Prologue
Ashburnham Hall, near Taunton, Somerset, Spring 1813
Diana descended thestairs, pulling on her riding gloves. She encountered her family’s silver-haired butler in the great hall. “Good morning, Speirs. Has my father risen? He didn’t come down to breakfast.”
“Good morning, my lady. His Grace took breakfast in his studio.” Speirs, always immaculately dressed and correct in all things, cleared his throat. “He has begun a new work.”
Diana nodded, unsurprised by the information and unaffected by what she often found in the studio. Nothing her father did shocked her. But did this mean their trip to London might be delayed? Her ride forgotten, she hurried along the corridor.
She knocked at the door.
“Come!”
At the gruff reply, she entered her father’s studio. The airy room was in the far corner of the east wing, where morning sunlight spilled in from the tall windows. Canvases stacked around the walls were in various stages of completion. The air was redolent of oil paint, turpentine, and linseed oil. A naked lady lay on a sofa, limbs partially entwined with a sheer fabric that hid little, her long, fair hair spread over the crimson, velvet upholstery. Papa was bent over his palette mixing the paint.
“Good morning, Papa.” Diana turned away from the sight of so much pale flesh.
Her father scratched at his abundant silver locks with the handle of his paintbrush. His dark-blue eyes, a more mature version of her own, scowled at her. “Diana, you know better than to disturb me when I’m working.”
“I beg your forgiveness, Papa. But I wondered if your plans for London have remained unchanged?” A new painting might keep her father here and put her promised trip to the metropolis for the Season on hold. “Shall I order my maid to pack?”
“Eh?” He stood before the easel where he’d sketched the faint outline of a naked lady, spreading thin, pale-blue paint onto the background. “I intend to finish this first. We will go next month. I must attend Prinny’s affair. Impossible to ignore his dinner invitation again—he’ll send his lackeys to annoy me. And hehasbought two paintings of mine.”
Despite her initial disappointment, Diana rallied. She was prepared to wait a month, assuming her father kept his word. She longed to visit the bustling metropolis again after being sent home in disgrace after her disastrous—in her father’s estimation—two unsuccessful years on the marriage mart. And her plans for her future were only possible in London.
Papa looked over his shoulder, and his alert gaze focused on her. Her heart galloped. “I am determined to arrange a marriage this Season for you, my girl.” He eyed her riding outfit but turned back to his canvas without comment. Diana breathed more easily. She could rely on his disinterest in women’s fashions. “You’re a good-looking miss with your mother’s delicate features, and your breeding speaks for itself.” He straightened, and after surveying his work, turned back to her. “I am still angry about Lord Amsberry informing me that his son flatly refused to wed you. And that after the marriage settlement was agreed upon and about to be signed.” His forehead creasedin a frown. “I don’t know what you did to frighten away the young man, but it shall not happen again. I don’t care how you conduct yourself after you’re married. You can ride around naked if it pleases you and your husband. Married women can get away with a lot. But single women cannot draw too much attention to themselves. This coming Season, I expect you to dress elegantly with gowns provided by the best modistes I will pay for, and to behave in a manner that pleases a gentleman. So be warned.”
“Yes, Papa,” Diana said with false meekness. She trusted him to lose his focus on her once he launched this new painting. It would give her time to pick the man she wished to become her lover. And he would be nothing like the gentleman her father chose. He would be dashing, and handsome, and know how to please a lady.
When Lord Amsberry’s son had visited her, it had been the first time she’d donned the men’s riding clothes. She had met him at the stables, her pistol—one of the set of her father’s dueling pistols she’d begun to carry for her safety—tucked into the waistband of her leather breeches. Her suitor had taken one look and blanched, then suddenly remembered an urgent appointment in Town.
It had been a test, and he had failed it.
Diana left the house and marched to the stables. The staff had grown accustomed to her odd choice of riding attire. And once having experienced the freedom of a man’s clothing, she’d continued to wear them. She felt a good deal safer in them than when she was being hampered by the voluminous skirts of her habit. She thought she looked very smart with her black hat purchased from James Lock, her form-fitting black riding coat, and top boots, especially created for her by George Hoby. Not to mention the superbly comfortable brown leather breeches. Diana wished she could dress this way while riding inHyde Park. She smiled to herself. That would have the biddies gawping and confirm their suspicions that she was her father’s daughter. She’d heard the gossip. How many suitors had she spurned? Did she wish to marry? It didn’t bother her much because her friends stood by her. And they were the ones who mattered.
Mounted on her roan mare, Artemis, Diana rode across the green meadows dotted with poppies and cornflowers. Warm grass and wildflowers scented the air. Pink dog roses bloomed in the hedgerows, and noisy, nesting birds gathered in the trees. She wished she could ride farther afield but kept within the estate boundary bordering the road, which led to all parts north, all the way to Scotland. How she would like to be journeying on that grand coach, drawn by four splendid thoroughbreds, which came toward her along the road.
Diana swiveled in the saddle at the thunder of horses’ hooves coming fast from the south. The coachman had seen them, too. With a yell, he whipped up his horses, bringing the coach careering nearer to the boundary hedge, which, when she hunkered down, shielded Diana from view.
Within minutes, two masked highwaymen reached them and reined in beside the coach, their guns drawn. The coachman pulled the horses to a stop, while next to him, the groom dithered, scrambling for the rifle stowed at his feet.
To her knowledge, there had never been highway robbers in this vicinity. Pistol in hand, she took note of the earl’s crest on the door panel, and, gathering her scattered wits, fired into the air.
The shot sounded deafening in the quiet countryside. The robbers yelled at each other and spun their horses around, staring into the scrub. When they failed to see where the shot had come from, they galloped their horses along the road to the north.
Diana backed Artemis up and jumped the hedge, drawing up beside the vehicle, tucking her dueling pistol back into her breeches, just as the coach door opened and a very tall, sleepy-eyed gentleman jumped onto the ground holding his pistol. “What the devil?” He stared at the groom and coachman on the box and thrust his hands through his rumpled, dark-brown hair, his heavy, dark eyebrows lowered. “That wasn’t a hunter’s shotgun I heard.”
The groom climbed down. “Darndest thing, milord. We were about to be attacked by a pair of highwaymen and this here young, er”—he bent his head to indicate Diana—“woman scared them off.”
The earl—at least she assumed it was he—swiveled and saw her where she’d backed Artemis into the shadows of leafy branches from a stately oak. She’d thought it wise to ride away before he saw her. But it was too late now. Alert, brown eyes took her in from her head to toe, then centered on the pistol tucked in at her waist. A slow grin deepened the lines, which bracketed his mouth as he bowed. “Beaufort, Earl of Ballantine. Then I must thank you, most profoundly, Miss…?”
He looked so wickedly masculine, she struggled to reply, unwilling to reveal her identity. “Diana, milord.” She steadied Artemis, who sensed the change in her. “I was glad to be of service, as I can see it caught you unawares. Please continue your journey and I’ll continue mine.”
A smile tugged at his lips. “Don’t hurry away. I’d like a word with you. If you’ll give me a minute, Miss Diana.” Cleared of any remnants of sleep, his dark-fringed, brown eyes were undoubtedly attractive. His lean face and square jaw, darkened by the shadow of a beard, and his sharply defined cheekbones, gave his face a rugged appeal. Diana took in his fine physique. A very attractive man. A man who, at least in appearance, would fit most women’s dreams. But she also noted the manner withwhich he shoved the pistol into the back of his trousers and stood with feet planted apart, surveying the scene. Now, very much awake, he looked as if he expected trouble—and seemed well equipped to deal with it, should he find it. And she felt quite pleased to have dealt with it for him.
“Where did the rogues go, Will?” He turned back to his groom, who had jumped down and now shifted his feet, with his chin lowered.
“North, milord.”
