Why had he offered her marriage? Had it really only been chivalry?
Hastily, she dragged her wistful gaze back to the stage as the play resumed. However, her swirling thoughts made it difficult to concentrate, and she soon lost the thread of the story. And to think, she used to find it odd that people attended the theatre only to talk through the performances and pay no attention to the stage.
At the next interval, Mr. Campbell excused himself with gruff civility to “pay some duty calls.” However, a few moments later, Diana caught sight of his read hair below in the pit, where he was in conversation with Mr. Harrington.
She frowned, uneasy without any good reason.
“…my lord. Do sit down.” Her mother’s voice dragged her back to her surroundings, and she glanced up to see Bill bowing to her before taking Mr. Campbell’s vacant seat beside her.
Her heart surged into a gallop, and her hand crept to her breast to calm it. She managed a polite inclination of the head and a murmured greeting, but since her parents were both chatting with friends who had appeared earlier, she directed her gaze once more at the pit.
“Look, he is with Mr. Harrington again,” she pointed out. “Are they up to something?”
“I wish I knew.” Bill dragged his gaze back up to her. “Your betrothed is a bit of a loud-mouthed oaf, but Harrington is another matter entirely. You should be wary of him, avoid him when you can.”
She nodded. “I own I don’t like him.”
“Which could be difficult if he is your husband’s best friend. Still, I doubt he will follow you to Scotland.”
Her heart jolted unpleasantly. For the first time, she thought seriously that she might not be able to go through with this. How much was she obliged to bear to save everyone else?
I chose this path. I can’t give up just because I realize it won’t be easy.
“If I call for you tomorrow, will you drive with me in the park?” he asked, interrupting her troubled speculations.
Her eyes widened. “I would love to,” she said before she began to doubt the wisdom of such a course. “If my mother permits,” she added hastily.
His lips quirked, and she vividly recalled their other expeditions without anybody’s consent but their own. Her heart gave a peculiar leap of elation—and something that was almost recognition.
Chapter Eight
Diana expected Bill to call for her at around five o’clock the following afternoon, when it was fashionable to be seen walking or driving in the park. In fact, he arrived before midday, while she was raking through her wardrobe to decide what to wear for the outing.
“Lord Garvie, Miss,” her breathless maid told her. “Waiting for you downstairs.”
And so, she had to rush downstairs as she was, pausing only to seize her bonnet and pelisse. Her heart hammered as she entered the salon where her mother was graciously receiving his lordship.
He glanced up at once, a smile curving his lips, and butterflies soared in her stomach. He looked so handsome and imposing that she had trouble associating him with her partner in adventure from the Lyon’s Den, the man who had kissed her and proposed to her.
Dear God, had she really been obliged to turn him down?
He came to her with his hand held out. “How fresh and lovely you look.”
The compliment took her by surprise, causing her to blush and stammer like some gauche debutante. She gave him her hand but drew it away almost immediately, for the clasp of his fingers disturbed her too much.
“Shall we go?” he asked.
“Of course.”
He turned, bowing to her mother. “I shall bring her back to your ladyship within the hour.”
His servant was holding two beautifully matched grey horses, harnessed to a smart curricle. Civilly, Bill handed her in, climbed up after her, and took the reins. The servant stepped clear, and the horses surged forward. Bill calmed them easily with a few soothing words, keeping them to a brisk trot in the direction of Hyde Park.
“I thought you would come later,” she observed.
“For the daily promenade? Even when London is quiet for the summer, there are too many people around the park then to be able to talk freely.”
Her heart lurched foolishly. “What is it you want to say?”
“That I respect the decisions you’ve made and the reasons behind them.”
She should have been glad of his understanding. Perhaps, somewhere, she was. But chiefly, she was conscious of perverse dismay. “Thank you,” she murmured.
He glanced at her. “And that whatever has happened or will happen, I will always stand your friend.”
She swallowed and nodded, unable to speak for a moment. “I’m glad,” she managed at last. “I hope you know I am also yours.”
He inclined his head, guiding his horses effortlessly through the park gates and along a tree-shaded path. “Then, we may meet as friends whenever we choose, without discomfort.”
“I have always been comfortable with you.”
“You were on the night of our adventure, before marriage reared its ugly head. Since then, perhaps not.”
“Actually,” she admitted, “it struck me last night how pleasant it would be for us to meet as friends in normal surroundings. You have already made my…rehabilitation easier to face. Thank you.”
“There is no need of thanks between friends. Did you manage to see any of the play last night? What did you think?”
As a safe topic of conversation, it proved just right to dispel the last of the awkwardness between them. All sorts of discussions grew out of it, in terms of literature, politics, and personal ambitions, and Diana found herself glorying in their shared humor, in challenging his opinions, and in simply learning about him.
The hour flew by, and she had to hide her disappointment in being taken home.
“I won’t come in,” he said, smiling as they said goodbye in Mount Street. “But now that we are friends, I’m sure we’ll meet frequently.”
Considering her indifference to her intended—to call it no worse—the following week of Diana’s betrothal turned into a joyous whirlwind.
Campbell called every second day, and her parents hosted a dinner at which he was present. They were seen together often, and word seemed to spread quickly around London that they were engaged. Perhaps Campbell had told everyone they were, for in fact, she was more often with the Earl of Garvie.
Bill took her driving in the park in his curricle, or for sedate walks with her maid trailing behind. Once he took her to the British Museum, which she had long yearned to visit, only her mother had always forbidden it on the grounds she would be thought a bluestocking. Nor had the Princess of Wales declared any interest in viewing the treasures there. So, a morning spent among its eclectic treasures was a huge treat for her. Of course, Bill’s fun and knowledgeable company helped.
Through all of these expeditions and apparently chance encounters in drawing rooms, or at musical soirees and the opera, they talked and laughed together, teased each other, and grew so quickly comfortable in each other’s company that several times she only just managed to stop herself addressing him as Bill in public.
And in truth, they only ever met in public. But their interactions on such occasions were enough to fascinate her. She learned about his love for his home in the Scottish Highlands, which he somehow made her see from his short yet poignant descriptions. She was intrigued by his ambition to be part of the major events of the country, of the world. In her mind, she traveled with him in Scotland, attended dinners with him and the prime minister, and journeyed to Vienna for the peace congress.
Everything done is his company would be fun. And yet, the present, where she could run into him at any time, was hectically exciting, thrilling, and wonderful. Even her engagement to Eric Campbell could not dismay her, for she refused to think about it.
Since most of the ton had left London for the summer, such parties as she was invited to with her parents, were not the shocking squeezes of the
official season. But one party at the end of that week had a trio of musicians playing, and the carpet in the drawing room had been taken up to allow the younger guests to dance.
Mr. Campbell, who had arrived with the Wades for once, immediately asked Diana to stand up with him for the first country dance. She accepted with some trepidation, for she had never seen him dance before. He proved to be more enthusiastic than accurate, but somehow it only added to the fun of the event.
“Don’t be so staid,” he advised, grinning. “Kick up your feet and swing your arms!”
Diana obeyed, and several other couples followed.
“That’s better,” Campbell declared, spinning her around so boisterously that she was laughing when Bill walked through the door, his gaze traveling immediately to her.
Her heart jolted, as it always seemed to at the sight of him, but she dragged her attention back to the dance for the last few minutes.
“I do not see Mr. Harrington here tonight,” she said when the music ended, and her partner escorted back to her chair.
Mr. Campbell let out a breathless laugh. “Well, his sins have caught up with him, I suppose. He shot a man in a duel this morning, and I hear the fellow is likely to die.”
“Dear God,” she uttered in shock.
“Exactly. Harrington’s probably fled the country already. Don’t worry. I won’t miss him.”
“Oh. Good,” she said faintly.
Mr. Campbell deposited her back beside her mother and went to fetch her a glass of lemonade after her exertions. Five minutes later, when Bill strolled over to greet them, she was still waiting for her drink. Bill brought her a glass of wine instead, and one for Lady Wade.
“Mr. Campbell must have got distracted,” her mother said, not best pleased.
“I believe he did,” Diana said peaceably. In fact, her betrothed sat beside an angular woman on the wrong side of thirty, who had a rather braying laugh. He seemed to be fascinated by her conversation.
“Who is that lady?” Diana asked Bill. “I don’t believe I have met her.”
“Miss Archer. Lord Vayne’s niece. I believe it’s her first visit to town.”
“Mr. Campbell appears to like her.”
“She’s richer than you,” Bill murmured provokingly.
“And much more deserving, I’m sure,” Diana retorted.
“Then you won’t be a jealous wife?” he asked.
Pain stabbed through her, depriving her of words for a moment. “I shall be whatever wife he wants,” she managed, at last.
His lips quirked. “No, you won’t, Diana,” he said softly. “Oh, I know you will try. But your character will out, and so will his.”
She stared at him. “What is that supposed to mean? That my character is poor?”
“On the contrary, that you are a lady of spirit and passion. You deserve a husband who will care for you and love you as you are.”
“And do we even know such a gentleman?” she asked furiously because his words sparked a longing she could not think about.
“Of course we do,” he said steadily.
Her gaze flew to his and held. She couldn’t breathe.
“Will you dance with me?” he asked.
She swallowed, trying to think. The little orchestra had struck up a waltz. She had no reason and no inclination to refuse, but she could not seem to speak. She merely stood and laid her hand on his arm for the few steps to the makeshift dancefloor.
Then he took her in his arms, and his sheer physical presence overwhelmed her. She remembered his kiss, the wonder of his body against hers…
Distracted, she missed her first step and stumbled in an effort to catch up and follow where he led.
“What did you mean?” she asked intensely.
“I’m not sure if you’re ready to hear what I meant. And even if you were, this is hardly the place to discuss such matters.”
A point which was no less annoying for being true.
His thumb moved against her gloved fingers. “I’ll call on you tomorrow.”
“I don’t see how that will be any better,” she said ruefully.
“Oh, I’m sure you and I, between us, are inventive enough to obtain a little privacy.”
For no obvious reason, heat spread through her body and into her face. “You could drive me to the park,” she said hastily.
“I could,” he agreed. “But that is for tomorrow. I am happy with the present. Aren’t you?”
“How can I be when—” she began and then broke off. When I have agreed to marry a man I neither like nor respect. When I have rejected the man I love… Oh, God, I do love you. I barely know you, and yet this feeling will tear me apart.
“That is for tomorrow,” he said. He held her gaze. “I like dancing with you.”
It was silly, but all her troubles seemed to slip away, and she smiled at him, because in truth, she liked dancing with him, too. For these few minutes, the outside world did not exist, not even the other dancers. There was only his firm arm at her back, his fingers lightly clasping hers, while the hypnotic rhythm of the waltz held them in its spell. His closeness was sweet, exciting, and she would not give up this time for anything or anyone.
Even when the dance ended, she imagined reluctance in the way he released her, that his steps were slow as he returned her to her mother. She was probably reflecting her own feelings onto him, and yet he had said… Said what? That he knew someone who loved her? It needn’t be him.
Tomorrow, she would find out what he meant.
In the meantime, the torment of reaching the end of the party with a smile on her lips, dancing with a man who was not Bill, talking with people who were not him, kept her feeling out of sorts.
And then, when she looked around the room, he had gone—without even saying good night.
The strange, hectic excitement of the evening fell away like a discarded cloak. Now she had to wait until tomorrow. Leaving her companions, she went to her mother, who was part of a group of matrons in deep conversation. Lady Wade looked up with a quick frown as Diana approached.
“Do you think we could leave soon?” Diana murmured. “I feel quite fatigued suddenly.”
“Go and refresh yourself,” her mother instructed. “You will feel better.” She hesitated a moment. “Do you need me?”
“No, Mama,” Diana assured her.
She left the drawing room unhurriedly, for she doubted she would be able to pry her mother away for at least another hour, and descended the stairs.
The guests’ outer garments had been hung on an array of rails at the back of the entrance hall. Beyond that, a more private room for ladies had been set aside.
Diana sauntered toward the cloaks, relieved that this part of the house was so blessedly empty and cool. On impulse, she raised her arms and breathed in, then spun around to stir the air among the layers of her gown—and came to an abrupt halt against a hard, male chest.
She gasped, trying to whisk herself away and apologize at the same time. But arms closed around her, and she saw with joy that it was Bill.
“I thought you’d gone,” she blurted as he drew her out of sight among the cloaks.
“Hence the dance of joy?” he murmured.
“I was bored.”
A breath of laughter escaped him. His head ducked in the friendly gloom, and he pressed his lips to hers.
Butterflies soared in her stomach, which seemed to dive at the same time, but there was no time to respond or even pull free, for it was the briefest of kisses.
“What was that for?” she demanded.
“Because you make me laugh.”
Perhaps it was not the most romantic of complements, but Diana was enchanted. Surrounded by the cloaks, and hats, and friendly gloom, she admitted, “I like to make you laugh.”
She could just make out the quirk of his lips. There was the faintest pause before he said, “How fortunate. I like to kiss you.”
Her heart thundered, yet it seemed perfectly natural to lift her fac
e closer to his, to part her lips in silent invitation. For an instant, he gazed down at her, just long enough for her to despair that he would not accept. And then, with aching slowness, he bent his head once more and took her mouth.
Sweet, glorious weakness suffused her limbs. It seemed only his arms held her upright, and yet she could still lift her own and wrap them around his neck. His lips were tender, unbearably sensual as they sank deeper. His hands slid over the curve of her back and hips, drawing her closer against him.
She gasped, loving the shock of his hardness, the novelty of his tongue exploring her lips before sweeping inside her mouth. She was lost. She was his.
From somewhere very far away, voices intruded on her bliss. Sense struggled upward, and she tried to break free, but he merely drew her deeper among the soft wool and silk of their surroundings without even breaking the kiss. His hand cupped her cheek, and he steadied her for the continuation of his delicious onslaught. She could only clasp him closer yet, caressing his face as she kissed him back. The voices faded with the footsteps, servants going about their business.
The kiss broke, and she gasped a quick, trembling breath before she reached up and took back his mouth. He held her by the waist. His hands caressed upward over her breasts, then down over her hips and thighs. She let out a moan, fortunately smothered by his mouth.
At last, he tore his lips free and held her hard against him, his cheek pressed to hers. “Tomorrow,” he said raggedly. “Tomorrow, we end this nonsense. Now, for God’s sake, go back to your mother.”
Since he hindered her immediate departure by kissing her again, she didn’t object. But his lips had gentled, and he ended it after only a few precious moments. He turned her and dropped a kiss on her nape that made her shiver with delight and gave her a little push toward the room set aside for ladies’ refreshment.
Too dazed to object, she walked to the door. When she turned to ask him about tomorrow, he was gone, and she heard the front door opening and closing.
Tomorrow, we end this nonsense.
Bill’s words echoed around her head as she paced her bedchamber, dressed only in her chemise. A solitary candle burned to light her way to bed, but she could not make herself go.
Fed to the Lyon Page 9
