Chapter 6
The wedding went off perfectly, even the reception afterward at Rosa’s parents’ home.
Diana had been nervous about this, for Coniston Hall was a farmhouse.
It was a large farmhouse belonging to a prosperous gentleman farmer, but still, it lacked spacious rooms intended for entertaining, especially rooms intended for entertaining the nobility.
She’d offered Arradale, of course, but everyone had refused. The general opinion, in typical northern fashion, was that the grand Malloren family must take them as they were.
And the grand Malloren family had. The wedding finery had been nicely judged for the occasion, and they mixed comfortably with all.
They were even joining in the country dancing in the cleared and decorated barn, cheerfully welcoming any and all partners.
She herself had partnered the vicar, Squire Hobwick, Rosa’s brother-in-law Harold Davenport, and her own estate manager, all the while itched by a wish that the marquess would appear and ask for a dance.
She still felt him as a dark threat, but also as a teasing, tantalizing promise.
“If you ever change your mind, my lady …”
For a mercy, he did not appear, and when she returned to the bustling house seeking refreshment, she saw him sitting with some local gentlemen in the paneled parlor. She felt an absurd urge to rescue him, to drag him out to the more youthful amusements. He was not a staid older man.
She pushed the notion away—she must stop thinking of him all the time!
—and joined the ladies on the other side of the parlor where a maid was serving gingered lemon water.
Held in ice from the Arradale icehouse, the drink was deliciously cool.
Diana sipped and tried to fix herself on the talk around her, but it was mostly of husbands and children, and her mind and eyes kept drifting toward Lord Rothgar.
He was making no attempt to be one of the locals. Of course. He would never attempt anything so foolish any more than she would. Apart from that distancing aura which always surrounded him, everyone here knew his rank and powers. He was not trumpeting his rank either, however.
He’d chosen clothing of a lighter shade—a suit of buff-colored cloth which nicely suggested country pursuits while the cut and elegant braiding rang of fashionable London.
The ruffles at throat and wrist were moderate and of fine linen rather than lace, but that in itself set him apart.
The local men, dressed in their best, were more ostentatious but not at all more fine.
Most of the men wore powdered wigs, but then most of them kept to the old fashion of shaven head and wig all the time.
It was easier than wearing their own hair long, and hid the thinning hair of passing years.
Lord Rothgar, in fact all the Malloren men, kept their own hair, and for this occasion they had all chosen to do without a wig or powder.
A pleasantly informal touch, and yet again it set them apart. Of course, they were fortunate to all have excellent heads of hair.
Strong, she thought, considering the marquess’s dark hair, waving back from his high brow to be tied neatly with a black bow at his nape. Loose it might spring beneath the fingers …
She turned back to demand another glass of the icy cold drink, and even pressed it for a moment against her cheek trying to block him from her mind.
After a moment or two, however, she couldn’t help but glance back.
The honest truth was that assessing the eminent marquess as to his points was far too much fun to forgo.
Strong lines to his face, too, though with an elegance of bone that took any heaviness from it. Long straight nose and a fine arch over the eye emphasized by dark, well-shaped brows.
Eyes set a little deep, which perhaps gave them that sense of power. Dark lashes, too, of course, which also drew attention to the eyes. A mouth that could look cold, but bracketed by creases that deepened with his occasional restrained but strangely alluring smiles.
The conversation among the men suddenly settled to an argument between two others and he glanced around.
Hastily, Diana looked back at the ladies, feeling her face heat.
Had she been quick enough, or did he know she’d been staring at him?
Someone did. Rosa, who’d joined the group without her being aware of it, gave her a thoughtful look.
Plague take the man. And plague take her for sliding into such folly. It was the wedding. Weddings were not good for the nerves of a woman resolved on lifelong chastity.
Rosa strolled over, beaded glass in hand. “If you keep looking at the man like that,” she said quietly, “you’ll stir rumors.”
“Don’t be silly.”
Rosa drew her away a little from the other women. “Elf has already asked me a couple of oblique questions.”
“About me and the marquess? How peculiar.”
This was Rosa, however, who knew her far too well to be deceived. Diana led the way out of the door and down the corridor toward open air.
“He’s a fascinating man,” Rosa said when they were outside. “And handsome—if one admires a finely-made blade.”
Diana stopped to face her. “That’s not fair. There’s more to him than a weapon.” When her cousin’s brows rose, she cursed her impulsive tongue. “Perdition, Rosa, I just feel sorry for him.”
“Sorry …” Rosa echoed. “For the Marquess of Rothgar?”
“You’re as bad as the rest! I thought you said he was the one who sorted out your problems and made this all happen. You should be grateful.”
“I am, but—”
“Yes he’s brilliant, elegant, and carries England in the cup of his hand, but …” Knowing she was going to regret her words Diana still couldn’t stop. “He’s alone, Rosa. Don’t you see that? He’s created a loving family, but he’s not part of it—”
“Of course he is.”
“Well, yes. But not as a brother. Not quite. And his mother’s madness means he won’t create a family of his own. You must see how that resonates with me. I have no siblings, and I will never have a family.”
“There’s nothing to stop—”
Diana waved that aside. “His gifts, his powers, must set him apart from other men. How many men in England feel truly at ease with him? And how many can he allow himself to be at ease with?”
Rosa was studying her with a frown. “But the marquess knows everyone, and is known everywhere. He can’t go down the street in London without being recognized.”
Diana knew the “delights” of that. Doubtless he, like she, even had his face on inn-signs. True, the picture of her hanging outside the Countess of Arradale Inn in Ripon wasn’t an excellent likeness, but it was close enough. She could not go anywhere in the north in private.
Unless she adopted a disguise, she thought, remembering the time last year when she’d played the part of Rosa’s spotty maid. When she met the Marquess of Rothgar for the first time—
She snapped herself out of that. “What of his more intimate friends?”
And what of mine? echoed inside, as she made herself move, strolling back to the barn and the dancing.
Yes, she too had a wide acquaintance, and was recognized all over these parts, but who could she count as a true friend? Only Rosa, who today was taking up a new life that must surely absorb her interest.
“He does have a magnificent mistress.”
Diana’s heart missed a beat, but she instantly recovered. “He doesn’t worry about passing on his madness through her?”
“Rumor says she is barren.”
“Convenient.” Diana realized that yet again she was wrapped up in the marquess and his affairs. It seemed like a thorny thicket, snagging her whichever way she turned.
“She’s very striking, too,” Rosa was saying. “In a foreign style.”
Something suddenly struck Diana. “Are you saying the Mallorens introduced you to her? To a member of the demimonde?”
“Of course not. I really shouldn’t have called her his mistress. It’s only hinted at. She’s a scholar and poet who holds select salons. I went to one with Brand.”
A scholar and poet. Though well-educated, Diana was neither of those things. A painful little knot formed inside her, and she had the dreadful feeling that it might be jealousy.
Obsessive curiosity was bad enough. Jealousy would be the final ridiculous straw!
“A formidable mind?” she asked, only because she had to say something. “So that is what draws the marquess to a woman.”
They had reached the big open doors to the barn, where merry dance music greeted them. “They certainly seem to have a great deal in common,” Rosa said. “Elegance. Intellect. They both seem as self-sufficient as silky, aristocratic cats.”
“Cats?” Diana queried in surprise. “Hard to imagine Lord Rothgar sprawled bonelessly on someone’s lap purring.”
Rosa smothered a hoot of laughter. “Oh, I don’t know. He must be human once in a while.”
Diana forced a grin, but she knew she was blushing. Comments like that made her sharply aware of how little she really knew of the business of intimacy.
Men sprawled on laps? Purring?
Lord Rothgar?
She couldn’t help trying to imagine it, but despite having read books of the most explicit kind, she failed. All the same, as an imaginary notion, it swirled in her brain …
Flute, fiddle, and drum rang around her, and within the barn happy couples skipped up and down lines.
Other people sat around chatting, and she glimpsed quite a few young couples in quiet corners stealing a moment for courting conversation or even kisses.
One swain rubbed his head against his companion’s in a movement that was strangely catlike—
“Curiosity satisfied?” Rosa asked.
“I’m not curious,” Diana instinctively protested, but then pulled a face. There was no hiding it. Seeing a group of young children, she allowed herself one more indulgence. “I saw him with his little nephew.”
“Remarkable, isn’t it? Even shocking in a way. Like seeing an infant with a tiger. But he seems genuinely fond of them all.”