She nodded, her courage evaporating in the wind. His feelings were too raw, too fragile. He simply was not trained enough to her company to pursue anything further. It would take time. She could wait.
They walked on in silence. Diana kept her gaze directed on the ground before them, too full of her own concerns to pay attention to anything beyond the turmoil churning within her.
“I do realize you are the expert in matters pertaining to dogs.”
She looked up at him. Amusement danced in his blue eyes. “Yes?”
A smile tugged the comers of his lips. “Yet I am curious, don’t you think we should at least keep an eye on the animals? I suspect I can’t possibly get to know the beasts if they are nowhere in sight.”
“What?” Diana scanned the road ahead. The dogs had vanished. “Where on earth have they gone?”
“This is precisely what they did to me when I attempted an outing.” He shrugged. “However, I assumed with your expertise...”
She widened her eyes and stared at him. Why, the man was teasing her. Her heart soared. It was a very good sign.
“So, what do you suggest now?” The smile grew to a grin. Did he suspect she hadn’t the vaguest idea how to handle dogs?
“Now?”
“I suppose we shall have to find them.”
“That’s exactly what I was about to say,” she said, a bit more sharply than she intended. She lifted her chin and hurried down the road. He chuckled behind her. Honestly, he was behaving as if she didn’t know what she was doing. She didn’t, of course, but he needn’t be so smug about it.
As if cued by an unseen hand, a chorus of frantic yelps broke out a few yards beyond them from a small grove of trees. Diana sent a prayer of thanks toward the heavens. Losing the dogs would not do at all.
“I believe they’re in this direction.”
“That would be my guess. After you, Mrs. Lawrence.” She could hear the laugh in his voice. “You're the expert. As far as I'm concerned, those animals can go straight to—”
“Sir Oliver! Your aunt expects you to take care of them,” she said over her shoulder, “and even anyone who knows nothing at all about dogs can certainly tell they’re in some kind of predicament.” She stepped briskly off the road and into the lightly wooded area.
“I rescind my earlier statement,” he called after her. “I do dislike them! I detest them! If the truth were told—”
Diana plunged through the brush and pulled up short. The ground banked down gently. It was not a difficult incline under usual conditions, but today it was slickened with mud. A small pond lay a few yards beyond. Puddles of rainwater dotted the area.
Shakespeare struggled at the bottom of the slope to pull himself out of some sort of hole. But the poor beast couldn’t get a grasp on the muddy ground and every effort left him covered more and more with muck. He gazed up at her with a mournful expression. The Yorkies sat to one side of the big dog, their long hair plastered to their tiny bodies, looking quite pleased with themselves. They had, after all, summoned help and their task here was done.
“Did you find—” Oliver stepped up beside her and winced. “That’s a bloody mess.”
“He’s stuck down there.”
“So it appears,” Oliver said mildly.
“In some kind of hole.”
“A foxhole I suspect.” Oliver bent forward slightly and peered at the display. “Yes, indeed, looks like a foxhole from here.”
“Aren’t you going to do something?” She waved at the Great Dane. “Rescue him?”
“You’re the dog expert.” He crossed his arms over his chest and bit back a grin. “You do something.”
She glared in annoyance. “Very well, I will.” She picked up her skirts, set her jaw and stepped forward firmly.
“I say, don’t be—”
Her feet slipped out from under her, her balance fled and she toppled backward, plopping down on her rear end and siding the full length of the incline like a child on a sled.
“Mrs. Lawrence!”
She turned just in time to see Oliver scramble down the hill to her side. He pulled her to her feet, concern evident on his face. “Are you all right? I am sorry. I never meant for you to actually try to negotiate this slope by yourself. But you started off before I could stop you and I—”
“Oh, honestly, Oliver,” she said, exasperation coloring her words, “I’m covered in mud. We’ve been together much of the day. I should think we can dispense with formalities. Can’t you call me Diana?”
He stared down at her. His midnight gaze bored into hers and her heart pounded in her ears. Time seemed to stop. The world faded away and all that mattered was the question in his eyes. “Diana.”
He spoke her name like a caress, and it shivered through her blood. She never thought she’d hear him say it again.
“Why...” He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her closer, his gaze searching hers, hungry and hopeful. Then abruptly, the look in his eye vanished, as a flame extinguished by a puff of breath, and he dropped his hands.
“Oliver, I—’’ Disappointment rushed through her. And relief. And fear. She wasn’t ready. Not yet. Diana turned toward Shakespeare and waved helplessly at him. “He is much too big for me to handle alone.”
“I’ll do it.” Oliver stepped toward the dog, grasped his midsection and pulled him out of the hole. Shakespeare cast him a grateful glance, reached his huge head forward and slapped his tongue across Oliver’s face. Oliver jerked back but not fast enough. Shakespeare shook his solid body in an impressive display of energy. Droplets of water and chunks of mud flew. In a split second, Oliver was drenched and covered.
“Damnation!” Oliver sputtered and glared at his ruined clothing.
Shakespeare scrambled up the hill and gazed down at him, wagging his tail in a manner that distinctly said this was a grand game. Diana stifled a laugh of her own.
“Blasted creatures.”
“It’s precisely what you deserve.”
“Oh,” he raised a brow. “In what way?”
“I told you once,” she said in a lofty manner, “dogs can sense when somebody dislikes them.”
Oliver glanced up at Shakespeare. He wagged his tail. “He seems to like me well enough.”
“You rescued him. Shakespeare is very willing to like everyone. Now the kings, on the other hand”— she nodded at the Yorkies who watched their every move—“are perhaps a shade more discriminating.” She bent over and snapped her fingers. “Come here, gentlemen.”
The dogs scurried to her side. She scooped up Balthazar and Melchoir and thrust them at Oliver. “Here. You shall have to carry them up. I doubt they can make it by themselves. I’ll carry Gaspar.”
He accepted the squirming, wet and rather pungent animals with a grimace of distaste. “And who will carry you?”
Her gaze locked with his and once again it seemed the question hanging between them had nothing to do with the words. She wrenched her gaze away, bent and picked up Gaspar. “You said it yourself, Oliver: I am an independent woman. I’m certain I shall manage.”
She turned, examined the slope and started toward a spot that seemed slightly less steep than the rest. Intent on her climb up the hill she wasn’t at all certain but she could have sworn she heard Oliver comment softly.
“Ah, but my dear, will I?”
***
Oliver swirled the brandy in his glass and stared at the flames licking at the logs in the fireplace. He’d planned on dining downstairs tonight but both Miles and Mrs. Collins, the housekeeper, had insisted he and Diana go straight to bed after bathing and a light supper.
Oliver and Diana had not exchanged more than a few words on the brisk walk back to the manor. Oliver was not entirely certain what he wished to say. Diana shivered at his side, cold and miserable. He could do little but offer her a coat that was not substantially better than what she had. The temperature had dropped and a stiff breeze carried the scent of snow. He’d wanted to wrap his arms around her bu
t...
Miles had greeted them at the door with no more comment than an upraised brow. Apparently, he’d seen the kings in this state before. Within seconds, the Yorkies were handed over to kitchen maids, Shakespeare was on his way to the stables and servants were drawing baths. Miles always knew what he needed.
But did Oliver?
He pulled a thoughtful sip and considered the day’s events. Yes, Diana had changed with the years and to an equal, if not greater, extent, so had he. Gone was the foolhardy youth who wore his heart on his sleeve and fell in love with a shy, dark-eyed American. Vanished was the very proper, well- behaved young lady who had just enough of a hint of passion in those eyes to tantalize the equally respectable young man. But he could no longer deny that whatever had pulled them together once before lingered now.
He still wanted to know exactly why she was back in his life. Could she possibly want him again after all these years? The answer, one way or another, would make what he had to do so much easier. At least he would know. He’d almost done it today, grabbed her and jerked her into his arms and demanded the truth. Had she left him of her own accord? Did she break his heart for her own amusement? Or were they both victims of another’s deceit? But his courage failed. The words simply wouldn’t come.
Oliver emptied his glass in one long swallow and set it carefully on the table at his side. He was not a man easily frightened. He considered himself possessed of a certain moral fiber and a satisfactory physical presence. He did not doubt his own capabilities. Oliver Thornton Stanhope was not one to run from a fight.
But today when he’d said her name and stared into the endless depths of her eyes, fear such as he’d never imagined, intense and primitive and heart- stopping, rushed through him. Fear triggered at the moment he realized the past no longer mattered. The moment he knew with clarity that stunned his senses and his soul that once again he loved her.
And very likely, always had.
Chapter Seven
“Where is she, Miles?” Oliver strode into the breakfast room, determination adding a spring to his step. The night had been long and restless, his sleep fitful, but this morning’s decision had renewed his spirit.
He didn’t give a bloody fig about the events of a decade ago. That was over and done with. All he cared about was today. She was in his home and in his life and that’s where he would fight to keep her. He was not the same man who’d lost her once, for whatever reason. He would not lose her again.
He had no idea what her feelings were, but more and more he believed she would not be here at all if she didn’t harbor some affection for him. Nothing else made sense. It was the only logical explanation. Odd, what love did to a man’s mind. He’d been too distracted by her arrival to recognize the absurdity of this dog training nonsense.
“Get on with it, man, where is she?”
“Who, sir?” Miles stood holding a small silver tray bearing a white vellum envelope in one hand. Oliver’s coat hung over his other arm.
“You know who.” Impatience pulled his brows together. “Mrs. Lawrence, that’s who.”
“Miss Lawrence is not down yet.”
“Very well.” Oliver pulled out a chair. “I shall wait.”
“I’m afraid not, sir.” Miles offered the tray. “This arrived for you a short while ago. I believe you’ve been called back to London.”
“Blast it all.” Oliver ripped open the envelope and scanned the tersely worded message. “Some sort of question over the clauses in a rather obscure treaty of little importance. Ridiculous to call me back for this. I daresay—” Resignation washed through him. “Damnation. Well, there's nothing to be done for it, I suppose. At least it shouldn’t take long.” Oliver pulled out his watch. “I believe there's a train to London within the hour. If I make it—”
“I assumed you would want to leave at once, sir.” Miles assisted Oliver into his coat. “A carriage is waiting to take you to the station.”
“You always did know what I needed, Miles.” “Indeed, I do, Sir Oliver,” Miles said under his breath.
Oliver started toward the door, then turned back. “When you see Mrs. Lawrence...”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Tell her—” Tell her—what? “Never mind. Just tell her I’ll be home this evening. And I should like to see her. Tell her it’s important. No. Tell her it’s urgent. No. Don’t tell her anything. I’ll tell her myself.” Oliver hurried out the door to the waiting carriage, his mind turning to the barely remembered business awaiting him in London.
It wasn’t until the train was approaching the city that the strange nature of the summons to return dawned on him. Miles had rushed him out of the manor too quickly to give it much thought. He pulled the letter from his breast pocket and studied it.
The signature was scrawled and unreadable. He’d simply assumed, given the emergency nature of the missive, it was from his superiors. There was no letterhead, no official insignia, nothing of that sort. It was a simple, yet expensive, sheet of fine writing paper. The type anyone of means might have access to.
Odder still, the more he regarded the dispatch, the more the handwriting seemed familiar. In fact, it bore a startling but very distinct resemblance to Aunt Ellie’s.
***
“Where is he, Miles?” Diana stepped into the breakfast room, Shakespeare at her side, the three kings scampering about her feet.
“Sir Oliver was called to London, miss.”
“Oh.” Her spirits dropped. “I see.”
Miles pulled out a chair and absently she sat down. Through the long hours of a sleepless night she’d finally decided the time had come to confront him about the past. She would not beg his forgiveness: she’d done nothing to forgive save a weak character that had blindly accepted Ketterson’s words. But she would tell him the truth of what had happened. And she would confess her love and admit her feelings for him had never dimmed.
Miles set her breakfast plate before her with a loud sigh.
And if Oliver rejected her? So be it. Unconsciously, she lifted her chin in defiance. It would be painful but she would survive. She would always survive. She had matured enough to recognize and accept with pride her own strength.
Miles poured her coffee and again released a heartfelt sigh.
“Miles?” She gazed up at the hovering butler. “Forgive me for intruding, but is something the matter?”
He sighed again. “I hate to trouble you, miss.”
“Don’t be silly. Please. I’d like to help.”
“Well...” He hesitated as if debating the propriety of his admission. “I’m sure you’re aware this is the first Christmas at Thornton without Lady Eleanor.”
In the midst of dealing with Oliver and the dogs, she’d nearly forgotten all about Christmas. “I am sorry. You must miss her.”
“Lady Eleanor loved Christmastime.”
“Of course.”
“She made certain the manor was decked in finery from one end to the other.” A reminiscent light shone in Miles’ eyes. “It was a sight to behold.”
“I can well imagine.”
“Sir Oliver loved the way the manor looked at Christmas.”
“Really?”
“Indeed. He used to say that coming back here for the holidays was the best part of his year.”
“Did he?”
Miles sighed once more. “The staff and I have been saying it’s something of a shame not to celebrate the season this year. For Sir Oliver that is.”
Diana tapped her finger thoughtfully on the table.
“Lady Eleanor would have wanted it.” Miles pressed his point home. “For Sir Oliver.” “Consistency is the key to training a dog,” she murmured.
“Miss?” Miles raised a brow.
“Nothing, Miles, nothing at all,” she said slowly. “When is Sir Oliver expected to return?”
“The train trip is approximately three hours and ten minutes each way. That, given the time it shall take him to resolve whatever matter it is he finds t
here, and considering as well the limited number of trains available... He should be back quite late I should say.”
“Do you think... would it be possible... I mean, could we—”
“Decorate the manor? Fetch Lady Eleanor’s decorations from the attic? Bring in boughs of fir? Select and cut a tree?”
“Dear me.” It was her turn to sigh. “I hadn’t realized there was so very much to accomplish. Christmas was never much of an occasion in my home and not marked at all after my mother’s death. It does seem impossible.”
“My dear, Miss Lawrence.” Miles drew himself up in an imperious manner. “Lady Eleanor’s staff at Thornton, including gardeners and stable hands, consists of thirty-seven of the best-trained servants in England. She considered us not as mere employees but as members of her family. Each and every one of us feels her loss. And each and every one of us views Sir Oliver with a great deal of affection.” A determined gleam shone in his eye. “Nothing is impossible. Not for this staff. Not in this household and especially not at Christmas.”
Diana shook her head. “Miles, you are amazing.”
“Yes, miss, I am.” The comers of his lips curled but his staid expression didn’t so much as flicker. “Shall I give the orders, then?”
“Please do.” Diana rose to her feet. “Can I be of any assistance?”
“You already have, miss.” Miles nodded and hurried out of the room.
Diana glanced down at the dogs sitting expectantly beside the table. “It appears, gentlemen, once again, we are going to get Oliver’s attention.”
Within the hour, the manor exploded with activity and exhilaration. Everywhere, servants scurried, arms laden with evergreen branches and boxes of the fragile ornaments collected by Lady Eleanor. Laughter rang through the hall and echoed in every chamber of the huge house. Now and again a rousing, if off-key, version of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen” or “Deck the Halls” would break out, the joy more in the singing than the sound.
The Yorkies bounded from one group of chattering workers to the next as if overseeing the proceedings. Shakespeare, too, seemed caught up in the excitement, his wagging tail smacking more than one unsuspecting backside.
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