become a marchioness, lamb. It’s that you have appreciated Lord Crump’s virtues in a mature and sober manner. You and I both know that you’ve often preferred a handsome face above all things, and I cannot begin to tell you how proud I am to see you put aside impulse and frivolity and make such a wise decision about your life.”
There was a little trembling in Mama’s voice that betrayed the depth of her emotions. Diana knew that if she looked up from Fig’s patterned fur even for a second, she’d soon be crying, too, not from emotion but from the truth.
She hadn’t made a wise choice, not at all. Instead she’d made the most important decision of her life based on exactly the kind of impulse and frivolity that Mama thought she’d outgrown. Worse still, she’d done it because of the handsome face of the Duke of Sheffield, and she’d acted entirely in reaction to his own announcement.
“The carriage is here,” Brecon said, glancing through the window as he rose to leave.
“The carriage can wait,” Mama said lightly, her hand still on Diana’s knee. “I’ll be there soon enough.”
Over and over Diana ran her hand over Fig’s fur, feeling the vibrations of the little cat’s purr beneath her fingers. She could still confess everything to Mama, from how she’d first met Sheffield and Fantôme in the park to how she’d kissed him last night, and most of all, how she despaired of ever being happy with Lord Crump for her husband. Last night, as she’d tossed sleeplessly in her bed, she’d imagined doing exactly that.
And if she did? There would be tears and unhappiness and abject misery, but in the end, likely nothing would change. Mama wouldn’t understand, at least not enough to make a difference. Instead Diana must be like every other lady of her class. She must be obedient, and she must marry Lord Crump, just as everyone expected, and make the best of it. All a confession now would accomplish would be to upset and disappoint Mama, and that Diana did not wish to do.
Perhaps, after all, she was more like Charlotte than she’d ever realized.
With a shuddering gulp, she forced herself to look up from Fig and meet her mother’s gaze.
“Thank you, Mama,” she said, determined to be strong. “I am grateful for your faith in me, however undeserved.”
“You deserve everything, lamb,” Mama said, slipping her arms around Diana to kiss her forehead. “You’ll see. You’re not as happy as you should be now, but in time, you’ll have the love and the life that you deserve.”
But as Diana buried her face against her mother’s shoulder, she didn’t believe she deserved anything at all.
Sheffield followed the servant through Marchbourne House with Fantôme at his side, his footsteps and the click of Fantôme’s claws echoing as they crossed the patterned marble floors. This was the largest of the town houses—it was really nearer to a palace—belonging to the cousins, and the grandest as well. The last time Sheffield had been here, soon after March and Charlotte had been married, the place still had felt like a bachelor’s residence. March, too, had absorbed the lessons of diligence and responsibility from Brecon, and this house had shared the same dull and dutiful air: beautiful, lavish, filled with exquisite paintings and furniture, but with all the cheer of a tomb.
Somehow Charlotte had managed to change that. Sheffield couldn’t begin to guess how, but just as she’d thawed March, she’d also done the same with Marchbourne House. The marble floors were the same, as was the army of servants, and the same somber ancestors stared down from the walls. But now there were fresh flowers in porcelain vases everywhere, and in the rooms they passed Sheffield saw how the chairs were invitingly cushioned and drawn close around fireplaces, and that there were smaller, more cheerful paintings of family pets and laughing children among the portraits of long-dead ancestors. Less tangible was the
There was a little trembling in Mama’s voice that betrayed the depth of her emotions. Diana knew that if she looked up from Fig’s patterned fur even for a second, she’d soon be crying, too, not from emotion but from the truth.
She hadn’t made a wise choice, not at all. Instead she’d made the most important decision of her life based on exactly the kind of impulse and frivolity that Mama thought she’d outgrown. Worse still, she’d done it because of the handsome face of the Duke of Sheffield, and she’d acted entirely in reaction to his own announcement.
“The carriage is here,” Brecon said, glancing through the window as he rose to leave.
“The carriage can wait,” Mama said lightly, her hand still on Diana’s knee. “I’ll be there soon enough.”
Over and over Diana ran her hand over Fig’s fur, feeling the vibrations of the little cat’s purr beneath her fingers. She could still confess everything to Mama, from how she’d first met Sheffield and Fantôme in the park to how she’d kissed him last night, and most of all, how she despaired of ever being happy with Lord Crump for her husband. Last night, as she’d tossed sleeplessly in her bed, she’d imagined doing exactly that.
And if she did? There would be tears and unhappiness and abject misery, but in the end, likely nothing would change. Mama wouldn’t understand, at least not enough to make a difference. Instead Diana must be like every other lady of her class. She must be obedient, and she must marry Lord Crump, just as everyone expected, and make the best of it. All a confession now would accomplish would be to upset and disappoint Mama, and that Diana did not wish to do.
Perhaps, after all, she was more like Charlotte than she’d ever realized.
With a shuddering gulp, she forced herself to look up from Fig and meet her mother’s gaze.
“Thank you, Mama,” she said, determined to be strong. “I am grateful for your faith in me, however undeserved.”
“You deserve everything, lamb,” Mama said, slipping her arms around Diana to kiss her forehead. “You’ll see. You’re not as happy as you should be now, but in time, you’ll have the love and the life that you deserve.”
But as Diana buried her face against her mother’s shoulder, she didn’t believe she deserved anything at all.
Sheffield followed the servant through Marchbourne House with Fantôme at his side, his footsteps and the click of Fantôme’s claws echoing as they crossed the patterned marble floors. This was the largest of the town houses—it was really nearer to a palace—belonging to the cousins, and the grandest as well. The last time Sheffield had been here, soon after March and Charlotte had been married, the place still had felt like a bachelor’s residence. March, too, had absorbed the lessons of diligence and responsibility from Brecon, and this house had shared the same dull and dutiful air: beautiful, lavish, filled with exquisite paintings and furniture, but with all the cheer of a tomb.
Somehow Charlotte had managed to change that. Sheffield couldn’t begin to guess how, but just as she’d thawed March, she’d also done the same with Marchbourne House. The marble floors were the same, as was the army of servants, and the same somber ancestors stared down from the walls. But now there were fresh flowers in porcelain vases everywhere, and in the rooms they passed Sheffield saw how the chairs were invitingly cushioned and drawn close around fireplaces, and that there were smaller, more cheerful paintings of family pets and laughing children among the portraits of long-dead ancestors. Less tangible was the
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