When the Duke Found Love (31 page)

And now Sheffield had brought roses to her.

“I’m sure he meant them for you, Mama,” she said, though she yearned to take them and bury her face in their heady fragrance. “He asked for you when he came, didn’t he?”

Mama smiled at the flowers, lightly touching the velvety blossoms.

“I would have thanked him earlier if I’d seen them,” she said. “It’s very kind of him to remember me, especially when he’s obviously so distraught himself. Poor Sheffield! Yet how like him, too, to wish to please me with such a pretty token. He truly does possess the heart of a gallant, exactly as Brecon says.”

“Is that such a dreadful thing?” Diana asked, still looking longingly at the flowers. “March is gallant to Charlotte, and you don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“Charlotte is March’s wife and duchess, and he honors her by his attentions,” Mama said. “But Sheffield puts his gallantry to the sole purpose of seduction and conquest. There’s a world of difference between the two. I’d have thought you would have realized that, having spent so much time in Lord Crump’s excellent company.”

Diana didn’t answer, because what she’d realized in Lord Crump’s company was that he didn’t possess a single breath of gallantry in his entire being. Sheffield had put more care and thoughtfulness into his pretend wooing of Lady Enid than Lord Crump ever had with her. She thought of the amethyst betrothal ring with the antique design that had been perfect for Lady Enid’s learned tastes, and then of how Lord Crump had announced that he did not believe in betrothal ring any more than he did in nosegays. To be sure, Diana could hardly quarrel with his reasoning—that the wedding ring he’d give her as part of their marriage ceremony should be paramount, its significance undiminished by a gaudier betrothal ring that was intended more to impress others than to reflect the holy sacrament of marriage.

And yet, and yet … 

“Have you ever wondered whom Father would have chosen as my husband had he lived?” she asked, gently stroking Fig’s head as the cat slept in her arms. “He chose March for Charlotte, and Hawke for Lizzie. It’s not so hard to imagine him having chosen the third cousin for me.”

“Sheffield?” Mama asked with surprise. “I suppose it is possible. Your father took great pride in aligning the family with dukes. But I could scarce imagine a more wretched match for you! Sheffield is so eager to please, so passionate and with such charm, that it surely would have been disastrous.”

“But why?” Diana asked, more plaintively than she should have. “What disaster could come from marrying such an agreeable gentleman?”

Mama sighed, smoothing the rose leaves that had become twisted by the ribbons.

“You force me to be blunt, Diana,” she said. “I do not believe Sheffield will be faithful to any wife, whoever he may wed. Gentlemen like him are too fond of variety to be satisfied with one woman alone. Many titled ladies can find it in themselves to ignore their husbands’ mistresses and infidelities for the sake of their families, but you—you are too passionate yourself to do that. Oh, yes, it would have been a disaster of the first order, and I cannot tell you how happy I am that you will marry a steady, devoted gentleman such as Lord Crump.”

Diana turned away, unable to hear hearing more. She could see Sheffield’s carriage still in the drive, slowly drawing away from the house and from her. She imagined herself running out the door and down the steps, chasing after the carriage with her skirts flying about her legs. Sheffield would hear, and lean from the window to order the driver to stop, and then open the door to gather her up in his arms, and take her … 

Take her where?
Even in fantasy, she could put no happy ending to that tale. Mama was right, as she always was. There could be no lasting contentment with Sheffield. Lord Crump might not bring her flowers, but he had honorably offered to marry her. Sheffield had not. All he’d offered was love.

Love, glorious, intangible love. And where was the future in that?

“Good day, Your Grace,” said Brecon’s butler, Houseman, as he held the door open for Sheffield.

“Where is my cousin, Houseman?” Sheffield asked, already glancing up the stairs. “I know he’s here. He’s always at home at this hour.”

“I shall tell you him you are here, sir,” Houseman said, closing the door. “If you would care to wait in the library—”

“Thank you, Houseman,” Sheffield said, “but I’ll spare you the trouble and tell him myself.”

He deftly sidestepped the butler and headed toward the staircase. Brecon was a complete creature of habit, and having completed his letters for the day, he would now be in his bedchamber, dressing and preparing to ride in Hyde Park. This morning would be a bit different, however, for this morning Brecon was going to have to answer a few questions about Lady Diana and Lady Hervey and why the devil Brecon had told them he was leaving London for Paris.

“Please, sir,” Houseman implored, following him. “His Grace does not wish—”

“Do not worry yourself, Houseman,” Sheffield said, already bounding up the stairs. “He won’t object to seeing me. I know the way to his rooms.”

He did, too. Up the stairs, to the passage on the left, to the arch opposite the marble head of Hadrian on a pedestal, and there was the door to Brecon’s bedchamber. Not waiting on ceremony—or for a footman to do it for him—he opened the door himself.

Brecon was uncharacteristically late in his schedule this morning, still sitting at the small desk before the window in a red silk wrapping gown and without his wig. He was finishing his coffee and writing a lengthy letter to a lady, doubtless the same lady whose own letter sat open before him, complete with an embroidered silk garter tucked inside. Behind him, his manservant was laying out his riding clothes on the bed.

“Good day, Brecon,” Sheffield said, making a curt, perfunctory bow. “I wish to speak to you directly, sir.”

Deliberately Brecon finished the sentence he’d been writing before he looked up to Sheffield. He didn’t seem surprised to find Sheffield in his bedchamber, but then, Brecon never showed any emotion as vulgarly uncontrolled as surprise.

“Good day to you as well, Sheffield,” he said, putting aside his pen and sanding the page. “I’d rather expected you might wish some uncritical company this morning. Would you care to ride through the park with me?”

“I’d rather speak now,” Sheffield said. “In privacy, if you please.”

“Very well.” Brecon pushed his chair back from the desk, waving away both his manservant and Houseman, who was lurking in the hall with two additional footmen. When the door clicked shut, he looked at Sheffield and smiled. “I’m assuming this has to do with Lady Enid. I applaud your discretion in regard to the lady, especially in the circumstances. Would you sit?”

Sheffield shook his head, too restless to sit. “Not Lady Enid, no.”

“No?” Brecon settled back, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair. “That surprises me. Another lady, then?”

But Sheffield was in no humor for Brecon’s genteel, circuitous conversation, and it infuriated him all the more to see Brecon writing what must surely be a billet-doux to some willing lady or another, while the woman Sheffield loved was slipping away.

“Why in blazes did you tell Lady Diana and her mother that I was leaving for France?” he demanded bluntly. “What was your purpose in a lie like that?”

“It wasn’t a lie, Sheffield,” Brecon said mildly. “Given the humiliation you had suffered, I believed you were in fact returning to Paris. Apparently I am mistaken.”

“It was a mistake the ladies believed,” Sheffield said, fuming and pacing back and forth before his cousin, “and a mistake that has caused me great mischief by painting me as careless and inconsiderate.”

Brecon raised his brows. “I cannot fathom why. The lady abandoned you, not the other way around. You could hardly be faulted for wishing to leave the sight of such unhappiness.”

“Damnation, it’s not about Lady Enid,” Sheffield said, realizing too late that, in his anger, he was betraying himself. “It’s Lady Diana whom I wish to know the truth.”

“The truth, the truth,” Brecon repeated, and at last he smiled. “I am thankful that we have finally reached that particular article. Have you not a care for Lady Enid and her parson? Are you so wrapped in your own affairs that you don’t wish to know if they have arrived safely in Calais?”

Abruptly Sheffield stopped his pacing. “How do you know where they are?”

“Oh, I know a great many things, cousin,” he said, idly taking the embroidered ribbon garter from the desk and drawing it through his fingers. There were creases from a knot at either end, showing that the garter had recently graced the phantom lady’s leg, making Sheffield uncomfortably imagine Brecon untying it himself. “A great many things indeed. Considering how briefly you have been here in London, you’ve been remarkably busy.”

Sheffield sighed impatiently. Standing here before Brecon, he’d the distinct feeling that he was fifteen again and had been sent down from school, which was also probably what Brecon wished. That was enough to make him sit at last, dropping heavily into the chair beside Brecon’s desk.

“Do you know the answer yourself?” he asked. “Are Lady Enid and Pullings safely in Calais?”

“They are,” Brecon said. “Though I believe they are now properly styled Dr. and Lady Enid Pullings. Poor Lord Lattimore! Last I heard, he was still wandering about Yorkshire, convinced his daughter was to be found there. I will credit you for your plotting. It was most excellently, if wrongly, done.”

“Thank you,” Sheffield said warily. “How the devil did you learn of it?”

“Oh, easily enough,” Brecon said, weaving the ribbon between his fingers. “Always remember that a gentleman who must buy loyalty has few secrets.”

“Not Marlowe—”

“No, not Marlowe,” Brecon said easily. “That man’s a prize, as silent as a tomb. But others are not so reticent. I have heard not only of your part in arranging Lady Enid’s elopement but also of the very private entertainment you held on a recent afternoon at Sheffield House. Doubtless all you and Lady Diana did alone together was take tea and discuss the weather. No wonder you wish her to hear only the best of you.”

“Then you know,” Sheffield said, his earlier anger giving way to a rush of relief. He hadn’t enjoyed keeping something as momentous as loving Diana from Brecon, and now he leaned forward in his chair, eager to share.

“She is all I wish in a woman, Brecon,” he said fervently, “and all I could want in a wife and duchess. I love her more than any other woman, and I’ll marry her if she’ll have me, and—”

“No,” said Brecon. “No.”

He’d never seen Brecon’s face so stern, nor set so determinedly against him, not in all their times together. It stunned Sheffield, and it wounded him, too.

“Why the devil not, Brecon?” Sheffield demanded. “I love her, and I’d swear by all that’s holy that she loves me. She’s meant to be my other half, the way the poets say. She’s of a suitable rank, and her family’s so ancient that not even His Majesty could complain. She’s—”

“She’s married to another gentleman,” Brecon said, his voice hard, “or will be in two days’ time. She’s not free, Sheffield, and I won’t have you ruining their lives and our entire family’s peace simply because you imagine yourself in love with the girl.”

“But I
am
in love with her,” Sheffield protested in disbelief. “I love her a hundred times more than Crump ever could. A thousand times more!”

Brecon shook his head. “In many ways, Sheffield, Crump is a better man than you, and I’ve no doubt he’ll make the lady a far better and more respectable husband than you ever could. I warned you away from her the first night you returned from Paris. Yet you ignored me, and you see the sorrow your petty intrigue has caused.”

Abruptly Sheffield rose and turned away, unable to face Brecon any longer. Brecon, who had been like a brother, even a father, to him through much of his life. Brecon, who had always done whatever was necessary to guarantee his happiness, was now denying him the one thing Sheffield most wanted, and needed, too.

He wanted the love of Diana Wylder.

“I am serious about this, Sheffield,” Brecon said, continuing as if Sheffield faced him still. “You know as well as I do that His Majesty wished you to marry Lady Enid, and his disappointment was keen when the lady ran off. If he were ever to learn your part in her elopement, and how blithely you contrived to avoid obeying his will, I can promise you his displeasure would make your life here in London very difficult indeed.”

“You would do that to me, Brecon?” he asked without turning, bitterness welling up inside him. “You would tell His Majesty?”

“I would not,” Brecon said firmly. “No matter what you now believe of me, I would never do that to you. But if you continue to leap from one scandal to another—and disturbing Lady Diana’s wedding to Lord Crump for the sake of a fancied passion would definitely constitute a scandal—in direct contradiction to His Majesty’s plan for a more respectable court, then I am sure that there will be others willing to tell him a great many things about your behavior. Some may even be true.”

The last thing he wished to hear now was Brecon’s wry wit. “I do not appreciate your jests, Brecon.”

“I do not intend them to be jests,” Brecon said. He sighed, and his voice softened a fraction. “Perhaps it is for the best that you return to the Continent for a while. Stay there, amuse yourself, until you have recovered yourself and forgotten Lady Diana. I know that Celia—”

“Celia? Who is Celia?”

“That is, Lady Hervey,” Brecon said quickly. “I know she has invited you to dine at Marchbourne House tomorrow night, and to attend the wedding the following day. She is a warm and generous lady, without a notion of your unfortunate attachment to her daughter. If she did, I am certain she would agree with me that it would be better for us all that you stay away. Do you truly want to risk ruining the girl’s name?”

As far as Sheffield was concerned, he’d already done far more than that with Diana, which was part of the reason he could not let her marry Crump. Yet he couldn’t explain that, not even to Brecon; what had happened on the settee in the Sultana Room was between Diana and him, and no one else.