Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(35)

North was staring absently at Diana’s rumpled hair when her eyes opened. She met his gaze with no sign of embarrassment or surprise. Instead, the corners of her mouth tipped up, and his heart eased in a way that should have given him great concern, and didn’t.

“Come for more toast, have you?”

There was nothing pitying in her tone, or even sympathetic. It was as if men often wandered the castle at night, washing up at her doorstep like jetsam thrown from a ship.

“Yes,” he said, keeping it simple.

The castle chef had served up lambs’ tongues in aspic that evening, which caused North to lose his appetite entirely. He wanted more from Diana than toast. The conviction made itself known deep in his gut, but he refused to listen. If he did listen, he would pick Diana up and then sit down again in the chair big enough for two.

She’d be in his lap and he could rest his chin against all that rumpled hair. Something deep in his bones told him that her weight on his legs would keep him from marching over battlefields in the dark.

“I laid it out for you,” she said, sounding less sleepy. She extracted one arm from under the blanket and waved at the fireplace.

Next to him was a plate of inexpertly cut slices of bread, a jar of honey that was silky and liquid after being warmed at the fire, and butter that had melted into a low hill surrounded by a moat.

“May I make you a piece of toast?” he asked.

“I’d like a bite or two,” she said, curling her feet under her. “I was dreaming that I was back in a London ballroom. It should have been a nightmare, by rights, but it wasn’t.”

North wrestled the first slice of bread onto a fork. She had known he would come. He should feel wary. A future duke visiting the governess. The governess confident that the lord would arrive. Leaving her door ajar.

“Was I in the dream?” That was a reasonable question. After all, they had once been betrothed. Before coming to Lindow Castle for their betrothal party, their only conversations took place in and around ballrooms.

Likely because he didn’t lecture her there, his conscience reminded him. But he had never meant to lecture her, and hadn’t thought he was. He was only . . .

He had lectured. Damn it.

“You were in my dream,” she said.

He waited, turning over the toast.

She leaned forward and touched his upper arm with a slender finger. “Aren’t you going to ask?”

North turned his head slowly, because from this distance he could have leaned over and claimed her mouth with a kiss. As the queen of the impetuous gesture, she hadn’t anticipated that. He saw her eyes widen as she took in a silent breath.

I could steal the air from your lips, something deep inside him growled. But he kept his face bland. “I trust that I comported myself adequately on the ballroom floor?”

She settled back in her seat, acting as if she didn’t know about the rosy flush on her cheekbones. “You were a graceful dancer, Lord Roland, as always.”

North narrowed his eyes at her.

“You weren’t wearing your high wig,” she said in a rush. “Nor those silk coats you always wore, with the tight—” She waved her hand at the lower part of his body.

“Tight?” Amusement leaked into his voice.

“Breeches.”

“I believe a young lady is not meant to notice.”

“Everyone notices.” She pulled up her knees and hugged them. “Presumably that is just the attention you wanted. Why would any gentleman wear tight breeches unless he wanted attention?”

“I’m almost sorry for the loss of my newest pair,” he observed.

“The loss? What happened?”

“Boodle handed over some yellow—no, saffron—colored breeches and the back split in two pieces a moment later.”

She broke into laughter that cascaded around his ears and made him feel warmer than the fire did.

“Boodle took that pair and all the others with him to London. After,” he added scrupulously, “I told him that I would never wear them again.”

Her mouth fell open. “Boodle stole your pantaloons?”

“I prefer to think that he gave himself un pourboire.” At her raised eyebrow, he added, “A tip of staggering proportions.”

“Did he take all those fancy coats you used to wear as well?”

He grinned at her over his shoulder. “The neckcloths edged in lace. The boxes of patches. The heeled shoes and clocked stockings. The ornate perfume bottle that he’d decided I must carry with me wherever I went.”

“I don’t like to judge people,” Diana said, sounding as if she was confessing to one of the seven deadly sins. “Boodle is somewhat foolish, but he is not evil. Still, by any measure, that is theft.”

“Prism is remarkably displeased, and went so far as to suggest that I take action,” North said, turning the toast. He was unable to make himself care.

“You have lost a tremendous amount of money,” she pointed out. “We all heard about the perfume bottle that came from France and was meant to protect your nose from the unwashed hordes. Will you send the sheriff after Boodle?”

North shook his head. “He helped me win you.”

“Under the circumstances, you wouldn’t be blamed for wishing him locked up for life,” she said, her eyes falling to her hands.