The hope in her eyes tonight, even amidst her consternation and worry, told him that she would not be easily deterred. She believed him a good man, a man worthy of her steadfast heart. And so, although it would be the most difficult task he had ever set himself to, in the morning he would prove to her that he was not.
Chapter 27
Too excited to sleep properly, Diantha awoke to gray splotches beneath her eyes. The maid insisted on cucumber slices, and she submitted, though since Wyn had seen her looking far worse, she hardly thought it mattered.
Still, when the maid arranged her hair carefully and fastened her into a pale yellow muslin gown with rosebuds across the skirt, she smiled. In the glass she looked almost like a London lady, except for the bright anticipation in her eyes, which after nearly three weeks in town she knew wasn’t the least bit sophisticated.
Sophistication could go rot! He would come, he would make her a formal offer, and somehow they would convince Tracy not to be such a horse’s ass.
Serena and Alex had returned home close to dawn and did not appear for breakfast. Diantha poked at her food, but she had no appetite except for the man she was about to see.
The clock was striking half past ten and she was picking out yet another botched stitch from her embroidery frame and endeavoring to ignore the snoring of the maid in the corner when the door opened and a footman announced, “Mr. Yale,” sending her heart into her slippers and stomach into her throat.
He entered, hat and riding crop in hand and glancing about the parlor offered her an elegant bow. “Good day, ma’am.”
She could not wait for him to cross the room. She sprang up and went to him.
“I forgot to ask you last night, how are Mrs. Polley, and Owen, and Ramses? How I miss them. It seems an age since I have seen them.”
“Softhearted minx.” He smiled, but the smile did not reach his eyes. The silver seemed dimmed this morning. Rather, shrouded. “They are fine as can be in the wilds of nowhere.” He tossed his hat and crop onto a chair and sat down in the chair beside it, crossing his legs loosely and hanging an arm over his knee. Despite the casual pose, he was beautiful in the angular, masculine way that made her heartbeats falter. He wore a carefully tailored black coat and trousers and snowy white linens, but his waistcoat was of burgundy silk.
“You do look very well,” she said when he didn’t speak and his gaze traveled about the room again with mild interest, passing over the maid then the open door at which the footman lingered. “The wilds of nowhere seem to have been beneficial to you these past weeks.”
“Bucolic rustication does wonders for the constitution,” he mumbled, his attention finally coming to her. Then it dropped to her bodice. “Town life is much to be preferred, however.”
She tried to laugh. “I don’t know that I agree with you. London is interesting, but it is always so busy. I think I prefer the country.” In the country he hadn’t looked at her like this, staring and yet seeming to look right through her. She glanced at the maid, then back at him, and lowered her voice. “Stop staring at my bosom. It is unnerving me.”
“Your nerves are my fondest friends, Diantha. I have been obliged to conquer them any number of times in order to get on with business.”
Her throat thickened. “Wyn?”
He looked back toward the door. “Is the family awake?”
“Not yet. But—”
He patted the arm of his chair. “Then I recommend you make haste to this chair, Miss Lucas.”
“That chair? The chair you are sitting in?” She wanted him to kiss her. She wanted to twine herself about him and let him take her to heaven like he had at the abbey. But this was wrong. Now his eyes were hooded, his gaze again on her body.
“Come now. Will you turn missish after all? I hadn’t imagined it of you, minx. But some girls will hold out until the ring is on the finger, whatever’s come before, I suppose.” He looked away, this time to the window, and gestured languidly with a hand.
Diantha’s knees felt weak and she was obliged to grip the back of a chair. “Wyn, what is going on?”
His attention slewed back to her, abruptly focused and—like in Knighton—predatory. He stood up and, with a slight sway, bowed.
“You required my attendance this morning, Miss Lucas. I am here.” A wolfish grin crooked his mouth. “I’ll admit that after your eagerness last night I was supposing you would make it worth my while.”
She backed away, stomach tight, imagining perhaps that she dreamed and would at any moment waken. But her dreams last night had been gorgeous, and this was ugly. In the corner the maid, fully awake now, stared with saucer eyes.
“Did—” Diantha pressed words past the knot in her throat. “Did you come here this morning to offer for me?”
He laughed. “I said I would. And why not?” Now his eyes did not seem to focus, dipping again to her breasts. “You’re a remarkably pretty girl, Diantha Lucas. A man would be fortunate to have you in his bed every night.”
She pressed her hands to her belly, her face flaming hot. “You are drunk.”
“I may be.” He lifted his brows and nodded. “Probably am, in fact.”
“I—I thought you meant to . . .” It hurt, in the pit of her stomach, but so much greater even than the hurt of his lies before. She tried to press it in, to be the lady she knew she must. She should ask him to leave and to return when he was sober. She should ask him to leave and never return. But she could not. She loved him. Oh, God, she loved him. “It—It isn’t even noon yet,” she uttered.
“Just saying to the fellows at the club last night that you’re a clever girl. A lady who can tell time is to be admired.” He nodded in mock admiration.
“You were speaking about me? At your club? When you had been drinking, after—” A sob clogged her throat. But she could not cry. Would not.
“Not precisely my club, if you’ll have the truth of it,” he mumbled. Another grin ticked up his lips. “More of a French convent. As it were.” He winked.
A choke of misery escaped her.
“There now, my girl. Can’t get a man all worked up then expect him to whistle his way to sleep without satisfaction, can you?” He shrugged.
She pressed her fingertips to her eyes and found that, despite her resolve, tears had already come. “This cannot be happening.” She had berated herself for her infatuation. She had worried she was not enough of an elegant lady to hold his interest. She had suffered over his lies, and hers. But she’d spent her days wondering and anguishing over all the wrong things. She saw this now. Too late.
“Now, don’t cry, minx,” she heard him say from across the room. “A man’s bound to drink a bit too much when he’s with his friends. If you like, I won’t once the vows are said. Only on Sundays, that is. Now there, how’s that for a promise?” His voice seemed oddly hoarse but her tears were coming too heavily for her to see him clearly.
“I will cry if I must.” She searched for her handkerchief. “And you will stand there and watch me cry, Mr. Wyn Yale. You owe that much to me.”
“Don’t owe you anything but a ring, really.”
Her head shot up and she dashed away the cold wetness upon her cheeks. “You owed me your promise that you will fulfill the honor that is in you. But clearly you have failed in that.”
He stood without expression now, watching her. “Easy for a girl to speak of honor.”
“It is not. Do you know what I thought of you once? I thought that there could be no other man as gallant and honorable. But I was wrong.” Valiantly she swallowed back a sob, and it was like torture to Wyn. “You owe me yourself, but that is not what you are offering me now. I don’t wish to marry you. Not now. Not any longer.”
He had succeeded. With the clarity born of a sleepless night spent convincing himself that this must be done, Wyn watched her fight to contain her tears and ached to tell her the truth. But that was not what he had come
