When the Duke Found Love (30 page)

He would demand a swift wedding, too. Not only did he wish to begin the adventure that would be his life with Diana immediately, but he was also conscious of the possibility of a child. He did not want his child—
their
child—to be branded a bastard and Diana called much worse, and only marriage could prevent it. A hasty wedding would once again make him a seven days’ wonder, another golden gift to the London gossips, but he did not care.
He
would have Diana, and nothing else mattered beyond that.

Again he glanced at his watch, shot his cuffs, and smoothed his sleeves. Damnation, what was keeping Lady Hervey? He sighed and swept his gaze around the room. The wallpaper here was dreadful, huge yellow and white tulips fit for nightmares. He hoped Diana didn’t share Charlotte’s taste and expect to festoon the walls of Sheffield House with monstrous blooms like these. He’d have to speak up if she did. True, wallpapers and such were the ladies’ purview, but he knew what was agreeable and what wasn’t, and he’d be damned if he let—

A small porcelain shepherd crashed from a high shelf to the floor, the head flying off and skittering under one of the chairs. Startled, Sheffield looked up to the shelf for the reason for the shepherd’s sudden, fatal dive. The reason was obvious: a small patchwork mongrel of a cat was sitting there, her tail neatly curled around her paws as she surveyed him.

He smiled up at the little cat, not only because he had a tenderness for all beasts but because this cat must be Diana’s pet, beloved Fig. What other excuse could she have to be here, given that cats were not ordinarily given free rein of ducal houses?

“Hey, Fig, hey,” he said softly, standing beneath the shelf. The cat blinked and stretched, striving to be nonchalant even as she watched him intently. He held up his hand, which she delicately sniffed. He took that as a welcoming sign, and carefully scooped her into his arms. At once she nestled against his chest, rubbing her head against the buttons on his coat. Clearly he’d won the favor of Diana’s cat; now to be equally fortunate with her as well.

He was rubbing his fingers lightly between the cat’s ears, a place that, in his experience, all felines enjoyed, when the door behind him swung open.

“Fig, blast you, where
are
you?” Diana said, scowling fiercely until she saw Sheffield. Then she froze, her fingers tight on the door latch and her blue eyes wide with surprise.

“Good day,” he said softly, the same voice he’d used to coax the little cat. Only two days had passed since he’d last seen her, yet it felt like an eternity. It almost hurt to look at her now, he’d missed her that much, and yet nothing could make him look away. She wore a plain gown, some pale pink filminess that gave her an ethereal air, or would have if it hadn’t clung so splendidly to her breasts and waist. “You’re beautiful, Diana.”

“Don’t,” she said sharply, the spell broken. “Don’t even begin, Sheffield.”

“There’s nothing to begin,” he said, wishing she’d smile, “considering how nothing ended, not between us.”

“Nothing ever began
to
end,” she said, her cheeks flushed. “I told you I did not wish to see you again, Sheffield, and I meant it. Now if you please, give me Fig, and leave. Fig, here. Here.”

She crouched down and patted her skirt, making a small clicking noise with her tongue to summon the cat. But though Fig twisted her head to look at her, she remained snug against Sheffield’s chest.

“You see how it is,” Sheffield said, ruffling the cat’s fur. “She wishes me to stay, though she wouldn’t mind coming to live with me at Sheffield House, either. I believe you’d enjoy it, too.”

“Sheffield, please go,” she said, an unexpected desperation creeping into her voice. “Please! If you stay, you’ll ruin everything.”

“I don’t wish to ruin anything, Diana.” Sensing the difficulty of making a proper proposal with a cat in his arms, he bent long enough to set Fig on the floor. “I love you, and I want to make things right between us.”

Diana clapped her hands over her ears. “No, Sheffield, I will not listen. I will not hear you, not a word.”

“Very well, then,” he said, reaching into his coat. She was scarcely making this easy for him; in fact, she rather looked as if she might cry, which wasn’t encouraging at all. Still, he’d wager the ring would get her attention, and make her realize he was serious in his intentions. “If you will not listen, perhaps this shall prove that I—”

“Sheffield, my dear.” The door behind him opened, and Lady Hervey sailed toward him, her arms outstretched to offer a motherly embrace and her face full of sympathy. “Oh, I am so very sorry to hear of your misfortune! I cannot fathom how Lady Enid could behave so abominably as this toward you.”

She hugged him and kissed his cheek. Over her shoulder, Sheffield saw that while Diana had removed her hands from her ears, her expression remained less than friendly.

He smiled and winked.

She flushed a deeper pink, but turned away. That blush gave him at least a hint of encouragement. But really, why didn’t she smile? Would it tax her so much to show that she was glad to see him?

Unaware, Lady Hervey stepped back, searching his face.

“You are not too desperate, Sheffield, are you?” she asked, clearly concerned. “Brecon is quite worried for you, you know. I know the talk has been merciless, but you must put it behind you and move forward.”

“Thank you, Lady Hervey.” He sighed manfully. “Your words are a rare comfort to me.”

“I am glad of it,” she said, giving his chest a fond pat. She really was quite pretty for an older lady in her thirties, with the same blue eyes and golden hair that Diana had inherited, and Sheffield could understand why Brecon seemed to spend so much time in her company.

“There’s bound to be another lady in your life,” she continued, “one who shall love you as you deserve.”

“I can only pray there is,” he said. “A lady of beauty, passion, wit, and virtue.”

He glanced briefly at Diana, hoping she’d heard that much, but she was pointedly looking in the other direction, as if he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Passion
and
virtue?” Lady Hervey repeated, her brows raised with skepticism. “Perhaps you should look more for the virtue than the passion, Sheffield. Passion is not to be trusted, and it inspires unconscionable behavior. Passion is what has led Lady Enid into the arms of that dreadful parson.”

At their feet, Fig had discovered the porcelain shepherd’s decapitated head, and now batted it halfheartedly toward Lady Hervey. She frowned and picked it up.

“Oh, Diana, see what Fig has done now.” The head’s painted face stared up glumly from her open palm. “I’ve told you not to let her come into this room. I hope this wasn’t some priceless treasure from March’s family.”

“You know how Fig is, Mama,” Diana said, scooping up the cat with one hand. “She goes where she pleases. Here’s the body. I’m sure it could be mended, even though it is surpassing ugly.”

Standing before him beautifully dressed in pink, with the scrawny cat in one hand and the headless shepherd in the other, she somehow seemed to perfectly demonstrate why she was his ideal duchess. No wonder he loved her. There would never would be a better time to ask for her hand, and once again he began to reach for the box with the ring.

“I’m glad you are here this morning, Sheffield,” Lady Hervey said, taking the shepherd’s body from Diana. “You’ve spared me having to write and invite you to a small family gathering tomorrow night. You must come, you know. We’ll even have Brecon’s three boys with us. It will all be quite hasty and informal, but we’ll celebrate nonetheless.”

“He doesn’t know yet, Mama,” Diana said quickly, clutching Fig tight to her chest. “You must tell him.”

Lady Hervey sighed. “Oh, my, I suppose he doesn’t,” she said. “Dear Sheffield! I hope this won’t pain you too dreadfully, considering how you’ve just lost your own bride.”

“I will survive, Lady Hervey,” he said gallantly. There was no question that he would, considering he’d have a new bride and one he loved, too, and at last he turned to face Diana. “In fact, if you will permit me, I wish to—”

“I’m marrying Lord Crump on Thursday,” Diana said swiftly. “That is what we are celebrating. My wedding.”

Sheffield frowned, not believing. “Crump? You’re marrying Crump on Thursday? Why?”

She raised her chin, all defiance that he refused to believe.

“Because his lordship wishes it,” she said. “Because
I
wish it, and—and it is right, in every way.”

The plush box with the ring suddenly felt as ridiculous and without meaning as a chunk of coal, and self-consciously he withdrew his hand.

Lady Hervey nodded in agreement. “At the request of His Majesty, Lord Crump must journey to Manchester almost immediately, and remain there for several months. He decided he could not bear to be without Diana for so long a time, and thus the sudden wedding.”

“Manchester,” Sheffield said, saying the only thing that came to mind that was fit to say to ladies. “No man who loved his wife would take her to Manchester on their wedding trip.”

Lady Hervey laughed. “I will agree that it would not be my first choice, either,” she admitted. “But Lord Crump’s desire to have Diana by his side can hardly be faulted, nor his eagerness to wed so that she might accompany him. It’s all very romantic, isn’t it?”

Somehow Sheffield forced himself nod. It would be romantic if it were true, and if it were any gentleman other than bloodless Crump, and most of all if Diana’s eyes weren’t brimming with unhappiness and her arms clasped so desperately tight around poor Fig.

She did not love Crump. He would wager his life upon it. But why was she so determined to cast her own life away by marrying Crump?

Lady Hervey was smiling, albeit a bittersweet smile, as she tried to fit the broken head back on the shepherd’s body as if it were a puzzle.

“I hope you will join us tomorrow evening, Sheffield,” she said. “It may well be the last time we shall all be together as a family for some time to come. Brecon’s two older boys are to sail soon to join Lizzie and Hawke in Naples. The youngest boy will return to school. Diana and Lord Crump will be leaving for the north as soon as they’re wed. And then you, too, shall be departing for Paris—”

“For Paris?” he repeated, mystified. “I’ve no plans to return there at present. Whatever gave you that notion?”

“Not whatever, but whom,” Lady Hervey said with hesitation. “Brecon was quite certain that you would return to the French court, and I’d no reason to doubt him.”

“This time my infallible cousin is wrong,” he said. “I’ve no plans to return there at present. In time, perhaps, since I’ve many acquaintances there, but for now I intend to remain in London.”

Why the devil would Brecon tell Lady Hervey a tale like that? Of course Brecon had come to offer his solace as soon as he’d heard of Lady Enid’s elopement, and though they’d talked long and drunk brandy together in commiseration, there hadn’t been any mention by either of them of Paris.

“You are remaining here in London?” Diana asked. “What Brecon said was false?”

“As false as can be,” he said, watching her closely. She wasn’t blushing now, not at all, and cheeks were so pale he feared she might faint.

“Then you will be joining us tomorrow,” Lady Hervey said. “How fortunate! Perhaps I might also coax you to remain with us now and take tea? We are expecting Lord Crump at any moment. We could make a small party at my tea table.”

“Forgive me, Lady Hervey, but I’ve another appointment that must claim me,” he lied. If Diana had accepted his proposal, he’d intended to spend the day here with her. Now that he hadn’t even been permitted to ask—and, worse, that he’d be expected to sit to one side while she entertained Crump—he couldn’t leave quickly enough. He bid farewell to Lady Hervey first, and then turned to Diana.

“Good day to you, Diana,” he said, taking her hand lightly, as any gentleman might. “I wish you joy of your marriage, and every pleasure and happiness with a man you love, and who loves you in return.”

He didn’t kiss her fingers, but merely the air over them, in a way that not even her mother could misinterpret. But when he looked up at Diana over her hand, he wanted her to know exactly what those words meant to him, and that when he spoke of the man who loved her, it wasn’t Crump.

And she knew. He saw it in her eyes, in her mouth, in the very set of her shoulders. She loved him, not Crump. He’d no doubt of it now. Yet still she seemed resigned, even determined, to marry the wrong man, and make the greatest mistake of both their lives.

“Thank you, Sheffield,” she murmured. “For—for everything.”

Then she pulled back her hand and pointedly turned away.

“Until tomorrow, then, Sheffield,” Lady Hervey said, gently patting his arm. “Good day to you, and pray be easy. Put Lady Enid from your thoughts and heart, and look firmly to the future. I’m sure before long you will indeed find the right lady to wed.”

He smiled with genuine sadness and bowed, and as his carriage drew away from the house, he hoped Diana was watching behind one of those windows. The bitter truth was that, despite all his clever scheming, he truly had been jilted—just not by the lady everyone thought. And unless he could think of a way to persuade her otherwise within the next two days, he would lose her forever.

“Did Sheffield leave these?” Mama said, picking up the bouquet of roses from the chair. “Strange that he didn’t present them. Such lovely roses, too.”

“He must have been distracted by Fig, and forgot,” Diana said, trying to sound as unconcerned as Mama did herself. Of course she knew that he’d brought the flowers to her, and equally, of course, that she’d made it impossible for him to give them to her. And yet as she gazed at them now, the beautiful roses tied with silk ribbons, she felt only little bursts of wild, inappropriate joy.

Not once had Lord Crump brought her flowers, and the only time she’d hinted that she might like them, he’d sternly dismissed them as a vanity and a waste of money. Yet March still gave flowers to Charlotte, and the obvious pleasure he took in the giving and she in the receiving seemed hardly a vanity to Diana. She still remembered the roses March had sent to her sister before they were married, his first gift: white roses carefully presented in a glass globe, brought all the way from his garden in the country. As young as Diana had been, she’d thought those roses were the most romantic gesture she’d ever seen.