Page 17 of Taken by the Icy Duke (Marriage Deals #3)

Chapter Seventeen

T he morning light that filtered through the damask curtains drew Diana from the last vestiges of sleep. She stretched with quiet satisfaction, savoring the bedchamber’s stillness and the linens’ warmth. Gilbert had lingered by her side through the previous night, speaking quietly of trivialities that somehow mattered in the darkness.

He had been uncommonly at ease sharing those small confidences. As Diana slid a hand beneath her pillow, she recalled his low laugh at some remark she had made; the way he had rested his hand over hers as though it were entirely natural. They talked for what seemed like hours, only to fall asleep in each other’s arms.

Just then, a muted voice sounded beyond the door, followed by cautious knocking. Diana shifted upright and blinked at the early glow filtering through the curtains.

“Come in,” she called, rubbing sleep from her eyes.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Ruth said softly, dropping into a curtsy. She stepped inside with a small tray bearing tea and a folded cloth. “I heard you stirring and thought you might care for tea at once. I have also brought fresh towels.”

“Thank you, Ruth,” Diana replied. She leaned forward, allowing Ruth to place the tray on the bedside table. As Diana picked up her cup of tea, she asked, “did you happen to see the duke this morning?”

“His Grace left quite early,” Ruth shook her head, lowering her eyes in deference. “He mentioned only that business called him away.”

A touch of disappointment welled in Diana, though she tried to hide it behind a polite nod.

“I see. Well, no matter. We shall doubtless speak this evening.”

Ruth laid the towels on a nearby chair, then gathered the curtains, letting in a brighter shaft of light. As she turned back, her gaze drifted over the small table near the bed, where a newly wrapped box sat with a neat ribbon.

“Is that from His Grace?”

“It must be,” Diana murmured, slipping from beneath the sheets. She had not yet noticed the box, and her heart leaped. “He must have left it before riding out, I suppose.”

Ruth offered a discreet smile. “Would you like me to stay while you open it, or would you prefer some privacy, Your Grace?”

“Stay for a moment,” she decided, leaving her bed to stand before the gift. Someone must have set the box precisely in place; ivory paper and a neat bow crowning it. With careful fingers, Diana untied the ribbon and lifted the lid.

“Another reticule?” Ruth ventured, unable to hide her own intrigue.

Nestled inside lay an embroidered reticule, its fabric a gentle sage green. Fine stitches formed tiny leaves and blossoms. Diana’s breath caught, recalling a passing conversation with Gilbert about her needing a practical yet fashionable bag for day calls. Her chest tightened with a wave of affection, impressed that Gilbert had remembered such a minor detail.

Tucked within the reticule was a short note. Ruth pretended to straighten the linens as Diana unfolded it, politely keeping her gaze averted. In neat script, the message read:

Diana,

I recall your mention of wanting a fashionable little bag for daytime calls.

Perhaps this shall suffice until we see Madame Beaulieu again.

—G.

Surprise and delight lit up Diana’s face. It was not a jewel or an elaborate gown but a thoughtful piece which proved that Gilbert took her passing remarks to heart. She fingered the delicate embroidery.

Ruth cleared her throat quietly.

“It is quite lovely,” Ruth said, peeking at the embroidered reticule over Diana’s shoulder. “Shall I place it with your other belongings for the day, Your Grace?”

“Yes, please do,” Diana replied softly, still feeling the warmth of Gilbert’s thoughtful gesture. She let the reticule settle on her lap, its delicate leaves glimmering in the gentle morning light.

Ruth curtsied. “Shall we attend to your attire now? You wished for something comfortable this morning, as you stated that you are staying in.”

Diana nodded, lifting the note Gilbert had written and pressing it briefly to her chest before setting it aside. “Yes, a simple gown will do. I would prefer to remain unburdened by formal trappings if I am to be at home.”

“Very good, Your Grace,” Ruth said, moving to the wardrobe. She selected a modest day gown of soft muslin, its design neatly embroidered at the cuffs but otherwise unadorned. “This should offer you ease without sacrificing propriety,” she added with a small smile.

In short order, Ruth brought Diana’s slippers, helping her slip them on. “Will you be requiring anything else?” the maid asked.

“That will be all,” Diana said with a grateful smile, glancing at the sunlit window. “Thank you for your assistance this morning.”

Ruth curtsied again and departed quietly, leaving Diana to bask in the soft daylight. She brushed a hand over the embroidered reticule waiting on the dressing table; another apt reminder of Gilbert’s subtle kindness.

Downstairs, the dining room was predictably quiet. A single place setting awaited Diana, and a footman stood by, ready to serve. She exchanged a few words with him, inquiring if he had seen the duke. He advised that His Grace had departed at dawn, confirming Ruth’s report. With a mild pang of disappointment, Diana sipped her tea and nibbled halfheartedly on a scone.

She could not suppress the wish that he might have stayed longer, especially now that they were finding common ground in those precious hours after dark.

Just as she finished breakfast, she heard the distinct crunch of wheels over the gravel drive. Diana rose, crossing to one of the dining room windows, frowning at the early caller. She glimpsed a carriage with a liveried driver she did not immediately recognize.

A footman hustled from the entrance, bowing politely to someone stepping out of the vehicle. The moment she caught sight of a deep lilac gown swirling around a slender figure, her pulse gave a small jolt.

A few minutes later, the same footman appeared in the dining room, his head bowed.

“Your Grace, the Dowager Countess, Lady Halfacre, has arrived, requesting an audience.”

Diana stiffened her spine, nodding. “Show her to the drawing room, please. I shall receive her there directly.”

As Diana turned toward the drawing room, her heart fluttered as she caught sight of her reflection in a nearby mirror. Though her hair was pinned with care and her posture was perfectly upright, she could not shake the feeling that something in her appearance or bearing might be amiss.

This is my house . I am the Duchess of Rivenhall.

Yet beneath that internal mantra, a nagging self-doubt gnawed at her, whispering that she was still an interloper in a life meant for someone more self-assured and of better standing.

She passed into the drawing room, ordering a fresh pot of tea in what she hoped sounded like a composed, authoritative voice. She settled by the window seat and meticulously arranged her skirts, trying to mask the flutter in her stomach. Josephine swept in, her gown of lustrous fabric whispering over the polished floorboards with a confidence that spoke volumes.

The widow’s alluring posture and the almost predatory flick of her eyes underscored how effortlessly she inhabited any space. Only after her sharp, assessing glance did Josephine’s gaze meet Diana’s, a slight, knowing smile curving her lips, as though she knew precisely how to command attention without ever speaking a word.

“Duchess,” Josephine greeted, her tone seemingly polite but edged with condescension. “You appear comfortable. I trust you are well this morning?”

Diana inclined her head. “I am, thank you. And you, Countess?”

Josephine acknowledged the inquiry with a barely perceptible nod of her chin, then chose to stand rather than accept the seat Diana had indicated.

“I wished to call on you,” Josephine announced, casting a deliberate glance around the room as though evaluating every detail of the décor. “And to share some news regarding a gathering I intend to host next week—chiefly for the duke’s pleasure.”

Diana frowned slightly at Josephine’s choice of phrase.

“An event for my husband?” she asked, maintaining a polite tone. “I am not certain he is aware of such a plan.”

Josephine brushed away the observation with a dismissive wave, offering a bright, practiced smile. “A hostess is at liberty to indulge in a little novelty, especially when it comes to entertaining a distinguished guest such as the Duke of Rivenhall.”

She retrieved a sealed envelope from her embroidered reticule, holding it out as though it were a token of grace.

Diana stepped forward calmly, taking the envelope without haste. Their gloved fingers grazed, and for a heartbeat, Josephine’s gaze sharpened. Once, Diana thought, that might have unsettled me. But not today.

“How thoughtful,” she said, breaking the seal. She scanned the gilt-edged card, recognizing Josephine’s well-known estate; the scene of more than a few scandalous flirtations if rumor was to be believed.

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 on another woman’s husband felt 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 expect my husband 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.

Diana squared her shoulders. She needed time away from society’s prying eyes, and a chance to see her family. And—she allowed herself a small, bolstering thought—to show Gilbert the place she came from.

If Josephine thought to unsettle her with talk of how “busy” the duke might be, so be it. Diana had no intention of cowering; she had another priority now, one that mattered more than the dowager countess’s meddling.

With a last glance at the door through which Josephine had left, Diana ascended the stairs, already planning for a journey that might remind her who she was, and how far she had come.