Chapter 6 #2
Martin and Georgina came after, Martin’s easy smile masking the alertness in his eyes, Georgina’s hands folded demurely before her.
Diana felt relief flood her so swiftly she almost swayed.
“Ah,” Lady Salford exclaimed with pleasure. “Reinforcements.”
Lady Pennington peered at Emma curiously. “And you are—?”
Emma opened her mouth to reply, but Diana stepped forward quickly, a polite smile already settling into place. If the dowagers began dissecting her friends as they had just dissected her, the conversation would turn tiresome very quickly.
“Allow me,” she said smoothly. “Lady Pennington, may I present the Marquess and Marchioness of Pentbury, Benjamin and Emma Kinsley?”
Emma inclined her head with practiced grace.
“And here as well,” Diana continued, gesturing lightly toward the other couple, “are Baron and Baroness Tilbridge, Martin and Georgina Hyatt.”
She felt Alexander’s attention sharpen slightly beside her. The titles would help him, she knew; at least this way, he would not be forced into the awkwardness of guessing.
“Above all,” Emma added, then with calm composure. “I am Her Grace’s friend.”
Her emphasis was subtle but unmistakable, and warmth stirred in Diana’s chest at the quiet loyalty in the words.
“A devoted one,” Benjamin added with cheerful earnestness. “We are rarely permitted to neglect the Duchess.”
A few of the dowagers hummed approvingly.
“How comforting,” Lady Pennington remarked. “A young wife requires vigilant companions, particularly when her husband is touring everywhere.”
Emma’s smile sharpened almost imperceptibly. “Indeed,” she agreed. “Though I am pleased to see His Grace has returned.”
Her gaze landed squarely on Alexander. Diana felt the shift in him again, the faint narrowing of his eyes in assessment. He inclined his head courteously.
“Lady Pentbury,” he said. “I trust you have been… attentive to my wife.”
Emma’s brows lifted. “Impeccably so.”
The tension between them could have sliced silk.
Benjamin, blissfully unaware or simply ignoring the undercurrent, gestured toward Diana. “We were just discussing how admirably she has managed Rosewood in your absence, Your Grace. Quite the formidable duchess.”
“Formidable?” Lady Markham echoed with relish.
Alexander’s gaze moved to Diana, a warmth igniting there. “I have discovered that for myself,” he said.
Her pulse jumped traitorously.
Martin stepped forward with practiced ease, placing himself slightly nearer to Georgina as though by instinct. “We have all admired the Duchess’s composure,” he said pleasantly. “London can be… persistent.”
“London,” Lady Markham sniffed, “is merely curious.”
“Curiosity has teeth,” Emma returned sweetly.
A soft ripple of laughter circled the group again.
Georgina, who had been quiet until now, spoke in her gentle voice. “The Duchess never appeared distressed,” she said earnestly. “She was very brave.”
Lady Weatherford leaned forward, delighted by the growing circle. “How fortunate you all are,” she declared. “Such loyalty. Such devotion. It seems the Duchess has been surrounded by admirers.”
There it was. The insinuation, no matter how scrutinizing, was polished and pleasant. Diana felt Alexander’s thumb press slightly into her back, the only outward sign of reaction.
Martin’s smile did not falter, but his shoulders squared almost imperceptibly. “We admire strength,” he said evenly. “The Duchess possesses it in abundance.”
Alexander’s gaze snapped to him.
It was subtle, but Diana felt the tightening in the air between them. She wondered, fleetingly, whether some instinct remained in him, some unspoken awareness that Martin had been a far steadier presence in her life than her own husband.
The dowagers sighed with satisfaction, as though the evening had finally yielded a coherent narrative.
Emma did not wait. She stepped closer to Diana, her voice dropping. “What is happening?” she murmured, her eyes flicking to Alexander again, “and why are you allowing him to look as though he has devoured you in front of half the ton?”
Diana’s cheeks flared. Alexander’s thumb, traitorous thing, stroked once at her waist, and it took every ounce of discipline not to shiver.
She tilted her head toward Emma, forcing breeziness. “A little mystery is a duchess’ privilege.”
Emma took Diana’s hand with an air of ownership. “Come,” she said crisply. “I require a word.”
Diana hesitated, but Alexander’s hand slid from her waist to her fingers, catching them lightly—not stopping her, only holding for one heartbeat longer than necessary.
His gaze held hers. “Do not be long,” he murmured, and there was a low rumble in his tone that made her stomach coil.
Diana pulled her hand free before her face betrayed her and allowed Emma to steer her toward a quieter corner near a tall palm. The music swelled and dipped behind them. The crush of bodies felt distant, muffled.
Emma rounded on her the moment they were out of immediate earshot. “Now,” she said, her voice low and fierce, “tell me what madness has seized you.”
Diana’s laugh came out softer than she intended. “It is hardly madness.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Hardly? Diana, he is touching you as though he cannot help himself. You are looking at him as though you have forgotten you possess a spine. The Duke of Rosewood,” she added, the disbelief almost comical, “is standing there like a man who enjoys being teased by widows.”
Diana pressed her lips together because if she allowed herself to laugh too much, she might cry instead.
Emma’s gaze sharpened further, seeing through the humor at once. “What has he done?”
Diana’s throat tightened. There were too many answers. He had kissed her. He had looked at her like that. He had made her remember that she was young and hungry and not as indifferent as she pretended.
And he had done it whilst still not being the man who had left her. That was the most unbearable part.
For a fleeting moment, she almost told Emma everything. The truth pressed painfully against her ribs—the accident, the lost memories, the strange, impossible man who now looked at her as though they were smitten newlyweds.
But the secret was not hers to share. It belonged to Alexander, whether she liked it or not.
Diana leaned in, closer, so Emma would not have to strain. “It is for Lady Salford,” she whispered.
Emma blinked. “Lady Salford?”
“His grandmother,” Diana murmured. “She has been unwell for years. You know that she missed our wedding. She had never met me before. She is… lively, and affectionate, and she would be crushed if she believed our marriage was as it truly is.”
Emma’s brows knitted. “And what is it truly?”
Diana’s body answered before her mind could, heat sliding low and shameful through her belly. She remembered the drag of Alexander’s thumb at her waist, the weight of his gaze on her mouth, the way he had called himself a fool as if regret lived in his throat.
She forced herself to breathe.
The orchestra shifted, a new song rising, bold and unmistakable. The first notes of a waltz unfurled across the ballroom like a ribbon, and a collective murmur passed through the crowd as couples began to turn.
His voice reached her, calm and certain, and Diana’s stomach dipped. “Duchess.”
Diana turned. He was standing too close. His eyes were on her face, steady and intent, and the waltz music seemed to thread itself through her ribs.
Emma’s posture stiffened beside her like a protective wall.
“Will you grant me the first dance?” he asked, his voice a low, velvet command that vibrated through her spine.
Diana’s mouth went dry.
The ballroom felt suddenly, blindingly bright, a shimmering trap of gold leaf and judgmental eyes. Diana could feel the weight of a hundred gazes pressing against her skin, the dowagers leaning forward like vultures scenting a change in the wind.
Behind them, Lady Salford appeared at Alexander’s shoulder, a triumphant sprite in silk and lace.
“Oh, yes,” the Dowager beamed, her eyes shining with the success of her meddling. “Go on, you two. The orchestra is beginning the waltz. Show them.”
Alexander didn’t look at his grandmother. His focus was a singular, burning point of contact that pinned Diana where she stood.
“Diana.”
The sound of her name in his mouth sent a treacherous, liquid heat pooling deep in her abdomen, making her knees feel dangerously soft beneath the layers of her silver skirts.
She forced herself to nod, her breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches that made her corset feel like a vice.
“Yes,” she whispered, the word barely a ghost of a sound. “Very well.”
She reached out, and as her fingers met his, Alexander didn’t just take her hand; he gripped it, pulling her toward him until she was forced to step into the radiating heat of his body.
The orchestra struck the first, sweeping chord of the waltz, and the room seemed to fall away into a blur of meaningless color.