Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(2)
He could have sworn that she was happy to see him, if astounded to see him in uniform. Perhaps they could make this work. He could find out what made her flee, and fix it.
Then a cry sounded from behind her, high and young, full of tears. A baby, on the verge of wailing.
A child who couldn’t be his.
Diana’s eyes met his. “I’m sorry, North,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
Frost settled deep in his bones, though perhaps he should have felt the chill in his chest. His world shifted.
Without another word, he turned and strode away, swung himself up onto his horse, and spurred it to a gallop.
The dust rose up to meet him and he welcomed it. An officer—and a gentleman—blinked his eyes to rid them of grit.
Never a tear.
Beatrix’s Babble By Subscription Only
March 12, 1780
Young ladies swooning over the infamous adventurer and author, Lord Wilde, may not realize that his older brother, Lord Roland, now rivals him in infamy. Beatrix has learned that the future duke’s exploits on the American continent were many and of the sort that would make a proper woman faint dead away!
Matrons among us will remember that Lord Roland’s engagement was abruptly broken off nearly two years ago . . . when the lady in question fled her own betrothal party. In a truly shocking turn of events, Beatrix has heard on the best authority that the lady has returned to Lindow Castle with a child in tow, and is now working as a governess! It is not a leap of intellect to assume that Lord Roland is in for quite a surprise when he returns from quelling the rebellion in the colonies.
Generally speaking, Beatrix prefers to not sully the ears of young ladies with stories such as these, but she feels it is important to note that mothers should take care: This particular Wilde is, by any estimation, Too Wilde to Wed!
Chapter One
Lindow Castle
May 15, 1780
Diana Belgrave rarely thought about the days when she’d been the pampered heiress who had taken London by storm and stolen the heart of a future duke. When she did, she found herself shaking her head.
She had been so impossibly young, willing to do anything to satisfy her ambitious mother—a feat that, with the benefit of hindsight, Diana knew to be impossible. Perhaps that was the definition of maturity: recognizing that pleasing everyone was not possible.
In the long run, she wouldn’t have pleased her fiancé North (or, more formally, Lord Roland) either, or so she told herself when she was feeling guilty. After all, he hadn’t actually proposed to her, to Diana. He had offered his hand to a quiet and biddable young lady, a role her mother forced her to play.
The flicker of desire she used to catch in his eyes? It wasn’t for her, but for her mother’s creation, that docile creature in towering, bejeweled wigs.
She had a distinct feeling that North had never liked the way he felt about her; his desire for her made him irritable, as if it diminished his power. As if it meant she possessed some part of him, and the future Duke of Lindow was used to being the absolute monarch of his world.
Just imagine how angry he would have become on learning that the woman he’d chosen as his consort wasn’t really that woman at all.
With a sigh, Diana pulled herself back into the present. Once upon a time, she had been a future mistress of Lindow Castle; now she was a servant in it. More importantly, she’d been an unhappy young lady, but she was a very happy governess. Perhaps not a good governess, but she liked the work.
Most of the time.
Bending over, she scooped up her two-year-old charge, Lady Artemisia Wilde, and propped her on one hip. Then she turned to the three-year-old seated on the floor, drawing designs in mashed turnip. “Godfrey, do you need to use the chamber pot?”
Her nephew, Godfrey Belgrave, shook his head, which was lucky because at that moment Diana saw the chamber pot was lying on its side on the hearth rather than neatly hidden behind its screen.
Hopefully, it had been empty.
She smelled of turnip, and she was desperate for a cup of strong milky tea. But the tea was cold, and the last of the milk was dripping off the nursery table, joining the mash.
The housekeeper would shriek if she saw the children’s dining room before Diana had a chance to clean it. Mrs. Mousekin never ceased to be stunned by the disarray that seemed to follow Diana and the children everywhere, but at this point, the housekeeper’s outrage was mostly a habit.
Or so Diana liked to tell herself.
She couldn’t seem to combine basic hygiene with a happy day for two toddlers.
“DeeDee.” Artie sighed, pushing her fat little fingers into Diana’s bun and pulling out a lock of hair, which made the entire coil fall down Diana’s neck. It took a lot of energy to hurl food around the room, and Artie had woken well before dawn, so it was time for a nap. The child stuck the hair in her mouth and drowsily put her head on Diana’s shoulder.
Diana took a deep, steadying breath as a wave of exhaustion bore down on her. It wasn’t merely the long day, but the unnerving sense of doom hanging over her head.
North was home.
Those three words kept echoing in her ears. Her former fiancé had returned from the war in the colonies.
She had known he was on the way; she had sobbed with pure relief half the night after the duke announced his son was selling out. It meant she wasn’t responsible for killing a future duke. As far as she could tell, their broken engagement had precipitated his decision to buy a commission. If he had died . . .