“This one,” he said. “I’ll take it with me to give to the lady today.”
“Very good, sir,” Boyce said, bowing deeply. “And might I offer my very best wishes to both Your Grace and her ladyship?”
“Thank you, Boyce,” Sheffield said, rising to leave with a sense of accomplishment. With any luck, he’d be back here soon to reclaim his mother’s ring for his true bride.
“Well done, cousin, well done,” Brecon said heartily, clapping Sheffield on the shoulder as they left the shop. “At last I believe you are acting with purpose and honor.”
With a grin, Sheffield nodded. For once, he couldn’t agree more.
“I do not wish to go, Charlotte, that’s all,” Diana said. It was past noon, but she was still in her dressing gown, sitting cross-legged on her bed with Fig clutched tightly against her shoulder. “How can you believe I would?”
Summoned by Sarah, Charlotte stood in the doorway, her expression perplexed. “But you seemed to like Lady Enid well enough last night.”
“Lady Enid’s one thing,” Diana said. “But having Sheffield there, too, will make things difficult.”
“I do not see why,” Charlotte said, coming to sit on the end of the bed. “He’s betrothed to Lady Enid, and you to Lord Crump. There’s no reason for difficulty, at least not the usual difficulties you have with gentlemen.”
With a groan, Diana flopped backward against the pillows, letting Fig scramble away. The last thing she wished was to have to listen to an enumeration of her past peccadilloes with gentlemen, even from Charlotte.
“But you saw how Sheffield was last night,” she said. “He baits me, torments me, and willfully makes me look foolish before others.”
“You’re exaggerating,” Charlotte said mildly. “Especially since you did much the same thing to him.”
“I did not,” Diana said. “I merely replied.”
Charlotte’s brows rose with skepticism. “To tell a gentleman he is ‘dismasted’ is not an ordinary reply,” she said. “You’re fortunate Mama didn’t hear you say that.”
Diana grimaced. So she truly had said “dismasted.” She’d been rather afraid that she had, and hoped against hope that she’d only thought of saying it, instead of actually letting the words leave her mouth.
“It was Sheffield’s fault, not mine,” she said defensively. “That is what I mean about how he provokes me.”
“He can hardly be blamed for what you said, Diana,” Charlotte said. “But I will agree that you two are flint and steel to each other, and far too similar to be at ease in each other’s company.”
“Similar to Sheffield?” Diana repeated, incredulous. “How could I possibly be like him?”
“The two of you are charming, impulsive, and irresponsible,” Charlotte said with more frankness than Diana had expected, or wished to hear. “You’re both overly fond of flirtations, too. It’s perfectly understandable that you would not be at ease in each other’s company, considering how you’re both betrothed to other people. Still, I trust that for the peace of the rest of us, you will find a way to put aside your differences and be civil.”
Diana stared glumly up at the gathered center of her canopy. None of this was her fault. She was more than willing to put aside differences, and these supposed similarities, too, and forget the past entirely. It was Sheffield who insisted on being so provoking.
“You should be preaching to Sheffield, Charlotte,” she said, wounded. “Not to me.”
“I’m not ‘preaching’ to either of you,” Charlotte said, the first trace of irritation showing in her voice. “I’m only remarking that, because of our family ties, you and he will often be brought together in the future, and it will be happier for us all if you can manage to be agreeable to each other.”
Instantly Diana thought once more of how they’d kissed on Lady Fortescue’s gallery. In some ways she and Sheffield were definitely agreeable to each other—too agreeable—which was much of the problem. And then other times, such as when he’d pulled her into the pond, he was nothing but a vexing trial. She wished she could confide everything to Charlotte so she’d understand, but how could she explain how she felt about Sheffield to her sister when she couldn’t untangle it for herself?
“But to be in his carriage today with him and Lady Enid will be impossible,” she said. “Please don’t make me go. Please, Charlotte. Please tell them I’m ill or some such.”
“You’ll go, Diana, and you’ll be gracious about it,” Charlotte said, using the same voice she employed with her children. “I know you’re jealous of Lady Enid, but that’s no—”
“Jealous of Lady Enid?” Diana cried, appalled that Charlotte could even suggest such a thing. “Over Sheffield?”
“Jealous because she’ll have Sheffield there beside her, and you won’t have Lord Crump,” Charlotte said, as if there could be no other explanation. “Now come, make yourself ready. No matter what you think of Sheffield, he is still a duke, and it would be barbarously ill-mannered of you to keep him and Lady Enid waiting.”
“But I’m your sister, Charlotte,” Diana said wistfully, “and if you cared for me, you wouldn’t make me go. Please, Charlotte.”
But as the oldest sister, Charlotte always had been able to make Diana do what she wanted, and today was no different. At precisely three o’clock, Diana was walking down the white steps of Marchbourne House to where Sheffield’s carriage waited.
Despite dressing quickly, she’d chosen her clothes with care, hoping to dazzle everyone in the park so thoroughly that they wouldn’t notice that Lord Crump wasn’t with her. She wore a robe à l’anglaise of pale blue silk brocade, flowered with a pattern of roses, and over it a short cape of yellow silk ottoman, clasped at the throat and embroidered with more flowers and twisting vines. Deep drawn-work flounces were attached to the hems of her sleeves, and at least a dozen pins anchored her wide-brimmed hat at an exact slanting angle over her forehead. Though it was a warm afternoon, she carried a swansdown muff, too, not for warmth, but as the last frivolous touch to her dress. As she came down the steps, she could feel everything—her silk skirts, flounces, and cape, the ribbons on her hat and the feathers of her muff and the two long golden curls that fell over her shoulders—fluttering gracefully in the breeze as if she herself might drift away up into the blue sky over London.
Which, considering the afternoon before her, she rather wished she could.
As she’d expected, Sheffield’s carriage was expensively elegant, its curving lines showing it had been built in Paris, not London. The carriage lamps were polished silver, as was the hardware around the door and windows. The carriage’s dark green lacquer gleamed in contrast to the red wheels, the spokes and trim picked out in gold and his arms painted on the door. One of Sheffield’s footmen, dressed in green and gold-laced livery that matched the carriage, had come to the door to escort her down the steps, and two more stood at attention on either side of the door, ready to unlatch the door and help her climb the three steps of the stone block and into the carriage.
To her surprise, Sheffield himself reached out the window and opened the door, then climbed out to the pavement to hand her into the carriage himself. He was dressed informally, much as he had been the first day they’d met in the park, in a well-tailored blue coat, dark red waistcoat, and white deerskin breeches. She remembered those breeches, how closely they fit to his thighs and certain other unmentionable regions besides, and she couldn’t help but notice them again as he descended from the carriage.
“Good day, Lady Diana,” he said cheerfully, his gaze sweeping from the plumes in her hat to the tips of her shoes, and returning to linger on the triangle of skin framed by the flaring edges of her cloak—a triangle that happened to include the curving swell of her breasts over the squared neckline of her gown.
“Good day to you, Your Grace,” she said, striving to follow Charlotte’s advice for a genteel truce, even as she fought the urge to snatch her cloak closed. “How kind of you to include me
today.”
“The kindness is yours in joining Lady Enid and me,” he said, matching her bland politeness with his own. His expression, of course, was neither bland nor polite, his eyes full of teasing merriment and his smile very nearly a leer. “Truly we are honored, Lady Diana.”
As he stood on the pavement and she climbed to the top step of the carriage block, his face was unavoidably level with her breasts. Lady Enid was not two feet away, yet he shamelessly smiled with such approval that Diana blushed. So much for truces, she thought, and as quickly as she could she squeezed her skirts through the door and into the carriage to join Lady Enid.
“Good day, Lady Diana, good day!” Lady Enid said, her face pink with happiness. Her clothes were costly but plain—a dark blue riding habit with pewter buttons and an unadorned matching hat—but Diana guessed that any lady who was as scholarly as Lady Enid likely didn’t have time to spend with a mantua maker or milliner.
“Good day, Lady Enid,” Diana said, automatically beginning to take the seat across from her, the one that faced back. She assumed that Lady Enid and Sheffield would wish to sit side by side, and by rank the forward-facing seat was theirs. At least that was the arrangement with Charlotte and March.
But not, it seemed, for Lady Enid. “Here, Lady Diana, sit by me,” she said eagerly, shifting to one side and patting the cushions. “We’ll let His Grace sit with Fantôme.”
At the sound of his name, Sheffield’s bulldog wandered out from behind Lady Enid’s skirts and jumped onto the opposite seat, where Sheffield soon joined him. Charlotte settled beside Lady Enid, the footman latched the door, and the carriage drew away from the house and into the road.
“How does Monsieur Fantôme?” Diana asked. Of all the occupants in the carriage, she was most at ease with the dog, and she leaned forward to ruffle his ears. “Handsome boy!”
“Oh, hardly,” Sheffield said. “Even I wouldn’t dare call him handsome. But he makes up for his face with a worthy soul. Isn’t that so, Fantôme?”
The dog lay down beside Sheffield’s thigh and rolled on his back, his paws in the air and his pink tongue lolling from his mouth.
“Shameless, shameless,” Sheffield said, obligingly scratching the dog’s belly. “You see how the company of ladies debases him. Enid, my dear, show Diana your ring.”
Diana noticed how he’d left off their titles, instantly making the conversation more intimate and familiar, but also more awkward. She was still deciding how to react when Lady Enid thrust her hand out before her, holding it so that Diana was sure to see the ring.
“Sheffield gave it to me this morning to mark our betrothal,” she said proudly. “That’s the goddess Athena carved in the stone. Could there be a more perfect ring?”
“It’s lovely,” Diana murmured as she dutifully leaned over the other woman’s hand. The amethyst and diamond ring wasn’t to her own taste—she didn’t care for purple, even in a precious stone—but Lady Enid clearly adored it, which was all that mattered. Or almost all: the choice of the ring had been so thoughtfully made with consideration for her interests that Diana was impressed. Clearly Sheffield’s aim had been to please Lady Enid, and he’d succeeded.
In comparison her own finger remained woefully bare, and she thought how Lord Crump would never be able to make a similarly appropriate choice. He knew next to nothing about her, nor did he seem interested in learning more, either. But then March had scarcely known Charlotte when he’d chosen her ring, so there was still hope.
“Yes, it is lovely,” Lady Enid said softly, then with a sigh covered the ring with her other hand. It was a curious gesture, peculiar for any lady who’d just been given such a ring from the man she was to wed.
But equally curious was Sheffield’s behavior. To begin with, he’d chosen to sit with his dog rather than with the woman he’d promised to wed. He was courteous to her, but nothing more. He didn’t even attempt conversation, which Diana knew was most unusual for him. Instead each of them stared from different windows, each lost in their respective thoughts. Diana wondered if they’d quarreled or had some other misunderstanding; yet there was none of the tension that usually accompanied such unhappiness, none of the ill will, and certainly no recriminations or name-calling. The three of them might have been strangers traveling in a post-road coach.
Fortunately, Marchbourne House faced Green Park, with St. James’s Park adjacent, and their drive to St. James’s gates was a brief one. Once inside, they joined the afternoon parade of carriages, and finally there was plenty to say. With the carriage windows dropped, the three of them nodded and smiled at the noble-born passengers of other carriages. Because Sheffield had been away for so long on the Continent and Lady Enid was indifferent to society, Diana was the one who identified the most faces. It became something of a game, with her not only spotting the owner of each passing carriage but supplying a scrap of identifying history, too, which Sheffield instantly embroidered. Before long the three of them were laughing uproariously together, and in every other carriage in St. James’s that afternoon the conversation inevitably included the charming high spirits in the Duke of Sheffield’s carriage, how handsome His Grace had grown whilst away, how remarkable Lady Enid Lattimore and Lady Diana Wylder were for their beauty, and how dreadfully ugly the dog was that stood on the seat with his paws out the window.
When they reached the farthest end of the drive for the third time, Sheffield drew an elaborate gold watch from his waistcoat.
“Is it time, then?” Lady Enid asked, her voice abruptly taut.
“It is.” Sheffield smiled and tucked the watch back in its pocket. “Nearly four o’clock.”
“Time for what, Duke?” Diana asked. “Must we leave so soon?”
“Not at all,” Sheffield said, signaling to the driver to stop. “I thought we should like to walk beneath the trees for a bit. One never knows whom one might meet in the shadows.”
Diana narrowed her eyes at him, for of course he must be referring to how they’d first met—not that she would say so before Lady Enid.
“True enough,” she said instead. “All manner of rascals can be found lurking in the shadows.”
“Not so long as the sun is with us,” Sheffield said, letting Fantôme jump down from the carriage first. “But I’ll grant you that no one of fashion walks at this hour. Other than the nursemaids walking with their charges, we’ll have the trees to ourselves.”
They climbed down and soon left the carriage behind, the two women walking together and Sheffield slightly ahead, letting Fantôme wander. He’d been right about the hour, and there were few others walking beneath the elms and the oaks, their shadows stretching long in the dappled sun. It seemed to Diana the perfect time to walk, but beside her Lady Enid seemed strangely agitated, looking anxiously about in every direction as if fearing some giant lion or other beast would leap from behind the next tree.
“You needn’t worry, Lady Enid,” Diana said, wishing to calm her. “His Grace is right. I’ve walked here scores of times before at this hour, and we’re perfectly safe.”
Lady Enid only shook her head, not daring for an instant to be less vigilant and look at Diana. “I have no fear of outside attack, Lady Diana, but rather I fear my own weaknesses and lack of fortitude, which might keep me from the happiness that—oh, forgive me, I must go to him!”
Abruptly she abandoned Diana and began to run away, heedless of how her skirts flew about her legs or her hat bumped on her hair.
“Lady Enid!” called Diana, beginning to follow her. “Come back, I beg you!”
But she’d only taken a few steps when, to her astonishment, she saw a soberly dressed reverend gentleman step from a tree and hurry toward Lady Enid. He swept his black hat from his head, holding his arms out to her, and she flung herself into his embrace, holding him as tightly as was possible. The next instant they were kissing with as much passion and devotion as a man and woman could, while all Diana could do was watch with complete bewilderment.
“Who i
s he?” she demanded when Sheffield joined her. “I don’t understand at all, Duke. Who is he?”
Sheffield watched them, too, his smile broad. “That’s the Reverend Dr. Joshua Pullings, the gentleman Enid intends to marry.”
“Marry?” Now Diana stared at Sheffield. “But I thought you had promised to marry her.”
“Oh, I have,” he said easily. “She’s duly promised to marry me as well, but Dr. Pullings will be the one who will actually become her husband.”
Diana shook her head, unable to find any logic in this nonsense. “That’s impossible,” she said. “Lord Lattimore would never condone it.”
“No, he wouldn’t,” he agreed. “In fact, he has expressly forbidden that match, and much prefers the one between Enid and me. Lattimore will be furious when he learns the wrong man has won his daughter, but then, he didn’t count on love, did he?”
Lady Enid and Dr. Pullings had stopped kissing now and were talking. Though they stood too far away for their words to be overheard, it was clear from how they smiled and gazed upon each other, how she rested her palm so trustingly upon his chest and how his arms circled her waist with such tenderness, that their conversation must be nothing but the sweetest endearments and promises. The difference in their fortunes and stations didn’t in the least concern either of them. All that mattered was love. It was one of the most romantic sights that Diana had ever seen, and as confused as she was by exactly how it had come about, she still couldn’t help but wish she’d a measure of the same tenderness and devotion from Lord Crump.
“People like us don’t marry for love,” she said wistfully. “It’s not permitted.”
“It will be this time, because I’m doing the permitting,” Sheffield said. “Or at least the arranging. Come, let’s grant them their time alone, and I’ll explain.”
When the Duke Found Love Page 12
