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“Your Grace,” he said quietly, “there is a visitor for His Grace. She has arrived unexpectedly and wishes to see him at once.”

A visitor? Diana lifted her chin. “Who calls?”

“The Dowager Countess of Halfacre, Your Grace.” Timmons lowered his gaze. “His Grace is not presently at home.”

Diana’s mind whirled. Was the Dowager Countess of Halfacre an old family friend? But why appear now, without warning, during what should have been a private honeymoon period? Anxiety tugged at Diana’s stomach. It must be something urgent if the dowager countess dared appear unannounced.

Since Gilbert was away, Diana had no choice. She was now the Duchess of Rivenhall, and would meet the intrusion head-on.

“Show her to the small drawing room,” Diana said. “I shall receive her myself.”

“Very good, Your Grace.” Timmons bowed and departed.

Diana followed shortly, gathering her composure as she crossed the corridor. The small drawing room was tasteful and light, with ivory walls and pale green upholstery. It was the perfect stage for a polite, civilized encounter, and she prayed it would remain civilized. She smoothed her skirts and waited, her spine straight, as Timmons ushered in the visitor.

“The Dowager Countess of Halfacre, Your Grace,” he announced, then withdrew soundlessly.

The woman who entered exuded a subtle but stealthy confidence. Lady Halfacre’s blonde curls framed a poised face that carried a faint, knowing smile. Her gown was stylish, verging on bold for a morning visit, and the slight tilt of her head as she surveyed the room suggested she was used to maintaining an upper hand. The young woman in front of Diana did not look like what she expected of a widow.

“Your Grace,” the dowager countess said, dipping into a graceful curtsy. “How kind of you to receive me.”

Diana inclined her head. “Lady Halfacre, welcome to Rivenhall. I regret that His Grace is not here to greet you himself.”

The dowager countess advanced slowly, taking in the furnishings.

“Yes, such a pity. I had hoped to find him…”

She allowed the sentence to hang, as if suggesting that Gilbert’s absence was something of an enigma. Turning to Diana, she smiled too sweetly. “But it is a pleasure to meet you, Duchess. Allow me first to congratulate you on your marriage. Such a fortunate event—and so swift.”

Diana gestured to a chair, forcing a polite smile. The coy look in the woman’s eyes put Diana on edge. “Thank you. It was unexpected, yes, but we are both…content with the outcome.”

“Content,” Josephine repeated as she seated herself, arranging her skirts languidly. “A fine word. Contentment is a stable foundation, do you not agree? Many marriages lack even that.”

Diana took a seat opposite her, carefully folding her hands. “Indeed. Stability and understanding are valuable qualities.”

Josephine’s gaze scanned Diana’s attire, assessing her posture, her very presence, as if searching for imperfections. “I have long considered His Grace a man of impeccable judgment,” she said. “Therefore, it surprised me to learn of his sudden wedding. I thought perhaps fate had swept in. Or perhaps necessity.” She paused, her head tilted. “I am sure you understand how tongues wag.”

Diana resisted the urge to flinch. “Rumors abound in any marriage forged under…unusual circumstances. We pay them no mind.”

Josephine offered a small, sympathetic sigh. “That is wise. Yet I felt it my duty to call today. I have heard certain whispers that concern me.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice as though confiding a secret. “I consider myself a friend of His Grace and would not wish to see him troubled by malicious gossip.”

Diana’s heart thudded. A friend. Did that word mask something deeper? The woman’s tone suggested a degree of familiarity that made Diana uneasy. She vowed to show no weakness. “I appreciate your concern,” Diana said, keeping her voice even. “Yet I believe the duke is quite capable of managing any chatter that arises.”

A faint arch of Josephine’s brow signaled amusement. “Oh, I do not doubt his capabilities. But it is you, my dear duchess, who stands at the center of these whispers. Have you not heard? They say the duke’s marriage was a valiant rescue of a young lady caught in scandal. Some paint him as the noble savior, and you—” she hesitated, as if reluctant, then continued delicately, “—as the unfortunate soul he had to redeem.”

Diana’s cheeks warmed. “I am aware that some believe we married to rectify a misunderstanding. His Grace and I have no illusions about the promptness of our union. But surely, now that we have wed, such rumors will die away.”

Josephine’s smile sharpened. “One would hope. Yet I have it on good authority that some find the matter too delicious to forget. There is talk—hurtful talk—implying that you were compromised, that Lord Leopold’s involvement was not as innocent as one might claim, and that you took advantage of the duke’s sense of honor.”

Her eyes glittered. “They say you cornered poor Lord Leopold, embroiling him in scandal so that the duke felt obliged to marry you. Imagine that.”

Horror and fury boiled inside Diana’s chest. She tried to keep her face calm, but her voice trembled slightly. “That is a vicious lie. I never sought such a fate.”

Josephine pressed a hand to her heart, feigning sorrow. “I know, dear. It must be dreadful to hear. But you understand how these things spread. It does not help that His Grace remains… away from home so often. Some might say he finds estate matters more appealing than defending his bride’s reputation in the drawing rooms of London.”

Diana stiffened, painfully aware of Gilbert’s absence. “His Grace is a man of duty,” she managed. “He need not parade about town shouting his devotion. Actions speak louder than words. He married me; that speaks volumes.”

“Actions, indeed,” Josephine murmured. “And yet, the manner of those actions may be interpreted differently by others. Some suggest the duke acted not from love or even duty, but from pity. They whisper that he shoulders you like a burden, poor man,trapped by family loyalty.” She paused, letting the words sink in before adding softly, “I find such insinuations unjust. Yet they persist.”