Diana shook her head. “I haven’t had much time, Father. I’ve spent a great deal of time building a home for myself in my bedroom.”
Of course, this was a lie. She’d spent a great deal of her hours within that bedroom, of course—nearly all of them gazing outside, aching with horrendous fatigue, wondering how she would press forward without him. Ernest Bannerman. The only man she could imagine to be hers forever.
“Perhaps, today, you ought to,” chirped Aunt Renata. “The sun is cresting out of the clouds only now. I imagine the light would be good on your cheeks. You’re looking terribly pale these days, darling.”
“I suppose it’s only the stress of moving yet again,” Diana tried. She lifted the toast, but it shook in her hand, causing her to drop it. She stared at it on the plate, willing it to jump back into her hand. “Perhaps I’ll head out now.”
“Oh, darling, you’ve hardly touched your breakfast…” Aunt Renata pointed out.
“I’m sure I’ll work up an appetite for lunch,” Diana breathed. “Please.”
“Of course,” her father boomed. He gave Aunt Renata a curious expression, then tilted his head. “Run along, Diana. Please meet us back here for lunch when you’re ready.”
Diana bounded down the hallway. Her feet seemed to have a life of their own. They were like mice beneath her dress, scampering. When she paused near the back door, she peered into Lord Bragg’s library, where it seemed he’d stacked over 1,000 books. At the doorway, she paused, closed her eyes, and inhaled slowly. The musk of all those books, all those stories, all that print—it filled her belly, giving her a strange sense of hope.
But as she entered the library, with a mind to find a book to read in the light of the garden, her eyes were caught upon a portrait in the corner. In it, Grace Bragg sat perched on a bench in one of the gardens, her light eyes peering up at the artist, with a book spread out across her lap. Diana couldn’t imagine a world in which Grace would sit with a delicious story—not one that wasn’t entirely true and stitched out of London gossip.
What a farce it was.
Of course, the painting reminded her of the ones they’d had at home, the ones that had burned in the fire. How wonderful for Grace, that she was allowed to keep her memories so close. She could carry them with her as she formed new ones with Ernest—becoming pregnant, delivering, building a family alongside the most wonderful man Diana had ever met.
Diana wasn’t sure what came over her. She lurched to the left, drawing her hand over a thick green book. Then, she reared her arm back and lashed the book forward, so that it crumpled against the painting and flattened against the floor. She huffed, gazing in astonishment at what she’d done. Of course, she wasn’t much of a strongman; the book hadn’t caused much of any sort of damage, only a light streak of a tear near the painted book. No one would notice if they didn’t come close enough. Probably.
At least, Diana doubted that anyone would. She hoped.
But the anger that had curled through her, that frightened Diana a great deal. She ducked back, still breathing wildly. Her hands crept along the wall, willing herself toward the door. Just as she did, however, there was a loud knock in the foyer. Her heart surged with fear. For whatever reason, she felt that the Braggs had sensed what she’d done—that they’d sent someone to come after her, to kick her entire family out of the estate for the damage she’d caused.
The damage wasn’t only physical, to the painting. She’d nearly broken up a perfectly good engagement. All for what? For beauty? For lust? For—dare she say it—love?
How much did Ernest’s words weigh, anyway? Could she truly trust them?
At the door, a voice rang out, greeting the butler. Diana bucked out into the hallway and spun, her dress swirling beneath her. Long, long down the hallway, standing in the coursing light from the front window, was none other than Rose Bannerman herself: all 15 years old and brimming with spitfire personality.
Diana’s heart popped into her throat, her dark brown curls quaking over her shoulders. Yet when Rose’s eyes found hers, far down the hall, Rose’s lips formed the most wholesome, most welcoming smile. It was true that Rose was entering Diana’s domain—albeit a temporary domain. But, for whatever reason, Diana hadn’t felt that it was any sort of home until she’d seen Rose there.
Rose bounded down the hallway, with Diana frozen in place. Diana alternated her hands at her chest, then hanging down toward her waist. Before she could fully facilitate a posture, Rose throttled into her, wrapping her into the most enormous hug. Diana felt completely knocked out of oxygen. She gasped, then draped her own hands over Rose’s shoulders, clinging to her tightly. Rose shook with a mix of what seemed to be sadness and excitement. When she drew back to look at Diana, her eyes brimmed with tears.
“It feels like I haven’t seen you in years!” she squealed.
Diana’s smile felt genuine. It felt like it was channelling the last bits of light from the bottom of her belly. She, too, found tears filling her eyes.
“You look… tired,” Rose observed. A little crinkle formed between her eyebrows. “Are you quite all right, Diana?”
Diana’s shoulders sagged a bit. “Of course. I’m always fine.”
Rose rolled her eyes. “If everyone was as strong as you, I swear…”
From down the hall, Aunt Renata called, “Girls! Rose! Why didn’t you pop into the sitting room to see me? I only saw you bound down the hallway like your life depended on it.”
Diana wanted to yank Rose out into the garden with her, to dive through one conversation after another until they whittled away the horrific nature of reality and got to the truth. But Aunt Renata remained poised at the doorway of the sitting room, watching the girls march toward her. When they arrived, Aunt Renata wrapped her arms around Rose, hugging her tightly, like a long-lost daughter.
“We’ve been gone only a few days, and already I feel like you’ve become more of a woman,” Aunt Renata said, heaving a sigh.
Rose giggled. “That’s what everyone says. All the time. I’m a bit tired of it, actually. Why can’t I just exist as a 15-year-old for a while, without everyone having to comment on it?”
“They’ll keep commenting on it until you’re an old maid like me,” returned Aunt Renata. She swatted her finger across Rose’s, then tugged her into the sitting room, ordering her to sit.
Diana still felt a bit frantic from her strange outburst. Her cheeks were flushed. Of course, Aunt Renata noticed.
“We’ve only just sent you into the garden, darling, and you look as though you’ve spent the last hour running in the moors,” she said. “Perhaps you’d better sit, as well. Your father has just retreated upstairs for a mid-morning rest. I dare say I would take one, if I didn’t wish to hear all the delicious gossip from this latest ball. I expect you were also there, Rose?”
Rose looked like she was struggling not to roll her eyes. She appeared to force herself through a kind of song and dance, telling Aunt Renata bits and pieces of the seemingly-dull ball held at the marquess’.
“And you must tell me what Lady Grace Bragg wore,” Aunt Renata prompted. It seemed that she was going to keep up the ruse forever, pretending that she was on Grace Bragg’s side—or that there weren’t sides at all.
Rose didn’t even pretend not to roll her eyes, this time. She coughed. “I’m really not sure, Auntie,” she said carefully. “I’m sure if Grace were here now, she could tell you, down to the smallest bead, precisely what she wore. But I really try not to give her any more attention than she already gets. She’s the classic case of being the belle at the ball—and having it get to her head.”
Aunt Renata’s eyebrows lowered. She cleared her throat. For a moment, Diana felt she might demand an explanation, or some sort of apology in the name of Grace Bragg, who’d been the one to arrange that the entire Harrington family had a separate room for themselves.
But instead, Aunt Renata leaned forward slightly, her lips pressed together. “You know, she really did l
eap at the idea of yanking us out of the Bannerman estate quickly, didn’t she?”
Rose gave her a surprised, wide-eyed look. Then, she burst into laughter. Aunt Renata tittered a bit, giving Diana a glance. Again, this glance was difficult to read. But it told Diana one thing: Aunt Renata had very much picked up on the undercurrent of drama.
“Well, regardless of what she wore or didn’t wear…” Aunt Renata began, “It is a marvellous thing, hearing about such a grand ball. When I was growing up, we only heard rumours about those balls. They were far outside our periphery. Dukes and marquess and earls. Now that we’ve had such close association with your brother, I have a far different opinion of the whole thing. They’re just people, aren’t they? Just people, with their own insecurities and own sorrows and own…”
She trailed off, perhaps sensing she was dipping into a subject that hadn’t any sort of happy conclusion for Diana.
Realizing that she hadn’t spoken in a while, Diana bit down on her lower lip. It seemed nothing that occurred to her to say was powerful enough, or intelligent enough. And these women were meant to be two of the people who loved her most in the world.
If she couldn’t be herself in front of them, how could she possibly be herself amongst suitors?
It had felt so easy with Ernest. It couldn’t possibly be so simple with anyone else. Could it?
“Well…” Aunt Renata tried, seemingly trying to bridge some sort of distance between Diana and the ease she and Rose shared, “It seems to me I should check on the maid in the kitchen. I know lunch preparations will begin soon. And you know, we’ve had a bit of an issue lately with your father’s digestion. I must ensure everything goes well.”
With that, Aunt Renata hustled into the hallway and then ambled to the kitchen. She muttered to herself as she went, as though she was reminding herself of what to do next. Or perhaps she was just anxious—recognising the strangeness that simmered between the Bannermans and the Harringtons. There was no easy fix. Perhaps there wasn’t a fix at all.
Rose leaned toward Diana, her eyes becoming like a cat’s. “Diana. I wish I could speak with you in private.”
Diana sighed. “I know. But I’m afraid she won’t allow it.”
Rose pursed her lips. “It’s only that there’s a great deal of information I need to extend to you…”
“Ernest wrote my father,” Diana blurted.
“What?”
“He wrote my father. And he told all about the ball at the marquess’. And how marvellous it was. And how he and Grace were the guests of honour…” Diana’s eyes welled with tears. She’d wanted nothing more than to stand up to her own raucous emotions.
But here she was, welling up in front of Ernest’s sister.
Rose stretched her arm across the space between them until her hand latched over Diana’s. “You mustn’t think anything of that letter,” she ordered. “Ernest only does what he thinks is expected of him. He’s done that endlessly. You know that he’s only with Grace because my father mumbled it—half out of his mind—on his deathbed.”
“But that’s such a respectable thing,” Diana murmured. “Looking at his father on his deathbed and wanting nothing more but to please him… That’s endearing to me. I would hope that I would be the same with my father. I’ve already lost my mother—as have you, I know. But I would do anything to honour her in any way I could. She didn’t offer any words of advice. She was only devastated. So devastated, beyond belief…”
Diana was blubbering, now. She dropped her head to her hands. After a long gasp, she drew her face back up. She knew it was blotchy, her eyes tinged red.
“You should know that I miss living with you terribly,” she whispered. “I thought I was strong enough to deal with the drama of the fire. I thought I was strong enough to handle the fact that Ernest had chosen her, instead of the very clear love I have for him.”
Rose didn’t speak for a long time. Diana worried that perhaps she’d overstepped her bounds. She sighed, wondering if she’d torn through the last link she had to Ernest. Perhaps Rose would leave her newfound home that afternoon and say, “No, Ernest. She’s completely off her rocker. It’s essential that we no longer deal with the likes of Diana any longer.”
Was that possible? Certainly.
“Diana, as I said. I have a great deal I need to tell you,” Rose repeated, sounding—and even looking—far beyond her years.
“What is it?” Diana asked. She sniffed too loudly, like a child.
“The other night at the ball…” Rose began. “He arrived with Grace on his arm, as he was meant to do. As everyone expected him to do. I saw how lacklustre he looked the entire time. When the marquess was introducing him? I thought surely his cheeks might fall flat to the floor with devastation.”
“Sure. He’s chosen this life,” Diana offered.
Rose clucked her tongue. “He abandoned her at the ball.”
At this, Diana’s ears perked up. She felt she’d been cast a line, while she was sloshing about at sea. She peered at Rose with endless curiosity. “What are you talking about? Didn’t anyone notice?”
Rose shrugged. “It was a bit late in the night. Everyone was in the midst of their own flirtation, their own gossip. I didn’t see Ernest leave, myself. But, suddenly, I scanned the room and discovered him missing. Just Grace remained. Latched onto some terribly rich duke from Coventry…”
“Coventry?” Diana murmured, incredulous.
“Yes. He’s quite handsome,” Rose confided, arching her brow. “So handsome that Grace could hardly keep her hands from him. I thought surely they’d begin kissing right there on the ballroom floor. Of course, I knew better than Ernest caring at all about this situation. But the fact that he left like that…”
“Where did he go?” whispered Diana.
“I’m still not sure,” Rose admitted. “When the carriage arrived to the marquess’ to take Grace and I back to our homes, there was only one horse. It was clear Ernest had taken the other horse somewhere. I demanded that the stableman tell us. But he only said that Ernest hadn’t informed him of his plans. What was it he said? ‘He looks exhausted. Perhaps he just returned home.’ It sounded half-logical, although I remember Grace laughing at it. It sounded like she took such glee in this fact. Like she’d gotten away with flirting outrageously with the duke, while Ernest had run away.”
“My goodness,” Diana breathed.
Rose shrugged. “Grace and I got into a bit of a tiff on the way home. I demanded what the hell she thought she was doing, flirting so outwardly with the duke in front of so many of my brother’s peers. She was drunken and wild, telling me that once I was old enough, she would pawn me off to the highest dealer. I loved her saying this. I love when she really leans into the villain I know she is. It makes me feel less crazy, seeing it in her.”
Diana nodded. “But what of the duke? And what of Ernest…”
“I found him at home,” Rose continued. “It was clear he’d been in the rain a long time, although he wouldn’t tell me where he’d been. We fell asleep in the study, with the fire crackling in front of us. It felt like we were children.”
Diana’s heart surged. “But what does this mean…?”
“In the morning, he grabbed my hand and said, ‘Rose. I know I’m making the biggest mistake of my life.’”
“Regarding…Grace?” Diana murmured.
“Of course,” Rose affirmed. “I told him to find his strength. Make a better choice. Live as well as he could. He only has this one life—just like our father and your mother had just the one. Do you think, when you’re on your deathbed, you’re thinking about all the functional choices you made? No. You’re thinking about the beautiful risks. You’re thinking about all the times you took your life by the horns.”
Diana smirked. “You’re wise beyond your years.”
A Seductive Lady Rescued From Flames (Historical Regency Romance) Page 22