by Eloisa James
“I would have done something.” He picked up her left foot.
Diana found herself smiling reluctantly, because North was as stubborn as she was. “Hidden Godfrey away in some cottage in the country so he could be brought up to an honest trade, perhaps as a cowherd?”
“You believe that I—that any Wilde—would do such a thing to a member of our family?”
She turned and put a kiss on his shoulder. “I didn’t know you, any more than you knew me. I wouldn’t have trusted any gentleman with that knowledge.”
“None of us?” he repeated.
Diana allowed her head to fall to the side so she could look back at him, but North merely looked thoughtful. He had finished soaping past her knees and he was sliding up her thighs.
She smiled.
“We cannot make love again after today,” he told her, his voice quiet and reasoned. “Not unless we are to marry. I understand that you can’t be a duchess, Diana. I do understand. If I didn’t have to be duke, I would throw you in a carriage and take you to Gretna Green.”
“What would we do after that?” she whispered.
“Would you care to travel?”
“I would love to.”
“I would take you and Godfrey to Greece and Italy. I had planned to take a Grand Tour, but I was needed at home. Now my aunt is managing the estates.” His hands had slowed; they were tracing patterns on her inside thighs and made her want to squirm.
“After a few years, we would come home. Perhaps we’d have a baby by then. I would rent a house while choosing land to build the house I had designed for you.”
Diana could scarcely breathe. Her heart felt so full she thought it might burst.
“We would have many babies and cheerful nursemaids, unlike Mabel.”
“She’s not terrible,” Diana objected. “She just doesn’t like her work.”
“Since we wouldn’t go to London for the Season, Ophelia and my father could leave Artie with us.”
“We might keep a flock of peacocks,” Diana suggested. His fingers kept coming closer to the heart of her and then sliding away. She couldn’t keep herself from squirming, her knees pressing outward against his legs like a wanton.
“May I touch you, Diana?” he whispered.
“Please,” she said, gulping air.
Just as his right hand slid between her legs, his left splayed over her breast, and two fingers trapped her nipple. She turned wetter than water, and her moan was echoed by the groan that came from his throat as he caressed her.
“I can’t, oh, I can’t,” she panted.
“Watch,” he commanded, and Diana watched his sun-bronzed hand caress her breast, roughly enough to make her arch toward his fingers. His other hand covered her most private part, one broad finger . . .
“Oh,” Diana whispered.
Because she could.
And she did.
The aching sensation unfurled inside her the way a rose does in the morning sun, streaks of heat spreading languidly down her legs, up her belly. Her head fell back on his shoulder and she clenched around his finger, squeaks coming from her throat that might have been embarrassing, except his breathing was harsh in her ear and there was no place for embarrassment between them.
North loved the way Diana was rubbing her arse against his cock, pleading for more. Her eyes were soft and unfocused. When she finally lay bonelessly in his arms, he washed her hair and rinsed it carefully before he lifted her from the bath, toweled her off, and pushed her gently down on her stomach over the side of the bed.
Diana didn’t have time to ask questions, because North’s hands settled on her hips and then—
And then.
They made love for hours, and it wasn’t until the end that she really understood it was for the last time.
“Condoms aren’t perfect,” North said, propped on his side looking down at her. Her hair had dried in crazy corkscrews and kinks. It was all over the pillow and he kept winding his fingers through her curls.
Diana felt drugged by the times he’d pushed her into making that leap of joy; her mind foggily sorted through his sentence.
“We can’t make love after today, or you might end up with child. And Diana, no child of mine is going to be born out of wedlock.” His voice wasn’t angry, or even sad. Just accepting.
“I understand,” she said, knowing that was the truth. North would set her free, but not under those circumstances.
His gentle caress down her arm was like a lullaby promising a bedtime story. “I keep thinking about the night we met.”
“My mother was exuberant on the carriage ride home,” Diana said, sighing.
North had that imperturbable expression again, as if nothing she could say would shock him. Perhaps it wouldn’t. He’d been the heir to a dukedom for years, after all. He knew the schemes of marriage-minded mothers.
If anything, his eyes were sympathetic.
“You asked me to dance,” she continued, because she wanted him to know the truth. “My mother had found out that you had bought a horse earlier that day. I asked you about the lineage of Arabian horses. We knew that you are very close to your brothers, but did not enjoy hearing lavish adoration of Lord Wilde’s books. I managed to inform you that I had heard of your brother, but had not read his books.”
His thumb stopped its caress and the side of his mouth quirked up again. “That is thorough.”
“Thorough is the fact that my mother didn’t allow me to read Lord Wilde’s books, both in deference to you as his brother, and in case she decided to target the famous explorer instead. She thought he would never marry a lady who had read his books or had seen the play about him.”
A full smile now. “My sister-in-law Willa had not read the books, because she disliked the sound of them. She thought Alaric made up his adventures.”
“My mother believed that ignorance of his work would prove irresistible to Lord Alaric.”
“What did she think would be irresistible to me? Surely not simply ignorance of my brother’s books.”
“No.”
“I am curious about the key to my personality, the key to making me fall in love.”
She glanced up at him, shamed to the bottom of her soul. North had been direct and honest with her, and she had been nothing but devious. It made her feel ill, because her mother’s pressure was no excuse. She had been, and was, a grown woman.
“Diana?”
His voice was agreeable, but it held the undertone of a future duke. A man to whom few people would say no. She owed him the truth.
“My mother decided that the dominant trait in your personality is protectiveness,” she said. “You lost your older brother, under circumstances that were preventable.”
His face closed tight, jaw locked.
“She judged that since you had been in the vicinity when Horatius became inebriated and made his reckless bet, you would blame yourself. Everyone said that you were actually not in the room, nor, in fact, even in the tavern, but she thought proximity would add to your urge to protect.”
“I was upstairs in the inn with a cheerful woman with blond hair,” he said, voice utterly emotionless. “To this day, I dislike yellow hair.”
She nodded, reached out, and took his hand. “That is why she reasoned that you were likely to find me appealing.”
“Your red hair?”
“Absolutely not. She hated my hair. She thought you would be likely to respond to a woman who was uncertain of her place in society. Your protective instincts would be aroused. Indeed, you did spend a good deal of time trying to teach me to be less—”
She stopped. Started again. “Not less, but more: more aristocratic. All those lessons on being a duchess.”
“Your mother was wrong.”
“It went exactly as she predicted. The second time we danced together, I confessed that someone had made an unkind remark based on my parentage, or more specifically, on my grandfather.”
His brows knit.
“
You were determined to bring me to the highest ranks, proving them wrong and protecting me against criticism. So you told yourself that you were in love with me. It didn’t hurt that I dressed and looked precisely like a duchess in a French painting. Also, I never disagreed with you, only raised subjects of interest to you, and on the surface at least, gratefully accepted your advice.”
“I was a complete ass,” he growled.
She shook her head. “You were a man whose impulse toward kindness was taken advantage of.”
“Now shall I tell you what I remember about that evening?” His voice was gentle, not angry, not bitter.
“No.” She realized that she was clutching his hand and let go, but his fingers tightened and he grabbed her other hand as well.
“The height of your wig did not serve as an attraction; rather, it was your laugh. Your eyes danced, and your bottom lip was the color of a peony. I had already noticed you a few weeks before, as I told you. But at the next ball I attended after first seeing you—now dressed by Boodle—I watched you for a while before I asked for an introduction. Lavinia was making you laugh. I think she was probably telling you bawdy jokes.”
Diana felt her cheeks growing pink. Lavinia had been telling her about a private toy that one of her ancestors had made for his wife. Bigger than Lavinia’s forearm, or so she had said.
“You were watching?”
He nodded. “Care to share the joke?”
“No,” Diana said hastily. “That is . . . no.”
“I searched out our hostess and asked for an introduction.”
Her eyes flew to his.
“Mrs. Belgrave’s machinations were uncalled for.” His voice was tender, his eyes anything but. They were fierce, but a ferocity that had nothing to do with her mother’s schemes.
“Oh!” Diana said, idiotically.
His eyes drifted from her forehead all the way to her toes. When they met hers again, they were on fire. “All she had to do was put you in front of me.”
“A waste of research and coin, in that case. If only Mother had known that all she needed was my bosom and my red hair.”
His face was not elegant or foppish. It was harsh and masculine but for his eyes, which were caressing her. He bent his head over hers, his lips brushing her mouth. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you. You didn’t let me see much of the true Diana, but I saw enough. I would make myself into a dandy for you all over again, if you wished.”
“I’m sorry that I wouldn’t be good as a duchess,” she said, whispering it against his chest.
“I know.” His voice rumbled from his chest. “You’re far too spontaneous, and you don’t even understand how to distinguish male from female peafowl. That’s requisite biology for everyone who might own a castle someday.”
“Recognizing peacocks is not the same as joining the highest ranks of the peerage. Being watched by crowds of people, judged, and tallied for what you are not doing correctly.”
“A duchess is at the top of society,” North said, nodding. “She leads and others follow.”
“The idea of people looking up to me like that is terrible. I would—I would do things wrong.”
He paused for a moment. “I shall ask you again. The third time.” He didn’t have to add that if she refused him, there would be no fourth time.
“Will you be my duchess, Diana? To have and to hold, in good times and ill, as long as we both shall live?”
“No. Though I think I love you,” she added desperately.
A moment of silence was broken only by the singing of a bird building a nest outside.
Something in his eyes was unbearable, so Diana found herself looking at the window instead.
“You don’t love me,” he said, almost kindly.
She opened her mouth to protest, but he moved his head, just a fraction of an inch, and she stopped. “If you loved me, you would brave the role of a duchess. I think, in fact, that your anger at your mother outweighs whatever you feel for me. You refuse to become a duchess because that’s what she wanted you to be. That’s what she schemed for.”
The blood drained from Diana’s face. Could that be true? Her mind reeled, trying to make sense of it. She was angry at her mother, but . . .
He nodded, watching her. “Your mother’s actions toward your sister Rose were monstrous. Anyone would feel strongly.”
He got to his feet and pulled on clothing. He kissed her for the last time.
She still hadn’t said a word when he left.
Diana stared at the closed door. Part of her wanted to run after him, screaming, reckless, willing to agree to anything to keep him.
But another part of her . . .
She could clearly see how unhappy she would be as a duchess, and it didn’t have to do with proving her mother right or wrong. She had survived her Season because her mother literally dictated everything she said. Without that . . . without that she would make mistake after mistake. Buying the wrong peafowl was the least of it.
The real problem wasn’t her impulsive behavior. Perhaps more importantly, she had no wish to direct a huge household that encompassed several estates. She didn’t want to meet the queen.
She wanted to sit in the sunshine and tell stories about an adventuresome peacock. In the summer, she wanted to live in a small cottage on the Isle of Wight, not in a ducal estate in Scotland.
Did it mean that she didn’t love him, the essential North? The idea shook her to the core. But at the same time, that part of her that had bent to her mother’s demands was protesting.
Making itself heard.
North had donned heels and powder for her, but that wasn’t the same as turning over one’s life to the enormous endeavor called a duchy. He himself had told her about the administration, the work, the House of Lords. Never once did he speak of those things with joy or even interest.
This time she couldn’t hold the tears back, because she was selfish. The man she loved—and she did love him—was trapped in a duchy, and she was refusing to join him. Refusing to be his partner.
In the end, she sobbed until there weren’t any more sobs, until she stared dry-eyed into the silent room.
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning Diana got up at dawn with Artie and watched listlessly as the little girl tied ribbons on the tails of Godfrey’s toy horses. Her nephew was still asleep and hadn’t yet learned how his precious playthings were being “decorated” when Mabel emerged from her bedchamber.
Diana handed the children over to Mabel’s care, pleading a headache, and returned to her room. Her head did hurt, and her heart hurt even more.
Lavinia found her there an hour later. With one look, she held out her arms and Diana toppled into them, sobbing so hard she couldn’t speak.
“Hush,” her cousin said, hugging her. “It will pass, I promise you.”
A while later, as she washed her face, Diana asked huskily, “How do you know it will pass, Lavinia? Perhaps I’ll regret refusing North for the rest of my life.”
“I fell in love with the wrong man once,” Lavinia said, her voice thoughtful. “It was a salutary experience. I was sad. But not as wretched as I might have been, had I married him, not that he asked.”
“Oh,” Diana said, sinking into a chair and pressing a damp towel against her burning eyes. “I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t tell anyone,” Lavinia said. “You are not to tell anyone either. The right man will come along. I promise you that.”
“All right,” Diana said shakily.
“For now, I want you to stay away from North, if you possibly can. For one thing, my mother is convinced the man is courting me. If she’s in a sweet mood, it’s so much easier for everyone.”
Diana had to ask, though her voice came out in an ashamed whisper. “He isn’t, is he?”
Lavinia snorted. “No. But you must keep a distance both for your peace of mind, and the sake of your reputation. Lady Knowe is a wily old bird. She’s invited half the country to th
is ball.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“You’ll wear a gown of mine, of course. Thank goodness, we have the same bosom, so I doubt my clothes will need more than a stitch here or there to fit as if they were made for you instead of me.”
“Thank you,” Diana said.
“At the ball, I want you to dance with everyone, but only once with North. You have to keep an indifferent, if not bored, expression on your face. Do you think you can do that, Diana?”
“I can try.”
“I will tell him to stop watching you,” Lavinia said. “I came to fetch you because we need to begin altering a morning dress immediately. If I see you dressed like a rusty crow again, I’m going to tear the garment off you myself.”
Diana stared at her. “Did you know that you are remarkably like North?”
The pillow Lavinia threw missed Diana and bounced off the wall. “I have nothing in common with North; for one thing, I enjoy wearing pretty gowns and presumably he does not. Were you really happy being a servant and wearing that ghastly dress?”
“Not entirely,” Diana found herself saying. “But I wasn’t comfortable being a lady either. The idea of being a duchess is horrible.”
“You are so peculiar,” Lavinia said. Then she grinned. “You must be a relative of mine!”
“North spent most of the time we were betrothed trying to teach me how to be a duchess,” Diana said morosely. “‘Peculiar’ is not a desirable trait in a duchess.”
Lavinia pursed her lips. “No wonder you fled the betrothal. Perhaps I should give him some helpful instruction before he tries to find another wife.”
“You would be much better at keeping him on a string than I was,” Diana said.
“Keeping him on a string? Behind me, like a footman?” Lavinia grinned naughtily. “Have you noticed how much North has changed? There is something very male about him now. I might have trouble keeping him behind me, except in bed!” She burst into a fit of giggles.
Diana found herself laughing too, even as her mind was reeling over the memory of North ravishing her from behind. She had been on her hands and knees, her hair falling over her shoulder. He had been thrusting—
