When the Duke Found Love (19 page)

“By Jove,” Sheffield said. “Another never! Your obsession with finalities astonishes me.”

“Stop it, Sheffield,” she said crossly. “You know exactly what I’m saying.”

“Perhaps,” he said, giving her hand a fond little squeeze. “But that is not to say that I agree with it.”

“You must,” she insisted. “You have no choice in the matter.”

“But I do.” He smiled down at her. “And where you are concerned, I will never, ever say never.”

“Here I am,” Lady Enid said, hurrying to join them. “Forgive me, but—but it was so difficult to part.”

“Only for a short while, Enid,” Sheffield said. Mindful that they would soon be near the carriage, he eased his arm free of Diana’s hand and replaced it with Lady Enid’s. “We were just planning our next jaunt when you joined us.”

Diana shot him a murderous glance. He merely smiled.

“Oh, how vastly fine of you both!” Lady Enid exclaimed, grateful teariness in her voice. “You’ve made me so happy. I shall never be able to repay you, you know.”

His smile widened, and he made sure it reached Diana as well as Enid.

“Never say never, my dear,” he said. “Never, ever say never.”

C
HAPTER
N
INE

“What is your judgment, Di?” Charlotte turned her head to one side, the better to display her hat, an elegant black one meant to accompany a riding habit. “You know March’s tastes as well as I do. Will he like it or think it too severe?”

Diana studied her sister critically. They were sitting on the square stools at the counter at Hartley’s, the finest millinery shop in Bond Street, with Mrs. Hartley herself—dressed in her customary deep plum silk—assisting them. The Wylder sisters (and their mother) all were very fond of hats, and while Mrs. Hartley was a talented milliner who created styles instead of following them, she was also a shrewd tradeswoman and understood the advantages of counting the Duchess of Marchbourne, the Duchess of Hawkesworth, and their sister and mother among her choicest customers. All of which was why, even with the shop crowded with other ladies, Diana and Charlotte sat in splendor on the two best stools, at the center counter, with what seemed like half the shop’s stock of hats, caps, plumes, and ribbons brought out for their consideration.

“I like it, Charlotte,” Diana said at last. She enjoyed going to shops with Charlotte, having her older sister’s company to herself the way it had been when they’d been girls. It was so much like the old times that in the carriage earlier she’d almost—almost—been tempted to tell Charlotte about what had happened with Sheffield three days ago in the park. “But I think you might wish to try it cocked a bit further to one side, to show your profile against the black.”

“Like this?” Charlotte asked, sliding the hat to one side.

“If you’ll forgive me, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartley said. “The current fashion is to wear the brim low, and calculated to beguile.”

Deftly she adjusted the hat to sit more forward on Charlotte’s hair, tweaking the brim to an elegant curve that flattered Charlotte’s profile. An assistant at once held up a framed looking glass for Charlotte to consider her reflection.

“That does look better, Charlotte,” Diana said. Being tall and beautiful, Charlotte
looked
like a duchess, and because she had a duchess’s fortune, too, and never inquired after prices, shopkeepers and tradespeople always produced their very best pieces for her. “Without a doubt.”

But Charlotte hesitated. “I do not know, I do not know! I fear it looks heavier somehow, more suited to a gentleman than a lady.”

“It’s not supposed to resemble a gentleman’s hat, but a jockey’s cap,” said Diana, being a religious reader of all the newest ladies’ magazines. “That’s the fashion for this season.”

Charlotte wrinkled her nose with dismay. “A jockey! Oh, Diana, I don’t believe March would approve of that.”

“Not truly a jockey, ma’am, not at all,” Mrs. Hartley said swiftly. “The aim is to give a sporting air to the hat, in perfect sympathy with the lady’s habit. If I might suggest it, ma’am, a sure way to a more feminine insouciance is to add a curled plume or two here, over the crown.”

She beckoned to another assistant, who took down a covered box from one of the shelves and brought it at once, holding it reverentially her hands as if it contained the greatest treasures imaginable—which, to milliners and ladies, it did.

“These have arrived this very week from Africa,” Mrs. Hartley said, carefully taking a plume from the box. “The finest of ostrich feathers, curled and dyed to my own specification.”

Diana let out a small sigh of wonder. The plume was gorgeous, a cluster of large black ostrich feathers, nodding gracefully and bound together at the base of their quills like a rarified bouquet.

“Now if we add this to the crown, ma’am, like so,” the milliner continued, holding the plume in place for Charlotte to see, “we have an altogether more noble effect.”

Charlotte smiled happily at her reflection. “Exactly,” she said. “Please add the plume, Mrs. Hartley. Is it possible to have it finished so that I might take the hat with me?”

“As you wish, ma’am,” Mrs. Hartley said, adding a small bow. “It shall be done at once.” Taking both the hat and the plume with her, she hurried off to the shop’s workroom upstairs. Several assistants stepped forward, eager to help Charlotte with other selections, but Charlotte smiled and waved them away, preferring instead to pass the time with Diana.

“So, that is done,” she said briskly, as if buying feathered silk hats were a base chore to be conquered. She leaned closer to the mirror, smoothing her hair back in place beneath her lace-edged cap. “Is there anything you require, Di?”

Diana shook her head. As soon as she’d been considered old enough to go into company in London, Mama and Aunt Sophronia had bought her an entire new and fashionable wardrobe, so extravagant that there were still things she’d yet to wear. Even her hat today had been worn only once before, the day she’d first met Lord Crump. He hadn’t liked it, and she gave the largest silk bow a pat, as if to reassure it that
she
still loved it.

“Then nothing for you today,” Charlotte said with obvious regret. “But think of all we must purchase for you before your wedding! Mama—and March, too—will insist on sending you off to Lord Crump in the very best style.”

“But not yet,” Diana said quickly. As hard as she was trying to accustom herself to the idea of marrying Lord Crump, she would still rather think of their wedding as a distant event. “Not for months and months.”

“Months and months?” repeated Charlotte with surprise. “I’d thought Lord Crump wished to be wed sooner rather than later. There’s little to be said for a long betrothal, you know.”

“His lordship’s still a stranger to me, Charlotte,” Diana protested. “I’d rather come to know him first, and for him to know me.”

“I’ve told you before how little I knew of March on our wedding day, yet it couldn’t have turned out any more happily.” Charlotte smiled, lightly stroking the narrow fur stole draped over her shoulders. “The only true way to begin to know a gentleman is to spend time alone with him, Di, and that will not happen until you are wed.”

But instead of thinking of Lord Crump, Diana’s thoughts at once returned to Sheffield. Guilty thoughts they were, too, the same guilty thoughts that had been plaguing her ever since she’d returned to the house after their afternoon in the park. To her relief, both Charlotte and Mama had been occupied and hadn’t seen the state of her hair or cap as she’d raced up the stairs to her own rooms. She’d no idea how she would have explained her appearance, not without spilling Lady Enid’s secret as well as her own.

Because whether she wished it or not, she now did have secrets where Sheffield was concerned. As Charlotte had just said, the one sure way to know a man was to spend time alone in his company, and again and again she seemed thrust into exactly that with the duke. If she were honest, the real problem wasn’t how often they were alone; it was what happened when they were. She should know by now, since it was always the same. Within minutes in his company, she ceased to be able to think of him as wretched, infuriating, or provoking. Instead her resolve melted away like morning dew before the rising sun, and before she realized it was happening, she was kissing him. Again.
Kissing
him, in the most harlot-like fashion imaginable, and worse, he was kissing her with a wicked, seductive, delicious purpose.

She knew the difference, too, even if she wasn’t supposed to. Gentlemen kissed ladies as a sweet sort of salute on the lips. Men like Sheffield kissed only as a prelude to—to
ravishment
. Kissing him was like being devoured. Her head spun and her heart beat faster and her knees grew so weak she had no choice but to hold him more tightly.

Worst of all, kissing Sheffield made her long to be ravished, especially since he’d be the one doing the ravishing. That was the guiltiest thought of all, the thought that would not leave her alone each night, but made her feverish with longing for something she’d never had. When Sheffield kissed her, she didn’t want to stop him, the way a lady should, because she suspected—no, she
knew
—that if kissing was any indication, he would be extraordinarily skilled at ravishing.

Perhaps Charlotte was right. Perhaps she should marry Lord Crump as soon as was possible, so she’d stop this improper nonsense with Sheffield. Surely becoming the Marchioness of Crump would do that.

But why was she equally sure that there’d be not a hint of delirious ravishing to be found in Lord Crump’s bed?

“There now, Di, you were thinking about being married, weren’t you?” Charlotte said gleefully, giving Diana a fond little poke in the arm. “I could tell by the expression on your face
exactly
what you were thinking, you naughty young miss!”

She laughed, and Diana blushed furiously, grateful that Charlotte’s thought reading wasn’t quite as accurate as she believed.
Blast
Sheffield for doing this to her!

“Good day, Duchess,” said Lady Farrish, one of Charlotte’s friends. “How splendid to find you here, my dear!”

She curtsied, then bent to kiss Charlotte’s cheek before taking the stool beside her. Before long they were busily lost in discussing their husbands and their children, much to Diana’s relief. She supposed she’d soon have those same topics to discuss, too, and she let her thoughts wander, idly sliding the rows of coral beads in her bracelet up and down her wrist. But once again, instead of Lord Crump, her traitorous brain offered up Sheffield’s handsome face, laughing as he teased her about some foolishness or another with Fantôme snuffling around his feet.

“Your Grace, good day,” Mrs. Hartley said, returning with the now plumed hat in her hands. But she wasn’t addressing Charlotte as she curtseyed, her assistants curtseying with her. She was looking past her, and past Diana as well. She was smiling warmly, more warmly that was perhaps required, her expression clearly dazzled.

Diana turned, and there was Sheffield, standing behind her and towering over all the women. He wore a fawn-colored coat with a pale blue waistcoat and his customary white buckskin breeches, all of which had been exactly tailored to flaunt his broad shoulders and lean, muscular form. His neckcloth was tied with haphazard nonchalance, and his hat sat at a devil-may-care angle. Somehow he managed to look perfectly well dressed without seeming to care that he was. He was such a glorious specimen of English manhood in its prime that he inspired a soft, collective sigh of approval from all the women—a sigh that included Diana’s own breathy contribution.

While most men would be overwhelmed by a place where they were so decisively outnumbered, Sheffield only smiled his most charming smile, as confident as any pasha with his harem. In return every woman smiled back. Even the sun, bright through the shop windows, seemed to smile upon him.

Belatedly Diana rose and curtseyed, too, joining all the other women (except for Charlotte) to spread her skirts and bow her head.

“Good day, ladies, good day,” he said, his greeting warmly encompassing even the lowest young apprentice. He turned to Charlotte, taking her offered hand to kiss the air above.

“Duchess, good day,” he said. “You are more lovely than all the goddesses of ancient times combined.”

“And you, Sheffield, are more full of puffery,” Charlotte said, laughing. She offered her cheek for him to kiss, and then presented her friend Lady Farrish. Finally it was Diana’s turn.

“Good day, Lady Diana,” he said, greeting her in exactly the same manner as he had Lady Farrish. He did not take her hand to kiss, nor was there any special smile or wink meant only for her.

“Good day, Your Grace,” she murmured, looking down. She knew she should be thankful he hadn’t singled her out, yet irrationally she felt a bit wounded that he hadn’t. Perhaps all those kisses yesterday by the bench had meant nothing to him. Perhaps he truly was the hopeless rake that everyone said, and she’d been no more than another woman to dally with.

“How might we serve you today, sir?” Mrs. Hartley asked. “What might we offer you to please a lady?”

“Why, mistress, I’d wager every article in your shop would accomplish that,” he said, sweeping his hands wide to encompass the entire stock. “But I do have a special article in mind, and I hope you will oblige me in my request.”

“Anything, sir,” Mrs. Hartley said, a fraction too eagerly. “Whatever you require.”

He nodded. “You have heard that I am to be married. Lady Enid is a jewel beyond price, a model of virtue, honor, and accomplishment.”

“May I offer my congratulations, sir?” Mrs. Hartley said, clearly hoping to secure the custom of one more duchess. “We shall be honored to supply her ladyship in every way possible. If you could but tell us what pleases her, then—”

“A hat,” he announced. “That is what I wish for Lady Enid. A hat that is exactly the same as Lady Diana’s.”

Diana looked at him sharply, expecting mischief. Why had she regretted being ignored?

“You can’t do that, Sheffield,” Charlotte said, faintly scolding. “No lady wishes to have the same hat as another. Better you should bring Lady Enid here so that she may make her own decisions.”