Too Wilde to Wed by Eloisa James
“A woman could guide him easily,” Lavinia said, so overcome by hilarity that she wrapped an arm around her tummy. “‘Get thee to the North of me!’”
It didn’t make much sense, but Diana dissolved into laughter as well.
“What’s funny?” a little voice asked.
Artie was standing in the doorway, thumb in her mouth.
“Where’s Mabel?” Diana asked.
Artie shrugged.
“And Godfrey?”
“Sleeping.”
“Ladies’ jests,” Lavinia said, beaming at her. “Diana, you must introduce me, because we didn’t properly meet yesterday in the village.”
“May I introduce Lady Artemisia Wilde?” Diana obeyed. “Artie, this is Miss Lavinia Gray.”
The two of them regarded each other for a moment, and then, to Diana’s utter astonishment, Artie pulled her thumb from her mouth and dipped into a curtsy. Or what passed for one in a miniature person with extremely chubby legs.
Lavinia immediately rose and curtsied as well. “Lady Artemisia, it is an honor.”
“Tell me a lady’s joke,” Artie demanded, putting her thumb back and coming over to lean against Diana’s knee.
“I can’t,” Lavinia told her. “All the best jokes are forbidden to young ladies of your age.”
Artie’s brows drew together, and Diana’s heart sank. When Artie was thwarted, she had an unfortunate propensity to fall to the ground and drum her heels on the floor.
“When you are old enough, I shall invite you for tea and tell you many jests. All of them,” Lavinia added quickly.
Artie nodded. Crisis averted.
“That was an excellent use of ladylike restraint,” Lavinia said warmly.
Artie likely didn’t understand, but she smiled and took a step toward Lavinia. Diana held her breath. Artie didn’t care to be held by strangers, but she had just invited Lavinia to do so.
Once in Lavinia’s lap, Artie relaxed against her shoulder with a sigh and began sucking loudly.
“Artie,” Lavinia said. “Stop sucking your thumb. You’re making me feel sick.”
Diana watched, curious but wary. She’d never tried to make Artie stop sucking her thumb. There were so many things to worry about, like curtsying, and she assumed Artie would drop the habit by herself in good time.
Artie withdrew her thumb, looked at it, then put it back in her mouth and closed her eyes, apparently deciding to ignore Lavinia.
“It’s not easy to be a governess,” Diana confessed. “I had never imagined a situation in which my commands were routinely ignored.”
“I see what you mean; servants do precisely as I ask, and I trust my husband will as well,” Lavinia stated. Her eyes darkened. “The only person—other than this little scrap—who has heedlessly ignored me is Parth Sterling. Do you remember him?”
“Certainly,” Diana said. “He seems agreeable enough, though I remember you disliked him.”
“Lady Knowe invited him to the ball,” Lavinia said, an edge to her voice.
“I like him,” Artie said, around her thumb.
“Is there some reason that my gown feels disturbingly wet?” Lavinia inquired.
“Oh, no,” Diana groaned.
Artie smiled.
Chapter Eighteen
Five days later
North had become convinced that Dante had omitted one circle of hell—the one he was in. He saw Diana often, but never in his bed, and never to talk to.
She usually had Godfrey and Artie with her, and Lady Knowe had had no success in persuading her to join the family for supper or, indeed, any meal.
He lured himself into fitful sleep by thinking of her. She was like a dream that he wanted to live in.
No one really knew what it was like to be a duchess, or a duke, until one found oneself in the role. How hard it was to be fawned over any time one wasn’t in the midst of family.
How lonely it was.
Diana had a right to refuse that life.
On the fifth day, when he went to the nursery, planning to collect Godfrey for their daily trip to the stables, he found Diana in the schoolroom, mending a pair of children’s gloves. Her nephew sat on the floor nearby, silently playing with his toy horses.
“Godfrey has already been to the stables with Leonidas,” she said, barely glancing up at him. She was wearing a gown made of some sort of sheer purple fabric embroidered with violets at the hem. It must have been Lavinia’s, if only because Diana had tucked a fichu into the bodice. Lavinia flaunted her magnificent bosom and Diana hid hers.
“Those horses were mine and Alaric’s,” North said walking over and crouching beside Godfrey. “Aha, I remember this fine steed. His name is Christopher.” He held up a wooden horse with a faded red bridle and one splintered leg.
Godfrey shook his head.
“You gave him a different name?”
The boy looked at him.
“Of course you did.”
Godfrey plucked Christopher out of his hand and put him back in line with the other horses. They were all wearing little saddlebags, clumsily made.
“You made these saddlebags, didn’t you?” North asked Diana over his shoulder. “I think I recognize your flawless stitches from Artie’s doll’s nightdress.”
Diana sighed. “Sewing is not one of my accomplishments.”
North rose and went to her, thinking about wooden horses. He saw no reason not to give Godfrey the battered herd. He liked the idea of this solemn little boy taking a part of his childhood with him, wherever he went.
Godfrey leaving. Diana leaving.
This was hell: loving a woman so much that you would willingly die for her, yet letting her go.
Dante had it wrong when he put lovers into Hell in pairs. What was hellish about that? North would whirl endlessly in that high wind if he could hold Diana’s hand, comfort her, love her, protect her. He would wind himself around her so that she didn’t suffer.
“I am looking forward to dancing with you again,” he said, despite himself.
“I’m not the woman you danced with in London two years ago.”
No, she wasn’t. This woman had proud eyes and a mouth that looked as if she smiled frequently. He wanted her so much that his hands trembled with the instinct to pull her close.
He cleared his throat. “We danced well together, even if we rarely spoke.”
Diana looked up with a smile. “Yes, we did.”
North bowed.
The next day he returned to the nursery, because that was the whole point of Dante’s Hell: one was cursed to repeat the same thing, no matter how painful. Diana’s presence in the castle was like an itch he couldn’t reach. Damnably irritating. Always there, driving him mad.
He heard her laughing from outside the schoolroom, and something in him stilled and quieted. He entered, scowling at the thought.
Lavinia and Diana were seated on the sofa. Artie was asleep between them, her head on Diana’s lap. Lavinia was leaning over and whispering something in Diana’s ear. A bawdy jest, based on her impish expression.
If they heard him enter the room, they gave no sign. Lavinia’s silk dress billowed on either side of her, trailing on the floor. Pearls were wound in her hair, and her bosom was displayed like fruit on a platter.
Diana wore the same purple gown she had worn the day before. It flattered her complexion and made it glow with the pale perfection of moonlight. Her russet hair was unpowdered, but an elegant curl fell over one shoulder. Her eyes shone with laughter, her cheekbones marked not by rouge but a natural flush.
It was no wonder that he’d seen her across the ballroom and instantly wanted to marry her—before he knew that she was loyal, intelligent, and brave.
Diana had given up everything for her sister. Never having met Rose, North couldn’t say whether she deserved it. But Diana would have been completely loyal to her sister anyway, because that’s how she loved someone.
She hadn’t given her heart to North—as everyone in
She held out a hand, smiling. He came closer and bowed before them, kissing the back of Lavinia’s hand. “Good afternoon, ladies.”
Diana murmured a greeting and looked down at Artie.
“We have been contemplating the difficulties of herding gentlemen,” Lavinia said, with a husky chuckle.
Godfrey dashed over, and North swooped him into the air and put him on his shoulders. “Ladies,” he said, “we men will leave you to your discussion.”
From on high, Godfrey caught a handful of North’s hair and squealed.
North took the boy to the stables where they visited each horse, stroking its nose, feeding it a handful of grain. He returned the boy to the nursery only when Godfrey started knuckling his eyes.
Godfrey went straight to Diana and collapsed into her lap. “You’re tired,” she crooned.
North should have left then, but he didn’t. He sank onto the sofa and watched as Diana washed Godfrey’s face and then put him down for a nap. The little boy snuggled down, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.
It was mesmerizing. North was still gazing at the bed when Diana sat beside him. “Still no sleep?”
“It’s better,” he lied. Weakness was a damnable thing.
“I feel as if it’s my fault,” Diana said, her hands twisting.
He turned to look at her, a smile crossing his face. “How did you come to that conclusion?”
“I jilted you, and you went to war,” she said flatly. “You certainly never mentioned that you had ambitions to raise a regiment when we were betrothed.”
North found himself in the grip of genuine amusement.
“Don’t laugh at me!” Diana said. “Am I wrong?” Her voice was hopeful.
“There may be men who would fling themselves into combat on account of a broken heart.”
“But you aren’t one of them?”
He shook his head.
Diana let relief flow through her like a cool river.
“Did you make love to me out of guilt?” North asked.
She looked at him, incredulous. His face told her that it was a sincere question; she moved over just enough so that she could lean against him. His arm went around her and she laid her cheek against his shoulder.
“Is that a no?”
“I offered you toast in the hope it would fill your stomach and act as a soporific. Artie can’t sleep if she’s hungry. But intimacies? No.”
He was silent. Then: “I cannot abide suet pudding, but everything else you told the chef to make was perfect.”
“I merely suggested plain English food.”
His arm tightened. “When I was a boy, I dreamed of two things: architecture and war. Alaric came home and offered to take over the ducal estates, so I was free.”
“Except you’d already asked me to marry you,” she said, seeing the problem. North would never have betrothed himself and then taken on a hazardous venture like war. Most heirs to duchies wouldn’t consider risking their lives.
“I wanted to serve my country. When you broke our betrothal, I was most unhappy. But I was also free to buy a commission.”
Soft laughter bubbled out of Diana, relief coming from deep inside her. “I was terrified that you would die or be maimed, and it would be my fault.”
He kissed her hair. “The way you blame yourself for Rose’s death?”
“If I had accepted Archibald, she wouldn’t have decided to marry him.” She whispered the next. “My mother felt that Rose’s death was the direct result of my selfishness. I can’t seem to forget that.”
North cursed under his breath. “That’s a monstrous thing to say, and she’s wrong. How well did Rose know Archie when she chose him?”
“He had dined with us. I had consistently said that I didn’t want to go to London for the Season. My mother told herself that a Scot would take no notice of my hair. Archie was the highest ranking eligible Scotsman with an English estate nearby, and she knew his father.”
“If Rose was anything like you,” North said, “she made up her mind about Archie during that dinner. She waited to make certain that you didn’t want him—I am assuming that a peskily self-sacrificing trait runs in your bloodline—and then she smiled back at him. Likely that was enough.”
Diana frowned, trying to remember the dinner. She’d been so cross at her mother that she’d scarcely paid attention to the suitor Mrs. Belgrave had produced. “I can’t even remember if Rose and Archibald spoke.”
“I’ll warrant they did. Archie wasn’t a bad fellow; she chose well. They were just unlucky. He was a stubborn Scotsman. I’d warrant that if he had betrothed himself to you, and decided thereafter that he was in love with your sister, he would have jilted you and taken her to Gretna Green.”
It was an interesting thought. Another river of relief, cool and forgiving, washed over her. Diana brushed a kiss on North’s neck by way of thanks. It was strong and corded, nothing like the birdlike necks of courtiers. “Will you tell me why you sold out?”
“There’s not much to tell.” His voice rasped.
She snuggled against him and waited.
“The war with the colonies isn’t just. We should give the country to its citizens. Our incompetence is another issue. We’re fighting the war with an army made up primarily of German mercenaries, and we consistently underestimate the enemy.”
She waited some more. Across the room, Godfrey snuffled and turned over in his bed.
“My regiment was last stationed at Stony Point. My commander thought that the Yankees wouldn’t climb a rocky cliff to attack, and they did. We were overcome in fifteen minutes. The enemy could have shot my entire regiment, because the men were caught with weapons in hand.”
Diana shuddered.
“Instead, they showed mercy. Our orders had been to shoot any enemy taken with a weapon. After that, I disbanded my regiment.”
Three sentences that contained a world of pain.
No wonder he was in the army for so short a time. A man like North would not tolerate a lack of ethics or plain stupidity.
She said nothing, and neither did he. After a while, she glanced up and saw that his eyes were closed.
Maybe he was asleep.
Chapter Nineteen
June 1, 1780
The Duke of Lindow’s ball
In the time that Diana had lived in the nursery wing, the castle had been en fête twice, but this was the grandest occasion of all. The green salon, the drawing room, and the ballroom shone with candles and masses of lilacs in vases that stood as tall as a ten-year-old child. There were tubs of bluebells and tulips, and even a fairy grove of miniature willows on one of the galleries overlooking the ballroom.
Diana stayed in the nursery until the last minute, declining to join the family for a private supper beforehand—because she was not a member of the family, and she had to remember that.
Lavinia’s and Lady Knowe’s plan was to restore her reputation this evening. She would be a lady again, under the chaperonage of Lady Gray.
Her soul shriveled at the thought.
One of her cousin’s evening dresses had been altered to fit her. It was silk, in a color that Lavinia, who knew everything about fashion, called the “stifled sigh.” Diana would have called it pale lilac.
Its bodice was almost nonexistent, but its skirts, overlaid with cobweb-thin lace, swelled from her hips. The skirts were just the right length to flirt with the air and show off her ankles. Best of all were the slippers that Joan lent her: silk lutestring, with lace accents and a small rose on each toe. A cluster of tiny amethysts in the center of each rose provided the finishing touch.
Joan’s shoes were frivolous and heeled. They made Diana’s ankles look delicate and her calves deliciously slender. She loved them with a passion.
She wore no wig. No plumes, no basket of fr
Before her debut, two maids had spent most of the afternoon making a fuss over her. With a white robe thrown over her dress, one maid applied color to her lashes, her lips, her cheeks, while the other worked on her wig.
Now Mabel came in to help her with her corset, and spent the time complaining because Godfrey had brought two toads into the nursery, only one of which could be found.
“Sooner or later, it will leap out of a pitcher of milk,” Mabel said sourly. “Jump on my leg perhaps. Or hide in one of the beds!”
Diana murmured at the right moments while Mabel first powdered the back of her hair, then the front. She thought about lip rouge, before remembering that she didn’t own any.
“You look lovely!” Mabel said, sounding faintly surprised.
When Diana stepped before the glass, a lady dressed in a gown the color of a sigh smiled back at her.
“He’ll be sorry he gave you up,” Mabel said with great satisfaction. “I’d better get back to Godfrey. A body never knows what mischief that boy will get up to next.”
Diana should go to the ballroom now. One moment she felt like a crusader, ready to do anything to clear North’s reputation and her own. The next, she was rigid with humiliation, her heart withering at the idea of greeting people whom she had first met as the fiancée of a future duke.
All the neighboring gentry were coming, some from as far away as Manchester and Rochdale. Both wings of the castle were filled with guests spending the night, those who would dance until dawn and climb into their carriages after a leisurely breakfast.
She could not continue to hide in her bedchamber, if only because Lavinia would drag her down to the ballroom. She had to descend the stairs and pretend that she was and had been a guest of the duke and duchess, and that rumors of her employment were an unfortunate, and wholly misguided, result of her deep love for her orphaned nephew.