“It is,” he said. “I visit with partners in Larne.”
“Larne?” Reginald repeated with interest. “That is the next village over. You will have to pay us a call.”
“And interrupt your honeymoon?” Gavin’s teeth flashed in a wolfish grin. “I think not.” Extending an arm, he gently caressed Charlotte’s shoulder, the gesture so absentminded Dianna imagined he didn’t even realize he was doing it. A spark of jealousy ignited inside her chest, catching her by surprise and bringing with it a swift feeling of shame.
How could she be jealous of something her friend so rightly deserved? Especially when she’d been the one who encouraged Charlotte to pursue Gavin in the first place! As the pounding she’d felt in her temple upon waking returned full force she pinched the bridge of her nose and grimaced. Perhaps she was merely feeling a bit under the weather. Not entirely unfathomable given that she’d been up most of the night tossing and turning.
Fresh air, Dianna decided.
She needed it.
Immediately.
Do excuse me,” she said, standing so suddenly she sent her chair scraping loudly against the marble tile, accidentally waking the elderly gentleman who’d fallen asleep in his pudding. He sat up with a snort and a cough, watery eyes squinting as he looked all around him.
“Why? Who? What is happening?”
“Nothing, Father. You merely fell asleep. Again.” This came from Patricia’s husband, a studious looking man with a tan moustache and resigned hazel eyes. “He tends to do that now and again,” he added in a loud whisper.
The old man coughed once more. “I heard that Harold. I am old, not deaf. Who are you?”
It took Dianna a moment to realize the question had been directed towards her. “Miss Dianna Foxcroft,” she said, dipping into an automatic curtsy. “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Herring.”
Rubbing his chin, he sized her up, rheumy blue eyes inscrutable. “Where is your husband? Everyone is here with their husband. So where is yours?”
Feeling the weight of everyone’s stares as though they were boulders being rolled over her body, Dianna drew back her shoulders and took a deep, even breath. Catching Charlotte starting to stand out of the corner of her eye, she gave a tiny, imperceptible shake of her head. Lord Herring was not the first to ask questions, nor would he be the last. “I am not married, my lord.”
“Not married? Why not?”
“Father,” Harold said sharply.
“What?” Lord Herring demanded. “I can’t ask the girl a question?”
This time it was Patricia, her expression slightly strained, who intervened. “You are upsetting her.”
“Upsetting her?” He blinked twice in rapid succession, staring hard at his daughter-in-law before his gaze swerved back to Dianna. “Am I upsetting you?”
“Not particularly.” Given that she’d already been upset before Lord Herring spoke a single word, it was somewhat true.
“See?” Tone smug, Lord Herring lifted one bushy white brow. “She says otherwise. I am not married either, you know. Well I was.” A flicker of a frown pulled at the corners of his mouth, deepening the grooves and thinning his lips until they all but disappeared into the heavy folds of his countenance. “Harold isn’t a bastard, if that is what you are thinking. Although he can certainly act like one from time to time.”
“I like Lord Herring,” Charlotte decided as she eased back into her chair and gave Dianna a wink.
“As do I,” Abigail agreed.
Surprisingly, Dianna rather did as well. Having been the recipient of many a curious stare and poorly disguised whisper over the past four years, she much preferred it when questions were presented to her directly. She could also appreciate Lord Herring’s candor, so rarely found amidst members of the ton.
“My lord,” she began, speaking up so he could hear her clearly, “would you care to accompany me outside? I was just about to take a walk around the gardens.”
“Oh, you do not have to do that,” Patricia interrupted.
“I would greatly appreciate the company, but only if your father-in-law feels up to it,” Dianna said, belatedly recalling she’d see Lord Herring walking about last evening with the aid of a wooden cane.
“Take a stroll through the gardens with a beautiful woman?” Lord Herring’s frown immediately reversed itself as he heaved himself to his feet. “You don’t have to twist my arm, missy.”
“Careful,” Harold said, his tone resigned. “Father is a bit of a flirt.”
He could be more than a bit as far as Dianna was concerned, especially since he’d given her the excuse she needed to leave breakfast early without arousing any pitying stares. “We will not be long,” she promised, discreetly holding out her arm when she saw Lord Herring fumble for his cane and take a wobbly step to the right.
Revealing himself to be shorter than she by a good four inches now that they were standing side by side with slightly stooped shoulders and a left foot that twisted stubbornly to the right, Lord Herring took her offered forearm in a surprisingly strong grip and pointed the end of his cane at the glass doors leading out of the solarium. “If memory serves the exit is this way, I believe.”
“I believe you are correct,” Dianna said solemnly. Exchanging a quick, amused glance with Charlotte she accompanied Lord Herring through the doors as they were opened discreetly by a maid and down a long, sun drenched hallway that led directly to the rear courtyard.
Fairytale-esque in their color and beauty, the gardens of Ashburn were centered around an enormous stone fountain boasting three cherubs suspended in flight, their expressions devilishly puckish as each one pointed a bow and arrow at the other.
Given the season many of the flowers had gone by, leaves darkening and curling inwards as the plants prepared themselves for a long, cold winter, but the asters were still in full bloom as were the dahlias and an entire golden blanket of marigolds. Bending, Dianna picked one of the latter and held it out to Lord Herring.
“For your lapel, my lord.”
He took the single flower and, after only two tries with fingers that had grown swollen and arthritic with age, managed to slip it through a buttonhole. “You have a kind way about you,” he said as they meandered down a stone walkway. “Most women your age wouldn’t give an old man like myself the time of day, let alone invite them outside for a walk.”
“I do not see why not. Why walk by yourself on such a fine day when you can have a bit of company?” In truth, Dianna would have been perfectly fine walking by herself. She might have even preferred it. But she knew what it was like to be the odd person out in a room. The person who didn’t match up with anyone else. The person who didn’t have a husband or, in Lord Herring’s case, a wife. She patted his hand. “It seems you and I will be the only ones without someone else during our stay here. Why not make the most of it and enjoy each other’s company?”
“Indeed.” Lord Herring was quiet for a moment, but Dianna felt his eyes upon her. She kept walking, chin up, shoulders back, carefully keeping her step in time with Herring’s as she waited patiently for the question she knew would inevitably come. It always did, in all manner of shapes and forms. There was no escaping it. No ignoring it. But how much longer? she wondered silently. One year? Two? Another four? Until she became a spinster, or would the gossip die down before then?
How much longer before people saw only her, not the empty space beside her?
“How is it such a beautiful, intelligent lady such as yourself is here alone?”
As far as probing questions went, it was hardly the worst. Dianna’s shoulders relaxed ever-so-slightly, the muscles slowly unraveling themselves like a ball of tangled yarn being gently pulled apart. “You flatter me, my lord. I suppose the only thing I can tell you is that I am currently devoid of any and all suitors.”
“Perfect.” Herring’s eyebrows waggled up and down. “I know a vicar in the next town. Friendly chap who will do anything for a bit of coin and a spot of good brandy. We can b
e married tomorrow. What do you say?”
Amused, Dianna stopped and gracefully pivoted to face him. “I say your son was correct. You are an incorrigible flirt.”
“And why not?” Herring demanded, giving the end of his cane an extra tap tap on the stone. “I am old, not dead, and the moment I stop appreciating a lovely woman you might as well put a gun to my head and throw dirt over my body.”
Dianna hid her smile behind a gloved hand. “I doubt we would ever have to go to such extremes,” she chided gently. “Would you care to take another turn about the gardens?”
Looking out across the flowers, Lord Herring’s expression suddenly turned wistful. “My Marie loved poppies. She would have loved this garden as well, but poppies were always her favorite. There was an entire field of them between our two estates. It’s where we would meet when we were young. Right in the middle where a small creek ran through. I’d help her across - I was much more nimble in those days, mind you - and she would always give me a poppy and call me her knight in shining armor.”
Touched by the lovely story and the tears she saw glinting in the corners of Lord Herring’s eyes, Dianna rested her hand on his shoulder and squeezed. “Marie was your wife?” she asked softly, assuming the woman he spoke of so tenderly to be Harold’s mother.
“No,” he said, catching her off guard. Procuring a white handkerchief from his pocket Lord Herring turned his head to the side and dabbed at his eyes. “But she should have been. I loved her as I have never loved another, but she went away to boarding school, and… and I didn’t wait,” he admitted gruffly. “To this day, it remains my biggest regret. But a young woman like you does not want to be bored with the tales of an old man like me.”
“Oh no, you are not boring me,” Dianna protested. “Truly.”
Neatly folding the handkerchief into a small, tidy square Lord Herring slipped it back into his pocket and twitched his shoulders, as though the melancholy that had descended upon him like a dark, heavy cloak could be physically shaken off. “Best to leave the past where it belongs. Besides, it is time for my afternoon nap. Need to keep up my energy if I am going to be chasing you about all week.”
Her heart aching for the young, impatient boy he’d been, Dianna nevertheless managed a smile for the old man standing before her now. “Indeed. Would you like me to escort you to your room?”
“No, no.” Gripping his cane firmly with one hand, Lord Herring waved her off with the other. “Go about your business. I shall see you at dinner.”
“Until then,” Dianna said, watching him until he disappeared from sight. Finding her thoughts more troubled now than they had been inside the solarium, she began another turn around the gardens, but somewhere along the way abandoned the neatly tended stone walkway for a slightly overgrown path that twisted down towards a duck pond far beyond sight of the mansion.
The last lingering traces of late morning dew clung to her skirts as she walked, darkening the hem of her yellow morning dress in an uneven line. Circling around the edge of the pond after pausing to coo at two white swans sunbathing on the shore, she continued into a nearby field with no clear destination in mind, only a pressing urge to distance herself, although from what and whom she wasn’t entirely certain.
She supposed, in a way, she was trying to run from herself. From her thoughts. From her feelings. From anything that could cause pain or doubt. She wanted to quiet her mind. To forget, if only for a time, the memories that haunted her.
Memories that had returned with Miles.
As children they’d run together through fields much like this one. Or rather, Dianna corrected with the tiniest of smiles, Miles had run and she’d given chase, an annoying shadow he couldn’t seem to shake no matter how hard he tried.
How carefree they’d been. How innocent. How happy. And how confident, she recalled. Or at least she had been. Confident in herself. Confident in Miles. Confident in their future together.
She’d had their entire lives planned out for them by the time she was thirteen. When they would marry. Where they would live. How many children they would have. She had been so eager to begin their lives together, so ready to grow up and become an adult, that she’d forgotten to ask Miles what he thought of it all. Instead she’d naively assumed, and in the end had paid the ultimate price for her assumptions.
Despite the cool autumn air a sheen of perspiration soon dampened Dianna’s brow. Not accustomed to walking such great lengths, her legs quickly began to tire. Squinting across the circular meadow she spied a large willow tree at the far end, its leafy boughs nearly touching the ground.
Not ready to go back yet, she marched determinedly across the field. Upon reaching the willow she shrugged out of the light shawl she’d donned before coming outside and spread it out across the grass, settling into a shady nook beneath the willow’s long sweeping branches.
A light breeze rippled through the leaves, carrying with it a sweet symphony of birdsong. Resting first on her side and then her stomach, Dianna succumbed to the gentle sounds of nature as she pillowed her head on her arm, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep.
CHAPTER SIX
Of all the people Miles Radnor thought might show up on his front doorstep at half past one in the afternoon, Charlotte Graystone was not one of them. Yet there she stood, hands on hips, head thrown back, amber eyes glaring daggers through the door as though she knew he was standing just on the other side of it.
“RADNOR, GET OUT HERE THIS INSTANT!” she shouted, her raised voice instantly reminding him of the many times they’d quarreled in the past.
As the two most important people in Dianna’s life, it was not surprising he and Charlotte had often butted heads. It didn’t help matters that Charlotte had always thought arranged marriages were hogwash. She’d never liked or trusted him, Miles recalled with a grimace, and he thought it rather safe to say her opinion of him had not improved in the past four years. He had known he would have to face her eventually… he just never planned on having to do it quite so soon.
“Miles, who is that very loud woman at the door?” Sounding alarmed, Olivia Radnor stepped down off the bottom step of the curving staircase and hesitated in the middle of the foyer, green eyes - the one trait she’d passed onto both of her children - pinned to the door. “And why is she yelling your name?”
A small woman in stature but a large one in temperament, Olivia lived her life according to a regimented set of rules she had absolutely no interest in bending, let alone breaking. She’d been a well behaved daughter, a good wife, and a kind - albeit controlling - mother. Miles knew he’d hurt her immensely when he left, and so he spoke gently to her now, walking across the wooden floor to take her arm.
“A friend of Miss Dianna’s has come to call, Mother.”
“Come to call?” A strict line of disapproval appeared between her thin brows. “At this hour? Absurd. I shall have Davies turn her away at once.”
“RADNOR, I CAN HEAR YOU SPEAKING! OPEN THIS DOOR AT ONCE!”
Olivia’s eyes widened. “Is that-”
“Lady Charlotte Vanderley. Graystone now, I suppose,” he said, recalling that he’d heard sometime or rather that she had married an entrepreneur by the name of Gavin Graystone. As far as Miles knew the man was a commoner, but that apparently hadn’t stopped him from becoming one of the wealthiest men in all of England.
“Do not let that woman in this house.” Not surprisingly, Olivia had never taken a liking to Charlotte. She’d found her too rebellious, and always hinted to anyone who would listen that she was a terrible influence on her son’s fiancée. Her opinion had only been confirmed when Miles left.
The sort of mother who thought her only son could do no wrong, she’d never blamed him for leaving. In her mind Dianna had always been the one at fault, influenced by the very woman who was now demanding entry into her home.
Miles glanced at the door. “She seems rather insistent.”
A small understatement, given that it sounded as though
Charlotte had picked up one of the stone frogs Olivia kept on either side of the front veranda - she positively adored the tiny green creatures - and begun beating it against the door.
“I had better go see what she wants,” Miles decided, even though the last thing on earth he wanted to do was face Charlotte in the midst of a temper, especially when she was wielding a giant stone frog.
“Miles-”
“If it has anything to do with Dianna, I need to hear what she has to say.”
Olivia took a step back. “Why would she be here in regards to Dianna?” Realization dawned on her narrow features, followed swiftly by thinly veiled annoyance. “You did not see her, did you Miles?”
Miles grimaced. He’d been hoping to avoid this very conversation, at least until he’d settled completely at Winfield and begun to make some amends. With his mother. With his sister. With his friends. And, most of all, with Dianna. Bending at the waist, he kissed his mother’s papery thin cheek. “You should not blame her, you know. It was not her fault.”
Olivia remained unmoving, both in posture and in sentiment. “If she had been a better fiancee you would have stayed.”
“If I had been a better man I never would have left,” he said flatly. There were many things he would tolerate, but listening to insults about Dianna was not one of them. “I am inviting Charlotte in, Mother. If her being here offends you then I suggest you stay out of the front parlor.”
As a boy, Miles had often bended beneath the authoritative power Olivia wielded. She may have been small, but her influence was great, and she’d used it on him more times than he could count to get her way. Except he was no longer a boy. He was the Earl of Winfield, and he refused to allow himself to be so easily cowed. He would respect his mother. He would even listen to her. But the days of blind obedience were long since past.
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