When the Duke Found Love (12 page)

“He is a little stout,” Sheffield admitted, thinking how Jamie, Lord Pennington, was clearly destined to be a stalwart in the House of Lords with his magnificent gift for stating the obvious. “You may pet him if you wish. That’s what he’s begging for.”

Bravely Jamie reached down and began scrubbing hard at Fantôme’s barrel-shaped side. His sister joined him, doing the same, while Fantôme groaned with pleasure.

But the younger boy, Georgie, Lord Fitzcharles, hung back beside the nursemaid and leisurely worked one finger inside his nose.

“Ball,” he said finally. “My ball. Doggie has
my
ball!”

“Oh, Georgie,” Charlotte said with dismay. “I believe that ball belongs to the doggie now.”

“No!” wailed Georgie, turning shrill. “My ball! Want my ball!”

“Fantôme will give it back,” Sheffield said, bending down again beside the dog. “Drop it, Fantôme.”

Without opening his eyes, the dog’s jaws opened with a click, letting the ball fall out into Sheffield’s hand. The ball had been dusty and worn when Fantôme first found it. Now it was also crushed on one side and sodden with dog slobber. Still, in the name of peace, Sheffield offered it to Georgie.

Glowering at Sheffield, Georgie grabbed the ball and promptly hurled it into the pond.

Suddenly Fantôme awoke and scrambled to his stubby legs with a snort that made Jamie and Amelia rush back to the safety of the nursemaid’s skirts. With more energy than Fantôme had shown in weeks, he jerked the leash from Sheffield’s hand and bounded after the ball, leaping into the pond with all the grace of a white cannonball. The resultant splash was so large and widespread that it was a wonder any water remained in the pond. Charlotte gasped as the water hit her, Diana backed away, the children screamed, and the baby began to shriek.

“Oh, hell,” Sheffield muttered, already pulling off his shoes and stockings and coat and watch to go in after the dog. “Fantôme, here! Here! Blast you, come
here
!”

It was no surprise that Fantôme chose to ignore him. Instead he bounded up and down in the water, bringing massive maritime destruction to many of the penny boats. Diana tried to grab him, sloshing through the water, but the dog considered it all a splendid game and deftly eluded her.

Only Georgie seemed unperturbed, holding his hand out impotently toward the mayhem in the pond.

“Ball,” he said plaintively. “My
ball
.”

While his nursemaid tended to his siblings, he swiftly toddled off to the edge of the pond, jumped, and instantly sank beneath the water.

Charlotte screamed, but Sheffield was already there, wading into the water to grab the little boy and hoist him, dripping and howling, into her arms.

“Thank you, Sheffield, thank you so much,” she said apologetically over the din of the four wailing children. “I believe it best if we withdraw now, and wish you good day.”

With Charlotte leading the way to the house, they made a noisy procession of weeping children and shushing nursemaids. Sheffield’s final glimpse of George was of him sobbing over Charlotte’s shoulder, still grasping at the air toward the infernal ball.

“You see what your wretched dog has done, Your Grace,” Diana said, speaking to him for the first time. “He has spoiled everything. Can’t you catch him?”

“I’ll try,” Sheffield said gallantly, turning to face her. She was thoroughly soaked now, her expression murderous. “Fantôme, here.”

He tried to grab the dog, then the trailing leash. The bottom of the pond was slick, and each time he lunged after Fantôme, his feet slipped beneath him. His own clothes were growing wetter with each attempt, and his irritation with Fantôme was growing, too.

“Chase him toward me, Lady Diana,” he said, “and I’ll try to intercept him.”

She didn’t move. “He is your dog, Duke, not mine.”

“Thank you,” Sheffield said, letting her share a bit of his general irritation as well. “You’re most helpful.”

The yellow ball that had started it all floated near his leg. Sheffield fished it from the water and held it up for the dog to see.

“Fantôme!” he shouted, making sure he had the dog’s attention. “Fantôme, fetch!”

He threw the ball onto the grass, and at once Fantôme went after it, dragging himself from the pond and running to the ball. He seized it again in his mouth, shook the water from his fur, and promptly collapsed in happy exhaustion on the grass.

“Well, there’s an end to that,” Sheffield said. He held his hand out to Diana, offering to help her from the pond.

But she was in no humor to be helped, and seemed determined to let him know the reason.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were betrothed?” she demanded. “Why did you let me make such a fool of myself first?”

“You did that quite readily without any help from me,” he said. “If you recall, you didn’t wish me to tell you so much as my name. Why would I have told you about Lady Enid, too?”

“Because a gentleman would have,
Duke
,” she said, her face flushed. “Because I never would have kissed you if I’d known you were promised to another lady. I never would have done that, ever!”

“Then what of your own betrothal?” he asked, incredulous. “What manner of lady who is engaged to wed goes about kissing strangers?”

“How dare you throw that back at me,” she sputtered with incoherent rage. “How dare you, when you—you—oh,
you
!”

She reached out and with both hands shoved his chest as hard as she could. Caught off balance, he found his feet sliding out from beneath him, and down he went on his backside into the pond. His remaining clothes – his shirt and breeches and waistcoat – were instantly, thoroughly soaked, and he could already feel the muck from the bottom of the pond seeping into the sodden cloth.

It was not pleasant.

She stared down at him, her eyes wide and one hand clapped over her mouth with shock. But the shock didn’t linger, and after a moment or two, he realized that behind her hand, she’d begun to laugh.

At
him.

He leaned forward, resting his arms on his bent legs, and she only laughed harder.

“I’m glad to have offered so much amusement to you,” he said. “In return you might at least offer to help me up.”

He held his hand up to her, the water streaming from his sleeve. She looked down at him pityingly, then finally took his hand.

“Thank you,” he said, and pulled her down into the water beside him with almost as great a splash as Fantôme had caused.

She yelped, flailing her arms as she instantly scrambled back to her feet, leaving her hat floating behind her like a giant straw lily pad. She wasn’t laughing any longer, but he was.

“Turnabout’s fair play, ma’am,” he said, amazed that she’d fallen for so old a schoolboy trick. “Sauce for the goose, sauce for the gander.”

She snatched her hat from the water. “You are perfectly welcome to consider yourself as a gander, Duke,” she said, “but for my part, I will never be a goose.”

With her head high and her hair hanging in a half-pinned clump down her back, she stepped from the pond and marched resolutely down the path toward the house, leaving a trail of pond water behind her.

Still laughing, Sheffield watched her, thoroughly enjoying how her wet skirts clung to her wiggling, indignant bottom. No goose, not at all. Not at all

His smile faded as she finally disappeared from sight, his mood turning more thoughtful even as he still sat in the water. He should not pursue her, he must not, and he’d as much as promised Brecon he’d keep clear of her. She belonged to someone else, and in theory, so did he.

Yet there she was, Lady Diana of the clinging skirts, as great a temptation as he’d ever met, and after this afternoon, he could not wait to see her again.

C
HAPTER
S
IX

“You sit here beside me, Diana,” Charlotte said, pointing with her furled fan to the nearest chair in the row before the rail, “and we’ll leave that one for Lord Crump, when he arrives.”

Diana nodded and took the seat beside her sister, the frothy ruffles of their gowns mingling. As Mama had suggested, Diana had worn her new cherry-colored silk
robe à la française
tonight, and because they were attending the theater, she’d been permitted to wear the gown without a lace neckerchief tucked into the low, squared neckline for modesty. She was very aware now of how her breasts were pushed up by her stays and how much of them showed for a fashionable display, and she felt both stylish and adult, enjoying the undeniable attention that the gown brought her. As Mama had said, she wasn’t a girl any longer, but soon to be a married woman, and entitled to dress like other noble-born ladies, including Charlotte beside her.

What Mama hadn’t said (but Diana had guessed) was that she was hoping that the sight of Diana’s largely uncovered bosom would inspire a bit more lover-like ardor in Lord Crump. Except for when they’d danced, he’d scarcely so much as held her gloved fingertips. Now that they were considered betrothed, he’d be expected to show more devotion, and clearly Mama hoped this gown would be the necessary little nudge of encouragement that Lord Crump required.

But cherry-colored silk could only do so much, and Diana had resolved to try to begin anew with Lord Crump. Charlotte had told her again how she and March had had a difficult beginning, yet had persevered to become the happiest married couple that Diana knew. Perhaps if she was more agreeable and less defensive with Lord Crump, then they would be, too. He was held in the highest regard by everyone else in their world; surely there must be some side of him that she could thaw and mold into a loving husband.

That much Diana had told to Charlotte, and Charlotte had applauded her resolve. But what Diana hadn’t confessed was how her new resolution had more than a little penance woven into it. She’d been furious when Sheffield had asked her yesterday what kind of betrothed lady went about kissing strangers, but he’d been right. She still didn’t know what had possessed her to kiss him that night at Lady Fortescue’s, but she was determined never to do such a thing again. She was also determined never to trust him in a garden pond again, either, but then that was another resolution entirely.

Now she sighed, wistfully looking about as the theater began to fill. Her family was seated in March’s box on the first tier, not far from the royal box, giving Diana an excellent view of the other theater-goers—which, really, was often as interesting a performance as the one on the stage. But tonight it seemed that everywhere she looked were happy couples: men bowing over women, or whispering secrets behind fans, or sinking back into the forgiving and private shadows of boxes for an even more private interlude. Even March and Charlotte beside her were laughing softly over some shared jest, their hands twined familiarly, and across the aisle, Brecon, too, was entertaining Mama with some story or another.

But all she had beside her was a pointedly empty chair. How was she to be more agreeable to Lord Crump if he wouldn’t appear? She looked down at her fan, fussing with the ivory blades and desperately wishing he’d conclude whatever business had delayed him and join her here.

“Look, Diana, to our left, at the Earl and Countess of Wentworth,” Charlotte said, leaning toward her. “Do you think those sapphires around her throat are real or paste?”

Grateful for something to consider besides Lord Crump’s absence, Diana eagerly leaned forward for a better view. “They’re vastly large for real stones. Is Lord Wentworth known for his generosity?”

Charlotte raised her brows over the curving edge of her fan.

“If they’re real, he must be very generous indeed, or else very guilty,” she said, laughing as she glanced around at other boxes. “Oh, my, Diana, look. There’s Sheffield, sitting with Lord and Lady Lattimore. That must be his Lady Enid with him, too.”

Diana looked. She might even have stared. How, really, could she not? When she’d last seen Sheffield, he’d been sitting sprawled in the middle of the garden pond with penny boats bobbing around him. His clothes had been soaked, his linen shirt clinging to his chest and shoulders, his silk waistcoat ruined, and his dark hair wet and trailing in unruly, shining waves. Few men would have appeared at their best in such circumstances, yet Sheffield had looked effortlessly, unbearably handsome, smiling up at her as if sitting barefoot in a pond were simply one more customary engagement in his daily calendar.

But now he sat in Lord Lattimore’s box between Lady Lattimore and Lady Enid, looking much more civilized. He wore a dark jacket with the exact amount of silver embroidery to sparkle subtly by the candlelight, his white linen flawlessly arranged and his hair sleeked back.

Compared to such manly perfection, Lady Enid seemed small and plain, her face round and unremarkable and her ochre-colored gown having no style at all. Yet Sheffield was being endlessly attentive to her, his arm resting casually but possessively over the back of her chair and his smile for her alone. No wonder she was smiling with such pleasure up at him. Why shouldn’t she, with a lover like Sheffield hanging on every word she spoke? Lady Enid hadn’t needed cherry-colored silk ruffles or a well-displayed bosom to capture his interest and secure it, and Diana felt herself sinking into her chair with discouragement.

“Brecon says that Lady Enid is a brilliant bluestocking who reads voraciously and can discourse in ancient languages,” Charlotte said. “Clearly Sheffield finds her enchanting. Brecon says that even His Majesty is in favor of the match, especially in light of Sheffield’s recent indiscretions.”

“Indiscretions?” Diana asked, unable to resist. “Is that what Aunt Sophronia meant by his ‘lamentable conquests’?”

“Yes.” Charlotte hesitated, clearly considering whether it was proper or not to repeat this particular bit of gossip. “Sheffield has had his share of romantic liaisons. Perhaps more than his share, if even half of the number that has been credited to him is to be believed. Recently, however, he became entangled most unfortunately with a married French noblewoman. Brecon says it was an enormous scandal in Paris, and that Sheffield was fortunate to escape without having to fight the husband in a duel.”