Beside him Lady Enid barely smothered her laughter, turning it into a mangled, choking cough.
“I do not like the sound of that, Enid,” Lady Lattimore said, frowning with concern. “You are quite flushed. She never flushes, Your Grace. Never. Enid, here, let me feel your forehead. Are you unwell? Are you feverish?”
“She’s fine as a fiddle, my dear,” Lord Lattimore said, winking broadly at Sheffield. “Ladies, hah.”
But Lady Lattimore would not be deterred. “She is feverish, sir; the excitement of love has made her so. Summon our coach, if you please. Your Grace, we must beg our leave, for Enid’s sake.”
There was a bustle of farewells and apologies, a promise that he’d call soon, a final, hurried smile from Lady Enid, and then they were gone, leaving Sheffield much freer than he’d expected from this night—free, really, in every way that mattered.
He raced back to the room with the dancing, to where he’d last seen Lady Diana. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d do when he saw her again. His options were decidedly limited. He wasn’t in Paris any longer. Whether she was family or not, he and Lady Diana had yet to be introduced to each other, and even if they had been, they were both supposed to be bound to others. He couldn’t address her, separate her from Lord Crump, or ask her to dance, not without causing great scandal. He couldn’t even bow to her from across the room. About all he could do was watch her dance from a respectful distance and pray she’d look his way and notice him.
But as soon as he’d managed to work his way through the crowd, the dance ended, and the musicians put aside their instruments to show that the set had ended. Like waves coming into shore, the crowd of guests turned away from where the dancing had been and pushed back against him, looking for more diversions, other friends, and the supper room. Over their heads, he saw Lord Crump’s stiff bow before Lady Diana, and her curtsey. Then abruptly she turned away and left him, disappearing through another of the tall open doors to the gallery.
At once Sheffield followed, ducking through the nearest door and onto the same gallery. The evening had grown cooler, and a mist had begun to rise from the river and veil the moon, the same moon that had shone without magic on him and Lady Enid. The chill had driven the other guests back inside the house, leaving the gallery empty except for Lady Diana.
She stood alone in the farthest corner of the gallery, beside the stone balustrade and beneath the shading branch of a nearby tree. The white of her gown was like a wisp of moonlight captured in the shadows, and he went to her at once, unable to resist. He’d no idea what he’d say or do, no idea at all except that he wanted to be with her, which should, he decided, be inspiration enough when the time came for doing and saying.
As he drew closer, she heard his footsteps and swiftly turned to face him. He thought she might have been crying; now he could see that her hands had been knotted on the balustrade in frustration, not unhappiness. In an instant her expression changed from startled wariness to bewilderment to out-and-out wonder.
“It’s you,” she whispered, her eyes wide as he stood before her. “It’s you.”
“It is,” he said. “And you’re you, too.”
“What absolute foolishness,” she said. She smiled crookedly, displaying a single charming dimple, and then, to his eternal surprise, slipped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him.
Without thought or hesitation, Diana closed her eyes and kissed the stranger.
It was bold of her, and brazen, and not like her usual self at all. Despite what the gossips whispered, she wasn’t in the habit of kissing men willy-nilly, and certainly not men whose names and history she did not know. In fact, if pressed, she could likely only count a half-dozen boys and men whom she’d kissed in all her eighteen years. Perhaps the number was greater than for other, more saintly ladies, but surely it was not enough to qualify her as slatternly or overly free.
At least not until now. Now she was standing in the moonlight on the gallery of Lady Fortescue’s house with the breezes from the river tossing her skirts and her hair and her arms curled wantonly around the shoulders of a man who was a complete and total stranger to her.
No, she must be honest: he was not a complete stranger. She might not know his name, but from his speech, dress, and manner, she knew he was an English gentleman. She knew he had a white French bulldog named Fantôme. She knew he was gallant, and amusing, too, and she knew he was wonderfully handsome and that his shoulders beneath her arms were broad and manly and very nice to rest upon. She knew he’d a charming smile, and that she’d wanted to kiss him the first time he’d smiled at her, and ever since, which was part of the reason she was kissing him now.
Most of all, she was kissing him because he wasn’t Lord Crump.
But then, to her surprise, the gentleman began to kiss her in return, a beguiling, seductive kiss that coaxed her to follow his lead. He settled one hand around her waist and another at the small of her back as familiarly as if they’d been there scores of times before, and leaned into her, gently pushing her back against the trunk of the overhanging tree. As he drew her body closer to his, he deepened the kiss, slanting his mouth over her lips until with a little catch in her breath she parted them for him. Instantly the kiss changed into something deeper, hotter, more demanding, and far, far different from the kisses she’d shared with those other half dozen boys and men. It almost made her dizzy, this kiss. It was exhilarating and it was passionate, and it was complete and utter madness.
As swiftly as if she’d been burned, she jerked her mouth away from his and twisted herself free from his embrace, adding an extra, emphatic little shove to his chest that was more from her own mortification than from anything he’d done.
He stared at her, his mouth open with bewilderment and confusion—a confusion that she certainly understood. Then he visibly collected himself, squaring his shoulders and bowing before her.
“I beg your forgiveness, ma’am,” he said. “To take advantage of you as I did is—”
“But you didn’t!” she cried, shamed beyond measure. “I was the one who took unfair advantage of you, forcing my attentions on you like a—a harlot!”
His brows rose with surprise. “I do not believe it is possible, ma’am, for a lady to take unfair advantage of a gentleman. Nor did I ever consider you as a harlot.”
“But I kissed you, sir,” she said. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, striving to calm herself. “If that wasn’t unfair of me—”
“It wasn’t unfair, ma’am,” he protested. He was standing so the moonlight washed across his face, making him so handsome that she could have wept. “You did not see me pushing you away, did you?”
“No.” She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to shut out the memory of the entire appalling scene. “But it is the nature of a man to take whatever is offered, while it’s the lady’s part to refuse, or at least not to kiss him like that. That is, to kiss you. Oh, sir, what I’ve done, and for what? For what?”
“Because you liked it,” he said, and grinned. “I did.”
He held his hand out to her, but she shook her head in furious refusal.
“No, sir, no, no!” she said. “I only kissed you because I was angry and frustrated with—with someone else, and with my passions unsettled, I kissed you because I—oh, I do not know why.”
“I understand entirely, ma’am,” he said, as if her explanation were perfectly logical. “Combine a surfeit of passion, a fury, and the moonlight, and there you are. Or rather, there we were.”
“But never again,” she said, desperation making her nearly breathless. If Lord Crump learned of what she’d done here, he’d reject her—she was certain of that. Every other of her little indiscretions would pale beside this. She’d be completely disgraced, and worse, she’d break her mother’s heart. “Never.”
“I don’t believe I care for the finality of that,” he said wryly. “It’s not terribly flattering.”
“I beg you, sir, this is no jest,” she pleaded. “Yo
u must forget that this has ever happened between us, else I shall be quite ruined, and disappoint all those who care most for me.”
“Very well, then. You have my word of honor that no one will ever hear of this.” With his hand still outstretched, his grin settled into a more understanding smile. “Not so much as a whisper, Lady Diana.”
She gasped with fresh dismay. “You know who I am?”
He let drop the offered hand she’d ignored, and bowed again.
“I always learn the name of the most beautiful lady in the room,” he said, and the way he said it made her sure he’d done exactly that. “Besides, we should know each other, considering that—”
“Please don’t tell me,” she begged. “I don’t wish to know. It will make it easier to pretend I do not know you if ever we meet again.”
“Very well, Lady Diana,” he said, lowering his voice to a confidential whisper. “It shall be our private secret.”
He smiled again, so charming in the moonlight that she couldn’t begin to tell if he was teasing or not. Ladies were not supposed to share secrets with gentlemen, any more than they were supposed to kiss them, and she could only pray he’d keep his word. What choice did she have now except to trust him?
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I thank you.”
She turned and fled, leaving him behind on the gallery as she slipped through one of the doors and back inside. She did not look back, not wishing to encourage him if he’d dared to follow, but she did glance at one of the gold-framed looking glasses as she passed it, and he wasn’t behind her. Relieved, she swiftly found her family where she’d left them, with Charlotte, Mama, and Aunt Sophronia all sitting in armchairs with plates of sweetmeats and pastries in their laps. March wasn’t there, doubtless off discussing some male business with a friend, but watching over the ladies in his place was his older cousin, the Duke of Breconridge, leaning over the back of Mama’s chair as he told some witty story that had sent all three ladies into peals of laughter behind their fans.
Diana smiled as she rejoined her family, relieved that none of them seemed to have been worrying about her, or even missed her. Perhaps she could simply slip into listening to whatever story Brecon was telling and pretend that she’d been there all evening. Perhaps, if she laughed at his drolleries along with her aunt and sister and mother, no one would ask where she’d been or what she’d been doing.
And perhaps, too, pigs would sprout feathered wings and fly from their sties up to the moon.
“Here you are at last, Diana,” Aunt Sophronia said, twisting around to face her. “I trust you’re feeling better now?”
“Thank you, Aunt, yes,” Diana said, barely remembering that she’d escaped Lord Crump and yet another dance by claiming she needed fresh air. “I’m quite recovered now.”
Charlotte leaned forward, looking over her fan. “But where is Lord Crump, Diana? He told us you’d been suddenly taken ill, and he was going to make inquiries at the ladies’ cloakroom, to see if you’d gone there. He was quite concerned for you.”
Belatedly (and guiltily) Diana realized that Lord Crump was nowhere to be seen. She hadn’t meant to abandon him as long as she had; she was fortunate—very fortunate—that he hadn’t come out onto the gallery to look for her there.
“I didn’t intend to worry him,” she said, hoping her face wouldn’t betray her. “All I needed was a moment or two alone after the dancing.”
“Never leave a gentleman to his own devices, my dear,” Aunt Sophronia warned sagely, her rings glittering as she shook an admonishing finger at Diana. “Even a fine and honorable gentleman such as Lord Crump can find mischief.”
Diana flushed. She doubted that Lord Crump would so much as recognize mischief, let alone seek it out, while she herself seemed to tumble into it as naturally as breathing.
“I’m sure he’ll return to us here, Aunt Sophronia,” Diana said. “The rooms are so crowded that it’s difficult to move through them.”
“I certainly hope he will return to you, my dear,” said her aunt. “It would not do for you to lose your betrothed the way you would mislay an old glove.”
Charlotte took Diana’s hand in a show of sisterly support.
“Lord Crump would never wander far from Diana, Aunt Sophronia,” she said. “What gentleman would?”
Smiling, she gently pulled Diana’s hand, drawing her closer so she could whisper to her.
“I do not know where you’ve been, Di, or what you’ve been doing,” she said so softly that none of the others could overhear, “but there are leaves in your hair.”
Immediately Diana’s hands flew to her head. Charlotte was right. There were bits of leaves in her hair, doubtless left from kissing the stranger beneath the tree, and as quickly as she could she pulled them out, twisting the curls back into place with her fingers.
Charlotte suddenly smiled, looking past Diana and releasing her hand.
“Here’s March,” she said. “Goodness, look who he has with him!”
Expecting March to have returned with Lord Crump, Diana didn’t turn at once, taking an extra second to compose herself. She had to smile and look welcoming; at least she could be grateful she wouldn’t have to dance with him again that night.
“I knew he’d returned to London,” March said, “but I didn’t expect to find him here tonight. You recall my wicked cousin Sheffield, fresh from conquering Paris?”
Another cousin of March’s; sometimes it seemed to Diana there was always another, the way they kept popping up in company. But at least it wasn’t Lord Crump, and she exhaled with relief.
“Be more honest, March,” Aunt Sophronia said with an arch little huff. “Your cousin’s fresh from a single lamentable conquest. Though I’ll admit that scandal agrees with you, Sheffield. You’re even more handsome than I remember. No wonder that dreadful French lady was so besotted.”
“Ancient history, Lady Sanborn,” the newcomer replied confidently, “ancient history, and all in my past. Handsome or not, I’m thoroughly reformed, and as safe and tame as your own little dogs.”
Everyone laughed, except for Diana. She recognized that voice, that easy charm, and her heart squeezed tight in her breast. It couldn’t possibly be true, could it? Could her luck have run so incredibly badly as this?
“You know His Grace the Duke of Sheffield, don’t you, Diana?” Charlotte asked, a gentle prodding intended to make Diana turn about and be civil. “He has lived abroad for a great while and you have been tucked away in Dorset, but surely you must have been in London to have met at least once, yes?”
Oh, yes, we’ve met, thought Diana grimly. But, family or not, it was never polite to keep one’s back toward a duke, and with a deep breath she turned swiftly around to face him.
“Your Grace,” she murmured, bowing her head and making the curtsey that was proper when greeting a duke. “Forgive me, for I do not believe I’ve yet had the honor.”
“Ah, well, that’s easily remedied,” March said. “Sheffield, this is Charlotte’s little sister, Lady Diana Wylder. Diana, my cousin, the Duke of Sheffield.”
So Sheffield was his name, and he was a duke. She shouldn’t be surprised, not really. He’d that kind of easy, inborn confidence that usually came with titles and good fortune. Here in the candlelight, she could see how costly his clothing was, perfectly tailored to his height and broad shoulders, and richly embroidered to add to the overall impression of luxurious wealth. She should have recognized the resemblance between him and March and Brecon. They’d the same strong jaw and dark coloring, and the same preference for wearing their own nearly black hair instead of a more fashionable wig. The long-ago king who’d been their shared ancestor surely had sired a splendid crop of handsome gentlemen, so handsome that it almost seemed unfair to the rest of the peerage.
And, of course, their indisputable charm gave them an unfair advantage over all the ladies as well—as Sheffield was proving even now.
“Lady Diana,” he said, taking her hand to raise her. �
�If I’d known you were here in London, I would not have lingered so long in Paris.”
He kissed the air over the back of her hand, exactly what was respectfully correct for the circumstances. But there was little that was respectful about how he looked up at Diana over the back of her hand, his gray eyes filled with conspiratorial amusement.
Had he known all along who she was? And had she really played so neatly into the hands of such an infamous scoundrel that even Aunt Sophronia knew of his reputation?
Blast him—and blast herself, too, for kissing him like one more in his parade of conquests!
“Do not be frightened by Sheffield’s boldness, Diana,” Brecon said, clearly misinterpreting her simmering silence for wariness. “He cannot help himself, you know, and speaks such palaver to all ladies from habit, not genuine intent.”
“True, Lady Diana, all true,” Sheffield said, solemnly agreeing, though again the engaging merriment in his eyes betrayed him. “My cousin Brecon tells only the truth, especially about me.”
“I am thankful for it, sir,” she said, finally remembering to pull her hand free of his. Heavens preserve her, one look from those gray eyes with their dark lashes was more seductive than an outright caress from any other man! “There can never be too much truth in this deceitful world of ours.”
“Wisely spoken, my dear,” Brecon said, though he seemed to be concentrating more on Sheffield than her. “But for once Sheffield was also speaking in perfect honesty when he said he’d become tamed. He is to be married.”
All around Diana the rest of her family was exclaiming with amazement and congratulation, but all she cared for was what Sheffield told her.
“More truth, sir?” she asked, her voice trembling with emotion that could be anger, indignation, or even simple misery. He loved someone else, and he loved that someone so deeply that he’d asked her to marry him. She felt double the fool now for having kissed him, a man promised to another lady. “This is no idle tale, and you are to wed?”
When the Duke Found Love Page 6