Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(26)

Perhaps he would summon Diana to the library on the morrow. Sit behind the great desk where he used to examine the estate’s ledgers, and demand to know why she had fled the castle without asking for help.

Or he could summon her to the drawing room without warning. She might arrive with her hair falling down her back, and he could stare at its color surreptitiously while he inquired whether it was their kiss that had sent her running.

Why had she left all her jewelry except that pair of earrings? He remembered Diana wearing an emerald necklace that could have supported her for years. Yet she hadn’t taken it in order to ensure her future.

No, she had fled the castle without a second thought.

Not unlike the way he bought a commission and left the country, a voice in his mind suggested.

He was making a third circuit around the Great Portrait Gallery—so called to distinguish it from the East Portrait Gallery, which was older and smaller—when he made up his mind to visit the nursery.

Diana wouldn’t be awake, but he could check on Artemisia. Or Artie, as his little sister wanted to be called. Poor Artemisia had been given an even worse name than Betsy, whose real name was Boadicea. “Betsy” was acceptable on the marriage market, but what gentleman would want to court “Artie”?

The names resulted from the duke’s determination to name all his many children after warriors. Horatius and Alaric had been lucky. He had chosen North over Roland. Leonidas turned himself into Leo; Alexander and Joan accepted their names, as did Erik. His stepsister Viola had joined the family with her name intact. But what about Artie and Sparky? Presumably Spartacus no longer allowed himself to be called Sparky. He’d been complaining about that before North left for the war.

Making his way to the nursery wing, he surprised himself with a bark of laughter, thinking of Artie, Sparky, and Betsy.

He descended stone steps, walked a long corridor, and headed up the wooden staircase to the nursery floor. At the top, he stopped in the dim light and felt under the ornamental knob atop the newel post that graced the top of the stairs.

Sure enough, the big H was still there. Years ago Horatius had carved his initial, claiming the castle in some foolish game they’d played.

Except it was never foolish to Horatius. He had relished the role of future duke, strutting around like a bantam cock from the age of five. Dressed in velvet, most of the time. Keeping himself clean while Alaric, North, and the duke’s ward, Parth Sterling, rolled in the dirt.

North’s hands tightened on the knob, making the white scar that bisected his right hand gleam in the low light of the lamp burning in the nursery wing.

Within a month or two of landing in America, he’d known that the war was hopeless—and immoral. That country belonged to its rough and ready inhabitants, not to the red-coated British. He could have lost all the fingers on his right hand—or his life—and the war wasn’t worth that, let alone the lives of men on both sides.

With a half-suppressed sound of disgust, he walked down the corridor. The nursery bedchamber was in the middle on the right. He pushed the door open and stood for a moment, accustoming himself to the dim light.

An empty rocking chair was placed next to the fireplace. Presumably a maid sat up all night only when a baby was in residence. Around the large room, pushed against the walls, were small beds, each with its own set of curtains. There were as many as one might find in a small orphanage, thanks to his father’s three fertile duchesses.

Only one had its bed curtains closed, so he stepped over and quietly drew back the fabric. Artie lay fast asleep, clutching a wooden doll with brown hair and violent red spots on its cheeks. The doll wore a nightdress printed with small blue flowers that matched Artie’s. North was instantly certain that Artie’s governess had made it for her.

He had clear memories of his sisters’ bedtime. They went to bed shining clean, their hair tightly braided. Artie’s face was clean enough, but her hair was a tangled cloud on the white pillowcase.

In the house he meant to offer her, Diana would have a cook, a maid, a nanny. She probably needed two maids. It couldn’t be a cottage, because she would need room to house those servants, so that she and Godfrey could be comfortable and happy.

That was crucial. She had been his, for a short time. He had believed she would be his for life, and it was a hard idea to shake.

He straightened and softly pulled Artie’s curtains back in place.

Godfrey must have refused bed curtains. He himself loathed the stifling feeling of sleeping surrounded by heavy draperies. To this day, he preferred his bed curtains tied back, and a window open as well. Even the brutal conditions of an American winter hadn’t changed his mind about the delights of fresh air.

The next bed was empty, which surprised him. He’d have thought Artie and Godfrey would sleep near each other, but perhaps that wasn’t proper.

The following bed was also empty, and he made his way more quickly to the bed beyond that. A conflicted feeling was rising in his gut. Dread. Guilt.

Damn it, she couldn’t have left without warning a second time, could she? His gut twisted at the thought of Diana gone, this time with a little boy instead of a hatbox.

Surely she wouldn’t have handed over Artie to be cared for by that ill-tempered nursemaid.

“Hell and damnation,” North muttered when he inspected the last bed, keeping his voice quiet so that Artie wouldn’t wake up. He glanced around the room one more time, then pushed open the door to the nanny’s bedroom.