Chapter Eleven #2
Mrs. Helford did not display her usual vigor as she climbed the steps with the aid of a footman and a silver-headed cane. Going to her side, Kieran dismissed the servant and offered his arm.
The twinkle in her eyes remained undimmed. “I never refuse the chance to walk with a handsome young man.”
He chuckled. Here was one in-law he sincerely welcomed. “We shall do everything in our power to make you comfortable, ma’am.”
In the drawing room, Kieran introduced the elderly woman and helped her to a comfortable chair. His father-in-law had already buried himself in a periodical, while Mrs. Quinn and Iona had already locked horns.
“Here is your tea, Kieran.” Iona handed him a porcelain cup and saucer. “You’re just in time to hear our guest expound upon several unusual theories of interior decoration.”
Amalthea nibbled on a watercress sandwich. “Having lived in a backwater for several years, one can hardly expect Lady William to be au courant with the most fashionable styles.”
“Fortunately, persons of quality have no need to follow the whims of the lower classes.” She offered a small plate to her newfound adversary. “Scone?”
Seated on a sofa nearby, Diantha focused her gaze on the floor, just as she had during their betrothal. His heart sank. Hoping to ease her discomfort, Kieran took the seat next to her. She said nothing, but edged infinitesimally closer to him.
Strolling toward the gallery before dinner, Diantha gave thanks that no one else would arrive before the following afternoon.
Kieran’s refusal to accept anything but physical intimacy in their marriage devastated her, and she had thrown herself into the house party preparations as a way to numb her aching heart.
Her anger at her husband had dissipated. The tortured expression on his face when he had apologized for not wanting an emotional attachment between them still haunted her. She wished that she knew how to reach him.
He had relaxed in her company since then, even asking to join her in bed one night.
Horrified by the realization that she craved his touch like an opium-eater’s desire for his drug, she had tried to detach her feelings from their coupling.
Although her climax left her limp and breathless, the experience ultimately lacked the intensity she yearned for.
Now, with nothing more to plan and in the face of her family’s usual indifference, she needed a respite to gain control over her jumbled emotions.
She found everyone else already gathered in the long room. Abashed at her tardiness, she stammered an apology.
Kieran, with the rest of the men, had risen to his feet as she entered.
Now he came toward her. “Your regrets are unfounded, my dear. We have several minutes before dinner. Your family has asked what activities are devised for their visit. As the one who took charge, you are entitled to their thanks.”
Some of the tension across her shoulders eased at the approval in his voice. He had shown no rancor since their harrowing conversation ten days ago. Just the opposite, he treated her with a cordiality that their relationship had previously lacked.
He just couldn’t—or didn’t want to—give her what she wanted most.
Meanwhile her mother regarded her with a furrowed brow. “That gown isn’t from your trousseau.”
Diantha groaned inwardly. She had selected the ensemble of bright blue sarcenet and taffeta because the color cheered her up. Trimmed with black lace instead of the predictable white or pink, it also helped her feel pretty and elegant.
“I purchased it from Monsieur Worth during our stay in Paris.” As things stood with Kieran, she could not bring herself to utter the word honeymoon.
Mama sniffed. “Blue is so insipid.”
“Monsieur Worth selected it for me.” Diantha’s bland comment spiked her mother’s guns until dinner was underway. Mrs. Quinn eventually rallied, however, and addressed Kieran over the entrees.
“Mr. Quinn and I were surprised, to say the least, when we arrived in London only to find you had left weeks before the Season ended.” She accepted a portion of the chicken offered to her, then peered at it suspiciously. “Er, what might this be?”
“Chicken stovie.” Diantha and MacAdam had included at least one traditional Scottish dish in each dinner menu. She took a bite of parsley-covered potato.
At her right, her father sampled some from his plate. “Very nice. I wouldn’t mind having this at home.”
“Mr. Quinn, it contains entire slices of onions.” Her mother ate a morsel of chicken after examining it for any trace of the dreaded vegetable. Then she returned her attention to Kieran.
“I fear my digression interrupted you, dear Lord Rossburn. I suppose you have an explanation for leaving the gaieties of the Season before it ended.”
“No.” He regarded her with half-closed eyes. “Why would I need one?”
“We expected to spend at least part of the Season with our daughter during her first months as a peeress.”
Diantha’s hand clenched around her fork. Her parents had evidently not milked enough attention from the marriage they had engineered.
“After months of being away from my home, London held little interest for me.” Kieran drawled the words with every evidence of boredom.
Papa harrumphed. “And what about our daughter, sir? As her parents, we are entitled to her company when we want it.”
“Ah, but the law gave that privilege to me upon my marriage.”
Livid at being argued over like a parcel, Diantha confined most of her conversation for the rest of the evening to Barclay.
Her sense of ill-use lasted to the next day.
The weather did not help, turning to a chill mist that veiled the distant hills.
She ordered a fire built in the winter salon, a comfortable room lined with golden oak.
Iona grumbled about lowered standards at Duncarie, but wasted no time availing herself of a seat near the fire.
Granny had already settled into a wing chair opposite with an oldfashioned lapdesk.
Kieran entered shortly afterward. “Jarrard said everyone had gathered here. A capital idea on such a dreich day.”
“If that means dismal, yes, I thought it would be cheerier to welcome people here.” Diantha did not look up from her needlepoint.
Her brothers, playing a listless game of backgammon in the corner, greeted him more enthusiastically.
“I say, old boy!” Thomas’s poor imitation of a British accent grated on her ears. “Rotten weather today, isn’t it? I hoped to go out for a day’s shooting. Maybe we’ll have better luck tomorrow.”
“Grouse season commences on August twelfth.” Kieran smiled, but his voice brooked no argument.
Thomas chuckled. “What’s a day or five early matter when you’re the landowner? It’s not as though anyone is going to turn you in.”
Barclay entered in time to hear both men.
“Shooting before the twelfth is out of the question. It’s not done.
” He sauntered over to the table at Diantha’s elbow and picked up a book.
As he sat down across from her, he mouthed “my sympathies.” She bent farther over her canvas so no one would see her struggle not to laugh.
Kieran overrode her brother’s protest. “I fear the matter is closed.”
As Papa’s favorite, Tom normally got what he wanted after a minimum of teasing. She would have to watch his mood now, for he often lost his temper when balked.
Kieran frowned as his glance fell on Barclay in the chair nearest to Diantha. Changing course, he moved to sit down near her grandmother. “And who are you writing to, Mrs. Helford?”
“The Dowager Comtesse de Pontrevault.” She blotted her letter. “She’s invited me to winter with her in the south of France and sends you her love, Dina.”
Iona and Barclay’s jaws dropped. Diantha pushed her needle into the canvas. The day might not be as bad as she dreaded.
That day’s guests lived nearer than Aberdeen and arrived after luncheon. The maligned Cousin Francesca proved a particularly pleasant surprise. Instead of the middle-aged dragon conjured by Iona and Barclay, a woman of perhaps twenty-eight years swept into the hall on Kieran’s arm.
“Thank you so much for inviting me, Lady Ross-burn. Kieran has never snubbed me, but I did not know if you would be willing to have a mere colonel’s widow under your roof.” She accompanied the words with a dazzling smile.
Diantha liked her at once. “As the daughter of a mere ‘mister,’ I can hardly object.”
“You’re very kind.” She removed her mantle, bonnet, and gloves, handing them to Jarrard. She wore a neat poplin gown in the gray of half-mourning.
The butler bowed. “If I may say, it is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Francesca.”
“I am delighted to visit Duncarie again after so many years. But I prefer to be called Mrs. Urquhart.”
“Lady Francesca?” Diantha looked from her to Kieran.
“My father is the Earl of Turbury.” Her lips thinned. “He cast me off when I eloped with the man I loved and refused all contact with me even after my poor William was killed five years ago.”
“Iona and Barclay are doubtless having palpitations at this moment.” Kieran chuckled. “However, my mother wishes to see you during your stay.”
“They have never found me sufficiently servile.” She and Diantha fell into step behind Kieran. “I do hope you stand up to them.”
While Iona made no secret of her disapproval, she did not cause any ugly scenes in front of the other guests.
Two days later, her glacial calm cracked as she hastily entered the drawing room. Several ladies had enjoyed a lively game of lawn tennis and now occupied themselves with gossip and fashion periodicals.
“Diantha, there is a tradesman in the front hall! And he is opening several crates that he insists are paintings and are nothing but blots! Send him about his business at once!”
“Splendid!” Diantha brushed past her and scurried to the main stairway as quickly as one could in a bustle and corset. She paused at the landing that overlooked the entry hall and grinned.