Page 6

She pressed her fingertips to her forehead, breathing slowly. Time. She had precious little of it. If the duke and his brother had no intention of keeping their promise, then her fate lay inscouring the darkest corners of the marriage market. Could she endure that indignity? She swallowed hard and focused on the clock’s slow hands. Every second without a visitor drained what remained of her hope.

Diana drew a shaky breath and fixed her gaze on the door, determined not to cry.

“I will not wait forever,” she murmured. “I cannot.”

Diana stood as the front door finally opened, their butler greeted the guest, followed by footsteps in the corridor, steadier and more purposeful than any servant’s. She forced herself to breathe slowly, waiting to see what fate held in store for her.

“Lord Crayford,” the Duke of Rivenhall greeted as he entered the drawing room alone. His deep voice filled the small space, and Diana’s heart fluttered in her throat. She dipped a shallow curtsy, her eyes lowered, but as she straightened she could not help but look at him fully.

He was broader than she had imagined, his shoulders straining against the seams of an impeccable coat. There was an austerity in the lines of his face, and a keen intelligence shone in his dark eyes. His handsome face was framed by thick, black hair. When his gaze met hers, he held it a moment longer than necessary.

A small thrill of fear rippled through her, and she stiffened her spine, but beneath her fear was an unexpected, intoxicating sense of wonder. Diana attributed the feeling to being in thepresence of a duke and capturing his attention for the first time in her life.

Her father stepped forward and motioned to an assortment of threadbare chairs assembled around the hearth.

“Your Grace, please. We are grateful you have come.” He offered a short bow, though the tension in his posture revealed his frayed nerves.

The duke inclined his head and settled into a seat, his coat draping with military neatness. Diana hovered near the settee while her father took a seat opposite the duke. Alison remained discreetly at the far end of the room, her presence a silent support, yielding the foreground to Diana.

An uneasy and brittle silence descended upon the small party. Diana noticed how the duke’s gaze swept over the furnishings: the faded upholstery, the scuffed floorboards, and the lone footman standing stiffly by the door—each detail seemed to register in his mind.

She tried not to bristle. If he disdained their modest circumstances, he need not have come. Yet why did the hint of disapproval in his eyes bother her so? Her family’s debts were a fact, not something they could hide behind new draperies.

The duke cleared his throat softly, irritation flickering in the set of his jaw.

“I must apologize, Lord Crayford, for the delay. Circumstances prevented me from arriving sooner.” He shifted in his chair, as if vexed by the mere mention of tardiness. “I trust you received my letter?”

“Indeed, Your Grace,” Diana’s father replied, nodding and leaning forward slightly. “You have my thanks for coming at all, under these unfortunate circumstances.”

Again, silence reigned and Diana’s heart pounded. She wanted to inquire why he had come alone, but knew she needed to hold her tongue and let her father lead. Eventually, Lord Crayford cleared his throat and asked the question that stood at the forefront of all their thoughts.

“Your Grace,” he began, voice hesitant, “may I inquire—Lord Leopold…where is he?”

At that, the duke’s brow tightened fractionally. Diana caught the faintest narrowing of his eyes before he looked away, as if gathering his words. She clasped her hands together, her knuckles whitening. If Lord Leopold refused to come, what prospect remained for her future? All her fragile hopes hinged on the answer to that single question.

The Duke of Ravenhall’s gaze lingered on Diana once more, his penetrating assessment making her spine stiffen. Her stomach fluttered, and she found it difficult to breathe. She tried to recall if they had ever been properly introduced; surely, she would have remembered the handsome face of a powerful man, especially one who stole the air from her lungs.

He turned back to her father, who promptly hiccupped, breaking the strained silence. Lord Crayford pressed a hand to his mouth, cleared his throat, and attempted to regain his composure. Diana stifled a groan; her father was prone to developing hiccups during stressful situations. This early onset did not bode well for the conversation that lay ahead.

“Your Grace,” he managed, his voice wavering slightly as he asked again, “where—hic—where is Lord Leopold?”

“When I arrived at his accommodation this morning to collect him,” the duke said, tightening his jaw as he spoke each word with clipped precision. “I found only this letter.” He produced a folded sheet from an inner pocket. “My brother, it seems, has decided to continue with his planned journey to the continent—an extended European tour. He expresses his regrets and… his confidence that one day the ton will forget this entire matter.”

A flush crept up Diana’s neck. Forget? How convenient for him. She stood rigidly, gripping the back of the settee with white knuckles, furious that Lord Leopold would so easily abandon her to face the destruction he had caused. Her father hiccupped again and muttered something soothing under his breath, but it did nothing to calm the spark of anger burning in her chest.

Alison’s eyes darted to Diana, but she refused to contain her displeasure. Drawing a steadying breath, she ignored the anxious flutter in her chest and faced the Duke of Rivenhall directly.

For a heartbeat, she felt a trickle of nerves at having such a powerful man’s full attention and the impropriety of interrupting the conversation, but she refused to be cowed. “If Lord Leopold has run off, Your Grace,” she said, her voice firm, “then why have you come at all?”

She braced herself for a scathing rebuke—something clipped and dismissive. Instead, the duke inclined his head, as if amused by her outburst. His dark, steady gaze settled on her face. She could not help but notice the sudden quickening of her pulse; a spark of awareness that unsettled Diana.

“I have come,” he said, his voice low and steady, “to take responsibility for my brother’s actions.”

Diana’s heart lurched. She heard her father hiccup once more, and sensed Alison’s wide-eyed stare, but all her attention was focused on the duke. A subtle heat coiled in her stomach at the implication of his words. She had never expected to find him so formidable, or that such quiet authority could elicit a tension she half-recognized as attraction.

Silence stretched thin. Lord Crayford hiccupped again while clutching the arm of his chair, and Alison’s brows shot up; they all waited with bated breath for the duke to continue. Diana dared not hope that his meaning was what it seemed.

“Your Grace,” her father began, “to be perfectly certain—hic—are you suggesting that you…?”