my way to join Her Grace in the garden.”
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, bowing again as if to apologize. “Lady Hervey said now.”
“Now,” she repeated with resignation. At least Charlotte would understand, considering it was Mama delaying her. “Very well. Please tell Her Grace in the garden that I shall be with her as soon as Lady Hervey releases me.”
She left him and headed back to the green room, a small chamber to the front of the house that her mother used as her office and sitting room whenever they stayed with Charlotte. With walls papered in a pattern of oversized white and yellow tulips, the little room seemed always washed with sunshine, its cheerfulness very much like Mama herself.
Today Mama shared the green room with another. She sat in one of the curving armchairs that flanked the fireplace, and in the other was Brecon. Diana wasn’t surprised; the duke was often with her mother. They’d both lost their spouses early in life, and Mama seemed as willing to turn to him for advice about business and legal affairs as Brecon was eager to offer it. Diana understood perfectly well why her mother would like a gentleman-friend such as Brecon. She was fond of Brecon, too, enjoying his company as if he were a favorite uncle who told silly stories over dinner. He was amusing and gallant and relatively handsome, for all that he must be at least forty, though Diana could never be sure with older people.
But Brecon and Mama certainly seemed happy enough now—so happy, in fact, that Diana had the uncomfortable feeling of interrupting as she stood in the doorway.
“Come in, lamb, come in,” Mama said. She was dressed to make calls or visit shops, in a painted silk morning gown, a frilled linen cap, a lace scarf over her shoulders, and matching worked mitts on her hands, while her pelisse and hat lay ready on her desk. Smiling, she patted the seat of the chair beside hers to encourage Diana to join her. “There’s no need to look so uncertain. We’ve only the pleasantest matters to discuss.”
“How is Mistress Fig this day?” Brecon asked. He, too, was dressed to go out, in a dark blue coat, dark beaver hat, and tan buckskin breeches, or perhaps that was simply what he’d chosen to wear to call here. “Her whiskers are looking particularly glossy.”
Diana grinned, taking the chair beside her mother. When Brecon smiled at her like that, she saw at once the cousinly resemblance between him and Sheffield: a most inconvenient observation to make this morning, and one she tried hard to forget.
“If Fig’s whiskers are glossy, it’s because she has had an especially large saucer of cream this morning,” she said as the little cat circled around and around on her lap before finally settling. “Likely there’s still some on her whiskers.”
Brecon laughed, but Mama’s expression was a bit wryer.
“It would seem Fig’s not the only one wearing her breakfast,” she said, not so much scolding as observing. “Truly, Diana, sometimes I do despair. I know poor Sarah does her best with you, but here you are, scarce out of bed, yet already covered with crumbs and cat hairs.”
Already knowing what she’d find, Diana glanced down at her jacket. The dark red linen was sprinkled with white crumbs and a smear of sugar icing, added to a scattered dusting of Fig’s fur.
“Forgive me, Mama,” she said, brushing her bodice as best she could. “I didn’t intend to be untidy. But all I’ve to do this morning is sail boats with Charlotte and the children, and I doubt they’ll care.”
“But you should, Diana.” Mama sighed. “One day you’ve plumes in your hat as tall as Westminster’s towers, so fashionably dressed that you’d give a Parisian lady pause, and the next you look ready to muck the stables. There should be some balance. A true lady draws admiration for herself, not for what she wears.”
Now Diana sighed, too, for this was not a new conversation. “You mean you wish me to be
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, bowing again as if to apologize. “Lady Hervey said now.”
“Now,” she repeated with resignation. At least Charlotte would understand, considering it was Mama delaying her. “Very well. Please tell Her Grace in the garden that I shall be with her as soon as Lady Hervey releases me.”
She left him and headed back to the green room, a small chamber to the front of the house that her mother used as her office and sitting room whenever they stayed with Charlotte. With walls papered in a pattern of oversized white and yellow tulips, the little room seemed always washed with sunshine, its cheerfulness very much like Mama herself.
Today Mama shared the green room with another. She sat in one of the curving armchairs that flanked the fireplace, and in the other was Brecon. Diana wasn’t surprised; the duke was often with her mother. They’d both lost their spouses early in life, and Mama seemed as willing to turn to him for advice about business and legal affairs as Brecon was eager to offer it. Diana understood perfectly well why her mother would like a gentleman-friend such as Brecon. She was fond of Brecon, too, enjoying his company as if he were a favorite uncle who told silly stories over dinner. He was amusing and gallant and relatively handsome, for all that he must be at least forty, though Diana could never be sure with older people.
But Brecon and Mama certainly seemed happy enough now—so happy, in fact, that Diana had the uncomfortable feeling of interrupting as she stood in the doorway.
“Come in, lamb, come in,” Mama said. She was dressed to make calls or visit shops, in a painted silk morning gown, a frilled linen cap, a lace scarf over her shoulders, and matching worked mitts on her hands, while her pelisse and hat lay ready on her desk. Smiling, she patted the seat of the chair beside hers to encourage Diana to join her. “There’s no need to look so uncertain. We’ve only the pleasantest matters to discuss.”
“How is Mistress Fig this day?” Brecon asked. He, too, was dressed to go out, in a dark blue coat, dark beaver hat, and tan buckskin breeches, or perhaps that was simply what he’d chosen to wear to call here. “Her whiskers are looking particularly glossy.”
Diana grinned, taking the chair beside her mother. When Brecon smiled at her like that, she saw at once the cousinly resemblance between him and Sheffield: a most inconvenient observation to make this morning, and one she tried hard to forget.
“If Fig’s whiskers are glossy, it’s because she has had an especially large saucer of cream this morning,” she said as the little cat circled around and around on her lap before finally settling. “Likely there’s still some on her whiskers.”
Brecon laughed, but Mama’s expression was a bit wryer.
“It would seem Fig’s not the only one wearing her breakfast,” she said, not so much scolding as observing. “Truly, Diana, sometimes I do despair. I know poor Sarah does her best with you, but here you are, scarce out of bed, yet already covered with crumbs and cat hairs.”
Already knowing what she’d find, Diana glanced down at her jacket. The dark red linen was sprinkled with white crumbs and a smear of sugar icing, added to a scattered dusting of Fig’s fur.
“Forgive me, Mama,” she said, brushing her bodice as best she could. “I didn’t intend to be untidy. But all I’ve to do this morning is sail boats with Charlotte and the children, and I doubt they’ll care.”
“But you should, Diana.” Mama sighed. “One day you’ve plumes in your hat as tall as Westminster’s towers, so fashionably dressed that you’d give a Parisian lady pause, and the next you look ready to muck the stables. There should be some balance. A true lady draws admiration for herself, not for what she wears.”
Now Diana sighed, too, for this was not a new conversation. “You mean you wish me to be
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