Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(16)

Mrs. Belgrave had gone on to say something so cruel that recalling it sent a shiver through Diana’s whole body, but she had become an expert at banishing that memory. Now she forced herself to savor the peaceful view behind the gardens. She was safe. Godfrey was safe.

Behind her, the door opened and Prism said, “Good evening, Miss Belgrave. May I offer you a glass of sherry?”

Diana scrambled off the window seat. “Oh, good evening, Prism!” When she returned to the castle, they’d come to a silent agreement that “Mr. Prism” wasn’t appropriate when she was dining with Lady Knowe. “I would love a glass of sherry.”

The butler poured her a glass, placing it precisely in the center of a silver salver before he carried it to her.

“Do you think that I could become a lady’s maid, Prism?” Diana asked.

“With all due respect, Miss Belgrave, I do not.” With that, he bowed and made his way out of the room, maintaining a dignified silence as regarded his reasoning.

Diana sat down again with a sigh. She was prone to saying the wrong things at the wrong time—unless her mother was in the room to terrify her into silence. That wasn’t a desirable quality in a lady’s maid, who was expected to keep all her mistress’s secrets.

Moreover, she couldn’t even mend a ripped hem with any skill, thanks to her mother’s ban on practical skills. Her governess had taught her to stitch a sampler, which was useless, in retrospect. She could paint a picture backward on a piece of glass, which was even more pathetic.

A few strands of ivy had crept up the side of the castle and grown into the room, where they would inevitably be snipped off by a housemaid. She couldn’t help thinking that they were like her and Rose. Upstart sprigs, trying to enter the ton, to become part of polite society . . . likely to be clipped off.

Clambering up on her knees, she pushed the strands back out the window—and saw the nest. It was tucked on the stone ledge to the left of the window, hidden from the wind by a curtain of ivy.

Cautiously she leaned out a bit further. To her great pleasure, three spotted blue eggs lay in a soft, neat hollow lined with feathers.

Artie would be so excited . . . but quite likely Diana and Godfrey would be gone when the eggs hatched. Prism could arrange to have Artie brought to see the fledglings. Or she could tell North, now that he was home.

She had forgotten him for a moment. She’d actually forgotten he was back.

As if to prove that he was there in the flesh, strong arms wound around her waist from behind and hauled her back into the room.

Diana had never been embraced by North; their bodies had never even touched. But she knew instinctively that the hard chest at her back was his.

“What in the devil’s name are you doing leaning out that window?” he asked, sounding perplexed instead of annoyed.

That raised the question of whether North ever became angry. Even when he’d found her in the cottage, she had thought his expression was bleak, not angry. He had been disillusioned, because he had put her on a pedestal, and she had tumbled all the way belowstairs.

His arms fell away and she looked over her shoulder. “There’s a nest with three eggs in it, North. You are taller than I am, so you’ll see it easily.”

Somewhat to her surprise, he put a knee beside hers and braced his hands on the ledge. “A finch’s nest.”

“A finch!” Diana exclaimed. “How lovely!” And, remembering that ignorance was not a sin: “What is a finch?”

“A bird with a forked tail and a wheezy song, as I recall. My older brother was fascinated by bird nests and used to collect them.”

“Did Lord Horatius sketch or paint pictures of the nests he collected?”

North shook his head. “Horatius would have thought such a womanly art was beneath him.”

“What a shame,” Diana said, getting to her feet and shaking out her skirts. “I can’t paint well at all; it’s above me. Perhaps there’s a book about birds in the castle library. Artie would love to watch the baby birds hatch.”

As would Godfrey, but she didn’t want to mention her nephew yet because . . . here they were. The two of them. They had to discuss Godfrey, but the cowardly side of her wanted to stand beside North and pretend that she hadn’t brought disgrace onto both of them.

“May I offer you another glass of sherry?” North asked.

Diana hastily finished the last of her drink. “Yes, please,” she said, holding out her glass. “That’s one thing I do not like about the servants’ hall,” she confided. “No wine to drink, except on Christmas.”

North glanced over his shoulder. “Prism doesn’t have a glass of wine in the evening?”

“Oh, yes, he does,” Diana said. “The upper servants have their own sitting room, where they share wine and dessert, while lesser mortals drink small beer. I almost always retire to the nursery, as I am comfortable in neither place.”

“Because you are neither upper nor lower?” North said, pouring sherry.

“As governess, I would sit with the upper servants or even the family, but as a nanny, I belong with the lower servants. Many gentlewomen become governesses, but they rarely become nannies.”

“You are higher than all of them,” he said, matter-of-factly. “You are Miss Belgrave, after all. Your father was a knight.” He handed her a glass.