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Folding the invitation, she lifted her chin. “Though I wonder what became of your earlier understanding that the duke is far too busy for…livelier engagements.”

Josephine’s practiced smile became cloyingly sweet.

“I cannot be responsible for a man’s unpredictability, dear,” she replied. “But I have always believed the duke should be free to enjoy a garden party when the mood strikes him, even if that means improvising. I do hope you will join him, of course.”

Her eyes flicked meaningfully to the card in Diana’s hand. “It will be quite diverting, seeing you both together.”

Diana’s stomach burned with annoyance. Josephine’s rationale for hosting a party centered onanother woman’s husbandfelt both cavalier and insulting. She inhaled slowly.

“I see,” she murmured, her voice calm and collected. “And you plan to go forward with this affair, as though you expectmyhusband to appear at your summons?”

A dismissive shrug lifted Josephine’s shoulders. “He and I have long been…acquainted, as you know. There is absolutely nothing amiss in my offering a small diversion. I simply thought it courteous to deliver the invitation to you as well, lest you think yourself excluded.”

Diana’s cheeks heated, though her expression remained outwardly poised.

She truly sees no impropriety in this, or she does not care.

“Indeed,” she said quietly. “Then allow me to thank you for the courtesy. We shall see whether His Grace’s schedule—unpredictable though you claim it is—will accommodate your gathering.”

Josephine let out a small, contemptuous sound.

“Indeed. I only recall how busy he was before your…marriage.” The subtle pause telegraphed her meaning plainly; Josephine considered Diana a mere replacement.

Diana’s pulse throbbed, but she refused to show any outward sign of upset.

“A pity indeed,” she echoed. She stepped forward, returning Josephine’s appraising stare with one of her own. A faint edge in her tone served as a reminder that Josephine no longer had influence here.

“Perhaps you are unaware that my husband and I discuss our engagements together. We uphold polite manners above all else, and will present ourselves to society as we see fit.”

For the first time, the dowager countess’s composure wavered. A faint flush crawled over her cheeks, which was quickly concealed.

“Naturally,” she managed, her voice brittle.

Diana pressed on, her earlier nervousness transforming into resolute confidence.

“I do thank you for calling in person to deliver this invitation,” she said, glancing pointedly at the envelope, “though I must insist on a certain decorum in my home. Perhaps it is best not to imply that a duchess need merely ‘support’ her husband, as if she lacks standing of her own.”

Josephine’s lips parted slightly, her surprise evident. Diana took advantage of the momentary silence.

“You see,” Diana continued, stepping aside to gesture toward the grand painting above the mantel—a subtle reminder of Rivenhall lineage. “I am the Duchess of Rivenhall. And I will not tolerate insolence in my drawing room or anywhere else.”

A tense heartbeat passed. Josephine’s eyes flicked to the painting, then back to Diana’s unwavering stance. She forced a stiff laugh, though the tension in her shoulders betrayed her.

“Of course,” she muttered, her chin lifting. “I meant no offense, only goodwill.”

“Then we understand each other,” Diana said simply. “We shall respond to your invitation in due course.”

For a moment, Josephine looked as though she might offer a cutting retort. Yet something in Diana’s calm, unmoving posture made her hesitate. At last, she gathered the folds of her skirt and inclined her head.

“Very well. I look forward to your reply,” she said, her voice taut.

With that, she spun on her heel, the rustle of her skirts preceding her hurried exit. Diana watched her stride across the foyer, the faint echoes of her footsteps diminishing until a footman showed her out. Only when the front doors closed behind the dowager countess did Diana allow herself a long, slow, calming breath.

Diana stood in the drawing room long after Josephine’s footsteps had faded away, the widow’s cutting remarks echoing in her mind. Instead of miring in frustration, Diana turned to the footman, who hovered discreetly with a tea tray that had been intended for Diana and her guest.

“Please see that a letter is delivered at once to my father’s estate,” she said, striving for composure. “I would like to visit Lord Crayford…soon.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” The footman hesitated, observing the determination in Diana’s eyes.