Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(40)

He had a wildness that seemed new to her. No matter how she racked her brain, she couldn’t remember anything wild about the man who had courted her.

That man, with his heels and patches . . . he had been civilized, urbane, utterly controlled.

The new North grabbed Leonidas and fairly crushed him against his chest. One arm slung around his brother’s neck, he turned to the other vehicles. Seven carriages had come to a halt inside the courtyard walls, with another three drawn up just outside the gate, as they couldn’t fit safely inside.

All of Prism’s organization was for naught, because the ladies’ maids ran to their friends. Grooms flocked forward to meet those who’d accompanied the family to London. A group clustered around one horse’s hoof.

Young Wilde ladies burst out of their carriage, running to North and surrounding him like a bouquet of flowers that squealed and cried. The duke strode over to join them. His Grace’s hair was silvered at the temples, but he wore his fifty-some years with grace. He was as broad-shouldered as his son, but leaner, equally strong.

Looking at the two of them made her heart twist because North’s father loved him so much. It was there, in his strong embrace, and in the way the duke and the whole family had stopped whatever they were doing to return to the castle. Leonidas and Alexander had even come from Oxford.

She’d bet anything that Spartacus and Erik would arrive from Eton later today or tomorrow. The duke would have sent a ducal carriage for them, and the school wouldn’t dare to quibble.

Just now His Grace had his head bent, arm around his son’s shoulders, telling North something with a rueful smile. News from the Ministry, perhaps. Something about those fools who’d underestimated General Washington.

North looked around, as if for something or someone, and paused on her. The force of his stare made her shiver, because—

No.

She certainly could not recognize desire in his eyes at this distance. Or anything else.

All the same, she didn’t tear her eyes away. She kept watching as His Grace turned his head toward her as well. He nodded. Perhaps Diana should have curtsied, but she was all the way across the courtyard and it felt awkward.

Instead she reached up and took Godfrey’s hand because at any moment—well, in the next hour or so—North would have to inform the duke and duchess that Godfrey was not his son.

Unless they, like Lady Knowe, already knew.

Of course they already knew. A mixture of relief and shame flooded her.

North turned away, listening to something his father was saying. He tipped his head back and laughed. She’d seen him smile, but she’d never seen a belly laugh. He had dimples at the corners of his mouth.

His brothers were beautiful, but he was so much more so, like Adonis or a half-mad Greek god caught chatting with a mortal.

Now the courtyard was full of people running back and forth. The duchess had Artie on her hip. His Grace turned around, his face lit up, and held out his hands. Artie leaned toward him with a happy cry.

Artemisia Wilde would be fine when her governess, no matter how beloved, disappeared from her life. Diana knew that in her bones, in her hollowed-out, sorry-for-herself bones.

Godfrey dropped her hand because Leonidas, one of Godfrey’s favorite people, was headed in their direction. Sure enough, Leonidas grabbed Godfrey from Frederick’s shoulders and transferred him to his own, walking back to the duchess, who smiled with the kindness they’d always shown the boy.

The raging sense of envy Diana felt had nothing to do with the comparison between her work-worn fingers and the duchess’s delicate ones. It was the fact that Ophelia was surrounded by love. Her children loved her, and her stepchildren loved her.

Leonidas was grinning as he told her some awful joke that he’d learned at Oxford. Her Grace was laughing so hard that she was leaning on her husband. Artie was reaching toward her again. And the duke . . .

The duke had a possessive hand on his wife’s back. He’d put it there without thinking, most likely.

Diana’s thoughts tangled together like a vine. That was a forever hand. It was a simple caress that said, I will always be yours. And you will always be mine.

The gesture spoke of love that overflows onto children and stepchildren, and even onto the household, and certainly onto Lady Knowe, who was beaming and listening to whatever Alexander was telling her about his first term at Oxford.

Prism began waving footmen and maids back into the house, so Diana made up her mind to retreat as well. Mabel could take care of Godfrey for an hour or two when Leonidas tired of him, and the duchess wouldn’t let go of Artie for hours.

That evening, there would be rough ground to cover, as Lady Knowe would say. Diana would have to give notice, offer apologies, and make up a lie about where she was going next.

One thing she knew absolutely, watching the family mill around each other, was that she could not live near the Wildes. If she and Godfrey were to be happy, they had to go far away. They could not hover on the edges of all that joy.

Leaving the courtyard, she skirted the castle on the west side and hurried along the path to the apple orchard, trying to run ahead of her tears.

On the other side of the orchard, she scrambled down the hill toward the lake and hauled on a weather-beaten rope tied around the trunk of the willow tree until an old punt scraped the edge of shore. It was the work of a moment to climb in and use the pole to push off from the shore, without undoing the rope from the trunk.