He recognized Diana’s voice immediately. Even before the words themselves reached him, the sound of strain within it made something sharp and protective rise instinctively in his chest.
“…I assure you there is no need for this visit.”
Her tone was too controlled, but he could tell she was almost breaking by the heavy breathing that accompanied those words.
Alexander stopped just before the turn in the staircase where the hall below would come into view.
A woman’s voice answered her.
“But my dear girl, it is precisely because there is a need that we have come.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened slightly. He remained still, listening.
“You should not trouble the Duke with this,” Diana replied, the effort in her composure becoming more obvious now. “I will speak with him when the time is appropriate.”
The woman made a soft, impatient sound.
“And allow more time to pass without addressing the matter of an heir?” she said sharply. “Diana, you cannot possibly expect us to remain silent when your future is concerned.”
A man’s cold, clipped voice followed. “Nonsense. A husband must be made aware of such matters.”
Alexander felt heat begin to gather slowly in his chest.
“We will not leave,” the man continued firmly, “until we have spoken with him ourselves.”
Diana’s voice dropped.
“Please,” she said quietly. “Do not say anything to him.”
Alexander had heard enough.
The slow burn that had begun somewhere beneath his ribs now surged upward with dangerous speed. Whoever these people were, they had already been asked to leave by the Duchess of Rosewood in her own home, and yet they remained standing there arguing with her as though her authority meant nothing.
He descended the final steps without haste.
The voices stopped when he appeared at the bottom of the staircase as three heads turned toward him.
Diana stood near the doorway of the drawing room, her posture perfectly straight in the way she always held herself when confronted with unpleasant company, yet the tension gathered through her shoulders was unmistakable to him the moment he stepped into the hall. One of her hands was clasped tightly around the other at her waist, her fingers twisting slightly in the fabric of her gown in a small, unconscious movement that told him far more than the composure on her face ever would.
Across from her stood Esther Ridlington and her husband, Charles Ridlington, Marquess of Cliffhall.
Alexander recognized them at once.
He had met them only once before. Cliffhall was a thin man with a long, narrow face and the careful, calculating eyes of someone who measured every conversation for advantage, while Lady Cliffhall carried herself with rigid confidence. Her posture was immaculate, her chin slightly raised, her expression composed into something that might pass for concern to an unfamiliar observer.
To Alexander, it looked very much like entitlement.
Esther stood closest to Diana, her gloved hands folded neatly together as though she were delivering a lecture rather than arguing in the entrance hall of another woman’s home, while Cliffhall lingered slightly behind her.
Alexander’s gaze moved over them once, cool and deliberate.
Then he looked at Diana.
She met his eyes, and in that single moment, he saw something there that made the last thin thread of his patience snap without hesitation.
Distress.
It wasn’t obvious, but he had spent enough time watching her lately to recognize the signs she did not show to the world. The slight tightening around her mouth. The guarded stillness of her shoulders. The way she held herself too rigidly, as thoughbracing for something unpleasant she would rather endure alone.
