“He does make a good hen,” Colehaven mused. “I think it’s the way his hair sticks up in the back.”
“That style is called the ‘frightened owl,’ not the ‘mother hen,’” the marquess scolded him. “Which you would know, if you would justglanceat the four hundred fashion plates your sister ordered for you—”
Colehaven groaned. “Not you, too. I thought being a duke meant I didn’t need to be fashionable. Aren’t young ladies supposed to be more interested in my title than how I tie my neckcloth?”
“Oh, is that a neckcloth?” The marquess asked politely. “I thought you’d misplaced this morning’s serviette.”
“I hope youarecursed with nothing but daughters,” Colehaven informed him. “Hellions, every one of them.”
Diana stared down into her half-empty glass. They were right. No one needed Adolphus Fernsby or anyone else reminding them what sort of woman made an appropriate duchess. She would need to gird her loins for the inevitable day when Colehaven wed the “right” kind of girl.
The worst part was, Diana needed him to follow the prescribed path. In order for Colehaven to do good works, he had to remain respected amongst his peers. His decision-making could not be called into question. A wife with unexpected quirks would attract unnecessary attention and distract from the true goals.
“Speaking of marriage,” the marquess said, “I notice Thad’s ward is still unwed.”
Safe against the wall, Diana inched close enough to see Colehaven’s expression.
“I’m working on it,” he assured his friend. “Finding the right match takes time.”
“You haven’t even found any wrong matches,” the marquess pointed out. “I haven’t seen her in anybody’s company but yours.”
Colehaven’s gaze sharpened. “When was she in my company?”
“When you queued up for that glass of ratafia you haven’t even touched.” The marquess cocked his head. “It’s not like you to take this long to win a wager. The reason you haven’t married her off yet isn’t because you…”
“No,” Colehaven interrupted firmly. “I’ve always known what kind of wife I need, and she is certainly not—”
His eyes met Diana’s.
She was against a wall, almost out of sight, and somehow he had sensed her presence.
Belatedly.
She spun and walked off before he could call out to her and beg the opportunity to explain his words.
There was nothing to explain. He was right.
Every person in this ballroom knew which young ladies were contenders for titled husbands. Diana’s name was not on that list.
Colehaven in particular was acutely aware of her many shortcomings in that regard. He was being practical. Practicality was a trait she admired. There was no reason at all for her eyes to prick with heat or her throat to feel swollen and raw. She’dknownshe wasn’t suitable.
She just hadn’t been prepared to hear him say so aloud.
Diana handed her unfinished ratafia to a footman as she exited the ballroom. She turned down the first corridor and pushed through the side doors leading to the enclosed garden.
The sudden blast of bracing air was welcome on her skin. The sky was clear and full of stars, and the shock of cold kept her mind from returning to the ballroom. Up ahead was another party guest who preferred solitude to revelry.
No, not just any guest. This was—
“Are you trying to catch your death?” the Duke of Colehaven demanded, his eyes widening at the sight of her. He clamped a warm hand about her elbow and dragged her behind a manicured hedge.
“It’s not that cold,” she protested. “Other people are in the garden.”
“Other people have coats.” He rubbed his hands over her bare arms. “And nobody else is in this garden. Come back to the ballroom.”
“So you can win a wager?”
He closed his eyes. “What I wanted…”
