The Countess of Rotherham had sent out invitations several weeks before to friends and neighbors for miles around to attend the grand dinner and ball in honor of the earl's sixty-fifth birthday. Replies had been promptly returned, the overwhelming majority of them acceptances.
Three days before the event, however, the countess became anxious. Had she sent out the invitations too soon? Would everyone have forgotten? Had any of the prospective guests changed their minds? Although her husband, her two sons, and her two daughters-in-law all assured her that no one in his right mind would forget such a lavish entertainment in the country, nothing would do but for her to repeat as many of the invitations as possible.
"Ernest," she said, when everyone had settled at the breakfast table, "you shall ride to Mr. Pierce's, dear, and make sure that he and his good wife will be coming with Simon and Miss Pierce. And you can call on the Flemings afterward. Take Angela and Beatrice and Allan with you. Clarence, you and Claudia shall call upon Sir Frederick Huntingdon and the Salmons. Diana and Nancy will go with you, and Lester and Jack. Hannah and I will drive into the village."
And so the morning was effectively planned for most of her guests.
Diana stepped out to the stables with Nancy, folly prepared to enjoyherself. The good weather still held,she was wearing the bright pink riding habit that she had been too shy to wear until this very day, and she was beginning to feel young and carefree again.
Had she ever felt young and carefree?When she was a very young girl, perhaps.But when she was eighteen and had been taken to London to be presented at court and to participate in all the gay activities of the Season? Not really. She had been too bewildered by it all and not a little frightened. She had not really enjoyed that spring.
Had she ever felt young and exuberant during the years of her marriage to Teddy? It felt disloyal to admit that she had not. She had not been actively unhappy with him—oh, no, certainly not—but she had always been aware that she was a clergyman's wife and that certain decorous behavior was expected of her. And Teddy had been such a very serious person. Gentle, kind, and dear, it was true, but serious. Indeed, when she tried to remember a time when he had laughed, she could not do so. Not one single occasion. He had smiled frequently, but he had never laughed.
So for the first time in her adult life she was feeling young. And she was feeling that carefreeness was neither an undesirable nor an impossible state. She was beginning to feel that finally she had put behind her the dreadful ordeal of Teddy's death and all the bitterness and loneliness that had followed it. She was beginning to feel a sense of release, a hope that happiness still lay ahead of her.
She allowed Lester to help her into the sidesaddle and smiled down at him. And what had wrought the change? Undoubtedly it had done her good to be forced to leave the quiet solitude of her papa's home for the bustle and activity of this house party at Rotherham Hall. And her affection had been revived for the earl and countess and for Clarence, Claudia, Ernest, and the children. It felt good to be part of a family that consisted of more than just her mother and father. Then, of course, the weather had contributed to her mood. It had been warm and sunny almost since the day ofhearrival.
The Marquess of Kenwood brought his horse into step beside hers as they all rode out of the cobbled stableyard. He was grinning. "You should have warned us all to wear dark shades over our eyes, Diana," he said. "That is a very eye-catching outfit." He leaned a little closer."And quite ravishing."
She smiled back. "I am afraid that when one has been wearing black for a whole year, my lord," she said, "one develops a weakness for bright colors."
"It is a weakness that you are welcome to cultivate as far as I am concerned," he said, one eyebrow lifting as he deliberately let his eyes travel slowly down her body.
Diana laughed and held her face up to the sun's rays. Yes, it was the sun that was doing it, she thought, feeling its warmth against her face and against her body. And oh, yes— she had to admit it—it was the man at her side too. It was a terrible admission to make. It was a ridiculous admission to make. He was making her feel young. He was making her laugh. He was making her feel attractive.And desirable.
And she was beginning to like him, despite everything. Perhaps she was beginning to feel a little more than liking.
"Perhaps Mama is a little mad," Lord Wendell said, "but it is always good to have an excuse to ride on such a morning. I just hope we do not drag any of our hosts out of bed."
''They deserve to be dragged out on a morning like this,'' his wife said briskly. "And people always seem to get up in the country."
"I'm not so sure about Lady Huntingdon," the viscount said with a chuckle. "She lived too many years in London, from what I have heard. She is quite averse to mornings."
"Have you met Sir Frederick's new wife, Diana?" Claudia asked.
Diana shook her head.
"Now can you imagine anyone," Lord Kenwood asked her, "being willing to waste a whole morning in slumber? What can be so interesting to do the night before, I wonder, that one would be prepared to make such a sacrifice?"
Diana could not hold her expression quite serious.' 'Oh,'' she said, "reading a book, perhaps? Playing cards? Drinking?"
"And?" he prompted. He was using his bedroom voice again. She had to force herself not to laugh.
"And."She frowned as if in deep thought."And saying one's prayers."She smiled dazzingly at him and watched the twinkle grow in his eyes.
If she were not very careful, she would fall in love with him. And would not that be a shocking thing? Not that there was any danger of that, of course. He was still, when all was said and done, a notorious rake. And he was still bent on charming her out of good sense, on flirting outrageously with her, and on ultimately seducing her. He was still a man for whom women were judged only on their suitability for enticing into his bed. Oh, no, there was no real danger of her falling in love with him. She could not possibly love such a man.
But since the afternoon of the picnic two days before she had let go of the terrible embarrassment that had made her almost hate him. It was in the past, what had happened at the inn, and it would never be repeated. And she had let go of her indignation at his attempted seduction, and of the terrible urge to judge another human being that she supposed she had learned at the parsonage.
And she had come to see a man who, despite everything, was likable. He loved his family, he had said, and his lands and his tenants. And he had held her close, but without passion, and had listened to her talk about Teddy and about her dreams for the future. He had not laughed at her.
He had told her, of course, that she must not try to find a worthy gentleman behind the outer shallowness of his life. And he had warned her that he wanted her, that he intended to try to have her, and that there would be only physical pleasure involved, not romance. Not love.
It had really sounded almost as if he were trying to convince himself.
"Do you think Ernie is likely to come to blows with Michael and Allan and Lester?" the marquess asked now, lowering his voice so that the last named gentleman would not hear. ''I can rather picture him taking on all three at once, a rapier in each hand, a dagger between his teeth. A chivalrous soul is old Ernie, when occasion demands."
"Whatever for?" she asked. "Why would Ernest want to fight anyone?"
