Too Wilde to Wed (The Wildes of Lindow Castle, #2)(76)

No one really knew what it was like to be a duchess, or a duke, until one found oneself in the role. How hard it was to be fawned over any time one wasn’t in the midst of family.

How lonely it was.

Diana had a right to refuse that life.

On the fifth day, when he went to the nursery, planning to collect Godfrey for their daily trip to the stables, he found Diana in the schoolroom, mending a pair of children’s gloves. Her nephew sat on the floor nearby, silently playing with his toy horses.

“Godfrey has already been to the stables with Leonidas,” she said, barely glancing up at him. She was wearing a gown made of some sort of sheer purple fabric embroidered with violets at the hem. It must have been Lavinia’s, if only because Diana had tucked a fichu into the bodice. Lavinia flaunted her magnificent bosom and Diana hid hers.

“Those horses were mine and Alaric’s,” North said walking over and crouching beside Godfrey. “Aha, I remember this fine steed. His name is Christopher.” He held up a wooden horse with a faded red bridle and one splintered leg.

Godfrey shook his head.

“You gave him a different name?”

The boy looked at him.

“Of course you did.”

Godfrey plucked Christopher out of his hand and put him back in line with the other horses. They were all wearing little saddlebags, clumsily made.

“You made these saddlebags, didn’t you?” North asked Diana over his shoulder. “I think I recognize your flawless stitches from Artie’s doll’s nightdress.”

Diana sighed. “Sewing is not one of my accomplishments.”

North rose and went to her, thinking about wooden horses. He saw no reason not to give Godfrey the battered herd. He liked the idea of this solemn little boy taking a part of his childhood with him, wherever he went.

Godfrey leaving. Diana leaving.

This was hell: loving a woman so much that you would willingly die for her, yet letting her go.

Dante had it wrong when he put lovers into Hell in pairs. What was hellish about that? North would whirl endlessly in that high wind if he could hold Diana’s hand, comfort her, love her, protect her. He would wind himself around her so that she didn’t suffer.

“I am looking forward to dancing with you again,” he said, despite himself.

“I’m not the woman you danced with in London two years ago.”

No, she wasn’t. This woman had proud eyes and a mouth that looked as if she smiled frequently. He wanted her so much that his hands trembled with the instinct to pull her close.

He cleared his throat. “We danced well together, even if we rarely spoke.”

Diana looked up with a smile. “Yes, we did.”

North bowed.

The next day he returned to the nursery, because that was the whole point of Dante’s Hell: one was cursed to repeat the same thing, no matter how painful. Diana’s presence in the castle was like an itch he couldn’t reach. Damnably irritating. Always there, driving him mad.

He heard her laughing from outside the schoolroom, and something in him stilled and quieted. He entered, scowling at the thought.

Lavinia and Diana were seated on the sofa. Artie was asleep between them, her head on Diana’s lap. Lavinia was leaning over and whispering something in Diana’s ear. A bawdy jest, based on her impish expression.

If they heard him enter the room, they gave no sign. Lavinia’s silk dress billowed on either side of her, trailing on the floor. Pearls were wound in her hair, and her bosom was displayed like fruit on a platter.

Diana wore the same purple gown she had worn the day before. It flattered her complexion and made it glow with the pale perfection of moonlight. Her russet hair was unpowdered, but an elegant curl fell over one shoulder. Her eyes shone with laughter, her cheekbones marked not by rouge but a natural flush.

It was no wonder that he’d seen her across the ballroom and instantly wanted to marry her—before he knew that she was loyal, intelligent, and brave.

Diana had given up everything for her sister. Never having met Rose, North couldn’t say whether she deserved it. But Diana would have been completely loyal to her sister anyway, because that’s how she loved someone.

She hadn’t given her heart to North—as everyone in the kingdom knew—but presumably she would give it to another man, one day. He stood staring at the two women, contemplating the death of a man he didn’t know, when Lavinia looked up.

She held out a hand, smiling. He came closer and bowed before them, kissing the back of Lavinia’s hand. “Good afternoon, ladies.”

Diana murmured a greeting and looked down at Artie.

“We have been contemplating the difficulties of herding gentlemen,” Lavinia said, with a husky chuckle.

Godfrey dashed over, and North swooped him into the air and put him on his shoulders. “Ladies,” he said, “we men will leave you to your discussion.”

From on high, Godfrey caught a handful of North’s hair and squealed.

North took the boy to the stables where they visited each horse, stroking its nose, feeding it a handful of grain. He returned the boy to the nursery only when Godfrey started knuckling his eyes.

Godfrey went straight to Diana and collapsed into her lap. “You’re tired,” she crooned.

North should have left then, but he didn’t. He sank onto the sofa and watched as Diana washed Godfrey’s face and then put him down for a nap. The little boy snuggled down, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.