Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(11)

Something about North’s face bothered her. In plain fact, he had been no more than an acquaintance when they were betrothed; a ring hadn’t made them friends. They had scarcely spoken to each other. Still, he didn’t seem—she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, though she kept going round and round.

Something had changed. Lady Knowe had seen it too; her eyes had lingered on North’s face. He’d lost weight, but that wasn’t it. His face was more spare, more grim. Yet his natural expression had always been severe.

It wasn’t her concern, Diana reminded herself. She had to make plans to leave, perhaps in the next day or two. The thought of leaving Artie made Diana drop her head in her hands—not just because the idea broke her heart, but for Godfrey.

Her grandfather would have told her that all good things must come to an end. A jolly, plain-spoken man, he had watched with astonishment his daughter’s efforts to shove her children up the social ladder.

Even thinking of her grandfather’s whiskery kindness made her feel better. He would have understood why she had returned to Lindow Castle. Any port in a storm, he would have said.

The thought made her calmer, and her fingers stopped trembling. The storm had passed. She had saved money from her salary. And now she knew how to work hard. That was a blessing. Prism would give her a reference, as would Lady Knowe.

She stood up and began unpinning her apron. Lady Knowe maintained a large correspondence, so perhaps she knew someone with a position open. Diana could be a companion to an elderly lady, for example.

Or she could work in a shop.

She could picture herself behind a counter selling lacy fripperies. Taking off her gown and washing at the basin, she imagined herself in Hinshcliffe & Croft in Covent Garden, presiding over the best muslins, painted nankeens, and dotted chintzes.

Her mother had always overseen her wardrobe, but along the way Diana had silently formed opinions about how a lady ought to dress. In her estimation, her wigs had been too high, her jewels too shiny, her spangles too glittering.

She would be good at advising young ladies; she could steer them away from the anxious mistakes her mother had made. Put them in dresses that would flatter a young lady, rather than demand to be praised in their own right.

That thought led directly to her own plight. She had exactly three gowns to choose from, none of which was flattering.

Thinking of the indifferent look in North’s eyes during her feverish apologies, she longed for one of the magnificent dresses she used to wear. Preferably one that made the most of her bosom.

Her choice was between three plain, black gowns. Diana had been in mourning for her sister Rose when her mother threw her out, so she hadn’t protested on being informed that she could not take the exquisite confections in which she debuted.

Only later had she realized that she could have sold them. She had been close to her last shilling when Lady Knowe found her.

Like elderly crows, all three gowns showed signs of wear. With a sigh, she chose the least dingy. She hadn’t a drop of powder to cover her disreputably colored hair, or the spray of freckles over her nose.

Her mother had shuddered over Diana’s hair—and decided to marry her to a Scotsman, who would presumably be less repulsed—but it was her freckles that were the bane of Mrs. Belgrave’s existence. At one point Diana’s entire nose had peeled after her mother applied yet another poultice designed to whiten skin. The freckles were still there a week later. After that, Diana grew to be an expert in the art of applying white paint followed by clouds of rice powder.

It didn’t matter what she wore tonight, because the spray of freckles over her nose was about as easy to overlook as a leopard’s spots. North would take one glance and recognize how lucky he was to have escaped the marriage.

She owned only one piece of jewelry, a locket with a miniature of her sister’s face tucked inside. To most people, Rose’s smile would seem improbably sweet—and yet the miniature had been accurate.

Rose had been far prettier than Diana, socially graceful, lovable in every way. Mrs. Belgrave hadn’t needed to point out that she’d lost the worthier daughter.

With the skill of long practice, Diana banished her mother’s complaints from her head and kissed Rose’s nose.

She slipped the locket inside her bodice and set off downstairs.



While stripping off his clothing, North kept thinking about the fact that Diana was in the castle. In the months after he went to war, still raw from being jilted, he had imagined encountering the bastard who had got her with child and knocking him down the stairs.

War had an uncomfortable way of stripping away a gentlemanly mask, and soon enough he graduated to dreams of killing the debaucher with his bare hands.

But that man was dead, and Diana had been thrown out by her mother, two circumstances that he hadn’t imagined. Thank God Aunt Knowe had found her.

The thought of Diana’s hardship made him restless, and he stepped into the tub, sat down, and picked up a ball of soap that smelled strongly of flowers and pineapple.

“I’d prefer plain soap,” he said to Boodle, holding it up.

His valet gaped at him. “That scent is specially blended for you, my lord. Chosen after four hours in the perfumery.”

“You spent those hours, not I,” North reminded him.

“As soon as His Grace reported that you were returning to England, I spent days, not hours, refreshing your perfumed goods and accountrement.” Boodle waved his thin fingers toward the dressing table, covered with glass bottles and boxes of patches. “Your scent is guaranteed to be sold to no one other than yourself for a period of ten years!”