To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(15)
“But…” Emily trailed off, hesitating. “If you intend to take a lover—Willingham, or anyone else—does it not seem possible that your emotions might become involved? What if you fell in love?”
Diana laughed. “Emily, don’t be absurd,” she said. “The last thing I ever intend to do is something as unutterably foolish as to fall in love.”
Five
It did not escape Diana that a somewhat unpleasant task lay ahead of her: telling Willingham that she accepted his offer. That she was dreading the conversation so much was alarming—she, who prided herself on a level head, on never losing her composure. But the prospect of presenting herself at his bedchamber door, armed with a seductive smile and an enticingly low neckline, made her balk, even in her mental imaginings. She enjoyed being bold—she wanted to do just that—but she thought she would have to send a note. She had never done this before, after all; perhaps one had to build up to this sort of thing. Begin with a note, but eventually work up to the point of appearing in a gentleman’s bed, naked and inviting.
Yes, she decided firmly. Best to start slow.
She was still mulling it over the following Monday when her carriage at last halted in front of Elderwild, the sudden stop jostling Toogood—who had spent the entire journey dozing across from Diana in the carriage—awake with an amount of grumbled profanity that Diana personally felt was out of proportion to the offense.
“Careful, Toogood, or my innocent ears shall never recover,” she offered as a parting shot as she accepted a footman’s hand down from the carriage. Toogood’s reply was muttered in an undertone, thus sparing Diana what would have undoubtedly been another string of colorful epithets. Whenever she heard aristocratic ladies of her acquaintance lamenting some imagined slight on the part of their ladies’ maids, Diana had to stifle a laugh: she undoubtedly had the most openly hostile maid in the ton.
The house before her was, as ever, striking; Willingham’s ancestral pile was an imposing manor of weathered stone, featuring an impressive number of turrets, pinnacles, and mullioned windows. It was surrounded by immaculately maintained lawns that sloped gently into a scenic lake to the front of the house, and which devolved into woodland in the hills that rose behind the manor. It was these surroundings that made Willingham’s invitations so coveted; his shooting parties each August were said to be among the best of the ton, since the woods that surrounded Elderwild were full of deer and pheasants, and the nearby hills boasted even the occasional grouse, unusual so far south. The hunting, of course, had nothing to do with Diana’s annual attendance at these events; Willingham also had well-stocked cellars and a talented cook—and, furthermore, by August she was usually desperate to be out of the oppressive heat of London.
She now allowed herself to be ushered into the house, divested of her outer garments and baggage, and steered into the red drawing room for tea before she was able to get so much as a word in edgewise—the master of the house was nowhere in sight, but his staff, accustomed to the firm guiding hand necessary to manage a degenerate, unmarried marquess, had little trouble bending her to their will. She blew an errant lock of hair away from her face as the drawing room door clicked shut behind her, feeling rather as though she had just survived a small, efficient tempest.
“Diana!”
Violet rose from her spot on a settee, where she had been reclining next to her husband until Diana’s entrance, and crossed the room quickly to seize her friend’s hands in her own. Diana realized that both Violet and Audley were looking a bit flushed in the face and, noting that they had been the only occupants of the room prior to her arrival, had little doubt as to the cause. People worried about debutantes requiring strict chaperoning, but Diana thought the ones who should really be watched were married couples recently reunited after a lengthy estrangement, if one wanted to leave at least some of the furniture in the house with its virtue intact.
“Where’s Willingham?” Diana asked, extricating herself from Violet’s grip and dropping into an armchair next to the settee. Audley, who had stood upon Diana’s entry to the room, sank back down into his seat, drawing his wife down beside him with a tender look that was equal parts endearing and nauseating.
“Greeting the Rothsmeres still, I believe,” Audley replied, examining the contents of the tea tray on the cart before him.
“Rothsmeres, plural?” Diana asked, a feeling of dread stealing over her.
“I’m afraid so,” Audley replied, finally settling upon a fat tea bun that he proceeded to consume in a methodical fashion.
“Jeremy merely invited the earl,” Violet added, picking up the story where her husband had left off in his baked-good-induced distraction. “But I gather the countess hounded Rothsmere until he secured an invitation for his sister as well.” She heaved a mournful sigh.
“The good news is,” Audley added, swallowing his last mouthful of tea cake, “it’s a large house. If you’re clever—and, knowing you, Diana, I am certain you will be—you might avoid her entirely, except at mealtimes.”
“I shall certainly endeavor to,” Diana muttered. The Earl of Rothsmere was one of Willingham’s friends dating back to his days at Oxford. And he was decent enough, as far as men with titles went; however, his sister, Lady Helen, was an entirely different sort. She was in her third Season now, still unwed, and in Diana’s limited interactions with her she had received an overwhelming impression of grasping ambition. Diana wondered idly if Lady Helen’s presence at this house party indicated that she’d set her sights on a certain unmarried marquess.