, "but it is always good to have an excuse to ride on such a morning. I just hope we do not drag any of our hosts out of bed."
''They deserve to be dragged out on a morning like this,'' his wife said briskly. "And people always seem to get up in the country."
"I'm not so sure about Lady Huntingdon," the viscount said with a chuckle. "She lived too many years in London, from what I have heard. She is quite averse to mornings."
"Have you met Sir Frederick's new wife, Diana?" Claudia asked.
Diana shook her head.
"Now can you imagine anyone," Lord Kenwood asked her, "being willing to waste a whole morning in slumber? What can be so interesting to do the night before, I wonder, that one would be prepared to make such a sacrifice?"
Diana could not hold her expression quite serious.' 'Oh,'' she said, "reading a book, perhaps? Playing cards? Drinking?"
"And?" he prompted. He was using his bedroom voice again. She had to force herself not to laugh.
"And." She frowned as if in deep thought. "And saying one's prayers." She smiled dazzingly at him and watched the twinkle grow in his eyes.
If she were not very careful, she would fall in love with him. And would not that be a shocking thing? Not that there was any danger of that, of course. He was still, when all was said and done, a notorious rake. And he was still bent on charming her out of good sense, on flirting outrageously with her, and on ultimately seducing her. He was still a man for whom women were judged only on their suitability for enticing into his bed. Oh, no, there was no real danger of her falling in love with him. She could not possibly love such a man.
But since the afternoon of the picnic two days before she had let go of the terrible embarrassment that had made her almost hate him. It was in the past, what had happened at the inn, and it would never be repeated. And she had let go of her indignation at his attempted seduction, and of the terrible urge to judge another human being that she supposed she had learned at the parsonage.
And she had come to see a man who, despite everything, was likable. He loved his family, he had said, and his lands and his tenants. And he had held her close, but without passion, and had listened to her talk about Teddy and about her dreams for the future. He had not laughed at her.
He had told her, of course, that she must not try to find a worthy gentleman behind the outer shallowness of his life. And he had warned her that he wanted her, that he intended to try to have her, and that there would be only physical pleasure involved, not romance. Not love.
It had really sounded almost as if he were trying to convince himself.
"Do you think Ernie is likely to come to blows with Michael and Allan and Lester?" the marquess asked now, lowering his voice so that the last named gentleman would not hear. ''I can rather picture him taking on all three at once, a rapier in each hand, a dagger between his teeth. A chivalrous soul is old Ernie, when occasion demands."
"Whatever for?" she asked. "Why would Ernest want to fight anyone?"
"What?" he said. "You have not noticed how those three have been following Miss Wickenham around like lapdogs since she performed a certain fascinating dance two evenings ago? The night of our great triumph as vocal duetists?"
"You found it objectionable?" she asked with a frown.
He raised both eyebrows and gazed mockingly across at her. "Now did I say objectionable?" he asked. "Mouthwatering, perhaps. Objectionable, no. I am only amazed that Ernie allowed it. He must have known what was coming since he provided the accompaniment. Of course, that does not necessarily follow. He was probably so intent on scraping his violin during practice that he did not even notice that someone was dancing beyond his line of vision. Not that I ever thought Ernie was made of stone."
"But the dance was beautiful!" Diana said indignantly. "She has great talent."
"Without any doubt," the marquess said. His eyes were laughing at her. "Michael and Allan and Lester thought so too."
Diana's lips compressed. "It is just like you to have seen the dance that way," she said. "Oh, it is just like you."
He grinned. "Just like Michael and Allan and Lester too?" he said. "And Ernie?"
"Ernest is a gentleman," she said.
He laughed. "Precisely. That's why I fear that he might be slapping a single glove in three faces before the week is out."
"Well, there you are wrong," she said. "Ernest does not even like Angela, unfortunately. She says that she cannot do anything right in his eyes."
"That's just like Ernie too," he said, "not even to know when he is attracted to a woman. Now I—" he lowered his voice to a caress—"never ever make that mistake, Diana. I was attracted to you the moment my eyes first rested on you. Though they did not first alight on your face, of course, as you m
ay recall."
"Yes, I do recall," she said, looking straight ahead. "And I see that you are trying to put me to the blush, my lord. But it will not work. If you were a gentleman, you would have looked only into my face on that occasion."
"Diana!" he said. "Am I made of marble? Or am I flesh and blood? And is it your habit that is reflecting from your face? Your cheeks look decidedly pink. And is that a smile that is tugging at the corners of your mouth? For shame, my dear. A lady would be quivering with indignation by now."
Diana tugged the corners of her mouth back down again and said nothing. They had had several such conversations in the past two days. And it was shameful, and unladylike— she was beginning to enjoy mem.
''You see?'' Lord Wendell called back to the group behind him. He was pointing ahead. "We maligned the lady. She is out riding with her husband already."
Diana could see the ivy-covered stone house of Sir Frederick Huntingdon in the distance. The man himself, with a lady at his side, was riding across a field in their direction. He lifted a hand to acknowledge them. The two groups met on either side of a stile.
Greetings were exchanged and introductions made. Diana smiled and nodded to Lady Huntingdon, who had married the baronet just the year before. It was the second marriage for both of them. And this time he had chosen a beauty. Lady Huntingdon's dark hair was piled beneath a very fashionable riding hat. Dark eyes and eyelashes looked out dreamily from a proud and handsome face. She held herself very straight in the saddle. Her voice when she spoke was low-pitched and soft.
The Marquess of Kenwood was the last to be presented to her, though she must, of course, have looked the whole group over as they approached.
"Oh, Jack," she said, her eyelids drooping as she looked at him, "is it you? And you have been at Rotherham Hall for almost two weeks already? What rotten bad luck that we did not hear before. Life is confounded dull in the country, is it not?"
Diana turned, startled, to look at Lord Kenwood. He was gazing at Lady Huntingdon with half-closed, amused eyes. "Hello, Serena," he said. "It has been a long time."
"You must all come and have tea," she said. She glanced at her husband. "We will not take no for answer, will we, darling? Do ride down to the gate all of you and come through. Jack, you must ride beside me and tell me everything you have been doing in the past two years. Everything, you naughty man. All the sordid details."
Everyone laughed. But Lady Huntingdon did not. Her voice was like a low caress. Diana shivered and glanced up to the sky. But there were no clouds there; the sun was still shining.
They had been lovers, she thought. There could be no doubt about it. It was there in the way they looked at each other. And they did not even seem to care that others too could see it in their eyes. They had been lovers. She was face-to-face with one of his mistresses. But then, of course, that was hardly surprising. The country must be littered with them. And she had known very well about their existence even before meeting this living proof.
It did not matter. It was none of her concern. It did not matter at all to her.
* * *
Serena Mack—as she had been more than two years before—had been a very satisfactory mistress. Beautiful, passionate, experienced: She had had all the qualities the Marquess of Kenwood could possibly ask for in a woman. They had been together for several months, though they had never pretended to remain faithful to each other within that time. And they probably would have stayed together for as many more months if she had not made it progressively more clear to him that she had every intention of becoming his marchioness. She had been widowed for two years at that time.
She was as beautiful as ever. And as seductive. She rode beside him and talked exclusively to him while Diana fell back to ride beside Sir Frederick. And she made no secret of the fact that she was bored in the country, that she welcomed the sight of him and the chance of seeing more of him in the week ahead, and that she would not be at all averse to picking up their affair where they had left it off two years before.
And all this in the relatively short distance they had to ride to the house. Lord Kenwood rode at her side saying little, but merely appreciating her and laughing at her with his eyes.
"At Rotherham Hall I am surrounded by relatives," he said. "The countess is able to tell me the exact relationship of everyone to me. It is a restricting atmosphere, Serena. I fear I must behave myself."
"You behave yourself, darling?" she said, slanting him a look from beneath her lashes. "Can hell freeze over? Can the sun fall from the sky? Can the Marquess of Kenwood behave with decorum? Impossible!"
He chuckled.
And she certainly had not taken his mild protest seriously. While they were all sipping their tea in a downstairs parlor, whose French windows opened onto a terrace, she invited the marquess—no one else—to stroll with her in the garden. And she took his arm as soon as they were outside, before they were beyond the sight of the people gathered in the parlor.
''I have missed you, Jack,'' she said. ''I should never have broken our liaison. Why did that happen, anyway? Some flash of temper on my part, doubtless. You probably smiled at a dancing girl, and I was hurling glasses at your head. Was that it?"
"I can't remember," he said. "But certainly not that, Serena. Would I smile at a dancer when I had you to gaze at? No, more likely you smiled at a uniformed Guardsman and I was throwing glasses at your head."
She sighed. "We were foolish," she said. "We did fight a great deal, did we not?"
"I believe our relationship was rather, ah, volatile," he said. "But interesting, Serena. Undoubtedly interesting."
''I shall have Frederick ride over to Rotherham Hall with me tomorrow," she said. "Or perhaps just a groom. There are trees there, Jack, and greenhouses, and the castle."
He raised one eyebrow. "And cuckold the worthy Frederick?" he said. "Tut, tut, Serena."
''Ach.'' She made an airy gesture with one well-manicured hand. "We have an understanding. There will be no trouble, darling."
"Except," he said, his eyes laughing down at her, "that I live in dreadful fear of the Countess of Rotherham and her disapproval, my dear. And that of all my other relatives."
"Oh," she said, turning and crooning up at him, "you were ever a tease, darling. You afraid? I shall see you tomorrow."
He remembered as she brushed against him and set soft lips to his for the merest fraction of a second her generously curved body and the expertise with which she could use it to drive a man out of his mind with desire.
A pleasant enough memory. He had not known many women more seductive than Serena Mack.
He was amused half an hour later to find that although Diana Ingram did not openly object to his riding beside her again, she was stiff and prim and disapproving, as she had been during the first week of their acquaintance. She was indeed an enticing bundle of delight. There was going to be something decidedly dull about being back in London without the prospect of having her to tease throughout the day.
"You ate too many cream cakes, Diana?" he asked. "You look as if you have a pain."
She pursed her lips but would not look at him. "I did not eat even one," she said.
"Oh, come now," he said. "Not even the smallest one on the plate, Diana? Would you have me believe that you are able to resist temptation to all your appetites? I'll wager you ate one."
"How would you know?" she asked testily, looking across at him with flashing eyes. "You were not
there to see."
He grinned. "Ah, yes," he said, lowering his voice, "I was, er, walking in the garden with the delectable Lady Huntingdon, slaking one of my appetites, Diana, and feeling no need at all of a cream cake."
"You need not boast so openly of your conquests," she said, transferring her gaze forward again.
"They are nothing to be so very proud of, my lord."
"Ah, but I am proud," he said. "I have achieved a great accomplishment this morning, Diana."
"Making a fool out of her husban
d?" she said, looking angrily at him again. Her cheeks were a quite becoming shade of pink.
"No," he said, narrowing his eyes and looking quite deliberately at her lips. "Making you jealous, my dear."
"What?" She drew in a deep breath and held it, and Lord Kenwood's eyes slipped to her breasts. "Me jealous? Of you, my lord?" She laughed scornfully and quite theatrically. "What utter nonsense! Lady Huntingdon may have you and be welcome to you. I would say you deserve each other."
He laughed at her until her nostrils flared and she turned away from him. He suspected, by the rising color in her cheeks, that she had just realized how very easily she had fallen into his trap. Dear Diana!
