He returned quietly to England five days ago, going first to London and then to his family’s estate in the country. Along the way he’d heard of the unexpected and much talked about wedding between Reginald Browning, Duke of Ashburn, and Abigail Mannish, Aunt of Dianna. It had been buzzing on the tips of everyone’s tongues; a fairytale story of loss and redemption come to life.
Even knowing Winfield was but a few short miles from Ashburn, he’d never planned on attending the reception ball. Never planned to look for Dianna. Certainly never planned to actively seek her out. Yet that was precisely what he found himself doing, and all it took was one look - one long, heated stare - and he was helpless not to follow her out the door and down to the stables, drawn to her like a moth to the proverbial flame.
A flame that now burned cold instead of hot.
She’d stood before him like an ice queen, Miles thought now, her eyes flashing blue fire and her red lips curled in derision. Her golden curls, shortened to chin length since he last saw her and pinned away from her temple with two diamond combs, had emphasized her heart shaped countenance, long lashes, and sweeping eyebrows. Her body had filled out and changed as well. Gone was the gangly, frizzy haired girl he remembered. A woman of breathtaking beauty had taken her place. A woman who made him weak in the knees… and in the heart.
He had taken Dianna’s love for granted. He knew that now. In all of his travels he’d never come across another woman as pure of heart and sweet of spirit as the one he left behind.
When they were children she had followed him around like a second shadow, dogging his footsteps wherever he went while he, stubborn, arrogant boy that he’d been, did his best to be rid of her. Now the shoe was on the other foot, as the saying went, and he found he didn’t like the fit of it.
Not one little bit.
Giving the bay a last absent pat, Miles turned from the stables and cut through a narrow path that led to the carriage and driver he’d kept waiting on the outskirts of Ashburn’s vast estate. Both driver and horse looked up as he approached, eyes squinting into the inky darkness when a twig snapped loudly beneath his boot heel.
“It is only I,” Miles said quietly, not wanting to startle either man or equine. Opening the door to the sleek black chaise he leaned against it, gaze flicking through the trees to where light still shimmered in the windows of Ashburn Manor. Was Dianna once again dancing, or had she gone to bed? Was she thinking of him, as he was most certainly thinking of her? His mouth tightened into a rueful smile. If she was thinking of him, he imagined there were quite a few curses involved, although it was difficult to think of sweet, mild-mannered Dianna swearing. Even as a young girl she had always been the epitome of a gently spoken lady, flawless in both her etiquette and behavior.
“Were ye wanting to return home now, my lord?” the driver inquired uncertainly. “Lady Radnor will likely be looking for ye.”
Miles’ sigh was a resigned one. Since his sudden return his mother had been loathe to leave his side. The rest of Winfield’s staff had embraced him with similar enthusiasm. His old nanny had even cried. Only his sister Harper, now seventeen and a woman nearly grown, had greeted him coldly.
I do not see why you had to come back, she’d said, her green eyes, the same mossy shade as his own, shooting sparks of hostility. We have been getting along perfectly fine without you.
Unfortunately, the falsity of her claim quickly revealed itself. With his father dead and gone for nearly as long as Miles had been away, Winfield had sunken into a state that bordered on disrepair. His mother, while able to run a household with an iron fist, had never possessed much of a head for business. That had always been her husband’s domain, and while she had clearly attempted to follow in his footsteps, Winfield bore evidence of many a financial shortcoming.
My fault, Miles reminded himself ruthlessly as he climbed into the carriage and nodded to the driver. In his haste to free himself from the oppressive weight of an earldom he did not want, he’d damned those who did.
Dianna was right to hate him.
Harper as well.
But he would make it right. He would make it better. Come hell or high water, Miles was determined to right the wrongs he’d committed…and win back the heart of the woman he loved.
Chapter Four
When Dianna woke the next morning, she stared intently up at the white plaster ceiling and wondered if it had all been a very bad dream.
After all, she’d often dreamed of Miles over the past four years, although never in such excruciating detail. She also always dreamed of the boy he’d been, not the man he’d become. Except for that one time, when he had been covered in warts and wearing an eyepatch...
No, Dianna decided with a regretful sigh, last night was no dream.
It was a nightmare. A nightmare of such epic proportions she’d cried herself into a stupor before stumbling up to her guest bedroom in the Ashburn’s vast east wing and collapsing into bed. It had all been very melodramatic and far better suited to the likes of her best friend Charlotte, whose flair for the sensational could not be overstated.
Sound, sensible Dianna. That is who she was and who she had always been. Except how could she be expected to remain sound or sensible when unexpectedly cornered by a fiancée she’d given up for dead two years ago?
This is not over…
Miles’ parting words still echoed in her mind, and whether they had been spoken in threat or promise or something else entirely she did not even want to begin to contemplate. Not if she wanted to keep whatever small shred of nerves she still possessed.
Grabbing a pillow, Dianna held it over her head and, for the span of five seconds, seriously considered smothering herself in feather down before she tossed it aside with a hiss of annoyance and sat up, floundering a bit on the overstuffed mattress.
“Ladies,” she grumbled under her breath, “do not smother themselves with pillows before breakfast.”
A quick peek out the window beside her bed revealed it was only a few moments past dawn. Splashes of orange and gold painted the sky and the sprawling side lawn sparkled with fresh dew. Letting the lace curtain fall into place Dianna flopped back on the mattress and resumed staring at the ceiling. At least she would have a few hours to compose herself before-
Tap. Tap. Tap.
The knock on the door was quiet, albeit insistent.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
For one wild, heart-stopping moment Dianna imagined Miles waiting out in the hall. She dragged the top quilt to her chin and sat up with a tiny gasp of alarm, gaze flicking every which way as she attempted to find someplace suitable to hide. The armoire? No, there wouldn’t be enough room. The closet? It could work, although with her luck she’d manage to lock herself inside and be stuck for the entire day with nothing but her dresses for company.
She was on the verge of diving beneath a chaise lounge when the bedroom door abruptly opened… and Charlotte Graystone stepped through.
“Are you awake? I have been knocking and knocking and - Dianna, are you quite all right? You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.” Brow knitting in concern, Charlotte walked briskly across the room and sat without invitation - not that one was needed - in a chair beside the bed. Given the early hour she was still wearing a high necked nightgown in the palest shade of yellow, although her red hair looked suspiciously rumpled and there was what appeared to be a whisker burn on the right side of her neck.
Dianna wasn’t envious of her dearest friend - truly she wasn’t - but sometimes it was very hard indeed, especially at moments like these, not to be the tiniest bit jealous that Charlotte had found the love of her life while she… well, she wasn’t quite sure what she’d found, to be honest. Letting go of the quilt, she sat up a little straighter and released the breath she’d been holding in a loud whoosh of air. “I thought you might be someone else.”
“Someone else?” One russet eyebrow shot up in bewilderment. “Who else, pray tell, would be knocking on your bedroom door before breakfast?�
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Were Charlotte anyone but who she was, Dianna would have told a tiny white lie and changed the subject to fashion or weather or a hundred other topics that did not involve the return of her long lost betrothed. But Charlotte was her closest friend - in truth, besides her beloved Aunt Abigail, one of her only friends - and with a little sigh she closed her eyes and murmured, “Miles Radnor.”
“Bloody hell in a box!”
Dianna’s eyes flew open. “Charlotte.”
“I am sorry,” the redhead said automatically. “Actually, no.” The sun glinted off her plain gold wedding band as she held up her left hand. “I most certainly am not sorry. In fact, I believe I shall curse again. Bloody hell. In a box.”
“That does not even make sense,” Dianna pointed out.
“I know. That is why I like saying it.”
“Ladies should not curse.” Even as she said it, Dianna knew the reminder would fall on deaf ears. Charlotte had always been stubbornly independent, and while her bloodline was one of the bluest in all of England she identified more with the working class than the peerage which was no doubt why, all things considered, she’d ended up married to a commoner.
“Ladies should not do a lot of things. That, however, is a discussion for another time.”
But Dianna’s temporary surge of courage was failing, and she latched onto the potential topic like a sailor clinging to a life raft. “Really? Because I rather think we should talk about it now in great detail-”
“Miles Radnor,” Charlotte interrupted. “Tell me why you thought Miles Radnor, of all people, would be knocking on your bedroom door at the crack of dawn.”
Dianna let her skull fall back against the ornate mahogany headboard with a heavy thunk. “Do I have to?”
“Yes.”
“Is it too early to have a glass of wine?”
“Well, I suppose-”
“Yes,” Dianna said hastily, answering her own question as she recalled what had happened the last time they’d gotten into the wine. Suffice it to say she did not care to repeat the experience, especially before seven in the morning. “I believe it would be wise to stay away from any type of spirits at this juncture in time. It is only that… well… this is very difficult for me to talk about.” She bit her lip, gaze flitting down to her lap. Sun spots dappled the top quilt, illuminating tiny yellow rosebuds that had been hand sewn onto the fabric. Like everything else in Ashburn Manor, the bedding was of top quality and far beyond anything Dianna had in her own home.
Her parents may have been readily accepted amidst the ton courtesy of their sterling reputation and their penchant for hobnobbing with high society, but when all was said and done her father was no more than a baron and his wealth reflected such a lowly title. Marrying their only daughter to an earl would have been a fine feather in their cap, a feather Dianna knew they secretly blamed her for losing. Oh, never in so many words, but the implication was always there, simmering just beneath the surface.
‘We did our best to give you the life you deserved’, her mother was fond of saying. And then, under her breath she would always mutter, ‘How unfortunate you chose to squander it all away’.
As though it had been Dianna’s choice to have Miles leave her. As though it had been her decision to be left humiliated and alone. Dianna knew her mother did not mean to hurt with her careless words - Martha Foxcroft may have been a vain woman, but she was not a cruel one - although that did not serve to make them any less painful.
“He was here last night.” She lifted her head. Took a deep, weary breath. “Miles. He was here at Ashburn.”
The amusement drained from Charlotte’s countenance, along with a great deal of blood. The very picture of concern, she leaned forward and took one of Dianna’s hands between her own. She rubbed briskly, trying to bring warmth back into flesh that had gone cold and white as newly fallen snow. “Tell me everything,” she said simply.
Slowly, haltingly, Dianna proceeded to do precisely that. She left out nothing, repeating nearly word for word the first painful conversation she’d had with Miles in nearly half a decade. When she was finally finished Charlotte sat back in her chair, looking absolutely stunned.
“Bloody hell in a box.”
This time, Dianna nodded her head in agreement. “Yes,” she said softly. “Bloody hell in a box. Oh Charlotte, what am I going to do?” She pinched the bridge of her nose where a dull ache had settled. “I thought he was dead.”
“Did you really?”
Something in Charlotte’s tone had Dianna lowering her arm and peering closely at her friend. Her hands settled in her lap, fingers anxiously plucking at a rosebud. “Whatever do you mean?”
“I wish to be frank with you, my dear, but I do not want to hurt your feelings. We are the closest of friends, are we not?”
“I always rather thought of us more as sisters.”
The faintest hint of a smile lifted the corners of Charlotte’s mouth, although her gaze remained steady and, Dianna thought, a bit sad. “Of course we are. Of course. Which is how I know these past few months could not have been easy for you, what with my whirlwind wedding to Gavin and your aunt rekindling her love affair with the Duke of Ashburn. Congratulations are in order, by the by. Aunt Abigail made a lovely bride and you an even lovelier bridesmaid.”
“Thank you,” Dianna murmured even as she struggled to understand what point Charlotte was attempting to make.
While seeing her best friend and closest relative find their happily-ever-afters within weeks of one another had been rather trying (especially given her own tragic history in the marriage department), she’d been nothing if not supportive. She was genuinely happy for both Charlotte and Aunt Abigail. They deserved husbands who loved them beyond measure, which by all accounts Gavin and Reginald did. And yet Dianna supposed a part of her - a very small part, but a part nevertheless - couldn’t help but wonder why she had been excluded. Why she, of all people, had been left nursing a broken heart while her peers and loved ones were married off in rapid succession.
All of Dianna’s life she’d followed the rules set forth by both her parents and society. Her manners and etiquette were flawless. Her fashion impeccable. She was a lady through and through and, with only a handful of exceptions (most of them involving the spirited redhead sitting beside her), she’d conducted herself with the utmost of decorum. The most defiant thing she had ever done in her entire life was cut her hair, but even that small act had been in accordance with a new precedent already set forth by a dozen women of much higher influence than herself.
And yet, when all was said and done, she was the one rapidly approaching spinsterhood.
The irony of it did not escape her.
“I suppose what I am trying to say,” Charlotte continued bluntly, “is that if you really thought Radnor dead these past four years, why haven’t you moved on?”
Dianna’s mouth opened. Closed. Two tiny parallel lines appeared on her forehead as her eyebrows knitted together. “I have,” she said defensively.
“How so? I do not want to twist the knife, as they say, but I feel as though I must be honest with you as you were once honest with me. The first season after Radnor ran off it was quite understandable you remained a shut in, but what of the second, and the third? I know you have received countless invitations from young, eligible bachelors, just as I know you have ignored every single one of them. If you honestly believed Radnor to be dead, why not find another man to marry, or at the very least court?”
The question hit Dianna hard, drawing an immediate frown. Was that what she had been doing these past four years? Shutting herself in? Closing herself off from the rest of society? No. Positively not.
“I have attended several balls.”
“Three.” Charlotte crossed her legs at the knee and sat back, draping an arm across the windowsill. She began to drum her fingers against the wood. “You have attended three balls. The masquerade we snuck into does not count,” she said, holding up a finger when
Dianna’s lips parted in protest. “And neither does your aunt’s wedding reception.”
“They should,” Dianna muttered.
“Well, they don’t. You have said time and time again you never loved Radnor. You’ve said you haven’t missed him. But if that is the truth, why would his return affect you so much?”
Dianna bristled. “Who ever said his return-”
“Your eyes are swollen from crying,” Charlotte said gently. “And you were white as a bedsheet when I came into the room. Pretend with others if you must, but not with me. I know you.” Standing, she shook the wrinkles from her nightgown. “Perhaps even better than you know yourself. There is a reason you never moved on. A reason you never sought love elsewhere. I cannot tell you what it is. Only you can do that.”
In hindsight, smothering herself with a pillow wouldn’t have been such a terrible idea. If Dianna had been hiding herself away as Charlotte claimed, then this was certainly the reason why.
She didn’t want to think about Miles. Didn’t want to face her feelings. Didn’t want to admit to herself - or anyone else for that matter - she wasn’t as over her fiancée as she claimed to be.
With Miles gone it had been easy to pretend he’d never existed at all. But now that he had returned… now that he had returned she would once again have to face the pain of his betrayal, as well as the pain of accepting some part of her still cared for a man who had played her for a fool.
“I do not want to think about it, or him.” Her response may have been childish, but at least it was honest.
Charlotte smiled and shook her head. “I know you don’t, dear. None of us like to face the thing which frightens us the most.”
“When did you become so wise?” Dianna wondered aloud. If there was a more rash, impulsive woman in all the world than Charlotte Graystone, Dianna had yet to meet her. Act first and think later had always been her friend’s favorite adage, which had served to land her in quite a bit of hot water over the years.
London Ladies (The Complete Series) Page 36