‘But they keep spilling out of their basket!’
‘Then find a bigger basket. Wouldn’t that solve the problem?’
The maid’s reluctant nod suggested that the real problem hadn’t been solved at all. With a brusque curtsey to Harrow, Merricott, Taunton and Parr, she bustled out of the room as the tabby began to wriggle with more spirit.
It was always like this, here. Why he took such comfort in Merricott’s house, a man who appeared far more comfortable in the midst of a chaotic zoo than anywhere else, he didn’t know—but he needed the rough-and-tumble of the house, animals included. Not the pained silence of Witford House, with a hurt Diana at its heart.
He looked out of the window at the sun-drenched garden. A large cow wearing a daisy chain around its ears stared back at him for a long moment, before giving a solemn moo.
‘Buttercup is happy to see you.’ Merricott beamed. ‘I’m sure she remembers you from when she was a calf.’
‘That animal has the worst temper of any beast I’ve ever met.’ Parr glowered at Buttercup, who did nothing but stare in return. ‘I nearly had my hand bitten off by the bloody thing two summers ago. The twins won’t go near her.’
‘Well, you did insist on trying to stroke her. Your children are much wiser than you are. I was very clear that she doesn’t like to be touched.’ Merricott looked primly at Parr, who rolled his eyes. ‘Only Withers can stroke her, and she makes sure to do so with some regularity whenever she visits.’
‘Miss Withersham still visiting often, is she?’ Taunton’s expression of sunny innocence didn’t fool Harrow for a moment. Merricott’s deep, long-lasting friendship with the former Wild Girl of Hallwood seemed ready to spill into something more romantic at any moment—but when would it finally happen? ‘That’s wonderful.’
‘Of course it’s wonderful. She has a tremendous knack with any beast—she could tame a lion with a sharp word, I think.’
‘I doubt she’d choose to tame any beast. She’d be far more discerning—only one beast would suit her.’
‘I’m not quite following your thread, but I suppose she is discerning, yes—she appears to have chosen Buttercup as her principal beast.’ Merricott looked at Taunton with a sunny, slightly confused smile. ‘Although I’m sure she’d love female company. Miss Eveton is welcome to come whenever she wishes, you know.’
At the sound of Miss Eveton’s name, Taunton’s face grew very set. Harrow sneaked a look at his best friend, wondering if Merricott had said the name deliberately as a way of stopping Taunton’s line of enquiry.
Daisy Eveton, Taunton’s young and inexperienced ward, was as shy and innocent as any unexpectedly orphaned eighteen-year-old could be. She also suffered from poor health, with a chill two summers ago having left her lungs in a less than optimal condition. That, and the fact of her beauty, was all the assembled gentlemen knew about her—because for all his infamous debauchery in every other area of his life, Samuel Taunton was the strictest guardian that Daisy could ever have wished for. She only appeared in the most clement weather, bundled in shawls and often silent, with Taunton watching her like the tenderest of hawks as she spoke to friends and prospective suitors.
Strange that she hadn’t already been married off. Strange, sometimes, the way Taunton looked at her. But that was a mystery that none of the men, not even Harrow, felt up to solving—especially when the problem of his rapport with Diana digging into him, burrowing into his ribs like a knife.
‘I’ll make sure to tell her.’ Taunton’s deliberately blank tone concealed a world of complex feeling. ‘But enough of cows and wards, I think—we all know why we’re here. I can’t help but feel I’m about to come into some money.’
Harrow glared. ‘If you were beastly enough to actually wager anything on Diana and I—’
‘Of course not.’ Taunton tutted. ‘I get to enjoy the sensation of having missed an extremely sure bet, I imagine.’ He looked at Harrow, the kindness in his eyes an unexpected gift. ‘Well? How goes the marriage in name only?’
Telling the truth to his friends wasn’t as difficult as Harrow had feared. There was safety here, despite the teasing. He didn’t even need to go into detail—these men, these very different men that kept by his side no matter what, would understand.
‘Well.’ He set his teacup down, avoiding Buttercup’s placid gaze as she stared at him through the window. ‘Not in name only. Not at all.’
‘Well?’ Taunton looked at the assembled gentleman with a vaguely aggrieved air. ‘I suppose it would be dreadfully impolite to say I told you so—but I did tell you so.’
‘Dreadfully impolite, and dreadfully in character.’ Parr sighed. ‘But I had rather imagined you shooting champagne corks at the rafters. This isn’t quite the joy I’d expected.’
Harrow shook his head. ‘Someone should feel joy. I’m not joyous in the least.’
‘That much is evident, Harrow.’ Merricott looked at him with gentle concern. ‘What on earth has happened?’
‘Nothing has happened. Nothing is all that different to how it was before, when I was determined to never see her again.’ Harrow stared at the floor, the pain rising in him with vicious, uncontrollable force. ‘But… but now the fact that I love her is ever-present, all-consuming, as is the fact that she was going to marry my father.’
There was a short, surprised moment of silence. Eventually Parr spoke, his tone severe but cautious.
‘You’ve never admitted that you loved her. That you still love her.’
‘I’m sure I must have said it in the past. When everything fell through.’
‘No. Not once.’ Taunton shrugged, looking at Parr. ‘I would remember. I would have teased you mercilessly, for one thing.’
‘You’re not teasing me now.’
‘No. Because… because now it’s different.’ Taunton paused. ‘It’s hardly the time for teasing.’
Another silence came, a softer one, the men moving closer to Harrow as he sat in abject misery. Eventually, with a soft exhalation that came close to a sigh, Merricott spoke again.
‘Withers has told me about Diana, you know.’
‘Susan?’
‘Yes. She would never reveal a confidence, of course, but she knows I’m a safe pair of hands.’ Merricott continued, oblivious to Taunton’s knowing look. ‘According to their conversations, it seems clear enough that the marriage was never meant to be a romantic one. Or a—a carnal one. If anything, it seems an act of charity.’
‘My father deserved no mercy, especially in the form of Diana.’ Harrow bit his lip, forcing himself to speak calmly. ‘And Diana told me much the same.’
‘It seems churlish to not believe her.’
‘I—I do believe her. Whether that’s weakness or kindness, I don’t know.’ Harrow sighed. ‘But while I can believe in Diana’s good intentions, I can’t believe the same thing of my father.’
‘Well.’ Parr paused. ‘That’s progress.’
‘What do you mean, progress?’
‘The fact that you can believe in your wife’s good intentions.’ Parr’s expression dropped its usual grim cast, revealing a grave but comforting softness. ‘You’ve never been able to do so before.’
He was right. He had never managed to ascribe pure motives to Diana before—the pain of her former rejection had been too great. Now, with the perspective of age and love, the sincerity of her actions shone clearly. Harrow shook his head, miserable beyond measure, leaning closer to Merricott as he patted his shoulder.
‘I’ve failed her. I married her as an act of spite, treating my own love for her as some sort of aberration. Not something that can make me better.’ He closed his eyes, the image of Diana’s hurt expression clear and vivid in his mind. ‘I’ve let my anger towards my father blind any other sort of better feeling.’
‘There’s still time to repair, Harrow. Still time to grow.’ Taunton smiled encouragingly. ‘Anger can fade. Love can flourish.’
‘I know. I… I hope.’ Harrow rem
embered his hasty words to Diana with a flush of real shame. ‘But I fear I may have squandered the chances I had left.’
When one’s heart had suffered unconscionable blows, there were very few true refuges—especially for a duchess. Drink, opium and other sins would cause gossip among the servants, and buying gowns could only occur in the hours of daylight. Diana wondered vaguely about covering all the mirrors and weeping copiously, only to decide that such a dramatic expression of emotion would cause the same hushed talk as drinking would.
Tidying was a simple and underrated way of putting one’s world to rights. She had believed in its powers even as a child, ordering and re-ordering her nursery no matter what her maid said. Now, as a woman in command of an enormous house, there were innumerable opportunities to assert control over a small but important corner of the world.
Alas, it didn’t work. Organising the preserves in the pantry didn’t work, organising her vast collection of gowns didn’t work, organising the dried herbs hanging by the kitchen windows didn’t work. Even when she sent the maids away, wading into half-abandoned rooms with an apron and dustpan by herself, battling disorder didn’t lift the misery in her heart. She thought about inviting Susan Withersham to help her—the woman wouldn’t be perturbed by such an odd task, while her former ton friends would have needed smelling-salts—but in the end, with a melancholy sigh, she decided that it was time to get used to being alone. Susan had already been more than enough help, listening to her tears, patting her shoulder with true sympathy. She had even offered to stay with Diana for dinner, to cheer her up, but Diana hadn’t wished to inconvenience her even more than she already had.
The man she loved wouldn’t allow himself to love her. The fact that he was her husband only made it worse, much worse—it meant she would have to see him every day, associate with him, unless they made arrangements to lead entirely separate lives. Just as she and Arthur had been planning to do. Wesley didn’t believe that, didn’t believe her… but oh, as much as she loved him, she was damned if she was going to lie in order to fit his version of the facts.
She climbed the narrow spiral of stairs that led to the attic, pausing to admire the Witford grounds as twilight stole over the gardens. A soft breeze crept through the half-open window, filling the air with the light, sad scent of blossom as a tear rolled down Diana’s cheek.
She wiped it away, irritated with herself. She had managed to accustom herself to the idea of a loveless marriage when it came to Arthur. It shouldn’t hurt quite as much as this, renouncing love when it came to Wesley as well.
The attic was vast, a tangle of cobwebs and mysterious objects draped in dust sheets. Diana smoothed down her apron with a brisk sigh, pulling the nearest chest close to her as she prepared to clean and organise its contents. She was the mistress of the house, after all—she could look at everything that lay unlocked without the slightest trace of guilt. The chest was old, the lock dusty through lack of use, and the lid lifted without any great exertion.
A letter lay atop the pile of faded documents, the paper much newer than the sheets beneath it. Diana looked closer, blinking as she saw her own name.
For Diana Montcrieff—given your need to tidy everything within reach, you’ll find this before too long. I’ve put similar ones in the greenhouse and morning room fireplace unless this one loses its way. And as for any housemaids reading this—bugger off!
A letter. A letter in Arthur’s handwriting, complete with his deeply idiosyncratic style of address. Diana looked closer, hardly daring to read it, but knowing she couldn’t put it away and pretend she’d never seen it. It was addressed to her, after all—even if she put it back in the chest, she would always know it was here.
Biting her lip, trying to control her rapidly beating heart, she began to read.
I don’t know when you’ll read this, my dear, but it’ll be sooner than you think. I may look hale and hearty, but how I feel is a very different matter. I have been to see a very prominent physician, and his gloomy predictions reflect my private assessment of my health.
You may have wondered why I didn’t tell you. You may have wondered many things, not least why I asked you for your hand in marriage despite not wishing to treat you as a husband treats his wife. I know that everyone who knows me—or is at least cognisant of my reputation—has assumed this is a sort of dastardly trick played upon a helpless young damsel, rather than the arrangement with an intelligent businesswoman that I know it to be.
Alas, I haven’t been entirely honest with you. The true reason for my proposal, apart from a sincere desire to remedy the sins of my past by helping someone who needed it, was this. My son loved you very much, long ago. By inviting you to be the duchess of Witford, and by conveniently departing this mortal realm, I hope to bring the both of you together again.
Diana blinked. She looked at the words again, unable to comprehend them. As she read again, clutching the paper tight, the image of the words grew blurred with tears.
Harrow stepped over the threshold of Witford House with a sigh, nodding to the silent butler with great weariness. The butler, a man of great age and even greater experience, produced a small silver tray with a glass of brandy on it.
‘Oh, Wilson. You know me too well.’ Harrow eyed the brandy with real temptation, but waved it away with another sigh. ‘But I won’t indulge. Not tonight.’
‘Very good, Your Grace.’ With the faintest hint of a smirk, Wilson vanished into the gloom of a house.
He couldn’t drink brandy if he was going to speak to Diana. Speak to her without pretension, without barriers or restraints of any kind. He would tell her how angry he was still, how miserable he was, and perhaps together they could build something new. Something free of the chains of the past.
The problems they faced seemed insurmountable. Perhaps a glass of brandy was a good idea—perhaps even two glasses of brandy. Harrow turned back, intending to follow Wilson to the kitchens and take possession of the drinks cabinet, but instead saw the approaching figure of Lavinia.
For goodness’ sake. The last thing he needed was a housemaid’s intrigue, especially from a maid as impertinent as Lavinia. Harrow folded his arms, attempting to look forbidding as the young woman approached.
‘Sir? It’s the mistress.’ Lavinia paused, her eyes large and melancholy. ‘I fear she—’
‘Stop.’ Harrow held up a hand. ‘If you’re going to tell me some piece of nonsense that’s going to finish with my wife and I trapped in a linen closet together, or stranded on an island in the middle of a frozen lake, I don’t want to hear it. I’m going to speak to my wife as a rational, reasonable adult, or I’ll—’
‘She’s weeping.’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Weeping. Up in the attic, like some sort of madwoman.’ Lavinia picked at the cuff of her dress. ‘I tried to speak to her, but she’ll only speak to you.’
‘Take me to her.’
‘Sir?’
‘Take me to her. Immediately.’
The house had never felt so ridiculously large as he followed Lavinia, running up the stairs two at a time. Shooing the maid away with a look of silent gratitude as they approached the spiral staircase that led to the attic, Harrow moved as quickly as he could until he found himself in the vast space under the roof.
The sight of Diana kneeling on the floor, her head in her hands, sent a rush of sympathy through him violent enough to obliterate everything else. Harrow rushed to her, enveloping her in his arms, the attic floorboards hard against his knees as he sank to her level.
‘Sshh.’ It didn’t matter what she had done, what he had done—what anyone had done. His wife could never be allowed to weep like this alone. ‘Sshh, now.’
‘Thank God you’re here.’ Diana’s tear-choked voice made him tremble.
‘What’s wrong? What has happened?’
‘Nothing has happened. Something—something has already happened, and I knew nothing of it.’ Diana paused, her head tight against Harrow’s ches
t as she gathered herself. Harrow kept hold of her, not wishing to let her go while sobs still racked her body. ‘A—a deception.’
Doubt filled Harrow. ‘A deception? Was this—was this my father?’
‘Yes, but—but it isn’t a cruel deception. I don’t know how to think of it.’ Diana pointed; Harrow followed her gesture to a letter that lay on the floor. A letter in his father’s unmistakable handwriting. ‘I—I can’t believe he did it.’
‘What did he do?’ Harrow gently released her, picking up the letter with a shaking hand. ‘What on earth did he do?’
‘Read it.’ Diana swallowed. ‘Read it, and see.’
Harrow read. He read his father’s words for the first time in untold years. He read, his eyes widening, unable to believe what was written.
My son was always a better man than me. More principled, certainly. He will be angry with me for this piece of cunning on my part, I know. But his love for you—a love that I doubt has ever faded—will win out. I know that you will both do what is right.
By the time he came to his father’s signature, his own eyes were blurred with tears.
Diana watched Wesley with bated breath, her tears finally ceasing. Something about his presence was comforting, despite their angry words the previous day—despite the moment they found themselves trapped in. He was her husband, and he was here next to her, and everything would somehow be alright.
Unless, of course, it wasn’t. Unless he used this letter as yet more evidence of Arthur’s mendacity, or cruelty, and decided that Diana had been a knowing actor in the scheme. However awkward things had been between them, however difficult, there was the potential for everything to become so much worse.
She didn’t wish to interrupt Wesley’s silence, even as curiosity rose in her. In the end, swallowing, she gently placed her hand on his wrist. His muscles were so tense they trembled; Diana took her hand away, ready to rise to her feet.
A Most Unusual Duke Page 6
