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Heat warmed Diana’s cheeks at his subtle emphasis onwife. Though many ducal couples maintained separate bedchambers in London, the circumstances at Crayford Manor made it natural—or at least acceptable—that they occupy the single room. Tonight, more than any other night spent under her father’s roof, she felt how far they had come since her sudden marriage.

She slipped into the bed, the old mattress sagging beneath her weight. He joined her a moment later, his hand settling lightly over hers. The hush that followed might have felt awkward once, but now it carried a quiet sense of unity. They talked for abrief spell—of the orchard’s looming repairs, of Lord Crayford’s improved spirits—and then lapsed into a companionable silence.

At length, Gilbert reached to douse the candle, and they both lay down on the slightly narrow mattress. Though it was against all the formal standards a duke and duchess might keep in London, there in the gentle hush of Crayford Manor, it felt only right to share this close space. Diana exhaled as he drew the coverlet over them, her heart giving an unfamiliar flutter at having him so near beneath her father’s roof.

“You seemed at ease downstairs,” Gilbert remarked softly. “I think your father was glad to see you so…assured of yourself.”

Diana turned her head on the pillow, meeting his gaze in the faint moonlight spilling through the small window.

“I only followed your lead. You had no hesitation stepping in when the conversation became difficult.”

He gave a low chuckle. “We managed,” he conceded. “Together.”

Neither spoke further; the mild intimacy of lying side by side in their modest chamber said enough. With the household servants all retired, they had no further calls on their attention and could bask in the soothing comfort of each other’s presence.

As Diana drifted toward sleep, she realized that this unassuming bed at Crayford Manor might one day be among her dearest memories: a place where she and Gilbert learned—beyondceremony and grand estates—that they truly shared more than a name.

By morning, they would be back to the duties awaiting them, but for now, there was only the quiet of a country house at rest, and the gentle rhythm of two hearts finding solace in an arrangement that, against all odds, felt unexpectedly right.

Chapter Nineteen

Gilbert stepped out of the carriage onto the wide gravel drive, the midday sun highlighting the genteel bustle of Josephine’s estate. He immediately turned, extending his hand to Diana as she descended. The swish of her gown, a newly tailored ensemble in soft lilac with delicate embroidered edges, drew his eye before she set her gloved fingers in his.

A now-familiar surge of pride filled his heart.

“You look splendid,” he whispered in her ear, his voice tightening with a curious mixture of satisfaction and something dangerously akin to admiration.

When she had emerged from her dressing room earlier, she was serene, poised, and her features were alight with a confidence he had not seen in her a few short weeks earlier. Now, stepping beside him, she resembled a duchess in every sense of the word.

A footman bowed and guided them down a short garden path lined with flowerbeds and elaborate hedges, the scent of roses and fresh grass mingling in the warm air. They passed clusters of other guests who sipped lemonade beneath striped canopies or strolled through the manicured grounds.

Gilbert caught glimpses of Josephine’s tall figure in the distance, holding court near a fountain. He scarcely gave her a thought; her sly remarks and insinuations had never truly troubled him. What mattered was ensuring that Diana felt unassailable.

He only agreed they should attend to further quell rumors of Diana’s ineptness as a duchess. If Josephine aimed to provoke, it would fail; a single glance at Diana—so self-assured in her new attire—told him that much.

“Your Grace.” A familiar voice caught his ear; Lord Wickley, a neighbor whose estate abutted one of Gilbert’s holdings. “Good to see you here.”

“Lord Wickley,” he acknowledged, offering a polite bow of the head. “I trust you are enjoying the party?”

Wickley cast a quick, assessing look at Diana.

“Indeed. Quite the gathering our hostess has assembled, though I suspect we are all more intrigued by the arrival of the Duke and Duchess of Rivenhall.”

Gilbert noticed Diana give a faint, composed smile at Wickley’s greeting. The man’s comment might have been brazen in other circles, but Gilbert saw Diana handle it with enviable grace.

“I imagine Her Ladyship did not expect quite so many of us,” she remarked mildly, nodding to a nearby throng of guests.

“Yes, well,” Wickley said, clearing his throat. “Your presence has certainly caused…excitement.”

“I hope it shall be a pleasant excitement, and nothing more,” Gilbert said with an arched brow, though his tone remained pleasant.

Wickley mumbled a quick agreement and excused himself to greet another acquaintance. Diana’s eyes traced the man’s retreat, then slid to Gilbert, her lips curving with a hint of amusement.

A footman approached, offering them lemonade; Gilbert took two glasses, handing one to Diana. As she sipped, Gilbert allowed himself a moment to note how at ease she seemed, with her chin held high and her shoulders gracefully squared.

They moved further onto the lawn, exchanging civilities with a few more guests. More than one onlooker shot Diana an appraising glance, as if reassessing the woman they had once deemed timid and uncertain. Gilbert detected the subtle shift in their demeanor, and the way they addressed her with increased deference.

“Lord Rivenhall, Your Grace,” Lady Bembridge called, beckoning them from a small circle of fashionable ladies. Diana, never missing a beat, inclined her head for him to lead. He felt the brush of her hand at his elbow as they approached.