The blighter likely knew already, anyhow.
“And Lady Isabella?”
“Her parents are going to have to find some other aristocrat to marry their daughter.” He cocked a brow at Blackheart. “I’ll keep her in mind for you in case you give up your position before the end of the season.
Blackheart scoffed. ”You do that.” But then his friend was solemn again. “This is what you want?”
It was, and yet…
A sick feeling settled in his gut, confirming his assumption that euphoria was always temporary. Heneededto marry Diana. Hewantedto marry her. There was no way he’d allow her to slip away. But in making her his wife, he was going to have to relinquish ideals he’d valued all of his adult life.
“Of all my grandfather’s expectations, I never imagined I’d fail at this one.”
“Marrying well.”
“Yes,” Greys said.
“Chaswick’s title goes back almost as far as mine.” The duke pointed out.
“And Mrs. Jones?” Greys sounded like a snob, even to his own ears. He shook his head, disgusted with himself. His heart didn’t care, and although he was prepared to marry Diana, that didn’t mean he was prepared to embrace her mother’s history.
Blackheart smirked. “I’m apt to reconsider the notion of a noble alliance every time I see Westerley and his countess together. The Blighter broke every rule in the book and seems all the happier for it.”
“He’s only been married a few months. I’m not sure that qualifies as a resounding success.” Although Blackheart was right, the earl’s absolute contentment was almost sickening at times. Although it didn’t seem to bother Greys as much today as it had yesterday.
“Our school chums are falling left and right—and all for love.”
Greys nodded. “They have the right temperament for it.”
“Meaning you and I do not?’ And what is that temperament, anyhow? Stone Spencer likely has one of the hottest tempers I’ve ever seen, and yet Lady Tabetha appears to adore him. Who would have thought Chaswick would end up with Westerley’s bluestocking sister? Not to mention a giant of a man like Mantis landing the delicate Lady Felicity.”
Blackheart exhaled and leaned back in his chair, an enigmatic expression in his eyes.
Greys’ heart had come alive when he’d conceded to his feelings for Diana. She made perfect sense to his heart, to his body, but she wasn’t the ideal he’d imagined.
“She’s the bride I want.” Greys exhaled.
But Blackheart’s demeanor had him wondering why the duke would seem as confounded as he did. Greys snapped his head up, pinning his stare on the man.
“You aren’t dallying with one of the maids, are you?” That would be beyond the pale.
“No,” Blackheart said. “Not with one of the maids.” But then he folded his hands together and changed the subject. “Do you love her?”
“No,” Greys answered instinctively. Love was irrational and chaotic, and messy. Dash it all, precisely how Diana made him feel. But other emotions coincided amongst those—passion, tenderness, acceptance, the desire to protect her and to share his interests and passions.
They had made love, yes. But they’d also talked for hours. She made him laugh. She needed him.
Greys neededher.
Blackheart chuckled. “She’s not one of your equations you can manipulate at will.”
“I’m well aware of that.” However, “I care for her. With proper training, she’ll make an excellent marchioness. And she’ll never lack for anything.”
“Was not your mother possessed of all the proper training? And Lady Posy’s mother too?”
Both women had lived tumultuous lives, unable to rein in the mood swings and behavior that came with them. Although their husbands weren’t any better. “All the more reason I ought to have—”
“Kept your hands to yourself where Miss Diana Jones was concerned?” Blackheart offered. Had he made such a comment sarcastically, Greys would have planted his duke-turned-butler a facer. But since his friend was likely only testing him, Greys settled on a murderous glare instead.
