To Love and to Loathe (The Regency Vows #2)(84)

But in all other regards, the past six years had been one long exercise in irresponsibility, ensuring that no one ever took him too seriously. And he was reaping his reward. He’d taken up with a woman even more averse to emotion than he was, and he was mooning over her like a lovesick calf.

A very strapping, charming sort of lovesick calf, he mentally amended, because a man had to have some self-respect, after all.

But a lovesick calf nonetheless.

In any case, something had to be done. If he carried on like this much longer, he’d find himself spouting poetry at her feet—and why? What was it about her that had him behaving this way? Was it because she’d shown him how to touch her in the bedroom? Surely not—though, admittedly, that had been a most instructive experience.

Was it because she never, for one second, seemed remotely impressed by anything about him—not his title, not his looks, not the particularly charming smile he had perfected for the sole purpose of dalliance?

Again, almost assuredly not. Though he could not prevent himself from preening a bit mentally when he recalled her obvious appreciation for his unclad form.

No, it was something more complicated, more difficult to comprehend—it was the way he felt when he was around her, as though he could lay aside his title and his reputation and be no one but Jeremy Overington. Who was a person he hadn’t felt much like in a very long time.

Which of course meant that he needed to end this… this… this thing between them, whatever it was, as quickly as possible. Because if he didn’t, she certainly would, once she realized what a fool he had become over her.

The thought of ending their liaison was not a pleasant one, in truth—the night before had been something of a revelation, even for a man who numbered his conquests in the dozens, and he was quite eager for a repeat session. But not if he could not get control of himself. Not if he could not trust himself to keep all of these inconvenient, embarrassing emotions bottled up—because he knew that if he didn’t, he would scare her off without question.

If only there were some way to keep himself in check, to ensure that he didn’t do anything foolhardy or rash…

If Diana feared being trapped, he needed to prove to her that he had no interest in trapping her. If he could not trust himself not to utter his feelings aloud, he needed to prove to her that he was making no demands upon her. That he could be content with however much of herself she wished to give him, and nothing more.

That he was in no position to offer her too much of himself, either. If, for example, he were involved with someone else… or even engaged…

His eyes alighted upon Rothsmere, who was pointing his gun, eyes narrowed in concentration.

Oh.

Of course there was a way. It had been staring him in the face—and clutching him by the arm and batting its eyelashes at him at every opportune moment—for the better part of a week. There was a very obvious prospect for matrimony—one who suddenly did not seem nearly as dreadful as she had previously appeared.

All that this course of action required was a willingness to forfeit a certain wager.…



* * *




It seemed the evening would never end.

Diana, clad in her favorite gown of forest green, put on a good show—she laughed at jokes; she flirted with every gentleman within reach; she batted her eyelashes. She won a game of vingt-et-un and then another, having rather scandalously insisted that rather than separating after dinner, both sexes reconvene for cards and drinks—tea, brandy, port—in the library. She was in the highest of spirits, her cheeks flushed, her smile dazzling.

She was utterly terrified.

“Are you quite all right?” her brother asked her at one point in the evening’s proceedings. They were both at the sideboard—he to refill his tumbler with brandy; she to splash a furtive dose of the same into her teacup—and their backs were to the room, giving them the illusion of privacy.

“What do you mean?” she asked, raising her teacup to her lips. The warmth of the brandy began to spread through her from the very first sip, soothing her frazzled nerves somewhat.

“You’re in rather a state,” Penvale said, giving her a sideways look, a reminder that her oh-so-obtuse brother was really nothing of the sort. He was dressed, as always, with great care, his attire entirely correct. His hair was neatly cut, his jaw smoothly shaven. She saw more than one lady present giving him an admiring glance.

Her brother, typically, noticed none of it. He had just won a handy sum off Rothsmere in a game of cards, and she could practically see the wheels inside his mind turning, calculating the return on these winnings he could gain from one of his various investments. His single-minded focus on regaining their ancestral home was something she simultaneously admired and felt alarmed by.

To Diana, who had spent her adult life doing nothing much of importance—she was a viscountess, after all, and what truly was expected of her beyond throwing lavish entertainments and smiling over tea?—his focus on this one aim seemed almost something to be envied, a purpose that she often felt she lacked.

In truth, she often felt similarly driven regarding her painting, but she didn’t feel comfortable admitting that to anyone, even Violet and Emily. Even her brother.

Except Jeremy, a voice whispered in her head. She ignored it.

Her painting, she sometimes felt, was what kept her sane. It gave her an outlet for her thoughts, her feelings, for everything about her that had no place in polite society. Everything rough and raw about her she poured onto canvas in bold strokes of pigment—and perhaps this was why she had always felt so uncharacteristically shy about her artwork. It was entirely acceptable—desirable, even—for ladies to dabble in art. A lovely watercolor or a particularly fine portrait was something to be unveiled in the drawing room to admiring oohs and ahhs.