Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(22)

“I disagree.”

“You easily fell for her wiles the first time,” Diana insisted. For some reason, she truly wanted to warn him. He deserved better than a wax doll like herself, a woman cowed into silence. She leaned forward and closed her hand around his. “Be careful choosing your duchess, North.”

He turned over her hand, his thumb rubbing over calluses resulting from being a governess—not a lady. “You are offering me advice on how to succeed in high society?”

She withdrew her hand, feeling pink rising up her neck again. “Only from personal observation. My mother was driven by the notion of marrying me into the nobility. Sometimes I felt sorry for . . .” Her voice trailed off at the incredulous look on his face.

“You felt sorry for me?”

“Not sorry for you alone, but for gentlemen who have no idea how—how Machiavellian mothers can be.”

“Do you know what ‘Machiavellian’ means?”

His incredulity made her bristle. “My mother believed that duchesses should be well-read in classical philosophy in order to facilitate conversation around a dining table.”

He shook his head. “Your mother sounds like a general.”

“I have often thought that she might have rivaled General Washington, if given a chance,” Diana said. “You know better than I, but from what I read in the newspaper, he is a wily man who engages in thorough advance planning.”

He said, his voice hard, “It seems the British newspapers have a better understanding of the war than does the Ministry.”

Prism bustled in the door, followed by four footmen, each holding a silver platter covered by a dome. Lady Knowe came last, chattering loudly. She seemed to understand that Diana, for one, had talked enough of serious matters. Instead, North’s aunt held forth with a flow of gossip about the family that had Diana in fits of laughter.

If she hadn’t laughed . . . she would have cried, thanks to the ache in her heart. The way she’d ruined her life as well as North’s. And her sister no longer had a life.

Rose and North would have been perfect for each other. Absolutely perfect. Her sister had been sensitive and sensible, incredibly smart, and conversant in every courtesy. Rose had been beautiful too, with hair the gleaming color of corn silk.

If only Diana hadn’t stubbornly refused to marry Archibald, Rose would have had her Season, married North, and been alive today. Lady Knowe would have adored Rose. Godfrey would have been better off; that went without saying. If he had a real mother, he’d be speaking by now. And North wouldn’t have—

She pulled her mind away from that thought and fixed a smile on her face.

At the evening’s end, Lady Knowe pushed herself upright and proclaimed, “We shall make a plan for you, Diana, but not until the duke and duchess arrive. We must wait for my brother’s advice.”

“I fail to see why my father should be part of a discussion addressing my former fiancée and her nephew,” North stated, rising to his feet.

“Because we need a governess to replace Diana,” his aunt said, adjusting the silk shawl that hung around her shoulders.

Diana suddenly noticed that the lady hadn’t turned a hair on hearing that Godfrey was no relation to North. “You knew that Godfrey was not your relative,” she gasped. “And that he is not my son!”

Lady Knowe snorted. “Child, you are many things, but a mother is not one of them. I am not a mother either, but I am well aware that a few months’ acquaintance with a gentleman does not result in a baby that age. Furthermore, the boy doesn’t resemble you.”

“Why did you bring me here?” Diana gasped, her mind reeling.

“To my mind, you were almost one of us. I could not allow you to live in that hovel and you refused to allow me to help you financially. Granted, I didn’t imagine that your stubborn insistence on being employed would cause such a fuss amongst the prudes who rule the ton.”

Clearly considering the subject closed, she turned to North. “Our governess cannot leave us without a word of warning. Ophelia will need time to find a replacement. Artie is attached to Diana, and loves her like a second mother.”

“I had no intention of throwing Miss Belgrave out the door,” North said, his tone stiff.

His aunt rapped him on the shoulder with her fan. “Don’t give me that pent-up mongrel glare. I remember you in nappies. I might remind you that you’ve been addressing Diana by her first name throughout the meal; it’s too late for formality.”

Diana was wrestling with a familiar wave of desperation at the idea of leaving Artie—and an unfamiliar one at the idea of living another day under the same roof as North.

The former North? The lord in a wig, patches, and red heels? She wouldn’t have turned a hair.

But the North who’d thrown his wig onto a chair and never bothered to retrieve it? Whose eyes considered her face with such thoughtful interest? Who smelled like honey and sunshine?

He was dangerous to her in all ways.

“I will remain in the castle for two weeks to work out my notice, which will give Her Grace time to choose a replacement for me.” She curtsied. “Good evening, Lady Knowe. Lord Roland.” She emphasized the last name slightly because it was not too late for formality, and she had to remember that.

“Good night, my dear. We shall expect you at dinner tomorrow night,” the lady said, nodding.