Diana had long ago resigned herself to a life of hard work with no recognition. Helping an honorable, loyal, stubborn man like Colehaven to achieve greater success would be just as fulfilling.
But, of course, she was placing the cart before the horse. Just because the duke had listened to her opinion in the past did not mean he wished to do so for the rest of his career.
Without looking at her, Colehaven accepted a glass of ratafia and strode off in the direction of his important, popular friends.
Diana hadn’t expected any different. In fact, she’dhopedhe would not insist on continuing their conversation after they’d reached the end of the ratafia queue. Friendliness that public would cause far more attention and gossip than either of them wished to suffer.
And yet, a tiny part of her wished he didn’t care about the whispers. That friendship was friendship, whether it be two lords who ran theWicked Dukeand all of England… or the Duke of Colehaven and a nobody orphan like Diana.
Irritated with herself, she downed half her ratafia in a single gulp and turned to head back to her usual shadows.
A snippet of conversation stopped her from going.
“Did you see Colehaven?” one of the stately matrons whispered to another. “If my Agatha can tempt him to sign her dance card again, I think she has a chance.”
“Again?” echoed her companion. “When did he dance with Agatha the first time?”
“Last Season,” Agatha’s mother said proudly. “He stood up with her on two different occasions. She still has the cards bearing his signatures affixed to her vanity.”
The companion gave a sad shake of her head. “That was last year. There are new debutantes to contend with. The Lyndon girl’s been out all of a fortnight and is already being bandied about as this season’s Original. She’s niece to the Earl of Fortescue and beautiful in both looks and manners.”
“Agatha is everything that is polite and proper,” her mother said hotly.
“She hasfreckles,” her companion whispered as though the word itself was contagious. “A duke needn’t settle for anything short of perfection. Especially not one as young and handsome as Colehaven. If my Hester were only a wee more biddable…”
Proper. Biddable. Perfect.
Words that never once had been spoken to describe Diana.
She wasn’t related to anyone with a title, could in no way improve Colehaven’s connections or standings. She was old, outspoken, the opposite of docile…
There was no reason for depressed spirits or hurt feelings, Diana reminded herself. She didn’t want him towaltzwith her. She just needed him to listen to her. Occasionally. Secretly. The rest didn’t matter.
Despite how her twisting heart might feel about the thought of him wed to some vapid, portrait-perfect little girl.
She stared down at her glass. No matter how much she tried to deny her feelings, Colehaven was precisely the sort of man she would want, if she could let herself want a man like him. He was friendly, principled, confident…
Too late, she realized she’d wandered not back to the wallflower perch where she belonged, but closer to Colehaven and his peers.
One of the men wiggled his brows. “Have you seen this year’s crop?”
Diana did not need to consult her journal to know that he wasn’t talking about potatoes. What Adolphus Fernsby lacked in titled connections, he made up for with shameless flirtation. His name was on every dance card… if the bearer possessed a large enough dowry.
Colehaven shook his head. “Too young.”
“Well, one oughtn’t dally long,” Fernsby pointed out. “If they’re still around after two or three years,somethingmust be wrong. And besides, those who require an heir and a spare need time to perfect their craft, in case the first few are daughters.”
A marquess famed for his love of fox-hunting turned to him in horror. “Stricken with a sisteranda daughter? Surely Fate cannot be so cruel.”
“You jest.” Fernsby sniffed in pique. “I hope your future wife spawns nothing but girls.”
The marquess shivered. “A dreadful curse. Are you certain you’re not a gypsy?”
Fernsby harrumphed and stalked away.
From this angle, Diana could not see Colehaven’s expression, but the roll of his eyes was evident in the tone of his voice. “Why does he think we require his direction on whom to wed?”
“As if there’s any question,” the marquess agreed with a sigh. “We know what sort of woman makes a proper duchess. We’ll do our duty when it’s time, without the pinks of the ton pecking at us like mother hens.”
