Georgina, who had been quiet until now, spoke in her gentle voice. “The Duchess never appeared distressed,” she said earnestly. “She was very brave.”
Lady Weatherford leaned forward, delighted by the growing circle. “How fortunate you all are,” she declared. “Such loyalty. Such devotion. It seems the Duchess has been surrounded by admirers.”
There it was. The insinuation, no matter how scrutinizing, was polished and pleasant. Diana felt Alexander’s thumb press slightly into her back, the only outward sign of reaction.
Martin’s smile did not falter, but his shoulders squared almost imperceptibly. “We admire strength,” he said evenly. “The Duchess possesses it in abundance.”
Alexander’s gaze snapped to him.
It was subtle, but Diana felt the tightening in the air between them. She wondered, fleetingly, whether some instinct remained in him, some unspoken awareness that Martin had been a far steadier presence in her life than her own husband.
The dowagers sighed with satisfaction, as though the evening had finally yielded a coherent narrative.
Emma did not wait. She stepped closer to Diana, her voice dropping. “What is happening?” she murmured, her eyes flicking to Alexander again, “and why are you allowing him to look as though he has devoured you in front of half the ton?”
Diana’s cheeks flared. Alexander’s thumb, traitorous thing, stroked once at her waist, and it took every ounce of discipline not to shiver.
She tilted her head toward Emma, forcing breeziness. “A little mystery is a duchess’ privilege.”
Emma took Diana’s hand with an air of ownership. “Come,” she said crisply. “I require a word.”
Diana hesitated, but Alexander’s hand slid from her waist to her fingers, catching them lightly—not stopping her, only holding for one heartbeat longer than necessary.
His gaze held hers. “Do not be long,” he murmured, and there was a low rumble in his tone that made her stomach coil.
Diana pulled her hand free before her face betrayed her and allowed Emma to steer her toward a quieter corner near a tall palm. The music swelled and dipped behind them. The crush of bodies felt distant, muffled.
Emma rounded on her the moment they were out of immediate earshot. “Now,” she said, her voice low and fierce, “tell me what madness has seized you.”
Diana’s laugh came out softer than she intended. “It is hardly madness.”
Emma’s eyes widened. “Hardly? Diana, he is touching you as though he cannot help himself. You are looking at him as though you have forgotten you possess a spine. The Duke of Rosewood,” she added, the disbelief almost comical, “is standing there like a man who enjoys being teased by widows.”
Diana pressed her lips together because if she allowed herself to laugh too much, she might cry instead.
Emma’s gaze sharpened further, seeing through the humor at once. “What has he done?”
Diana’s throat tightened. There were too many answers. He had kissed her. He had looked at her likethat. He had made her remember that she was young and hungry and not as indifferent as she pretended.
And he had done it whilst still not being the man who had left her. That was the most unbearable part.
For a fleeting moment, she almost told Emma everything. The truth pressed painfully against her ribs—the accident, the lost memories, the strange, impossible man who now looked at her as though they were smitten newlyweds.
But the secret was not hers to share. It belonged to Alexander, whether she liked it or not.
Diana leaned in, closer, so Emma would not have to strain. “It is for Lady Salford,” she whispered.
Emma blinked. “Lady Salford?”
“His grandmother,” Diana murmured. “She has been unwell for years. You know that she missed our wedding. She had never met me before. She is… lively, and affectionate, and she would be crushed if she believed our marriage was as it truly is.”
Emma’s brows knitted. “And what is it truly?”
Diana’s body answered before her mind could, heat sliding low and shameful through her belly. She remembered the drag of Alexander’s thumb at her waist, the weight of his gaze on her mouth, the way he had called himself a fool as if regret lived in his throat.
She forced herself to breathe.
The orchestra shifted, a new song rising, bold and unmistakable. The first notes of a waltz unfurled across the ballroom like a ribbon, and a collective murmur passed through the crowd as couples began to turn.
