‘Oh no. Oh goodness no.’ Susan looked shocked beyond measure, her hair trembling in its badly-placed pins as she firmly shook her head. ‘We are childhood friends. He insists on bringing me to mix in fine company, rather than allowing me to tramp through my beloved Ileston.’
Ileston House and the land that surrounded it was widely regarded as one of England’s finest beauty spots. Despite her unusual dress and manner, Susan Withersham was clearly someone of quality. Diana smiled graciously, trying to recall if she had met the woman before, but her memory drew a blank. ‘Then forgive my loose tongue.’
‘Not at all. I have several most impertinent questions, if you’ll allow me to ask them.’
No woman Diana had ever met spoke with such cheerful frankness. It was rather like being thrown into the sea—cold and unpleasant at first, but ultimately very refreshing. ‘Not at all. Do ask—I am in need of distraction.’
‘Oh, good.’ Susan smiled. ‘Merry said there was some sort of scandal connected to this wedding. He didn’t furnish me with the particulars, of course, and I doubt I would have listened to him in any case. I deplore gossip—I prefer to learn from the horse’s mouth. You would be the horse in question.’
Diana’s eyes widened. ‘A horse?’
‘Oh dear. No—not like that. A very pretty horse.’ Susan stepped forward, her smile fading to a look of earnestness. ‘It’s only curiosity. Not the base, cruel kind, I assure you. I have no wish to speak to anyone of any trouble connected to this day, and doubt I have the acquaintances who would enjoy secrets of this kind. You merely look… lost. A little lonely, if I am more impolite than I already have been. It seems something of a shame.’
The woman was desperately odd, but she was right. More importantly, she was kind, something that seemed in very short supply in the drafty church. Diana, acutely aware of the curious eyes on the two of them, gave a bland smile as she ushered Susan into a half-concealed niche containing a portrait of Saint Jerome.
‘I’m not really sure where to begin.’ How unlike her voice to fail her—she was normally so good at speaking to people. Perhaps it was Susan’s face, her pale blue eyes strangely comforting despite the fact that the woman was a relative stranger. ‘I… well, I… wasn’t meant to marry Wesley. Not at first.’
‘I see.’ Susan paused. ‘Then who were you meant to marry?’
Diana swallowed. ‘The former duke.’
‘The former—oh.’ Susan’s eyes widened. ‘I see.’
‘I don’t know how you’ve managed not to hear the gossip.’
‘As I said—I don’t listen to it. A remarkable amount of it was about me, a few years ago.’ Susan shrugged, her voice losing a little of its cheerful confidence.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever heard any gossip concerning a Susan Withersham, and I’m exceedingly well-connected.’
‘Yes.’ Susan looked down, a rueful smile hovering at her lips. ‘But I imagine you’ve heard of the Wild Girl of Hallwood.’
Now it was Diana’s turn to look shocked. ‘Really?’
‘Yes. My mother died young, and my father had somewhat unorthodox habits concerning my instruction. More importantly, he had no idea how to hire maids who could make me look presentable. So I tramped hither and thither, frightening villagers with my appearance, and by the time my coming-out was near London had already been scandalised by me.’ Susan looked out at the waiting crowd, her face softening. ‘Only Merry made sure I was accepted. I owe him everything.’
Diana looked at Adam Merricott, who was oblivious to Susan’s glance. Whatever Susan said about them being nothing but childhood friends, she would bet any sum of money on innocent friendship having grown far more complex with age.
‘Well then.’ She sighed, much calmer than she had been, but the butterflies still hovered in her stomach. ‘We are sisters in scandal, I suppose.’
‘Quite. How lovely—I have no sisters.’ Susan turned to look at her, her smile growing a little shyer. ‘And I suppose it explains the relative absence of your society acquaintances. Although I would have thought all of them would insist upon attending, if only to tell everyone about it afterwards.’
‘I’m sure they would have done if I were marrying below my station. If I had been forced to choose someone less wealthy than I have been, or less refined.’ Diana’s voice hardened. ‘They would have gleefully come to pick over my bones, if I had lost something. But despite the unexpected change of groom… well. I’ve won.’
‘Yes. I suppose you have.’ Susan’s voice quivered a little. ‘And… and if I were to enquire as to whether it is a love-match…’
‘I would politely reply that we have been friends for little more than a minute.’
‘But we are friends, then.’ Susan’s smile couldn’t help but bring a corresponding smile from Diana’s lips. ‘I am happy for that, at least.’
With a slightly more confident curtsey, she returned to her pew. Diana watched her sit next to a red-headed girl, who she recognised as Daisy Everton—the shy young ward of Samuel Taunton, Marquess of Bixby. The two women smiled at one another, evidently friends, before relaxing into a comfortable silence.
Why didn’t she have friends like that? Because such friendships had been impossible amidst the cut and thrust of ton politics. Keeping confidences meant entrusting secrets to people who would only use them against you. Diana sighed at what she had lost, at what she had never had the courage to pursue, the cold white silk of her wedding dress briefly suffocating her as she breathed deeply.
Wesley had shared secrets with her. She had always been too frightened to share in return. Too aware that she had very little power, especially when it came to him.
Lord, she had wanted him. Wanted him so much it scared her. And here she stood, in St. Brides, ready to marry him—to be his wife.
His wife in name only. He had made that abundantly clear. But as Diana walked to the end of the aisle, her veil trailing behind her, she found herself hoping against hope that Wesley had been lying about that. If they could only speak to one another—if they could converse properly, without rage and rancour destroying anything they could hope to build.
The music began. With a deep breath, and a quick look at Susan Withersham’s hopeful smile as she rose from her pew, Diana began to walk towards her fate.
Despite the unusual circumstances of the wedding, and the judgement falling upon the head of the bride, the reception was as glitteringly glorious as the Witford name would allow. Guests danced and played cards with joyous fervour under the glowing light of the chandeliers, drinking with immoderate gusto from the plentiful glasses of champagne scattered about the room.
Harrow, Taunton, Merricott and Parr were the only gentlemen beyond the clutches of the general merriment. They sat in a silent circle, Harrow glowering fiercely, clutching his glass of champagne tightly enough to crack it.
‘Well.’ Merricott’s ability to make the best of the most atrocious situations was well-known, but such anger looked beyond his capabilities. ‘It went well, I think.’
‘Of course it did. Weddings rarely go badly.’ Harrow sighed, trying not to watch Diana as she laughed with Susan Withersham on the other side of the room. ‘No-one was given any more gossip than they’ve already enjoyed.’
‘And the bride seems very content, now.’ Taunton cheerfully shrugged. ‘Who knows, Harrow. Something may be able to be salvaged from this dreadful mess.’
‘Absolutely not. I already told her.’ Harrow examined his nails, hoping to project an air of kingly disregard. ‘It shall be a marriage in name only, and nothing else. I am completely uninterested in her charms.’
His friends, to his distinct annoyance, seemed immune to his enormous self-control. Taunton almost spat his champagne out, giving a hoot of laughter that startled ladies on the other side of the room, while Parr tutted in a way that made his cynicism uncomfortably clear.
Merricott looked at him as if he were bound for Bedlam, his gentle tone almost more irritating than Taun
ton’s clear disbelief. ‘Are you sure about that? Absolutely certain?’
‘More certain than I’ve ever been in my life.’
‘Just because you say something in an icy way doesn’t mean it’s true.’ Taunton rolled his eyes, shooting a knowing look at Parr. ‘How much do you want to wager that he succumbs after a week?’
‘I would never wager on something so very distasteful.’ Parr paused. ‘Although if I were that sort of person, I’d bet my grey mare on Miss Montcrieff being with child by Christmas.’
‘For someone who isn’t distasteful, that was spectacularly distasteful.’ Harrow glared at Parr, who looked back at him with supreme indifference. ‘You’re casting aspersions on my ability to hold firm.’
‘If anything, we’re casting aspersions on the opposite.’ Taunton laughed. ‘You’ll be holding firm without pause, I imagine.’
‘I’m not in the mood for this.’
‘You’re in the mood for a funeral, Harrow, and it’s a wedding.’ Parr’s tone cut Harrow’s anger off at the pass. ‘Cheer up. And don’t blame Taunton for making fun of how ridiculous you’re being.’
‘You can think I’m being ridiculous. You can think I’m a madman, or a fool—I don’t care.’ Harrow set his champagne glass down, folding his arms with a deepening of his glare. ‘But Diana and I will be strangers to one another. Complete strangers. That, my friends, is how it’s going to stay.’
‘Forgive me for saying so, but it all seems a little sad.’ Susan put a comforting hand in her own; Diana squeezed it, acutely grateful for the company of this new and precious friend. The wedding guests laughed and danced mere feet away, happy to take joy from a day that had more than its fair share of pain. ‘To be lonely, despite being married. To be at war with one’s husband.’
‘Nonsense, Miss Withersham.’ Diana leaned closer, new steel in her voice as she spoke quietly to her new friend. Wesley sat on the other side of the room, glaring as he always had when he’d begun a losing battle. ‘Wars are won with patience, and I’m much more patient than my husband. I will be the winner here.’
‘I think many in this room would say that you’ve already won.’
‘Not yet.’ Diana stared brazenly at Wesley, hoping he would read her thoughts. Hoping he could see that whatever he thought their marriage would be, she would make it into something else entirely. A union of minds, of souls—of bodies. ‘I haven’t won yet. But I will.’
The first week of married life was… quiet.
Harrow hadn’t been expecting quiet. He had been expecting furious fights, thrown crockery—very possibly the need to flee for the Continent. It would have been normal enough, under the circumstances. But Diana, radiant in her new gowns—gowns fit for a duchess, as the seamstress had helpfully pointed out—had meekly accepted everything he had said to her.
Separate bedrooms? Fine. Independent breakfasts, but dinner together? Also more than welcome. Appearances at every gathering that required their presence as man and wife, but the rest of the social calendar completely separate? Yes, all quite right, and completely understood.
For the first two days, it was thoroughly unnerving. Diana had never been the accepting type—her light air of cheerful rebellion was one of the most attractive things about her, or at least it had been in her youth. Now, faced with a pliant and biddable wife, Harrow wondered what on earth he had done wrong.
He forced himself to relax. Perhaps she had simply seen sense; perhaps he had managed to create the perfect system without even needing a period of trial and change. Lightning could strike once, after all. By the time the sixth untroubled day came, Harrow was feeling very pleased with himself indeed.
It was only as he walked into the library of Witford House on the seventh morning, coffee cup in hand, that he realised she had been lulling him into a false sense of security.
She was sitting in a high-backed leather armchair, reading a book. A simple, sweetly domestic activity that any woman of breeding could happily indulge in. But Diana, sighing softly as she turned a page, was wearing a gown that would have been rejected by a brothel-keeper as too scandalous.
It was tight. Brazenly tight in all the places it shouldn’t be; her thighs were more than traceable beneath the thin, peony-pink silk. A silk that reminded Harrow irresistably of hidden flesh; of all the parts of a woman that weren’t meant to be shown in public. The tightness, the colour, the thinness of the material—it was as if she were naked in the library, fully naked, and didn’t give a fig for the consequences.
She had to be wearing it deliberately. She had to know how she looked—irresistable. A state that Harrow was determined to reject, no matter how much the sight of her made him harden in his breeches.
‘Good morning.’ Perhaps simply pretending the gown was a normal one would allow him to escape unscathed.
‘Good morning.’ Diana didn’t look up at him—another tactic to annoy him, no doubt. Alas, it was working. ‘I do hope the main bedroom provides a comfortable night’s sleep. My night in the Blue Room was more than adequate.’
‘I—I am glad of it.’
‘Good. I’m glad we’re both glad.’
An impasse, then. One that Harrow was already sure he’d lost, even without saying a single word about the gown. Eventually, with an irritated shake of his head, he succumbed to temptation.
‘This is ridiculous.’ He waved a vague hand in her direction, not knowing where to point. ‘You must know that dressing in such a fashion is unacceptable.’
‘Excuse me?’ Diana’s face was the picture of wounded innocence as she looked up from her book. ‘What on earth do you mean?’
‘I—you know what I mean. You must know.’ He couldn’t fall so easily into her trap during the first week of married life. Such weakness was intolerable. ‘I doubt very much you’d wear that gown in Hyde Park.’
‘Is this an unusual way of asking me to walk in Hyde Park with you?’ Diana rose from her chair, the swell of her hips brazenly visible beneath the fabric. ‘Shall I find my bonnet?’
The thought of Diana walking through Hyde Park in a gown so tight and transparent sent a violent, unexpected jolt of lust through Harrow. He turned away, attempting to control himself as Diana stared at him, book in hand. ‘No.’
‘Then I don’t understand. You’ve rushed into this room in a tearing hurry, found me reading quietly to myself, and began criticising my manner of dress. Do you have nothing else to do this morning?’
‘I have plenty to do this morning! An astonishing amount of tasks, each one duller than the last, and I won’t be able to do any of them if you’re sitting in the room opposite dressed like a—’
‘Like a what?’ Diana’s cheeks coloured slightly; the pink of the gown only accentuated the tone of her skin, ripe and lovely. Harrow looked down, only to find his gaze lingering on the lush swell of his wife’s thighs. ‘Finish your sentence.’
‘I shall not.’
‘You’re wiser than I thought.’ Diana sat back in her chair; Harrow watched the rise and fall of her breasts as she sighed. ‘Why you have such a problem with this gown, I can’t possibly guess.’
‘Now you’re the one who’s pretending not to be wise. Artful, even.’
‘Artful? I’m no more artful than anyone else.’ Diana blinked, her long eyelashes giving her the air of a startled deer. Harrow bit his lip, unable to stop remembering how much he had coveted the very gaze she was currently giving him. ‘This gown has been so very well-received by everyone who’s seen it.’
This was new and highly unwelcome territory. ‘Excuse me? Who else has seen you in such a garment?’
‘Goodness. I’ve had such an active morning.’ Diana leaned back in her chair as she considered the question, her thigh delectably evident beneath the tight skirt of the gown as she crossed one ankle over the other. ‘I had to ask the cook about arrangements for our first ball, of course—Monsieur Lacroute was most conscientious. He made sure that I saw every angle of the kitchen, even allowing me to st
and on a stool at one point to observe how much light comes in through the skylight—’
‘What?’
‘And the gardeners, of course. They were most keen to show me the more distant areas of the grounds, and the rose garden. I didn’t realise quite so many of them needed to accompany me, but I was glad of the help in the end. And I did need to instruct the grooms in the stables, of course—all of them were so very helpful, and so very attentive, especially when I fell into a pile of tack head-first and had to be retrieved…’
Her voice trailed away, a teasing smile on her face. Harrow turned to look at the bookshelf, trying to conceal his growing grin.
She had always been good at teasing him. He had forgotten that about her—forgot everything in the overwhelming pain of her rejection. She had always been so playful, full of joy behind her air of cautious reservation. And oh, Lord, how spectacular she looked in that ridiculous dress… where had she found it? Had she had it made especially, knowing that she would perform this exact trick?
The idea of other men looking at her like this filled him with jealousy. Not the simple jealousy of burgeoning manhood, either—this was older, more complex. Harrow was surprised to realise, upon reflection, that the thought brought him desire as well as pain.
Since when did he become inflamed at the thought of Diana sharing her charms with servants? Now that he considered the matter properly, he knew the source at once. The reality of who Diana was going to share her charms with before he married her was so horrible, so utterly repellent, that any alternative fantasy was borderline erotic.
Not borderline erotic. Very erotic. He forced himself to look back at Diana, taking a deep breath as he summoned up his courage.
‘This isn’t the way you’ll win, you know.’ His voice caught in his throat as he spoke; Diana noticed the catch in his speech, he was sure of it. ‘This is an amateur move, and will be discounted.’
‘I don’t think you’re discounting it.’ Diana paused, leaning closer; Harrow paused, the delicious scent of her washing over him. ‘I think you’re paying very close attention.’ Her eyes darted downwards, lingering on his breeches. ‘Very close attention indeed.’
A Most Unusual Duke Page 3