Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(4)

At that moment, she heard the tinkling clash of a handful of cutlery bouncing—or so she guessed—off the fire screen in the dining room.

Prism flinched. Everyone in the castle was familiar with Godfrey’s naughty temperament. The servants loved comparing North’s childhood pranks to Godfrey’s.

That always made Diana feel guilty, since the two had nothing in common except childish misbehavior. She was so tired of the fib that had brought her to the nursery that it would almost be a relief to leave the castle—if only the idea of leaving Artie wasn’t so agonizing.

Diana had seen Artie’s first tooth and her first step. She’d stayed awake for three nights when Artie fell ill with a lung complaint; the duchess arrived from London to find her youngest daughter sitting up and asking for cake.

Another handful of cutlery clashed into the iron fireplace screen. In a powerful display of butlerian nerves, Prism managed to ignore it.

“Miss Belgrave, I wish to inform you that Lord Roland has arrived home and is currently with his valet, changing from his traveling costume. One would hope that Mr. Boodle will allow Lady Knowe to impart important information concerning the family.”

From his disdainful air, Prism had no more faith in Boodle’s discretion than Diana had.

Still, Diana felt a wash of relief, because now she had time to drink a cup of tea and rehearse what to say to North. It would take Boodle three hours at a minimum to wrestle his master into the luxurious garments of a future duke.

Boodle couldn’t wait to dazzle the household once again with his valeting skills; he wouldn’t allow his master to leave the bedchamber until North shone like a prize pig.

In Diana’s humble opinion.

Whether in London or the castle, her former fiancé had always been impeccably attired—and that wasn’t to mention the times she’d been almost certain he was wearing lip paint. No man’s lips were that deep rose color.

She folded her hands at her waist, the way her own governess used to. “Thank you very much for the warning, Mr. Prism.”

“Inasmuch as Lord Roland does not know that you and Master Godfrey are in the household, he may be surprised,” the butler said, in a powerful understatement. “I wish to reassure you that His Lordship is a consummate gentleman, who will receive the news with equanimity.”

Diana could attest to that, since at times she had felt as if she were engaged to a pasteboard version of an English nobleman . . . if pasteboard could bend at the waist and mimic all the airs and graces of a courtier. North was a gentleman through and through, and his emotions would be as muted as his clothing was extravagant.

They both turned their heads at the sound of someone quickly mounting the stairs to the nursery suite. Diana’s heart jolted into a sickening rhythm against her ribs.

No three hours’ respite.

No tea.

Prism was not a butler who would welcome being a witness to an uncomfortable encounter. “I shall speak to Mabel about her absence at morning prayers,” he said, heading for the nursery dining room.

He was about to discover that the nursemaid had missed more than prayers, but Diana didn’t say a word. The butler’s horrified, “Miss Belgrave!” overlapped with North’s arrival at the top of the stairs. Diana didn’t respond to Prism, or allow herself to step back against the comforting wall. Instead, she kept her eyes fixed on her former fiancé.

North had changed. His face was leaner and more angular, with weary crinkles at the corners of his eyes, making him look older than his twenty-nine years.

Surprising enough, he didn’t appear to be angry. But he always had a face that expressed little emotion, thanks to a strong jaw, high cheekbones, and the effortless nobility that made him look as if he were posing for a portrait.

A portrait of a duke, naturally.

As he strode toward her, his boots clipped the floor. Boodle hadn’t had time to transform his master into a future duke; North was still dressed for travel, his black riding frock splashed with mud.

He stopped in front of her. If anything, he seemed faintly amused.

“The last time we saw each other here, you were headed for the ladies’ retiring room,” he observed. “That must have been one of the longest visits in the history of the castle.”

“I should never have left without breaking our betrothal in person, or at least writing you a letter,” Diana said, words she had longed to say for almost two years tumbling out of her mouth. “I’m so sorry, North. I’m just so sorry. I behaved terribly, and—”

She broke off as Prism reemerged from the dining room, his cheeks drawn as tight as those of a boy sucking lemons. “Lord Roland,” he said, bowing. Turning to Diana, “Where is Mabel?”

“In the dairy,” Diana said. “She’ll return soon, Mr. Prism.”

“Mr. Prism?” North repeated. His eyebrows locked together.

Boodle must have told him she was employed as a servant; did he think that Diana could continue to address the butler the way a lady might? What was proper for a guest was insolence in a servant.

“I shall send Mabel back to her post,” Prism said, ignoring North and fading toward the stairs as only a butler could do.

Diana turned back to North, trying to decide if she should move on to the subject of Godfrey, or repeat how apologetic she was to have jilted him in such a public fashion.