When the Duke Found Love (14 page)

“Forgive me, my lord,” Diana said swiftly, bowing her head. She could only imagine what Lady Enid must be thinking, and she didn’t dare look her way. “I misspoke.”

“You spoke like yourself, Diana, with no harm done,” March said, striving to redeem the conversation just as Charlotte had. “This is a hidden gift of the Wylder sisters, Crump. Having been raised near the sea, they naturally developed an affinity for the language of seafaring folk. My Charlotte will banter with me in such a fashion as well whenever she wishes to amuse me.”

But the teasing jests between a husband and wife at home that March described were far different from what she and Sheffield had just done. That hadn’t been banter. That had been flirtation, and even Lord Crump must have heard the difference.

“Indeed,” he said now, his voice withering with disapproval. “I would never have believed the daughters of a peer would have anything in common with base sailors.”

“I should not be so quick to fault sailors, my lord,” Lady Enid said evenly, her hands clasped before her waist. “You might recall that Odysseus, that most noble of ancient heroes, was a mariner. If the voyages of Odysseus were a sufficient inspiration for Homer’s poetry, then I would scarcely think there’s merit in scoffing at sailors as ‘base.’”

Startled, Diana looked at Lady Enid with fresh appreciation. Charlotte had called her a bluestocking, and from her manner of speech, there was no doubt that she was educated and intelligent, too. But there was also a challenge in her voice that Diana liked at once, a spirit that Diana could entirely embrace. In spite of still holding Lord Crump’s hand, Diana smiled at Lady Enid.

Lord Crump drew back so far that his chin pressed against his tightly wrapped neck cloth. “As impressed as I am by your familiarity with the classics, Lady Enid, I intended no such slander as you imply against the great poet Homer.”

“Forgive me, Lord Crump, but I never said you slandered Homer,” Lady Enid said, her eyes bright with tenacity. “It was sailors you scorned as unfit company, not Homer.”

“But assuredly they are unfit company for ladies,” Lord Crump protested, using the authoritative voice that he likely employed when addressing the full House of Lords. “You cannot deny that sailors are drawn from the lowest ranks of society and can hardly be considered fit company for persons of rank and equality.”

“The fishing folk I knew at Ransom were as decent as any I’ve met in London, my lord,” Diana said, staunchly joining Lady Enid’s defense. “More so, really. I may not have read Homer, as Lady Enid has, but I do know that the holy disciples in the Bible were fishermen and sailors, and that when Christ would sail in their company on the Sea of Galilee, He never scorned them as base or unfit.”

Now it was Charlotte and March who were staring at her, clearly uncertain of what might next spill from her mouth. To be honest, Diana wasn’t entirely sure herself.

Beside her Lord Crump grumbled and muttered. “Agreed, Lady Diana, agreed,” he said grudgingly at last. “I cannot contest such an argument.”

Diana only nodded and said nothing more, not wishing to test the good fortune that had let her wriggle free. Nor did she dare look at Sheffield. If she truly didn’t wish to test her luck, she’d never look at Sheffield again.

“Pray tell me, Lady Diana,” Lady Enid said, making it clear that she considered the discussion with Lord Crump finished, “are you accomplished in other marine matters, too? If necessary, could you put to sail in a boat yourself?”

Diana nodded. “A small one, that is,” she said, thinking of how insignificant an accomplishment that must seem beside being able to read Homer. “Charlotte and Lizzie—that’s our other sister—and I all know how to sail and row boats, from living near the sea.”

“I can quite vouch for her skill, Enid,” Sheffield said, which was not exactly true. That poking about with toy boats yesterday had had nothing to do with real ones, and Diana permitted herself one sour glance at him to show what she thought of his empty opinion. His expression was blandly noncommittal, and he, too, was purposely not looking toward her. She supposed she was relieved.

But what Diana did notice was how he and Lady Enid were standing slightly apart, she with her hands held before her and he with his clasped behind his back. It was curious, more the posture of an amiable brother and sister than of a future husband and wife; even Lord Crump was holding her hand, however perfunctorily. Sheffield wasn’t generally so reserved where it came to women. Far from it. At least he wasn’t when it came to her.

“His Grace has only seen me with toy boats, Lady Enid,” she said, “but I’m perfectly capable with the real ones, too.”

“Then you must explain it all to me, Lady Diana,” Lady Enid said eagerly. “I know nothing of such things, and wish to learn.”

“Enid and I will be walking in St. James’s Park tomorrow,” Sheffield said mildly. “Perhaps Lord Crump and Lady Diana would wish to join us?”

“Oh, yes, please do,” Enid said. “What a fine way to learn more of one another, since we are all to be of the same family.”

Diana gulped. She would in fact like to spend more time with Lady Enid, but to do so with both Lord Crump and Sheffield together might be more than she could bear.

“How cordial of you, Lady Enid, and you, too, Sheffield,” Charlotte said, beaming. There were few things that Charlotte liked better than to have the ever-growing family be happy together. “If this warm weather holds, you shall have a splendid day for walking.”

Diana glanced anxiously at Lord Crump. “Thank you, Lady Enid, and such a diversion would be most enjoyable, except that his lordship is not much given to—”

“It matters not, it matters not,” Lord Crump interrupted with an impatient wave of his hand. “I would never be able to free myself from my business for walking idly about in the middle of the day.”

Diana tried to look regretful instead of relieved. “You see how it must be, Lady Enid,” she began. “I must regret that we—”

“You may go, Lady Diana,” Lord Crump said. “I encourage you to do so.”

“Truly, my lord?” Diana asked, surprised and dismayed. Was there any less comfortable number in a carriage than three? “You wish me to go without you?”

“Yes, yes,” he said with another wave of his hand. “I give you leave to go with His Grace and Lady Enid. Why shouldn’t I? Sharing the discourse of a learned lady such as Lady Enid will occupy you profitably.”

“Then it is settled, Lady Diana,” Sheffield said heartily. “I shall gather Enid first in my carriage, and then you from Marchbourne House. We’ll make a party of it, won’t we, Lady Diana?”

Diana smiled with little enthusiasm, and thought only of how once again good luck and fortune had deserted her.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

“You’re the third bridegroom I’ve attended at this chore,” Brecon said the next morning, claiming the second chair at the jeweler’s counter. “First March with those rose-cut diamonds for Charlotte, then Hawke and his rubies. Or rather, Lizzie’s rubies. I’m eager to see what you select for Lady Enid.”

“So shall I,” Sheffield said, striving to tamp down the uneasiness that had been plaguing him all morning. It was Brecon’s insistence that Lady Enid needed a betrothal ring to display before the world that had brought him here this morning to Mr. Boyce’s shop. Boyce, his sons, and their ancestors had been serving all the ducal cousins and their ancestors, including the king that had sired them all, for at least the last two hundred years, and there’d been no question that Sheffield would come here now to arrange for what should be one of the most important jewels he’d ever give. The shop was small, quietly well appointed, and discreet, as befitted its titled customers.

Sheffield had already had Marlowe bring the most promising pieces of family jewelry here for Boyce’s refurbishing, and Boyce himself would add several of the choicest new precious stones from his stock for consideration. Given Sheffield’s rank and the value of the stones that would be displayed, Boyce had obligingly closed the shop to all other custom for as long as was necessary. An assistant hovered behind the counter if needed, and Boyce had even had coffee brought in. Two chairs had been waiting for the two dukes, and a black velvet cloth was already spread across the counter. Everything, in short, was arranged to make the selection as easy and agreeable as possible, but as Boyce began to bring out the small, rounded ring boxes, Sheffield could scarcely control his restlessness, nor the powerful urge to jump up and flee.

It was not that Sheffield was exactly a neophyte at buying jewels for women. Far from it. He’d been buying costly trinkets for females since he’d been a mooncalf schoolboy with his first mistress. Nor, unlike most men, was he concerned over the price he’d likely pay. Cost truly was no object, not with his income. To be sure, a betrothal ring for a duchess was not a choice to be taken lightly, as Brecon had been relentlessly explaining to him for the last hour, but not even that was the real cause of his uneasiness.

No, it was more than that, worse than that, and Sheffield prayed he’d get through this morning without Brecon guessing the real reason.

“Let’s see the Atherton family rings first,” Brecon suggested. “A ring with a history is an elegant way to welcome a lady to the family.”

Sheffield nodded, and at once Boyce set a small tray on the counter, presenting a dozen or so rings each in its own fitted plush box: garnets, diamonds, sapphires, and rubies, all of which had graced the fingers of former Duchesses of Sheffield.

But the only ring that Sheffield saw sat in the center of the tray. It wasn’t the largest or the most dramatic, but it meant the most to him. It was a brilliant blue-green emerald, surrounded by smaller white diamonds. Swirls of gold held the stones, then slipped like waves down the shank and around the back. Carefully he took it from the box seeing how the gold was worn on the sides and smoothed by the last owner’s fingers.

“A beautiful stone, sir,” the jeweler said, quick to approve his choice. “A Brazilian emerald from the Portuguese mines. Considerable clarity and the color make it a rarity, sir. We seldom see emeralds of this quality here in London. Most never leave Lisbon.”

“That was your mother’s ring, wasn’t it?” Brecon asked softly.

“It was,” Sheffield said. “It was.”

He remembered how he’d always been fascinated by the ring as a child, and how he’d turn his mother’s hand to watch the emerald sparkle. His father had invented a thrilling tale of how the stone had been destined for a Portuguese princess but had instead been captured and claimed by a fierce pirate for the most beautiful duchess in England. Sheffield had believed every word, even when his mother had laughed and scolded his father for telling preposterous lies to their son.

He turned the ring in his fingers now, seeing the familiar shifting colors in the stone. His father had given it to his mother when they’d eloped, and Sheffield could not recall ever seeing her without it on her finger. He’d always assumed the ring had been buried with her, fourteen years ago. To see it now was like having his mother here again as well, a sensation so powerful that he didn’t trust his voice to describe it.

No, he could sense the presence of both his mother and his father, for the ring had so strongly symbolized their love and marriage that even now he couldn’t think of one without the other. Their initials were engraved within, blurred with time and wear, but there still.

“The emerald can be reset for the lady, sir,” Boyce suggested. “Something more in keeping with present tastes that will better show the stone.”

“No,” Sheffield said, more sharply than he’d intended. He couldn’t imagine ever changing this ring, wiping away the wear from his mother’s fingers or the engraving his father had had put inside. “The setting should never be altered.”

“I agree that it’s beautiful as it is, replete with sentiment,” Brecon said. “Is this the ring you wish to give to Lady Enid?”

He couldn’t think of anything he’d like less to do. The sheer wrongness of it struck him like a blow, compounding the churning of his uneasy conscience.

That was it, really. All his uneasiness was the fault of his conscience, an article that most dukes with royal blood quite happily did without. Society generally expected gentlemen of his rank and wealth to do whatever they pleased without consequences, and Sheffield had been no exception. Brecon had tried to instill certain honorable limitations, but for the most part, Sheffield had led a life cheerfully untrammeled by rules, laws, expense, or worrying overmuch about the feelings or concerns of others.

When he’d first contrived it, his plan to avoid marrying Lady Enid Lattimore by arranging for her to marry her lowly vicar instead had seemed like a lark, a droll way to outfox the king’s interfering desire to see him wed. He’d also liked the idea that his escape would bring two other thwarted lovers together, like a hero tidying up the secondary characters in some cleverly overplotted play.

But before long he’d realized that what blithely seemed like a lark to him was thoroughly serious to Lady Enid and Dr. Pullings because they loved each other. Because of that love, they were willing to risk anything for its sake—even to trust him.

He’d always claimed he believed in love, true love, yet he’d never done anything but make a sport of it. Love affairs were not love. He saw that now. He certainly hadn’t experienced anything like what his parents had shared or the devotion that Brecon had felt for his wife, or what existed between Lady Enid and Dr. Pullings. Even March and Charlotte seemed to have it. And every one of those couples had been willing to face whatever challenges came their way and do whatever they must for the sake of love.

He’d never had to do anything, because women had always flocked to him. He’d had more than his share of dalliances, infatuations, desires, flirtations, affections, attractions, seductions, and conquests.

But not love. Not once.

It was most sobering.

Yet the longer he looked down at his mother’s ring, the clearer—and more enjoyable—his thoughts became, because they were filled with Lady Diana Wylder. Until now, he’d tried not to think of her at all, pleasurably or otherwise. She wasn’t some actress or milliner’s apprentice, and she wasn’t another man’s bored, promiscuous wife, either. She was a lady, the daughter of a peeress, and most important, she was by marriage a member of his own extended family. She was betrothed to the Marquis of Crump. According to Brecon, she was also headstrong and difficult, teetering precipitously on the edge of dishonorable disaster, and a trial to all who cared for her.