Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(67)

“Lavinia has no interest in marrying you. By the way, I am writing to Parth to insist that he pay us a visit.”

“He won’t come,” North said, startled. “He hates balls.”

“And he dislikes Lavinia with a passion. What’s more, the feeling is mutual,” his aunt said, looking delighted.

“Then why . . .”

“For interest, my dear boy. To liven things up around here.”

“I asked Diana to marry me again, and she refused.”

“I thought as much.” His aunt rose and touched his arm, in fleeting sympathy. “Frankly, darling, she’s not fitted for the role. I’ve never seen a woman more at the mercy of her impulses. If Diana took on the title, she’d have to change. I worry she’d be flattened.”

North cursed silently. His aunt was right, of course.

What had he done, making love to Diana last night? He had thought he could change her mind. If she realized she loved him, she would agree—but that wasn’t good enough.

His aunt was right.

The idea presented itself with some force. The rebellious, loyal, stubborn Diana whom he’d come to know?

She wouldn’t want to open the townhouse in London for eight months of the year to host elegant dinners for political allies and opponents, as Ophelia did. Or if she did, she’d probably have the politicians shouting at each other within half an hour.

These weren’t the things he had lectured her about when they were betrothed. He had talked about knotty problems of etiquette, such as how to respond if a member of the royal family was profoundly drunk.

It wasn’t as if he couldn’t understand her reluctance to be a duchess. Cold hopelessness had replaced his grief after Horatius died. Back when he remembered how to sleep, he used to have fitful dreams about the estates, the Duchy of Lindow, the House of Lords, the hundreds of dependents. Not to mention the beautiful, clean lines of the houses he had dreamed of designing.

He had to let her go. He loved her too much to snare her in the same trap he was mired in.

“Mr. Calico was in the village,” he said. “I bought you a present.”

His aunt clapped her hands. “Oh, that’s wonderful!” She untied the twine wrapped around brown paper, revealing a length of glimmering blue silk.

North had the sudden impulse to snatch it back from her and give it to its rightful owner.

His aunt stroked her hand over the shining threads. “What a beautiful piece,” she said. Then she looked back at North. “My dear nephew, this fabric will never suit me.”

“Why not?” North asked, keeping it short because obviously he’d made a mess of things.

“It’s for the young. This silk is meant to flutter and flow around delightful feminine curves. It’s meant to drive men mad. That is not an honor to which I ever aspired.”

North cracked a smile, despite himself. “Aunt Knowe, if you wished to make men mad, you could certainly do so.”

“Yes, I think I agree,” his aunt said, grinning back. “I oversee the medicinal herb garden after all, and you’d be surprised how a pinch of henbane can scramble the wits. My point is that you didn’t buy this cloth for me.”

She pushed it toward him.

North sighed. “Perhaps I should give it to Lavinia.”

“You could always cut it in half, the way Solomon threatened to do with the baby.” His aunt rose, her eyes dancing with laughter. “I shall be most interested to see who appears in a silk gown at the ball.”

His aunt was built along such generous lines that North scarcely had to bend his head to give her a buss on the cheek. “Are you certain that you don’t wish to fashion it into a gown for yourself?”

“Absolutely,” she replied. “Willa will be so sorry to have missed all these interesting developments! I shall have to write her daily now that Lavinia has arrived.”

“I can’t imagine what you write about,” North said.

“Certainly not about my personal life. I attempted a diary once, and had to fill it with lies in order to keep myself interested.”

North burst out laughing.

“I shall write of you,” his aunt said. “You and darling Diana and the lovely Lavinia. And Parth, of course.”





Chapter Sixteen




Fitzy’s new mate didn’t care for her leash. The bird kept flapping its wings, very nearly jerking Diana’s arms from their sockets. Even worse, Mrs. Fitzy tried to peck Artie, which led to Godfrey hitting it on the beak with his toy horse.

After that, Diana kept the children well away. By the time they got back to the castle, they were all hot and tired. Artie and Godfrey were gray from head to foot because Mrs. Fitzy liked to stop and scratch the ground, sending billows of dust into the air.

The only clean spots on Artie’s face were the two tearful streaks leading from her eyes to her chin.

As they made their way into the courtyard, the door was opened by Prism. His eyes moved from Artie to Godfrey to Diana . . . to Mrs. Fitzy. “Goodness me!”

Artie trudged forward. “Mr. Prism,” she said, sniveling a little bit. “I’m tired.” She leaned her dusty cheek against his immaculate white stockings.

Prism bent down and picked her up. “I assume that this bird is an addition to the castle aviary?”