by Ann Stephens
* * *
Diantha hugged her knees, heart pounding. She’d never successfully stood up to anyone before. She stared at the door connecting their chambers for some time, gnawing her lower lip and wondering what she should do next. She should apologize for implying he would attack her. He always treated her with tenderness, even affection, in bed. In truth, she loved the way he made her feel.
She brought herself up short. She already found herself far too attracted to Kieran. If she gave him her heart, he’d smash it into smithereens.
No, he could not toss her out of his room while expecting to enter hers anytime he wanted. She refused to apologize before tomorrow.
The following morning, however, Kieran shut himself into his office with the steward. He appeared only briefly at lunch and coldly declined her request for a moment of his time. Diantha congratulated herself on not giving in to such an unreasonable man and sailed off to the morning room to attend to the correspondence she had neglected for that day’s riding lesson.
The appearance of a footman two hours later, bearing a telegram on a salver, sent all worries of whether she and Kieran would ever make up out of her head. She accepted the envelope and nodded to dismiss him.
Once alone, Diantha tore it open with shaky fingers and read the contents. Her face went numb as the blood drained from it. Wishing she was the type of female who kept a vinaigrette by her side, she read the message again.
After she patted the sheen of cold sweat off her forehead and took several deep breaths, she arose and made her way on rubbery knees to Kieran’s office in the opposite wing. Grasping the telegram, she knocked on the door.
“I am very sorry for interrupting you, Kieran, but I must speak with you. At once.”
“Come in.” Kieran stood as she entered, then seated himself behind an ornate desk. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with narrow ledgers of varying colors. The smell of leather mingled with that of musty paper despite the multipaned window propped open behind him.
“Yes?” His voice sounded as though he wished her to conduct her business and disappear. Diantha swallowed and held out the crumpled yellow sheet.
As soon as he saw it, he came around the desk. With an arm around her shoulders, he guided her into a chair. “My dear, what is it? Has something happened to your grandmother?” He knelt in front of her, enfolding her hands in his. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She searched for a way to break the news gently, then gave up. “My parents are coming.”
Chapter 11
Given what he’d learned of his in-laws during his betrothal, this information did not surprise Kieran. While he hardly fancied close proximity to them, he did not share the apprehension that radiated from his wife. Her implication of the previous night still rankled, but her trembling lips undid him.
He tucked a wayward brown tendril behind her ear, allowing his fingertips to linger on its softness. “It won’t be that bad.”
“ ‘Won’t be that bad?’ “ Her eyes changed from fearful to furious and she shoved his shoulder so hard he nearly fell backward. “You’ve never had to live with them!”
He scrambled to his feet, aware of how undignified he must look, but Diantha did not appear to notice. He stepped back as she stood and paced across the room.
“This is nothing but an inspection tour.” She crossed back to him, still clutching the telegram. “And they’re all coming! My parents, my brothers, even Granny.”
Kieran plucked the wadded sheet from her hand and smoothed it out. He frowned as he read the long and sharply worded message. “You’ll enjoy seeing your grandmother again, surely?”
“Yes, of course.” She sighed. “But what will I do with the rest of them?”
He shrugged. “I suppose I’ll take your father and brothers in hand. They’ll be here when grouse shooting starts.”
Diantha gazed up at him, eyebrows raised. “You’ll help? Truly?”
“Of course I’ll help. What kind of bounder do you think I am?” His lip curled. “Oh, wait! You did make that clear last evening.”
She cringed. “I’m sorry. Your offer is especially kind in light of my remark last evening. It was uncalled for. You’ve always treated me with the utmost consideration.” A dry note entered her voice. “In the bedroom, at any rate.”
He crossed his arms. “I beg your pardon, but I was unaware of mistreating you anywhere else. I am sorry, Diantha, but this is my home and I am entitled to some privacy.”
She turned away from him and walked over to the bookshelves. Staring at them as if they fascinated her, she said, “And I am not? I suggest you do not plan to come to my room the next time you want a—a tumble. This is supposedly my home, too.” He could barely hear the choked-out words.
“You’ve never complained of my touch.” Following her, he ran his palm over the warm column of her neck. “And I think you know that you please me.”
She shivered, then jerked away. “That is irrelevant!
I am reasonably sure we would enjoy conjugal relations in your bed as much as we do in mine.”
A laugh escaped him at the absurd remark. She glared at him over her shoulder, then bit her lip in a not entirely successful attempt to repress a smile.
Relieved that the tension between them had eased, he leaned against the shelves. “This is not directed at you personally, Diantha. My room is offlimits to everyone in the house but my valet. It was during my father’s time as well.”
She faced him fully. “I find that difficult to believe. Your mother always speaks of him with great tenderness. I doubt she’d do so had he fenced himself off from her.”
“It’s for the best.” Kieran retreated to his desk and stared down at the worn leather surface. “She did love him, and I think he cared for her in the beginning. But later—it was exceedingly painful to watch.” He struggled, then said what he had to. “It would be best if we avoided that mistake.”
He looked up, half expecting to see tears after his harsh words. “I’m sorry.”
She returned his regard, her expression unreadable. “Don’t be. The one thing I learned from my family is that a person cannot control who they love, or force someone to love them back. Perhaps you’re right. We should not become overly attached to one another.”
Instead of relief, her words triggered an inexplicable sense of loss. “We could at least try to remain cordial with one another.”
A bleak smile twisted her lips. “Given your continued interest in my bed, that would be preferable. And we still have my family to deal with.”
He invited her to a chair, then seated himself. “I wonder if we should not seek safety in numbers. We could invite some of my Rossburn relations to join us while they visit. You’d need to meet them anyway.”
She tilted her head, considering his suggestion. “I think that might work.”
They brought up the impending visit over tea. To Kieran’s surprise, Iona protested even a small house party.
“Your first social event of this sort should mitigate concerns about the family’s current connections, not increase them.”
Seeing Diantha’s murderous expression, he rose to his feet. His father had always advised against dictatorial behavior, but he doubted anything less would quiet his aunt. “I can hardly tell the Quinns to stay away at this point. Their telegram announced their arrival in ten days.”
Lounging in a wing chair near the fireplace, Barclay raised his eyebrows nearly to his hairline. “They invited themselves? I say, that’s rag-mannered. Tell them we’re not at home.”
“We could, but I assure you they would ignore the message.” Diantha sat stiffly and held her untouched tea in her lap, but spoke calmly.
Kieran caught her eye and nodded his approval. “Despite the short notice, I think some of our nearby relations might accept an invitation.”
Iona looked at them askance. “By now they will have either accepted invitations or issued their own. Unless you plan to inflict the likes of Cousin Francesca upon u
s.” She shuddered.
“That archwife!” Barclay winced. “I beg you, spare us.” He glanced at Diantha. “Her mother was a Rossburn, and her own birth is impeccable, but she made a horrible mésalliance. Her husband is dead and can no longer trouble us, but she remains an embarrassment.”
“I was always quite fond of Francie, and yes, I should like to invite her.” Kieran glared at his relatives. “I trust there will be no further comments.”
Neither Barclay nor Iona spoke for a moment. Then the latter set her cup down with an emphatic clink. “I have just recalled that I have some correspondence which needs to be completed before dinner. Please be so good as to excuse me.” Rising, she sailed out of the room, closing the door behind her with a bang.
Barclay cleared his throat. “I don’t think you’re going to prevail on her to provide much assistance. I know that stubborn expression on her face.” His voice held barely suppressed triumph.
Diantha finally took a sip of her tea. “That hardly matters. I should certainly be able to plan a small house party.”
Barclay stared at her. Kieran said nothing, but he harbored doubts as well.
He need not have worried. Immediately after breakfast the next morning, Diantha disappeared into the morning room with MacAdam and Jarrard, emerging only to ask Kieran for the directions of those persons he wished to invite.
Ten days later, he and Diantha stood at the top of the steps and watched three traveling carriages clatter into the main courtyard. A truce had developed between them, but she remained distant. He had gone to her bed once in the days since their conversation in his office, but even while her physical reaction sated him, she seemed to hold part of herself back even as she moaned in pleasure.
He attempted to flirt with her in the hope of coaxing out her impish sense of humor, but she answered his teasing with composed civility.
He glanced down at her. Just now she looked pale and tense, despite her daily riding lessons. And she’d barely touched her meals for the last few days. He stroked her arm. “I’m sure everything will go well.”
She responded only with a tight smile and returned her attention to the approaching vehicles.
The servants’ coach, encumbered with luggage, swept around the house toward the stables. The other two rolled to a stop at the bottom of the broad steps. The first disgorged Diantha’s father and brothers, while footmen assisted her mother and grandmother out of the other.
“Papa, James, Thomas—how agreeable to see you again.” Diantha held out her hands as her brothers ascended the steps.
Thomas turned to take in the valley’s expanse. Late afternoon sunlight and shadows chased each other across fields and hills. Crofters made their way along the road to their homes. The cottages stood out in the distance as the light touched their whitewashed stone.
“I do believe we’ve discovered the edge of the world, James.”
His brother, who had not gotten any thinner in the last months, puffed up behind him. “Never seen so much empty space. However do you occupy yourself, Rossburn?” He gave Diantha’s outstretched hand a perfunctory peck.
“Should have told us to bring more than a paltry newspaper to read on the way.” Mr. Quinn brushed past his daughter. “My regards, Rossburn. I take it refreshments are inside?”
Appalled, Kieran gave a curt nod. “Tea awaits us in the drawing room.”
Diantha stepped forward. “We also have coffee if you prefer, along with scones and sandwiches.”
“Mouse food.” Her father grumbled under his breath as he waited for his wife. She, engulfed in an ecru serge mantle, bustled up the steps and scrutinized Duncarie’s classical façade. “I expected a lord’s house to be more impressive.”
Before Kieran could say a word, she grasped Diantha’s shoulders and held her at arm’s length. “Let me see you.” Her lips pursed. “You should be increasing by now.”
Diantha’s face turned bright red and her hands fluttered defensively to her still slender midriff. Kieran placed an arm around her waist.
“As my wife’s health is excellent, I am not overly concerned about our immediate prospects for a family.”
Mrs. Quinn gasped at his hostile tone.
Diantha gave him a brittle smile. “Would you be so good as to assist my grandmother, dear? I shall escort the others inside.”
He stared after them as Mr. and Mrs. Quinn entered the house without an embrace or an affectionate word for their only daughter.
Mrs. Helford did not display her usual vigor as she climbed the steps with the aid of a footman and a silver-headed cane. Going to her side, Kieran dismissed the servant and offered his arm.
The twinkle in her eyes remained undimmed. “I never refuse the chance to walk with a handsome young man.”
He chuckled. Here was one in-law he sincerely welcomed. “We shall do everything in our power to make you comfortable, ma’am.”
In the drawing room, Kieran introduced the elderly woman and helped her to a comfortable chair. His father-in-law had already buried himself in a periodical, while Mrs. Quinn and Iona had already locked horns.
“Here is your tea, Kieran.” Iona handed him a porcelain cup and saucer. “You’re just in time to hear our guest expound upon several unusual theories of interior decoration.”
Amalthea nibbled on a watercress sandwich. “Having lived in a backwater for several years, one can hardly expect Lady William to be au courant with the most fashionable styles.”
“Fortunately, persons of quality have no need to follow the whims of the lower classes.” She offered a small plate to her newfound adversary. “Scone?”
Seated on a sofa nearby, Diantha focused her gaze on the floor, just as she had during their betrothal. His heart sank. Hoping to ease her discomfort, Kieran took the seat next to her. She said nothing, but edged infinitesimally closer to him.
Strolling toward the gallery before dinner, Diantha gave thanks that no one else would arrive before the following afternoon. Kieran’s refusal to accept anything but physical intimacy in their marriage devastated her, and she had thrown herself into the house party preparations as a way to numb her aching heart.
Her anger at her husband had dissipated. The tortured expression on his face when he had apologized for not wanting an emotional attachment between them still haunted her. She wished that she knew how to reach him.
He had relaxed in her company since then, even asking to join her in bed one night. Horrified by the realization that she craved his touch like an opium-eater’s desire for his drug, she had tried to detach her feelings from their coupling. Although her climax left her limp and breathless, the experience ultimately lacked the intensity she yearned for.
Now, with nothing more to plan and in the face of her family’s usual indifference, she needed a respite to gain control over her jumbled emotions.
She found everyone else already gathered in the long room. Abashed at her tardiness, she stammered an apology.
Kieran, with the rest of the men, had risen to his feet as she entered. Now he came toward her. “Your regrets are unfounded, my dear. We have several minutes before dinner. Your family has asked what activities are devised for their visit. As the one who took charge, you are entitled to their thanks.”
Some of the tension across her shoulders eased at the approval in his voice. He had shown no rancor since their harrowing conversation ten days ago. Just the opposite, he treated her with a cordiality that their relationship had previously lacked.
He just couldn’t—or didn’t want to—give her what she wanted most.
Meanwhile her mother regarded her with a furrowed brow. “That gown isn’t from your trousseau.”
Diantha groaned inwardly. She had selected the ensemble of bright blue sarcenet and taffeta because the color cheered her up. Trimmed with black lace instead of the predictable white or pink, it also helped her feel pretty and elegant.
“I purchased it from Monsieur Worth during our stay in Paris.” As things stood with Kier
an, she could not bring herself to utter the word honeymoon.
Mama sniffed. “Blue is so insipid.”
“Monsieur Worth selected it for me.” Diantha’s bland comment spiked her mother’s guns until dinner was underway. Mrs. Quinn eventually rallied, however, and addressed Kieran over the entrees.
“Mr. Quinn and I were surprised, to say the least, when we arrived in London only to find you had left weeks before the Season ended.” She accepted a portion of the chicken offered to her, then peered at it suspiciously. “Er, what might this be?”
“Chicken stovie.” Diantha and MacAdam had included at least one traditional Scottish dish in each dinner menu. She took a bite of parsley-covered potato.
At her right, her father sampled some from his plate. “Very nice. I wouldn’t mind having this at home.”
“Mr. Quinn, it contains entire slices of onions.” Her mother ate a morsel of chicken after examining it for any trace of the dreaded vegetable. Then she returned her attention to Kieran.
“I fear my digression interrupted you, dear Lord Rossburn. I suppose you have an explanation for leaving the gaieties of the Season before it ended.”
“No.” He regarded her with half-closed eyes. “Why would I need one?”
“We expected to spend at least part of the Season with our daughter during her first months as a peeress.”
Diantha’s hand clenched around her fork. Her parents had evidently not milked enough attention from the marriage they had engineered.
“After months of being away from my home, London held little interest for me.” Kieran drawled the words with every evidence of boredom.
Papa harrumphed. “And what about our daughter, sir? As her parents, we are entitled to her company when we want it.”
“Ah, but the law gave that privilege to me upon my marriage.”
Livid at being argued over like a parcel, Diantha confined most of her conversation for the rest of the evening to Barclay.
Her sense of ill-use lasted to the next day. The weather did not help, turning to a chill mist that veiled the distant hills. She ordered a fire built in the winter salon, a comfortable room lined with golden oak. Iona grumbled about lowered standards at Duncarie, but wasted no time availing herself of a seat near the fire. Granny had already settled into a wing chair opposite with an oldfashioned lapdesk.
