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H eart pounding, Diana clutched the back of the curtain, listening to the now-silent room.

He had stood up for her. He had even threatened to call Cumberworth out, putting his own life at risk for the sake of her honor.

Tears pricked the back of her eyes not only for that, but because, based on the way Harrington had described her, he saw her .

The real her. There were vanishingly few people who did.

After her brother had saddled her with an absurdly large dowry, most of her suitors desired not her, but the hundred thousand pounds she came with.

She’d asked Marcus not to do it. She’d argued that an ostentatious dowry would do nothing but attract fortune hunters.

She would do just as well with a large dowry, but not a ridiculously large one, such as those her friends Lucy and Izzie had.

But Marcus was every bit as muleheaded as Diana, and he had this idea that the size of her dowry was a demonstration of the esteem in which he held his sister.

She knew his intentions were good. But the result was that she was surrounded by a flock of fortune hunters every time she set foot outside the house.

Marcus had thought her dowry would make finding a husband easy, but paradoxically, it had made it nigh impossible.

The constant scrum of fortune hunters scared off more honorable suitors who might be interested in getting to know her.

She also found herself questioning every man’s intentions, putting up defenses of her own that she had to acknowledge were probably discouraging good men along with the wastrels.

But Harrington Astley felt different. When she’d first made her debut, she’d thought him handsome, charming, and extremely witty.

She hadn’t had time to get to know him well before he had to leave London to join his regiment, but she hadn’t been particularly upset about it.

She had assumed she would meet dozens more handsome, witty men.

Except… she hadn’t. It turned out that handsome, witty men were thin on the ground. Had she realized what a rare prize he was, she would have valued Harrington’s company more highly during the brief interval she’d had it.

And, considering the way he had just defended her, she was feeling more warmly inclined toward him than ever.

And now he was back…

A newfound determination filled her. She was going to dance with him. Tonight. She had no idea how long he would be in London, but she was going to make use of that time.

If there was anything there, any possibility that the two of them would suit, she was going to uncover it.

The room had been silent for some time. It would be safe for her to emerge from behind her curtain.

Gathering herself, she slipped from her hiding place.

It turned out that the dark green jackets worn by officers of the Rifle Brigade were indeed an effective form of concealment, because she was halfway across the library before she noticed that the room was not quite so deserted as she had assumed.

Harrington’s back was to her. Her heart squeezed as she noticed that his coat, which had fit his broad shoulders so beautifully the last time she saw him, was a trifle loose.

The papers had reported that the retreat from Bremen had been a frantic affair, with his unit, the 95 th Rifles, performing rearguard duty for its full duration.

It was thanks to their efforts that the troops had returned home safely, and the reputation of the Rifle Brigade was very much in ascendance.

Being a Rifleman was now considered to be every bit as modish as being in the Royal Hussars.

It seemed the reality was less glamorous. Harrington Astley’s frame had been lean even before joining the army. She felt a lump form over her heart at the thought that he must’ve gone weeks without having enough to eat.

Gracious—it was not the time to grow all sniffly over his coat. Shaking herself, Diana took a careful step back, preparing to slip back behind her curtain.

That was when he began muttering to himself. “What a fucking toadstool. I hope he chokes on an onion. I hope a swarm of weevils takes up residence in his arsehole.”

He was starting to get worked up, and began gesticulating with one hand. “I hope he steps in dog shit. I hope a cat throws up in his favorite boots. I hope he gets hogweed on his bollocks. I hope he trips and falls and lands on a cheese knife, and it goes straight up his?—”

He spun around. It was not difficult to mark the moment he spotted Diana creeping back toward her curtain. He stopped mid-tirade, one finger raised in the air, mouth hanging open. Diana fancied that she would never forget his frozen look of horror.

Abruptly, he closed his mouth and dropped his hand. He sketched an awkward bow. “Lady Diana. I didn’t realize you were, er…”

She found his discomfiture amusing, so instead of hastening to reassure him, she arched an eyebrow. “Clearly not.”

“I assume you heard”—he waved a finger in a circle—“all of that?”

“I did,” she said, careful to keep her expression stern.

He cleared his throat. “I apologize for my language. I’ve, er… been in the army.”

She crossed her arms and tilted her head ever so slightly. “And you did not use such language before joining the army?”

He cringed. “I must own that I did.”

She managed to hold her stony expression for all of six seconds. Then, the corner of her mouth quirked upward.

The next thing she knew, they were both laughing. It was the kind of uncontrollable, tears-pricking, struggling-to-breathe, stomach-growing-sore laughter that one experienced far too seldom in life.

After the worst of it had passed, Harrington ran a hand over his face. “Oh, my God . I can’t believe I said all of that in front of you. My mother would kill me if she knew.”

Diana waved her hand. “Really, you oughtn’t worry about it. Aunt Griselda says that much and worse on a regular basis, only she says it in Mecklenburgish.”

Harrington grinned. “Just when I thought I couldn’t like your aunt any better. How’s she doing, by the by?”

“I am pleased to report that she is as hale and surly as ever.” This was another point in Harrington’s favor.

Most men seemed to regard her unorthodox great-aunt as a cross to be borne.

Harrington, on the other hand, found her delightful.

At Diana’s debut, he even asked Aunt Griselda to dance after she had commented that she enjoyed dancing but knew no one would ask her on account of her age.

Thinking back, that was the moment Harrington had truly captured her regard.

She shook herself. “But how are you ? I didn’t realize you were back in London.”

“I only returned today. It was unexpected. My regiment is posted to Faversham, but I was called to London by somebody at Horse Guards. Seems they have a special assignment for me.”

“Well, I, for one, am very glad that you have returned to us.” Her voice quavered, and she found it difficult to meet his eye. Gracious, what was this? Diana wasn’t normally the sentimental sort.

But she found that Harrington’s safe return, combined with his defense of her to Joseph Cumberworth, had moved her.

Moreover, she had a feeling that this was important.

That, in spite of her reputation for being the ice queen who brushed men off like a speck of lint upon her gown, maybe, just maybe, this was a man she didn’t want to flick away.

Harrington spoke into the silence that had descended between them. “So, if you heard my tirade, I take it you were also here when Cumberworth and Blachford were saying their piece?”

“I was. I was in the library when Mr. Cumberworth and Mr. Blachford entered. I sometimes find large gatherings such as this one to be taxing. It helps me to steal away for a moment of solitude.” She gestured to the curtains. “When I heard them coming, I hid.”

He cringed sympathetically. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

She grinned. “At least I got to hear you call him a syphilitic potato.”

He held both hands up. “If the shoe fits…”

“In this case, it fits like a glove. I had to bite my hand so I wouldn’t laugh aloud.”

“That’s high praise.” He was practically glowing, but his smile faltered. “Still, I hate to think of you standing behind that curtain while those blackguards abused you.”

She shrugged. “I’ve heard worse. I wasn’t sniffling into my handkerchief.” Her lips twisted. “I was busy plotting my revenge.”

He leaned forward. “Do tell.”

She waved her hand. “Oh, nothing elaborate. I was merely going to give him false hope by agreeing to a dance, then proceed to call him every name I could think of other than his own.”

He barked out a laugh. “Diabolical. I suppose I ruined it for you by threatening to inform your brother of everything he said.”

She shrugged. “That’s all right. Although Marcus’s preferred form of revenge is boring in its predictability, I cannot deny that it is effective. I am sure I will enjoy watching Cumberworth get cast out of all good society.”

“As consolation prizes go, it’s not half bad,” he agreed. He peered down at her a moment, biting his lip. She rather thought he was gathering his courage. “As you won’t be dancing with him after all, perhaps you would do me the honor instead.”

She inclined her head. “I should be delighted.”

He offered her his arm, and they headed toward the door. As they were about to cross the threshold, something occurred to her. “But how remiss of me! I almost forgot to offer you my congratulations.”

He gave her a curious look. “Congratulations? On what, surviving the retreat?”

She squeezed his arm. “No, silly. On your election to Parliament.”