Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(73)

“I am curious about the key to my personality, the key to making me fall in love.”

She glanced up at him, shamed to the bottom of her soul. North had been direct and honest with her, and she had been nothing but devious. It made her feel ill, because her mother’s pressure was no excuse. She had been, and was, a grown woman.

“Diana?”

His voice was agreeable, but it held the undertone of a future duke. A man to whom few people would say no. She owed him the truth.

“My mother decided that the dominant trait in your personality is protectiveness,” she said. “You lost your older brother, under circumstances that were preventable.”

His face closed tight, jaw locked.

“She judged that since you had been in the vicinity when Horatius became inebriated and made his reckless bet, you would blame yourself. Everyone said that you were actually not in the room, nor, in fact, even in the tavern, but she thought proximity would add to your urge to protect.”

“I was upstairs in the inn with a cheerful woman with blond hair,” he said, voice utterly emotionless. “To this day, I dislike yellow hair.”

She nodded, reached out, and took his hand. “That is why she reasoned that you were likely to find me appealing.”

“Your red hair?”

“Absolutely not. She hated my hair. She thought you would be likely to respond to a woman who was uncertain of her place in society. Your protective instincts would be aroused. Indeed, you did spend a good deal of time trying to teach me to be less—”

She stopped. Started again. “Not less, but more: more aristocratic. All those lessons on being a duchess.”

“Your mother was wrong.”

“It went exactly as she predicted. The second time we danced together, I confessed that someone had made an unkind remark based on my parentage, or more specifically, on my grandfather.”

His brows knit.

“You were determined to bring me to the highest ranks, proving them wrong and protecting me against criticism. So you told yourself that you were in love with me. It didn’t hurt that I dressed and looked precisely like a duchess in a French painting. Also, I never disagreed with you, only raised subjects of interest to you, and on the surface at least, gratefully accepted your advice.”

“I was a complete ass,” he growled.

She shook her head. “You were a man whose impulse toward kindness was taken advantage of.”

“Now shall I tell you what I remember about that evening?” His voice was gentle, not angry, not bitter.

“No.” She realized that she was clutching his hand and let go, but his fingers tightened and he grabbed her other hand as well.

“The height of your wig did not serve as an attraction; rather, it was your laugh. Your eyes danced, and your bottom lip was the color of a peony. I had already noticed you a few weeks before, as I told you. But at the next ball I attended after first seeing you—now dressed by Boodle—I watched you for a while before I asked for an introduction. Lavinia was making you laugh. I think she was probably telling you bawdy jokes.”

Diana felt her cheeks growing pink. Lavinia had been telling her about a private toy that one of her ancestors had made for his wife. Bigger than Lavinia’s forearm, or so she had said.

“You were watching?”

He nodded. “Care to share the joke?”

“No,” Diana said hastily. “That is . . . no.”

“I searched out our hostess and asked for an introduction.”

Her eyes flew to his.

“Mrs. Belgrave’s machinations were uncalled for.” His voice was tender, his eyes anything but. They were fierce, but a ferocity that had nothing to do with her mother’s schemes.

“Oh!” Diana said, idiotically.

His eyes drifted from her forehead all the way to her toes. When they met hers again, they were on fire. “All she had to do was put you in front of me.”

“A waste of research and coin, in that case. If only Mother had known that all she needed was my bosom and my red hair.”

His face was not elegant or foppish. It was harsh and masculine but for his eyes, which were caressing her. He bent his head over hers, his lips brushing her mouth. “I wanted you from the moment I saw you. You didn’t let me see much of the true Diana, but I saw enough. I would make myself into a dandy for you all over again, if you wished.”

“I’m sorry that I wouldn’t be good as a duchess,” she said, whispering it against his chest.

“I know.” His voice rumbled from his chest. “You’re far too spontaneous, and you don’t even understand how to distinguish male from female peafowl. That’s requisite biology for everyone who might own a castle someday.”

“Recognizing peacocks is not the same as joining the highest ranks of the peerage. Being watched by crowds of people, judged, and tallied for what you are not doing correctly.”

“A duchess is at the top of society,” North said, nodding. “She leads and others follow.”

“The idea of people looking up to me like that is terrible. I would—I would do things wrong.”

He paused for a moment. “I shall ask you again. The third time.” He didn’t have to add that if she refused him, there would be no fourth time.

“Will you be my duchess, Diana? To have and to hold, in good times and ill, as long as we both shall live?”