Page 17 of Lady Diana's Lost Lord

Diana gave a little nudge to the center of Hannah’s back. “As we practiced,” she said firmly.

With a little huff of displeasure, Hannah sank into a wobbly, imperfect curtsey. Her ankles tottered with the motion, and her arms pinwheeled to right herself—but she caught herself before she could topple to the floor, popping upright again.

“Very good,” Diana said.

Hannah cast her a glare. “It wasn’t. I almost fell.”

“Almost falling is not the same as falling, and you’ll grow more proficient with practice. Itwasa good first attempt.”

Christ. He wasn’t going tocry. It was just remarkably dusty in the room. “You look very pretty,” he said, wrapping one arm around Hannah’s small shoulders to pull her in for a hug. “Like a little lady.” How had Diana coerced her into it? What, exactly, had she threatened?

With her cheek pillowed against his shoulder, Hannah said in a muffled little voice, “I don’t like her.”

He’d heard a similar refrain half a dozen times before. She hadn’t likedMiss Wright, or Mrs. Miller, or Mrs. Mead, or Miss Hughes. Probably she disliked Diana even more than she had disliked each of them put together—but he suspected that was because her efforts to drive her off had, thus far, catastrophically failed.

He pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I wish I could stay,” he said, and oh, God, it was so much the truth. “But I’ll be back to tuck you in this evening.” He’d precious few hours of daylight left in which to work—though if not for Diana’s presence, he’d have fewer still. None, possibly.

Hannah’s lower lip wobbled. “I’ll miss you.”

“I’ll miss you more.” He tapped the tip of her nose. “You’re not to give Diana any trouble. Agreed?” By the wrinkle of her nose at the instruction, he guessed that she had more than a few objections.

Diana brushed at the skirts of her gown, smoothing out minor wrinkles. A new gown—she’d changed from the dark blue into a simple muted green one. Probably another traveling dress. Though it was no doubt well-made and in good condition, it lacked the frills and ornamentation that would have marked her for the lady that she was. Her hair had been washed free of the flour that had whitened her roots, and had been wound up into a neat bun atop her head. Her spectacles sat upon the bridge of her nose, and she seemed to have perfected the art of staring through the clear lenses with an effortless superiority. She looked—

She looked stern enough to pass for a governess. A bit too pretty, perhaps. But Hannah’s impertinence had forced her to affect the sort of prim, no-nonsense demeanor of woman who could be relied upon to take children in hand and to mold them into models of propriety.

Still, he expected that she was going to have her hands full with Hannah.

“Is the village too far to walk?” she inquired.

“No. It’s perhaps fifteen minutes on foot,” he said. “Why?”

“We are going to make apologies for our uncouth behavior,” she said.

Ben felt his brows arch toward his hairline. “We?”

Diana allowed her gaze to settle on Hannah meaningfully. “It’s important to apologize to the people we’ve wronged,” she said, and there was a sort of insinuation in it that he deduced was meant to catchhimwithin those scornful syllables as well. “Ifthat apology meets with my satisfaction,” she said, lifting her right hand to hold aloft the reticule dangling from wrist, from inside of which came the merry jingle of coins, “then Hannah may have new ribbons for her hair.”

Ah. A bribe, then. Well, he supposed it was better than threats. Marginally.Had he the funds for such things, he might’ve given it a go himself.

Hannah was reluctant to release him when he stood—but then, she had always hated to see him leave. Possibly nearly as much as he had always hated to do the leaving. “Be good,” he whispered, and then added conspiratorially, “I want you to show me your new hair ribbons when I return.”

Chapter Seven

You’re supposed to hold my hand.”

Diana turned, brows lifted, back toward the child, who remained stubbornly by the door through which they had recently left the house. “I beg your pardon?”

Hannah held out her hand, wiggling her fingers. “My hand,” she said again, her face screwed up in an expression that suggested she thought Diana to be very dim, indeed. “You’re supposed to hold it. So I don’t go running off. Papa always holds my hand.”

Of course, it would have been beyond the pale simply to suggest that the girlnotgo running off, she supposed. “And do you frequently go running off?” she inquired, though she held out her hand for Hannah to take.

“Sometimes, when I’m not thinking very hard about staying put.” The girl skittered forward and plopped her hand within the clasp of Diana’s, clutching her hand tightly. Through the ruffled fringe of her bangs, she peered up. “Will you really buy me hair ribbons?”

“If you are good, and you make your apologies properly. How many are there to make?”

“Just one.” The light, lazily-offered lie tripped off Hannah’s tongue too quickly, and Diana found herself smothering an incredulous laugh.

“The truth, please,” she said. “Lies won’t earn you new ribbons.”