“And what a handsome pair you make,” Lady Pennington sighed, leaning forward eagerly. “Though we have been deprived of the sight of you together for far too long.”
Diana felt the implication beneath the words.
Before she could form an answer, Alexander spoke with measured calm. “My absence was regrettable,” he said, his voice steady and unruffled. “Business required my attention.”
“Business,” Lady Markham repeated skeptically. “It is a poor rival to matrimony.”
Alexander’s fingers tightened slightly at Diana’s back, and she felt the subtle shift in his posture as he drew himself up to his full height.
“I am beginning to suspect,” he replied, his gaze dropping to Diana’s face with disarming intensity, “that I may have misjudged that balance.”
The warmth that spread through her chest was swift and treacherous. He did not look at the dowagers when he said it. He looked at her, and his eyes were not cold. They were intent, curious. Almost… hungry.
“And where have you been, Your Grace?” Lady Pennington demanded, her fan freezing mid-flutter as though she had caught him sneaking out of a confession.
Diana felt the question like a spark against dry tinder. Of course, that would be the next assault. London wanted routes, dates, and explanations it could embroider into gossip.
She drew a breath to answer smoothly, but Alexander spoke at the exact same moment.
“In Vienna,” he said.
“In Yorkshire,” Diana replied.
They both fell silent. The semicircle of dowagers leaned forward as one, their expressions lighting with scandalized delight.
Alexander’s hand remained steady at her waist, but she felt the faintest tremor of amusement run through him. He turned his head toward her, one dark brow lifting with elegant curiosity.
Then, Alexander looked back at the semicircle and, to Diana’s utter horror and admiration, allowed the corner of his mouth to curve.
“Everywhere, really,” he said lightly. “The north. The continent. A man with too many responsibilities is seldom permitted to remain in one place.”
“And too many secrets,” Lady Markham added slyly.
Diana felt his thumb draw a slow line at the small of her back.
“I find,” he said calmly, “that secrets are vastly overrated.”
The dowagers laughed, pleased by the evasiveness, satisfied that they had extracted something without quite knowing what.
“And did you send letters from all these exotic places?” Lady Weatherford pressed. “Vienna is terribly romantic.”
Diana nearly smiled despite herself. “His Grace is not inclined toward romantic gestures.”
Alexander’s gaze flicked to her, sharp with amusement. “You wound me.”
The women tittered again, delighted by the sparring.
“So, if you were not abroad composing poetry,” Lady Weatherford insisted, “what occupied you?”
Alexander’s attention slid back to the group. “Estate matters,” he said. “Tenants, trade agreements, the usual unglamorous concerns.”
“Dreadfully dull,” Lady Markham sighed.
“Entirely,” he agreed. “Which is why I should have delegated and remained where the company was superior.”
His gaze returned to Diana with that infuriating steadiness that made her pulse flutter like an inexperienced girl’s. She felt the heat climb her throat.
“And did you miss him, Duchess?” Lady Pennington asked, sharp as a needle.
