Which was why he was now in a place specially designed for other idiots like him, or at any rate, for gentlemen with more money than sense. It was a house so exclusive that it had no real name, but everyone for whom the door would open knew of it, and where exactly in Covent Garden it was. The main sport was gaming, with tables arranged in several rooms, but also available was an assortment of overpriced wines and unsavory food pretending to be French. Equally overpriced and unsavory women paraded among the gentlemen, paying the most attention to those who won or who flashed the largest wagers. Because Sheffield did neither, they generally ignored him. But then he drank little of the wine, ate less of the food, and took part in none of the games, either; his entire reason for being there was so that he would not have to go home just yet to a vast house that was empty except for servants.
He’d spent the earlier part of the evening dining with Lady Enid and her parents, a strained and dutiful meal if ever there was one. He’d created this false betrothal, and now he had to abide by it, at least for the time being. He had kept his distance from Diana and the rest of the family, and to his regret, she’d likewise made no effort to contact him. When she’d asked him to keep away, he somehow hadn’t realized that she’d intended to do the same.
Surely Diana must have felt the same joy that he had when they’d been together, the same spark between them. Surely it hadn’t been all pretending, and she hadn’t been able to put that attraction entirely aside for the sake of duty and Crump. Surely she hadn’t forgotten him, for he had not been able to forget her, nor did he wish to.
The longer he’d sat at the Lattimore dining table beside Enid, the more he’d thought of Diana, just as Enid likely was thinking of her Joshua. Perhaps the characters in a Shakespearean comedy enjoyed this sort of complicated dissembling, but Sheffield was rapidly discovering that he didn’t, not to this degree.
Now he stood to one side of the gaming house’s garishly painted wall with a glass in his hand and pretended to watch the roiling scene before him. A few old friends greeted him, but they quickly moved on when they saw he was in no humor for merriment. He was alone with his thoughts in a crowd, exactly as he wished it.
Until the one man he most wished not to see in such a place suddenly appeared before him.
“Sheffield,” Brecon said. “I rather expected to find you here, though I’d hoped I wouldn’t.”
“Brecon,” Sheffield replied, sipping from his glass. “If I have so grievously disappointed your hopes, then perhaps you would do better to leave and pretend you’d not seen me at all.”
“Too late,” Brecon said. “I have seen you, and spoken with you, and withstood the impact of your sourness. That is too much to ignore or pretend away.”
Sheffield motioned for a servant to bring Brecon a glass of wine. “Then if you are determined to stay, you must drink with me and offer some reasonable company. Where is Mrs. Greene? I recall she’d a wicked taste for piquet.”
Mrs. Greene was the most recent of Brecon’s companionable mistresses, a plump, discreet woman with chestnut hair and intelligent eyes. Better to speak of her, Sheffield reasoned, than be forced to speak of himself.
“You’re right,” Brecon said, taking the offered glass. “That dear lady did enjoy her piquet, and what was better, she seldom lost at it—though I pray never in a house such as this. But it matters no longer, for she and I have parted ways.”
“Then her doubtless worthy successor is with you instead?” Sheffield asked idly, looking about the room for any woman who might be remotely to Brecon’s taste.
“No,” Brecon said. “At present there is no successor. I am here alone, having dined at March’s house. Charlotte does keep a most excellent table, and wine that’s a good deal sweeter than this vinegar.”
He puckered his mouth with comical disgust at the wine, but Sheffield was instantly on guard. This was Brecon, and Brecon wouldn’t mention March and Charlotte without a reason. Had Diana said something to him?
“I fear the same cannot be said of Lady Lattimore and her cook,” he said, determined to reinforce his supposed ties to Enid. “Though the company this evening was quite fine, the table was abysmal.”
Brecon smiled pleasantly, abandoning the barely tasted wine on a nearby table. “You dined with the Lattimores?”
“I did,” Sheffield said. “This night, and last night, and several others in these past two weeks besides.”
Brecon’s smile continued its pleasantness, which made Sheffield all the more wary. “You continue to be pleased by the match? The lady is agreeable to you?”
“Completely,” Sheffield said, hoping he wasn’t being too emphatic. In truth, spending time with Enid had only convinced him that they were not suited. Oh, she was agreeable, exactly as he’d told Brecon, and pleasing, but they had little in common. Her nature was too solemn for him, or perhaps his was too lighthearted for her. Worst of all was that he felt absolutely no hint of desire for her or her person, a serious challenge if they actually did wed. Fortunately that would never be an issue, for Enid and Pullings were planning to elope in September—that is, if Sheffield didn’t expire from boredom first.
And then he thought of Diana again. He couldn’t help it. His traitorous brain was determined to focus on her, no matter how sternly he ordered it not to. He liked how she looked at him sideways from beneath her lashes, appraising and challenging at the same time, and altogether as enticing as hell. He liked how she laughed, and how she found amusing the same things that he did. He liked how she wasn’t afraid to jump into a pond, or kiss him until her hair fell down, or do most anything merely because she wished to. He liked how she was bold without being brazen. He’d even like her loyalty, loyalty being a great rarity in the women he’d known; he only wished she were being loyal to him instead of Crump.
And it went without categorizing that he liked her neatly rounded figure, too, or what he’d seen of it so far, her narrow waist and well-curved hips and breasts. Those breasts could make any man smile, imagining how they’d fill his hands, the exact perfect size and weight and warmth for his—
“So the lady does please you,” Brecon said, marveling. “It’s writ plain as day across your face. I’ve never seen you like this, Sheffield, and I am glad of it. Lady Enid will make you an excellent duchess.”
Jarred back from his thoughts of Diana, Sheffield could only smile and pray that guilt was not writ plain across his face as well. He could not lie to Brecon; he’d never been able to do it before, and he couldn’t now, nor, really, did he wish to.
“You’ll agree, then, that I’m in need of an excellent duchess,” he said, taking great care to adhere to the truth.
“You are indeed,” Brecon agreed heartily. “Once you have a wife waiting for you at home, you won’t bother with unseemly dens like this one. Have you set a date to wed?”
“Lady Lattimore wishes September.”
“September!” exclaimed Brecon. “That’s a powerfully long time to wait for your bride. Why would Lady Lattimore wish to keep you on tenterhooks for months more? At least Lady Hervey has a good reason for postponing her daughter’s wedding, not wishing the girl to wed in mourning for her groom’s brother. But I cannot see why Lady Lattimore would do the same.”
“How does Lady Hervey’s daughter?” Sheffield asked, unable to resist asking about Diana.
“Lady Diana?” Brecon said. “Oh, she has become the very picture of a docile, willing bride. It’s exactly as her mother had hoped. Crump has already been an excellent influence on her, persuading her to follow the path to become a modest and honorable lady-wife. She scarce spoke a word at table unless bidden by him to speak. The change has been remarkable.”
Sheffield did not believe it. He thought of the fiery Diana he knew, and could not fathom how Crump could persuade her to do anything she didn’t wish to do.
“She is that much changed?” he asked. “How could a man like Crump achieve such a transformation?”
“She is indeed changed,
” Brecon said, obviously approving. “I understand that Crump has put aside his other affairs this past fortnight to devote himself to her, and that this was sufficient for her to want to please him in turn.”
Sheffield didn’t answer. He couldn’t believe this, nor did he wish to. How could the Diana he remembered so vividly—laughing, teasing, bold, and witty, whether falling in the Marchbourne pond or kissing him on the park bench—ever willingly become this meek, obedient creature that Brecon was describing? No, he refused outright to believe it, not unless he saw the proof himself.
“Love works in miraculous ways, Sheffield,” Brecon was saying. “You of all men must know that.”
Brecon meant his supposed love for Enid, but it was only Diana who filled Sheffield’s thoughts now. How she’d asked him to keep away, how he’d miserably obeyed, what Brecon was saying now: none of that mattered. He had to see her again and judge for himself, and as soon as was possible, too. He would take Lady Enid to call at Marchbourne House tomorrow. He couldn’t afford to wait. If he did, he could truly lose her to Crump, and that he refused to do.
“Omnia vincit amor,” he murmured, more to himself than to Brecon.
But Brecon heard, and looked at him curiously. “Latin from you, Sheffield? Truly love does conquer all, if Lady Enid can make you spout Virgil where a score of schoolmasters failed.”
Sheffield smiled. “Omnia vincit amor, Brecon,” he said, caring only for the truth in the words, not the language. “That says everything, doesn’t it?”
The next day, Diana sat in the morning room, taking breakfast with March, Charlotte, and Mama. There was some sort of complicated conversation taking place involving a new fence and the drainage of the apple orchard at Greenwood, the Marchbourne country house, and the details of the conversation seemed to be of a great worry and concern to everyone except Diana. She was concentrating instead on carefully holding spoonfuls of cream for Fig, seated in her lap like a furry princess and eager to lick them up with great delicacy. Diana was happy to do this for Fig, considering not only that Fig loved cream but also that she was the sole individual at the table who was paying any attention to Diana whatsoever.
It wasn’t the first time, either. Since she’d dedicated herself this last two weeks to making the best of her betrothal to Lord Crump, she’d discovered that the more dutiful she tried to be, the more invisible she’d become within her own family. It wasn’t exactly that they took her for granted, nor did she doubt that they still loved her. But they did seem almost relieved that she’d soon be Lord Crump’s entire responsibility, not theirs. Mama in particular spoke often about how happy marriage would make Diana, and how pleased Mama herself was to see Diana so agreeably settling into her new role.
Diana had smiled, but with every word like that her heart had sunk a bit lower. The sad, sorry truth was that by striving so hard to please everyone else, she’d also managed to make herself miserable, nor did she see any way free. Lord Crump’s notion of a dutiful wife meant that she must be as obedient to him as if she were the lowest servant in the house. All her opinions and wishes must now mirror his, as if he were determined to subdue every last scrap of the Diana that she’d always been in order to create the perfectly proper Lady Crump.
There was never any unseemly laughter or loud talk in Lord Crump’s company, let alone any teasing or flirtation. He still addressed her as Lady Diana, and he’d yet to give her leave to call him anything but “my lord.” All remained precisely, formally correct between them, and if he’d come to feel any genuine affection toward her, he’d yet to show it. He’d not so much as held her gloved hand. The one time March had jested with Lord Crump about stealing a kiss (a kiss she would have freely given, too, for the sake of experimentation), he’d demurred, and said such demonstrations must be reserved for marriage.
She should have been grateful for such genteel regard, such respect, as Mama told her. She should have been honored.
Instead all she thought of was the one thing that was neither genteel nor respectful, and that was Sheffield. Sheffield, who teased and flirted and kissed and manhandled her at will; Sheffield, who beguiled and amused and infuriated her; Sheffield, who could make her pulse race and her body tremble and her lips sigh for more.
Sheffield, who would never, ever be hers.
She bowed her head a little further over Fig so that no one would see the tears she felt sting her eyes. She had done the right thing, and so had he. When he’d tried to explain his desire for her, she’d sent him away, and he’d obeyed. That was how it should be, must be, yet even as she admonished herself for the thousandth time, a single wet tear of misery slid from her eye and down her nose, and fell, glistening, onto Fig’s back.
“Did you even hear me speak, Diana?” Mama asked, and quickly Diana wiped her fingers across her cheek and looked up. Mama was watching her with patient indulgence, as were March and Charlotte. “Perhaps it’s time you stopped bringing Fig to the breakfast table, if you can pay no more attention to conversation than this.”
“I was paying attention,” Diana protested, holding Fig more closely in her arms. “You can’t fault poor Fig. I was listening.”
Mama raised a single skeptical brow. “If that were so, lamb, then you would likely be a good deal more excited than you are at present.”
She motioned to the footman standing at her side, a footman bearing the polished salver that always delivered letters and messages at Marchbourne House. He came around the table and, to Diana’s surprise, stopped before her. A single folded letter lay on the silver salver, addressed to her in a hand she did not recognize.
“I believe the seal belongs to the Lattimores,” Mama said. “Aren’t you curious?”
At once Diana seized the letter and cracked the seal, swiftly scanning the few lines written within.
“It’s from Lady Enid,” she said, her heart racing. “She is inviting me to join her this afternoon to drive through the park.”
“Alone?” Mama asked. “Won’t Sheffield be joining you?”
“Ah—yes,” Diana said, guiltily looking back down at the letter as if only now noting Sheffield’s name, instead of it being the first she’d seen. “The duke will be joining us.”
“Poor devil.” March grunted in sympathy as he sipped his coffee. “Riding in the carriage with the pair of you gossiping away.”
“Hush, March,” Charlotte said mildly. “You know you’d like nothing better than to spend the afternoon in the company of two such lovely young ladies. It’s a pity that poor Lord Crump is occupied today and cannot join Diana and Lady Enid.”
“It is a pity,” Diana echoed faintly, holding the letter up out of range of Fig’s too-interested paw. “Without his lordship’s company, there is no question of me accepting.”
“Whyever not?” Mama asked with surprise. “I’m sure he wouldn’t object to you joining them.”
“I don’t believe he would like me to,” Diana said, desperate for an excuse. She’d done her best to banish Sheffield from her life and she’d succeeded. But she knew all too well that if she saw him again—especially in the park, alone, like last time—then every careful resolution she had made to be an honorable lady would be gone as quickly as ashes in the wind. “I don’t believe he’d approve.”
“Oh, of course he would,” Mama said, absently twisting one of her still-golden curls back under her lace-edged cap as she waited for the footman to fill her teacup again. “I have heard him say myself that Lady Enid is an excellent person for you to have among your acquaintances.”
It wasn’t Lady Enid who worried Diana. “That is true, yes,” she admitted. “But to be the third party with her and Sheffield—”
“Oh, I shouldn’t let that concern you, Diana,” Mama said. “Sheffield may only have eyes for his intended, but they’ll both be mannerly enough toward you. Brecon tells me it’s quite the miracle to see how Lady Enid has tamed Sheffield. You cannot begin to know how gratifying it is for us older folk to see you children grow wiser
in your choices.”
“Oh, Mama, please,” Charlotte said, laughing. “Diana and I are hardly children any longer, while you are scarcely in your dotage! Faith, you make yourself sound as if you’re as old as Aunt Sophronia.”
Mama sighed, so deeply that Diana couldn’t help but feel the weight of it, too.
“There have been recent times when my youngest daughter has taxed me so much that I felt every bit as old as your aunt,” she said, then smiled fondly at Diana. “But I worry no longer, now that I know she’ll be safe with Lord Crump.”
That was more than Diana could bear, and she pushed her chair back from the table.
“Pray excuse me, but I have matters to tend before I go riding with Lady Enid,” she said, settling Fig neatly against her shoulder. “Duty must come before amusement, as his lordship would say.”
“And frequently does, too,” March said dryly, earning a swat on the arm by way of reprimand from Charlotte.
“You are excused, Diana,” Mama said with approval. “Fig, too.”
Diana curtseyed quickly and hurried up the stairs to her room, carrying not only the little cat but a heavy conscience as well.
“Oh, Fig, Fig,” she whispered unhappily into the cat’s fur. “Whatever shall I do?”
She desperately wished Fig had an answer, because she hadn’t one for herself. Even as she’d quoted Lord Crump, her thoughts had been completely occupied by imagining Sheffield, and were still. Lady Enid’s invitation might indeed be no more than what it appeared, a pleasant ride through the park. Diana could only pray that it was; for the sake of her respectable future as Lady Crump, she must pay no special attention to Sheffield, nor permit him to do so to her. She must be as dignified and reserved as Lord Crump himself, no matter how tempted she might be to feel otherwise. That was her future, and she could not dare risk it for the sake of a single afternoon’s merry flirtation.
At least that was what she told herself, over and over, for the rest of the morning: Dignified and reserved, dignified and reserved … She kept repeating it as if it were some magical incantation, as if the words themselves could make it so and protect her from the handsome, amusing temptation that was Sheffield.
When the Duke Found Love Page 17