“I’m glad you are here this morning, Sheffield,” Lady Hervey said, taking the shepherd’s body from Diana. “You’ve spared me having to write and invite you to a small family gathering tomorrow night. You must come, you know. We’ll even have Brecon’s three boys with us. It will all be quite hasty and informal, but we’ll celebrate nonetheless.”
“He doesn’t know yet, Mama,” Diana said quickly, clutching Fig tight to her chest. “You must tell him.”
Lady Hervey sighed. “Oh, my, I suppose he doesn’t,” she said. “Dear Sheffield! I hope this won’t pain you too dreadfully, considering how you’ve just lost your own bride.”
“I will survive, Lady Hervey,” he said gallantly. There was no question that he would, considering he’d have a new bride and one he loved, too, and at last he turned to face Diana. “In fact, if you will permit me, I wish to—”
“I’m marrying Lord Crump on Thursday,” Diana said swiftly. “That is what we are celebrating. My wedding.”
Sheffield frowned, not believing. “Crump? You’re marrying Crump on Thursday? Why?”
She raised her chin, all defiance that he refused to believe.
“Because his lordship wishes it,” she said. “Because I wish it, and—and it is right, in every way.”
The plush box with the ring suddenly felt as ridiculous and without meaning as a chunk of coal, and self-consciously he withdrew his hand.
Lady Hervey nodded in agreement. “At the request of His Majesty, Lord Crump must journey to Manchester almost immediately, and remain there for several months. He decided he could not bear to be without Diana for so long a time, and thus the sudden wedding.”
“Manchester,” Sheffield said, saying the only thing that came to mind that was fit to say to ladies. “No man who loved his wife would take her to Manchester on their wedding trip.”
Lady Hervey laughed. “I will agree that it would not be my first choice, either,” she admitted. “But Lord Crump’s desire to have Diana by his side can hardly be faulted, nor his eagerness to wed so that she might accompany him. It’s all very romantic, isn’t it?”
Somehow Sheffield forced himself to nod. It would be romantic if it were true, and if it were any gentleman other than bloodless Crump, and most of all if Diana’s eyes weren’t brimming with unhappiness and her arms clasped so desperately tight around poor Fig.
She did not love Crump. He would wager his life upon it. But why was she so determined to cast her own life away by marrying Crump?
Lady Hervey was smiling, albeit a bittersweet smile, as she tried to fit the broken head back on the shepherd’s body as if it were a puzzle.
“I hope you will join us tomorrow evening, Sheffield,” she said. “It may well be the last time we shall all be together as a family for some time to come. Brecon’s two older boys are to sail soon to join Lizzie and Hawke in Naples. The youngest will return to school. Diana and Lord Crump will be leaving for the North as soon as they’re wed. And then you, too, shall be departing for Paris—”
“For Paris?” he repeated, mystified. “I’ve no plans to return there at present. Whatever gave you that notion?”
“Not whatever, but whom,” Lady Hervey said with hesitation. “Brecon was quite certain that you would return to the French court, and I’d no reason to doubt him.”
“This time my infallible cousin is wrong,” he said. “I’ve no plans to return there at present. In time, perhaps, since I’ve many acquaintances there, but for now I intend to remain in London.”
Why the devil would Brecon tell Lady Hervey a tale like that? Of course Brecon had come to offer his solace as soon as he’d heard of Lady Enid’s elopement, and though they’d talked long and drunk brandy together in commiseration, there hadn’t been any mention by either of them of Paris.
“You are remaining here in London?” Diana asked. “What Brecon said was false?”
“As false as can be,” he said, watching her closely. She wasn’t blushing now, not at all, and her cheeks were so pale he feared she might faint.
“Then you will be joining us tomorrow,” Lady Hervey said. “How fortunate! Perhaps I might also coax you to remain with us now and take tea? We are expecting Lord Crump at any moment. We could make a small party at my tea table.”
“Forgive me, Lady Hervey, but I’ve another appointment that must claim me,” he lied. If Diana had accepted his proposal, he’d intended to spend the day here with her. Now that he hadn’t even been permitted to ask—and, worse, that he’d be expected to sit to one side while she entertained Crump—he couldn’t leave quickly enough. He bid farewell to Lady Hervey first, and then turned to Diana.
“Good day to you, Diana,” he said, taking her hand lightly, as any gentleman might. “I wish you joy of your marriage, and every pleasure and happiness with a man you love, and who loves you in return.”
He didn’t kiss her fingers, but merely the air over them, in a way that not even her mother could misinterpret. But when he looked up at Diana over her hand, he wanted her to know exactly what those words meant to him, and that when he spoke of the man who loved her, it wasn’t Crump.
And she knew. He saw it in her eyes, in her mouth, in the very set of her shoulders. She loved him, not Crump. He’d no doubt of it now. Yet still she seemed resigned, even determined, to marry the wrong man, and make the greatest mistake of both their lives.
“Thank you, Sheffield,” she murmured. “For—for everything.”
Then she pulled back her hand and pointedly turned away.
“Until tomorrow, then, Sheffield,” Lady Hervey said, gently patting his arm. “Good day to you, and pray be easy. Put Lady Enid from your thoughts and heart, and look firmly to the future. I’m sure before long you will indeed find the right lady to wed.”
He smiled with genuine sadness and bowed, and as his carriage drew away from the house, he hoped Diana was watching behind one of those windows. The bitter truth was that, despite all his clever scheming, he truly had been jilted—just not by the lady everyone thought. And unless he could think of a way to persuade her otherwise within the next two days, he would lose her forever.
“Did Sheffield leave these?” Mama said, picking up the bouquet of roses from the chair. “Strange that he didn’t present them. Such lovely roses, too.”
“He must have been distracted by Fig, and forgot,” Diana said, trying to sound as unconcerned as Mama did herself. Of course she knew that he’d brought the flowers to her, and equally, of course, that she’d made it impossible for him to give them to her. And yet as she gazed at them now, the beautiful roses tied with silk ribbons, she felt only little bursts of wild, inappropriate joy.
Not once had Lord Crump brought her flowers, and the only time she’d hinted that she might like them, he’d sternly dismissed them as a vanity and a waste of money. Yet March still gave flowers to Charlotte, and the obvious pleasure he took in the giving and she in the receiving seemed hardly a vanity to Diana. She still remembered the roses March had sent to her sister before they were married, his first gift: white roses carefully presented in a glass globe, brought all the way from his garden in the country. As young as Diana had been, she’d thought those roses were the most romantic gesture she’d ever seen.
And now Sheffield had brought roses to her.
“I’m sure he meant them for you, Mama,” she said, though she yearned to take them and bury her face in their heady fragrance. “He asked for you when he came, didn’t he?”
Mama smiled at the flowers, lightly touching the velvety blossoms.
“I would have thanked him earlier if I’d seen them,” she said. “It’s very kind of him to remember me, especially when he’s obviously so distraught himself. Poor Sheffield! Yet how like him, too, to wish to please me with such a pretty token. He truly does possess the heart of a gallant, exactly as Brecon says.”
“Is that such a dreadful thing?” Diana asked, still looking longingly at the flowers. “March is gallant to Charlotte, and you don’t see
anything wrong with that.”
“Charlotte is March’s wife and duchess, and he honors her by his attentions,” Mama said. “But Sheffield puts his gallantry to the sole purpose of seduction and conquest. There’s a world of difference between the two. I’d have thought you would have realized that, having spent so much time in Lord Crump’s excellent company.”
Diana didn’t answer, because what she’d realized in Lord Crump’s company was that he didn’t possess a single breath of gallantry in his entire being. Sheffield had put more care and thoughtfulness into his pretend wooing of Lady Enid than Lord Crump ever had with her. She thought of the amethyst betrothal ring with the antique design that had been perfect for Lady Enid’s learned tastes, and then of how Lord Crump had announced that he did not believe in betrothal rings any more than he did in nosegays. To be sure, Diana could hardly quarrel with his reasoning—that the wedding ring he’d give her as part of their marriage ceremony should be paramount, its significance undiminished by a gaudier betrothal ring that was intended more to impress others than to reflect the holy sacrament of marriage.
And yet, and yet …
“Have you ever wondered whom Father would have chosen as my husband had he lived?” she asked, gently stroking Fig’s head as the cat slept in her arms. “He chose March for Charlotte, and Hawke for Lizzie. It’s not so hard to imagine him having chosen the third cousin for me.”
“Sheffield?” Mama asked with surprise. “I suppose it is possible. Your father took great pride in aligning the family with dukes. But I could scarce imagine a more wretched match for you! Sheffield is so eager to please, so passionate and with such charm, that it surely would have been disastrous.”
“But why?” Diana asked, more plaintively than she should have. “What disaster could come from marrying such an agreeable gentleman?”
Mama sighed, smoothing the rose leaves that had become twisted by the ribbons.
“You force me to be blunt, Diana,” she said. “I do not believe Sheffield will be faithful to any wife, whoever he may wed. Gentlemen like him are too fond of variety to be satisfied with one woman alone. Many titled ladies can find it in themselves to ignore their husbands’ mistresses and infidelities for the sake of their families, but you—you are too passionate yourself to do that. Oh, yes, it would have been a disaster of the first order, and I cannot tell you how happy I am that you will marry a steady, devoted gentleman such as Lord Crump.”
Diana turned away, unable to bear hearing more. She could see Sheffield’s carriage still in the drive, slowly drawing away from the house and from her. She imagined herself running out the door and down the steps, chasing after the carriage with her skirts flying about her legs. Sheffield would hear, and lean from the window to order the driver to stop, and then open the door to gather her up in his arms, and take her …
Take her where? Even in fantasy, she could put no happy ending to that tale. Mama was right, as she always was. There could be no lasting contentment with Sheffield. Lord Crump might not bring her flowers, but he had honorably offered to marry her. Sheffield had not. All he’d offered was love.
Love, glorious, intangible love. And where was the future in that?
“Good day, Your Grace,” said Brecon’s butler, Houseman, as he held the door open for Sheffield.
“Where is my cousin, Houseman?” Sheffield asked, already glancing up the stairs. “I know he’s here. He’s always at home at this hour.”
“I shall tell him you are here, sir,” Houseman said, closing the door. “If you would care to wait in the library—”
“Thank you, Houseman,” Sheffield said, “but I’ll spare you the trouble and tell him myself.”
He deftly sidestepped the butler and headed toward the staircase. Brecon was a complete creature of habit, and having completed his letters for the day, he would now be in his bedchamber, dressing and preparing to ride in Hyde Park. This morning would be a bit different, however, for this morning Brecon was going to have to answer a few questions about Lady Diana and Lady Hervey and why the devil Brecon had told them he was leaving London for Paris.
“Please, sir,” Houseman implored, following him. “His Grace does not wish—”
“Do not worry yourself, Houseman,” Sheffield said, already bounding up the stairs. “He won’t object to seeing me. I know the way to his rooms.”
He did, too. Up the stairs, to the passage on the left, to the arch opposite the marble head of Hadrian on a pedestal, and there was the door to Brecon’s bedchamber. Not waiting on ceremony—or for a footman to do it for him—he opened the door himself.
Brecon was uncharacteristically late in his schedule this morning, still sitting at the small desk before the window in a red silk wrapping gown and without his wig. He was finishing his coffee and writing a lengthy letter to a lady, doubtless the same lady whose own letter sat open before him, complete with an embroidered silk garter tucked inside. Behind him, his manservant was laying out his riding clothes on the bed.
“Good day, Brecon,” Sheffield said, making a curt, perfunctory bow. “I wish to speak to you directly, sir.”
Deliberately Brecon finished the sentence he’d been writing before he looked up to Sheffield. He didn’t seem surprised to find Sheffield in his bedchamber, but then, Brecon never showed any emotion as vulgarly uncontrolled as surprise.
“Good day to you as well, Sheffield,” he said, putting aside his pen and sanding the page. “I’d rather expected you might wish some uncritical company this morning. Would you care to ride through the park with me?”
“I’d rather speak now,” Sheffield said. “In privacy, if you please.”
“Very well.” Brecon pushed his chair back from the desk, waving away both his manservant and Houseman, who was lurking in the hall with two additional footmen. When the door clicked shut, he looked at Sheffield and smiled. “I’m assuming this has to do with Lady Enid. I applaud your discretion in regard to the lady, especially in the circumstances. Would you sit?”
Sheffield shook his head, too restless to sit. “Not Lady Enid, no.”
“No?” Brecon settled back, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “That surprises me. Another lady, then?”
But Sheffield was in no humor for Brecon’s genteel, circuitous conversation, and it infuriated him all the more to see Brecon writing what must surely be a billet-doux to some willing lady or another, while the woman Sheffield loved was slipping away.
“Why in blazes did you tell Lady Diana and her mother that I was leaving for France?” he demanded bluntly. “What was your purpose in a lie like that?”
“It wasn’t a lie, Sheffield,” Brecon said mildly. “Given the humiliation you had suffered, I believed you were in fact returning to Paris. Apparently I am mistaken.”
“It was a mistake the ladies believed,” Sheffield said, fuming and pacing back and forth before his cousin, “and a mistake that has caused me great mischief by painting me as careless and inconsiderate.”
Brecon raised his brows. “I cannot fathom why. The lady abandoned you, not the other way around. You could hardly be faulted for wishing to leave the sight of such unhappiness.”
“Damnation, it’s not about Lady Enid,” Sheffield said, realizing too late that, in his anger, he was betraying himself. “It’s Lady Diana whom I wish to know the truth.”
“The truth, the truth,” Brecon repeated, and at last he smiled. “I am thankful that we have finally reached that particular article. Have you not a care for Lady Enid and her parson? Are you so wrapped in your own affairs that you don’t wish to know if they have arrived safely in Calais?”
Abruptly Sheffield stopped his pacing. “How do you know where they are?”
“Oh, I know a great many things, cousin,” he said, idly taking the embroidered ribbon garter from the desk and drawing it through his fingers. There were creases from a knot at either end, showing that the garter had recently graced the phantom lady’s leg, making Sheffield uncomfortably imagine Brecon
untying it himself. “A great many things indeed. Considering how briefly you have been here in London, you’ve been remarkably busy.”
Sheffield sighed impatiently. Standing here before Brecon, he’d the distinct feeling that he was fifteen again and had been sent down from school, which was also probably what Brecon wished. That was enough to make him sit at last, dropping heavily into the chair beside Brecon’s desk.
“Do you know the answer yourself?” he asked. “Are Lady Enid and Pullings safely in Calais?”
“They are,” Brecon said. “Though I believe they are now properly styled Dr. and Lady Enid Pullings. Poor Lord Lattimore! Last I heard, he was still wandering about Yorkshire, convinced his daughter was to be found there. I will credit you for your plotting. It was most excellently, if wrongly, done.”
“Thank you,” Sheffield said warily. “How the devil did you learn of it?”
“Oh, easily enough,” Brecon said, weaving the ribbon between his fingers. “Always remember that a gentleman who must buy loyalty has few secrets.”
“Not Marlowe—”
“No, not Marlowe,” Brecon said easily. “That man’s a prize, as silent as a tomb. But others are not so reticent. I have heard not only of your part in arranging Lady Enid’s elopement but also of the very private entertainment you held on a recent afternoon at Sheffield House. Doubtless all you and Lady Diana did alone together was take tea and discuss the weather. No wonder you wish her to hear only the best of you.”
“Then you know,” Sheffield said, his earlier anger giving way to a rush of relief. He hadn’t enjoyed keeping something as momentous as loving Diana from Brecon, and now he leaned forward in his chair, eager to share.
“She is all I wish in a woman, Brecon,” he said fervently, “and all I could want in a wife and duchess. I love her more than any other woman, and I’ll marry her if she’ll have me, and—”
“No,” said Brecon. “No.”
When the Duke Found Love Page 24
