Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(17)

“Hierarchy is a matter of context, don’t you think?” Diana asked. “There must have been times in the colonies when you were considered a lower mortal compared to your commanding officers. And yet, were you standing beside those men in a ballroom, you would be superior to them.”

“My title led to complications,” he agreed.

“Is that why you sold out?” Diana asked, and, seeing the barely perceptible tightening of his jaw, “It’s not my business, so please forget that I asked. As for me, there are times when I think it would be easier to be the mistress of the whole castle than the governess of the nursery, but most of the time, I like having work to do.”

His brows were drawn together, but his mouth eased. She was absurdly happy to see that.

“I know just what you’re thinking,” Diana said, babbling because her mother wasn’t there to call her a fool, and North didn’t seem to have much to say. “You’re right. I would have made a terrible duchess. My mother was adamant that her daughters should marry into the gentry or the peerage, but I seem to be more akin to my grandfather. For example, I like hard work.”

“Do you think that a duchess doesn’t work?”

“Lady Knowe works very hard on Tuesdays, going over the castle accounts,” Diana said. “But most ladies’ labor is limited to dressing and undressing.”

“Should that not count as work?” He took a sip, regarding her steadily over his glass.

“I don’t consider it such. A lady stands motionless while one or two maids tie and pin her into a garment with as many as eight layers. It may take those maids three hours to clothe their mistress for dinner, and that’s just evening clothes. There are all the other changes: morning and afternoon dresses, riding costumes, walking costumes, and so on.” She shrugged.

“I thought you delighted in fashion,” North said dryly. “You were pointed out to me as the most elegant young lady of your Season, a celebrated paragon.”

She took a bracing sip of sherry. “You assume that I was allowed to choose my own clothing. I can assure you, Lord Roland, that when it comes to hierarchy, a young lady ranks far beneath her mother.”

“I understood that you would have no choice as regards your spouse, once I made my interest clear.” His voice was rueful.

Diana had the sense that she was the only woman in the history of Great Britain to back away from marriage to a future duke. She’d been so unenthusiastic after their first meeting that her mother had threatened to cut off her sister and nephew without a shilling if Diana did not wed North.

“My mother insisted that I dress as a duchess well before you made your interest clear,” Diana said, giving him a bright smile. “She was very pleased to discover that you were a model of elegance.”

“I wasn’t, until I noticed you,” he stated casually.

Diana frowned. When she met North, he had been wearing a pale blue coat with silver embroidery, and she thought he was the prettiest man she had ever seen. And the most terrifying.

“I met you at Lady Rulip’s ball,” he said, “but I actually caught sight of you at a ball a few weeks earlier, before I asked for an introduction. On that occasion, I was wearing a brown velvet coat. My stockings were white, without clocks. Unimaginative wig, minimal powder.”

“No patch?” she asked, fascinated.

He shook his head. “I asked who you were, and was told you were the most stylish young lady of the Season. Your cousin Lavinia said you were an expert in the art of dressing.”

“She didn’t know me very well,” Diana said, taken aback.

“By the time you met me in Lady Rulip’s ballroom,” he said, “I had hired Boodle. I was wearing powder and patches, heels, and a lavishly embroidered coat.”

Something about his face made her giggle. “You didn’t appreciate your own sartorial success?”

“Hated it,” he said calmly. “Loathed it. The worst was the lip salve. I tried that, and even for you, I couldn’t do it. It had a flavor of cod-liver oil.”

“Oil of roses doesn’t,” Diana observed.

He shrugged. “I hired Boodle the day after seeing you for the first time.” He threw back the rest of his drink. “I stayed away from the ton while Boodle wrought his magic.”

Diana stared at the strong column of his throat in disbelief. “I had no idea.”

“Why should you? Would you like another glass?”

Her second glass of sherry was gone. A blanket of warm courage now hung about her shoulders, a relief after the trembling anxiety of the day.

“Yes, please.” Watching North cross the room, Diana noticed for the first time that he wasn’t wearing a high wig, the sort he used to wear. Instead, he had on a plain wig, not unlike one her grandfather would have worn. Small, unobtrusive, inelegant.

Earlier, in the nursery, she hadn’t allowed herself to look at his body because, shameful though it was, Diana had been appalled by the idea of marrying North, but she had adored his body.

It was big and strong, like that of a man who labored in the fields. He had dressed like a fop, but he had never moved like one.

As a future duke, he had dressed in silk, often with sumptuous embroidery in gold thread.

Now?

He was wearing a black coat that fit his shoulders but wasn’t so tight that he’d have to wrestle it on. He hadn’t been willow slim before, but now he was strong and solid, as if he were a boxer.